Peru Ocean Abundance

Puerto Viejo. 70km south of Lima. Holy sweet Pacific Ocean, beautiful left break abundance

The low tide surprise

I’ve been experiencing the ocean in way that I is new to me- on a board, riding waves for hours on end. I’ve taken up surfing and am loving it. No. I am in love with it. Surfing is an amazing way to experience the ocean because, thanks to a wetsuit, I can spend hours in the water without getting cold. There is also an extreme sense of connection with the all powerful and please yes I do respect you Goddess Ocean. It is a connection forged every time I enter the water for a surfing session, every moment that I pass under a wave, ride down the face of one, get destroyed by a wave but come up through the frothy surface alive and with salty water embedded into my eyes and nostrils. There is also the more tranquil and peaceful connection that is made during the times of repose as the serie of waves has passed, the ocean rests in a lull, and there is time to sit atop the surface of the water and absorb. Holy beautiful Pacific Ocean.

The fishing fleet in Pimentel, Northern Peru. And we swam around that pier, twice, with these lifeguards that you see below. It was actually a crazy swim, dodging fishing nets and swimming against a really strong lateral current.

These times of repose are what I enjoy in surfing as much, or almost as much, as the actual act of riding a wave. Or at least this is the case in Peru, where I can enjoy the exorbitant marine life from the waters surface and use it to help me understand my place in this vast world. You see, with so much animal life around, it is easy for me to imagine myself as just another animal out there, living and swimming and eating and playing in the waves. The other day I communed with a huge sea lion that was surfing in the incoming wave. Of course I believe that I’m different than those other animals, because I am a human that knows and has the power to dream of the future, but these moments of connection with my animal friends allow me to understand a part of my own human nature.

Another view of the pier in Pimentel. Check out the rail tracks used to haul-in the fish

The birds. Carlos and I were told by the Limenan lifeguards we’ve been working with that every time a flock of pelicans is seen soaring over the ocean towards the horizon, a large set of waves is soon to arrive. They shared this information with us during one of the training days for the soon to be lifeguards, and as sure as the pelicans did fly, a huge set of waves came rolling through. Now, after learning this, during the moments of lull I look for the pelicans and when they fly, begin to wait for the waves.

The birds have pirated this ship!

The only problem with the pelican theory is that with so many pelicans on the Peruvian coastline, it is hard to believe that every time a group of them flies overhead, a set of waves is on its way. This is especially true at Puerto Viejo, the beach that is 70km south of Lima and which I have come to love for its excellent left break and amazing marine and avian life. An off shore rock that serves as a pelican colony creates an abundance of these huge flying animals. The consistent surf of the Peruvian coast, however, seems to coincide with the bounds of pelicans, and so whether or not there is a direct connection between set frequency and pelican flight is hard to determine, but the relationship is strong enough that if you want to believe in it you can. And I choose to believe.

Inca Terns flying over sweet Pacific waves

Aside from pelicans, there are seabirds of all types, and I always wish that my Biology professor friends were here to enjoy in their flight and to help me better understand their lives. The Inca Tern is especially beautiful, garnered by an elegant white moustache that is underlined by brilliant yellow bands. It has a deep orange bill that matches its legs and a call that is reminiscent of a cat: miew miew. There is also a colony of these Inca Terns at Puerto Viejo. They seem to be very squeamish, and take flight as an enormous flock at the slightest disturbance, flying so low to the waters surface that I have splashed them as I waited in the water on my board for the next wave.

Colony of Inca Terns

Gulls have never before appeared as beautiful as they do in Peru. I’ve been used to the Cheeto-eating type of Los Angeles that are often adorned by remnants of coloured pieces of plastic and hover in the sky vengefully awaiting to attack at the moment you leave your lunch on your towel for a quick dip in the sea. These Peruvian gulls, however, are brilliant. They seem so big and strong and have a white plumage that radiates the pacific sun. Their apparent health must be a product of their abundant grub. These birds eat well! Walking along the sea-shore at low tide you encounter a field of food: sand crabs, sea urchins, sea anemone, starfish, crabs, sea cucumber. If you like strong smells, then this banquet also smells amazing.

Gulls and other seabirds grubbing on the low tide surprise

Another example of the abundant marine life is how I often have to dig through sand crabs to find the sand. There are layers upon layers of those critters and I am often reminded of how I used to spend hours and days hunting for them within the wet sand of the southern Californian Pacific, Santa Monica to be exact. These days in Peru, however, the hunt is easier and I enjoy reaching beneath the murky nutrient rich water to grab a handful of these small gray sand crabs, feeling the sensation of hundreds of little legs running around the palm of my hand, and than throwing the handful into the ocean around. Yes.

Carcasses of sand crabs and other ocean critters

The Peruvian coastline is impressing me more than I could have ever imagined. The marine diversity, the waves, the water, the water the waves, and the yes.

Carlos, myself, Pablo and Valentin. Visitors from Spain. Valentin is Carlos' brother.

Awesome image from Parque del Agua, Lima. The park is a grand array of fountains

First weeks in Peru

The coast of Lima.

Typical traffic scene on La Javier Prado

At times I misinterpret where I am and find myself believing that I’m back in Morocco, and wonder why the call to prayer sounds like thousands of cars honking their horns, or why all of the women are suddenly wearing tight jeans and short sleeve shirts. The Spanish language floating around the streets helps me remember that I’m actually not in Morocco, but before I fully establish my exact whereabouts, which I am conscious of the whole time but only need to clarify, I have to look at my Spanish friend Carlos, who I met in France, and realize that neither am I back in Spain, but that I am in Lima, Peru.

I’ve been in Lima for two weeks, and as I just said, am here with Carlos Alonso Ruiz, a Spanish lifeguard who I met in France on a training camp with the Alcarreño Lifesaving team. Knowing that I wanted to teach swimming and also to start a Junior Lifeguard program in Lima, I had given a general invitation to anyone on the team who could spend a few weeks or months in Peru, helping with the Junior Lifeguard program. Carlos accepted, arrived in Lima a week after I did, and is contributing three months to this cause.

Bodysurfing on my 25th birthday. Santa Maria, Peru

Now is the time to describe how this cause has been defined since we arrived in Lima and how we are pursuing it. I had come to Lima in the hopes of doing two things. The first was teaching swimming to children in the very very low income community of San Juan de Miraflores. The idea was to work through a group called Solidaridad en Marcha, a Catholic solidarity organization that is doing amazing community work in this neighbourhood. Mike Taylor, one of my college roommates, first connected me to the group. Mike is down here undergoing his religious formation, living and learning with a group of young men from around the Americas, and Solidaridad en Marcha is basically the charity branch of their Catholic order. Besides a few visits with the organization and a local pool, this swimming project has made no progress. One of the major issues is funding, because we would have to pay for transportation to and from the pool for the children, as well as pay for use of the pool, and probably swim suits as well. The cost, however, isn’t what deterred me.

Mike Taylor, Patrick and I in front of the Brother's house. San Bartolo

San Bartlolo, Km 45 south of Lima

The main issue, I see, is the sustainability of this project, which is doesn’t seem to be possible unless I return year after year to keep it going. I can reason this, however, by realizing that we would be giving the children an incredible summer experience, which is the opportunity to learn how to swim, and that we don’t need to look much beyond this summer. If things fell into place a bit more fluidly with this project, I think that I would pursue it for this very reason, but they haven’t.

Lunch with Joel and Celia. Beautiful family that hosted me during my first week in Lima

Before arriving in Lima, Carlos and I had connected via email with Luis Hermosa, the president of the Peruvian Volunteer Lifesaving Association, and shared with him our idea of beginning a Junior Lifeguard program. Awaiting for Carlos to arrive before meeting with this group, I had made several other contacts during my first week in Lima, including Aida Davis, a stellar 60 year old stud of a female swimmer who runs the Open Water section of the Peruvian National Swimming Federation. She has close ties with the lifeguards, and I immediately smelled something fishy when she had no idea who this Luis Hermosa was. Things seemed even more out of wack when every other person I asked had no idea of this organization, and all clearly explained to me that the lifeguards in Peru were run through the Police Department. Luis Hermosa, however, said that he would pick Carlos up from the airport with me, and given that I was still curious to meet the man and delve into the legitimacy of his association, I decided to attempt a double wammy of a free ride from the airport along with an uncompromising meeting.

In the water at the start of the San Lorenzo Swim, a 5.5km competition from San Lorenzo Island to mainland Lima


On the boat, going out to San Lorenzo Island

Luis Hermosa and I met at the airport, and I was given specific instructions to stay waiting in the departure hall holding a white handkerchief to my nose at 11am. He would do the same, and in this way we would recognize each other. When he told me this I laughed, making a comment about using cell phones, but ultimately agreed and was even excited to see if his master plan would work. It did, and as we spent the next half an hour or so waiting for Carlos I began to probe my way into the mysteries of this Peruvian Volunteer Lifesaving Association. What I found was that every time I mentioned the Police Department and their lifeguards, Mr. Hermoza did one of two things: he either changed the direction of the conversation, completely bypassing any question or comment I had made, or he directly criticized them in a way that was reminiscent of how a jealous teenage girl would talk about her ex-boyfriends new girlfriend. It became clear that some part of his story was not legitimate. But before I could explicitly figure it out, Carlos arrived, tan as all hell from his past 10 days at a lifesaving competition in Brazil.

The crew after the San Lorenzo Swim

Aida Davis, Carlos and I after the San Lorenzo Swim

From the airport, Mr. Hermoza took us out to lunch where we continued the conversation. There was no opportunity, however, to explain to Carlos that this man may be a complete fraud. Neither did I have any concrete evidence, or I didn’t have any until the end of our lunch when I received a phone call from El Comandante Ramos, the Chief of the real Lifeguards.

Carlos Alonso Ruiz

Aida Davis had given El Comandante Ramos my phone number, and he immediately called to warn me of Mr. Hermosa. I stepped out of the restaurant when my phone rang, and was able to talk and get the details of this illegitimate volunteer lifesaving association (and by the way, there is nothing volunteer about these lifeguards- they are all paid). Basically, Mr. Hermosa was kicked out of the Police Department years ago for misconduct, and after starting the Peruvian Karate Federation (and he supposedly holds a black belt in Karate, something he is obviously very proud of given that he repeated this fact numerous times), he decided to move on to Lifesaving. Recently he has begun the Peruvian Volunteer Lifesaving Association, which basically consists of poorly training lifeguards and then sending them to Spain, gaining a commission out of the process.

Rookie school for the lifeguards. Day at the pool.

The Pacific Dolphins. Logo of the Peruvian National Lifeguards

Carlos remained totally oblivious to this whole story until I found an opportune moment to share the news. At this point we were sitting on the couch of Mr. Hermosa's house, which Carlos still insists smelt like dirty feet, although I didn’t notice, but that is probably because I was so caught up in unravelling this fascinating story. When Mr. Hermosa left the room for a minute to talk with his daughter, I spilt the real deal to Carlos, insisting that we had to find a way to leave the apartment and this fraudulant man. If it weren’t for the smell of dirty feet I’m not sure that Carlos would have believed me and agreed to leave so hastily, but he did, and we left with some random excuse. We haven´t seen Mr. Hermosa since, although we did receive a menacing email from him.

El Hangar at Lifeguard Headquarters. Old almost useless boards, but a few working jet skis

Puerto Viejo with the lifeguard training camp. Desert coast. But the ocean is full of life.

The following day we met with El Comandante Ramos at the Lifeguard Headquarters and had an awesome first meeting where we were fed ceviche, left mildly drunk off of pisco sour, and got full support for the Junior Lifeguard program that we are organizing. In that first meeting and tour of the Lifeguard Headquarters, I saw a world of possibility open and was easily able to envision the program not only for this summer, but also for its future. During this past week Carlos and I have been meeting with some of the Lifeguard Captains who are helping us with the organizational details, but as it stands, the program should begin on January 4th and continue for the following four weeks. If the program does well, and we all believe that it will, then it will continue next year, run by the same lifeguards who are helping us with it this year.

Me with Superior Javier Andres, who is helping us with the junior lifeguard program

Lifeguard demonstration for the media.

We've also been working with the lifeguards during the training camp they are currently completing. It lasts three months, which is really long compared to my 12 day rookie school, but theirs is so long because they basically spend the entire first month learning how to swim. In the end they finish well trained and share an incredible sense of civic duty, and we have been overly impressed by their program. What they are is missing, however, is previous ocean experience. Like I said earlier, the lifeguards are run through the Police Department, which means that they are all policemen and women. Becoming a lifeguard is a change of position within the Police Department, but it doesn’t mean that they are good swimmers (which is kind of important for a lifeguard). This Junior Lifeguard program could be the direct step to building a stronger level of ocean swimming and general lifesaving principles for children that may very well become policemen and lifeguards in the future, with the added benefit that the program is simply an awesome and amazing experience for young people to have.

Yes. We jumped out of a helicopter into the ocean. It was awesome.

The Good Life in Mirleft

Diving under with the crew

I’m living an incredibly good life here in Mirleft, Morocco. A life where I am confidently understanding what I love and pursing just that. There are many times where I have felt as if I actively ran away from good feelings, and while I realize that most people I know wouldn’t say this about me, it is something that I have experienced in the past and that I trying to change in the present. This is part of the reason why I left Casablanca so suddenly- having tasted the good life here in Mirleft, I couldn’t reason myself to stay in the big city. And now that I’m back, after deciding to return because I just wanted to feel good, I find myself consciously accepting what I see as a bounty of positive feelings that I’m experiencing through an array of mostly aquatic activities, and it feels awesome.

Hanging

One of my most basic joys have been the moments after a wave crashes, when I’ve dove under the whitewash and resurface in a turbulent water full of sand, air, and currents. Instead of immediately lifting my head to breath and swim out of the post-wave mess, I’m beginning to rest within this chaos and enjoy getting tossed around on the surface. It feels like a million fingers moving all over my body, and there are times when I get the sensation of being tickled. Other times it feels like hands pushing me around, even pushing violently for a moment or two, but eventually settling down to a deep massage. It’s because of the way the waves break here. The lip of each wave breaks slowly, leaving a trail of whitewash , so that even when you dive under and swim to the surface, there is still a large swath of churned water behind. I feel like this heals my body.

The crew loves the

Bashir!

I’m basically a beach bum, but because I am so conscious of this, it somehow feels perfect. I wake up and go to the beach in the morning for one of two reasons. Either to harvest mussels and other mollusks with the newfound friends, or to run and swim and stretch on the sand. I return to the beach each afternoon, experiencing the water at a different tide and viewing the soft sand as a warm and welcoming retreat from the waves. Coming out of the water I run straight towards the sand to burry myself in its warmth, a familiar feeling to the California experience, but I’ve felt so relaxed these days that I often find myself falling asleep for a minute two, waking up with a sanded face and a smile.

Beach at Mirleft. Look at all that warm sand!

View of the plateau look over the cliff and into the Atlantic

I played a really interesting game the other day, that simply involved the feather of a seagull and some sand. As we were lying down in the sand towards the back of the beach, Bashir built a small mound and then buried a seagull feather within in, covering what had been left exposed with more soft sand. We then proceeded to take small drags of the sand with our fingers, slowly revealing the feather within. This continued, and you weren’t allowed to slow the movement of your fingers, until the feather fell to one side. If it fell towards your side, you lost, and were made to do something really funny and crazy at the beach, like climb to the top of a rock and yell “Allah al Akbar”, or go mess with some tourists, or simply run to the end of the beach and back. I found the game extremely delicate and awesome.

The crew after a Sunday surf session

The oasis of Mirleft

Language, or the use of language, has developed beautifully within my life during these travels to the south of Morocco. In most any other traveling experience, the acquisition of another language has been very important for me, and I’ve always attempted to restrict my use of language to that which I was learning. While I would like to continue to work on my language skills, I realize that this is not my project for the year, and that I can instead focus on using language for what it should be used for: to communicate and get things done. This is especially true in Mirleft, where everybody is essentially tetra lingual, speaking as a first language Berber (otherwise known as Amazigh), as a second dialectal Arabic, as a third French, and Classical Arabic as a fourth language. I usually speak in French, and randomly in the Classical Arabic that I know, which is always funny because it sounds so formal and stuck-up. I am, more importantly, extremely open to speaking in any language that I know, including mixes of them all, or helping people with their developing language skills. I’ve also come to enjoy simply listening to the locals speak in Berber. I love the way the language sounds, its full of Z’s and Ch’s and Mm’s, and how I can pick out a random word or two in Arabic or French. Really, I feel totally free with language, as if its only rule were that of utility.

Bisco, one of the best surfers in Mirleft

Tiznit, the bigger town 30km north of Mirleft

Our French language skills are usually the same, and I feel like we both speak the same post-colonial French, a language that I learned in Martinique and Tunisia. I remember a time when my friend Selena, who is basically French-American, came to Tunisia and spoke with her very proper Parisian French. Many people didn’t understand, and from time to time I found myself “translating” into this post-colonial French. We always thought this was funny. Here in Morocco, the same thing has happened with a few French Canadians that I’ve met, who, even when they tone-down their accent quebequois, still find it hard to make themselves understood by the Moroccans.

La Grande Maree Base

Mohammed harvesting mussels and running away from the waves

Mirleft is a town of about 5000 inhabitants on the southern coast of Morocco, about an 11 hour bus ride south of Casablanca, and the buzz on the street was that today was going to be la grande marée base, or what I’d translate as the big-ass low tide. Everybody was talking about what they were going to harvest, from mussels to clams to octopus to sole to this random mollusk I don’t know what is called in English, but in French it seems to be pousepille and in Spanish it is percebes. Yesterday the folks went out in the morning, and in the evening there were mythological tales being told of what was harvested from the sea. All were ready for today, where the tide was going to be even lower than the day before, exposing the rocks and small tidal pools where the biggest mussels are and the octopus have their dens. Last night I was invited to go out with numerous people to experience this grand event, but when it came time to fix an hour and a place to meet this morning, the best that I could get was an insha allah I’ll see you at your house (I’m actually renting a small apartment with two French Canadians that I randomly met, and it’s great to have a kitchen). So this morning I woke up at 5:22 am with the first call to prayer, turned on the porch light, packed my bag, opened the front door, and waited drinking tea.

The low tide scene from above and from below

Mohammed was the first person to arrive. He came with a faint and timid knock that I only heard because I was actively listening for it. We left with two others, whom I knew from before but am having a difficult time remembering their names (I’ve been meeting a lot of people during my time in Mirleft). There was a calm and heavy air extending over an empty plateau of desert shrubs, deserted plastic bags, and red rocks, which blended with the blue-grey Atlantic horizon ahead. You could see the faint silhouettes of others wandering towards the shore; their walk seemed so peaceful amongst this pastel backdrop of the first light that it could have been a pilgrimage.

Mussels and more mussels!

After descending the path down the cliff and to the beach, we took off whatever top layer we had on, grabbed some burlap bags, and head out towards the rocks at the edge of the sea. The dress code of the day was as follows, from top to bottom: any old short-sleeve t-shirt, preferably wide and stretched out (you’ll understand why in a second) and usually with some random logo of an American sports team or an 80‘s promotion for roller-skating, a pair of shorts, often board shorts but many times long denim or canvas shorts, and now for the best of all, long socks pulled up and over the calves with cheap plastic sandals on top.

Check out those feet

It was quite the scene. People; mothers, children, young men, old men, grandmothers and fathers, backs bent over and arms outstretched holding chisels, all over the rocks, scavenging the fruits of the sea. They were mostly collecting mussels, and would chisel them off of the rocks, and holding the end of their tee-shirt in their teeth to create a nice pouch, they would stash the bounty. When they had collected enough mussels to either fill their tee-shirt pouch, or enough weight to hurt their teeth, they would transfer the mussels to their burlap bag, and continue on with their work.

The morning crew, returning with the bounty

My job was to help Mohammed, and also to enjoy the scene. I carried a plastic bag that Mohammed would put the mussels in, and I would then transfer them to a burlap bag we had stashed on some higher rocks behind us. In such a way, we were able to work off of the furthest seaward rocks, or the place where from time to time big waves would roll in and over the rocks (and anything else, including human or burlap). We made a good team, or probably the only team, because it seemed like most everybody else worked alone.





The morning continued as such, with people slowly leaving as their burlap bags reached maximum capacity and the tide rolled in. We all retreated to the back of the beach, admiring our bounty as we loaded the bags onto donkeys. Mothers escorted the donkeys and men carried long poles with hooks on the end, used to pry octopus out of their dens, and plastic canvas bags with the octopus inside.

Nur Dean and Mohammed

I walked through the front door with three octopus, each one hanging by their heads on the index, middle, and pointer finger of my left hand, ending the morning of la grande marée base. We arrived at my house followed closely behind by the mothers, and there was a moment as we were saying good-bye and making plans to see each other at the beach in the next hour or so, that the mothers with the donkeys stopped to go around us. The women in the south, especially the older women, are very traditional, usually wearing the full head scarf and loose clothing that covers all, and usually stay at home. Now, they were in clothes, wet from the sea, sleeves and pants rolled up from the intense harvesting of mussels, hair held back by small handkerchiefs, and I could sense their modesty as they looked bashfully towards me and the ground. I finished saying good-bye to the men and I said that I would only take the octopus and other fruits de la mer if they came over for dinner tonight. For now, I’m off to the beach to catch some waves after an awesome morning with la grande marée base.

And the awesome dinner of fruits de la mer