BY Clay Larroy
Traveling
is the kind of activity, which
almost all the people love. For someone it is an opportunity to relax and abstract
from everyday busy life. For others it is interesting to observe the way people of other cultures and mentality live. Some people
consider it to be the best way to
have fun and always try to visit as many clubs, pubs,
restaurants and cafes as possible for their wallets and time limits. Whenyou want to plan a vacation contact me!
The Dinosaur Coast. ‘Surf the Tsunami,
Anyone?’
By Robyn Leslie
Máncora is an idyllic beach town on the north coast of
Peru. With excellent surfing, coconuts and a main street short enough to walk
in the heat of the mid-summer sun, it draws travelers of all ages and
nationalities to its long stretches of beach.
‘Have you seen the movie Jurassic Park?’ a Swedish
girl asks me after we have shared enough sun and shade to be sociable. I smile
and nod, knowing what she is thinking.
‘Have you also seen the dinosaur birds, then?’ she
asks. I laugh out loud at this description, but tell her the same thought has
crossed my mind. The gulls, vultures - whatever they are that constantly circle
the beach, cliffs and sea also reminded me of pterodactyls in the dinosaur
films. The arched wingspan, spiky beaks and streamlined tail feathers that
compact to replicate their ancient brethren are uncanny, to my modern mind. To
add to the Jurassic effect, we soon see pelicans soar and dip over the sea as
the sun sets ‘just like at the end of the movie!’ The Swede finishes my
sentence for me, and we laugh together. I’m in Máncora for the beautiful
beaches, the surf, the companionship. Life here in South America is easy, and I
love it.
Máncora is indeed the Dinosaur Coast - a forgotten
coast. The sea is like a gently heaving lake, ripe with casual swells that pay
no attention to the scientifically prescribed seven-wave set. I feel like I am
looking into an eternity - never sure when the sea becomes the horizon. We are
in a beach desert: huge, brown sand cliffs sear into the endless blue sky,
dried-out palm trees bow and scrape in the gentle breeze and the sea swallows
the rest of the landscape in smooth, hungry tides. The sand is yellow-brown,
the perfect grainy consistency expected of a good beach, and the brightly
colored umbrellas set off the otherwise stark, scrubbed landscape. Today, the
sky is mottled with white clouds far into the distance; yesterday, circling
dinosaur birds blotted the skyscape.
In my mind, the yesteryear tone of this place is
exemplified by the hippies and surfers, who camp on the shores in little tents
and spend their days juggling skittles and knives to the thump and smack of
percussion provided by spectators. They emerge each day looking consistently
scruffy, wearing nothing but old shorts and drums around their necks and hips.
They add to the atmosphere - the air heavy with time halted, or time passing by
on the other side of the street, quickening its pace as it sees the
too-long-neglected figure of Máncora.
I like this seemingly endless place. Máncora gives a
feeling a freedom - you can come, stay, leave, return, shout, listen - or just
pass through. It won’t demand your attention or insist on your staying another
night. That is up to you. But somehow, everyone ends up here for longer than
planned. Days and nights fade away into a sunny, coconut-filled haze. Plans to
go shopping, to the bank, to buy a bus ticket end up with traipsing off the
beach at 6.30 pm after a predictably glorious sunset, and collapsing into a
nearby restaurant chair for fresh fish con papas fritas. Then a
slow amble home past the pumping discos - empty, loud rooms whose lack of
occupancy can be quite disconcerting if the sun hasn’t lulled your mind into
pleasing stupidity.
But the days we have lost count of start mounting and
we reluctantly decided to leave. While discussing our situation with similar
travelers over a plate of watermelon and painstakingly diced coconut, there is
a sudden excitement outside. The owner of our hostel bustles in, complete with
luggage belonging to one of those well-met friends who had left last night. Our
interest is piqued (but we remain in our chairs, hammock-style). It appears
that the rice farmers have watered their long-standing relationship with the
Peruvian president, and it has blossomed into open animosity. The farmers have
blockaded all roads to the North (to Tumbes) and the South (to Lima).
Terrestrial travel of any kind is now impossible. ‘Impossible?’ we ask. The
Brits sit upright in their chairs. For how long? Yo no se. No
locals can say. To be fair, they don’t really care - it is low season and a
small amount of certain business is better than a fluctuating, unpredictably
larger one. They have enough mineral water to satiate our dry gringo mouths
until the blockade ends.
‘So we are trapped in paradise, hey?’ the South
African jokes. We laugh dutifully, and the next can of beer that opens sounds
loud. That night we stay up extra late telling unnecessary jokes and dissecting
the plot of Star Wars - just to show that we too don’t care. My philosophical
musings of time’s irresponsibility towards this place has taken on a realistic
feel that half-scares and half-amuses me.
REFERENCE SITES:
http://www.travelresearchonline.com/
Peru, Peru. My heart's
lighthouse.
Morrissey
Travel to experience memories that will last a lifetime!
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