"Jesus, this arid climate is playing havoc with all my wet surfaces! Arrghh! I need to dissolve all these goddamn bricks in my nose ! When do we reach the coast again? I have a powerful lust for a swim..."
"What? We're already at the beach, look outside," Charly said with frustration.
"You call that a beach?" I said - pointing my arm out of the hostel window like a lightning rod.
"Yeh? What would you call it?"
"Oh please! I'll grant you it's silicon and water but it's the failure of the arrangement that grates me... And besides, I think there's a rip out there heading back to Brisbane - look at those goddamn totoras booming out through the breakers! That speed is just not normal..."
"I don't understand what you want," Charly replied looking more and more disinterested.
"Palm trees, soft sand and slow sunsets... Which is what you promised me trudging through the goddamn tundra of southern Argentina."
"Do you have any idea where we are?"
"No. Why should I... I have you."
"Well, when you've been reclusive I've been talking to Peruvians and people who have been heading the other way and they all say to head to a place called Mancora. Apparently Peru's sea-side paradise." Charly explained.
"Palm trees?"
"Yes."
"Surf."
"Yes."
"When do we go?"
"Tomorrow and we're staying in a nice place with a view."
Well then, it seemed that the universe was finally vibrating to my frequency, I thought. I immediately started flicking through hundreds of images of this 'Mancora' - becoming more and more seduced with the notion. The rocket to Mancora left at the crack of dawn heading straight to temporary salvation - a respite of some sort with familiar sensations and surroundings. I could almost not sleep with the excitement.
The rocket pilot seemed to be in a good mood, not as vengeful as the others as he manoeuvred the big rig through several different landscapes. After eight hours or so, the rocket arrived in Mancora. We grabbed our stuff from overhead and stood in line to get off. I could see that a crowd had amassed outside - mostly small brown locals waiting for small brown relatives disembarking and taxi drivers offering tuk tuk services. On the fringe was a thin-tall blonde guy wearing shorts and brown sandals - the type of sandal that wrap around the entire foot - more comfort than form. Charly mentioned that she had arranged with the hostel to be picked up because we were staying on the cliff over-looking the town and my precious pacific ocean. We got off and the thin-tall blond man rushed over to us and introduced himself as Jörg. A nice gentle man, in his 40s, from Switzerland who was more than willing to help with our luggage - until he saw our bags and became concerned about their dimensions against the capacity of his VW beetle. "There's enough space on the roof!" he said with encouragement. We strapped our bags on top of the white-rusty beetle and met his Peruvian wife Betty, who was sitting in the front seat. The Beetle resembled Jörg somehow, with beads covering the front seats and two, obviously essential, ropes: one lassoed around the hand-break, holding it in place and the other around the gear stick, holding it in place as well. He hopped in and unashamedly unhooked both ropes and off we went, rumbling down the main drag creating a hell of a spattering noise. Jörg automatically launched into some sort of oral pre-programmed infomercial about the area; where to eat, where to avoid etc etc and lightly apologized for the wind that had been blowing for the last two days. The almost middle-aged beetle struggled up the steep hill that went up behind the cliff but Jörg didn't seem to mind - every now and then riding the clutch - trying to find more torque.
On the steep windy road we passed a 20 meter aluminium boat that squatted low on wooden stands. Jörg explained that his neighbour, Dominic, had been building it but hadn't considered how to get it down to sea level yet. "He'll have to wait for the water to come to him," he joked. "I wonder what he knows that we don't!" Near the top of the road we saw a odd looking house. I pointed out that it looked like a storm troopers helmet from Star Wars. Jorge said that's because that's what it was meant to look like. We passed closer to the storm trooper den and we could see at least eight dogs sleeping in the front yard. "Yeah, Raphael likes to be left alone and people who want to be left alone, probably should be," Jörg said with a anxious undertone.
The dirt road finally plateaued as the VW's air-cooled engine screamed in agony - threatening to weld itself shut from heat and friction. The hostel consisted of several different buildings - all elaborate bamboo and concrete structures. Jörg took our bags off the roof and led us down to our choices of accommodation. He skilfully showed us the flag-ship bungalow first, which sat five meters from the cliffs edge and had an unrestricted view to New Zealand and naturally cost the most. I could hear Charly climaxing quietly as I inspected the durability of the two hammocks that were slung between the balconies pillars. Yes indeed, these things have the right slouch, I thought, no chance of stiffness here.
Euphoria must have a smell and Jörg must have evolved a sense for it because he predatorily moved on our giddiness and quietly mumbled the price and that there was always the dormitory...Charly had already changed into her swimmers and was swinging in one of the hammocks. That's a yes from her, I considered. "We'll take it," I said as I slapped Jörg's shoulder. He explained the various features of the town below - paying particular attention to the fact that three quarters of the town was built illegally on the flood-plain behind the beach. "They'll have their goddamn day," he said.
Euphoria must have a smell and Jörg must have evolved a sense for it because he predatorily moved on our giddiness and quietly mumbled the price and that there was always the dormitory...Charly had already changed into her swimmers and was swinging in one of the hammocks. That's a yes from her, I considered. "We'll take it," I said as I slapped Jörg's shoulder. He explained the various features of the town below - paying particular attention to the fact that three quarters of the town was built illegally on the flood-plain behind the beach. "They'll have their goddamn day," he said.
The steep cliff was the boundary between the climate of the sea and the dry air pushing out of the rolling arid hills from behind. On our balcony the two forces converged - either creating a violent squall or tiny little vortices that danced around the angles of the bare shoulder.
After a while we felt like exploring and finally seeing the beach, so we walked the dusty path that led away from the hostel down the cliff and through an alleyway to Mancora below. Mancora's only street was wedged-full, from horizon to horizon, with everything touristy and was hell busy with buses, trucks and those menacing 100cc tuk tuks that seem to be mobile shrines for the drivers masculinity; awful Latin-American hip hop roaring out of hardwired speakers and tattoo-like art stuck on every flat surface.
We darted across the road and made our way to the beach, down another alleyway lined by tiendas aggressively selling everything "Mancora". As we were walking, Charly suffered a powerful seizure - barely able to grab my wrist to steady herself .
We darted across the road and made our way to the beach, down another alleyway lined by tiendas aggressively selling everything "Mancora". As we were walking, Charly suffered a powerful seizure - barely able to grab my wrist to steady herself .
"Did you hear that? Off in the distance?" Charly blurted while tilting her head upwards, trying to negate the buffeting sound of the wind.
"No, what was it?"
"Wait! Wait! There it was again. That! Can you hear that?"
"I can only hear those goddamn tuk tuks."
Charly's face turned to disappointment. "Oh, it was probably nothing."
At the end of the alleyway we finally reached the beach which was guarded by a stiff wind. In front was a wooden gazebo connected to a long wooden walkway that bridged the gazebo to the road - all of which was wrapped in police tape and guarded by a cop. He was corrupt enough to allow two toddlers to keep playing in the centre of the gazebo - probably rubbing away any incriminating evidence he accidentally left. Off to the right you could see the coast stretching all the way to the north - probably close to Ecuador. Off to the left, the horizon of the beach was broken by the flat-rocky headland that jutted out into the sea. On the other side of the headland you could see the tops of the fishing net booms on the boats, bobbing and swinging back and forth in the wind and swell. Lining the edges of the sand, facing the ocean, were bamboo constructed huts, of various different qualities - mostly bars, restaurants and surf shops. If this wasn't painful enough, there wasn't one goddamn palm tree in sight.
"Is this it?" I asked.
"I think so, but where's the palm trees and the waves?" Charly said.
"This doesn't look like the pictures I'd seen. There's nothing green here. Where are the palm trees and the surf and the..."
Charly spasmed with another powerful tremor...
"Shooosh! Wait!" She hissed.
"Jesus, what?"
"Do you hear that?"
"No."
Charly's head tilted again to hone in on the sound or smell.
"That! Off in the distance!" she snapped.
Without warning Charly boomed south, down the beach, in a flurry of kicked up sand and rubber arms. And then faintly, the sound came to clarity riding on the veins of the stiff southerly breeze.
"Pisco sour!" shouted a stout man - hanging out the front of his bamboo bar near the rocky headland. I finally caught up to Charly and she was already sitting with her feet in the sand and sipping one of those horrible egg white drinks and looking happy as hell.
"Holy shit you can be swift when you want to," I said with my hands on my knees - sucking in lungfulls of air.
"The drink only cost 10 soles and look at this," she said, holding up a churro stick: a straight doughnut, roughly 30 cm long. "Only one sol! I really like it here!"
"What, I can't hear you from the wind." I shouted.
"I REALLY LIKE IT HERE!" Charly shouted back.
"Oh, I thought that's what you said."
We sat there, Charly elegantly sipping away at her drink and occasionally gnawing on the churro and I "enjoyed" the 20 km/h winds. After a while, Charly's elegance was waning in the setting sun...
... so we decided to fall back to the bungalow - perched high on the cliff and swing away in the hammocks to watch the ocean sparkle like shattered quartz until sunrise.
... so we decided to fall back to the bungalow - perched high on the cliff and swing away in the hammocks to watch the ocean sparkle like shattered quartz until sunrise.
The next day we woke late to give time for Charly to excise her pisco demon and also to wait for the wind to die-down to give the "Peru famous" beach another go. We again walked down the dusty trail to the busy street below, where lazy tuk tuk drivers were huddled in a group grunting and whistling at the passing female or the individual tuk tuk dragging batches of ten meter long metal reinforcement bars along the bitumen - showering the road in sparks and a shrieking hiss.
I had been suffering from what I thought was a classical case of strep-throat; the most heinous kind of sore throat and the ugly brute wasn't backing down with normal remedies of complaining so we trawled the local pharmacy. Arriving at the pharmacy, two bored pharmacists sat behind the counter looking very disinterested with our presence. We explained my problem and little sympathy was given. I knew in a general sense that my problem was caused by bacteria that may only be responsive to the antibiotics: penicillin or amoxicillin. The woman behind the counter thoughtfully considered possible remedies and gently opened a draw and pulled out a sheet of pinkish/red tablets. She then tore of six tabs and slid them across the table and said that will do the trick. I asked her if it was penicillin which she assured me that it was. I picked up the tablets and looked on the back to see vancomycin written on the back... Sweet Jesus! Vancomycin! We're playing with fire now, I thought. Vancomycin is considered the last-line of antibioticl defense to bacteria that is resistant to all other forms of antibiotics and the major problem with using vancomycin, in any case, when it doesn't work you essentially have or bred a antibiotic resistant super-bug that will be a problem for everyone. I looked up at the pharmacist with a vague-loose face and she looked back at me and said, "Oh, do you want more?"
I had been suffering from what I thought was a classical case of strep-throat; the most heinous kind of sore throat and the ugly brute wasn't backing down with normal remedies of complaining so we trawled the local pharmacy. Arriving at the pharmacy, two bored pharmacists sat behind the counter looking very disinterested with our presence. We explained my problem and little sympathy was given. I knew in a general sense that my problem was caused by bacteria that may only be responsive to the antibiotics: penicillin or amoxicillin. The woman behind the counter thoughtfully considered possible remedies and gently opened a draw and pulled out a sheet of pinkish/red tablets. She then tore of six tabs and slid them across the table and said that will do the trick. I asked her if it was penicillin which she assured me that it was. I picked up the tablets and looked on the back to see vancomycin written on the back... Sweet Jesus! Vancomycin! We're playing with fire now, I thought. Vancomycin is considered the last-line of antibioticl defense to bacteria that is resistant to all other forms of antibiotics and the major problem with using vancomycin, in any case, when it doesn't work you essentially have or bred a antibiotic resistant super-bug that will be a problem for everyone. I looked up at the pharmacist with a vague-loose face and she looked back at me and said, "Oh, do you want more?"
Sweet Jesus, I had been wrong all this time. The super-bug is not coming out of some back-water chicory or pig farm from a province of Beijing. No. Armageddon is coming in the back seat of a tuk tuk headed out of the loud-dusty street of Mancora in both directions and the U.N has no goddamn clue. Being in agony, I felt somewhat pinned by my situation - not taking anything would prolong or worsen the disease, but taking something of that calibre may have grave complications for the rest of humanity. Dear-o-me, I thought. One hell of a burden to be faced with on this odyssey. I knew somehow I would be looking down the barrel of one of these heinous realities but I had never once considered my decision would have such influence... I briefly calculated the potential risk and fall-out and then slammed the soles down and swiped the super-drugs for the not so super-bug off the counter. I cracked open one of the pills and dry swallowed the son-of-a-bitch, muttering gruffly, "To hell with you humanity, you're on your own. " Within a few hours I would feel better but at what cost...
The wind was still howling, either naturally driven or generated by the swarms of tuk tuks zooming by - coming from nowhere on their way to nowhere. We walked back to the beach and sat in the shadow casted by a fence. Charly bought two more churros and quietly ate them - then later she bought two more. We were surprised to see that all the tiendas had shut - including the surf shops and the bars. The place was deserted except for the roving churro man and a lone surfer battling the conditions - for reasons I didn't understand. Two local surfer types, one tall and one small, walked by and asked us where we were from. As soon as I said Australia, it was straight down to business; surfboards, winds, breaks and the Gold Coast.
"Do you know the Gold Coast?" the taller one asked.
"Yeah, I know that shit hole, I grew up near it," I replied. "How do you know the Gold Coast?"
"Hombre, every Australian here is from there."
I shifted uneasily in the sand.
"Oh shit!" I snapped. "How many are we talking here?"
"About 19 but there's no surf so they're probably bombed back at their hostel. Man, they really like the cocain too - like vacuum cleaners, hombre."
I looked out past the rocky point and past the tiny swell to the white caps on the deep water, thinking we had to flee that night from those jacked-up coke hogs, but the locals thought I was only concerned with horrible surf conditions.
"Oh, don't worry amigo, the surf will pick up massively in the next few days." the tall one said. "They are predicting a tsunami! Big waves!"
"Jesus, a tsunami!"
"Yeh, it might come tonight or tomorrow," the tall one said.
"So you have to come to our bar tonight because it won't be there in a couple of days," the small one said while laughing.
"Do you have Pisco?" Charly asked while clawing at her forearm and neck.
"Si señorita, we have all types of Pisco," The small one said.
"All types!"
"All types - two for one..."
Dear god, I thought.
My attention, thankfully, was diverted from the conversation by the thin and young lone surfer who had had enough of the struggle. The two Peruvians saw him walking out of the water as well and shouted out to him. "Another Australian," the tall one said.
"Hey hombre, after last night we thought you were dead for sure this time!" the small one shouted. "I've never seen anyone take that much before!"
The youngish man smiled from a distance.
"So much what?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing," the small one said.
"What the hell are you doing out there? The small one shouted.
The thin young man walked over slowly and caught his breath for a moment and said, "That's...really... really...hard" and then looked at me and offered me his board. I said no as did Charly.
"I don't know how people enjoy that, it's not as easy as it looks. I don't think I'll ever try that again," said the young man. "You guys are leaving soon right. You know there's a tsunami coming,"
"Yeh, we heard," said Charly.
"Where are you guys staying?"
"Up on the cliff," I said
"Oh, you should be safe up there. Just wait it out and see what happens," the young man said. "I'm leaving also, I don't want to be here when this thing rolls in. Although I haven't slept in a couple of days. I might have a nap first."
The young man said goodbye, shook the two Peruvian hands and left. The two Peruvians looked somewhat sombre. "Well, we have to go and help pack up the bar," the tall one said.
"But what about the party tonight," Charly asked.
"For sure it's still on! We have to make as much money as possible for he re-build, so you better come," the small one said.
The two Peruvians shook our hands and walked off down the empty beach.
"Two for one... That sounds good ," Charly said. "If you get one and I get two....I get six!."
"None of this makes any goddamn sense. How do they know there's a tsunami coming. We didn't feel any earthquake and I didn't read anything of it either. "
"I think they were kidding."
"No no no, that was genuine worry in their tone. And the young guy was worried too. I'm an expert at these bloody things."
"I don't care!" Charly cried. "TWO FOR ONE PISCO SOURS!"
"You're not getting any of that horrible shit until we get to higher ground and to the bottom of this."
We headed back up the beach and crossed the road to go back up the cliff. In the alleyway behind the main street we came across a haggard-looking dog that was playing with a plastic bag.
As we walked by, the dog stopped and came closer in the most un-threatening posture it knew: bent into a semi-circle, ears pinned back, occasionally licking and hysterical wagging of its tail. Charly, though usually cautious of the dogs, saw the timid nature of the beast, so she briefly patted the dog on its head. The dog instantly bound with excitement and appreciation and followed us up all the way to the top of the cliff. At the top we walked into the main building to settle our debt with Jörg, who was sitting behind the reception and involved in a flowing conversation with three Spaniards who were animated and obviously concerned about something. We waited quietly off to the side and listened to Jörg trying to convince the three Spaniards that there wasn't a tsunami coming. The Spaniards still looked dishevelled and uncertain when they left the room.
As we walked by, the dog stopped and came closer in the most un-threatening posture it knew: bent into a semi-circle, ears pinned back, occasionally licking and hysterical wagging of its tail. Charly, though usually cautious of the dogs, saw the timid nature of the beast, so she briefly patted the dog on its head. The dog instantly bound with excitement and appreciation and followed us up all the way to the top of the cliff. At the top we walked into the main building to settle our debt with Jörg, who was sitting behind the reception and involved in a flowing conversation with three Spaniards who were animated and obviously concerned about something. We waited quietly off to the side and listened to Jörg trying to convince the three Spaniards that there wasn't a tsunami coming. The Spaniards still looked dishevelled and uncertain when they left the room.
Jörg wiped his face in frustration and let out a sigh.
"The worst thing about Peru is the Catholic church - these people are too goddamn superstitious for a paranoid cult like that!" he said while holding one clenched fist out in front of him.
"Hey!" whipped his wife Betty from the back room.
"There is no tsunami because there was no earthquake! Do you want know what happened?" he said
I grunted and nodded.
"Last week, in some abstract bastard region of Russia, two "scientists" interpreted crop circles in a field of wheat as being a sign of an impending pacific tsunami. The truly vicious and stupid part is that, for reasons above my understanding, the catholic church chose to be spooked by this and warned everyone. So naturally the people are shitting themselves! They shit themselves when you normally mention god but when you tell them he's sending a bloody tidal wave, that's a whole other level of paranoia. That's why there's no one on the beach. All day people have been walking to Dominic's house to see if they can get a seat on his ark. He's not like the others and just tells them to go away and then they start panicking and crying. And now Raphael has let his dogs out to warn people to not come close to his house. And those fuckers are not to be messed with! They mauled a postman once and never forgot the taste of human flesh. Oh man, this place makes me want to move back to Switzerland sometimes. "
We paid Jörg and thanked him for the clarification and kiddingly wished him good luck. We went outside and the dog was still there - wearily watching the pack of Raphael's . She followed us back to the bungalow and stayed with us, quietly, underneath Charly's hammock all night. We named her Sal. The poor beast had seen its fair share of violence, having scars all over her body and a piece of her ear missing: standard conditions of people and animals on this continent, so it's really not surprising that kindness, no matter how small or which species receives it, is always appreciated.
The next morning, we were curious to know if the dog was still outside. Charly slid the curtain and saw that the she had left. We were leaving in the afternoon and decided to go back to the beach to see the desolation left by the tsunami. There was no tsunami and no devastation. Things were again as they were on that beach - the tiendas had re-opened and the man selling the churros was doing his rounds. We again sat in the shade of the fence and relaxed a little. The man selling churros saw Charly and from a distance waved two fingers at her and she did the same. Over time the beach began to swell again with its usual surplus of people. To the north, through the people legs, we could see a small huddle of dogs playing along the beach - one of them was Sal. She stopped to smell something in the air and saw us sitting in the shade and sprinted towards us, slowed and gently greeted us and sat quietly in between us until we left.... Three hours later.
