Part Two: 9 Days, a Bicycle, The Pacific Ocean and A New Year

I did not have much say in some matters.  For the most part I just went with the flow of the group.  It was not that my voice was insignificant to the decisions of the group, but more that I only barely understood conversations, certainly not the minute details people were debating over.  If there was a vote on something that the group was torn by, someone would explain the issue in English and I would state my opinion.


One morning, after waking up in my tent, on the roof of a hostel overlooking the ocean, I noticed everyone pondering over something.  This was one of those times I would sit back, photograph the area and when a decision was made, I would simply go with the flow.  Before long, Fabio had flagged down an beat up truck with an extended wooden bed used for carrying what I assumed to be animals or fruit.  The truck was driven by two old Ecuadorian men, their salt water skin dark with years of abuse from the sun.  It was kind of fun not knowing exactly what was going to happen next.  Everything became a mystery.  


In just a short time of talking with the men and everyone handing over 3 dollars, we had loaded all of our bikes, gear and bodies into the back of this truck.  It is very common to see large groups of people, usually workers, riding all crammed in the back of a truck, so I felt like this was relatively normal and safe.  As we left the coast for a highway of sorts, a smell came to my nose.  Something very unpleasant and revolting.  I placed by backpack down to take a picture of everyone in the back of this truck flying down the highway. "Stop!  Do not put your bag down".  One of the girls said to me.  When I asked why, she explained that the back of this truck was used to transport pigs and the ground was likely covered in their excrement.  I did not put my bag down again. 


It was quite the experience, riding in the back of this truck, cruising down the highway, watching the beautiful trees go by, the wind pulling your hair.  After an hour or so of standing in the pig stench, the truck turned off the main highway, going another 15 miles on a dirt road to what seemed like... nowhere.  When it stopped and we took all of our gear off the truck, thanking the drivers as they left, we were literally in the middle of nowhere.  There was a small church with no front door, a soccer field which consisted mostly of rocks and goals that only stood half upright, 2 small homes and a collection of animals including pigs, chickens, hens and goats, wandering the "street" and land.  


After a few seconds of us making more noise than this small town has seen in weeks, heads of native Ecuadorian farmers started popping out the holes in the walls, used as windows.  One woman walked up to us, our presence being the highlight of her week, explaining that she grew squash and other vegetables and has lived in this home since she was a child.  Her face was warn and wrinkled from the sun and years of hard work.  Although she looked nearly 70, I had no idea how old she really was.  Once everyone had reassembled their bicycles, we were once again off.  This, little did I know, would end up being my favorite part of the entire ride. 


It was hot now, near midday.  But we were behind schedule and anxious to get going.  For a while we remained on the dirt road, passing small homes, kids calling their sibling to come outside and look at this phenomenon of people riding by on bikes.  I swerved to avoid running into  cows, goats, pigs and other animals that littered the road.  There were not many more houses.  They became more and more spread out from each other, until, none.  We were in a much more wooded area.  These trees, my favorite I think I have ever seen, are in the Bonsai family, as Andrea explained to me.  I nearly crashed several times, staring at the trees and not watching where I was going.  The path became less of a road and more of, well, dirt, sand and water.  It was not until after that I realized we were riding through the outskirts of a National Park.  


Fording streams half a wheel deep, riding down dirt hills and then up dirt walls to slow down, being stuck in sand too difficult to ride on, all became a part of the day.  It was the most beautiful ride, but almost the hardest.  At one point, we would ride up a small hill, taking all the life out of us in the sun, only to go down in a matter of seconds and find another hill waiting at the bottom.  This happened over and over.  Covered in dirt and sweat, wet from crossing rivers and a few new scars from rocks or my shoes slipping on the metal peddle of the bike, and we had made it once again to pavement.  However wonderful the sight of pavement was, the joy was soon relinquished when the pavement became the largest hill I had seen yet.  It was brutal.  Truly terrible.  Well over an hour to get up, in the sun, the hill felt like it would never end.  At one point the largest wasp I had ever seen flew by.  I feel off my bike from the sight of it (and sheer exhaustion).  My friend explained that they called that bug "the devils horse".  An appropriate name, I thought.  A squished iguana lay on the side of the road and I thought back to my Uncle Paul and his poor pet from my childhood.  Everyone had stopped at one point to look at something on the road.  When I caught up, I was for the first time in my life, looking at a live, wild, taranchula.  It was not that scary.  In fact, the giant wasp was much more terrifying.  Apparently they hunt taranchula, paralyzing them with their stingers and then laying their eggs in the immobile taranculas back.  


The top of the hill was a glorious sight.  We waited until the group had all made it, collectively congratulating ourselves on a job well done.  Then, the fun... That hour uphill, made for a ride down hill that lasted longer than any roller coaster, with a speed just as fast as the cars on the road, a huge smile spread across my face.  All it would take is one small rock or a loose screw to wipe that smile right off my face, but there was no rock, no loose screw.  I remembered a few months prior, sledding down Avalanche Peak in Yellowstone National Park with a good group of friends.  The pure joy.  A childlike happiness that cannot be faked or recreated, unless, again completely free, loving life, the wind smashing your face and basking in the glorious thrill of the danger.  


The bottom of the hill brought us back to the beach.  Puerto Lopez.  We were one days ride away from our final destination.  But for the next 48 hours, we would relax and enjoy the beach.  Puerto Lopez, the small beach town resting on the edge of Machalilla National Park, would become a favorite place in Ecuador.  The breathtaking beach, Los Frailes, with coral reefs and exotic fish that looked amazing while snorkeling around them.  For the next 48 hours, before the final leg of the trip, I was in heaven.