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¡Hola a todos!
It is time once more for me to type down a few notes, this being my final blog on Peru before moving forward to my current destination, Ecuador. Indeed, Ecuador may yet revert to being my final South American destination before flying north to Panama: I find myself convalescing in Baños after a severe bout of Salmonella Typhus but, that is a story for another blog – suffice it to type that I am feeling much better now than a few days ago!
A series of unfortunate timings where the Peruvian buses were concerned, combined with a less-than-motivated state-of-being led to me skipping Trujillo, an intended stop-off on my way north and heading on directly to Mancora, a sleepy, seaside town and yet also known as Peru’s premier surfing destination. I arrived late in the evening and was somehow fortune ate enough to land a bed in a very popular hostel right next to the beach. I collapsed into my lightly layered bed, quite happy to leave exploring until the following morning after having spent the entire day travelling on three different buses to arrive at my destination on the coast.
I slept well and spent the following day hooking up with Seb once more, who had arrived in town one day ahead of me from Huaraz, and exploring what little there was to see of Mancora: a main street full of bars and restaurants and a long beach full of holiday-makers and vendors carting ice-cream, chocolate bars and assorted other snacks. The place had a distinctly Caribbean feel to my mind: gently swaying palm trees, wooden verandas shaded from the full strength of the sun burning overhead, sand escaping from the beach out onto the main street, into gutters, hostel rooms, everywhere creating a prolonged sense of holiday atmosphere.
It was in Mancora that I tasted some of the finest culinary offerings I had experienced anywhere in Peru (not including my fantastic trekking cooks of course). Fresh seafood straight from the Pacific, prepared in rustic beach-hut styled eateries and a particularly memorable evening meal at a steakhouse with Seb, where I nearly came undone at the hands of a huge surf ‘n turf plate, followed – somehow – by decadent hot chocolate brownie: ah...! It was also here in Mancora that I finally resurrected my terribly neglected running schedule, finding myself at an altitude in which I could breathe normally again for the first time in months, literally. It was the first of my two runs through Mancora that provided me with my most powerful experience of the town. Rising early one morning after a typically understated evening beside the hostel pool, I donned my fresh running gear and took to the streets, letting my pounding feet do the leading, quite happy to simply relax and enjoy the view before the inevitable shortening, quickening, rasping of breath took hold and wiped such happy vistas from my thoughts. I passed down the main street, awaking to the sights, smells and activities of a new day and continued on until I had reached the northern end of town. My original intention had simply been to turn around and retrace my route back through town and out the opposite end, thus viewing the whole town in minutes. As is often the case when I run, by the time I had reached the point at which it would be best to turn and start back, I had altered my route, now intending to cut left off the main road and cross country for some minutes before emerging on the beach and running back to the hostel through the sand, to the accompaniment of the early morning sounds and smells emerging from the crashing surf, audible even at this distance. That was my intention in any case.
It became clear as I started off along my newly defined route that I was in the rough part of town: shanty-town shacks littered the way ahead; excrement of various sources befouled the trail; small children stood silently by, at a distance, monitoring my progress expressionlessly. My breath grew ragged, ill-used to the strenuous effort to which I was subjecting my body. My step grew increasingly uncertain and I entertained thoughts of turning around once more, of heading back to the road and relative civilization. Headstrong, I forged onward, motivated by the crescendo of the surf, as yet unseen and by the latent rejoicing of endorphins whizzing around my body. I crested a small sand-dune and was met by... a razor-sharp barbed-wire fence, blocking my way. I skirted around it and found... another such fence. I looked ahead and realized that the pattern continued into the distance towards a larger dune, surely heralding the commencement of the beach, tantalizingly close yet remaining out of reach. I slowed to a trot and swept back, following the line of wire to the left until I reached a dirt road and further nauseating signs of civilization. I turned right down the road and came at last to the beach, to the therapeutic sound of the sound, moving in and moving out. I turned left once more and started my journey back through the clogging, slowing sand, a beautiful panorama of the beach and surf ahead lighting my way. I found myself relaxing, the barbed-wire and appalling human conditions of the shanty town behind me, and loped forwards with – I shall admit – far less of the easy “Baywatch”-style grace than I had hoped to display.
I returned to my hostel tired but, triumphant. I took a light, simple breakfast of warm bread and water before grabbing my appallingly expensive swimming trunks (they were in their element in this flashy surfer’s resort) and made for the beach and that much longed for swim in the Pacific. Ah, this was the life!
Alas, this life swiftly drew to a close. Tiring of Peru and the two months I had given to the country, I yearned to journey on and come, at long last, to Ecuador, the country visited by my parents. I wanted to travel in their footsteps, to see the sights that they had seen, marvelled at, one year previously. So it was that Seb and I turned back slightly upon our route to reach the transport hub of Piura, slightly south of Mancora, and from there took a night-bus across the Ecuador border and on to Loja, the country’s southernmost city. It was a short bus-ride from there a little further south to Vilcabamba, ancient holiday destination of the Incas. We crossed into Ecuador around midnight, the air balmy and close. I walked over a silent bridge, aware only of the sounds of the surrounding undergrowth once I had arrived at the other end, in Ecuador. The usual procedures were adhered to: I waited patiently while every Peruvian, every Ecuadorian pushed in front of me in the “queue” to receive their authorization stamp and ticket for the country. I had the last laugh: by the time I reached the immigration desk, the machine printing out the receipt for entering Ecuador had broken and so I was one of only three people to receive a legitimate stamp of entry, continuing the pattern set by every other country I have visited in South America on my trip. Seb was a little upset but, as I told him, good things do come to those who wait.
To Vilcabamba then and the adventures of a new country...
¡Saludos a todos!
David xxx
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