Caption: ¨PCH of Ecuador.¨
Caption: ¨The often stinky and unsightly roads. Sign says do not throw your trash.¨
Caption, ¨Beach pueblo.¨All things considered I should be hating biking in Ecuador, especially after Colombia. In Ecuador the unpaved roads cover me in dust clouds leaving me with a dirt face mask at the end of each day, dogs are chasing my ass in every goddamn pueblito, on shore wind in my face, long stretches without restaurants, dirty food that has made me very very afraid to fart and left me with a feeling of an invisible hand squeezing my intestines every 15 min while biking (maybe I should get that checked), filthy roadsides covered in plastic bags of garbage, and a horrible stench of rotting fish and cow carcases decorating the roadsides. Despite those differences with Colombia I am having a better time than ever in Ecuador. The people are delightful.
Caption, ¨Tim Burton trees.¨
Caption, ¨Fellow companions in idiocy.¨I was biking down the coast yesterday dancing in my saddle listening to some awesome Egyptian pop (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lD9xXRm3Jpw, Amr Diab is one of my personal favorites). 30km (about an hour and a half) had gone by without seeing a person or a place to eat and I was famished. If you don't eat every 2 or 3 hours your body does dead like a cell phone. The amazing thing is all you need to do is eat, wait 15 minutes and you are charged up again and can go another few hours. Biking has given me a new love for fruits and veggies. I have a nearly sexual attraction to them now. Looking at a good bunch of bananas is much the feeling I get when a woman walks down the street and she passes you and you turn your head to admire. Freaking love those bananas.
I came across a cabana with a man watering a lawn of rocks and pebbles with a few sad weeds. He was a family man of 30 years and had a cute frazzle haired kid hanging on each leg. We chatted for a bit about how far it was to the next town and the weather. Being a hot day of 80km I was ready to set up camp, find some food and take a dip in the baby blue sea. "How much to camp here?" I asked him.
Caption, ¨Not Puerto de Cayo.¨
Caption, ¨Definitely not Puerto de Cayo.¨
Caption, ¨Not Puerto de Cayo.¨Caption, ¨Definitely not Puerto de Cayo.¨"Free and safe. No one will bother you here," he reassures me. Ok, sounds like a deal. As with all things nothing is free. After my swim he offers me a home cooked meal with his family and then to take me into "town" to show me around Puerto de Cayo. His plan, as I found out, was to show me everything this wonderful pueblo has to offer in order for me to tell all my fellow tourist friends with pockets full of disposable income to come here, and not to places set up with tourist services such as internet and restaurants (both of which this town lacks).
Although relaxing on the beach and reading sounds appetizing I of course go with him because of the hospitality he is showing me. Now I am about to embark on the red carpet tour of his pueblo he is so full of pride about. It's only a 10 min walk in the blazing sun into the dusty center of town lacking trees big enough to give a dog shade. First stop, we get to watch a dump truck unload dirt on their un-paved road in the center of town. While squinting into the broiling heat to watch the truck unload its payload an SUV pulls up and a man hops out of the car with three other guys all holding camcorders. It's the mayor from Jipijapa coming to check on the road construction. I love saying the word Jipijapa. Anyway, he is a typical slimeball politician small talking up 'his amigos' in the streets and pressing flesh. He has a nice fake smile behind twitchy eyes that tell all his lies.
Caption: ¨The jackass mayor soaking up and loving the limelight. He smelled of a scandal.¨He grabs an old lady and holds her over the shoulder and starts talking into the camera, "Here we are in beautiful Puerto de Cayo with this wonderful senora. As promised we are improving the roads for you, and to bring tourist and money to your town and improving your quality of life..." Just then the old lady interrupts him, he gets annoyed and grabs a more docile old lady. The mayor tells the camera man, "Ok, lets start over again," and he continues with his political campaigning. While he is talking the other two camera men are filming me talking to my new friend, Oscar. The mayor, after getting his sound bites, comes over to me, shakes my hand and wants to know how long I have been here (2 hours), how much I love it (so much) and more small talk. I think I am the first tourist in this town.
The mayor takes off as fast as he showed up and Oscar and I head down to the local free clinic. In Ecuador they provide free condoms for the people because for the average guy they are very expensive. "Oscar, why don't you get the pill instead?" I asked him.
"Oh, they do not have the pill for men here in Ecuador."
"No, No, not for you, for your wife," obviously being a language misunderstanding due to my shitty Spanish.
"My wife was not always fat," he says. Oscar is a fit and handsome Ecuadorian stud. I saw his wife and I thought, wow, she lucked out. She was fully equipped with the standard "muffin tops" that you see on nearly all Ecuadorians. "There are hormones in the pill and she will get even bigger than after the two kids." and he puffs up his cheeks and puts his arms out to his sides and starts waddling around. Haha, Oscar is awesome and men are the same all around the world.
I bought a 20 liter jug of water and a chicken for the family's dinner. We were walking back to his place on the beach and he decides to take me to the "famosos chongos". The what? Ah, the whorehouse. Gotcha.
I do not like whore houses. Maybe if I slept with whores I would like them. Never say never, I could lose a leg on this trip and it could be my new favorite hang out on Earth but until then I tend to shy away from them and it has kept me out of trouble for the most part. So Oscar and I go in and I immediately know this is a bad idea. This hut is located on the outskirts of town tucked into a hill covered with dead weeds. Under the palm frond roof there are a dozen wasted guys with piles of beers in front of them and two rollipoli looking whores that are dressed in a Borat bathing suit made out of spare fishing nets. Oh, yes. 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound sack came to mind. What a treat for the eyeballs.
Oscar looks at me and I give a cracked smile and a head nod that tells him I am not digging this place. We took a seat. I wanted to get him a beer for his hospitality and for being a great guy, but I did not want to stay long enough to finish that beer. Sitting their awkwardly, all drunk eyes are on the white boy wearing a cowboy hat. Lets go, lets go, lets go...nope, we are getting waved over by the two biggest slime buckets in the place and we have to go over and say hi. Both of them have the sweaty red bloated drinker face look going on. One guy is large and looks and talks just like Jabba the Hut so I can hardly understand his pueblo talk. On his right is sitting this little guy that has his two, possibly four, front teeth missing, a MASSIVE cold sore and is laughing away like an idiot, coincidentally just like Jabba the Hut's sidekick in the movie. What a duo.
They hit me with a barrage of questions in ghetto coastal pueblo talk. The sidekick hands me a small glass of beer that he has been filling and passing to each person in the group. It arrives to me, "No, no, I do not drink beer." Ya, that set tone. A look of horror and confusion came over their faces. "Ok, well, how about a nice muchacha for your little fishing boat?" was Jabba's question. "What?" What the hell is this guy talking about? I found out later that fishing boat means cock here in this particular pueblo. He tried to bring one of the girls over and I say, "No no, it's ok we were just going to see the rest of Puerto de Cayo. We are on a tour." The guy is trying to get me to go on his fishing boat for a discounted rate the next day, but I am explaining to him I leave at 6am. I am walking a fine line of offending Jabba and at the same time my face is giving me away that I am not enjoying his company. My face is pained in a crunched laugh with darting eyes to Oscar in hopes that he will get us out of this situation. The guys are getting more and more worked up because I have declined their generous offers of herpetic beers and even more herpetic laced lovely ladies. Ok, time to go.
Oscar finally reads my uncomfortableness and got us out of there. Jabba is noticeably annoyed and gives me this bitter sad limp handshake because he was offended, rightfully so. I was being a jackass due to my annoying sense of self preservation. I guess I should have slammed the glass of beer covered in scabs and then slammed one of the girls in one of the rooms that is set up with a mattress on the floor right off the main room where everyone is drinking and next to the shitter.
It is one thing to be in an awkward situation in English but throw in the the misunderstanding x factor and your are on uneven footing. Yes, I can communicate with the people but I cannot express myself, and that is a giant leap away. I spend days talking to pueblo folk, but at the end of the day I do not relate to these people. We run out of things to talk about because our cultures are so different. We have to talk about weathers and their, what usually ends up being, traumatic family history. We cannot talk light and fluffy with pop culture references. And I cannot stand their salsa music. Can you name your favorite 3 Raggaton and Vallanata artists please? Any music that uses a fog horn for an instrument is complete garbage. You can put on my tombstone.
Oscar and his family were a treat, but even with them we hit conversation dry spots. I played with his kids making Lego houses and guns after a warm Ecuadorian dinner of soup, lentils, rice and chicken. My tent was pitched facing the crashing waves and I passed out thinking about what a wonderfully strange life I am living.
Caption: ¨Cuidad de Manta.¨ 
The mayor takes off as fast as he showed up and Oscar and I head down to the local free clinic. In Ecuador they provide free condoms for the people because for the average guy they are very expensive. "Oscar, why don't you get the pill instead?" I asked him.
"Oh, they do not have the pill for men here in Ecuador."
"No, No, not for you, for your wife," obviously being a language misunderstanding due to my shitty Spanish.
"My wife was not always fat," he says. Oscar is a fit and handsome Ecuadorian stud. I saw his wife and I thought, wow, she lucked out. She was fully equipped with the standard "muffin tops" that you see on nearly all Ecuadorians. "There are hormones in the pill and she will get even bigger than after the two kids." and he puffs up his cheeks and puts his arms out to his sides and starts waddling around. Haha, Oscar is awesome and men are the same all around the world.
I bought a 20 liter jug of water and a chicken for the family's dinner. We were walking back to his place on the beach and he decides to take me to the "famosos chongos". The what? Ah, the whorehouse. Gotcha.
I do not like whore houses. Maybe if I slept with whores I would like them. Never say never, I could lose a leg on this trip and it could be my new favorite hang out on Earth but until then I tend to shy away from them and it has kept me out of trouble for the most part. So Oscar and I go in and I immediately know this is a bad idea. This hut is located on the outskirts of town tucked into a hill covered with dead weeds. Under the palm frond roof there are a dozen wasted guys with piles of beers in front of them and two rollipoli looking whores that are dressed in a Borat bathing suit made out of spare fishing nets. Oh, yes. 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound sack came to mind. What a treat for the eyeballs.
Oscar looks at me and I give a cracked smile and a head nod that tells him I am not digging this place. We took a seat. I wanted to get him a beer for his hospitality and for being a great guy, but I did not want to stay long enough to finish that beer. Sitting their awkwardly, all drunk eyes are on the white boy wearing a cowboy hat. Lets go, lets go, lets go...nope, we are getting waved over by the two biggest slime buckets in the place and we have to go over and say hi. Both of them have the sweaty red bloated drinker face look going on. One guy is large and looks and talks just like Jabba the Hut so I can hardly understand his pueblo talk. On his right is sitting this little guy that has his two, possibly four, front teeth missing, a MASSIVE cold sore and is laughing away like an idiot, coincidentally just like Jabba the Hut's sidekick in the movie. What a duo.
They hit me with a barrage of questions in ghetto coastal pueblo talk. The sidekick hands me a small glass of beer that he has been filling and passing to each person in the group. It arrives to me, "No, no, I do not drink beer." Ya, that set tone. A look of horror and confusion came over their faces. "Ok, well, how about a nice muchacha for your little fishing boat?" was Jabba's question. "What?" What the hell is this guy talking about? I found out later that fishing boat means cock here in this particular pueblo. He tried to bring one of the girls over and I say, "No no, it's ok we were just going to see the rest of Puerto de Cayo. We are on a tour." The guy is trying to get me to go on his fishing boat for a discounted rate the next day, but I am explaining to him I leave at 6am. I am walking a fine line of offending Jabba and at the same time my face is giving me away that I am not enjoying his company. My face is pained in a crunched laugh with darting eyes to Oscar in hopes that he will get us out of this situation. The guys are getting more and more worked up because I have declined their generous offers of herpetic beers and even more herpetic laced lovely ladies. Ok, time to go.
Oscar finally reads my uncomfortableness and got us out of there. Jabba is noticeably annoyed and gives me this bitter sad limp handshake because he was offended, rightfully so. I was being a jackass due to my annoying sense of self preservation. I guess I should have slammed the glass of beer covered in scabs and then slammed one of the girls in one of the rooms that is set up with a mattress on the floor right off the main room where everyone is drinking and next to the shitter.
It is one thing to be in an awkward situation in English but throw in the the misunderstanding x factor and your are on uneven footing. Yes, I can communicate with the people but I cannot express myself, and that is a giant leap away. I spend days talking to pueblo folk, but at the end of the day I do not relate to these people. We run out of things to talk about because our cultures are so different. We have to talk about weathers and their, what usually ends up being, traumatic family history. We cannot talk light and fluffy with pop culture references. And I cannot stand their salsa music. Can you name your favorite 3 Raggaton and Vallanata artists please? Any music that uses a fog horn for an instrument is complete garbage. You can put on my tombstone.
Oscar and his family were a treat, but even with them we hit conversation dry spots. I played with his kids making Lego houses and guns after a warm Ecuadorian dinner of soup, lentils, rice and chicken. My tent was pitched facing the crashing waves and I passed out thinking about what a wonderfully strange life I am living.
Caption: ¨Cuidad de Manta.¨ 
