We rented a car and spent a lovely, long weekend exploring the Ecuadorian lengths of sandy beaches… and potholed roads. I drove, 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).

Until our last day in Salinas. Lisa decided the traffic was light enough to test her driving skills. Eventually we got going, pedestrians dodging us. But soon I notice that therewas no one on the street, but that there were cars parked on both sides. Both sides pointing the same way. Both sides pointing OUR WAY!

And I looked up to see a traffic policeman ahead, riding his motorcycle directly at us, waving one arm and shouting “Una Via! Una Via." Of course this guardian of the public safety passes us, then turns his motorcycle around in a graceful arc as Lisa hits the brakes. We heave to a stop, engine dying in a neck cracking lurch since she again forget 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.

So, Servant of the Public Safety parks next to Lisa’s window and calmly notices two gringos in the front seat. Do I see a hint of a smile on 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!

There are hints of “jail” and dangerous problems for my wife. After some confusion, partly delayed by the vague translation from English and Spanish, I gather that the Servant of the Public Safety 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, very bad for your wife. No papers.

He looks curiously at me. What is my name?

Richard I answer.

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

“Cinco?” (five?) I said helpfully

He shook his head regretfully. He lifted his chin 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. He asked me to get back into the car. I did, driver’s seat this time.

Ecuadorians have a number of common traits, whether 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.

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.