Mancora Beach

Chapter 20:  Sunny Mancora

Friday, July 9    

The roaring sound of a middle-aged woman snoring in the seat behind me soundtracked the night journey to Piura.  I slept a little of the way though and optimism occupied my thoughts.  I loved being on the move.  From a low point of illness back up in Cusco there was now progress.  An inner confidence from learning more Spanish engaged me more in the here and now.  Despite all the scare stories about lone travel in Peru, I had encountered nothing but warmth and friendliness.

The Eppo bus station in Piura was directly across the road from the Ittsa buses to Mancora.  I was easily on time for the first bus of the day at 6.30am.  On several of the buses I’d travelled on in Peru, the driver’s cabin was blocked off to the passengers.  However, the door on this bus which separated the driver from his passengers kept swinging open.  It was particularly inviting to see the road ahead on this beautiful warm, sunny morning but it was obviously distracting the driver.  He repeatedly slammed the door shut with his right elbow only for it to open again when the bus ran over a pothole or came to a sudden stop.

I took a moto taxi to the Point Hostel, situated on the far outskirts of little Mancora.  The receptionist had room for me in a six-bed dormitory.  A tag was attached to my left wrist.  I thought of Lauren Flores in Cusco recounting her distressing Mancora experience.  She was held at knife point in broad daylight on the beach and had all her expensive camera equipment robbed.  I wondered whether wearing a wrist tag left me a little bit vulnerable if I were to venture out anywhere.  I walked back out into Mancora and enjoyed a wonderful breakfast in a cool little cafe.  I drank my first fresh coffee for a month.  The ham and cheese sandwich and vanilla cake were also my first refreshments since the previous afternoon.

Back at the Point I was quickly appreciating its pleasant location.  The hostel was nestled in the grassy verges which sloped down to a stunning white sandy beach.  The sun was out but a hot, dusty wind kept picking up.  There was a nice crowd in the hostel.  Laid back, more mature characters were enjoying their cool beers and smokes.  It might have been rather expensive but really it was well worth it.  There was a large swimming pool, and the location was awesome.

I met a young lady who was staying in the same dormitory.  Her name was Kate and she came from Bristol.  We swapped books.  She gave me one by the Irish comedian Dara O’Briain called Tickling the English.  I was feeling shattered by nightfall, but I’d put my name down for an evening meal.  A loud ‘dinner is served’ call came at 9.30.  We were served beef saltado.  I sat next to a nice Irish girl from Dublin called Alma.  Everyone drifted off to do their own thing as the night progressed.  Chilled-out jazz tunes filtered out from the late bar and I fell into a deep sleep.

Saturday, July 10                                                                                                                                 

Health concerns held me back from any party mood at the Point.  I was still feeling extremely tender.  However, we were free to choose and that’s another thing I liked about the place.  It was a lovely morning.  I checked out the beach cabins and then set off for a long three hour walk along the beach.  The north part was very secluded.  Sand crabs scuttled in and out of their holes.  Wisps of white cloud took the sting out of the sun as pelicans and seagulls dived into the warm sea.  Apart from the sound of the choppy waves it was so quiet, and it gave me time to reflect.  However, ‘privado’ signs and the increasing solitude soon told me it was time to return to civilisation.  My return walk brought me down to the stretch in front of Mancora.  The main part of the beach was really packed with people.  There were lots of sensory scenes.  The drooping yellow sun on the horizon created an almost hushed silence.  Everybody on the beach looked to the west as our bright star faded away for another day.

I was enjoying Tickling the English.  It was a good, intelligent laugh.  My room was okay.  The lockers were flimsy, but the beds were big and comfortable.  My top bunk had enough room on it to lean my guitar against the wall.  I noticed some basic tuition notes and a nice-looking Spanish guitar on a nearby bed.  There was another player in the room.  He was a guy from London.  It would have been nice to speak to him, but he was rarely seen about the place.  My impending exit from Peru prompted me to read up on Quito, Ecuador for a good hour before a shower and bedtime.

Sunday, July 11                                                                                                                                       

The Saturday night atmosphere pumped up the volume well into the early hours.  There was an enjoyable and positive addiction to noise in this great hostel though.  My sleeping pattern was alternating between long, restful nights and restless ones.  I think the surfer crowd contributed to the experience in Mancora.  It was an easy place to mingle. There seemed to be no pressure or tension amongst the young ones.  It was a stoner’s paradise and I mean that as a compliment.  Too many of these backpacker hostels can become taken over by drink fuelled, ego driven characters.  I felt relaxed here in this sunny, seaside retreat.  One revelled in the anonymity and isolation, then craved for company or mixed both.  It just felt right.  With many weeks and long journeys ahead, I preferred to remain quite sensible.

After breakfast I walked along the same stretch of beach as Saturday.  It was so quiet again, but a local man suddenly appeared and told me to turn back for my own safety.  He smiled and explained the dangers for lone foreigners walking along this beach.  So, I went down to the main beach in front of Mancora again.  It was a beautiful morning as I reached the little harbour.  A horse rider stopped to talk and gestured with his hands to his back and neck.  He’d spotted my sun cream, so I passed the tube up to him.  The strong sunshine necessitated effective protection.

I took lunch in the little Tumi Restaurant where a big television stood on the high counter.  The World Cup Final was about to begin.  More guests flocked in to cheer on the Spanish.  The match turned into a very disappointing one.  Most of the Dutch eleven received yellow cards for an annoying display of foul play and petulance.  The fragmented match only improved when Iniesta strode into the penalty area to stroke in the winning goal.  I was glad to see Spain clinch the World Cup.  After the game I rang Mam for a nice little chat.  Mam described the settled weather back home.  She was enjoying the summer season.  This lifted my spirits further.  Mam also seemed relieved to hear I was getting better, and that I was also enjoying the sunshine.

I had a bottle of water and a mid-afternoon ice cream to take back with me to the beach.  A lad from Southern Peru started a conversation.  He was excited to be travelling up to Cartagena on Colombia’s north coast to see his long-term girlfriend.  His happy expressions perfectly summed up Mancora.  There was a friendly atmosphere of Sunday smiles and laughter on the extremely civilised beach.

There were many exclusive looking holiday chalets to admire along the short coastline from Mancora up to The Point.  As the sun sank slowly in the western sky, everybody, including the hostel sloths, descended onto the beach to enjoy another golden glow of warmth!  The hostel music clicked up a notch for another evening and I tucked into more of Dara O’Briain’s enjoyable book.  I then started practicing Arlo Guthrie’s Alice’s Restaurant on my guitar.  Its Blues/ragtime rhythms were a challenge.  The exercise induced a quite restful mood though and I soon retreated to bed.

Monday, July 12                                                                                                                                     

The blaring music banged on until nearly 4am.  A lively young woman was imploring the rest of her fellow party animals to let go.  “As it’s our last night here, let’s be even louder!” she shouted.  One couldn’t help but laugh and be left resigned to another bedtime of barely any sleep.  This was the rapturous side of The Point’s personality.  One of my Peruvian roommates wasn’t happy though when he surfaced a few hours later.  He was working at the hostel and the early morning noise made him extremely angry.  He was determined to tackle the issue with the hostel managers, a group of English lads.  Before then he went off for a spell of sea fishing.  I later saw him on the beach casting away his line and lingering temper into the lively sea as the cormorants circled overhead.  I reflected that there were party people who wanted more and more and those others who just wanted to recline.  It only became a fractious affair if there wasn’t any compromise.

My 40-litre backpack was already bursting at the seams.  My large white towel that I’d bought in Mendoza just couldn’t fit in any more.  The Florida girl working at the hostel reception desk kindly let me exchange it for a smaller one.  While packing up I chatted away with Kate, remarking about her seemingly good grasp of Spanish.  Kate had lived in Spain for 15 years and was a fluent speaker.

I took some pictures of the lovely looking swimming pool and then walked for a while along the beach.  The blistering sun beat down on another increasingly hot day.  I was drinking a lot more bottled water in Mancora.  You needed to.  My skin was reddening but my Villeneuve Bloqueador sun lotion was quickly running out.  I enjoyed a fruit juice at the Lonely Planet-recommended Jugeria Mi Janett.  Then I returned to the hostel to say farewell and collect my guitar and backpack.  I promised to tell my friends about this place.  There were many who would fall in love with its location.  It was a little haven, perhaps even a paradise.  Despite the heat and latitude, there wasn’t much of a problem with mosquitoes neither.  They can create havoc just a few dozen miles inland or up the coast in Tumbes.  With my bags and guitar, I squeezed into the backseat of a moto and quickly arrived at the bus booking office.

An Australian lad called Simon was stood stuck to the spot with his huge surfboard.  He suddenly lost his temper with the receptionist who was sorting out the transport tickets for Cifa, a bus company with direct routes into Ecuador.  I’d bought an overnight ticket to Guayaquil and had hours to spare.  So, I left my luggage in the office to spend an afternoon and evening around Mancora.

Before heading off I stayed for a while with Simon to help him calm down and compose himself.  Simon’s lack of Spanish seemed to work against him.  His bus was already three hours late though.  While the receptionist nonchalantly chatted away on the phone, Simon exploded into a vitriol of homophobic invective.  The rather camp yet friendly fellow had really wound him up.  I soon translated an explanation though.  Simon’s due bus had been held up at the notorious Aguas Verdes border crossing, where stops and checks took an age.  On either side there would be guards trying their luck for a few dollars more despite the crossing being free of charge.  The bus arrived 20 minutes later.  A visibly relieved Simon retrieved his surfboard without having to resort to bashing it over the receptionist’s bonce.

A rather less dramatic sunset signalled my final farewell to Mancora’s beach.  Seemingly, all the small town’s stray dogs came to rest on the cooling sands and panted away as the evening progressed.  After a roast chicken tea, I spent a fair bit of time at an internet cafe.  The motionless and unresponsive receptionist remained at his office desk.  His gentle presence though subdued any concerned and tired looking passengers who were waiting to travel on.  The Cifa bus, due to arrive at 11pm, finally appeared at 12.30am.  We eventually crawled out of Mancora’s tight, dusty streets, outmanoeuvring the swarming, ant like moto taxis.  We were travelling up to Tumbes.  I was sat at the front with some Dutch lads.  One of them, Ezra recounted his time in Mancora, telling me about being held up at gunpoint on one of the back streets.  Despite its idyllic location and glorious weather, Mancora had a threatening undercurrent of danger.  I was so glad to have avoided it.