Reflection #2

The crux of our journey was fighting our travel fatigue and crossing the border into Ecuador at a small town called Tumbes. Tumbes is like many other border towns in that it seemed lawless, remote, and dangerous. This town is not without significance, it is the location where Pizarro and his Conquistadores first landed in South America in 1532, marking the beginning of the end for indigenous people living on the continent. It was hard for me to imagine, as our bus crossed the vast lifeless desert that comprises most of the northern coast of Peru, how Pizarro was able to traverse this area with relatively few men and go on to determine the fate of millions upon millions of people. It took us nearly 8 hours to cross the most hostile landscape that I had ever seen, almost completely void of anything but rocks, sand and the Pacific Ocean.

I had crossed the border at Tumbes several times before and it was never a pleasant experience. This time it would be worse. After a total of 16 hours on a bus we reached Tumbes early in the morning. The bus station had high walls and no one dared leave the safety of the bus terminal. After an hour we were able to arrange transportation to the actual boarder crossing which is a few miles away from the town. Once we reached the customs office we got our exit stamps from the Peruvian side and made our way to the Ecuadorian customs office. It was here that we learned there was a transportation strike in Ecuador and the whole area was paralyzed. At this point we had two options, either wait in Tumbes for the strike to resolve itself, which could take days, or try and make our way through the area inspite of the strike. I was less than enthusiastic about our choices but that is the reality of travel in developing nations. I had a reoccurring fantasy of lying on a beach in the sun sipping a LARGE cocktail. We would have to run through the strike in order to make this come to fruition.

Outside the Ecuadorian border office we ran into two somewhat pushy and possible shady guys who offered to take us through the strike and into a town called Machala. It was against both of our better judgments but what choice did we have, so off we went on foot. In the distance we could see the smoke rising from burning tires and large mounds of dirt and rocks piled on the road in order to barricade traffic. As we walked my brother and I discussed strategies in the event the situation went south. We have both been the victims of violent muggings and we were not excited at the possibility of repeating those experiences. In reality, if they had decided to rob us there was very little that we could have done, I suppose we only talked about what we would do to make ourselves feel better about the potentially perilous situation we were entering. We crossed the first barricade to find several trucks waiting, shuttling people between obstacles set up by the strikers or in some cases taking dirt roads into banana fields or the scrubby tropical growth that had replaced the bleak desert. We repeated the process of jumping in and out of the backs of trucks, bouncing along back roads,and walking at times for a few hundred meters in between the earthen barriers topped with burning tires. Through the entire process we were hypersensitive, to the point of being paranoid, to changes in the body language of our companions, trying our best to predict any trouble that might be awaiting us around the next bend. It was cloudy, very humid and at times raining and it wasn't long before we were soaked. At this point we had not slept for more than 24 hours and the environment that we found ourselves in was made even more surreal by our sleep deprivation. I recall as we walked seeing the enormous carcasses of snakes that had been hit by passing vehicles,the largest as I seem to recall was 10' in length. Our companions informed us that these snakes are very common in the banana fields that surrounded us.

The rain set in as we crossed yet another barricade, I notice small stones littering the area around the earthen mound from what I can only assume were from clashes between the protesters and police or possibly the strike runners such as ourselves or our new friends. It has been my experience in Latin America that small stones were the preferred weapon of unruly mobs of protesters. It began to rain with more force now, the rain drops stinging slightly as they hit my face. There were no trucks to give us a lift so we continued to walk, soaked to the bone. I observed Semi trucks with loads of gasoline waiting for the strike to break so they could deliver their cargo. Apparently, the strike had persisted for days and gas stations tanks had run dry in the effected areas. After walking for approximately 3 or 4 miles we reach a round about in the road and a few waiting pick up trucks, after debating price for a bit we found a driver that would do it for a reasonable price considering the circumstances. After a bit of time in the back of the truck the green countryside started to give way to more buildings and houses, soon we were at the edge of the city, Macala. The truck driver dropped us off and, we walk around for a bit looking for suitable accommodations. Once we found someplace that was to our liking and had been shown to our room we called the front desk and had them bring a few Clubs up, the Ecuadorian beer of choice, for ourselves and our companions. Cheers! here's to earning it. I'm not even sure it was much past noon but hey we were on vacation right.