“It’s easier to take the bus from the agency than the bus terminal” said our driver as he dropped us off at the bus yard “it’s a twelve hour journey from here. There’ll be someone waiting for you at the other end”. This sounded like a call of doom with Peter waiting at the pearly gates – not another long South American bus journey!

After an hour crawling across the city we were out on the open road, winding down through the Quito suburbs on our way to Puerto Lopez, a small fishing town on the coast.

The mountain landscape began to develop into dense cloud forest as the bus twisted and turned along the dusty roads. We were enjoying the patchwork of green scenery that passed us despite the distraction of a badly dubbed film that penetrated the tranquility of the bus until suddenly we pulled over and the driver got out.

Unaware of the cause for the stop several male passengers took the opportunity to leave the bus and use the open air facilities. From my dust-clad window it became evident that there was a man in a vest with his head in the engine – we had broken down!

After several chugs the engine turned over and we were off again. It wasn’t until the third time of stopping that we realized the oil-covered, vest-wearing man was indeed the driver. This time he got the engine going and it didn’t stop running for the next ten hours – except to refuel and even then I’m not convinced it had actually been turned off!

The cloud forest opened up as the undulations flattened with the presence of banana trees – their huge leaves protruding from sturdy bases. Intercepting these green giants stood wooden houses balancing precariously on thin wooden legs, elevating the homes they supported above the dusty ground below.

Into the afternoon the trees began to dwindle and we came upon a muddy sea of tiny rice plants poking out of the top of the water-soaked fields.

By 5pm we had passed through Portoviejo and the entire buss full of locals and tourists departed, leaving just us for the remaining three hours.

Darkness fell and only pinpoints of light decorated our view outside as we passed the last towns and villages, accompanied by hopefully, the last poor film playing on the TV. “You could get a better view at the front” suggested the bus assistant. We pointed out that it wasn’t the best film we’d seen, to which he replied “but it is in English.”

It turned out he wasn’t a great advocate for the film, he just wanted to clean the bus from top to bottom before it reached our destination and we were the obstacle that prevented him from doing so.

Eleven hours and fifty three minutes from when we left, the bus arrived. Weary and stiff we hobbled down the steps into the humid night.