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.