Baños

Let me do some things as rafting or climbing as close as possible to the Tungurahua.

Opportunities for adventure-related activities – horses, rivers, zip-lines – abound in this active town. I, however, am short on funds and simply want to meander along the many trails that wind and curve through the mountains providing sublime views of the town and the danger that persistently lurks.

Across Puente San Francisco, over tumbling Rio Pastaza, a steep roads climbs up into the mountains. The sun is hot as I check my watch trying to determine how much time I have. I have no clear objective other than to hike as high as possible before either the sun disappears or my energy evaporates.

Banos’ buildings stand eye-level as I grab my backpack straps and feel the strain in my quads. To counteract the steep elevation, the road zig-zags across the mountain face. It feels as if you are walking thirty minutes and only gaining 100 meters in elevation. The road chokes the mountain like a boa. The pace is slow, the effort building with every step. The way in which people have integrated themselves into the challenging topography – homes and cultivated land greet me at every turn – fascinates me. This slow climb is part of their daily travail and I cannot help but notice the ease in which people pass me. In the distance, a series of sloping mountains slide into a deep valley leading away from the rising town and into converging clouds. Tungaruhua remains out-of-view.

An old truck rumbles past. It makes a 90 degree turn and struggles up the adjoining road. The town falls further below but irksome trees block my view. I can see through the big green leaves how orderly the town appears – neat roads crisscross the town in a predictable and confident fashion. How wonderfully than plan is juxtaposed against the looming Tungaruhua who, I notice, has revealed himself around the corner of a lesser mountain but stays frustratingly obscured behind a veil of cloud.

The road bends further away from Banos and I feel as if I were walking between a series of mountains instead of up and over a single one. I don’t believe I will have the stamina or the time to continue up. I stop and take in the scene. Only a portion of Banos is visible, the rest hidden. Yet I finally see Tungaruhua through the retreating clouds. No smoke today. No lava hiccups. He is just there, omnipotent and ominous. A woman shuffles past me with a spade in hand. I hear the cry of chickens and the scurrying of pigs. Somewhere children play and a man glances over his shoulder. Tremors occur regularly here. And I wonder what it must feel like to live and to work in the shadow of such spectacular doom, to fear something so beautiful yet threatening, so divine yet elemental, it could ruin you in a second.

I begin my descent, happy to have made it this far.

I feel privileged.

I will never experience that vulnerability. I will never endure such uncertainty. Streaking lanes of lava will never send me scurrying from my home; clouds of raging ash will never push me from my door. I will never have to start again. I will never face the mammoth task of rebuilding, of watching all my work eviscerate in flames.

As I re-enter the bustling streets, I sense Banos displays a muted heroism, the courage of reentering an unlit night. Under the volcano there lives not only vulnerability and fear but also resiliency and hope.