Montañita

After standing on a bustling corner of venders selling tamales and corn cakes, the bus to points north pulled up. We sat in the bumpy back and watched the coast unfold to some catchy Cumbia. A gaggle of school girls in uniforms giggled as we lurched over a precession of speed bumps. The waves broke frothily outside the blue cotton curtains.

After an hour, we stopped and descended—into the mud. Some other star-struck tourists awkwardly charted through the sloppy stuff, and tried to understand where they were. This was an uncommon place.
Montañita must have one of the highest concentrations of surfers in the world. It’s a paradise for hippies, dogs and beach bums. And no wonder with the crashing waves and pristine beaches, devoid of trash, seaweed or jellyfish. Just neon bikinis and latex suits cloud the waters.

Unlike Tena, where life sprung forth with the first roster’s crow, people arose in Montañita at around 9 a.m. The pace dawdles along all day. But as the sun ends, the bonfires begin.

All day, boys can be seen pedaling, empting and filling bicycle carts with wood in preparation for this nocturnal rite. Three bars along the beach (and a dozen more during the high season) set the stuff aflame and crank up a variety of musical choices. The most popular cabana with the tourists featured euro-trash and Destiny’s Child. Our favorite spot had none of that.

Francisco, a small middle-aged man never seen without his yellow fanny pack, had built the place about two years ago. The “bar” was in an old iron drum that seemed to have survived some armed conflict. From here, caparinas in Dixie cups and the music, emerged.

On our second night there, after Todd and I took a naked swim in the dark ocean, Francisco taught me how to dance Cumbia. Legend has it that it’s distinctive shuffle was a necessary invention of the African slaves that helped found the music. Shackles around your ankles don’t give you a lot of room to move.

Salsa is all about the gesticulation, though, and I danced a lot of it that night as well. Angel was from Guayaquil, and sold woven bracelets that he and his wife had made to tourists in Montañita. She didn’t dance, but he sure did. His last dip of the evening landed me on the ground—luckily sand, not dirt. Equally fortunate was the location of our hotel room ($5 a night each, including a balcony and hammock) just 100 steps away.

On the bus route to the beach.

The view from our hotel.

Scenes of the beach.

		La ParqAmazonico La

The muddy river of Montañita...Bicycles made more sense than cars.