We left Cuenca too soon on a nine-hour bus to Máncora, Peru, an infamous party saturated beach town that would serve as another stop en route to Lima. Our bus was set to arrive at 7:00 am and the hostel owner, Jurg, would be there to pick us up.All went smoothly with our border crossing into Peru. First of all, the bus was loaded with gringos, so we knew we were in the right place. After about three hours, we had to get off one bus and onto another that was waiting for us on the side of the road–this had all been explained beforehand and was no big deal. Everyone got off, found their luggage, got back on, and tried to go back to sleep.

In another couple of hours we cruised into the customs office near Haquillas, Ecuador. A well-lit, modern building with clean bathrooms and plenty of security, it didn’t at all live up to other bloggers’ horror stories we’d read. In a line full of our German and Spanish bus compatriots, we “exited” Ecuador, got stamped into Peru, and just as quickly filed bleary eyed back onto our bus.

A mere 2.5 hours later we were awoken by shouts of “Máncora! Máncora!” But we couldn’t believe we were there already. Under normal circumstances, a nine-hour bus trip taking only six-and-a-half would be amazing. Not so much when you’re dumped in a dusty truckstop of a town, to a screaming pack of moto-taxi drivers all vying for your business. No hostel owner expected for hours, and no cell service now that you’ve crossed into a new country.

A moto-taxi (picture a horse carriage attached to the back of a motorcycle) dropped us at the entrance to Kon Tiki, which is at the bottom of a steep dusty hill, and hikeable along a rocky path of switchbacks along the way. Backpacks strapped on, we prepared for the hike lit by one lamp post–the sun wouldn’t be up for over an hour. Walking up we heard dogs barking in the not-distant-enough distance, and smelled urine and fetid garbage wafting up from the town below. We avoided eye contact. We each thought versions of “I’m too old for this.”

At the top we discovered the hostel as it should be at barely 5:00 am: totally dark and locked up. Since it’s made up of a series of private bungalows, we had no idea which door to knock to find the manager. We decided to wait it out on a bench halfway up the path. At least there would be light.

Around 6:00 the sun started coming up and we gave another go at finding the owner. She must have heard us trudging up the hill this time and rushed to let us in our room where we fell asleep, practically still in our backpacks and boots. Six hours later, we woke up with renewed hope for Máncora: it’s the beach, after all. Also, our neighbors might have been the Flintstones:

I realize this seems like a whole lot of whining, but there’s kind of a reason for the detail taken in explaining this rough spot: it didn’t really get much better for us in Máncora. We later learned that the pee smell came from a large part of town that was functioning without the benefit of a sewage system.

The town itself butts up against the Panamerican Highway and instead of sidewalks or safety railings of any kinds, there’s a two-by-two-foot ravine where pedestrians should probably walk–remnants of an abandoned construction project. The beach is teeming with hawkers, street dogs, hordes of fratty travelers there for the large cheap beers, and a long row of fried seafood joints fighting, like the moto drivers, for your business at every pass.

We spent two days at the far southern end of the beach, away from all the noise, and it ended up being just fine. The sun was warm, we bought a blanket to lay on, and watched people kite surf way out into the ocean, which was pretty cool. At night we trekked up the hill to freshen up, then back down to find dinner. When it was time for our second nine-hour bus, we were actually excited. Ready to move onward, and see what Huanchaco would be like.

There were a couple of highlights to our time in Máncora, which I don’t want to leave out.
1. Moscas en la Sopa: A delicious restaurant staffed by Argentinian beauties (happy Eric), with seriously awesome steak sandwiches and homemade mayo, and a nice local duet singing on our last night in town.
2. Atelier: A hipster-run wine bar and restaurant that transported us back to Brooklyn with weird indie music, delicious homemade ravioli, and a bartender that looked like Jake Gyllenhaal with dreadlocks (sort of an existential crisis for me).
3. Kon Tiki: Our hostel on the hill had comfortable and cute bungalows with great views of the ocean and hammocks for napping. The couple of owners couldn’t have been sweeter, or more helpful in planning our time there and journey out of town.

Here’s where we were:
(Máncora, Peru)