life’s a beach.

“Why haven’t we come here every weekend this year??!” was a question my poor husband heard 48 times over this past weekend.

Flashback photo: No! No! Don't let the curtains touch you!!

The answer, of course, is The Beast. Several months ago, I blogged about the traumatic experience of taking a 3-hour bus ride to the beach. Since that experience, every time we considered a trip to the beach, memories of filthy mustard colored curtains and a broken speedometer would come flooding back and convince me that we should just stay in Arequipa.

This past weekend, however, was different. On Friday afternoon we took a taxi to a street near the bus station and wandered around until we heard a man calling “Mollendo, Mollendo, Mollendo.” (Mollendo is the name of the beach town.) Ironically, I scoffed at these calls the last time we went to the beach. “Yeah right. Like I’m really going to get in that car with some strange man who says he’s going to the beach.” This time, we were actively searching for some strange man who says he’s going to the beach. It didn’t take much wandering before we found him. We worked out a price: $17 for 3 seats—one for David, one for me, and an empty one in between us for the benefit of extra comfort and not having to wait for another person to show up. 

Making friends with the fishermen.

We were ushered along with three other passengers to a new, comfortable Mazda minivan. The driver transported us quickly and safely out of the city, over some mountains, through a desert area that we’re told is used by NASA  for research because of its similarity to the climate on the moon. Less than 2 hours after leaving Arequipa we were watching the sunset over the Pacific Ocean, and I was asking David my question for the eighth time already—“Why haven’t we come here every weekend this year??!”

We checked out a couple hostels (one was full, the other smelled like urine) and then found a clean one with a view of the ocean for $40 a night. The view from our room was nice, but the view from the roof was even better, and that’s where we sat with a bottle of wine and German chocolate until 2:00 a.m. talking, watching the stars and listening to the waves pound the rocks below—and of course discuss my trademark question.

Our spot on the roof.

I should probably mention that the roof was littered with construction debris, and we were sitting in plastic lawn chairs precariously propped up on bricks so that we could see over the wall to watch the ocean. And I should mention the occasional bat that swooped overhead and creeped me out. And probably I should mention the adventures on our ride home. (And I will later.) But after 10 months of living in Peru, we’ve adjusted our definition of "luxury,” and we were happy as clams up on that roof.

What more does a girl need in life?

The next day the beach was sunny and warm and not too crowded since school is in session and it’s not technically summer anymore—although you’d easily be deceived about that by the 75-degree weather and sunshine. We didn’t swim, mainly for fear of getting pummeled to death by the massive waves that would curl slowly a few feet off shore and then pound the sand so hard we could sometimes feel it from our seats. The waves were mesmerizing, and the only thing that lured us away was a delicious lunch of fresh fish at a restaurant a ways up the road in a little cove with its own private beach.

Okay, now that my beach-loving family is utterly jealous and may not even be reading this anymore, I’ll describe the journey home on Sunday and hopefully secure a little pity to balance out the envy. Once again, we snubbed the bus in favor of a colectivo. Colectivo is a Spanish word with two parts: colect, meaning collect, and ivo, meaning people who are content to wait around as long as it takes for the car to fill up with other passengers. Okay, so the word doesn’t really mean that, but essentially that’s what a colectivo is. 

That's not a peace sign. That's a 2. As in, 2 more people til we can leave.

This car wasn’t as nice as the one that brought us to the beach, but it was infinitely nicer than The Beast with its dirty yellow curtains, so we tossed our bag on the roof rack and joined the others who were waiting. The vehicle had seats for 10 passengers—maybe 11 if you count the middle seat up front, but that person would have to put their feet at a 140 degree angle up on the dashboard. When we arrived, there were a few others waiting already—a young mother with 2 small children, two teenage girls who had already crawled into the very back to claim what I would consider the worst, most claustrophobic seats, a 50-ish woman who encouraged us no fewer than six times to “sube, sube” ("get up, get up"—as in, "get up in the car, never mind that it’s hot in here and we might be waiting here for another hour"). After about 5 minutes, a middle-aged man arrived and asked if we were planning to take the front seat. Thinking quickly, my beloved, heroic husband said that yes, his wife was going to sit in the front but thanks for asking. I love you, David.

Even on the beach you have to deal with stray dogs.

So now 8 of the 10 seats were filled, if you counted the mother and her kids as only 2 seats, and David and I began to discuss whether or not we should offer to pay for one of the empty seats and see if any of the other passengers wanted to pay for the other in order for us to be able to leave immediately. But we hesitated, mainly because it seems Americans have this weird issue with time and punctuality and efficiency that Peruvians don’t share, and we didn’t want to come across like jerks. So we waited. Not too long later, the driver jumped in, evidently satisfied with an almost-full load during the off season. But just as he closed his door, a taxi approached and a guy with a suitcase disembarked. Soon he was squeezed in the back seat in between the two teenage girls. As we started to pull away, another single guy appeared and wedged himself in between the woman in her 50s and the man who no doubt was annoyed that I had ended up in the front seat. Or maybe he wasn’t annoyed. We recently read a line in a book about Peruvian culture that stuck in our minds: 

Americans protect their space; Peruvians share their space.

The first hour of the trip was, for me, consumed by the sensation of needing to pee. I know you can relate to this. Every bump, every turn, every everything reminds you of your need. You try to convince yourself you can make it, knowing in the back of your mind that you can't.

A few times our driver pulled over to speak with people waiting on the side of the road. The first time it was a party of three who needed to go somewhere not on our route. The second time it was two men who didn’t want to pay the price our driver was asking. Each time he stopped, I was filled with a mixture of curiosity and dread—curiosity about where he could possibly think we could squeeze in 2 or 3 more people, and dread that more than likely at least 1 or 2 of those extra people would end up in the front seat with me. I admit it: this American does protect her space, and even more so when her bladder is about to explode.

The view out the window for most of the drive.

Finally I yielded to the inevitable and summoned my courage to ask the drive to make a potty stop. Miraculously, I saw a lone gas station plopped in the desert off in the distance and asked the driver to stop. “Further ahead,” he responded as we zoomed past the gas station. Dismayed, I focused all my energy on not leaving a wet spot on this roomy front seat I had all to myself. About 3 minutes later he pulled over on the side of the road. I jumped out and scrambled over a pile of sand. My flip-flops sunk into the desert sand, which for some reason grossed me out, although I don’t know why that should be any different from the beach sand I'd been enjoying just a few hours earlier. I looked around for a place I could do my business out of view from the audience of 10 back in the van. But it was pretty much just flat dry sand for as far as I could waddle with my full bladder. So I just squeezed up as close as I could to the sand hill and squatted. David later told me that from the van he could only see me from the shoulders up. I don’t even care if he’s lying to me. I will choose to believe that those 10 people didn’t watch me pee in the desert. I won’t go into any more painful detail about my roadside urinating experience. I’ll just say 3 more things in closing: 

1. It was just about as awkward and embarrassing as you could imagine.

2. Given the choice of doing it again or taking the bus, I’d chose to do it again.

3. “Why haven’t we been going to the beach every weekend this year??!” 

Our perfect lunch spot.

A perfect garden at the house next to the hotel. I want it!

Man, those things are ugly.

And, a few black & whites...