The Justice

Salaite, on the coast of Ecuador, has exactly 13 houses, six shops, three muros (speed bumps), three fábricas de ladrillo (brick factories), one cock-fighting ring and a magnificent view of the sun setting behind the Pacific. Most tourists drive through this town of 80 to the more famous beaches on the Ruta del Sol. To most, only the muros matter.

If those muros did their job, a tired family of vacationers might slow down enough to notice the gleaming spondylus shells or get a craving for coco helado (fresh, chilled coconut) and pull over to Teodoro Chilán's tienda. The father could spend a few moments chatting with the owner about the overpowering midday heat while his children play in the patio hammocks and his wife admires the seashore souvenirs. Then, as Dad casually tosses Maria Chilán a dull Sacagawea dollar to pay for the coconuts, his kids dive back into the air-conditioned sedan. Two muros later, Salaite is all but forgotten.

Later in year, the parents might decide to spend the night in Carlos Barcía's newly completed hotel and let him guide them around Machalilla National Park. As the well-off city slickers learn about the annual journey of humpback whales to these shores and see the relics of the ancient Manteño people of the region-purported to have sailed to lands as far away as China in bamboo boats-they might begin to realize that Salaite is more than just a midafternoon rest stop.

That night, over a late-evening beer with Teodoro and his cousin, in town for the weekend from his construction job in Guayaquil, gathered Salaiteños explain their troubles to their visitors. The tourist family learns that the park holds all the land not held by private owners, and no one is allowed to expand or build without permission from the government. Maria, a Salaiteña mother, wonders whether her children will remain in Salaite with little chance of new work or their own homes. Teodoro's cousin explains that he, like nearly half of the population of Salaite, had to leave town to find work in the cities.

Although the family is constantly awakened that night by crowing roosters, snarling dogs and braying goats, every time it is lulled back to sleep by the crash of the nearby waves. Early the next morning, after being jolted awake by a man selling eggs and cheese using a bullhorn from a pickup truck, the children beg permission to go with the local boys to catch pulpo (octopus). With a stern warning to avoid agua mala (jellyfish, stinging sea stars, urchins and so forth) the boys head to the shore. As Carlos Jr., Bryan, Jonathan, Gilson and Andy lead their guests through the dusty brush to get to the tidal pool, they pass one of Salaite's brick factories.

The visitors try not to stare, but are amazed by the simple work of the men mashing the wet clay with their feet, scooping it into rectangular molds and scurrying out of the pit to place each brick among the rows of dull, brown blocks of earth. Although the sun barely lingers above the jagged hills, the men have been working since hours before dawn so that the overpowering equatorial sun can dry the bricks and spare the workers. After their lunch of freshly caught, fried pulpo, plaintains and mountains of rice, the family thanks the Salaiteños for their hospitality and leaves Salaite behind.

Just like I did after my four days in Salaite this March, the family members sit on their resort's beach only a few inlets south, pondering their experience in one of Ecuador's hidden treasures. Was Salaite poor, "underdeveloped" or "third-world," as everything we have been taught tells us? Or are the people of Salaite just facing their challenges every day, like those in the so-called "developed" world?

It is 5 p.m. At this moment, Teodoro is stacking bricks, Carlos is another nail closer to his hotel and Bryan and Gilson are playing with the fiddler crabs on the beach. The visiting family promises itself that it will never forget that life in little Salaite, a town barely on the map, continues.

The writer is a member of the Class of 2008.

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