Northern Adventures: Part 3

I don’t want to leave this place, but Julia and I are hungry. Our intended hippie-jewelry browsing is apparently not going to happen, as we catch up with Sandro, who offers to take us to one of the best restaurants in Mancora, of which I forget the name. Just take my advice: When you arrive in Mancora, walk towards the center, and this restaurant will be on your right with a wooden patio in the front.
Walking through Mancora, I realize quickly just how ‘cholo’ (redneck) it is. But this town has its charm, manifested purely in the hippie presence. We find this ‘spectacular’ café (per Sandro) and Julia and I order to-die-for sandwiches and Maracuya drinks. It’s at this dinner that we start to get to know Sandro better. Not because he is drinking (though he wants to, and reassures the waitress that he would except that he is our chaffeur); instead, he opens up to us about his life in Peru:
Sandro, fifty years of age, knows everyone in this town. I really think he must be famous. He wears shirts unbuttoned one-button-too-many. He is divorced, a pituco from Lima who claims to actually be more Italian than Peruvian. He tells us stories about people he has gotten drunk with. It’s a running list, including former President Toledo, current President Garcia, and maybe even, as Julia and I conjecture later, ex-lover Jaime Bayly, pundit extraordinaire and my favorite Peruvian, next to Gian Marco, of course.
We love every semi-truthful claim Sandro makes. We believe him because he is our friend in this moment and because the Pisco from our Maracuya sours is making us laugh more than usual.
After dinner Sandro suggests a drive through the “better” beaches: Vichayito, Las Pocitas, and others. We agree and he drives like he owns the private properties and hotels that we enter, using the excuse that we are interested in a stay, when in reality, we are exploring solely for the sake of exploration. All I know, in this moment, is that we’ve left the “big lights” of Mancora for untouched darknes, and incredible stars, accompany my growing desire to move to this place. My stargazing lasts the whole ride home as Julia and Sandro tell stories and I half-listen, stumbling out of the car and moving away from the few lights illuminating the bungalows so I can take in the peace being imparted into my heart from each star. They are the fingertips of God.
The next morning Sandro takes us to a taxi stop to get a ride to Tumbes. He is chatty today—saying he knows the guy clearing that piece of land, that those cows used to graze on his property, etc, etc. He knows everyone, including cows, apparently. On the way to Tumbes, the landscape overwhelms me. Green takes over brown to my right, and the ocean continues, unending, to my left as we move north toward Ecuador. I can’t place the smells around me; Julia tells me it’s burning land. Rivers and inlets and waters are everywhere. A woman naps in a hammock just off the road.
Once in Puerto Pizarro, Rigoberto, Sandro’s friend (of course), approaches us. We don’t have to approach people here for help, as we do in Southern Peru—the people here are so much friendlier. I’m in love with Rigoberto and the Manglares. “Rigo” or “Berto” doesn’t wear shoes, but I notice he has flip flop tan lines, and he smiles and jokes with us and asks for English lessons. Our tour includes a Portuguese girl, which adds to the mix of tongues. English, Portuguese and Spanish float around my ears as the boat calmly penetrates through rivers and estuaries and makes ripples in the river-forest.
The estuaries cut through bushes and shrubs. Birds take over and color is everywhere, as are boats and the ubiquitous smell of fish. “No hay vago” (There isn’t a bum) here, says the man with a constant smile. I could live here, too, in this never-ending heat, this perpetual summer. They were right for once, the Peruvians—summer lingers here forever. Clouds come and go and tropical rains invade. But I like that.
We say goodbye to Rigo and leave our adventure in Tumbes, which is not an impressive city, but it overflows with happiness. We drive back and I can only think of the wave of fatigue that has rushed over me, but I can’t close my eyes, not yet, because I’ll miss something beautiful.
Our last afternoon on the beach is spent sunbathing. I am the only one on the beach, and my codependent tendencies vanish in the knowledge that My Creator is next to me. The Spirit is here, speaking and teaching; Jesus and I chat about life. It's an all around really great late afternoon. This time of day is incredible, with the wind picking up and the clouds coming in. The sunset will be spectacular. The water starts to change colors. As I sit on the sand, I observe a man paddling far out in the water, standing on a raft. My reverie is interrupted as a plethora of crabs inch closer as if they are going to attack me.
The last night in Zorritos is peaceful. That sentiment characterizes this place: Peace. It’s July 4th, but Julia nor I know it because we’re the only Americans on the beach and drunk on relaxation. I celebrate with another sunset, crabs poking out of the sand, and, later, a drink with Jaime Bayly talking on TV. I suppose if Sandro had been around, my last night would have been spent drinking with him, Jaime Bayly in the background, and hearing Sandro’s stories about their love affair.

Northern Adventures: Part 2

From my spot in the front of the bus, I finally see a small sign for our hotel. I collect a still-drugged Julia and we disembark in the middle of the highway to the bungalows that have been beckoning me since late May. Our bungalow is about 30 steps from a private, deserted beach, and I almost cry because I’m so happy.
In our relaxed state, we sink deeper into this idea of doing absolutely nothing in Zorritos. Sun and clouds mix together. No one is around, save for a couple on their honeymoon. I walk around in my swimsuit, trying to talk myself out of stipping off everything altogether. Our first future friend arrives to welcome us to Bamboo Lodge: Sandro. We don’t know he will become our friend and ‘pituco’ (snobby) Northern Peru chofer/Sugar Daddy.
Between doing nothing and getting a sunburn, Jenny the cook makes us some incredible fish and Sandro takes us into town. He plays European club music in his car. We come to find out he lives in California and has his own business there; he’s in Peru to see family and help with their business.
Zorritos is everyman’s town. I wander around, in awe of the people not wearing clothes or shoes. I’ve just come from the cold weather in Arequipa and Lima, where scarves are worn in 65 degree weather. I drink a cold, icy, glass-bottled coke and relax while the Peruvians watch me. Not many tourists get to Zorritos—most stop in Mancora, about 30 minutes south.
I leave the shack-restaurant and wander back to Sandro. No matter if he leaves, though, I could stay and live here. I’ve convinced myself of this already. And anyway, someone would certainly give me a ride or find me a ride back to the bungalow.
On the way back, Sandro stops for gas in front of a shanty-town area. Two houses with people just hanging out are the main attraction, and you know their source of income is the gasoline sold to travelers. Sandro hops out and fills up, talking to the guys outside while Julia and I take in the all-too common poverty. Sandro gets in the car and knows what we are doing, as he watches us survey the situation. He says this, in the Spanglish he has adopted for us (even though Julia and I both speak Spanish): ‘There is poverty, pero se viven felices’ (There is poverty, but they live happily). It’s true. Just from my fifteen minute adventure to town, I can see this. I wonder if tourists understand that there is more to Northern Peru than nice bed and breakfasts; that life here often means nothing and everything all at the same time. People eat together, sit outside together, wave to each other from the road. A light is in their eyes, a happiness that seems different even than the Southern North Americans that I know.
After more beach time (I literally could stay on the beach all day), I move from doing nothing on the beach to doing nothing in the hammock. Sipping coffee and listening to waves, I hear a stranger’s voice talking to Sandro.
‘Sarita, this is Pascual, the artist I was telling you about.’ This is not what you might be thinking. Sandro was not trying to set me up with Pascual as a potential love interest; rather, Pascual, ‘spelled with a ‘k’ because it’s artsy’ wants to show me his paintings. In my free-and-easy state I humor this guy as he begins to show me geometric paintings that are just okay. Geometry and I have never gotten along—this goes for book learning AND understanding the aesthetic value of shapes on a canvas: I don’t understand either.
Surprisingly, Paskual with a K opens up a breathtaking piece, and I know I have to have it. I don’t know how you are about art, but my theory is this: If it takes your breath away, it’s for you. Don’t buy something to fill a room—buy something because it was created for you and you know this in your bones.
My painting is a horizontal blue and black view of the ocean. Paskual has captured the ocean and waves perfectly, reflecting the moonlight and stars off the water—A simple and not-enough description.
I pay Paskual and find out he is coming with us into Mancora. Sandro has offered to take us because ‘we have to see Mancora, it’s fabulous.’
Julia and I pile into Sandro’s crappy car once again, this time with my new artist friend, who is chattering away about beach life. I realize I’m having a mini-adventure with the man who painted my new present-to-myself, and a smile fills my face.
We stop to take some pictures in Cancas, a port town. Its full of boats, and the smell of fish saturates your nostrils. The boats float on the calm ocean and pelicans inundate the blue ocean that conspires to float into an even bluer sky, which tonight, promises a spectacular sunset. We leave our perfect vantage point to get to Mancora on time in hopes of catching the sun disappearing underneath the water from an even more perfect vantage point.
Julia and I thank Paskual for his kindness and make our way to the ocean, pausing only long enough to tell Sandro we’ll find him later (it’s a small town, and everyone knows Sandro). It’s funny how ugly can so quickly give way to beautiful: Mediocre streets populated with people asking if you want marijuana lead to a serene beach with surfers crowding the water in a perfect, not-too-crowded way.
If you’d taken a survey of the people on the beach watching the sunset with us, you would have encountered representation from the following countries: Poland, Great Britain, Spain, Argentina, Australia, North America, Peru, Sweden, Germany, Italy and maybe a few people from France. I didn’t ask for said survey; I just know they’re there. I’ve met these people as I’ve traveled Peru—this mix of people from around the world that just leave wherever they are to take a chance at seeing things they’ll only see once or twice in their lives. I know this because I recognize this sentiment as the common bond that knits us together.
Julia and I find a spot on the small strip of sandy beach, joining a multitude of people who apparently had the same idea as us: Watching what must be a daily display of glory, magnificence showing up in the form of a massive star sinking under the ocean, painting the sky canvas a myriad of colors.
Since being in Peru, I’ve come to love sunsets even more because you’re never disappointed. As a girl who grew up on the East Coast, I would have grand aspirations of waking up early on beach vacations to catch a sunrise. However, for a girl who is not a morning person, this goal was never successful. Instead, good intentions almost always morphed into me hitting the snooze button and rolling out of bed at 10 AM.
So today I take it all in with Julia and the tourists. Fifteen minutes allows us to feast on visual pleasure that includes watching surfers live it up on wicked waves that make this beach famous.

Northern Adventures: Part 1

God made Northern Peru exceptionally well. I’d only been here three days, but I already knew this to be fact.
Julia and I slept in a twin bed (I hate sharing any bed, much less a twin) on a freezing Lima night, the air water-droplet laden. We slept for about 2.5 hours before dressing in our tank tops and t-shirts with heavy coats draped over us to eventually shed as the Northern heat brought us out of the miserable Peruvian winter.
We were going North, to the beaches people have called ‘divino’ (divine) and ‘increible’ (incredible).
Good Limenos know to migrate North in the winter. The beaches are known for the warm temperatures year-round and amazing surf. In comparison to the bone-chilling Lima winter months, it’s heavenly. After only a few days in Lima, I had to get out.
We make it to the airport after hailing a taxi at 1 am, always an adventure in Lima. Lima taxis are something one prays will work in his or her favor. We can only hope that the taxi driver is merciful and trustworthy as Julia and I climb in. At the airport, we decide to each take a sleeping pill. It’s approximately 2 am, our flight arrives in Piura (translation: The Desert) around 5 am, and we have to find our way about 3 hours west to the coast. We leave Lima tired but semi-alert, at least conscious. I don’t remember much after buckling my seatbelt, as the sleeping pill had completely set in with its wonderful trippy side-effects. I would later find out that our pills were higher dosages for motion sickness (a common pill sold in Peru that apparently also has the effect of knocking one out).
Our plan upon arrival is to embrace the fact that we don’t have a plan. (This is my fault, by the way—I figured I would buy our plane tickets and my responsibilities were fini.) I was unaware that my decision not to plan would cause the following to ensue.
I wake up and we are in Piura, stumbling off the plane as if we’d been drinking tequila all night. We figure that the easiest way to get to the coast is to take a van or taxi; however, at 5 am, two gringas can’t expect to receive anything easily from Peruvians, regardless of the fact that Julia and I have both lived in Peru for two years. The van wants to charge us 300 dollars. Dollars. Not soles, dollars. We’ve already spent an arm-and-a-leg to get up here from Southern Peru, so this is out of the question.
We take a taxi to the bus station and find a ride for 15 soles, about 5 dollars (score!). Julia and I know we found a deal, but as with all things cheap in Peru, it usually comes with a price: Comfort and time.
Good thing we are drugged.
The drive from the flatlands of inner Northern Peru to the coast is bumpy and winding (typical). Julia and I have seats in the back of the bus. Imagine being in the very last row on a rollercoaster as it twists right and left, leaving very little time for you to think about how sick you feel; this is the bus ride for us. The saving grace of this trip is that the roads are not one foot away from a 200 foot drop into ocean.
All I see between sleeping and being jerked awake is desert, and I start to wonder if we’re in the wrong place, maybe going to a not-so-heavenly place instead of my promised Eden. But then I start to see some green. Then the bottom breaks in two and blue is below you. It sparkles as the sun’s rays pierce it and the current, and the waves create a picture of glory.
My idea of heaven has always been wherever water meets sand.
As I revel in the knowledge that I’m almost to my destination, I look over to see that Julia is dead asleep. She’s not even asleep, she literally appears to have died. She bumps along with every uncertain movement that the bus makes, swerving around potholes, making sudden stops to avoid hitting cars or people, or just simply careening around curves so fast it seems we’ll fall over. It doesn’t phase her in the least.
After our supposed 2.5 hour journey turns into 4.5 hours, I start to worry that we’re on the wrong bus, we’ve missed a stop, etc. Living in Peru forces one to learn how to not worry and go with the flow. Be flexible. However, there comes a point when the anxiety creeps in over the suspicion that a well-intentioned Peruvian probably gave you wrong directions, suggested you eat something that is ‘clean’ when it really isn’t, or puts you on the bus to Northern Colombia instead of Zorritos, Peru.
Julia is no help, so as we leave Mancora, I start to look for our hotel in Zorritos. Peru’s beaches are so untouched that few signs exist to indicate where they are. This could also be due to the fact that no Peruvian actually knows where they are exactly. The man in front of me, however, is a local, and he gives me ‘good’ directions to our stop, and I realize we are actually getting close and I have to now tell the bus driver where to stop.
I make my way up the death-aisle, smelling every Peruvian on the bus, listening to the World Cup coverage on their radios, and being tempted by whatever foods they’re eating. Once in the drivers cabin, I awkwardly stick my head in, butt hanging out the small square contraption that resembles a doggie door. I sense every eye has miraculously opened as I passed and is now staring at my backside.
I turn on the charm for the bus driver and his faithful assistant as I ask him where we are and inform him of the impending drop-off. I’ve shamelessly learned during these two years how to get what I want by flirting. (This is a topic for another story.) A Peruvian man usually will not be ambivalent with Julia or me. While this sounds strange, you eventually (and maybe also unfortunately) get used to all the attention. Needless to say, I’ve learned the advantages that come with being a ‘gringa guapa’ (pretty gringa). In this case, I get a free ride up front with my new friends.

Jungle Inspiration

The sunset just changed. The clouds begin to open up and a peak of sun showed itself in orange and pink God-glory. The music of strange birds and jungle bugs combine with earthly musicians, the forest sounds overpowering more sweetly the tones produced by human hands.

Previously brown rain water from days earlier catches and soaks up the sky colors and begins to look not-so-murky or stagnant. Something once ugly is transformed into heaven's essence.

The sunset changes again. In a different kind of quiet, the rays disappear, the orange burst sinks down, and the shifting of the clouds create a bright jolt of light softly screaming from the fluffy covers.

"Life is always changing, every moment," I think to myself.

Let go and embrace it.

"October Poem"

Today I want a sunset over the Pacific.
I want the lighthouse
and the stroll through curved landscape,
turning corners, hoping for the sun to
display itself in magnificence.

I miss the slowness of it-
the way it comes down, tinting
clouds pink and yellow and orange.
In loneliness, a good sunset calms a soul.

The sea below contrasts the slow setting sapphire
as it rushes into rocky beach,
sands peppered with sharp objects
that make it nearly impossible to walk barefoot.

But no mind-I miss that too.
Amongst the joy of sunset, I miss the pain inflicted
in walking on rocks, edges piercing into skin
like sharp arrows bursting into every cell of the body.

Contradiction:
Pain and enjoyment.
Visual pleasure and physical discomfort.
The beauty of life, of another day done,
overcomes the momentary hurt.

I'd do it all again.