We think we have a lot of time. But in reality, it’s November and we’re trying to leave the beach for days now.
We’re walking on the dirty streets of the village, holding our flip-flops in hands, because the mud is to deep they would drown. Life is like a festival. The narrow main street is full of bamboo bars with palm leaf roofs, different dancing beats sounding through. Craftsmen are weaving necklaces on the side of the road, half-naked young men with toned six-packs are trying to make their way through the people to the shore with their surfboards. The whole town is high on marijuana.
We reach the hotel Amit had advised us. “I’m in Montanita now. Is it fine if we meet a day later?” says our neighbour in profound English on the other side of the thin bamboo wall. Pete was supposed to leave in the morning, but he is stuck on that beach, too.
The owner is a young boy from Argentina, Juancho, who looks like Jim Morrison. The only guy who works here is an older man, a refugee from Cuba. Although dinner was not in the price, the yard table is set with delicious dishes, including four bottles of rum every night. Juncho, a rapper from Australia and a cardiologist from the RSA are sitting on my right. In front of me, a Columbian with a woolen hat, a goatee and a diabolic grin.
First, the Columbian pulls out a grip of some good marijuana, rolls a joint and passes it on for a round. Then, puffing his joint, he pulls out another grip and slaps a handful of some white powder on the table. Cocaine is so cheap here, a random laborer can pay for the whole party. “Do you girls want some?” he asks us with his devilish grin. When we say No, he provides something more suitable for little girls like us – a glass of milk. Four straight lines pass on from the rapper to the cardiologist to the cute hotel owner, which they all suck in with pleasure. After a blow, the men feel so compensated, no one cares much about the French tourists who just entered the hotel yard. Tomorrow, they’re probably already doing coke together.
Waking up in the Morning After, we hear Peter from the other room again, who had to be in Salinas early in the morning. “I am terribly sorry. I’m in the bus at the moment, we got stuck in the mud,” we hear him say while he’s probably lying on his bed barely awake. And we’re still here, too!