I had been warned that I might not get a seat reservation on the train, even if I queued very early for at ticket (which I did, following a 5am alarm call). But in some parts of the world, the lack of a seat, or even the lack of any physical space within a transportation vehicle, is no impediment to travelling. And so it was with me. No seat? No problem – they sold me a ticket anyway. It seemed that the choice was either squash in, and stand in the corridor of the “train” (not recommended for the 8 hour trip) or climb on the roof and see if there was somewhere to cling on that wasn’t yet occupied by some other human being. Or box. Or farm animal.

In any case, there was no plan B to the train. There is no road down to the coast – just this unusual railway.

The “train”, I soon discovered, wasn’t really a train. It was a ramshackle collection of old buses and trucks which had been fitted with bogeys to allow them to run on the tracks. I had been assigned “carriage” #3, for some reason that wasn’t very clear given the lack of any particular rights to any space in said “carriage”. The roof looked alarmingly high above the ground, but it was apparently not yet overrun with other travellers, so I climbed up the vertical ladder and found that there was a space on the left side of the roof rack that was not yet taken. On the right side of the roof rack was a bespectacled young Dutchman who welcomed me to the roof. He said he was Cesco van Gool, from Amsterdam.

I installed myself on the left side of the roof rack, and figured out how best to hang on. Given the curved geometry of the roof and my proximity to the edge this seemed an important thing to figure out! It seemed that the roof could be a fun place to travel, so long as it didn’t rain, and the train didn’t go too fast. Sitting on the roof rack wasn’t so very uncomfortable, if I used my backpack as a seat… The departure time of 6am came and went, yet people kept arriving and piling into the carriage. Then suddenly the “bus on rails” lurched forward and we were off. What I assumed would be an 8 hour trip had started…

All was fine initially… then the first tunnel came into sight. This was somewhat alarming (obviously I ducked – who wouldn’t?) but it seemed that the tunnels had been made high enough to accommodate passengers sitting on the roof. More disconcerting than the tunnels was coming out of a tunnel straight on to a dizzying bridge above a deep ravine and knowing that falling off at this point wouldn’t mean just a 4 metre fall…

I’d already figured that if the “train” achieved more than walking speed it was going to get a bit cold, and it did. I put on an extra layer of clothing, which left my orange backpack looking barely half full.

The train lasted until 11am before the first breakdown… It wasn’t immediately clear what had happened but evidently we weren’t going to move. We sat there for 2 hours and then there was some shouting and the carriage started to move slowly forwards for a km or two. Then we had to change to a different carriage. It was still a “bus” (rather than a truck) and had a roof rack (unlike another carriage nearby which had a bare roof with nothing to hold on to at all). With the change there had been some rearrangement and Cesco and I were joined by some rather large Germans who struggled up the ladder.

At 5pm the new bus broke down. By this time we were leaving the mountains behind and the vegetation was quite lush and tropical. They attempted to fix the problem and after an hour we proceeded slowly in the gathering dark. It was no longer possible to see much, and several times I was whacked in the face by the large leaves of banana plants. The train stopped again and stayed where it was for several hours, during which I tried to work out if it would have actually been quicker to walk from Ibarra to San Lorenzo. Finally at 11pm another carriage turned up and we got on to that one. It continued slowly into San Lorenzo, arriving after midnight. What I had expected to be a grueling 8 hour trip had turned into an 18 hour ordeal. At this point I felt that I was running a fever and was grateful to find a room at the Hotel Ibarra in the dusty gloomy ramshackle coastal town.

I slept until 10am and felt a lot better – no more fever. I was also very hungry after the previous day’s fun, and headed out with Cesco for a major breakfast, before sorting out the onward trip and getting tickets. The only way in and out of San Lorenzo is by small boat along the coast, or the delightful railway that we had already done. Before departing I went for a quick tour of the town and took some photos. San Lorenzo is not a particularly elegant town…

The boat trip to the nearest road was on small speed boat that reminded me of working in the swamps in the Niger Delta in Nigeria. In the early afternoon, some time after rounding a headland, we reached the road and got on a bus. It wasn’t quite a normal bus – more like a truck, and there was no space inside. However Cesco and I were old hands at roof travel, and joined a couple of other people on the roof rack. The difference this time was that the roof was somewhat loose, and moved when the “bus” went over a bump (of which there were a great many). It was all part of the fun.

Arriving at the town of Esmeraldas, we finally got inside a real bus, which took us to the destination for the day which was the beach town and gringo hangout of Atacames. There we found the approved backpacker hotel, and duly ran into the 2 Israelis from the Volcano hike, and several other people, all of whom were happy to introduce us to the relaxed beach life of the place. This was by means of an impromptu party on the beach which included playing silly games, and which lasted until 3:30 am.

Another beach day followed (14th December) with nothing achieved other than a lot of chat and swimming, along with Cesco, 2 Swedes, and later 2 Swiss girls with whom we all later investigated a bar, and then ended up at a disco club which seemed to be having a grand opening. As part of the celebration of this, there were some professional dancers putting on a dance show to what sounded like Salsa music – it was very impressive and a far cry from the “Latin ballroom” that I had attempted at University.

After this we all ended up on the beach again in the early hours, where I got talking to a very pleasant Irish guy, who (if not an actual member of the IRA) enthusiastically sympathised with the cause of Irish unity, and was able to argue the case in a refreshingly logical and respectful way.