This past weekend I spent visiting PCV friends in the town of San Isidro, in Manabí province. Manabí is in the coastal region of Ecuador, which does not necessarily mean it is on the beach. In fact, my travel buddy and I rode an hour and a half inland from the coast in a
chiva, an open-air bus, to get there, all the while wondering where exactly we were going and whether we were there yet. Dense foliage on either side of the dirt track, which must become impassable during the high rainy season, made us feel as if we were plunging deeper and deeper into the heart of some godforsaken Conradian jungle. Only the few little towns along the way - some of them just clusters of houses, really - gave the lie to this perception; or perhaps provided a modicum of reassurance to a frightening and thrilling truth, I never decided which! Periodically the chiva stopped to let someone off into the growing shadows and ragged dense banana leaves, presumably following a path that led to hearth and home.
We arrived in San Isidro at night, with the black sky and vine-veined hills pressing us close in the darkness. By day, we could see the effects of being at the tail end of the dry winter season: leaves wearing thin coats of yellow dust and bobbing in the breeze; roads that in some places amounted to lumps of yellow sand; streams that ran well below the level they used to, and waterfalls that trickled at a mere fraction of their usual force. But still beautiful, all of it. My friend who lives there cited his favorite thing about his site: He can let his guard down. Girls left their purses lying about in public without fear, and people didn't lock their doors at night. By the end of two days there, my feet were coated with yellow dust from sifting through sandy roads and climbing through dusty bracken in flip flops.
The best thing we did, besides partake of the delicious homemade meal prepared for us by one generous local matriarch, was take a trip to the waterfall a ways out of town. It started off with a bunch of us clinging for dear life in the back of a pickup as we bumped and jarred our way up and down the hills on rutted dirt roads--the best beginning to any outing here and the surest sign that it's going to be great fun. A hike to the waterfall became botany class with Nere, one of the three sisters whose mother had fed us earlier. Nere pointed out countless trees and vines along the way.
Maracuyá - passionfruit - vines that draped themselves along strings of barbed wire and hung in sheets across the hillside; the ubiquitous banana tree and the rarer mamey; tago palms that drop their nuts to the ground, the hollow ones which you can crack open to find the petrified fruit inside while the ripe ones sit heavy in your palm as stones; a sprawling guanábana tree hiding two tiny, spiny fruits in the crooks of its warped branches; and one yellow, wrinkled cacao fruit (chocolate). This last one she took and twisted off the branch, then cracked open by whacking it against the trunk of a tree to reveal the white, gooey tower of seeds inside.
Sólo para chupar, she said, indicating that they were only good to suck on, for the seeds' white outer coating carried a sweet, tangy taste, but the inner purple seed was bitter.
The waterfall was like a secret. It's secluded in a little cave in the earth, hemmed in by hill and treetops; in the middle two pools, one dropping into the other; and at the head, the waterfall itself, pouring down through a narrow rock chute. You can jump into the water from the rocky ledge behind the waterfall, or go down the natural waterslide from pool to pool. I followed two of the sisters up and around to the top of the fall, slipping in flip flops and scrambling through dead-leaved dusty branches to stand whistling and shouting down at the others from the top. On the way back someone jumped and plucked a
mandarina limón from the tree, and we sucked on slices as we trooped up the path.
Mandarina limón: looks like a mandarin orange, tastes like lime. Good for juice but not much else.
Earlier that day we had gone to see the howler monkeys that live in a stand of trees and bamboo by the river.
Los monos aulladores. My friend attempted to call them by howling, and eventually they showed up, because of or in spite of her efforts. Normally the monkeys howl at night, or just before inclement weather hits, or when men are cutting down trees in the forest. The youngest of the sisters, Olartia the petite and precocious, took up a branch and started banging it against a tree to imitate the sound of a hatchet. That got the monkeys riled up so that they were howling and shaking the branches of their tree - so high up you had to crane your neck nearly the full 90 degrees to make out their dark bodies amidst the foliage - and even throwing down branches as if to say,
Here, you want to destroy our trees? Well, let us help you!
San Isidro: dusty streets, dusty gardens in bloom, sun-weathered plaza where the clocktower presides. Food, bought or homemade, that will ease you into a pleasant coma. Friendly, ugly dogs. Welcoming, generous people. You don't have to be in this town for long before you can't go anywhere without saying hello to a familiar face or three.
On Sunday - market day, when lots of people come into town from the surrounding countryside - we helped our friends with an HIV/AIDS event and spent all day in the plaza. The sun beat down on us without mercy, and by midafternoon we were spent and listless from handing out flyers and telling people about the free HIV testing offered at the health center. But it was worth it: by the end of the day, dozens of people had received tests and information.
The busride home provided a fresh dose of reality. We were sitting in the first two seats in front of the door for "more leg room," which is code for lots of people falling on you as they board and the bus lurches to a start, and also lots of accidental elbows to the face and lots of hands clutching at your hair for the person sitting in the aisle seat (me), not to mention the number of passing feet that inevitably come crashing down on yours. This particular time I found myself boxed in on all sides, with passengers crushed into the aisle and front of the bus. A few people were standing on my left foot, and a not unheavy child on my right. With my head turned resolutely to one side to avoid touching what from my limited line of sight appeared to be someone's disembodied hand dangling inches from my face, we trundled along. Things started looking up when we changed buses and bought takeout for the second leg of the trip (never underestimate the redemptive power of a huge chunk of well-seasoned chicken).
Coming back to the big city made me realize what a far cry it is from where I'd just spent the past few days. The little town of San Isidro is one of my favorite places I've visited in Ecuador, and I'll surely be returning. Because I didn't bring my camera this time around, and you guys need to see pictures. Yeah...that's why I need to go back; it doesn't have anything to do with the people, or the food, or the beautiful surroundings...you better believe it.
