Ecuador, police and driving

Ecuadorians have a number of common traits, even if they live on the coast, in the Sierras or in the Oriente (Amazon Jungle): They are exceptionally proud of their country; they are proud of the people who live in Ecuador; they almost all have relatives living in other countries and; they are all disgusted, but resigned, to the vast corruption of their government. In Guayaquil, Quito, everywhere else, the police, the politicians and the bureaucrats in Ecuador are apologetically, but staunchly corrupt.

Did I say we had rented a car?

Yes we did. We rented a car and spent a lovely, long weekend exploring the Ecuadorian lengths of sandy beaches… and potholed roads. Me driving, yes me, because in Ecuador almost all of the cars are manual transmission, not automatic, which is opposite to the state of affairs in the Estados Unidos (United States). So Lisa, despite having driven a manual Suzuki back in 1994 here in Guayaquil, had spent the intervening years in Ohio, Arizona and California proudly driving all automatic transmission cars and did not feel up to faring the traffic and potholes of La Costa.

Until our last day in Salinas. Lisa decided the traffic was light enough to test her driving skills. Off we went.

A suitable interlude for you, the reader, to imagine a host of jumps, jerks, stalls and squeals as the love of my life attempts to destroy the manual transmission in particular and the car as a whole.

Lisa (After jerking the car from a dead stop for the third consecutive time): What happened?

Richard (remarkably calm): That’s what happens when you try to start the car in gear without depressing the clutch, dear.

Lisa: Oh.

Richard: Either take it out of gear or depress the clutch.

Lisa: I’m not stupid.

Richard: Sorry.

Eventually we get going, dodging pedestrians as we go. Or are the pedestrians dodging us? I digress. Then about the time I notice that there is no one on the street, but that there are cars parked on both sides. Both sides pointing the same way. Both sides pointing OUR WAY!

And I look up to see a Traffic Police man ahead, riding his motorcycle directly at us (death defying soul) waving one arm and shouting “Una Via! Una Via”. This loosely translates as “One way, oh silly gringo”.

Of course this guardian of the public good passes us, then turns his motorcycle around in a graceful arc as Lisa hits the brakes. We heaved to a stop, engine dying in a neck cracking lurch since she again forgot to depress the clutch.

Now one thing about motorcycle cops in Ecuador, they never get off their motorcycles. They pull up to your window, talk to you through the window, then speed off again. They sleep in their motorcycles, and, for all I know, take their yearly baths still affixed to their motorcycles. This, of course, makes their love life interesting, but again, I digress.

So, Servant of the Public Good parks next to Lisa’s window, calmly notices two gringos in the front seat. Do I see a hint of a smile from his face? No, can’t be, this is serious. He calmly and pleasantly asks for Lisa’s driver’s license and identity papers.

SHE DOESN’T HAVE THEM. THEY WERE LEFT BACK IN GUAYAQUIL.

Let’s see, foreign woman, driving without a license in Ecuador, wrong way on a one-way street, no identification.

(Gulp)

There are hints of “jail” and dangerous problems for my wife. After some confusion, partly delayed by the vague transition from English and Spanish, I gather that the Servant of the Public Good wants to talk to me outside the car.

I get out, and he backs his motorcycle up enough so that we can talk… privately. He talks softly, him sitting on his motorcycle, me leaning in a bit to hear his soft words. Big problem, he says, dangerous driving, one way street, very bad. No papers.

He looks curiously at me. What is my name?

Richard I answer, Richard Evans.

Ah. Richard, Good name. The name here is dollars.

Dollars. Now, to the uninitiated, dollars in Spanish is dolaras. Now doloras, is pain.

I felt pain coming on.

“Cinco?” (five?) I said helpfully

He shook his head. He lifted his head up and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“Tres……tres……tres….(three…three…three)” as if he’s trying it out and I was momentarily puzzled… offering to take less?

Then he nodded and said “Trenta” (thirty).

Trenta, I repeated, and he nodded somberly. I nodded gravely, thinking. He asked me to get back into the car. I did, driver’s seat this time. I quietly handed him a twenty and a ten in a friendly handshake.

He gave us a police escort to the outskirts of Salinas. We headed off to Guayaquil.

I drove, Lisa, relieved to not be seeing the inside of an Ecuadorian prison, in the passenger seat.

Only the second time I’ve ever had a police escort out of town. But that would be a different story.