Beachside, baby...

I’ve been glad for sunglasses these past few days, as the sheen of my snowy skin would have driven me to blindness otherwise. I arrived on the north Peruvian coast from mountains on Tuesday, after braving three bus legs (with as many different companies) that lasted the better part of 24 hours. Mancora is billed as a place to see and be seen, and as the world spins ever-closer towards summer I can feel the crowds already brewing on the horizon, about to take this simple resort town by storm. The prime surf is already lined with hopefuls competing to catch the next set, and as the afternoon winds pick up, a new breed of wave riders emerge with larger-than-life kites attached to their torsos, and boards strapped under foot. Like innovators on the cusp of fame they harness the energy of an invisible airflow, and defy the tides. I saw one dude launch off a breakneck wave and achieve semi-flight to a glorious height that would be exaggerated here if said; but just know that it left me wanting wings.

I was lucky to arrive here when I did, as opposed to the tail end of my time in Peru, for the prices are less touristy, the fish just as fresh, and the influx of vacationers still mostly contained to the handfuls. I’ve noticed a scarcity of Americans, although varieties of other accents abound; and I have been surprised by the number of what I suppose to be “upper class” Peruvians on holiday from the bustle of Lima. And of course there are the permanent hippie types who find their fountain of youth in the sea. On one of my long beach walks I passed a group of tanned and hairy gringos happily encouraging a friend whose attempts at landing a back flip in the sand were falling just short. Ok, I will confess a bit of my own delight in the scene; for after all, who am I to judge a life of existential bemusement? But then, as the smell of illegal smoke wafted up, and I was met later that night by a French surfer kid’s search for “rolling papers” that I mistook from his accent to be a request for “writing paper” (I obliged him with a sheet from my journal), I decided that, despite the way flocks of seabirds and fishing boats fill all aspects of the horizon here at sunset, and even with the simple solitude of running mornings through sand, beyond sight of complimentary beach umbrellas, and then rinsing my sweat in the toss of incoming breakers, it is time to escape this escape; to return to a more real Peru.

p.s. Stay tuned for a few pictures, and the next blog installments; for before fresh-caught seafood and salty swims and chapters perused from the curve of a hammock, there were mountaintop ruins at Kuelop, and nearby indigenous towns; and before that still, before the first overnight bus ride that took me to elevation, there was the time in Chiclayo I found myself lost in a massive maze of outdoor markets, with such a plethora of sights and scents to experience that I can never hope to post an account of them all.