Huanchaco

The road from Piura cuts through the desert, and irrigation systems creep in to turn the sand into green. Northern Perú needs sanitation systems, no, waste management. Well, really it needs serious trash pick-up and a lot of it. At one point, I saw a man and a pack of vultures sifting through the same garbage.

We left Piura for a bus through Chiclayo then on to Trujillo. I met Ana Maria on the bus, a 54 year-old Perúvian woman on the way to surprise her son in Chiclayo. She's then headed to surprise the rest of her family, including her husband whom she believes is cheating on her. You can learn a lot about a person on a bus. I'm not sure why, but women here tend to cry in the conversations I have with them. Maybe it's me...

In the hour break before heading to Trujillo, we ate ceviche for lunch. What good stuff! And no, that isn't a tomato on the top of the ceviche. Regretfully, I salted it and sliced right into it. It's aji. And fiery hot.

The people here have been quite friendly thus far. Cab drivers, ticket sellers, waitresses, people on the street, just about all of them. And on the bus they do something interesting. They film every seat and passenger with a small camcorder. Every time they pass, I smile and wave. The camera men chuckle, recording you and your possessions on film. Security. The only questionable thing that has happened so far, a man took to Ellen after lunch today. He followed us a few blocks. Despite my requests not to bother us, he continued to walk directly behind her and, before he left, kissed her on the shoulder. Unwanted and unsolicited, still she kept her cool. She doesn't speak much Spanish. If she did, there may have been a different result.

Once in Trujillo, we headed straight to Huanchaco, a small fishing village about 15 km out of town. The beach! Huanchaco is growing. There are mountains, more cliffs about 1 km from the water and all the hotels, restaurants, houses are built in that space. The cliffs are topped with cacti. I'm guessing that beyond the ridge is desert. The ocean is rough, the waves close together, a continuous three and four waves knocking down the beach. It's as though the waves have been searching for land to strike since Japan maybe, have finally made it and, with that last burst of energy, attack the beach. The ebb of one wave returning to the sea often meets an incoming wave in a crash of water, salt and sand. It's not for swimming. There aren't sunbathers either. It's a tempest of a beach. It's beautiful, angry. We watched the sun set with a beer.