Of Pisco and Peru: Mancora
Pt. 1
Assiduously.
That’s how the mother with the pixie face and pipe cleaner fingers wipes down the retractable tray and plastic cutlery in front of her toddler.
Even on this short flight, her little lass is lost in a video game trance. The mom’s elvish, almond-colored eyes gaze over at her as she grabs another handi wipe from her travel bag. “Peanut allergy.”
To my left, Auntie M’s purple beret pins down her brown locks as she swishes her head to the beat in her earbuds next to an unflappable elderly Peruvian man sporting a peppercorn mustache. Mancora is her prescription after my trial by Ring of Fire in the Andes. Mancora means lounging on the beach at a nice, safe sea level. None of that high-altitude madness.
Just. . . boring tranquility.
I lean back in my seat, conjuring up visions of a lush tropical jungle adventure, but Mancora is way up north, in the desert just south of Ecuador.
Our plane touches down mid-morning in Talara. Waiting at the luggage turnstile, Auntie M and I divvy up a small bag of banana chips while waiting at the luggage turnstile with the handful of bored itinerants blithely ignoring each other.
Auntie M taps her fingers while bopping her head, lost in her own musical world. Out pops the earbud. A sigh. “What now, Toadie King?”
After my frog smoothie stunt in Gamarra, word got out and I got pinned with the nickname. Definitely not hipster cool like The Lizard King, but still a conversation starter.
“You mentioned your brother’s in Iquitos? Can we — “
She stares me down like I’m a pubic hair in her ceviche. “No. Too many bugs and es dangerous.” Then she pushes the earbud back in, leaving me scratching away at the tinnitus in my ears. That went well.
After corraling our gear, she takes off for the exit, but my feet stay glued. Something’s tugging on my backpack. I scan around, then down.
A glinty-eyed dwarf, in a blue uniform, smiles and pulls the pack off my shoulders. He snatches my lighter piece of rolling luggage and nods for me to go ahead.
My new compadre and I forge our path through the airport. Once outside, I shield my eyes from the sun and find Auntie M standing next to a gleaming black Toyota Hilux.
Quickening my stride. “Hey, I’ve made a new friend.”
She cocks her head warily as the luggage wrangler chugs to keep up. The young Hilux driver steps out. He is dressed like a Johnny Cash impersonator, wearing all black, from the bottom of his brand-spankin’ new Converse hightops to his huge wraparound sunglasses that make him look like a film noir praying mantis with a ponytail.
As Auntie M steps into the SUV, there’s a bit of a luggage juggling act outside between the rest of us. Once everything’s situated, my little friend looks at me, lifting his hand for a tip. After straining my foreign currency exchange math to its absolute limits, I give up, and settle on handing him all spare pocket change.
Certainly, that must be enough?
I’m jolted back into my seat as the Hilux accelerates sharply.
Apparently not. My former amigo scowls and pockets his coins, then flip me off before scuttling towards the terminal.
The ramshackle houses, graffitied billboards, discarded laundry, and clusters of piled garbage finally give way to the ochre desert, making the outskirts of town feel like we’re departing Mos Eisley Spaceport after a gnarly Mardi Gras at the bad end of the universe.
Panamerican Highway North is a buzzard’s paradise. Parts of this hour-plus drive make the burning roads of The Mojave seem downright homey. A few crotchety pump jacks bob up and down. Elaborate crosses and makeshift shrines sporadically marking the deaths of loved ones keep company with packs of climbing goats nibbling at the tops of wizened scrub trees.
This must be Nowhere, Ground Zero.
After an hour, the desert scrub gives way to a parched Pacific coastline as the Hilux jogs to a crawl onto a pockmarked road.
Our driver yelps like a wounded polecat. “¡Carajo!” Horn blasts. A swarm of chintzy tuk tuks blaze past, a whisker’s breadth from our windows. The last tuk tuk jockey spits at us, his passenger’s shell-shocked faces frozen in a blurred horror show. Our driver rolls down his window and shrieks out a stream of useless obscenities.
Auntie M takes off her earbuds. “You wanted your adventure.”
Perking up, I squeak out, “Is this Mancora?”
Auntie M braces herself against the seat and armrests like she’s riding out a medium grade earthquake. “Es Mancora Chico. Our hotel es in Vichayito. Es more tranquil than Mancora.”
We hit a pothole and my head smacks hard against the ceiling. Auntie M giggles while I rub circles on the top of my head, my vision a bright medley of starbursts.
To the left, rows of restaurants. To the right, tall gates that lead to hotels. Some luxurious. Some spartan.
I think I cracked my coccyx four hotels ago. “Are we in Vichineeto?”
A soft voice from the driver’s seat. “Es close.”
Potholes turn to craters while we pass a wildly-painted canary-yellow hotel named ‘Casa Serenity’, then dip a hard right into a palm tree-lined enclosure.
The popcorn crackle of tires crunching through gravel suddenly stops. I’m bemused, eyeballing a tattered Jolly Roger flag tethered halfway up a coconut tree beneath a sign reading ‘PIRATE’S COVE’.
The driver gets out, stretching his legs. I glare at Auntie M. “Pirate’s Cove?”
Slowly craning from side to side to pop her neck, she opens her door. “Es less than half the other hotels.”
She shrugs as the driver hoists the last piece of luggage next to me and slams the trunk. Auntie M and I stare at the life-sized plastic pirate effigy sporting a rotted life preserver with the words ‘Yo Ho Ho’ scribbled in black magic marker.
She scrunches her nose and starts poking around the pirate. “You can’t tastes the champagne on eh beer budget, Dougito.”
“Point taken. Although I didn’t. . .”
Let it go. Pacing near the heavy wooden double door, I search for a doorbell. “How do you get into this place? Hello? Anybody there?”
I turn just in time to see Auntie M press a button on a rusted box attached to a post partially obscured by an untrimmed bush. A speaker hidden inside the parrot perched on the pirate’s shoulder squawks, “Welcome aboard, Mateys.”
Auntie M is proving to be a fascinating travel companion.
I really look forward to visiting Peru someday. Thank you Gonzo!