Day 92 Ride to Mancora

A day from the 90s. As you'll see if you read this post we're still in adventure mode a few days after the US election.

Saturday 8 Nov 2008: Ride to Mancora

There is a big difference in the crowd size at the mercado when we get there an hour earlier. This morning the three of us are at the mercado by 7:30 and we are home before 9:00 with almost 200 soles worth of food. Teri and I dash upstairs to get ready to go to Máncora.

We decided last night that we’d take an EPPO bus because the guide book said they leave every hour with a three hour travel time. Teri called EPPO last night to verify the information and the woman she talked to told her that the buses do leave every hour but the trip is three hours and 45 minutes and it costs 12 soles each.

We are in a taxi heading out Av Sanchez Cerro to the EPPO station about 9:30. As soon as we step onto the sidewalk a young woman carrying a clipboard assails us in Spanish with, “Going to Máncora? Come with us in our combi and we will save you two hours.” Teri tells her no way is she riding a combi to Máncora and pretends to be squeezed by other people in a seat. The woman says, “No, no, come and look at our van there is room,” and waves for us to follow her. We’re thinking of our ride in a trashed-colectivo to Catacaos on Day 9 when there were sixteen people crammed in the van, so we’re skeptical and wave her away. This woman won’t give up, however, and pleads with Teri, pointing at her clipboard, pointing at the garage, and trying to hurry us along with her—it’s as though her life depends on selling us these seats.

We shrug our shoulders and figure it won’t hurt to look at what she’s got, so we walk into the garage and there’s a shiny new Mercedes Benz van sitting there with a driver on a bench seat and three rows of seats behind him all facing forward. Two of the seats have three people in them already and they’re wearing seatbelts, ready to take off, it seems. The woman points to the rest of the bench seat next to the driver and tells us it’s ours for 25 soles each, and we can plainly see two sets of seatbelts. We look at each other and have the same thought: two hours in a new van versus four hours in an old bus for only double the price—hell of a deal! Teri pays the woman and slides in next to the driver and I slide in next to her and we wait.

We see the young woman back out on the sidewalk hawking, but she doesn’t have to work very hard to convince three more people to join us. In 10 minutes we’re on our way!

The trip has two noteworthy events. 1) I had too much coffee for desayuno and after about an hour on the highway I tell Teri I’m going to have to stop and she tells the driver. He says, “OK, at the next toll booth." I say, “I don’t need a bathroom, beside the road is OK. He immediately slows and pulls to the side of the road. I jump out, step in front of the open front-door, and proceed to relieve myself; as I’m in mid-flow a car full of people comes along from the other direction and the driver beeps his horn at me—I resist waving or shaking at him.

2) Thirty kilometers past the toll booth there are a bunch of cops and a roadblock. Teri and I are a bit worried because all we have with us are copies of our passports since we mailed via DHL the originals to Lima to renew our visas. A cop comes to my door and pantomimes rolling down the window—he is a big mean-looking guy with five o’clock shadow and he is packing a big fat pistol. I gulp. He looks at our copies and rattles off some Spanish and Teri quickly responds. He says, with a lip-curled glare, “Ah, los Estados Unidos," then he frowns, shuffles our papers, and asks, "son democratas o republicanos?" Teri smiles nicely and exclaims, “Claro, somos democratas (Naturally, we are democrats!)” His face lights up with a big grin and says, “Bueno.” He hands me the copies and walks away. I look at Teri and we can’t help ourselves—we giggle for miles and miles. Obama rules!