Christmas Card, From Peru
We entered Peru in the days leading up to Christmas, with visions of ancient citadels, rippling green mountain peaks and perfectly formed waves holding shape for impossible stretches of time and space, dancing in our heads. We pictured llamas bedecked in colorful tassels and pom-poms, escorted by ladies cloaked in elaborately embroidered garments. Only now does it occur to me that perhaps Christmas was the perfect time for our beautiful ideals to be abruptly overturned and for our picture of a “weary world” in need of redemption to emerge in razor-sharp relief.
Driving through Peru’s north-west was a glimpse into a post-apocalyptic future or, at least, Earth on the verge. Works of Cormac McCarthy come to mind, as does Mad Max. And if ever a political leader (read: someone small-minded, small-handed, self-centred and heedless of consequence) were in need of concrete imagery to caution against the horrors of nuclear war, well, north-west Peru might be an essential field trip. We stared out the car window at the miles of desert punctuated by enormous reservoirs and wind-scattered fields of rubbish. The occasional grey, cinder block pueblo stranded amidst the scorched wilderness with its towering walls to shoulder the dust and deflect the gaze; only the scourge of waste suggested anything human lay festooned within.
We had already passed through Zarumilla and Tumbes on our way to Zorritos, where we’d heard rumours of nice beaches. When we arrived we found a popular overlander destination with friendly travellers, a homely atmosphere, several squat coconut palms ripe for the picking, but few waves. So after two days we decided to press on to Mancora in search of surf and a cozy spot to spend our second Christmas on the road. What we found, however, were howling winds and dusty streets familiarly saturated with the trappings of a town that has grown too big, too fast in an effort to keep pace with the onslaught of tourists: karaoke bars, 2 x1 drink offers, streets clotted with taxis and presumptuous residents eager to be our local weed fixer. We hoped for better and pushed on. But by the time we reached Negritos and Chiclayo, it was clear we should have settled for the kitschy and occasionally crass tourist town in the north. We pined for the lush highlands of southern Ecuador, but those were long gone.
We had no choice but to commit to onward motion, so we tried to burn through the miles of northern desert and desolate coastline. It would take two full days of driving and much consoling chocolate to carry us through our disillusioned first impressions of Peru. When we reached Huanchaco, a coastal retreat with decent waves and a new, handsomely built Dutch-owned hostel, late on Christmas Eve, we came upon a vegan potluck with a convivial atmosphere. The search was over. The other guests offered us leftovers of raw salads and wine-soaked bread — far from our roast ham and pie-filled picture of a Christmas feast, but an easy capitulation at this stage. That we had arrived late on Christmas Eve to empty streets and a full inn and were offered the only available option for sleeping (in our car on the road) were details not lost on us. We were given healthy food and a warm welcome by, Wendy, a kind yoga instructor.
The next day felt little like Christmas, though by now our expectations had been recalibrated. We woke to a quiet grey morning with decent surf. We ate the fig cake we had hoarded for a week in anticipation of an uncertain Christmas morning, and by now it was dry. But we drank our coffee and read the lectionary readings in the hostel courtyard. By afternoon, when we set out in search for lunch, the town had transformed: the barren stretches of sand were now pocked with red chairs and umbrellas and people were out in their legions, along with vendors of churros, ice cream and cocktails. We waded through the chaos, stunned, looking out for some sign of requisite Christmas hallowedness. We walked beneath several signs advertising Papa Francisco’s 2018 visit to Peru, some so large they stretched across the wide avenues. We glanced up to the cathedral on the hill, which we could narrowly see through the high rises, and considered venturing there. We settled instead on making a batch of shortbread.
When we returned to the hostel, we discovered the oven was out of order. However, determined that at least one thing be set right — one ritual be honoured today (admittedly, not for Christ’s sake, but for some sense of sentimental tradition, some taste of home) — Tim set out to make maybe the first ever pan-fried stovetop shortbread. Through some miracle of stubbornness and Christmas fortitude, it worked. It was an improvisation, of course. A poor substitute for what we would have rather had in the moment, but had given up for a year and some of travel: the people we love, a place to call home.
