We left Baños in quite a hurry - we both suddenly had the urge to move on. However, the 6am direct bus to Guayaquil (for which we woke up early) turned out not to exist, so we stayed a bit longer, and were routed through Ambato (north of Baños), then Riobamba (west of Baños), and finally to Guayaquil, where we promptly hopped a bus to the Pacific Coast, and a little place called Montañita. It had been recommended to me by a friend of a friend, and to Scott by Mr. Planet (our Lonely Planet guide, if that wasn´t obvious) as a great place for surfing. We stayed 9 days on the coast, splitting our time between Montañita (a crazy party oasis and a must-stop on the Gringo Trail) and Puerto Lopez (Montañitas´ quiet, innocuous counterpart, famous for its humpback whale-watching tours).
Montañita(s) - rare excerpt from my diary
This is the strangest city to attempt to characterize...it is comprised of a main square of about six blocks, with another six(ish) blocks of residences. One local referred to going to ¨the city,¨ meaning the crammed six blocks lines with vendors selling jewelry, statues, pipes, morocho (have I mentioned this stuff? It´s basically horchata, with chunks of rice and a stick of cinnamon in it. Note: they also have horchata here - it´s an aromatic water that is reminiscent of a rose. Huh), pinchos (cheap street kebabs with beef, chicken, plantains, etc), hamburguesas, empanadas, ceviche...and inhabited by gimmicky tiki bars with extravagant happy hours. The people have more hair wraps, bare feet, dreads, bare chests, slouchy pants, and various beads per capita than in Santa Cruz. The closest comparison I can draw is to Venice Beach, although here the nights are boisterous and boozy, not gang-y.
Our typical days here consist of waking up early to go surfing on our rented boards, eating giant, eggy pancakes at Carmita´s, watching the various waves (of the sea and of people) wash over the beach, starting philosophical or religious conversations in halting Spanish with the sunglasses salesman on the beach, or with the mate-drinking (and -sharing!) Argentinian photographer at our hostel.
We forget our books ont he beach, only to come back later and find them gone, but hours later they are inexplicably re
turned to our unexpecting hands, and we´re told they were being protected from the wild surf. People stare at us, smile, laugh, assume we are married. Sometimes they stop us, shyly asking for pictures with us (or, once, if they could borrow our beers to stage a picture of 8 year olds pretending to drink). One girl rewards me later with a pink beaded bracelet, smiling self-consciously with pride before disappearing into the onslaught of drunk tou
rists. Homeless ladies ask to share the beers we are having (with two Englishmen we met at that terrible trivia night in Quito, no less, see picture top left), then lick Scott´s face, Ecuadorian businessmen on vacation share their beers, singing loudly all the words to the salsa songs, and learning our card games (see left). Some boys try not to stare as we drink beers on the seawall at dusk, then offer us coconut-flavored shots.
We eat everyday, at least once, at one fo the two places next door to each other that have almuerzos and meriendas for $1.50, and it always takes a few moments before we pick which one. We buy five cent bananas; I average about two per day. Scott averages as many pieces of cake per day, and no matter which flavor he gets it always tastes of coconut and toasted marshmallows. My feet are burned and marked from sand grinding between my tevas and my skin. The mosquitoes eat my legs.
At night, we sleep fitfully in our bunked beds and ineffective mosquito nets, with thousands of trucks idling, revving, and rolling past our window before dawn. Everyone who stays at our hostel appears to work there, and the one man who actually does always acts as though he´s being incredibly sneaky by maknig us pay to sleep there.
One day, there was an alert that the water was dangerous, and the policemen patrolling the shores told us that a four-meter tsunami had hit Peru and Chile (see police enforcement at left).
One afternoon, we saw a car, trying to parallel park, knock the glass out of another car´s headlight. The other people who saw, the ones who work at the shops in the street, seem to work at all the shops, or none of the shops if you actually need them.
One night, when we were watching Korea and Spain play each other in futbol, two people were shot about 150 yards away from us. We were told they were Colombian drug dealers, one shot in his car, the other on the volleyball courts 100 yards away. It took about 20 minutes for one police car to show up...
We decided it was time to leave Montañita.
Puerto Lopez
We caught a bus from Montañita to the Parque Nacional Machalilla, right after Scott stood in line for the one ATM in town, with a line that took exactly 43 minutes. No joke. Our guidebook said that we could camp in the park after an entrance fee of $20, and that the tropical dry forest at Los Frailes there was a ¨must-see.¨ As is becoming our custom, we were dropped off on the side of a dusty road near a small entrance booth, where we were immediately informed that: (a) camping is not allowed in the park; (b) the entry fee is $2; and (c) because of the high surf alert that had been issued a few days before (or maybe because it was late in the day, who knows?), we actually couldn´t even enter the park. We also noticed, about that time, that the unmissable tropical dry forest looked like a bunch of dusty tumbleweeds strung together with old witch hair.
We stayed several nights in Puerto Lopez, but we spent most of the days relaxing in our hostel (which had no other guests, but a common room with a TV, so we logged some formidable hours). We decided Puerto Lopez didn´t have very good food, so we also did some serious cooking in the seriously lacking kitchen at our hostel, which was made all the more difficult by the fact that the proprietor was a middle-aged female lunatic. She 
was constantly whispering to herself, popping out from behind curtains, and scrubbing angrily at invisible stains on the ageing pots and pans. Equally charming was her daughter, Heidi (pronounced ¨Hhhhhhhheythy¨), who essentially forced us into going on a whale watching tour that she guided. We thought that because of her incredible bossiness and whiney voice, as well as the giant group of French tourists who accompanied us, the tour would be terrible, but in true Scott-and-Hayley form, we took advantage of the fact that everyone could only partially understand us to mess with everyone in the entire boat. It ended up being an incredible tour, though, we watched humpback whales spout and surface and even jump alongside our tiny boat for about 3 hours, then (at my faux-insistence, which was mistaken for real insistence, since no one else spoke very good English), we went snorkeling.
Montañita(s) - rare excerpt from my diary
This is the strangest city to attempt to characterize...it is comprised of a main square of about six blocks, with another six(ish) blocks of residences. One local referred to going to ¨the city,¨ meaning the crammed six blocks lines with vendors selling jewelry, statues, pipes, morocho (have I mentioned this stuff? It´s basically horchata, with chunks of rice and a stick of cinnamon in it. Note: they also have horchata here - it´s an aromatic water that is reminiscent of a rose. Huh), pinchos (cheap street kebabs with beef, chicken, plantains, etc), hamburguesas, empanadas, ceviche...and inhabited by gimmicky tiki bars with extravagant happy hours. The people have more hair wraps, bare feet, dreads, bare chests, slouchy pants, and various beads per capita than in Santa Cruz. The closest comparison I can draw is to Venice Beach, although here the nights are boisterous and boozy, not gang-y.
Our typical days here consist of waking up early to go surfing on our rented boards, eating giant, eggy pancakes at Carmita´s, watching the various waves (of the sea and of people) wash over the beach, starting philosophical or religious conversations in halting Spanish with the sunglasses salesman on the beach, or with the mate-drinking (and -sharing!) Argentinian photographer at our hostel.
We forget our books ont he beach, only to come back later and find them gone, but hours later they are inexplicably re
turned to our unexpecting hands, and we´re told they were being protected from the wild surf. People stare at us, smile, laugh, assume we are married. Sometimes they stop us, shyly asking for pictures with us (or, once, if they could borrow our beers to stage a picture of 8 year olds pretending to drink). One girl rewards me later with a pink beaded bracelet, smiling self-consciously with pride before disappearing into the onslaught of drunk tou
rists. Homeless ladies ask to share the beers we are having (with two Englishmen we met at that terrible trivia night in Quito, no less, see picture top left), then lick Scott´s face, Ecuadorian businessmen on vacation share their beers, singing loudly all the words to the salsa songs, and learning our card games (see left). Some boys try not to stare as we drink beers on the seawall at dusk, then offer us coconut-flavored shots.
We eat everyday, at least once, at one fo the two places next door to each other that have almuerzos and meriendas for $1.50, and it always takes a few moments before we pick which one. We buy five cent bananas; I average about two per day. Scott averages as many pieces of cake per day, and no matter which flavor he gets it always tastes of coconut and toasted marshmallows. My feet are burned and marked from sand grinding between my tevas and my skin. The mosquitoes eat my legs.
At night, we sleep fitfully in our bunked beds and ineffective mosquito nets, with thousands of trucks idling, revving, and rolling past our window before dawn. Everyone who stays at our hostel appears to work there, and the one man who actually does always acts as though he´s being incredibly sneaky by maknig us pay to sleep there.
One day, there was an alert that the water was dangerous, and the policemen patrolling the shores told us that a four-meter tsunami had hit Peru and Chile (see police enforcement at left).
One afternoon, we saw a car, trying to parallel park, knock the glass out of another car´s headlight. The other people who saw, the ones who work at the shops in the street, seem to work at all the shops, or none of the shops if you actually need them.
One night, when we were watching Korea and Spain play each other in futbol, two people were shot about 150 yards away from us. We were told they were Colombian drug dealers, one shot in his car, the other on the volleyball courts 100 yards away. It took about 20 minutes for one police car to show up...
We decided it was time to leave Montañita.
Puerto Lopez
We caught a bus from Montañita to the Parque Nacional Machalilla, right after Scott stood in line for the one ATM in town, with a line that took exactly 43 minutes. No joke. Our guidebook said that we could camp in the park after an entrance fee of $20, and that the tropical dry forest at Los Frailes there was a ¨must-see.¨ As is becoming our custom, we were dropped off on the side of a dusty road near a small entrance booth, where we were immediately informed that: (a) camping is not allowed in the park; (b) the entry fee is $2; and (c) because of the high surf alert that had been issued a few days before (or maybe because it was late in the day, who knows?), we actually couldn´t even enter the park. We also noticed, about that time, that the unmissable tropical dry forest looked like a bunch of dusty tumbleweeds strung together with old witch hair.
We had no choice but to head directly back down the road to Puerto Lopez, and we lined up on the dusty highway to do just that. At that very instant, a pickup truck with 4 adults in the cab and about 10 children in the back pulled up about 20 feet away, idling before pulling out into the 
road. I looked at them, beseechingly, and to my surprise, they beckoned us over. The next thing we knew, the 14 car-habitants (who happened to be from Ambato...) and the two of us were hurtling down the highway to Puerto Lopez (see left for family). The next thing we knew, we were being escorted to a tiny family-owned hostel on the beach. They didn´t have any rooms for that night, but suggested we pitch our tent on the beach... (For those of you who haven´t heard about our travels last year in Morocco, camping innocently on the beach turned into a tent-slashing, camera-wallet-ipod-cell phone-stealing, almost-losing-passport adventure, which we hope never to reprise.) They kept our bags for the night and let us use their bathroom and kitchen, all for free!
road. I looked at them, beseechingly, and to my surprise, they beckoned us over. The next thing we knew, the 14 car-habitants (who happened to be from Ambato...) and the two of us were hurtling down the highway to Puerto Lopez (see left for family). The next thing we knew, we were being escorted to a tiny family-owned hostel on the beach. They didn´t have any rooms for that night, but suggested we pitch our tent on the beach... (For those of you who haven´t heard about our travels last year in Morocco, camping innocently on the beach turned into a tent-slashing, camera-wallet-ipod-cell phone-stealing, almost-losing-passport adventure, which we hope never to reprise.) They kept our bags for the night and let us use their bathroom and kitchen, all for free!
The next day, we followed signs for a surf rental shop, which turned out to be a hostel with a guy named Miguel who had a friend who had a surf board as a piece of art in the restaurant where he worked. Scott rented it for the day, although it didn´t come with a leash, so we used our pocket knife to cut a piece of rope from a drift pile. This, of course, cut into his ankle all day, until he broke the grip on the board. Which he inexplicably had to replace. Also of note, we ran into some Germans we´d met in Montañita, and who we´d run into again on the streets of Cuenca, days later.
We stayed several nights in Puerto Lopez, but we spent most of the days relaxing in our hostel (which had no other guests, but a common room with a TV, so we logged some formidable hours). We decided Puerto Lopez didn´t have very good food, so we also did some serious cooking in the seriously lacking kitchen at our hostel, which was made all the more difficult by the fact that the proprietor was a middle-aged female lunatic. She 
was constantly whispering to herself, popping out from behind curtains, and scrubbing angrily at invisible stains on the ageing pots and pans. Equally charming was her daughter, Heidi (pronounced ¨Hhhhhhhheythy¨), who essentially forced us into going on a whale watching tour that she guided. We thought that because of her incredible bossiness and whiney voice, as well as the giant group of French tourists who accompanied us, the tour would be terrible, but in true Scott-and-Hayley form, we took advantage of the fact that everyone could only partially understand us to mess with everyone in the entire boat. It ended up being an incredible tour, though, we watched humpback whales spout and surface and even jump alongside our tiny boat for about 3 hours, then (at my faux-insistence, which was mistaken for real insistence, since no one else spoke very good English), we went snorkeling.
We left the Pacific Coast for an afternoon in Guayaquil and another bus to Cuenca, sunburnt, mosquito-bitten, and excited for the refreshing cold of the mountains.
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