ECUADOR TO CHILE - a curious soup of a journey. PART I - Quito time plays its tricks

Seven days, 3 countries and 110 hours on the coach is facing us if we want to make it from Ecuador to Chile in time for christmas. The journey starts in the crowded night streets of Quito on the 6th of December; a date that we had forgotten was a public holiday in the city. As we arrive from out first 9 hour coach journey from the coast we are husteled and bustled around the streets, tired eyed and vaguely confused. The first stint of our journey will be a daunting 36 hours from Quito to Peru´s capital, Lima. We go to the Transamerica office to buy our tickets and a man with a deep waxen scar like a sign across his forehead advises us that the bus will be leaving at 10pm that evening.
We head back into town with a few hours to kill, and find ourselves in the thick cheer of bottle swinging crowds, their laughing faces melting and twisting like wax in the bulb-lit night. A uniformed police band march past us, their spotless brass instruments held like curious weapons at their sides. Time seems to have slowed down and conjealed like the people and the traffic; nobody is hurrying anywhere. The night is on a continuous loop of red latin music that licks the buzzing pavements into a firework sheen and echos its deep laugh into the mouths and pint glasses of the people. We indulge in food and beer and saying goodbyes to this rich Colada Morada of a country, and the time melts into it all like slow syrup as the bus journey gets further and further away from our thoughts.
Suddenly we are pulled from the festivities like bubbles spitting out of the pot. We have 20 minutes to catch our bus and the streets are of course mainly closed due to the huge parades
that will act as the climax to the city holiday. We run through the rain varnished streets in search of a taxi, dodging stilt walkers with white painted faces and dancing school girls in pom-pommed plastic boots. We dodge small children chewing on greasy Pintox and whisky breathed men in thick coats and pork-pie hats. Everywhere are hot crowds in syrup slow motion and we are awkwardly trying to swim through, getting Áye aye ayes!!´from disaproving old ladies as we tumble past.
As we reach Amazonas we are greeted by a vast perade of dance, light and extravagant mayhem; a milkfloat decked with candy LED´s acting as a chintzy chariot for the Quito beauty queens who gaze into the crowd and wave submissivly like immaculate puppets.We push our way to the front of the mesmorised crowd with only 10 minutes to go until the bus leaves. This whole scene is like some kind of surreal carnival dream, and I feel like the omniprescent dreamer; whitnessing it all without actually being there.
We realise we have no choice but to cross the perade and also realise that this will be a sacriligious action causing anti-gringo feeling the crowd over. ´Just try to blend in´I say to Jane, forgetting that my pale skinned, stripey panted Englishness is unblendable at the best of times. Suddently there is a break in the crowd as a large man in a leather jacket attempts the mean feat of crossing. ´Follow him!´ screams Jane, and we charge across the perfect pattern of traditional dancers in cultural dress, exuding all responsibility for the ensuing cufuffle by hiding behind the rather tall man.
Finally in a taxi, two minutes to go, haggling with the taxi driver about the price, almost there....and the bus is nowhere to be seen. ´Have we missed it???´we question the security guard in exasperated Spanish. The man regards our panic with confused amusement and casually states that the bus will probably arrive at about midnight. I suppose we should have got used to the Quito time by now; it is always slowing down, speeding up, and then slowing back down again as it pleases. Oh well, at least we will be leaving the place in traditional style!