Ryan aka "SF ryan" (drives a white stepvan, Chinos Bastardos, asian guy, not that other guy ) sent me this....... finally got a chance to read it through..... great story!!!! Hope you enjoy it as much as I did! Thanks Ryan > From: Ryan Chin > Subject: First Waves in Peru > > > Hey Mark thought you might enjoy this story I wrote about my first > waves in Peru. It's tough when you don't have your own board, suit > and some wheels. After catching some waves Saturday and being home > for a day, Lori's grandma passed so I'm back on the East Coast again! > > > Kissing Lori goodbye, I pocket a ziploc bag with a hundred sole, a > copy of my passport, and a card with the hostel address. Lori would > be going to the town square to draw people, visit a few churches and > go back to the shaman street market. The shaman street market or > "witch" market might have something for fertility or an aphrodisiac > or two. We don´t necessarily need such things but it can´t hurt as > we try for a Chori(Chin/Lori). > > We´d checked out the street market earlier. In addition to the fly > covered fillet of iguana, live guinea pigs, rows of produce, and > hecklers and pushers, an old man in a suitjacket tried selling magic > healing pills to us. The center piece of his leaning wood table was > a 3 ft tapeworm curled neatly in a bottle. He held an orange in one > hand and a small vile in another. The vile had tiny white specks > floating around and I could only surmise he was scaring us into > buying his cure. > > Over and over he shouted, "(Spanish)See this orange man! There are > hundreds of eggs on it!" > > "Great," I thought, "Can you get it by having orange peel up your > nose?" > > Leaving the room, I lick my lips and breath deep savoring the > anticipation of my solo mission. Our room on the hostal´s third > floor is nothing special. For $15 U.S we have our own mildewy > shower, cable television, a double bed, paper thin windows and walls > and jackhammering at 7:30 in the morning - perfect. Skipping a few > steps at a time, I rattle the grout between the cracked tile. > Reaching the lobby, I nod my head at Victor. A squat and proper > man, Victor is sporting his usual tie, dressshirt and slacks and > looks funny with a chaulk gun. He explains in his decent English > that he´s "sound" proofing. I don´t have the heart to tell him a > little bead of silicon isn´t going to do anything against the > barrage of horns, sirens and jackhammers. > > "Careful with that stuff. You have nice clothes on," I warn before > heading out the door. > > I´m going on a wavehunt. We´re staying in Chiclayo, just 15km from > the Pacific. Pimental, a small town to the west might have waves and > maybe just maybe I can find a board and wetsuit to rent. With it > being winter, alot of the the coastal towns are dormant with boarded > windows, empty restaurants, and newspaper wrapped railings(rust > control). The chances of catching a wave are slim but having been a > teacher, I know to always-TRY. > > Stepping into the busy street, I make eye contact with several taxi > drivers but wave the first few by, looking or "feeling" for the > honest guy. I settle on a newer looking compact and am not sure if > the guy is honest but he is, however, much smaller than me should he > drive down a dark alley - I hop in. > > "Pimental, Pimental," I repeat. > "Ahhh Peee-men-tall!" he replies. > "Si! La Playa!(beach)" > "Cua...Cuanto Costo?(How much)" I ask. > > The man´s wrinkles deepen slighly, his lips tighten, and his head > shakes. I´ve butchered the man´s language and I slump into my seat > dejected - the kid who gets picked last for a kickball game. > > I console myself, "Well it can´t be too much." > > Although it´s not like Southern China, it´s still "reasonable" if > you get ripped off in Peru. In China I´d been completely HAD > renting a bike for weeks and it still only cost me $10. > > After only a few minutes we stop and I shrug, "Wazzup man?" > > He points at a row of mini-buses. The words Chiclayo-Pimental are > written in white letters across the nearest one. The money collector > or "ride hustler" is a young boy, tall by local standards and > lanky. He hangs out the side door waving and yelling, "Pee-men-tal! > Pee-men-tal!" The fumes from dozens of idling engines causes me to > cough. I hand my driver three sole(about $1.15) and transfer quickly > to the boy´s green van. It´s packed with students and other locals. > The smell of cilantro is welcome and I sit next to an old lady with > a bag of vegetables. Her old wool sweater rubs my arm and I´m sure > its her leathery hands that knitted it years ago. A fat sweaty man > is crammed into a corner holding a giant toy motorcycle. I grin at > him and imagine the future smile of his child. If I could speak > Spanish, I´d tell him, "That thing is made in China you know?" > > Making eye contact with the boy, I realize he´s even younger than I > thought. I open my hands full of change, my fare at his mercy. He > flicks a few coins around, settles on a 2 sole piece and hands me > back a .50 coin. I respond with a thumbs up and give him back a 1 > sole piece. Always one to try and point out the good things I make > note to learn "honest man" in spanish. > > The relatively smooth roads of the city give way to packed dirt. > The driver slithers through colorful trishaws and potholes > resembling bomb craters. Swaying in unison with the rest of the > passengers, I watch the red and white Peruvian flags waving in front > of a large, well maintained school. The building looks out of place > with the war like street in front of it and I reminsce about my days > of teaching. The flags wave in the opposited direction of our travel > and I frown. The winds are onshore or out of the west, bad for > surfing. The chances of rideable waves are slim but I straigten up > and nod - sometimes there´s a few gems if you are desperate enough. > > It´s a typical ride where the driver thinks faster velocities equals > being able to fit through tighter spots. I understand his madness; > time is money. Peruvians are paying $5 U.S dollars a gallon but > average salaries of teachers and professors are about $500 a month - > we Americans really don´t have anything to complain about. > > Soon I exit the van to a view of the Pacific, something I never take > for granted. She´s been good to me for over ten years now. A long > detiorating pier stretches about 1/2 a mile out to sea, restaurants > line the promenade but only half are open. The gray skies and cold > winds bite my face and rock the closed umbrellas of the empty > restaurants. The waves are big and nasty and not a surfer in sight. > Feels a little like the Oregon coast except for the fisherman > building their Caballitos(traditional straw boats). > > I zip up my fleece and decide to take a stroll on an interior > street. A few locals sneak an extra peak over their shoulder as I > walk by. Even through there´s a Chinatown in Lima and Chinese > restaurants in every city we´ve been to thus far, I unwillingly > solicit extra looks. > > "Chinos Bastardo! I must be a Chinos Bastardo!" I chuckle. > > During a surf trip to Mexico, my mate Erik had created the > nickname. We were packed into the back of of pickup truck with some > local surfers. I asked one who spoke broken English, " How do you > say Chinese in Spanish?" Without missing a beat Erik asked,"How do > you say bastard?" Seconds later, five Mexicans and one of my best > mates were chanting, "Chinos Bastardo!" > > Ignoring the stares I muster the courage to try a new Spanish verb I > looked up just before I left. I stop an old gent on a rusted bike. > > "Pardon, Donde aquilar la tabla(Where rent a surfboard)" > > Nothing! I suck! > > He meanders away down the deserted street. Not only am I a Chinos > Bastardo but I´m a lazy one! Living in California for ten years, > there´s no reason why I shouldn´t know more Spanish. Having > aspirations to live in Central America one day with Lori and our > future family, I vow to make it a priority. > > A new curb looks inviting and my dejected ass finds it. It´s the > kind of sidewalk and curb built in a flurry to "improve" the town > but will most likely distintegrate by the time the whole length of > the street is completed. I close my eyes and envision a meeting. I > see myself giving a "poor me" story to some traveling surfers. They > lend me a board and suit for a quick paddle. I sit projecting the > scenario into the universe for awhile then turn my energy to > figuring out how to convey my plight to a local surfer. > > It´d be easy. I´d point to his board and suit and then back to me > and say, "Yo dos horas sole por favour(I two hours money please > please!)" > > A mangy shepherd mix appears and endures my spanish practice for > just a few seconds. Now I`ve frightened an old man and a dog with my > spanish. Over the dog´s bony body however, I spot a couple kids with > surfboards! Charging like a pack of kids chasing the icecream man I > round a corner and find them waxing their boards. Wasting no time, I > put my hand on the closest board and ask, "Donde alquilar?! They > laugh and flick their heads behind them. A laminated paper sign on > blue metal door greets my eye - bingo! > > The only word I can read is surfboard and I push the unlocked door > open. Walking down the narrow brick hall, I encounter an old stocky > man. His face is wrinkled and hair gray but the youth of a surfer > shines at the edges of his smile. > > "Alquilar la tabla?" > His eyes gleam and he replies, "Si!" > > He leads me to a back room, white foam dust swirling at our feet. > The man is not only a surfer but he shapes boards as well. Small > saws, planes, dirty painter´s masks and various sanding tools hang > on the walls and line a narrow shelf. Hardened resins in the rough > shape of surfboard rise above the concrete floor. > > Modern surfboards are made by shaping a rough piece of foam; the > curves and angles determine how it will ride on the wave. After > shaping, the whole board is covered in fibreglass and resin spread > over the entire thing. > > I wish I can tell him how much I appreciate being in the room of a > craftsman. Who knows how many boards have left this room, caresed > into deliberate and purposeful shapes by his hands. He picks up a > few shortboards and I raise my hand hand indicating I´d like a > longer board. The old man steps gingerly towards a corner of the > room. He looks over his shoulder and I notice a beautiful balsa wood > board. Balsa boards are rare and expensive nowadays. Twirling the > board he reminds me of a a little boy showing off his prized > baseball cards. I can´t believe my luck and the man´s trust in me, > the Chinos Bastardo. > > Minutes later I slip the plastic bag with my valuables into the > shoulder area of my wetsuit and zip up. Exiting the rear of the > house, I step onto the promenade and meet another surfer. Berto is > his name and he´s forty. Long black hair drapes down either side of > his face and we shrug at the condition of the surf. I´m able to > tell him I´m from Oregon where the surf is friole(cold). Berto > steps into the water and is immediatedly pounded by the powerful > shore break. Through the whipping wind I can hear him yell, "Ryan! > Oregon! Ryan! Oregon!" My new spot jitters relieved by Berto´s > stoke, I charge into the waves paddling the Balsa board. The heavy > currents quickly seperate us. Alone in big sloppy surf, now it > really feels like home. > > A gem appears like I knew it would and turn to catch it. The balsa > board paddles smoothly into the wave. My smile and the old man´s > smile unite and I shoot across the steep face. The wave closes out > and it grows dark momentarily. I can feel sand on my back before > popping back to the surface. > > "This isn´t home," I think, "I´m in Peru!" > > Off in the distance, I can hear Berto. > "Ryan! Oregon! Ryan! Oregon!" > >