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Published: August 24th 2007
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Prehistoric giant pelicans, rubber band engines, freshly made cerviche and a fisherman called Winston Churchill. This is the rugged coast of Ecuador. Throw in a nurse with a long needle aimed at your backside, and you’ve got yourself quite the weekend away…
A far cry from the capital city, Quito, up in the cool, misty Andes... I might as well be in a completely different country. Everything you imagine a Latino beach scene to be... a fishing town hidden in banana plantations and fruit farms. Extremely hot and humid. Lots of reggaetone and salsa beats. Bars with open walls and sand floors. Fresh coconut milk by the sea and swarms of brown naked bodies everywhere you turn... very very cool.
I stayed in a pretty downbeat hostel. But for 4 bucks a night it was a steal- private shower, a TV and a fan! A working fan! Luxury!
Fish and rice on the beach was good. The ice cold Coronas were even better. I went to a club called Conga where the Cuba libres were free, so yes, the Shakira inside me came out. With full force. I danced salsa on stage for
Winston Churchill
Demonstrating how to fillet five and half hours.... amazing what a little Dutch courage can do.
The next morning I didn’t let my fragile head get the better of me. After a condensed milk and bitter coffee, I found myself on a multi-coloured rickety bus that looked a thousand years old…
The next four hours driving through national park was beautiful. But I may have appreciated it a little more had spent less time concentrating on not peeing myself…
The drivers are insane and every corner you turn your bladder does somersaults. Somehow I managed to bribe mine to stop for me to pee in the road beside the whole bus. Desperate, yes. Shy, never. So I survived that journey and finally made it to Puerto Lopez. A dirty, smelly but kind of wonderful fishing village staring over towards the Galapagos .
I let myself get blissfully lost in what I thought was just a rinky-dinky market selling trinkets. In fact it turned out to be more of a third world abattoir with feral dogs on concrete blocks gnawing at left over rotting flesh. Tree stumps covered in decaying meat and blood. All blanketed in
flies... I mean honestly this was like something out of a Stephen King.
In my most persuasive Spanish I managed to convince some local fishermen that they needed an extra hand on deck. And so it was that I spent the day onboard a boat with four peculiar characters. One of whom called himself Winston Churchill... Okay....
On my flimsy plastic line I caught fifteen little fish. An electric eel that nearly killed me and a puffer. The best bit however was circling Isla de la Plata, a.k.a. ‘The Poor Man’s Galapagos’. Accompanied by giant pelicans, blue footed boobies and dwarf penguins. Enormous and utterly prehistoric looking. It was incredible.
There’s no such thing as a free lunch and I was again put to work. My new friends showed me how to neatly fillet a fish. And how to do it quickly. I wasn’t aware we were in a hurry?... Some chopped veggies and a generous squirt of limon later and we had ourselves a delicious treat. Ceviche. And you don’t get much fresher than that.
I nearly didn’t make it back to my aesthetically challenged hostel in Manta. The bus going
back broke down half way there. For three hours or so I waited in the front row while the driver and his wing man added some suspect white powder to water. They made a fine paste that turned to putty that they then stuck over the hole in the engine.... Whatever. It worked eventually.
2 days before I embarked on a two month expedition and six hours of sleep later, I decided more preparation for my work in the Amazon was necessary. After much advice from the locals, I wanted to get hold of some vitamin B12. The secret yet apparently full proof anti-mozzie stuff all Ecuadorians use.
I made friends with every staff member in a small pharmacy. They collected together all the bits and pieces I needed and nodded when I asked about the B12. I paid what I owed and was just about to leave when the tough looking nurse smiled across the counter and said
"OH no no... Es una injecion"... Excuse me what? Injection?
Bollocks. Reluctantly I followed this clearly amusing grinning nurse out of the back door. Up a questionable alley way, some dimly lit stairs and into
an austere 1970's doctors torture chamber. I was ordered to take down my pants and bend over the black plastic bed. This way I she could thoroughly enjoy stabbing mon derrière with a three inch needle! Ow!
By Sarah Blackett ©
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The King
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Wow. Your writing is Amazing. Can't wait to read more!!!!!!!!