Coca

We meet José again, the same man who picked us up from the airport. This time we are driving to Coca.

The morning rush hour has just ended, but there is still plenty of traffic. A few years ago someone might smash your car window while you were waiting at a red light. Things are no longer quite that wild, but between ten in the evening and five in the morning, it’s still allowed to drive straight through the red light.

We climb to 4,400 meters to reach the other side of the Andes. Up here lies the páramo, a lumpy grassland dotted with shrubs between the forest and the snow line. A horse peers out from behind the bushes. There are apparently quite a few feral horses here, descendants of animals brought by colonists. The rivers that supply the capital with water all begin here, José announces proudly. No point saying that according to IPCC predictions, the snowcaps will soon melt away from these mountain tops, and the rivers may not flow so reliably after that. Cotopaxi volcano remains hidden in the clouds, but Antisana almost shows itself. Somewhere on the other side is Reventador, which is constantly puffing out smoke. It is cold up here.

Here and there an oil pipeline winds along the roadside, and drilling rigs come into view. Former president Osvaldo Hurtado described in his book how the Ecuadorian government refused to agree building the pipeline along a shorter route to the coast through Colombia; everything had to stay inside the country. That is why the pipeline runs across the Andes. Ecuador cannot refine its own oil, so it sells cheaper crude abroad and buys back the more expensive finished product. Good business. People know which pipeline carries what, and when the need arises they simply drill a hole in it.

We stop at a gas station where we quickly spot three species of birds and drink instant coffee. I am already drawing conclusions about drivers’ ideas of pleasant stops when it turns out that a restaurant is coming up ahead, where eating fish and watching birds is possible.

The restaurant sits high above the riverbank. Despite the drizzle we go down to take a closer look at the river and dip our fingers into it. The water is warm. It is warmer down here in general. Birds are shouting in the trees—something yellow, something bluish-black. Perched on the top of a palm sits a black vulture.

The fish is good, served with a hefty chunk of something called yucca that tastes a bit like potato. The rain eases, the vulture becomes more cheerful and spreads its wings to dry. There are actually quite a few of them around.

From the viewpoint we can see a thick cloud where there ought to be a view across the forest. We drive straight into the cloud and soon it begins to rain again. The rain sometimes washes roads away here. Some stretches are full of potholes, but most of it looks quite good. There are many curves. Peligroso signs flash past. Although a thing or two has fallen out of car windows, the surroundings are generally fairly clean. The small villages do not look particularly bleak either—people seem to have a stubborn urge to paint their houses and every available surface in cheerful colors. From outside comes a constant chirping and buzzing. Blue butterflies and birds with yellow tails flutter across the road.

We reach the bottom of the mountain. Hot and flat. A couple more settlements and we arrive in Coca. The town’s other name is Puerto Francisco de Orellana, after the Spanish soldier of fortune who in 1541–42 accidentally set off from here and drifted downriver all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. The Napo River is a tributary of the Amazon, and the ocean lies about 7,000 kilometers downstream. Francisco did not know that at the time, and discovering new lands was not his plan either—he was hunting for the golden man, El Dorado. Greed can move mountains.

There is a promenade along the river. We identify birds in the treetops. One is the same that was chirping in the hotel garden: the great kiskadee. Since every bird is new to us, we are probably spending most of our time staring at perfectly ordinary sparrows. But they must have their admirers too.