Border BS & Máncora Madness

Crossing the Peruvian/Ecuadorian border is like trying to navigate a very large and belligerent elephant through the eye of a needle. That is to say, it is difficult and riddled with frustrations. Furthermore, it is notoriously dangerous, the border being a chronically disputed marking , so there is about 2 km of No-man's-land separating the two countries.

Itching to dip our feet outside of Ecuador, myself and four of my female teacher friends (Cor, Emily, Meg, and Michelle) decided to spend our mid-season break on the Peruvian coast in the touristy-hippie-hotspot of Máncora. In order to get there, we obviously had to cross the border, as well as complete all the stamping and paperwork that comes with it. From Cuenca we took the bus to Huaquillas, which is the southernmost town in Ecuador that borders Peru. Huaquillas is also, I can confidently say, the crappiest little shit-hole I've ever been to in my whole life. Not only does it appear to have the bizarre affliction of being INFESTED with onions (seriously, blocks and blocks of store after store of bagged onions packed from floor to ceiling; on the street, lines of trucks and wagons ramble by packed with the stinky bulbs), but it is also populated primarily by men, who are mostly trying to scam/mug naïve-looking tourists, such as our pack of five.

Much confusion was had regarding where to go to get our exit and entrance stamps at the borders, and much apprehension was felt regarding how to get across this No-man's-land. Although this all transpired during the middle of the day, we were told walking was too dangerous, but the other option of taking rickety moto-cars driven by greasy men with winking eyes and dirty hands was not appealing either. In the end, we went to the Huaquillas police station to get an officer to help us find a trustworthy driver to transport us.

The officer presented us with Stalin. Yes, like the Russian dictator. Despite his threatening and very non-Spanish namesake, Stalin proved to be competent and quite protective of us while helping us to cross the border (even though later he inevitably tried to overcharge us for his services). Eventually, we completed what we had to do in Onion Dump, and then boarded a mini-bus to Máncora.

The mini-bus comfortably sat ten people. We were: Twelve adults, one baby, one rooster (uncaged, of course), one giant tank of propane (conveniently placed at my feet),about 15 pieces of luggage, and three big cardboard boxes. I would have liked to have had the luxury of complaining about the giant cylinder of gas cramping my legs, but then I would look at poor Emily, kicking the rooster every few kilometers to keep in in line. At least the woman sitting next to me was skinny. And she didn't peck at my feet.

After a two hour trip in the sardine- mobile, the ride being moderated by a spectacular sunset, we arrived in Máncora a bit after dark. We found a hotel immediately then promptly went out to do some well-deserved dancing.

The next day we hit the beach front as soon as we could. The air was dry and sweltering, and the beach was packed. We walked along the shore until the crowd thinned and we found a patch of sand peaceful enough for our liking.

As I mentioned, Máncora is a big spot for surfing, so the waves can be quite intense, but there are breaks in between the ebbs that are long enough to allow you to swim or float peacefully on your back for a little while...until a wave unexpectedly smokes you in the face and rips off your bikini with such force you forget you were wearing one in the first place. This happened to each of us at least five times....a day.

Our three days spent in Máncora followed a very typical pattern: Wake up (usually to Reggaeton music blaring by a nearby location); eat breakfast; hit the beach (tan, swim, unwillingly flash people due to violent waves); have lunch (usually bought from wandering beach vendors); more swimming and tanning; explore jewelry market; shower (washing off salt and hopefully shame of being exposed during the day); eat dinner; watch sunset on the beach; go for drinks; go out dancing; sleep very little; repeat.

Our time at this beach town provided a much needed break from the daily rain and nightly chills of Cuenca, but by the time our three days were up, we were all sufficiently sunburnt, fatigued, and partied out to be ready to return to the clouds and calm of Cuenca.

Our trip back was not as dramatic as our way there, although it did involve an encounter with a fraudulent police officer who attempted to take our passports. Not so fast, Officer Baloney. Luckily we still had our wits about us enough to call him out on his scam and get the heck out of his presence to safety. Our pack of five may have looked like a bunch of meek, unsuspecting turistas, but they didn't even know: We were border warriors inside. Plus, we can take a mean wave and recover with only a mild blush to our cheeks, and a swift readjustment of our bathing suit straps...