Having traveled through Ecuador with the risk of mudslides, gaping roadways, and erupting volcanoes I headed toward the coast to relax.
It took four different buses, some roadside drop-offs and pick-ups, and nine hours from Latacunga by way of Santo Domingo and Perdenales to Canoa. The ride was punctuated with vendors selling jewelry, fresh baked bread, bowls of chicken and fries, fruit, water, juices, ice cream, and body lotions. Certain vendors offered lengthy promotions of their elixirs-the snake oil salesmen of today.
Bus terminals were welcome offering me a quick bathroom break. Changing of buses went smoothly. Bus attendants ensured the loading of luggage, packages, and passengers.
The road to the coast offered spectacular views. I was leaving arid hills groomed with green fields and entering miles of lush tropical rainforests.
To descend thousands of meters required numerous tight switchbacks and deft driving. The bus driver possessed such capabilities and seemed pressed for time, frequently passing cars and trucks despite the limited visibility. The precipitous drops were without guardrails leaving my view of the gorgeous greenery unobstructed. Passengers showed no concern of the driving or the road. Many were sleeping, cuddling, or watching the Korean zombie movie offered on board, dubbed into Spanish.
When the terrain leveled off there was a marked change in the style of homes. Concrete block houses evolved into simple wooden shacks, one after another. They reminded me of 1920’s sharecroppers’ dwellings-except these were elevated on stilts. The laundry hung outside, gave hints of the inhabitants. Families were often numerous. Some interiors seemed as bare as the exteriors-the vantage from the bus offered me a few peeks inside. The poverty was palpable.
Blue tents with Chinese writing stood too: some as permanent dwellings, others as an additional room, others as a gazebo for shade. The tents were remnants from relief efforts after the devastating earthquake of April 2016.
Once I’d settled into Canoa it didn’t take long before residents spoke of their lingering trauma. “I was running forward and being pulled backwards. I’m still afraid.” Said one young man. He pointed out where homes, shops, and hotels had been flattened. Lives had been lost.
Despite the earth being ripped apart and pulled from beneath their feet, people remained and carried on. I thought of September 11th’s aftermath.
A row of makeshift eateries and shops line Canoa’s unpaved and sandy main roads. Those directly on the beach have tables and chairs sitting in the sand. Ceviche, prawns, shrimp, fish, and conch are the staples. This is the coast after all. Fishing boats dot the beach. Men and women unfurl and repair nets. Vendors drive by in trucks and bicycles filled with fruits and vegetables. Men and women carrying snacks, brooms, and hats to sell pass by. Children push makeshift boats through the sand. There are few people around. Those that are chat with one another, wait idly for customers, or thumb through a newspaper. The ubiquitous dogs are lazy and gentle. It is quiet, except for the occasional rooster or popular music playing from one of the beachside restaurants or bars. Flocks of pelicans swoop above. The ocean offers the familiar pulse.
I liked this small town immediately.
I found a hotel on the beach with a balcony and view of the sea. I started my days eating local delicacies of platanos and more familiar fare-eggs and toast- with my feet in the sand gazing at the sea. For lunch and dinner I feasted on fresh seafood. The ceviche and prawns prepared with coconut milk were divine. It was a welcome change from the meals I’d been eating inland.
I spent my days walking, reading my tome (Les Miserable in a new English translation.), writing-difficult to do after reading Hugo, speaking with locals and fellow travelers, partaking in a trivia night with expats and tourists-gringos everyone-that was different, taking a few Spanish lessons and giving impromptu English lessons.
Canoa was the perfect place to catch my breath and relax.