Ecuadorothy

Our plane departs at 7 p.m. from Quito (central Ecuador) for the first part of our journey to reach the Pacific Coast village of Puerto López. We arrive at the coastal Manta Airport at 8 p.m., dark.

Now I Know What Bait and Switch Means

Having read all the warning literature about Ecuadorian travel, a specific caution stood out about not accepting just any taxi ride outside airports: Have airport personnel call a ride for you. Yeah, right. When you’re in the situation it is not that easy. As I approach airport personnel to do just that they point to a mass of taxis eager for us to take one tiny step outside and give me a look, like, Are you blind lady? Once we exit the building we are hit with an onslaught of competitors clamoring to get our business. With the previous warning in mind, I at least try to carefully scrutinize the options: No, not that one, he’s too muscular and full of testosterone. That one looks a little suspicious and has too much product in his hair. Now, that one is well-groomed in dress shirt and khakis, a little bit pudgy and soft looking; that’s good, we might be able to take him if we have to. Sooo, we make our choice: the pudgy, khakis guy. Once selected, he lets out a piercing whistle and up zooms a taxi from the business he’s fronting. Before we can say wait a minute, our luggage is thrown in the trunk and we are off down a dark road with a nefarious looking stranger.

Oh boy, I’m thinking, we just violated every rule about getting a taxi at night. I’m hoping we are not killed at the edge of town or sold into white slavery. (Very white in our case, I wonder if there is a special section for that?) Seriously, our driver’s overall demeanor does not make me relax. He seems a bit sketchy. I study the back of his lightly oiled, wavy haired, combed-back head. He appears to be approaching 50, of medium build, not particularly well-groomed. I catch the stale whiff of a recently-smoked cigarette. Carly, ever our translator, is in the front seat as he proceeds to tell us his life story, partly in English, mostly in Spanish. I remain wary...

Filled with trepidation, we head inland on a curvy, mostly deserted road. Weren’t we supposed to follow along the open coastline? I thought. I begin imagining the armed and fortified hacienda where he delivers dumb gringas. “Now, how long will it take to get to Puerto López?” I ask, attempting to establish a rapport, as though the question itself will make him follow that route. (Driver contemplating: Oh, I was going to kidnap and torture them, but now that she mentions it, that drive to Puerto López is kinda nice …) His actual response: “It takes at least two hours Señora.” Ugh.

And they were very long hours.

After traveling inland for some 25 minutes, we finally head out along the coastal road. I breathe a sigh of cautious optimism. At least within sight of the ocean I have some assurance we are following the correct course. But now Courtney and I are lurching in the backseat with every sharp coastline curve. Naturally there are no seat belts. We remain wide-eyed and alert, as though our sharp attention will help our driver stay on this most precipitous road. As he becomes more animated with his stories, he gesticulates wildly while pointing out areas of interest. We come upon a treacherously high, steep curve above the ocean and neither of his hands are on the wheel! We three simultaneously break into a chorus of high-pitched screaming to jolt him back to reality! He seizes the wheel to correct our ocean-bound trajectory. Pay attention to the road! I silently plead. Enough with the distracting stories!

The entire taxi ride is a harrowing experience.

As we begin to comprehend the modus operandi here in Ecuador, we soon realize the concept of my lane and your lane is simply not in Ecuador’s shared consciousness. Apparently the entire road belongs to the one with the most cojones. At one point on this drive we have three cars in our dark single lane. First there’s us, then the one passing us, and then another one passing the guy passing us. I wish I were kidding. Numerous times our driver leisurely weaves around blind curves on the opposite side of the road. I’m hoping (more like praying) this seasoned driver knows what he’s doing.

In the open fields along the side of the road, the headlights occasionally land on wild burros a precarious few feet from our vehicle. I've never seen loose, wild burros before. As I was thinking about burros as a potential roadway danger, a large dog suddenly jumps out of the blackness and lands directly in front of our taxi! Our driver slams on the brakes just in time to miss the wretched creature! Agh! A split-second, blessedly-averted bloody trauma! We all break into relief-applause—once we get back into our seats—and praise him for his quick reflexes!

As an added bit of local color, throughout the drive our cabbie nonchalantly points out the several white crosses placed in memory of those who met their deaths on this treacherous coastal road. One, he explains, involving an entire busload of touring international students that had plunged over the edge. Friends and relatives still make an annual pilgrimage to the site, he continues. Please, oh please, stop sharing these stories.

Once or twice we pass through a lovely and prosperous-looking seaside town or resort. I smell and feel the pleasantly warm, moist, ocean air. Peering out the backseat window, I begin to feel encouraged at our prospects. I see upscale hotels, fountains, palm trees, expensive cars, and so on. But we pass right through them and continue on into the black night.