A few handy ones -

Here we are, in the Andes...

Here we are, in the Andes... a phrase to begin any sentence and make you feel good to be alive. Here we are, in the Andes, struggling yet again with a blocked loo. Standing at 2,500 metres (9,000 feet) is a bit of a breathless experience, especially for those of us who have long since blown out our lungs on Marlboro Reds, but onward and upward we gasp.

Che Che Che!

Although the rest of the world's press doesn't give a flying Quechuan that Ecuador's entire economy has gone down a miraculously unblocked Ecuadoran toilet, the pueblos y campesinos are burning their ponchos in rage. Two of the major banks did a runner (where do you run when you're in South America? a riddle for the ages) and no one has been paid for three weeks. However desperate this may seem, the image of Che Guevara is very much in the hearts and minds of all young Ecuadorans (a lot of the graffiti carries his bearded sixties mug) and you can't help but feel they've been lying in wait in the barrios for this very moment, for the Handsome Moustachioed Right to do a bunk.

'It couldn't be Purple Rain...'

Western music has barely grazed the skin of the masses in Ecuador (thank the Lord someone has been spared of Celine) but they are convinced the Gringos require elevator music to fully feel at home. Fortunately you don't have to drift far off the track to find a crazed Cumbia or a marauding Merengue, although Latin men are all a little bit Nazi about the correct way to dance. The Geelong Shuffle does not cut it here.

Arriba Cuenca!

Went to the footy last night to see the battle of the Cuencans against the Riobambians (Tomebamba, Riobamba, all the local towns sound like songs penned by Richie Valens). How you can have a football season in a country without seasons, I do not know. The air was electric as we walked along in the increasing mass towards the bright lights of Stadio de Cuenca (one of which was on permanent dim the whole match.) Our boys looked good, the fireworks went up and the cry of 'Cuenca, Cuenca' echoed around the city. To my confusion and distress, it sounded an awful lot like 'Wanker, Wanker' but I soon got it sorted out, and was cheering along like a local. The most spectacular event in the match was the half time food scramble. No Four'n'Twenties for this lot. Rice, tripe and salad slopped up by these immense indigena women onto these huge silver trays, which the men line up at the bar for and wolf down like buggery. No dawdling is allowed, your tray and bar space is required! I wouldn't want to cop one from one of those women either.

Simon's Birthday!

Onwards and upwards through the Cajas, Ingapirca and Banos.