Mancora, Peru: Son of a Beach!

     I had finally made it to the world famous surfer's paradise, and endless party town of Mancora, Peru. Crowning the desolate north coast, this once sleepy fishing town has been swarmed in recent years by backpackers searching for the legendary waves and parties that never quit. I had booked into the party hostel, Loki, more to experience it than to partake. I'm not a big drinker, and generally prefer more relaxed atmospheres. The hostel certainly lived up to its reputation while I was there, with wild parties every night and the common areas draped by hungover backpackers every day. 

           I spent my time hanging out with an Argentinian psychology student, Exay. We walked the beach a bit, grabbed some of the 10 sole menus, and spent most of our time body surfing. The second day, we rented surfboards just to try it out. Being new to the sport, we were happy when the company let us know that the small waves were "perfect" for beginners. It was indeed perfect. Perfectly calm, with absolutely no waves. After an hour paddling out where the waves are normally abundant, and seeing we were the only ones out there, we decided to throw in the towel and accept that we had been swindled this time. 

         We paddled back into shore, but as we got close, we caught one or two baby waves. Exay was hesitant about this, not wanting to break his board in the shallows. I was frustrated by our lack of waves earlier, so I jumped on this opportunity to practice. Soon I was catching the small waves and riding them into shore with little problems, much to my delight. I saw a swell. I started paddling, and felt the rush as it caught me. I popped up and caught me balance, well on top of the wave. I'm up. I'm up. I'm down, as the wave dropped like a hammer into the beach. I was thrown from my board and heard a sickening "crunch." Knowing it wasn't me, I looked at my board. It was still attached to me, but about a third of the way down, the nose had snapped like a twig. Oh well. Thats the day for me. 

       Exay and I speculated about the costs of such damage before he kindly walked up the beach to translate for me at the shop.  We walked past all of the tourists and locals on the beach. We walked past all the bars to the shop at the entrance to our hostel. After consulting with the shop I had the honor of walking through the entire hostel full of surfers. Then across the main road full of locals and into the surf shop. It was probably one of the most humiliating walks of my life, accompanied by snickers and outright catcalls. Thankfully, an Aussie called out to remind everyone that it happens to us all. Gotta love Aussies.  The damage was less than expected, only about $40 in total thankfully.
      That was the end of my short lived surfing career on the Mancora circuit. After a few more great nights and chilled out days, I decided to book a long bus down the coast to Lima. A bus with electrical outlets, dinner, breakfast, movies, and wifi (supposedly) cost about $35. I snagged my ticket and I was on my way! Vamos al sur!

A female condor, a messenger of the sun god here in Peruvian lore, soaring over the beaches of Mancora

Fishermen off the coast

Where Peruvian boats come to die on the coast.

A lone moto-taxi looking out over the pier with its fleet of fishing boats

Moto taxis waiting to take the fresh catches from the pier to town for lunchtime ceviche (raw fish in lime juice)

Great art on the beach... a creative way to turn trash to something beautiful.

Surfers that were MUCH more successful than me... fun to watch though!

Mancoras coastline...

Headed from Cuenca to Mancora, Peru

  "Senor, I just want to buy a spare seat to Mancora, I don't want any problems." I said in Spanish, as I slowly stepped back on to the curb at the immigration office, trying to keep my (by now perfected) dopey gringo smile plastered to my face. This was a bit more difficult that usual because a man in a bullet proof vest was using his shotgun to wave me back. I called out again in decent Spanish, "Amigo, solo quiero preguntar cual es possible para comprar una silla en este bus directo a Mancora." 

He gruffly responded, and pointed his shotgun towards the sign behind me with rates to the next town, Tumbes via taxi. I usually try to be "economico" about most of my travels, but as I backed away I decided that this might be the right time to splurge $12 for a taxi. What the hell, I'm on vacation right?

        

         Don't get me wrong, Cuenca was amazing, but after a few days I had decided to leave and head south to Peru and warmth. I did my research. I saw on several travel blogs that the busses direct for Mancora only run at 7:30am and 10am. Being a gringo, I made it to the terminal with plenty of time to spare. I was just in time... to be told that the busses had changed in the last few weeks and now only ran at 10pm. Since I prefer not to cross borders at night, and I was antsy to get a move on, I decided to figure it out myself.

         I caught a bus to the border town of Huanquillas. After several hours driving through stunning mountain landscapes we descended to the banana dominated coastal plains and arrived in Huanquillas in the heat of the late afternoon sun. I decided to push on to Mancora immediately, since the soonest a direct bus left was apparently 3am. I snagged a taxi who would take me to the immigration office, where I received the usual hassel about not looking anything like my passport photo (apparently losing weight, putting on glasses, and growing a beard makes you look a bit different. Who woulda thought...). Then I went in search of a seat on a bus.... which leads me to the man with the shotgun from the start of this story.

       I ended up sharing a taxi with some Ecuadorian students who found my mishap quite amusing. We joked about it and talked about the current Ecuadorian president until we reached the terminal. From there I figured it would be an easy hop an hour down the one main road to Mancora. However, a serious official insisted that there were absolutely no busses in the history of all that was holy that went from Tumbes to Mancora. He told me I would need a taxi, but that he knew a guy that only would charge me $120. The only alternative, according to him, was a minibus that was very dangerous. I figured that even if I got robbed I would still lose less than getting bent over by a taxi. I thanked him and turned to go, and just then he called out to a departing bus driver, "Mancora? Mancora? Ok, go with him, its direct to Mancora, only 20 soles!"

         A bit annoyed, but happy to be on my way again, I hopped on the bus and asked the guy next to me how much I should pay. 7 soles maximum. Gotta love Peru. The rest of the ride was uneventful, and I arrived at Mancora in time to check in to the world famous Loki hostel (which is basically a club med/nightclub with dorms). I met a couple of my roomies, a German named Phillip and an Argentinian with a great British accent named Exequiel . We hung out that night at the masquerade party hosted by the bar, until I slipped off to bed to sleep off my bus ride and get ready to enjoy the beach! Welcome to Mancora!

The beautiful city of Cuenca, as we depart for the border.

A beautiful traditional roof, with a terracotta sheep worn down by generations of wind and rain.

A proud Ecuadorian flag guarding the mountain pass as our bus wound its way through the barren mountains.

The beautiful mountains of Ecuador, barren rock covered in yellow flowers.

The beautiful countryside right outside of Cuenca

The endless banana fields of the Ecuadorian coast. Hours and hours of bananas only punctuated by small towns and local "Nightclubs" (aka brothels)

An Ecuadorian family in a small town perched on the edge of the road, overlooking a perilous plunge into the ravine below.

A line of mixed shots, "Blood Bombs" at Loki, stretching across the massive bar, awaited me in Peru.