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.