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.
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