South America – Part 2: Bring on the Gimp

Soooo, intrigued by the prospect of embarking on your own adventures on our friendly continental neighbour to the south? Considering putting off buying that shiny new Saturn and picking up a ticket to Latin America instead? Well, out of the goodness of my heart, and as a gift to you, the readers who have done so very little for me, I’ve compiled a short list of personal characteristics and items you may want to think about either developing of buying before undertaking such a life-altering voyage.

If I’ve just described you to a “T”, then pack your bags and come on down and meet me in Cuenca, Ecuador where I’ve just arrived, after having had my underpants experience a few sand-filled days in Montanita, a fun-filled surf town on the coast. The eleven hour overnight bus ride was another harrowing adventure and one in which I sustained my first of many near fatal dosages of severe brain Van Dammage. While on the subject of the 
bus rides, it might be of interest that these particular rides are most unlike any that you’ve experienced back in Vancouver. Buses frequently make stops to permit salespeople of all types to parade, screaming up and down the aisle, hawking pastries, fruit, drinks, souvenirs and personal effects stolen from passengers on the last bus. Why, just yesterday I was fortunate enough to have purchased a deep-fried banana filled with cheese (much like the meat situation, there appears to be only one kind of cheese in Ecuador), a meal that Elvis himself would have deemed a little on the rich side.

In addition, men will periodically board the vehicle and, at the head of the aisle, deliver a 5 – 10 minute sermon/sales pitch during which they hand out trinkets of candies to weary passengers in the hopes of some sort of donation. My dumbfounded stares tend to ward them off but it’s never 15 minutes before another one replaces the last. Throughout the night, the driver/DJ lays down, for the most part; Spanish tracks in order to utterly dispel any faint notion of actually getting some sleep. I’m thinking of buying a car.

Though the price of admission was high, the trip to Montanita was certainly worth it as the clean air, big waves and mellow vibe provided a welcome respite from the calamity of Quito. After spending the day catching up on sleep lost on the bus ride, Marius, Rolf and myself hit the town to scope out the scene. There’s basically one main street in Montanita with 3 or 4 side streets and all are very similar to one another. Surf shops alternate with hostels/cafes with the occasional restaurant entitled “Hierbe Bueno” (good herb) or “Hashish” (self-explanatory) thrown in for good measure. The hostels are all fairly interchangeable, all tending to be 3 or 4 stories high, made out of bamboo or something of the like, with hammocks adorning the balconies of each room. The population is a mixture of Jeff Spicoli-style surf dudes, and local Ecuadorian slackers, lazy to the point of making those Dazed and Confused guys look like ambitious go-getters. 3-alarm beach bonfires are held nightly where people gather to desecrate their immune systems by ingesting amounts of booze and crazy drugs that would have even Christian Slater just saying “no”.

The boys and I basically just took it easy that night, throwing back a few cold ones and hustling some locals at pool. I booked it back to the hostel to call it an early night but when I went to relax in my hammock, I found it occupied by an enormously tall Swiss girl named Sabine. Her and her Italian friend, Antonella, were pounding back this cheap, wood-grain quality rum and cordially invited me to take part. More free booze? No diggity, no doubt. We proceeded to knock the stuff back straight until 4 am discussing, well, I don’t really recall exactly what was discussed but I’m sure it was all very high-brow, neo-classical political theory. Stuff none of you would understand I’m sure.

Monday, Marius and I decided that instead of going straight to the surfing, we’d start slow by renting a boogie-board. Easy, yes? I mean, what’s to it? You paddle out a ways, lie on your stomach and let the waves do the rest. Hmmm, not so much. Up until this point in my life, I had never been clocked by a 1.5 metre high wave before but it was decidedly discouraging. The relentless beating drove Marius from the water for good after about 10 minutes but I persevered and after about two hours, caught my first wave. I also caught the most blistering, carcinogenic sunburn for a white man in recorded history. Eschewing sun block in order to obtain a kick ass George Hamilton tan, I found my skin not only displayed the bright red colour, but also the chitiny, exoskeletal texture of a boiled lobster. Any motion over the next few days was simply out of the question.

Fortuitously for myself, upon returning to my hostel to admire the sunset from the penthouse loft, I made the acquaintance of a lovely young English lass by the name of Joanna who generously assisted me in administering the appropriate soothing lotions. From there we proceeded out to dinner, played a little chess, shot some pool and polished off a box of wine before retiring to the hostel for more late-night social intercourse. 
It was decided that as I didn’t get a chance to see the actual Galapagos, we would travel together to Isla de la Plata aka “The Poor Man’s Galapagos” in a couple of days.

Prior to that, though, it would be imperative for me to give surfing a shot so the next day I got my board waxed up, grabbed a stick of Juicy Fruit and attempted to “Hang 10” on the 2 metre swells. Much like boogie boarding, it’s extremely difficult to get out to catch the actual waves when Hell is raining down on you every 10 seconds with the force of a Pamplonian bull. The board, which is attached to your foot by a phone-cord like cable, tends also to get caught in the surf and drag you back a good 10-15 feet every time. Thirsty fucking work. It was all unconditionally worth it though, for when I caught that first wave, and was actually able to stand on the board, albeit briefly, I WAS Patrick Swayze in Point Break. It was an overwhelming rush and somewhat resembled snowboarding only with a 500 cc engine strapped to the back and the added bonus of potential jellyfish stings and drownings!

I was actually the lucky recipient of a jellyfish sting and although it felt like someone had poured 6 Molar hydrochloric acid on my food, I had just emptied the tank and was thus unable to pee on the wound. Why not get someone else to do it a la Friends? I’m just not into that sort of thing you deviants.

As you can well imagine, the day’s solar-based activities only succeeded in multiplying the pain and redness of my burn exponentially so I lotioned up and called it an early night.

Wednesday’s trip to Isla de la Plata with Joanna got off to a triumphant start when I was able to utilize my cost accounting skills to bargain our tour down significantly from the asking price. The sleazy (they often tend to be sleazy) tour director was stuck on the price until I did a cost-benefit analysis with him. “Now, see, you’re already going to the island, you’ve hired the guide and paid him so that’s a sunk cost. Us tagging along isn’t going to boost his salary. The way I see it, the only incremental cost you’ll have to incur will be a couple of sammiches for myself and my lady friend here.” Blank incomprehension. “Bus gas is expensive”

“Of course it is but you won’t need to buy any more by adding two more people will you?” (Stunned silence followed by a beleaguered sigh) “Ok, we come, you get some money, we don’t, you get nada, Comprendo?” (Frustrated nod) See, accounting is truly the international language.

The island itself was stunning but the nickname, “Poor Man’s Galapagos”, was a bit of an understatement. Malnourished Derelict’s Galapagos would have been more apt as the paucity of wildlife produced few Kodak moments. There were 4 blue-footed boobies, one albatross and several mundane masked boobies marking the breathtaking landscape but spotting a sea lion or giant tortoise was about as likely as Dan Cloutier winning the Vezina. We did get in some nice snorkelling and spied many a tasty looking future filet-o-fish amidst the coral.

Our return to Montanita that evening sparked a last minute decision as I opted to hop the last bus in an attempt to travel the night away, eventually ending up in the Southern Ecuadorian town of Cuenca. Joanna tagged along with the goal of getting some cash exchanged midway at the frantic, seaside shantytown of La Libertad. (Dirty Johnny travel tip: before embarking on long, painful bus voyages, stock up on $1 boxed wine. 
The trip’ll fly right by.) A fear and loathing of this town had already been instilled within my heart as the last time I passed through, drunken men were fighting in the streets at 8 in the morning. Imagine my excitement when it was ascertained that I had missed that last bus and would have to spend the night in this freak town.

Right off the bus (and this is really late at night remember) we were deluged by “friendly” Ecuadorians who just wanted to lend a helping hand. And by that I mean rob, rape and leave us for dead. Or so I suspected. Eventually this extremely out of place dude from Miami, who’s English was passable, assisted us in finding a hotel. I’m still not sure if what followed actually took place or it was all a big hallucination brought on by 
the wine. I’m more inclined towards the latter.

We were led to the El Palantino hotel and greeted at the door by a man who could most accurately be described as the Ecuadorian “The Dude” from the Big Lebowski. 6 foot 4, long, untamed hair, MC Hammer Parachute Pants/pyjamas he had the look down pat. I half expected John Goodman to leap out of the background, armed to the teeth but instead, a presence much more sinister revealed itself. From behind “The Dude” emerged the creepiest, most grotesque human being I’ve laid eyes on. Clad in a black fishnet tank top and below-the-knee camouflage shorts, this diminutive little sideshow-reject was a mixture of Igor, the Log Lady from Twin Peaks and The Gimp from Pulp Fiction. He had a heavy limp on his right leg but would throw his shoulders back as far as possible in an attempt to stand up straight and disguise his lameness. Frightened for our lives, we raced to our room and locked the door behind us, convinced of our imminent demise. After working up the courage and convincing ourselves they had gone back to whatever perverse sexual practices we had interrupted, we chose to have a look around the hotel.

Holy shit, someone better notify the estate of Rod Serling of the countless Twilight Zone copyright violations in effect here cause I think they’d be a little concerned. The place was like a junk museum of the entirely bizarre. This guy appeared to have accumulated several lifetimes worth of weird stuff which cluttered the halls of his equally weird hotel. 
Although many of the items appeared random, there was a distinct nautical theme as anchors, steering wheels and life preservers were commonplace amidst the bedlam and disarray. You know that thing in Titanic that that the guy cranks to change the propeller speed from full ahead to full astern? This guy had one of those. Apparently also fancying himself an artist, there were several unfinished paintings littering the halls of women wearing (always) Ray-bans.

Entirely intrigued, I worked up the nerve to approach the Dude and inquire about the surrounding and as to whether or not he had a chess set we could make use of. “Of course, of course, maybe you’d like to use the gym as well?” The gym? The Gimp reappeared and led us up a couple of flights of stairs to the penthouse suite which was furnished with Pre-Cambrian exercise equipment which would have undoubtedly have provided the user with far more physical ailment then actual buffness. The chess set was brought out and Gimpy cranked the volume on this vacuum tube radio to a station 
playing exclusively mid-eighties ballads.

So there we were, sipping our boxed wine, playing with this strange seventies translucent chess set, surrounded by archaic gym equipment and other equally ancient industrial items, listening to Air Supply’s “Making love out of nothing at all” while the gimp frantically darted from window to window, peering out at the city below, no doubt devising ways to slowly torture us and devour our remains. I’m writing a screenplay documenting the events to be directed by David Lynch in 2004 starring John Malkovich as “The Gimp”

As we departed the next day, I kept looking back, expecting the building to vanish into thin air. I bid Joanna a fond farewell and boarded the bus for Cuenca where I’ll pick up the story next week in part 3: Peruvian Girls are Easy. You don’t want to miss it, they really are.

Later.

-dj-

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