MAGICAL MONTANITA

The village of Montanita lies on the Pacific coast two-and-a- half hours’ drive north of Ecuador’s largest city, the port of Guayaquil. I arrived during the 2012 mosquito-infested rainy season, with my Chilean girlfriend. We had been warned never to hire taxis unless local hotels recommended them. Robbers prey on tourists using hijacked cabs. In Guayaquil, only the main 9 de Octubre Avenue from the centre to the modern riverside promenade, the Malecon Dos Mil, is safe, with armed guards, toting pistols and shotguns, on every block.

          As a middle-aged couple seeking peace, we found Montanita bursting at the seams with an international crowd of young backpackers and surfers, mainly from Argentina, with European, US, Canadian and Australian elements. The local population is brown, short with jet-black hair, wearing sneakers, sportswear and baseball caps. When not working or hustling, they swing in hammocks in their porches. Small children play freely in the streets. Credit cards are rarely accepted. The village centre throbs with a cacophony of reggae and salsa, notably in an alley dedicated to cocktail vendors, where the racket of the competing loudspeakers is deafening. Fast food smells mix with the stink of inadequate drains. Most of the roaming dogs are not strays, but belong to local households. We saw one lying dead in the surf at noon. The huge oysters sold on the beach greatly increase the chances of diarrhoea. One would have to be very drunk or exhausted to be able to sleep in the adjoining hostels. The tattooed youngsters party a few steps from the beach, where they can collapse on grey-yellow sand round driftwood fires until dawn.

          We had booked a room at the quieter north end of the beach, at La Punta, where substantial palm-thatched buildings sit behind a dirt road and bamboo bars and kitchens. The three-storey Hostal del Sol looks luxurious from the outside. My girlfriend Maria chose it online because of its Yoga classes, which take place two, or three times a day in a purpose-built thatched room above the reception.

          Maria enjoyed the Yoga and Nia, conducted with enthusiasm and expertise for ninety-minute sessions. She found the overcast weather and sea temperature too chilly compared with the Caribbean. Being English, I loved swimming among medium-sized breakers under heavy rainclouds. When the sun emerged briefly, it was scorching. The mosquito bites became more frequent and itchy as the season progressed. Our dark room, with a view of next-door’s toilet, felt oppressive. The hostel had just changed ownership and there was often no water supply while a succession of plumbers tried to fix the pipes. The dirt road turned into a river of sticky mud. On the sixth day a power cut added to our discomfort

          We moved next door to the more salubrious Rosa Mistica. It’s beach bar/kitchen provided unforgettably beautiful moments, watching sunsets and surfers in a red Pacific glow to the music of Bob Marley and Peter Tosh. Despite this, Maria had had enough. When we heard that the village was about to be invaded by 60,000 visitors attending the 2012 Reef Classic surfing competition with a concert by a San Diego reggae band, we decided to leave. Giant inflatable beer bottles and speaker stacks worthy of Woodstock arose yards from our retreat. In a short while, simply negotiating the cars double-parked everywhere, since the parking area was flooded, might take five hours. We cut our losses and headed back to the Grand Hotel in Guayaquil, next to the Cathedral, with its cool suites, efficient showers, room service, armed guards, security boxes and spectacular swimming pool.

          Even so, Montanita possesses a unique magic. With all the diverse cultures milling around, we never witnessed an angry scene, let alone any drunken violence. The secret lies in a combination of two factors; the close-knit village community, effectively one extended family, and the peaceful nature of the visitors: educated backpackers, laid-back surfers and old hippies. There is a third factor. On the rare occasions that a rapist, paedophile or hard drugs dealer is identified, the local men by-pass the corrupt national police, drag the offender into the jungle and burn him at the stake.