The air is smooth and soft here in Vilcabamba, Ecuador. The mountains are a lusty green, and a stream gurgles somewhere nearby. The center of town is full of hippy expats who affectionately call it "Velcro-bamba" for its magical ability to make you want to stay. The sleepy tourist town is nestled in The Sacred Valley of Longevity, south of Loja, and it's rumored that there are at least twenty residents well over 100 years old.
In the zen atmosphere of Hosteria Izhcayluma, a spa-hostel right outside of town, as well as the hopping hippy town square it's easy to forget that this is still a developing country. Poverty does not present itself in these areas, but it is sadly lingering just outside my immediate view. I must always be aware and conscious of that fact while traveling through South America. The hostel's information packet outlines restaurant hours, spa packages, and detailed instructions for various hiking paths around Vilcabamba.
I am intrigued by the hiking paths that range from beginner to advanced and are estimated to take anywhere from two to seven hours. My roommate, Jen-from-Canada, is also interested in a hike. We decide on the blue path rated "difficult" and with an estimated hike time of six hours. The view is said to be stunning and, in spite of my carelessness in forgetting to pack my hiking shoes, I decide I am ready. Adventure!
I glance at the precautions before we leave. It is advised to carry a rock or stick for possible encounters with angry dogs. If they still approach you, raise your hand as if to throw it at them and do not turn your back until they retreat. Great. I am terrified of aggressive dogs. Images of limbs shredding flash in my vision. I push the images aside knowing that I am strong and confident.
Jen and I pack our backpacks with essentials: sunscreen, water, a phone, a couple kinds of fruit, and a small amount of money. We get a map from the front desk and descend down the hill, out of Izhcayluma property. We cross a main road to follow the path which is getting smaller and smaller. The green of the mountain soon envelopes us and the only sound is the crunch of gravel under our feet.
The dirt path gives way to a small stream and my non-hiking boots become watery and weak. I express my concern for these crappy boots in a loud voice as Jen is considerably farther ahead on the trail, when I hear rustling in the grass next to me. Suddenly two dogs start barking and growling ferociously near my ear. I can't see them as the shrubbery is high, but they sound... Angry. I freeze, my grip tightens on the rock in my hand and Jen comes back to assure me we are ok. She holds my hand and confidently leads me away from the angry hidden dogs.
Ok. Ok. I can do this. "Do you want to go back?" Jen asks gently. "No, no, I'm ok!" I say, trying to convince myself as much as her. My heart slows back to a semi-normal pace and I try to take in the gorgeous scenery around me. I feel sick now, however, a mix of fear and dehydration sloshing in my stomach. The sun is hot and the path is steep, but Jen seems unphased. I bolster up my courage, sip some water and continue following my fearless female companion.
Houses scatter the isolated path as it broadens into a small road. I hear music in the distance, but we are the only people as far as I can see. In fact, even the distant highway seems strangely deserted. We hike a bit further up the mountain and out of the brushes, a man appears. He is middle-aged, swaying slightly, and he seems to be signaling something to us. A thumbs up? Or perhaps an invitation. As we get closer, I realize there are more men on the side of the road. They are laughing, looking at us. I think one is peeing, but decide not to look to close. They reek of alcohol.
We pass them after a quick "hola" making sure to keep our pace steady and confident. When the men are out of earshot we discuss the slight discomfort of that situation and reiterate how happy we are to not be hiking alone. The road narrows back to a thin path and I just miss stepping in a large pile of cow shit. It's fresh. "I hope we don't have to walk through a cow field," I say. Though cows are normally gentle creatures, I shudder at the thought of an angry bull charging me for somehow knowing I ate his cousin for lunch. Cow karma. "Noooo," Jen says. "I don't think so..."
We hear a loud moo. There before us is a large brown cow completely blocking the small path. Thankfully it's not a bull, but that doesn't make me any braver. "Do you want to go back?" Jen asks gently again. I think of the drunk men and the angry dogs we'd have to pass in the two-hour walk it would take to get back to our hostel. "No, I'm fine!" I say, shaking, the rock still clasped in my terrified grasp. She moves slowly toward the cow and claps a couple times. It shies away and leaps back through a small gap in the barbed wire fence. Safe again.
The trail indicates that we are to walk along a highway for approximately 300 meters before crossing it and hopping a barbed wire fence for the last half of our trek. I welcome the cement under my feet and the broader range of vision, but I'm still nervous. A taxi drives by and I resist the urge to flag it down and return to the safety of my touristy spa-hostel.
As it disappears around the bend, a truck honks at us from behind. I turn to see a white truckbed slowly pass full of men and, strangely, trash bags. They are smiling at us, but not in a way I like. How easy would it be for them to throw these two little traveler girls in the back of that pickup? They could even cover us with those trash bags when they were done with us. How convenient for them. A shiver runs through me and I tell Jen that I need to head home in the next taxi. My fear has gotten the best of me.
She reassures me kindly that it's perfectly fine. She'll go back with me. A taxi comes within two minutes of my decision and I eagerly stick out my hand. As we climb into the taxi, he says something I don't quite catch in Spanish. "Lo siento, cómo?" I ask. He repeats himself and this time I understand. I repeat the message to Jen who doesn't know Spanish. "He said when he saw us he was scared for us. That this road is very dangerous for two girls to be walking alone. He said we should be more careful." Noted.
I don't know if my paranoia was warranted, but as a woman traveling alone -or even with a very capable and brave female companion- I know that intuition is a powerful survival tool. Although I initially hated myself for "giving up" and apologized profusely to Jen for my ridiculous nervousness, I feel better knowing we are safe. Sometimes when you let fear win, you win too. But just sometimes. Trust your instincts and take whatever path you dare... Just listen closely and keep your eyes open. And maybe carry a rock.
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