Cantankerous Encounter, Dodgey Vehicles and Bad Pancakes...

Howdy guys and gals.

Two posts in three days. That's surely a 2008 record. I hope you've all had a dandy weekend in your respective locales. I know back at home it's cold as the dickens.

I had what you might call an interesting weekend...particularly Saturday...I made a 50 minute drive north to Playa Pulpos or Octopus Beach to make a friendly visit to see a friend and her friends for a day of lounging in the sand and some R&R...Side note...I've noticed that most Peruvian folks I know do exactly that every weekend...R&R. I'm used to getting up and going at it on the weekends to make up for the lost opportunities during the week because of work, lack of sunlight, etc. But here, it seems like much of the responsibility of the 5 day work week goes out the window, the feet go up, the head goes back and leisure takes precedence over most things...just a quick dose of cutural relations 101.

Anywho, I made my way to Octupus Beach late morning..after getting up at 6:30 to do a 45 minute run, some stretches, make breakfast, wash the dishes and clean up. At the bright and early time of 10:00 I'm wide-eyed and bushy tailed...At 10:00 I also found myself being a walking and talking alarm clock as my friend greeted me at the door and we made our way into the beach house. Everyone was still sleeping. Not the best way to introduce yourself to people you haven't met before. Strike 1.

As I walk in, some folks are moving slowly about and I'm carrying a big ole watermelon and a bottle of Pisco as a way to say thanks for the invite. I walked by 3 or 4 people and a little later, more folks passed through the kitchen. I get no reaction, no thanks, not even a "Kiss my blarney!" Strike 2.

As the rest of the people crawl out of their beds there are some quiet greetings and light conversation...90% of which is Spanish...even though everyone speaks English. I do my best to take part in the conversations with valiant attempts to conjugate Spanish verbs correctly within the context of what I want to say, but by and large, I found myself listening most of the time. I'm used to this, so, I'll call it a "foul tip". Still strike 2.

The conversation I do have in English is with my friend and it's about work and the subject matter, though not important here, is not very positive news. Out of that conversation I have a sense that my word and integrity are questioned which is a TOTAL downer. I feel like poo...Hit by pitch...man on first.

We make our way to the beach and the conversation is quite light. I'm antsy as all hell laying on the beach in silence and after reciting a few syllables to myself, I grab my bottle of H2O and ask if my friend or the others want to take a stroll along the beach. I get one response from the five of them and it's a negative. Force out at second...one out, one on.

As I meander my way through little kids playing in the sand and teenie-weenie bikini-clad chicas, I stumble upon a fisherman. It's amazing how enjoyable a conversation can be with an engaging person even if they don't speak a lick of your native tongue...or vice versa! I talked to Pedro for about 15 minutes...I think we covered everything from how strong his fishing line was to the aftermath of the August 15th earthquake. That was definitely a bright spot in an otherwise cloudy day to that point. Line drive up the middle...runners on first and second.

I return from my little hiatus from the group and things are bit more lively. There's a bit more of a chat going on...I shoot the breeze with the one fella from the group and grab a popsicle with my friend. Intentional walk...bases loaded.

There was a young boy named Ricardo, maybe ten or eleven years old, who was trying to get his dad to throw the frisbee around in front of our little camp. I saw that his dad needed a break, so I went out there and tossed with Ricardo. A few people from the group were coming out from the water and I gave the shout, "Here it comes!"...and watched my throw buzz right by...they being completely uninterested with the flying disk placed within an arm's reach in front of them. Duck snort pop fly to the pitcher...Two away, bases still juiced.

We pick up the things and head back to the house at which point everyone starts doing what seemed to be pre-assigned tasks for getting the afternoon meal ready. One person slips by me to get a package of chicken...another grabs charcoal for a fire. I felt like a lamp-post that was in the wrong place. I couldn't seem to segue into doing something helpful, so, I took a quick shower to rinse the sand and seashell bits from my shorts and orifices. I get done, and when I come out, it's like I'm not there, but I get a hunch that someone might say, "Hey, Scott...it's getting late. Stick around for dinner and let's drink some of that Pisco. We've got two extra beds and it'll be safer for you to head out tomorrow morning."...but, my hunch was wrong...deep flyout to the warning track. Game over.

Now I had to get home. There was what I perceived to be an obligatory offer for a ride to the bus stop, but I wasn't going to take anyone away from their plan...For some reason, I got the impression that I wasn't their most popular guest and I definitely wasn't going to ask for a lift. So, at a little after 4 pm I threw my mesh bag filled with wet trunks, a towel and the essence of Hawaiian Tropic sunscreen permeating from my t-shirt over my shoulder and headed for the bus.

I picked up a bottle of water at a little store next to the highway and as I was paying for it, I asked where I could pick up the bus...The fella selling me the water said he wanted money before he gave me directions. This joker wouldn't even sell me the water. I told the guy he could keep the water and I walked on down the road. For those of you who don't know...that guy fits the definition of "gibroni" to a T. A few kicks down the road I found a friendly hombre waiting tables at a restaurant down the street and picked up a Sprite...my simple gesture of "keep the change"...all of about a quarter...landed me my own on-the-spot travel agent. After a few attempts, he snagged a taxi that would take me to San Bartolo, where I could pick up the omni bus to Cerro Azul.

I arrive to San Bartolo and every omni bus that stops has a destination different than Cerro Azul...what's more is that by and large most the buses simply zipped right by the bus stop. By this time the sun was setting and Scotty was starting to think of Plan B. I finally flagged down a bus driver and told him my situation. He told me to get on, get off at the Mala station, then take a different bus to Cerro Azul. So, that's what I did.

The bus is packed tight, two seats on either side of the isle. I get on and the conductor said, "Gringo...here." I sit in a half-vacant seat...the other other half is taken up by a woman with a garbage bag full of cheap plastic sandals and other items for re-sale and her small daughter wedged between the merchandise and the wall! Good gravy.

We make an intermediate stop and the conductor jumps in and says "Buckle Up!"...Everyone starts dashing around for their seat belts. Of course, my belt is nowhere to be found. I'm digging around Lord knows what on and in the seat to find the belt, but to no avail. The poor lady next to me probably thought I was trying to goose her or something we were packed in there so tight...As it turned out, Johnny, or should I say, Juanny Law, didn't board the bus, so we lucked out. We finally get into Mala (which by the way translates basically into Bad City) and it's bustling around with taxis, three-wheeled motos and street vendors all along the dusty roads giving it the impression that it is bigger than what it really is.

The bus driver was nice enough to point me in the direction of my next bus. A bus would have been nice...what I boarded next was a late model rusty conversion van suitable only to act as a landing pad at a monster truck rally. I was put in the front seat, the door literally falling off the hinges and got a first hand look at the control panel...wires hanging all over...a yellow light flashing every once in awhile, springs here and there. I think the top speed of that jalopy was 75 kph...downhill...and it was astonishing we even made it up the hills. Shocks, working lights, door locks...completely optional equipment on this bad boy.

Finally, after 3 hours of leaving Octopus Beach, I arrived to my destination of Cerro Azul...keeping in mind that it less than an hour to make the trip in the morning. I got home with a headache, a bad attitude and an empty stomach. I ate some leftover pasta, made a phone call or two and then packed it up for the night.

Slept in Sunday...still hungover with a crappy attitude from the previous day...I attempted to make homemade pancakes as you can't get flapjack mix here like you can in the US...no Aunt Jemima, no Bisquick. I mixed flour with an egg, a touch of oil, some water and milk...tossed in an ultra-ripe banana and then a few ground up nuts to be creative...what resulted was more of a bland unleavened crepe-ish conglomerate rather than a light fluffy hot cake. The taste? Not very good. Not sure what ingredient makes a pancake cakey...but that's something I need to work on. Oh how I miss the 100% whole wheatness of the Kodiak Cakes!

Here's to better weekends...and better pancakes!

Scotty