February 1st, 2007
S 01.49.546
W 080..45.252
We finally got off of the bus in Montenita at about 5:45p from Guayaquil after the marathon bus ride. Marc tossed his nicely sealed emergency Ziploc bag of stomach bile to the side of the road in a pile of plastic bottles, bags and other garbage. It was extremely hot and he was simply over-heated. Our goal was to get off the bus and find a place to stay as quickly as possible and begin the recovery process with lots of water. The temperature is now about 103 and the humidity is at least 70%.
We got our packs on our back, I grabbed the rest of our stuff, and we walked across the street to the entrance of Montenita. I wasn’t able to take in everything on our first walk through town; I wanted to get Marc taken care of first. I figured we had a few days to explore. We were looking for a place called, La Casa Blanca, since the place we were hoping to stay was located behind La Casa Blanca. No, there were not any street addresses, but the directions in Lonely Planet claimed all places were off of the main street into the Village.
We got to the first cross street. A car was honking its horn behind us—I went right, Marc went left. I see the sign in the distance for La Casa Blanca on my side. When I turned back to look for Marc, I peered down the other side of the street. There was a banner that read, “People are Strange.” The banner didn’t have much significance at the time since we had more important things to worry about.
I screamed over the car horns and blaring Reggae music for Marc’s attention and we made our way to the place we wanted to stay; boasting immaculate rooms, terraces with hammocks for every room, and most importantly private baths. We were in luck; they had a room for us with a mood setting mosquito-net and everything. We dropped off our stuff and headed to get Marc some water and a little something to eat. It was at this time we were finally able to fully absorb the village.
The village is a cross between a Grateful Dead show, the summer in Pacific Beach, known as PB to the locals in San Diego, and a greatly scaled down French Quarter in New Orleans. So picture this, you have guys in dreadlocks with their standard Guatemalan print shorts, carrying their surfboards (this is an epic surf village), and they have their roadie (or beverage of choice) in their other hand. Most people are walking the street barefoot, or with flip flops. Street vendors are peddling jewelry, chicken on a stick, fruit smoothies, empanadas, grilled corn, your name written in Japanese, or whatever else they can sell to make a few bucks.
Every place along the main street is a bar, restaurant, and hostel all in one. There are only two side streets and the main street, which dead-ends into the beach. We are clearly some of the older people in this village; which was confirmed as soon as we received the flyer for the “Full Moon Beach Festival.” There is a big party every month to celebrate the full moon, which is on February 3rd, and we were lucky enough to arrive in time for this festival, which is an all night rave on the beach—right up our alley.
We sat at a table that is close to the main street, perfect for people watching. There were a lot of young adults who look like they just never went home. I’m sure this is a great place for parents to come find their missing children.
As we sat having dinner and watching the human traffic, a young, very tan, female performer in a tank top and skirt is doing backbends in the street, preparing for a show of what ended up being flaming baton twirling. Her friends stood beside her for support. When she was finished with her performance, she went table to table trying to collect money for the performance. At the same time, two stray dogs wandered into our restaurant and began humping and all attention was immediately diverted to the copulating canines… which were actually more entertaining than the street performer. Of course this will bring more orphaned dogs to the village in the coming months. At one point I turned to Marc and said, “This place is a total freak show, do we belong here?” Marc’s response was, “we live in San Francisco, baby, this is nothing.”
The younger crowd continued to do laps around the village—it only takes about five minutes. As the night grew on, the circling crowd got larger, as if they were all waiting for someone to tell them the cool place to go. It was almost as if they were playing musical chairs, but the pumping music (Reggae, Jack Johnson, Latino, Salsa, etc.) never stopped. We never saw a single bar completely packed. However, we did go to bed pretty early, 11p, after our long travel day. The music continued to thump late into the morning.
By the end of the evening, I understood the purpose of the banner “People are Strange,” and it was more than a tribute to Jim Morrison.
More to come in Montenita…
