Souther of the border.

Anthony Bourdain will never read this, but I feel it entirely appropriate to name-check the guy since the tao of Tony has definitely helped inform my desire to go to strange places and eat whatever doesn’t fight back (aggressively) at every available opportunity. Ecuador is a place you’ve probably never been and may never find a great reason to visit, but know that if you do, you will eat like a future contestant of el Perdedor más Grande if the giant fucking spiders don’t kill you first.

Ecuador is a representative democratic republic situated, big shock, on the Equator. What this sums to is that this place is hot as a crotch, nestled deep within the biodiverse bosom of the tropics and the word ‘democratic’ is used very loosely with an accompanying grain of salt the size of Hugo Chavez. While you are at it, go ahead and toss out ‘representative’ too, unless the country has a majority of megalomaniacal dickheads, which was not my experience. It’s run by a guy that got around the constitutional term limit by dissolving the congress and re-writing the constitution. So, yeah, Ecuador has its issues, but it also has a relatively chill atmosphere, some of the awesome landscape variety of Costa Rica without the rich American senior citizens, and, this is important, food that will freak you right out of your Panama Hat (invented in Ecuador, by the way).

There are three basic food styles that I’ve found in Ecuador. The first covers food from the Andes. Mainly consisting of hearty foodstuffs that can actually grow on mountains – I will not be covering this style. So, if you were looking for an in-depth exposé on locro de papa, you are entirely shit out of luck. The second type of food is found near the coasts. You know, fish. Finally, we have the foods found in the major cities, in this case, Guayaquil. This is often some kind of intensely upsetting take on another nation’s food. Have you ever had actual Italian food? If so, congratulations. You are more qualified to run an Italian restaurant than anyone in Ecuador. They also cover typical foods from the other regions of Ecuador to much better effect. Follow me, now…

Arriving from balmy, post-Global Warming Chicago, the first thing that hits me is the belief that only masochistic lunatics would have stopped and settled in Chicago before modern heating and the ready availability of craft beer. Chicago on its best day between September and May cannot sniff any day in the tropics. Period. I am not hating on Chicago, but the change in attitude that accompanies a change in latitude (with apologies to that waster god, Jimmy Buffett) is immediate, rapturous and disorienting. Your lungs fill with air, hot dust and the kind of pollution that is no longer legal in the first world. Guayaquil is the money-producing blue collar to Quito’s cultural and political capitol. Passing jarring signs of abject poverty, a blur of colors not found Stateside, and the smells of real food, my ride weaves dangerously through the city over the many, poorly planned, roads where the painted lines appear to be some kind of art installation for decoration only to be completely ignored by the locals. In spite of the cold fear developing in my belly, it is impossible not to smile. The tropics are inviting in a way that does not judge you and that feels pretty good.

I’ll get back to the mystery wrapped inside an enigma of Guayaquil in a bit, but first let’s run, as fast as possible, to the coast. Guayaquil is a few hours away from a cornucopia of vast, glorious, beaches. There are beaches that are perfect for surfing, some that are great for fishing, and more than one that’s ideal for just killing time, doing fuck-all, with a king-size bottle of beer as sand squishes between your toes. The first thing you must do once you get within spitting distance of the Pacific ocean, if you aren’t completely backwards, is throw down on some ceviche. The moment you hit the coast, hundreds and hundreds of cevicherias sprout out of the sand between the coastal road and the waves. They are identical, each one differing only in the order they list the same twenty items on their menus. That does not stop the locals from knowing, without doubt, which one is the best. Everybody has a different favorite and they are all probably right. You sit down, order up your preferred steez (for me? Mixto, baby – shrimp and whatever white fish they pulled from the ocean recently), toss in some popcorn or choclo (Jurassic Park corn) for texture before you drown that motherfucker in aji (homemade pepper-heavy salsa), and pull generously from a big bottle of instantly warm national beer. Fresh fish, salty air, and no cellphone reception. Color me properly arrived. I had ceviche about once per day and that wasn’t enough. I tried snorting it, but the shrimp just would not fit through my sinus cavity. Burned, too. I tried to take a picture of my favorite ceviche, but you can see how well that worked out.

The second thing you notice as the fish settles in your belly are the spiders. The big, fanged, jumping, arachnid death squads. The spiders that live in the tropics are likely there for the same reasons as you and me, the sun is warm and the living is easy. That said, get used to hanging out inside with these guys as there are millions more of them than there are you. Otherwise, life at the beach is quite alright. I slept until I woke up, drank coffee until I switched to beer and beer until I switched to rum. At various points throughout the day, I’d eat something awesome and then go to the beach or vice versa.

At night, instead of watching Real Housewives of Stankonia, everyone would gather outside to watch the sun set. I realize how absurdly saccharine and made up this sounds, but I swear to god it happened. Nightly.

At least until New Year’s Eve. On that very special night, Ecuadorians do something just a bit left of center. In the run-up to the big day, the streets are filled with vendors selling papier-mâché effigies representing everything from Buzz Lightyear to obscure Ecuadorian politicians to international terrorists. Some are midget-sized and appear to have been built by the blind while others are the size of a meth cook shack and eye-rubbingly realistic. The sculptors work for days to months on them and then dress up like transvestites, dance in the streets and ask passing cars for donations to help offset their labors. Makes sense, right? Anyway, you buy one of these things, stuff it full of pieces of paper representing something you want to leave in the old year, pack it with homemade explosives, then douse it in accelerant and set it on fire. This is ideally done under the influence of liver-puckering quantities of alcohol. Good, clean, family fun. Whoever is still alive, dances until dawn before passing out in their spider-infested beds.

Upon returning to the big city, the fun continued. I previously smacked on Guayaquil’s food offerings, but that was just their international and fusion fare. The local cuisine, on the other hand, is just about as close to pure joy as a mouth can get. First, let’s visit Parrillada del Nato. Opened back in 1980 by an expat from another banana republic, this place is a glory-hole for steak lovers. Basic ambiance and a salad bar that contains no leafy greens become fuzzy background noise once a steak, the size of a grown man’s thigh, arrives still cooking on a metal platter. There is nothing to fancy it up. Nothing inessential. You get a fork, a knife and a napkin. It’s grass-fed and is tougher than our pre-chewed moo, but tastes like actual beef. Look on my works, ye Mighty colon, and despair!

Still hungry? Take a trip to La Canoa. It’s a nice typical joint across the street from the iguana park. Here you can eat the hell out of some seafood stew or, my favorite, chicharrones. You might associate that word with nasty deep-fried pork rinds the consistency of gum disease. Not so in Ecuador, gringo face. In Ecuador, they are delicious deep-fried, bone-in, pork chunks reminiscent of slow-smoked low country piggie.

Snack time is basically the fourth meal of the day and it comes between each of the other meals. There are street vendors errywhere and they all serve heavily fried, heavily awesome, brown stuff. There is brown plantain stuff, brown potato stuff and brown cheesy stuff. You will feel like your heart caught itself a nasty little venereal disease, but worth it. All good here, let’s get to the finale.

On our last night in Ecuador, we were treated to something of a traditional celebratory feast. We even got to meet and greet that which we were going to later devour. Enter the crab. Somewhere in Guayaquil (I have no idea where ANYTHING is in that city, despite the fact I’ve been there four times) there is a seafood market protected by Jesus.

You go, haggle the shit out of the vendors, pick your several dozen crabs, wash your several dozen crabs and take your several dozen crabs home, praying they don’t get loose in your car and render you among the unfortunate who die in comedic fashion. These things are aggressive, really cool-looking, and delicious.

They are later boiled in a man-sized pot with herbs, spices and vegetables. You crack the legs and stop there if you are a giant baby. If you are in big boy (or girl) pants, you move on to the body, remove some arbitrary guts, throw in some soft plantains and rice, mix that together with crab brains and eat it up. Yeah.

Later that night, over my twelfth glass of Scotch, and after a push-up contest that nearly ended in a pool of vomit and tears, conversation turned predictably toward Machiavellian plots to prolong the trip for another week, another day even. Like true love slipping slowly through your fingertips, the painful, animal, urge to hold on to the trip for just one moment longer is nearly all consuming. Luckily, actually trying to function in a place like this, to bank and shop and park, is excruciating. If only someone would just fucking pay me to go on vacation already.