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Crowder Publications
P.O. Box 62921 Phoenix, Arizona 85082-2921
Phone:602-957-3741
PERU EXPERIENCES
BY PAUL CLARK
Like Paddington Bear in reverse, I had been dumped in Peru, Lima to be exact. I stood somewhat dejectedly at Lima's International Airport straddling one bag and closely watching the other. Squaring my shoulders to face the barrage of taxi touts and drivers as I left the terminal. I had been warned about this merciless onslaught by a friend.
Bags in hand, I ignored the first dozen or so, finally speaking to one. He wanted twenty five US dollars, I laughed, he was nearly four times too expensive. Another shouted at me, forty soles, which was a lot closer. He quickly came down to thirty soles and I called him a thief. Close by a third tout entered the fray at twenty-five soles, I argued for twenty, he grinned and grabbed my heavier bag, he knew this "gringo" knew the drill. Isn't bluff a wonderful thing.
The journey from the airport to my accommodation at the Colonial Inn in Miraflores was hectic, as we weaved between the chaos, if other wise uneventful. I mused despondently at the grey overcast sky. It looked depressing, no rain, nor even any hint of it, just gray.
I was too learn this was a feature of Lima, a city that rarely sees true sunshine, just bright cloudy days when the sun did manage to penetrate the gloom at best. The driver, after his standard banter, "where did I come from?" "What did I do?" assured me that it would not rain and that Lima's sky was always like this. All this left me wondering why on earth would eight million Limeņos want to live in Lima? Another of life's great riddles to solve.
The drive continued along the coast from Callao where a massive landfill operation is in full swing taking on the appearance of a gigantic rubbish dump... was there to be a bright side to this city? I sat even more morosely in my black Toyota as we hurtled toward my refuge.
Miraflores... land of the affluent, the tourist and private security guards. One of Lima's better suburbs, Miraflores abounded in modern offices and buildings, new high rises beside quaint colonial style houses. Every bank, building, street corner and shop was guarded by a private security guard or policeman, or sometimes both in bullet-proof vests, another ominous sign. Everywhere there are "Cambistas" the official street money changers thrusting wads of money into your face shouting, "dollares!"
Great institutions were evident everywhere. Those all important edifices with which one cannot do without for fear of childhood deprivation - move over Freud - McDonalds, Burger King, Pizza Hut, TGI Fridays, Dunkin' Donuts and, yes, Kentucky Fried Chicken. Oh! Is there no end to the things I don't like about Lima?
I now eagerly await my departure from this den of despondency, wanting to ignore all the natural heritage museums and sites I had thought maybe one should see. For tomorrow, I start my new adventure.
My continental breakfast, strawberry jam, bread rolls and "mate de coca" (it was too early at eight o'clock for another Pisco Sour like the welcome drink I had on arrival the night before). This breakfast, standard fare in Peru, was to mark, my first morning and my departure for hopeful better places.
I paid my bill, waiting patiently for my pre-arranged taxi to the bus depot and another devil-may-care ride into the heart of the city along the below-ground level arterial route through the city. At least it did not present any opposing traffic, one should be thankful for even small considerations.
Deserted by the taxi, with less than no fanfare to announce my arrival, I lugged my bags into the Ormeņo downtown terminal. No queues, thank heavens, I purchased my passage for Pisco, four hours away as the bus flies, my first destination.
The bus was due to leave at 12.30, in ten minutes, which in due course left me wondering why I was still waiting an hour later. I had discovered the phenomena known as "hora del Peru," that element of flexibility that goes some way to explaining the Peruvian's general inability to even remotely adhere to traditional time scales.
Ushered through the door (having deposited my baggage earlier) I was confronted with a behemoth whose mid-section resembled a piano accordion. This monster swallowed us all and backed away from the terminal. At last underway. Out into the street and turned straight back into the next gateway, darkening any hopes of an imminent departure...
Expertly the beast wove it's way through the nether regions of a bus depot, various makes and models at diverse stages of being disemboweled or reassembled, either way it was hard to tell the difference.
Then, miraculously we were back on the street, but stationary. The nose of the bus protruding over the footpath and a couple of people yelling "Chincha!" "Pisco!" repeatedly. Locals appeared from nowhere and clambered aboard. Some even appeared just to be strolling along the
street and, succumbing to the frantic urgings of the yellers, climb aboard on a mere whim to either Chincha or Pisco. Strange...
With the driver once again in place, our flexible chariot, jolted forward to negotiate the Lima traffic until we were safely on the Panamerica Sur.
Once on this multilane highway we settled down to what appeared to be a comfortable speed. A glance over the driver's shoulder, the Speedo needle flickering precariously between 120 and 130 kms/hour.
I glanced at both side of the highway taking in the view as we careened sweetly along. "Pueblos Jovenes," the young towns, a euphemism for slums were perched and scattered on the high sand dunes to our left. On the right the same sight, less the sand dunes. The poverty making it's sad
impact as I wonder how people forced to live in such conditions manage to cope. Trying hard to equate my comfortable first world upbringing with the tortuous daily struggle faced by these artless squatters with none of the familiar amenities..
Now that I was at ease with our drivers ability to control our speeding behemoth, especially after the tactics he employed to dodge, swerve and keep us safely from harm as a truckload of foam mattresses exploded all over the highway as a restraining rope gave way.
The scenery changed, the backdrop still essentially the same dull gray sky and never-ending dunes, we passed the frequent beach resort and occasional abandoned agricultural project, deserted chicken farms, fields of dried or dying vegetation, neglected for a myriad of reasons.
Horrible gray sand dunes slipped past under the still horrible gray shroud, permanently depressing.
Finally relief, vegetation, sun. Paddocks of green, fields of cotton, punctuated with its yellow flower, acres of asparagus fern, corn fields, cassava crops, citrus groves were among the many unidentifiable crops. The muddy irrigation ditches outlining and dividing the parched soils.
Great canals lined the road, naked children leapt from the banks with delight into the dirty cool waters, their gleeful screams lost as we hurtled past. Mothers laboriously washed clothes in the same water and piled them high, the bushes bloomed with the strange fruits of sun dried clothes. Daughters dandled napped babies on the grass beside the toiling mums. These scenes continued as we sped on toward Pisco.
We were soon rewarded with our arrival at the mysterious Chincha. A largish town, road over-flowing with traffic, choked by motorcycle rickshaw-type taxis. Circling the plaza with its stalls selling the local produce, wines, spirits and port, of course there was also that famous local product; Pisco once stopped in from of the depot, the doors opened and the bus flooded with boys and girls, men and women. Everybody was selling something. Newspapers, chocolate and tepid fizzy drinks, including that diabolical Peruvian invention, "Inka Kola;" a horrid bright yellow concoction that can be best described as bottled-bubble gum, even now I shudder.
With a change of passengers, the chaotic exit of the sellers, the bus was ready to go only to be prevented from moving by a large relic of the US auto industry's heyday. A battered, almost beyond full recognition, early sixties Dodge (definitely well pst it's "best-by-date) was parked,
driverless, in the middle of the road while its driver was away on business. A couple of locals, recognizing our plight, reached in, released the handbrake, pushing it out of our way.
A lurch and we turned tightly out of the plaza, weaving our path through the devil-may-care traffic, back to the safety of the highway, even though it had been reduced for sometime to a single lane.
After a journey of four hours, it was with some relief that we turned off the main road toward the coast and the final few kilometers to Pisco. Negotiating the narrow streets, horn blurring along a slow taxi, we arrived. Inside the bus depot, behind a closed gate, a last lurch and we were free to claim our baggage.
Standing again in a terminal with that hopeful but forlorn feeling. I searched among the faces, hoping for recognition. My hope rewarded, a smile and a shout inquiring if I was Paul. Relax, there is a God after all. Juan was there to meet me as arranged, he came forward and
took my bags, leading me out of the crowd, into the street and through the plaza.
I spotted the friendly hand-painted sign; "Posada Hispana - English, French, Spanish and Catalan spoken here."
After a hearty welcome, a refreshing shower, I was summoned to reception where I was introduced to a friendly mountain with a beaming smile. This
was Luis "but call me Lucho." This was the man responsible for my safe conduct to the Ballestas Islands next morning. A slap on the back, that could have dislocated the shoulder of a lesser mortal, a bear hug and
and my hand was wrung until dry. The necessary negotiation, my pocket ten dollars lighter and assurances that I would be met in the morning by Gary and taken to the point of departure, which was still a mystery.
Lucho sidled through the door, his frame too wide to breast the opening and Juan suggested that I join another group and head off to the Hotel Paracas for Happy Hour and sunset. Sounded like fun, so we were soon on our way down a heavily potholed road, past a B-25 Mitchell bomber on a plinth announcing the presence of the local airforce base. On past San Andreas fisherman's wharf with pelican gracefully hovering on the unpredictable draughts, boys diving from fishing boats, the Pacific Ocean lapping these Peruvian shores. The crowds of the late afternoon market dispersing, I made a mental note to return and explore this turmoil.
We plunged on. A familiar smell assaulted my nostrils. Fish meal. An odor unique on this planet. An odor one doesn't forget easily. Recalled from my early childhood when my father owned a market garden and the times he took me to get fertilizer.
First one, then another, fellow passengers were gagging on the malevolent smell. Silently I thanked my father for preparing his off-spring for this less than pleasant experience.
I was glad, even happy once the last of the giant fishmeal factories slide to our stern and the road divided and the potholes deepened. Assurances from our guide that our destination was near. Playa El Chaco was pointed out as our departure point for the morning when we were to visit the Ballestas. We vaulted on, the van protesting at the game of hopscotch over the potholes, finally halting in front of the huge iron grille gates of the Hotel Paracas.
We tumbled from the van, glad to rest our legs and our backsides, through an arch and into the inner sanctum, whose primary feature was a large iron sculptured condor. Negotiating our way, stumbling through a heavy revolving door, I have never had a great deal of faith in these archaic monstrosities, but nevertheless managed this one with limbs intact.
Trooping across the vast expanse of restaurant on to the poolside, we plopped ourselves wearily into bamboo chairs and marveled at the scene. Definitely an upper class establishment, beyond our normal means. Beyond
the crystalline swimming pool, chalets for bathers and drinkers, further beyond a pier stretching out into Paracas Bay. Tall palm trees, mowed green lawns and deserted play areas. The final backdrop, the Paracas Peninsula.
Ahhh! The waiter. To a man (well, to a women as well)each of us echoed "Pisco Sour" as though playing an audible version of Chinese Whispers. We all grinned knowing that we had come to participate in Happy Hour where this legendary concoction (never heard of before I was in Peru) was served in bulbous stemmed glasses resembling small bucket for the princely sum of six soles, half the normal price.
Awaiting this pallet-tingling indulgence so we could better appreciate the sun as is sunk toward the cloud strewn horizon, we all grabbed our cameras before the drinks arrived, scattering for what we considered our best spot.
The sky blushed as though caught with its knickers down, glowing gold, shades of pink, then bright orange before becoming deep fire-red. I chose an arty style and shot the great orange/pink orb through the leaves of the massive palms, silhouetting their fronds against the gold of the sky.
Satisfied with my efforts, I rejoined the Pisco Sour Platoon, now the drinks had arrived. We supped our liquid fare with varying degrees of ohh's and ahh's expressing approval. Discussing our hoped-for photographic success along with many other topics as the barometers of
our second pisco sour glasses told us it was time to return to Pisco and dine at a more affordable location now that Peru's national drink had returned to its twelve sole status.
Huddled together in our hired micro we found each pothole again, the malodorous fragrances enhanced by our now sensitized nostrils, past the brightly lit airforce base, finally the uneven, unpaved streets of Pisco, our micro bumped along before disgorging us noisily outside a local restaurant.
No sooner than we were shown to a suitably sized table (we were expected) the menus were strewn in front of us. We pondered over the Spanish that was to eventually lead to our evening fare. The waiter distributed another (much smaller) complimentary pisco sour in front of each of us. Some eyes brightened, others wilted. Stalwarts raised their
glasses with a "salud", others left theirs discreetly alone.
With our bravado bolstered by the traditional fortification of Ica's clear grape brandy and fluffy egg whites we ordered, stumbling over foreign words, the waiters patience was amazing and our guide very busy, fielding questions like a Mastermind contestant.
Eventually, the menus gone, conversation resumed, pisco sours consumed and our appetites suitably whetted by one aspect of Peru's culture, we steeled ourselves for another. Ceviche, that fish dish, served cold.
Seafood marinated in lemon juice and lots and lots of "aji" (chillie). Halibut, bass, squid, octopus, scallops; it was all there.
Forks stabbed at the fleshy white cubes, tentatively raised, finding instant approval. We soon learned the art of passing ceviche directly into the mouth without touching was the secret, extra cold beers were ordered to soothe our fiery lips. The chewing rate increased and our piles of fish and sweet potatoes and raw onion diminished amid our murmurs of surprise and appreciation.
The meal progressed, tolerances reached, appetites sated. We wandered as a group to our simple clean lodgings, dreams already simmering. Crossing a side street we were confronted by a delinquent soccer ball as an errant goalie let one past, to the jeering of his mates. One of our
group applied his boot and corrected the flight path of the loose ball. The scruffy, barefoot boys chanting an invitation to join them. Several of the group did. I stayed and watched the proceeding from the safety of the footpath as one by one the belly-heavy warriors pitted their skills against the fleet footed urchins only to succumb to the masterly skills of youth. The men staggered with overloaded systems, the boys shouting encouragement were clearly the maters.
Our brave warriors limped away, thoroughly trounced on that dirty Pisco street corner. To bed, cool sheets and the promise of a warm shower in the morning. Again we surged forward, bow aimed at the dark rock with their creamy coffee colored topping.
Their true majesty became further apparent as we got nearer and nearer. Great dark jagged cliffs rose out of the sea. Caverns carved by millions of years by the raw force of the crashing waters of the Pacific Ocean. Shingle beaches still being pounded by the fury of those waves.
Suddenly, we were confronted with a small brown face peering down at us from a small rocky outcrop. The nose wrinkle, our scent and the petrol fumes of the boat, a strange mixture. The big dark eyes blinked. Our first encounter with a sea lion, a season old pup. Looking down, following our course with bored interest as we circled his
roost. Cameras clicked furiously, women cooed at its cuteness. The sea raged against the pup's rocky haven, dashing it's madness almost up to the brown coat perched there. The orphan-like baby seemed to be cowering in safety as though the waves would dash it's fragile body.
Disturbed now, he humped his way along the promontory, one last disdainful look and he plopped into the churning waters. Time perfectly as the wave abated, nature takes care of it's own.
Our attention became focused again on the main island. Thousands of sea birds roosting on the ledges. Blue-footed Boobies we were assured by our guide, then closer to the rocks and a large orange crab clung to the barnacle covered rock of the tidal fringe, wearing the same day-glow orange suit that we had on.
A cave loomed ahead, opening it's great maw as if to swallow us like a beast about to enjoy a sweet morsel. We past another small shingle beach as we entered the cave, necks arched as the roof closed over our heads, the swell of the waves making us rise and fall. The roar of the waters increased as the sea echoed and thundered, amplified by the confines of this void. We sat in silence, cameras still clicked.
I was pleased that our skipper seemed to know what he was about. He maneuvered the boat skillfully as each new swell threatened us with rocks. The light at the end of the tunnel, what a pleasant sight, nearer, then out again into daylight.
More birds, perched on the ledges or wheeling above us. All were named, their names quickly forgotten, lost in the magic.
A great roar shook us from our reverie. The huge maned head of a bull sea lion glared at us. He reared up defiantly as he roared again, then he sneezed, great gobs of sea lion snot in our direction, our distance saved us from a less than pleasant experience. He settled down as our level of threat diminished with our lack of a challenging roar. He shook his great head, his multiple chins waggling as he did so. propping his head on the rock to study our progress as we continued on along the rugged coats.
He shook his great head, propped his chin on the rock to study our progress as we maneuvered along the rugged coast. More Boobies and other assorted seabirds whose less than comic names were already forgotten. Inching our way into a small inlet a couple of penguins were pointed out. They blinked nonchalantly as we stared through our viewfinders and clicked away. They continued to blink as we passed.
Around to the back of the island and old derelict buildings and high loading docks were perched amid the now untapped guano, once a major income source for Peru. These islands now a wildlife reserve where nobody can land without the appropriate permissions. Only two old brothers remain as the caretakers.
Circling the islands we sight more seabirds, sea lions, penguins, then head into a small bay. Here to our surprise is a whole colony of sea lions in breeding along the stone beach. Few of the big males were to be seen, mostly females and their pups. The sea was full of brown bodies of assorted sizes heading for the beach or leaving for the open sea to do whatever sea lions do at sea. Pups played in the surf close to shore. More film was exposed as our boat load stared at more of nature's marvels.
The dreaded announcement came from our guide that it was time to return to the mainland. The boat wheeled away and we all glanced back as the islands shrunk in the distance to meld with the heaving horizon. We motored on in silence, each of us involved with our thoughts, some of us even eager to return in case they were to embarrass themselves.
The shore came closer, soon we were docked and helped by the ever-smiling Lucho as we clambered off the boat and on to the undulating jetty, our Ballestas Islands tour was over.
We had our memories in our hearts and cameras as we sat at a cafe by the beach. We watched the local kids feed and tease pelicans flapping at the waters edge with fish they had scrounged from the boats as they landed their catches.
My stomach was a little queasy with the mixture of engine fumes from the boat and the motion, so I struggled with my orange juice as I evaded the 'compra mi's' as more of the local kids tried to sell beautifully made sea lions and other assorted souvenirs. No time now for pisco sours, besides it was still a little after 10am.
The kids would throw a fish into the water, then race the pelicans to retrieve it. The ever-hopeful pelicans jockeying for the best position amidst the gluttony driven chaos as another dead fish was caste into the inch deep water. The children squealed with delight at the confusion they had caused and now Lucho's frame towered over our table summoning us to our next destination.
Herded again into our van and we were off again. This time to the Paracas Peninsula itself. Our guide explained that we were off to the museum, then to visit 'La Catedra' after which we were to lunch at a small restaurant by a beach called 'Lagunilla'. First the checkpoint, because the whole Paracas Peninsula is a National Reserve. Here our pockets were made two soles lighter. Money, we were assured, was to go towards maintaining and developing the park. I wondered about this as we left the asphalt for a very dusty and very poorly maintained road.
The underground villages of some long gone culture were pointed out as we turned off the road into the museum. Hmmmmm, another entrance fee, but we could immediately see this was spent where it was meant. The museum, although small, was new and well presented. Detailing the rises, lives and subsequent declines of the various cultures that came and went along the Paracas coast, from the south of Lima, stretching down to Nazca and beyond.
One of the most interesting exhibits was the display of skulls with remarkably deformed crowns in various shapes. Cranial deformations started in the cradle and was designed to demonstrate ones position in society's pecking order. The right next to these (and quite appropriately so) were three fine examples of trepanned skulls. Trepanning involved the removal of sections of bone in the crown, purportedly to release 'bad spirits', undoubtedly the mental aberrations caused by the aforementioned practice of cranial deformation.
In the van again, again the roads deteriorated and within a short time we lurched to a halt at a cliff top. We tumbled out into the now scorching sun and dry air to look down onto a beach.
Miles from anywhere, we were here by ourselves, not another soul on this deserted beach. We found our way down a crude path to beach level. Dead birds, rotting sea lion carcasses and the fetid evidence of nature's cruelty. The rolling breakers crashing on to the sand as we trudged along the water line, clambering over a high rocky promontory and down
into another beach, surrounded by higher cliffs. The isolation adding, not exactly a fear, wonder as to our place in the greater scheme of nature.
We reached the far end of this beach after maybe fifteen minutes and the cliff opened, waves could be seen crashing on yet a third beach.
Shoes and socks were removed, trousers rolled to our knees and we timed our wading to match the tidal fluctuations, before stepping into the dark. Wrong... most of us still got wet, nature can be so unpredictable, we were wet to the crotch, women squealed, the men cursed.
Safe again on the rocks inside, we found ourselves in a gigantic natural cavern. Shingle beach covered in flotsam, waves crashing, their thunder magnified by this cavernous maw to echo in our ears.
This was "The Cathedral" quite a natural spectacle. From the high entrance we were treated to the sunny view of the third beach and towering cliffs. The spectacular view of the breakers pounding over a rocky shelf, sending up massive clouds and fountains of spray.
The swell of the tide gave us an insight into the immense power of nature, that she was able to move, such great quantities of water. The bloated carcass of a sea lion rose and fell with her undulations like a great lifeless balloon. Bouncing off the rocks, being dragged away by the ebb only to be thrust again at nature's whim cruelly on to the rocks.
I was left wondering what would become of this hapless creature, this vision of nature's ugly side as I picture, somewhat morbidly, the putrefying remains of the animal and the stench that would be offered to future tourists inside our cavern.
I shuddered and found my way back to the entrance and followed the rest of the group into the bright sunshine, so bright that it was a strain to see. I left the morbid thoughts behind and trudged up the beach, back over our rocky promontory, back up the steep track to the cliff top, back in our van and back along the bumpy road.
Soon we were perched high on another cliff. Treated to another view of the awesome Cathedral. Below us was the third beach. On the other side of the small bay was the great maw that we had left only an hour earlier. The view of this wonder with its natural formations, cliffs and pounding surf gave the scene an air of majesty, breathtakingly beautiful as our cameras again whirred and clicked.
Again we returned to our bumpy road, the long drive to Lagunilla. All we had been told was that it was another beach, a few restaurants and no toilets. We were left wondering "why Langunilla?"
Eventually we arrived at a small fishing community, four restaurants and a small beach of lovely golden sand. Several other vans arrived at the same time, so our guide was urging us along, look at the view later, so we got good seats in the best restaurant before the other groups. We didn't need convincing, the long dusty drive had given us a serious appetite that needed tending in the best possible surroundings.
Ceviches and chincharrones soon adorned our many tables, along with Coca Cola and several bottles of beer. We tucked in. Tongues being seared with that sharp "aji" hotness of the ceviches, to be soothed with our various fizzy mouthwashes. Mouthful by hot tingly mouthful our food disappeared. Sinuses cleared, aji does that, thirsts quenched, tongues still tingling a little we had an hour free.
With our meal safely away, explorer's instincts took over. I headed for the beach, others with lesser bladders searched in vain for the toilets, only to find that our guide wasn't kidding... there were none, and the awful truth and reality of Peruvian rural hygiene dawned on them.
Children in the waters splashing about squealing, mums and dads lying on the golden sand, some rather attractive others resembled beached whales reddening in the blazing sun. A group of boys leaping from a rocky outcrop into the clear water with bloodcurdling screams.
I sat in silence on a convenient rock near the divers, reflecting on our day, knowing that I should be out of the sun, that I had had enough for one day, taking this beautiful picture with me. My reverie broken by the insistent call of our Micro's horn.
Before long we were off, the main topic was how we managed to cope with a various needs of relief while at the beach. Then we were staring at the sign of the Posada Hispana, our day was nearly over. Cold showers to relieve the sunburn, sweaty clothes changed for clean, dinner...
Tomorrow I would be off again on my next adventure...
Paul Clark is a freelance writer who is somewhere in South America.