It was the first time JC had been to Peru in more than three years, and the first time I had been there in more than 20.
it was a pleasure to meet and hang out with his very large and adoring family. I felt like I knew his kids already from skyping with them, and I had met his mom before, but I got to meet his dad (he cried and told me he loved me), one of his (brilliant and sweet) sisters, and any number of tios, tias and prim(o)(a)s. They were warm and welcoming, and would say things “your Tio Francisco, who you’ll meet on Sunday, had this crazy experience when he was 18….” to make sure I knew all the really important family stories. And, I get as many Peruvian recipes as I want as part of the being-in-the-family deal.
As the only child of a Holocaust-surviving mother (she had only two living cousins that I ever knew about) and a father whose immediate family managed to escape, but much of whose extended family were also killed, I’m a lot more used to small families. 15 people now live in the family house (down from its heyday of about 25.) Tio Agustin, a painter and teacher in an experimental special education school, one day noticed that I was out of sorts. “You’re not yet used to living in a tribe, eh?”
Nearing the end of week two, I needed to get free of Lima — all the people and pollution, the never-ending traffic and mobile fruit-sellers who announce their wares via megaphone starting at 7 am. We headed to Tumbes, the northernmost department of Peru, which buttresses Ecuador.
JC and his mom bought a place about 18 miles south of Ecuador, in a small fishing village called Caleta Grau.
Because it’s winter there (people were positively shivering, what with the only 70 degree weather), the beach itself was pretty deserted, except for the subsistence fishermen, the occasional teenage couple trying to have sex somewhere their family would definitely not be, the Canadian petroleum engineer who lives there two weeks out of every four and goes paddleboarding most afternoons, and me, practicing yoga before coffee as an experimental wake-up method.
The next biggest town, Zorritos, is a half hour walk down the beach (or ten minutes in a motor-taxi). The Union of Artisan Fishermen has its headquarters there and I cheered them on when I found out they had blocked a busy section of the Pan-american Highway, protesting the larger vessels from Peru and Ecuador that have been over-fishing and making it harder for them to eke out a living wage.
Other than fishing, and some agriculture, most people are hoping that tourism hits here.
it might take a while. Caleta Grau doesn’t have trash pick up yet, for instance, so the beach is spotted with litter. And in the tradition of land invasion, half the home owners (including the ex-Shining Path Leader who is running for Congress) have built past their property lines, so the road into town can’t actually be paved.
Still, there are lots of things to do in the area that makes me wonder about hosting a yoga trip there. (We could even go up to the Galagopos Islands as an added treat.)
Or we can just drink some pisco sours, and watch the sun go down.
Still, I’m happy to be home — especially to my oh-so-green city and my quaint, quiet apartment. But I find myself holding open the possibility that Peru will be a home away from home.
Or maybe it already is.