I just finished up almost a week in Canoa, one of the sleepier of the beach tourist towns in these parts. It used to be primarily a fishing town, and now is a big draw for surfers hoping for a little quieter, more rural ambiance than that of Montanita of the South, which, I hear, has come to resemble some parts of Florida.
I stayed in the Coco Loco, a hostel owned by a woman named Elizabeth originally from Kodiak, Alaska, and her husband, Mao. They have two kids, a baby and a boy of eight. They have a lot going on with the place... including breakfast to order, a bar with a delicious happy hour, free purified water, an excellent book exchange, activities such as horseback riding, not to mention Coco Loco is across a narrow dirt street from the beach.
Also, they have an animal rescue. There are so many strays all over Ecuador, mostly apparently happy, but all living on the edge. There are a couple dogs on that street, balding, with open wounds, untouchable, that will haunt me for years to come. The Coco Loco hosts 3 cats and 4 dogs who sleep in the sand and on the tables of the outdoor lobby area. The cats will finish your breakfast if you aren't careful, and the dogs tag along for swims, trips to the beach, and sleep under the tables as we eat outdoors in restaurants. The hot water was not always available when I returned from the sandy beach... but, hey, this is Ecuador, not paradise! The best thing about the hostel was the complement of friendly, international guests... we all got along very well and would eat out, surf (not me), and party together from night to night.
Here, the sands are a mix of black and white and stretch on for several kilometers in each direction. There are waves for surfing, though while I was there, they were on the calm side, only adequate - apparently a more intense front is moving in soon. I was blessed with good weather for my whole stay, with rain only once, during the night, and so got ample opportunity to laze on the beach... and, in the process, to utilize 3 whole bottles of sunscreen, a very expensive commodity here, as the locals don't use it. Here, I can get a lunch of shrimp, french fries, rice, and salad (and a cold, green glass bottle of Sprite with a straw - my favorite indulgence here) delivered to me on the beach with condiments included (carried by the youngest and cutest of the children working for the family business) for just $5, and yet a bottle of sunscreen that actually works costs $20 - $25. Wowza. It was worth it, though. We are so close to the equator here that you can already feel the intense strength of the sun as you open the shutters of your room in the morning.
Though I went on jogs two mornings while I was here, (which allowed me a much better picture of 'the real life' in Canoa than most tourists; dusty streets with dusty houses, dusty kids and farm animals apparently contented, and colorful strands of clean laundry and blooming flowerbeds; the women look at me suspiciously and the men greet me in ways that are often too friendly) I spent most of the time most of my days hanging out on the beach. For $5, it is possible to rent small tent-like covered areas with reclining chairs and plastic chairs, and each day, I would split the costs with some of the girls from the hostel and we would take collective responsibility for watching the stuff. I would sometimes read for hours, (I finished Love and Other Demons by Gabriel Garcia Marquez in single, sumptuous day) or write in my journal, but often, I would sit and just chill.... or even... get ready for it.... NAP! Out in public! Alone! Wow. My friends and family would scarcely know me here on the beach.
I also would go on beachcombing expeditions at low tide, in search of interesting shells, but mostly in search of the 700-year-old artefacts that wash down from the hills, some including faces. I never found any, but did find some pottery shards. When I got to hot sitting on the beach, I would run with abandon into the ocean and swim out (often with goggles for my contacts) against the waves. The water was warm in a way that Alaskans would not believe... I've had colder baths in my life. When I got uncomfortable, I would return, and even if the wind blowing off the ocean was a bit cold, I could always lie flat in the sand and absorb the warmth there. Sometimes, I would move straight to playing my ukulele, and my companions at the hostel often enjoyed my music, as did some of the Ecuadorian tourists.
There were more English-speaking foreigners here than I have encountered anywhere. Rather, we were English-speaking to the degree that this was the appropriate language for the Dutch, the (very numerous) French, the Scottish, the Canadian, the British, the South Africans, and the American (just me) to use when eating out together. Still, the locals working in the restaurants and the stores spoke almost exclusively Spanish, even if they understood some English. However, this was a popular destination for visiting Ecuadorians as well. However, they often frequented entirely different restaurants and hostels. Very strange.
Though it seems almost sinful, I had no real interest in learning to surf while here. I feel I am in the process of learning enough new things (Spanish, ukulele, telemark skiing, how to relax) and I was not in the mood to push things. However, I did spend one morning learning to paddleboard a bit with a Canadian chick named Janna (yawn-ah). We started by paddling up a stagnant river with a profusion of strange birds that were long in every way - long-necked, long-footed, long-billed. They would've had my mom swooning and grabbing for her binocs! She was a patient teacher. When we moved to the ocean I thought I was doing well battling the waves for open water... until I fell in and got splashed in the eyes a few times in quick procession. I resolved to try again, but then fell back into the beach routine. Still, it was a peaceful experience there on the river!
I also spent a morning horseback riding with an awesome guide named Mario. Mao (of the hostel) drove me out to meet him on the side of the main road (under construction; this whole country, the houses, the roads, the buildings, are constantly under construction; I guess that's why it is called the developing world). There, I met Fuego ("fire") and Ramona, two beautiful and relatively tame horses. It was beautiful ride, though I did not like trotting or galloping much. I think that takes some getting used to. With my beachcomber's instinct, I lamented the various beautiful shells passing underneath the horse's feet on this much more deserted beach at low tide, but resolved not to think of it. Mario was ever courteous, pointing out the sites, taking many pictures for me (mostly not up to my standards), and bringing me close to watch gillnet fishermen bring in their catch. Afterward, we rode the horse to pasture, and he gave me a ride back to town on the back of his motorcycle on the same low-tide beach. What a blast!
I felt very comfortable with Mario, (and rightly so) but, in general, I have become a bit wary of Ecuadorian men after my experience in Canoa. I have experienced what it is like to be a minor celebrity, or, perhaps, a prostitute on her day off. Just by virtue of having white skin (and my skin is some of the whitest around, even among the white people here) I draw a lot of unwanted attention walking around town, whether wearing my bikini top in broad daylight, or dressed fully covered at night. Some men would simply comment, "guapa" in a lascivious tone as I walked past, but others might implore me to come talk to them as I am passing. One genius even tried, "hey you!" repeatedly in English. Most of the time, I tried my best to ignore it, cast my eyes down, look straight ahead, and maybe almost imperceptibly shake my head. However, more recently, sick of the shame game, I have started to respond with a sense of humor.
One night, in a typical incident, while simply trying to buy some alcohol for the hostel, without any pretext, the men hanging out in front of the store asked a string of the same typical (nosy, unwarranted) questions, including how old I was, whether I had a boyfriend, where I was from, and my age. Better versed, and in a good mood with my South African companions, I responded that I was seventy, that my name was not important, that I had a huge, angry, jealous, violent, boyfriend, and that I had 17 grandaughters about their age, but all were married. They weren't angry, (amused; I guess this was slightly better than what I imagine the typical reaction to be) and I wasn't either. Much better.
The most sinister thing is that the women (who had been roused by the men from bed to complete the business transaction) made no eye contact with us, and were only barely polite. This is typical of many local women, and when I ask the men hitting me on the beach who want to just be "friends" where the women are (that is, why there aren't women clamoring to be my "amigas", the point being that their intentions are not innocent), they say they are at home, doing their duty. I don't like it. The few women I have gotten to converse with here have been so vibrant and friendly and interesting. What a shame.
Shockingly, I learned later from an ex-pat surfer dude that some of the guys have a good gig going; after convincing European or American extrajeras of their undying devotion, many of the guys travel to Europe or America for vacation, and return to live in luxury, supplied with surfboards and clothing by their kept women abroad, sometimes more than one at once. Wow. This explains why, one night, while playing ukulele for my own enjoyment (two newest arrangements I taught myself, this time without aid of the computer: Hallelujah [Shrek movie, Rufus Wainwright, orig. Jeff Buckley] and The Kids Aren't Alright [the Offspring anthem of my middle school years]) and in salute of the sunset, I was accosted by no less than 5 Ecuadorian men in a span of 20 minutes, wishing to . I responded by switching to an improvised song of my own invention to the same chords as the Kids Aren't Alright, but with the following (shrilly sung) lyrics:
Am FM CM GM
It's not for you, It's not for you, It's not for you I'm singing this song (REPEAT TWICE)
All the lonely people in the world, well they can sing along
(repeat original line)
It was a hit with all who understood the intent (namely, my girlfriends at the hostel)... though the guys on the beach all needed some extra direction. What made me the most indignant is that I was creating the romantic pretext, I was playing the music. What right does a complete stranger have to come sit in my rented chair-space-area-thing and request I play a song for them, even (especially) if they tell me I am pretty? They would not dare invade the space of a man in the same way (although according to my surfer friend, instead, everyone tries to sell him weed all the time instead).
On the whole, however, Canoa was a blast, even if I got very little opportunity to practice my Spanish. However, while on the beach, I met some teachers at an international school in Quito. Actually, I first became cognizant of Ecuador when I applied at an international school here to teach this fall, and never heard back. Then, I found I was still interested, job or not. Brendan, Lauren, and Sebastian were very friendly. That day, I went beachcombing with Sebastian. Later they told me that they had rented a bus that weekend to travel to Otovalo (the artisan/market/shopping capital of Ecuador) as a big group of teachers and that I would be welcome to join them. So, Friday, my Canadian-companion-in-beach-bummery-friend, Ali, and I hopped a series of busses and slept our way to Quito, where Ali was to catch a plane the next morning back to Edmonton.
Today, I went to Otovalo with Sebastian and the other teachers on the bus. The crew was young, and make me think of pursuing international teaching... though I feel I would enjoy it more with a boyfriend or husband, as it seems it could be romantically isolating. Some were driven here by lack of job prospects. The best thing was that, typical of teachers, they were lively and high-energy, with a great sense of playfulness.
Otovalo itself was completely overwhelming! People are constantly yelling to you, and imploring you to buy their products, and there are so many people selling the same things (similar to the 15 beach front restaurants all selling the exact same fare in Canoa) it is hard to make a choice. I like to think I drove a pretty hard bargain. I would often get overwhelmed and say I was leaving and didn't want to buy anything... and then would be offered my lowest bidding price. I didn't get a Andean flute or a churango (that five-stringed instrument so similar to the ukulele) but otherwise, I feel I did pretty well. I could've done better with a bit more than three hours of time.
Right now, I am hanging in Sebastian's apartment, with the best showers, best heat, and best internet I have experienced in my whole trip. Tomorrow, I will head for the cloudforests of Mindo, for some more tropical weather, hotsprings, hiking, and (mom, get ready) fabulous BIRDWATCHING. There is one guide who purports to be able to show you 100 bird species in a few hours. I will probably free lance it but we shall see! Well, I should sign off... Seb and I are going to watch a movie.
I come home Thursday! I hope the snow is ready.
Paddleboarding.
Janna's fashion shot.
The main drag - hostels to the left, restaurants and beautiful beach on the right.
Sebastian beachcombing.
Some of our finds - I got sick of carrying them, so this was for posterity.
View from the hostel - hammocks, bar, etc. below.
Encocado de Camaron - coconut shrimp soup... with the typical banana chips.
Chuleta y yo.
Post-swimming beards!
Beach babes living in the lap of luxury. Sprite on the beach.
Combin'.
Mario. The first guide I have had on this trip who has been kind and patient without ulterior motives.
Gillnet fishing with pelican-like birds swooping. Some of these school-aged children don't attend school, preferring fishing.
Ramona y yo.
A small banana plantation provides a break in the bleak landscape. They needed rain, but I got the sun on my trip.
Our ride back from the pasture.
Decadent: Isabel Allende and deep-fried shrimp with ketchup AND mayo.
Elizabeth's collection of beach artefacts, some 700 years old, by her estimation.
Best bus snack ever. So, vendors come on the buses and hawk their wares, riding until the bus stops again to admit/leave a passenger (presumably to get on a return bus). I bought this coconut that had been shelled but left intact. First, you drink the milk, then you can eat the nut itself. It was much better than all of the other crap I ate on that bus that day, and much healthier. The only problem is there was no opportunity to pee for about 4 hours...
o 
Otovalo... too many options. I went for what I called the "salmones".
Beautiful embroidered tapestries; note the shrimp tapestries.
Sebastian in one of three panchos he bought today. He is the tallest man in the country and would like my friends and family to know that he is also the biggest as well as being the nicest person ever. I would like to add he is the goofiest. Posing with the cowboys.
No comments:
Post a Comment