Friday 13th February
We thought the adventure was over.

We had enjoyed fifteen amazing days journeying through Peru, Ecuador, and round the Galapagos Islands. We had seen the Inca ruins at Sacsayhuaman and Machu Pichu. We had kissed each other across the Equator. We had survived early morning starts. And we had survived oxygen deprivation at three thousand five hundred metres.

We had spent eight days exploring the Galapagos Islands on M.S. Santa Cruz II. We had some unforgettable experiences, on land, on the sea and under the sea. We had seen some incredible and unique wildlife and scenery. It was now unfortunately time to go home.

There was an option of a trip to see Giant Tortoises before we caught the plane. Diane vetoed it, on the grounds that she found them “creepy”. It would also have meant an early start, so I wasn’t so keen either. We opted for a more relaxed start to our final day.

After breakfast our bags were collected for transport to the airport. As there was going to be a complete change of passengers, we were politely kicked out of our cabins at 09:00hrs, to give the crew time to get them ready for the next bunch of lucky adventurers. We had about an hour and a half to kill before we left the ship. We spent the time in the lounge, drinking coffee, comparing notes and swapping e-mail addresses.

Then it was time for one last panga ride back to Baltra and the first of the planes home. We spent some time checking out the airport shops for last minute souvenirs. There was surprisingly little tat, most of what was on offer was decent quality.

The flight took about an hour and fifty minutes. It was smooth and uneventful. We had one last chance to experience Latam’s favoured in-flight snack, quinoa bars.

With a fair bit of time to kill before we caught our KLM flight to Amsterdam, most of us decided to have lunch. HX had also arranged a lounge for us, which was better than hanging around on the concourse.

And then things started to unravel…

Our bags had been checked all the way through to Heathrow, so all we had was our hand baggage. Check-in and boarding was smooth. We were settled into our seats, Premium Economy this time as we couldn’t wangle an upgrade, waiting for take off.

Except… nothing happened.

After a long wait, the captain finally explained that a ground engineer had spotted a leak from the port engine. Probably nothing, but it needed checking. Three hours later, with nothing more than a bottle of water and a packet of pretzels to sustain us, we were told they couldn’t fix it. The flight was cancelled..

That’s when I remembered the date: Friday the 13th.

We all had to get off, of course. Then came the joy of retrieving our bags and going back through immigration with three hundred equally fed‑up passengers. And the bigger question: where were we going to stay?

Guayaquil has never had the reputation of a gentle seaside town — even forty or fifty years ago when I was in the Merchant Navy, it wasn’t exactly a carefree run ashore. These days the coastal provinces are caught up in a nasty war between drug gangs, and they’ve even managed to annoy the local fishermen. A few days before we arrived, half a dozen severed heads turned up on a beach.

The British Foreign Office advice didn’t exactly soothe the nerves:

Avoid all but essential travel to the coastal provinces — Esmeraldas, Manabí, Santa Elena, Guayas, El Oro, Los Ríos, Santo Domingo de los Tsáchilas.

The only exception? Airside transit at Guayaquil Airport.

In other words: you’re fine as long as you don’t leave the airport. Step outside and… well, good luck.