Canoa

Coastal Ecuador has no shortage of small beach towns — fishing villages mostly — with such rich, natural beauty that the influx of tourists over the past several years was inevitable.  Montanita, Canoa, and Monpiche in particular have gained the reputation of being surfer towns, for specialized landscapes leading to the perfect ¨break¨ of the waves.  Montanita is generally held to be the party town, with all-night bars encouraging festivities that carry through straight to the next day.  I know nothing about Monpiche as it seems to be the least talked about of the three.  But in severe need of a break from all things frantic and stressful, the ¨chill¨ sufer town of Canoa seemed like the best pick for an early December trip.

Montanita, then, would be my spot for New Years.  Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), Canoa proved to be so addictive after my first visit that it beckoned me away from all other NYE options and earned a repeat visit.  Despite several weeks passage of time between the two, I´m collecting both trips here.

A view of Canoa from the ocean. A single row of cabanas followed by a row of thatch-roofed hostels and bars.

Canoa: Take One

Despite music played at a volume generally reserved for psychological warfare against enemy combatants in Iraq, I’m told Ecuadorians like loud music as they sleep through torturous nighttime bus rides.  This bus is more nightmarish than usual in all regards, as it whips around narrow mountain roads at speeds that just feel wrong.  Just because it´s impossible to tell how far the drop just past the wheels on the driver side goes down doesn´t make it any less fear-inducing.  But the true pain here is the fact that it´s three in the morning and none of us — Joe, Kathleen or myself – can sleep, talk or even listen to music of our own over what’s coming out of the bus speakers.

Drunken teenagers board the bus at the halfway point, one of them grabbing the seat next to me that had been empty for the past three hours.  At one dozy point, I snap back into consciousness as I feel his hand in my pocket and slap it away with about the masculinity of an old grandmother guarding a fresh apple pie.  The bus goes around a steep turn and I feel centrifugal force press my body firmly and uncomfortably to the window next to me.

It’s clear that I won´t be sleeping tonight.

Lounging on a hammock at the Coco Loco

No buses lead directly to Canoa.  Despite the high gringo population of surfers and expats, the general population is around two thousand people, tops.  Far larger is San Vicente, just fifteen minutes south.  We exit the bus around five in the morning and luckily find taxis waiting to cart us over for about a dollar per person.  Coco Loco, a beachside hostel already written up once by The Ecuador Reporter, isn´t open yet but has public hammocks outside that we have no qualms taking advantage of.

Other than nighttime mosquitoes (alleviated greatly by fans in the rooms, as they´re too minuscule to fight the air current), Canoa´s about as close to a beachside paradise as any place on earth.  The water is warm enough to simply walk into without a hint of frigidity, the seafood is cheap and amongst the best in Ecuador and the town is small enough to feel like some kind of secret treasure accidentally stumbled upon.  A sense of warm calmness envelops me, while a pitcher of freshly made piña colada delivered out to my blanket on the beach helps lock it into place for the duration of my stay.

Joe, Kathleen and me on the beach

The only drawback to this visit, warned of quite often in craig´s travelvice.com, are feral dogs.  These free-roaming animals can be found in almost any South American town apparently (they´re certainly prevalent in Ecuador and Peru), and relentlessly roam the streets with their own raggedy agendas.  As a dog person, they hadn´t perturbed me up until now and I´d often find myself petting some of the traditionally ¨cute¨ ones (Not so with the ugly ones, and there are some hideously ugly dogs here with painful-looking skin and fur conditions, and mad, dazed looks in their eyes).

But here in Canoa, they roam in a large pack, and one of the females is currently in heat, setting the males into a frenzy.  As we lay on the beach enjoying the idyllic, postcard-like beauty of life here, what can only be described as canine gang rape would be occurring less than ten feet away from us.  Canoa is a small town, and the beach is nearly deserted except for the three of us.  Despite this, of all places to rest, the surly, black alpha male opts to lay down with its back collapsed up against Kathleen´s head.

A canine benediction from Capitana

¨Uh, nooo..¨ she says, getting up.  She puts her hands on its back playfully to push it away.  ¨You go over he–¨

At once, the animal spins, with a fierce, snarling bark and bites her hand.  It´s a small bite, but there is blood.  I jump up and bark back at it, clapping and motioning loudly for it to leave, using the fullness of my size to intimidate.  Such chest-pounding bravado didn’t work for Grizzly Man, and it doesn’t for me either.  Snarling, the ragged beast lunges in and bites my arm, leaving a long, red welt as the fang slides across it, but failing to break past my first layer of skin.  Picking up a stick, I lunge at it, but it’s already run well out of arm’s reach upon recognizing the my intentions.

Kathleen falls as I pose goofily

Most of the animals here are docile, though.  Coco Loco houses two of the warmest, most playful dogs I’ve come across, and with the names Capitana and Pirata (“Captain” and “Pirate”), it’s no wonder we bond so quickly.  The hostel also houses about a fairly stocked bar and one of the better food menus in town.  Happy hours are nightly and spread over every bar along the main strip, interspersed by the hour to keep patrons moving in a steady progression down the beach.  There is no city here, really — just a beach, some cabanas and a long strip of restaurants, homes and hostels opening out onto white sand that quickly gives way to ocean.

Somewhere, a truck takes down a powerline, leaving Canoa in the dark for the last two nights we’re in town.  We huddle at the bar around candles and drink while the clouds lift, displaying layer upon layer of stars unblemished by light pollution, mirrored below onto the crashing waves of the Pacific.

It’s nice here.

Canoa: Take Two

Joe and Kathleen are back in their respective countries for the holidays, leaving me to fend for myself to bring in the new year.  It’s a scary prospect, made more so by Ecuador’s strong romantic leanings when celebrating New Year’s Eve, treating the holiday much like Valentine’s Day is treated in the States.  During Christmas, I’m encouraged to come with a group to Montanita, the Dionysian yin of surf towns to Canoa’s laid back yang.  The parties last until late into the next day, and local women all congregate there for weekends and holidays, knowing it’s when the gringos gather.  With hindsight, I don’t know why Canoa was so compelling to me.

Perhaps having already met a few people there, it’d feel more like home.  Or maybe “relaxing” was simply at the top of my list for year-ending needs.  The place just called to me.

The bar at the Coco Loco

I’d also promised Elizabeth, the owner of the fantastic Coco Loco, all my unwanted DVDs as I obviously wouldn’t be traveling with them.  And on top of that, I’d left The Shamrock (Canoa’s one and only Irish pub) without paying for a drink I’d ordered during the prior visit’s black-out.  The owner was friends with Quito’s Irish pub and mentioned this to my friend there, Ursula, who assured me he wasn’t terribly worked up about it, despite feeling the need to bring it up to her.  Knowing he had an adorable three-year-old, I thought to make peace by bringing her a similarly adorable teddy bear as a belated Christmas gift.  Good karma, after all, and still cheaper than a cuba libre.

Elizabeth glows as I bestow the DVDs on her, and the pub owner beams similarly, inviting me downstairs instantly to bestow the gift myself.  The toddler clutches the bear as if attempting to squeeze the life out of it, and shakes her entire body from side to side with uncontainable glee.  I glance back at the father as he watches his daughter warmly with eyes full of paternal love.

I’m good.  I’m a good person.

I never got to hang ten. I am fairly sure I never even successfully hanged one.

Skipping surf lessons before, despite their being one of Canoa’s biggest draws, it’s incredibly important that I rectify this situation immediately.  Repeated slides of the stomach across a freshly waxed board leads to quickly rubbing away the soft skin of the belly and lower chest, so I’m instructed to wear a shirt.  Surfing requires the ability to fire one’s body upward in a smooth, bullet-like motion and extreme coordination.  I’m iffy on the former, but on the latter I’m dead on arrival, as I have a hard time standing upright and balanced on dry, level ground.  When all is said and done, I actually manage to stand twice for about a second or more before gravity slams me forcefully back into the ocean.  It was an awkward, unsuccessful experience, yet one I find myself compelled enough to want to try again.

Giant, three dollar cuba libras mark Happy Hour at The Surf Shack, a bar and rental shop owned by about four people including a couple close to my age.  I drill them for as much information as polite conversation allows.  Another owner’s standing on the bar clutching two beer funnels, maniacally, offering them up to no one in particular.  I haven’t seen “beer bongs” like these since college, but he’s clearly pushing for their heavy use amongst the entire crowd, and as the beer (sometimes mixed with tequila or sugarcane alcohol) seems to be on his tab.

College flashback

You Got Served.  And Raped.

A blonde named Steph has been flirting with me since we both successfully survived the beer funnelling, and we’re making fun of others in the bar at random.  This is sadly one of my better flirting techniques as it showcases my sense of humor while pumping up my confidence with the implied superiority that comes from looking down upon others.  It’s seeped in immaturity and insecurity, but sometimes the ends justify the means.  Unfortunately, a girl from Austin, TX originally born here in Canoa latches onto Steph with the intention of taking her — and only her — to the only club in town.

“She needs a good Ecuadorian boy.  You should go find a good Ecuadorian girl.  Come on!” she motions to my new friend.

A bucket of sea turtles

Steph refuses to let go of my arm, dragging me along, past all the beachside gringo bars to the spot where the locals congregate.  The Canoa-born who will henceforth be listed as “Austin” is flustered but rolls with it, moving with more determination now a few paces ahead of us.  The club — a mix of modern lights and sound with traditional bamboo walls and railings — is louder and more packed with people than would be expected given the city’s size, but Austin pushes through the wall of people and sound, and immediately proceeds to breakdance in large, flourishing motions that nearby dancers are quick to take notice of.

A circle forms as her dancing becomes larger.  Her elaborate style is far from the norm in the cramped club, but too much of a spectacle for nearby dancers to ignore.  It’s less the semi-erotically repetitive motions employed by most clubbers, Steph included (my style would most accurately be described as “Vertical fish out of water”), and choreographed to near cinematic levels.  A young Ecuadorian hops into the circle gracelessly and attempts to ape her style with moves that often make him appear to be skipping gaily in space.  Head turned away, Austin feigns a well-practiced yawn.

Your moves bore me.  Soon I will return to serve you once more.

The volleys continue.  Each return to the circle brings him closer to her, moving his arms in to detain her in the circle before she can exit, though she twists away from him with increasing difficulty and agitation.

This isn’t how you dance battle!

Other Ecuadorians, even less impressive than the first, begin taking turns at showcasing their local flair, and Steph starts hopping in, literally, as well.  She can’t breakdance, but she can at least use her body entertainingly, bending low with her ass pointedly outwards, grinding it up and down into the groin of a wild-eyed teenage local that had only just walked into the circle.  Agitated by the break in protocol, Austin dives in between them and dances harder, more intently.  The moment apparently calling for the big guns, she takes to the floor and begins to spin, dancing along on her hands as her feet sweep gracefully between them on the beer-soaked wooden floor.  The spin stops and she ends on her side with a queer grin, head resting on a crooked arm with a single knee in the air, like a model from a 50s postcard.

The circle collapses around her as she begins to stand and Steph is now sandwiched in the center between two locals pressing into her.  She wraps an arm around the neck of the man in front of her and begins writhing up against him, both rhythmically and arrhytmically, as the alcohol and her own impaired coordination allow.  The circle closes a bit.  Onlookers cheer, dance, chant to a modernized jungle beat, layered over by synthesizers and dense bass.  Sensing the increase in sexual output, Steph’s partner, body locked against hers in the midst of the rapidly shrinking circle, pushes her forcefully yet with gentle enough control to ease her landing, down to the ground.  As dancers watch, he begins thrusting himself over her repeatedly, feverishly dry-humping her with no regard for either propriety or rhythm as she stares upwards with an implacably un-perturbed look in her glazed-over eyes.

Despite the spectacle leaving he vast majority of dancers unfazed, Austin is pushing forward madly through the bemused crowd to reach her imperiled dance partner.  She’s not faux yawning this time.

This isn’t how you dance battle!

She runs up to her rapidly thrusting competitor (whose mind is apparently not on the battle at the time) with enough fervor that I expect her to push him away from her violently.  But no, instead she speedily slides in, positioning herself against him from behind, and starts to match him in energy and ferocity with wild thrusts of her groin.  While his movements are crude, sloppy and animalistic, hers are entirely stylized, maintaining proper dance poise with one arm akimbo and the other crooked around her neck, a decidedly carefree look in her eyes as she dance-battle sodomizes her softcore-porn influenced nemesis.

He spins and pushes her off with a single, sloppy jab, returning at once to his primary prey like a lion swatting off a vulture from a freshly killed antelope.  She stumbles back a few feet, her angry eyes no longer projecting out a practiced insouciance to complement her moves, yet she moves in against him once more, humping now with an increased frenzy and pursed lips.  Deeply agitated, he turns once more and grabs her hand, pushing it in towards her chest, and her thumb catches against a bra strap, breaking it.  Nothing on his face implies this is a game to him.  Her eyes show nothing but shock.  Pain.

“What the FUCK?” she’s mouthing.  I can barely hear her over the music.

“Come on,” I say.

Enjoying a sunset on the Pacific

Reaching down, I pull a bemused Steph up from the ground and drag her through the crowd and out of the club, my other hand dragging the now furious Austin.  No one moves to let us by easily, but no one goes out of their way to block our passage either.  Austin’s holding her injured thumb, testing it with her other hand.

“I think he broke my thumb,” she says.  “That’s so fucked up!  That’s not what you do.  That’s not how you dance battle.”

Huh?

Steph: “That guy was totally raping me.”

Austin corrects her.  “No.  He was making you his bitch.  By dancing like that, he was saying ‘I am owning you.  You are my bitch.’”

“I dunno.  Looked like he was just dry-humping her on the dance floor…”

She scoffs at me.  “No.  And I couldn’t let him do that because it’s just so wrong.  So I went in and physically told him ‘No! You’re my bitch–”

“When you were humping him, you mean?”

“What?  YES!  And that’s why it’s so wrong that he got physical with me!”

“I think you guys haven’t seen the same movies…” I say.

“At least he didn´t rape you…¨  Steph should be more upset, but she´s laughing a little now, looking back towards the bar as we walk.

Local kids pose in the ocean

¨I think my thumb´s broken.¨  Austin starts walking faster, away from us.  She doesn´t say goodbye.

¨What the hell was she talking about?¨ Steph asks me.

¨No idea.  You either got served or raped.¨

She laughs.  We talk for a while at a beachside cabana while American 80′s music plays in the background and people dance in the sand around a small fire.  It´s a stark contrast to the earlier scene in the club, despite some of the same faces.

¨Hey!” Steph says, noticing someone new by the fire.  “That´s the guy that RAPED me!¨

¨Really?  You want to leave?¨

¨I´m gonna give him a talking-to!  You can´t just go around raping people like that!¨

I follow her, slightly worried, but I´m caring less and less, and see where this is going.  Her less than genuine anger melts away quickly and now they´re touching each other´s arms as they talk, smiling.  I´d been doing moderately well for a while, but in the end, my flirtations apparently lacked the requisite amount of rape.

I Am Apparently Not a Good Man After All

Cute Irish Rachel from Quito has arrived to celebrate NYE here as well as her birthday.  Unfortunately, Crazy Irish Pikey (Having just learned what a “pikey” was from the film Snatch just weeks before, I was only marginally pleased to meet one in person) with terrible teeth and hair that looks like dirty straw (whose name I never bothered to get) has also shown up separately, which thrills me a great deal less.  Christmas Eve in Quito, she invaded my kitchen at Finn McCool’s to sloppily devour three servings of freshly made mashed potatoes I’d spent hours on, drunkenly cursing at me the entire time in a raspy voice like muddy fingers on sandpaper.  Her evil eye follows me as Rachel and I flirt violently.  Rachel kicks, punches, pinches and pokes me.  She laughs as I put her in a headlock.

Ski-crossing, apparently?

“Oi,” the pikey suddenly croaks, glaring at us — me — from the sidelines.  “Why yaou gottabe puht’n ‘er in a feckin’ headlock, eh?  Stop chokin’a girl!”

Rachel and I freeze in our tracks, silent, looking up at our sullen accuser, her teeth like rotten wood.  Rachel’s bent over and I do appear to have her in a headlock that, without the corresponding laughter from moments earlier, could be taken the wrong way.  The warm blanket of levity coldly and cruelly lifted from us, our stance steadily dissolves into a wary petulance as we stumble down the sandy street, cold soulless eyes firmly affixed to my back.

Breaking the awkwardness, I remember my gift of a teddy bear as we pass The Shamrock (“I’m good.  I’m a good person!”) and separate myself to check on the owner.  The Irish I’d met in Quito generally seemed to enjoy “taking the piss out of” people, which is basically a form of smartassed banter, and my smartassed responses had affectionately been called “cheeky,” which seemed to be a good thing.  Apparently, cheekiness doesn’t always win friends or influence people.

The Shamrock’s empty save for the owner tending bar and a Canadian sitting by him, introduced to me as a fellow Canuck.

“Oh, no, I’m not Canadian,” I correct him.  “I’m from the States.”

“Wha??  I can’t believe Ursula [a mutual friend] would be friends with a fuggin’ yank.”

“Well, we’re not all bad…”

Beachside gym

“Always.. talking about how grrreat you are.”  This man is either taking the piss out of me or about to hit me with a bottle.

“Yeah, that’s us.  Saved everyone’s ass in dubya dubya two and all that…”

“pshhzzhh!”  Did he just spray out his beer?  “The Canucks and the bloody Kiwis were there — TWO YEARS BEFORE YOU!”

“Sure.. but, you know, you never really hear much about them changing the tide of, uh, anything–”

“DID YOU SERVE?”

Huh?  Me?  Quick, levity, levity.  A safe, sheepish grin.  “Serve?  Sure.  Beer?  Maybe served some… fries.. you know–”

“WELL YOU WOULDN’T SERVE ANY FRRRRRIES IN MY ESTABLISHMENT, I CAN TELL YOU THAT!”

“Yeah.  You know, it’s possible this conversation didn’t quite go in the right direction.”

“Oh yeh it did.  It went in the direction of.. of talking with a dick.  Cuz tha’s what you are.  A dick.  And you have a.. a dick conversation.”  He turns from me back to the television, hunched over on his barstool, and glares at the screen with such intensity that it seems he’s trying to change the channel with his mind.

“Ok then!”

Downstairs in the lower bar, Pikey’s eyes meet mine as I stumble in and she pointedly gets up and walks to the bar.  I’m looking only for my group of friends, but her cold, steady gaze pulls at me and I watch as she speaks with one of the bartenders who nods, looking directly at me, as the shrew whispers to her intently.  And this is when I realize that this Pikey is my nemesis.

Rachel tries to talk me out of leaving, but sometimes you know when it’s time to call it quits and just try again tomorrow.  It’s pretty late, anyway.

I’m Outta Here

In the ocean

Despite having a decidedly weirder tone than the first visit, Canoa #2 isn’t a total bust.  Some friends from Quito show up on the 29th, and their mutual hate for Pikey Girl, who they’d bizarrely met on their own with similar results, adds to my ranks a bit.  There are surf lessons, beach parties and poker games still, but the deciding factor (besides the recent onslaught of mosquitos) comes mid-day on the 30th.  After many warnings to pick up my departure ticket from San Vicente in advance, I grab a local collectivo (small, cramped buses, generally unmarked, good for short term transport.  Popular throughout the continent, apparently) to town only to discover that all buses from the first through the fifth are sold out.

As the final day I’m allowed to be in Ecuador is January 5th (and I should be well on my way by that point), this is a problem.  Canoa’s a generally calm, gorgeous oasis but I’ve had enough for now.  I buy a return ticket for the morning off the 31st and head back to celebrate the new year in Quito.  There’s no place like home, I guess…