Mancora

Beth and the Aussies (Ewan and Zoe) on the beach, drinking rum, just livin´ the dream (as one Texas gentleman once put it to me).

The most overly used phrase by SA tour companies, not to mention Lonely Planet (who has a propensity towards hackneyed phrasing) is Paraiso.  Mancora is not exactly paradise, assuming paradise to be some Utopian society set amongst palm trees and opaque lobster filled waters, but it is a great place to kick off your hiking boots and reset your latitude. (1)

A bustling, for a beach town, community with an arid desert backdrop, the initial scene does not inspire ones hope for relaxation.  The local community can best be described as a shantytown separating the beach and the main strip of restaurants and kioskos (7-11s without the ubiquitous and overly stereotyped clerks).  We stayed at the notorious Point Hostel located on the beach and at the furthest point from civilization. (2). A blessing to be on the beach and a curse to be forced to buy bad gringo food and expensive beer.

Initially we planned to stay just a few days, but as volunteer opportunities in Ecuador pettered out our only option was to remain, torturing ourselves with mornings by the pool and afternoons on the beach. (3) Life is sucks.

Beth performing as Mrs. South Carolina.

Without rubbing all your working stiff noses in it, I'll just describe the culmination of our experience, the full moon party. (4)  An event that seemed to inspire its own ad agency, with posters plastered across town and a palpable sense of excitement gathering steam days beforehand, it was bound to dissapoint.  However, after purchasing our own bottle of rum and clandestinely working our way into the hostel with the contraband, we were off to a good, not to mention cheap, start.  Recruiting an Aussie couple and a few stragglers intermittently, we began the night just before sunset and ended it just before sunrise with one trip into town to resupply.  We bucked the trend towards normalcy, not to mention the recommendation of the hostel to stay off the beach at night, and spent the evening entirety on tge beach listening to the waves and music and chatting the spectrum of politics, books, god, family and social justice, and all the while getting pissed.  Beth lasted until 3am, while I made it back in at 5am, just in time to buy a burger before bed.

Waxing...something.  A few rums deep, presumably.

We promptly left the next day, wearing out hangover, Beths tan and my apple-tinted skin proudly. (5). Paradise it was not, but a few days harkening us back to the days of Santa Barbara and the easy life.

Feelin´ good, Feelin´ great...the next day.

(1) Thanks Corona.
(2) Notorious for parties, youth and allowing backpackers the luxury of never having to interact with the locals by providing (paid) services for your every need.
(3) Volunteer in SA is apparently a horribly mistranslated word.  We've (mostly Beth) scoured the Internet for possibilities to work with disadvantaged children in Ecuador, preferably not teaching them about the environment as what we've heard is SA underpriveleged don't much care.  Apparently they have other concerns, like learning to read and write, addition and subtraction and finding their next meal.  Digressing.  Point being "volunteer" seems to mean pay a large upfront sum to an agency as an application fee.  Once accepted, if accepted, then pay funds to locals or foundation for room and board.  R & B is no problem, the application fee is.
(4) Don't fret, we will be home in just over two months, at which point in time you all can proceed to rub it in that we are jobless, broke and in the Inland Empire (the last applies to me as Beth will be in Venice.  More difficult to rub that in...)
(5) These days a beer or two leads to a hangover.  Age or out-of-practice I cannot tell, but clearly I'm no match for a bit of rum.

Bonus Picture:

This is why you go to Mancora, and happened to be our view preceding the full moon party.