Manta: Where the Tuna Swim and the Panama Hats Are Born

Manta doesn't announce itself with colonial grandeur or ancient ruins. What it offers instead is something rarer: authenticity. This is Ecuador's largest seaport, a working city where tuna fleets unload their catch at dawn, where the smell of salt and fish hangs over the waterfront, where the Pacific stretches endlessly west toward the Galápagos Islands. I came here expecting a brief stop on a longer journey — most cruisers treat Manta as a jumping-off point for Galápagos expeditions or a quick beach day. But I stayed longer than planned, drawn in by the rhythm of a place that hasn't been polished for tourists, where the ocean still shapes daily life in ways both beautiful and brutal.

My ship docked early in the morning, the harbor already alive with activity. Manta is one of the world's great tuna ports, and the evidence was everywhere: industrial refrigeration warehouses, processing plants, fleets of long-line fishing boats painted in bright blues and yellows. The tuna industry dominates this city's economy and identity. Ecuador exports more tuna than almost any country on earth, and most of it passes through Manta. The fishermen here work the same Pacific waters that feed the Galápagos, the Humboldt Current bringing nutrient-rich upwellings that draw yellowfin, skipjack, and bigeye tuna by the ton. There's something humbling about watching that early-morning industry, knowing that the seafood on dinner plates thousands of miles away began here, in these cold waters, hauled up by crews who spend weeks at sea.

I walked from the port into the city center, about a ten-minute stroll. Manta's Malecón — its oceanfront promenade — has been rebuilt and beautified in recent years, a response to the devastating 2016 earthquake that leveled parts of the city. The new Malecón is broad and modern, lined with restaurants, ice cream vendors, and families walking in the morning sun. But step a few blocks inland, and you find the Manta that existed before the reconstruction: narrow streets, small shops selling hardware and housewares, vendors grilling corvina and preparing ceviche in plastic tubs. This is a city still finding its footing between recovery and renewal, between industrial port and tourist destination.

The real surprise came when I took a taxi to Montecristi, a small town about 20 minutes inland from Manta. Montecristi is the birthplace of the so-called "Panama hat," which is, ironically, not Panamanian at all. The toquilla straw hats woven here have been made the same way for centuries, each one hand-crafted from the fibers of the Carludovica palmata plant. The finest hats — called superfinos — take months to weave and can cost thousands of dollars. They became known as Panama hats because workers building the Panama Canal in the early 20th century wore them, and because Ecuador lacked the marketing savvy to claim the name. But here in Montecristi, the artisans know the truth. I visited a small workshop where an elderly woman was weaving a hat with fingers so fast they blurred. She worked in the dim light of early morning, she explained, because the fibers are most pliable when the air is cool and humid. By midday, the straw becomes brittle. She didn't speak English, and my Spanish is halting at best, but we communicated through gestures and smiles. She showed me how to test a high-quality hat: you should be able to fold it completely, roll it into a tube, and then shake it out without leaving a crease. I bought a hat there, a simple one, not a superfino, but one she had made herself. I wear it still, and every time I do, I think of her hands moving in that half-light, weaving something beautiful and functional from the humblest materials.

Whale watching season in Manta runs from June through September, when humpback whales migrate from Antarctica to the warm equatorial waters to breed and calve. Tour operators run daily excursions from the harbor, and the encounters can be extraordinary. I went out on a small boat with a local captain who knew these waters like I know my own neighborhood. Within an hour, we spotted a mother and calf, the baby surfacing clumsily beside its enormous parent. The captain cut the engine and we drifted, silent, watching this ancient ritual play out. Humpbacks can weigh 40 tons, but they move with a balletic grace that defies physics. We saw tail slaps, pectoral fin waves, and one full breach — the whale launching itself almost entirely out of the water before crashing back down in a thunderclap of spray. I've seen whales before, in Alaska and Norway, but there's something different about encountering them here, so close to the equator, in waters that feel like the edge of the world.

For those looking for beach time, Manta delivers. Murciélago Beach, right in the city, is accessible and pleasant, with calm water and a backdrop of modern high-rises. But the better beaches lie outside the city. Playa San Lorenzo, about 30 minutes north, is quieter and more rugged, with strong surf and fewer crowds. Los Frailes, part of Machalilla National Park, is widely considered Ecuador's most beautiful beach — white sand, turquoise water, rocky headlands covered in dry forest. Getting there requires some planning (it's about 90 minutes from Manta), but if you have the time, it's worth the journey. I spent an afternoon at Los Frailes, walking the length of the beach in solitude, watching frigate birds wheel overhead and pelicans dive-bomb the surf. The trail from the beach up to the headland offers views that stretch for miles: the Pacific on one side, dry tropical forest on the other, and not a building in sight.

Manta's food scene is, unsurprisingly, dominated by seafood. The city's ceviche is served Ecuadorian-style, which means it's soupy and citrusy, more like a cold seafood soup than the drier Peruvian version. It's served with popcorn, plantain chips, and chifles (fried green banana slices), and it's usually made with corvina, shrimp, or mixed seafood. I ate ceviche three times in two days, each place slightly different, each one excellent. I also tried encebollado, Ecuador's national hangover cure — a fish stew made with albacore tuna, yuca, tomato, and pickled red onions. It's served for breakfast, steaming hot, and it's the kind of dish that warms you from the inside even when the morning air is already warm. One afternoon, I found a small restaurant near the fish market that served whole fried corvina with rice, beans, and patacones (fried plantain). The fish was perfectly crispy, the flesh sweet and flaky, and the entire meal cost less than ten dollars. This is food that comes from the ocean a few hundred yards away, prepared by people who have been cooking it their entire lives. There's no pretense, no fusion, no garnish — just the honest flavors of the sea.

For many cruisers, Manta is less a destination than a threshold. This is the mainland port closest to the Galápagos Islands, and many travelers use it as a pre- or post-cruise stop before flying to the archipelago. Some cruise itineraries even stop here specifically to allow passengers to disembark and join Galápagos cruises, or to pick up passengers returning from them. If you're planning a Galápagos adventure, Manta is your likely gateway. But treating it only as a waypoint would be a mistake. Manta has its own story, one rooted in the ocean but distinct from the famous islands 600 miles offshore. This is a city shaped by earthquakes and fishing seasons, by the weaving of hats and the arrival of whales, by the slow work of rebuilding and the faster work of hauling tuna from the sea.

I left Manta in the late afternoon, the ship pulling away from the port as the tuna boats returned from their runs. The sun was low, turning the water gold, and the last thing I saw was a pod of dolphins riding our bow wave, their bodies arcing through the light. Manta is not polished. It's not easy. But it's real in ways that many cruise ports are not, and that realness stays with you long after the visit ends. I carry it with me still: the taste of ceviche, the sight of a whale breaching, the feel of a handwoven hat, the rhythm of a city that works the ocean for its living and knows that the sea gives and takes in equal measure.