Huanchaco

We took the 11 pm night bus so we could delay our departure from Mancora as long as possible.  (Without an agenda, we would likely have stayed another week or two, which seemed to be a very common result.)  The beauty of the night bus – if you can get some sleep – is that you save the cost of a night’s lodging.  We arrived in Trujillo at 8 am, but had been warned by many to avoid this mostly industrial town, so we took a cab to another little beach town called Huanchaco.

I guess this is where the term “sleepy” beach town comes from:  at 9 am on a Saturday, there is no one to be seen, on the beach, on the pier, walking the streets.  We settled into the only café we could find open and threw our bags into a room they had open on the 3^rd floor.  Fifteen minutes later, they remembered they were booked full and needed us to move back out.  We did not pay for the coffee.  Bastards.

We settled for a room at the bar where we were going to watch the USA v England match later.  Seemed wise at the time.   (Seemed less wise at midnight with the music thumping and people streaming in and out of the baño 5 feet from my sleepy head.)  The owner of the bar also runs a soccer training school for kids and played professionally in the US for many years.  Great guy and obviously one of the social centers of the expat community there.  Despite the annoyances, a good experience.

Thank GOD England’s keeper has hands of stone or I would owe pisco shots to half of The Commonwealth.  We had a great time watching the game with a room full of Brits and mocking their pain.  We Americans are such vulgar beasts.

This was an intermediate transit stop of only 2 days/1 night, but we did also squeeze in a trip to our first archeological site, the ruins at Chan Chan.  Certainly worth a Google Image Search.

Two weeks in, there is certainly a wealth of great experiences to list, but there is also a lingering sadness in moving from place-to-place every couple of days.  The faster we move, the more it settles around me.  There is always beauty and exhilaration in discovering a new place, meeting new people.  But as the parting becomes routine, the intimacy of those experiences naturally wane.  I feel more disconnected each day, not only in place, but also from myself.

And for all the benefits of traveling with my little sister, there is a world of needs, desires, and experiences in those 19 years between us.  We want different things from the road in front of us, and there are times when we simply can’t make each others’ paths easier.

As Piter so presciently pointed out (at 3 am) on the beach in Mancora, there are many different kinds of intimacy, and I’m worried that the path I have chosen does not allow for the kind of intimacy that I am truly craving.  I left a lot of love behind when I got on that plane in May.

As usual, I have been far too aggressive in trying to see everything possible in the time allotted.  We have already blown off parts of our itinerary and are now considering blowing it up altogether and spending a week (instead of 2 days/1 night) in the Cordilliera Blanca.

Mancora

Inserting yourself blindly into a new town is one of the most difficult travel experiences – Who will we meet?  What should we make time to see or do?  Where do we eat?  Particularly when staying in group/hostel arrangements, the choice of where you stay is key to the kind of experience that you will have.

We pulled into Mancora (Sea level, ~5000 people) just before dusk onto a noisy and dusty main street.  After brushing off 10 other moto-taxis, we ended up jumping into one because we couldn’t identify where the “place to be” really was.  Our first stop was a very upscale European hostel chain called Loki.  Beautiful, but full.  Next, to the “eco-lodge” on the beach…$55/person/night is not exactly budget travel.  Then Edgar dropped us at another hostel just off the beach which he said was very clean and nice.  Exhausted, we dropped our bags in the room and Holly ran off to make the arrangements.  Yet, as I sat in the windowless room and watched the bugs swirl around the light, I thought, “If this is what I have to put up with to make this travel thing work, I’d rather punch myself in the face.”  I ran out to the entry as Holly was giving our passport numbers and said I was terribly allergic to something in the room (i.e. the room) and we had to move on.  Pissed (momentarily), The Sister gave apologies and we mounted up (again) and walked across the dirt road to a beachfront place that our driver had recommended against.  In retrospect, it is clear that these guys all get a tip for bringing touristicos to certain places and they won’t take you to the places that don’t tip them.  Edgar did leave us his cell number in case we wanted some coke later.  Very kind.

The wide and open beaches here are absolutely breathtaking.  You can't help but wonder how much it would cost to plant a stake in the ground.

It turns out that PK’s hostel (Edgar said it was “VERY dirty.”) absolutely made our stop in Mancora.  For 15 Soles/night (around $5/each), we had a beachfront place with a pool, a deck, two decent beds and a “private” bathroom.  (A 3 foot pony wall doesn’t normally count as privacy, but my standards have changed pretty quickly.)  And it proved to be a turnstile for new and interesting characters.

First, we met Tom, a 19 year-old Brit who REALLY wanted to get to know The Sister better.  (At one point he even asked my permission.  I told him I didn’t really think it was mine to give.)  Our first night, Tom brought home 2 British girls to our place to party by the pool and then he went out to pick up 3 others at Loki.  They entertained the shit out of us, but poor Tom ended up 0-5 on the night and was visibly distraught.  (Maybe I need to cuddle with him some morning and share The Knowledge.)

We learned many things from the girls that first night, including that if you eat more than one egg per day, you are likely to end up “eggbound” (or also possibly “trumpy”).  We also were told that “if you don’t give me lick outs, I’m going home,” and “I’ve not pissed myself.  I’ve just gone a little wee in my pants.”  Not bad for our first 6 hours in town.  We got so high that Sweet Ellie asked me, “can I take a sip of that?” and I handed her my cigarette.  Seemed logical at the time.

We also met Piter, the crazy genius of German descent who spent way too much time in Santa Monica to be considered German anymore.  He’s been on the road for 32 years and had much to contribute.  We spent about 6 hours by the pool our second night discussing everything from the oil spill (“it will change life forever as we know it”), coconut water (“very useful as a substitute for blood plasma”), UFOs (“absolutely yes”), and the end times that are just around the corner.  Better to suffer through them in Mancora, I assume.

Ken’s British wit was so dry, that Holly thought he was a real dick until she got to know him a little better.  Then he suddenly became her favorite character in this chapter.  Funny how those things turn.  (Also funny, Ken, that your country’s goalie missed a ball that a grade schooler in the US would have stopped.  Can’t wait to see you again and enjoy that tequila you owe me.)

There was also the French guy who had no language in common with me, but we always seemed to carry on a conversation.  At one point, he had determined to tie a lead to a horse, have his girlfriend ride it along the beach, and pull him on a surfboard.  I asked him to roll another one for us first.

                                                      

We spent 2+ days hanging out with Miriam from Germany who is scrapping her prior schooling to try and become an actress in Berlin.  That’s the stuff.

There was a large contingent of French folks staying with us by the time the France v Uruguay game came around, so we had a nice World Cup party out by the pool to celebrate.  This being South America, the game was tied into the 82^nd minute and then the power went out.  (And still hadn’t come back on by the time we got on the night bus 8 hours later).  No matter.  I know a French guy with a bottomless stash.

The great thing is that almost everyone we met has either been where we are going (and can provide recommendations), or they are on the same path and we can meet up with them down the road.  Our hostel unexpectedly became home for 4 nights and 4 days (originally scheduled for half of that) and we made friends that will most certainly last.  It wasn’t just a great party (it was that too), but I think we learned something about ourselves and opened the door a little more to the experience.  One of those places I will always remember with a smile.

Cuenca to Montequillas

Cuenca (~7500 ft, ~400,000 ppl) is reported to be the arts and cultural capital of Ecuador, renown for its local crafts and markets.  We wouldn’t really know because we spent 3 days and 2 nights there in self-enforced rehab from our outburst in Baños.  We actually sat in the hostel and watched a movie.  In the daytime.

Stunning architecture, lovely cobblestone streets…blah blah blah…you’re not reading my blog for that kind of shit.  Look it up on the Internets.

We did meet some very nice people (Canadian, Irish) in our hostel/rehab center who had been staying in Cuenca for several months teaching English, ostensibly paid work, but it sounded a lot more like volunteering to me.  Rice + agua + a $4/night hostel doesn’t seem worth the time to me.  I guess I have higher needs.

We also roomed with a guy from Montana who has been touring by motorcycle for several months.  Lots of these types down here, but I’m always amazed at how difficult it is to get a across the Canal Zone.  Every one of these guys talk about spending a week and $1000+ to get a bike through.  Where the fuck is Capitalismo when you need it??  Chad seemed permanently traumatized by the 8 days he spent in Panama City only to end up with a drunk German and a sketchy yacht that nearly capsized.  (After transporting his bike via canoe with a 10 hp motor from the mainland to a small island to meet the “yacht.”)  I told him it would be worth it for the story later.  He did not think I was funny.

(As an aside, I cannot stop listening to the Broken Bells.  It’s become like coffee and smokes to me at this point.  I know, mom, just what I need – another addiction.  HOWEVER, as I write this, I have no idea who won the Stanley Cup, so I guess these addictions can come and go.)

Another brutal bus ride took us to the Ecuadoran border town of Montequillas.  Ecuadoran busses stop for everyone and everything.  The good news is that they are cheap (about $1 per hour travelled).  The bad news is that if you have a seat, you can be sure that someone will be setting their babies or their boxes on top of you.  When we put our packs in the cargo hold, it was empty.  When we took them out, they had to move 50 chickens out of the way first.

The madness of the Ecuador/Peru frontier is really beyond description.  I will simplify by saying that The Sweet Little Sister absolutely snapped at one point and screamed “FUCK OFF!!!” at two hombres who pestered us all the way across the bridge for a taxi ride.  (She did this much to the delight and laughter of everyone within 100 meters of us.)  In her defense, she did attempt “no, thank you,” “go in peace,” and “go away now!” in Espanolish before the Ugly American outburst.

Cash exchange, booze exchange (pisco for tequila), passport stamp, and we are officially in Peru.  The collectivo ride left us bruised, but far from broken once we saw the wide open beaches of Mancora.

Baños

We got in into the little tourist town of Baños (~5000 people, ~6000 feet) wasted from the bus ride down and physically drained from the altitude in Quilatoa.  We wandered around a bit looking for the right hostel and were twice offered the Matrimonial Suite. (Um…if that means a heart-shaped bed or the Magic Fingers attachment, the answer is “fuck yes.”)  But the obvious solution to our ails is a big steak, wine, and tequila.  Some Xanax from the Pharmacia also couldn’t hurt.

Okay, so it turns out that Xanax and tequila CAN hurt.  Who knew??  There is about 3 hours of lost time in there, but I know I paid for 7 tequila shots, 3 shots of pisco, and we emptied out the karaoke bar when I tried to sing “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”  

 We spent the majority of the evening drinking at a bar with stools right on the main street so we could keep an eye on the action.  Edmundo, the bar owner, talked politics with us for hours and I didn’t complain about the $46 bar tab until much later.  I do remember that he had Korean dramas playing on his TV in the corner…very bizarre.  We both slept until Noon the next day, including sleeping through an evacuation of the entire city…more on that later.

One of my favorite new pastimes is to cuddle up with Holly and dispense The Knowledge of how she should live her life.  She really loves it too.  “What the fuck was up with that hour-long speech you gave me this morning??”  We’re going to try that again tomorrow morning for sure.

In order to clean some of the crap out of our systems (including two packs of Tropicales cigarettes…how can they be bad if they’re only $1.50 a pack?), we headed just south of town for El Refujio, a spa and sauna facility.  The forced march (shoeless) through their “Sacred Refuge” was forgettable, but the sauna boxes filled with Eucalyptus leaves certainly were worth the trip.  We also sprung for a massage, but they put us in the same room because they also thought we were married…awkward.

After the sauna and massage, it was back to town for dinner.  They had on the national news and the top story was “La Evacuaccion de Baños.”   Hundreds and hundreds of people rolling up their shops and literally running down the hill and out of town.  The entire restaurant staff came out of the kitchen to crowd around and see the news.  I was laughing hysterically because we had ignored the 30 minutes of emergency siren and stayed in bed.  Nobody else thought it was as funny as I did.  Strange.

This is our hostal hostess, Bierme (as in "Beer Me):

The volcano that is just outside of the city has been pretty active for the past couple of weeks and the tourist traffic is down significantly.  During our stay, you could hear a huge “boom” from the mountain every hour or two – pretty dramatic stuff.  Even though the weather was cloudy, we decided to take a taxi up to the top of the hill and try to get a look.  And this is what we saw:

Okay, so we didn’t really SEE shit, but being that close to the thing was a pretty righteous experience.  Different from being in the town below, from the viewpoint just across from the volcano, you could literally feel the damn thing breathing.  It sounded like a dragon snoring that would occasionally cough and spit a little fire.  At one point, there was a pretty sizeable explosion, at which point I grabbed my chest and staggered back a few steps.  The Ecuadoran family sitting on top of the hill watching thought that was pretty funny.  Stupid gringo. 

It did clear briefly so we could see just how close we were to the mountain.  Well worth our $15 ride up. 

They also had a swing at the viewpoint that went out over the cliff’s edge.  If the proximity of a live volcano didn’t take your breath away, this certainly will.

We had gone to the public hot springs (the main attraction in Baños) earlier in the day and met a couple of girls from Colorado and they joined us for dinner at a kickass French place we had found.  Then the four of us went out and made another run at the beer/pisco/tequila combo that had served Holly and I so well a couple of nights before.  Holly (wisely) bailed out after the second bar, but Lauren, Darcie and I continued on to the karaoke bar, and then to the dance club where I showed off my sweet sweet moves.  By 3 am, they headed for home and I headed back to the streetside bar for one last drink before bed…

Next thing I know I have two new best friends (one of whom looks suspiciously like Hugo Chavez) who are dragging me to the after hours club down the street (at 4 am, the cops pulled up and told us to get the hell off the street…effective).  There seemed to be some serious reservation at the door about letting a gringo in, but (as I recall), cash solved the issue.  Two packs of smokes and 12 tall beers later, I was hustled out the door again when I was attacked by a crazy Russian cougar named Tatiana.  I thought we were just dancing, but Señor Chavez was sure she was trying to steal my money.  Out we go into the (now light) street with our last beer poured into a 32 oz plastic cup.  After many hugs and kisses goodbye, and promises to stay in touch (I can’t even read their damn email addresses in my notebook, let alone remember their names), they escorted me home down the empty streets.

I tried to crawl into bed with Holly and dispense The Knowledge, but she told me to go fuck myself.  Rude.  Two hours later, it’s time to get on the bus and make the 8 hour ride to Cuenca.  I’m sure that’s going to turn out great, considering my condition.  Do we have any of that Xanax left?