09.09.: El Carmen

09.09.

El Carmen is truly insane! Maybe even worse than Tumbes. In Tumbes, I escaped in time, but for El Carmen, it's too late. But let's start from the beginning:

It's Saturday, and it's my departure day from my travel friends Sandra and Rolf. I've been here for a week and have had a good rest, enjoyed the Pacific, and indulged in the sweet fruit of doing nothing. But after a week, I start to feel the urge to explore and my familiar curiosity.
Yesterday, Cassandra called the Vespa representative in Quito and Guayaquil, which was quite a challenging task. But she didn't give up, so I will get the drive belt in Quito and maybe the new fuel pump and starter at the Vespa representative in Ambato on my way back to Peru. Both are working, but showing signs of age.

The four of them say goodbye to me kindly. Rolf films my 'exit' from the stage.

The journey to El Carmen goes according to plan. Ecuador is showing its best side again. I drive along the coast for a bit, but then I head east/northeast. It starts to get a bit hilly, the traffic is much denser than in Peru, the drivers are more impatient, and the bus drivers are under time pressure. Neither of them has learned how to overtake, and they don't know what a one-meter safety distance is when overtaking.

A place to linger - if only it weren't for the thundering main road

Spring

After maybe 3 hours, the lack of foam padding requires a longer break at a cozy-looking 'restaurant'.
It's located in a shabby wooden hut with a covered terrace. There's an open hearth that seems to have never gone out. The roof covering made of woven bamboo stems is pitch black, as are the pots standing on the grill. Slightly greasy plastic tablecloths lie on the tables, and the obligatory silk flowers in the center. An older woman guards the fire. At first, I hesitate, but it's not possible to continue driving, so I ask if there's anything to eat. My impression is that there isn't, but then she gathers her courage and calls her daughter.
The traffic is raging on the connecting road to Quito, which passes by the house. It's very difficult to have a conversation. I order rice and three fried eggs and get freshly squeezed mandarin juice from a plastic bottle that was originally intended for a different purpose. It looks greasy from the outside, but the juice tastes amazing. I'm dealing with an extended family, who slowly gathers and sits next to me. In retrospect, I suspect that this is the family dining table. The oldest daughter is the first to come because she has to help with the conversation. After I've told my story, I'm asked if I'm afraid to travel alone through the country. We get stuck on the word 'medio'. I make sure and ask Dayana, the 12-year-old daughter, if she's afraid when it's dark. She takes the question directly and answers no. The purpose of my question was just to find out if I know the correct translation. Judging by her answer, I don't. So we don't make any progress, and she eventually gets her English dictionary. This leads to a nice conversation. The son, about 14 years old, joins in, the younger sister too, and then the father and son, or rather grandfather and father. They sit apart, observing the Vespa-riding gringo with some suspicion and saying very little, actually nothing at all.
It was a lovely encounter. Again, the disillusionment comes when I find out the mother's age. She's 46 and looks much older. She's missing front teeth, her hands are worn out, but she has funny eyes. The rest of the family doesn't seem to be poor either. The clay floor, the thin and drafty wooden walls are not of any significance. I felt quite comfortable there and only left around 4:30 PM.

So an hour later, I arrive in El Carmen. 60,000 inhabitants call this place home. It seems as if they are all on the streets.
The shops on the left and right are obstructed by cars, motorcycles, and mobile sales stands. Due to cars parking in two rows or just stopping, the traffic between towns gets congested. Smelly and noisy buses, smelly and noisy mega trucks struggle through this 'shopping street'. Then come the mototaxis and motorcycles, driving between the cars - honking and smells of roasted chickens, which are just as present here as in Peru, smells of freshly baked cheese empanadas, and a fish stand in the distance that manages to hold its ground against all competing 'scents'. I think of Patrick Süskind and his book 'Perfume'. The whole scene is accompanied by deafening noise. Loud music from the stores, grinding sounds from the workshops, water pumps, and a consistently high-pitched sound whose origin I can't explain. I cautiously make my way into this bustling knot, searching for a hostel or hotel. I actually see the neon sign 'Hotel California', park the Vespa between the parked cars and the sales stalls, look around for the entrance, and Asi, who runs a motorcycle workshop and watches me curiously, shows me the way, and a little later, I find myself one floor up. Yes, there's a room available, and the Vespa can be safely stored. Even up here, the high-pitched sound is still audible, the smell of diesel trucks and buses wafts upward, and I ask for a room that faces the back. I'm shown a prison cell with a small, uncloseable skylight. The noise level is bearable here, so I accept it.
The Vespa still needs to be 'parked in the stable'. A hopeless endeavor, actually. The receptionist goes ahead, and I try to follow him. Slowly moving backward from the parked cars, aligning the Vespa in the direction of travel, potholes and a deep water channel are dangerous spots. Then defying the traffic and veering at a right angle to the general direction of travel, ignoring the right of way of the 'flowing' traffic, driving straight ahead for a few meters, and then quickly turning left again. Hopefully, the driver behind me is not asleep or urgently needs to check his WhatsApp messages. But everything goes well.
Although it doesn't seem like it, everyone here pays attention to everyone else. Accidents are really rare. In the 6 months I've been here, I haven't seen a single one, let alone sirens and flashing lights.
The smell of fish becomes stronger, joined by the sharp scent of urine. Then I arrive at a large square, and under a shelter where more or less clean laundry hangs, I'm allowed to leave the Vespa.

A little later, I make my way through the main street to stretch my legs and quickly find the Plaza de Armas, right next to a church. This church also rings every quarter of an hour. It's a newer building and illuminated with kitschy colors that constantly change. Gradually, the churchgoers arrive on their motorcycles, and their accompanying children are quickly seen on the street again.
It could all be nice and harmonious. But I don't feel comfortable here, but rather observed. I prefer to retreat to my cell. The temperature - 29 degrees at 8:00 PM!

I write a birthday letter to Tillmann and later in the blog. But for whatever reason, the browser crashes - I reopen it, and my entries are gone.

Time to end the day.