Montechristi Revisited (A little late)

Tuesday the 4^th of June I went back to Montechristi to visit with hat makers.  Unfortunately I was unable to go to the High School in Manglaralto as I had hoped, but rather organized my things, which had gotten surprisingly out of order, to prepare for Montechristi.  And so I left on the 3^rd, Monday afternoon to arrive during daylight and find a hostel because we were slated to leave early Tuesday morning.  A hostel was not so forthcoming.  Instead what I found was a reasonably priced hotel in what used to be an opulent house as far as I can tell.  After changing rooms due to the obviously unwashed sheets and bathroom offered to me, the 80 or so year old hostess, and hotel owner sent me up to my fourth floor room next to the only other occupants, an older American couple on their 4^th year of sailing around the world.  Peering into the second floor which was still apparently private residence I caught a glimpse of a huge grandfather clock, ornate woodwork around the bar, and marble flooring.  Sadly, this old world finery did not extend to the acetic though quirky rooms for rent.  At least the water worked after our hostess turned it on. 

But my hotel was only a side note to the journey—after all I was there to see hat weavers.  For the first time since arriving in Ecuador no one was late.  I arrived precisely at 8:55, my guide, Victoria, the daughter of Bertha the hat shop owner met me at 9:00, and we left in the car mere minutes later.  The car, a blue Hundai was obviously the pride and joy of our driver, a 24 year old law school student.  Though other cars may have sped over pot holes three times the size of those we met, he would slow down to a crawl to swerve past them.  Though the mud is an inevitable byproduct of the rain and dirt covering most any car in town, our driver slowed to a snails pace to avoid the splatter.  Well I had nothing better to do, so we chatted as we moseyed along for about an hour to reach Pile, a town no more than 40km from Montechristi.  It was rural though.  Squeezed between stands of almost grotesque Ceibo tree, many armed cacti and muddy forests is the quaint town of Pile.  Some of the roads were paved, and it obviously seen some development.  In fact, the newly built petroleum refinery in the same province had funded the building of a large school for the training of hat weavers in the art of the all famous Paja Torquilla “Panama” hats.  Unfortunately it was not open when I visited.  Nevertheless I did find my way to suitably ancient hat weaver named Manuel Alarcon. 

Almost eighty, Manuel has been weaving since he was ten years old.  To watch him stitch each of the millimeter thin pieces of straw together I grew almost jealous, understanding that only with years of practice could hands move like that.  And that only having seen the labor of months could he have faith that his tireless work would actually result in a hat—one worth the effort—one worth at least 300 dollars.  Though he sometimes works or worked in his own family garden a few days per week, hat weaving amounts to Manuel's only source of money.  A rough calculation puts his income at 3 dollars a day, not much in a country where a beer is $1.5. According to him, he only weaves the finest hats which take one to three months each, and there are about thirty people in Pile who are doing it.  Even with the renewed interest in the art of hat weaving it is not clear that the lifestyle Manuel has led will be replicated by future generations, after all there are only so many people willing to buy a thousand dollar hat.  Though I suppose only fools underestimate what the well off are willing to spend on fashion.