CHICAMA

The wave at Chicama is supposed to be the little brother to Pascasmayo, generally smaller but longer. It's a couple of hours south and involves a couple of rickety local buses, the first arriving to a very dodgy town called Paijan. All we knew about the place was to not spend very long there. We got dropped on the hectic main road in the centre of town with trucks, busses, tuk tuks weaving in and out of each other. The air was wobbly and full of dust. We asked a tuk tuk driver to take us directly to the bus station in hope of finding a collectivo (shared local taxi) or kombi (Mini bus) to take us to the coast. He saw us coming a mile off and charged us two soles for the two minute trip. We probably spent longer crossing the road than he did driving the two hundred or so meters to the station. What a pair of mugs, however it was so hot and still we didn't mind too much.

At the bus station a sweaty man in a grubby shirt hurried over shouting "Chicama Puerto". It was so hot we would have taken anything to get to the ocean asap. Before we knew it our bags were in the boot, a local family were crammed into the back and H and I were squished onto the front passenger seat of what was left of a battered old car. This vehicle and most of the others in the bus station looked like they should have been crushed years ago. It took quite a lot of slamming to get the door to close which was a tad unnerving plus the driver was on his phone the whole way and the speedometer constantly said we were traveling at 0kmph. It was so tight every time we made it into fifth gear I got a dead leg, luckily due to the state of the car this didn't happen often, however I still held onto that door for dear life so as not to loose H.

We eventually coughed and spluttered our way into Puerto Chicama. It was bigger than Lobitos and smaller than Pascasmayo. The north end of town was home to a number of ugly looking fish grinding factories, however the southern end of town was home to Peru's most famous wave and a number of surf hostels.

We had been recommended a place called El Hombre, a big blue box on the cliff tops overlooking a section of the wave. According to a few guys we chatted to in Pacasmayo, it's a bit of a Chicama institution and the family that run it are legendary. As we walked in, the owner, a small, batty but very smiley lady called Doris instantly started calling us her English Amigos. Without warning she burst out laughing and never stoped muttering and chuckling in super fast Spanish. We instantly took a liking to her. We tried asking her to slow down a little, but she just laughed and talked even quicker. I have no idea what she was rambling on about or what she had been smoking, however somehow her excitement rubbed off on us. We took a little room with a sea view.

We took lunch in a wonky back road restaurant recommended by our collectivo driver. A familiar looking guy was sitting on the table next to us. His name was Xoel and it turned out he was one of the Spanish guys I surfed with in Lobitos. I think the heat was getting to Helen as she had to ask the waitress to explain what "brócoli" was. She explained that "brócoli" was a little green vegetable and ran off to find some, Helen instantly became a little red human. A rusty red pick up truck came clattering up the road and pulled up in front of us kicking up a small dust cloud. A crackled voice was shouting constantly out of a mega phone attached to the roof, we though this must be some sort of political advertisement. As it turned out they were just selling freshly squeezed nectarine juice and large tubs of home made dulce de leche. I wanted lots of each but Helen said we didn't need a massive tub of dulce de leche. Reluctantly I agreed and quietly drank my juice.

We just chilled on the beach in the afternoon and evening as the sun set over the point. I managed to find a board for the morning and arranged with Xoel and a friend of his called Leigh to meet on the cliff tops at 7am. As we wandered home a tuk tuk pulled up near our hostel. Like the suped-up boy racer cars of dodgier parts of Birmingham, the entire boot section of this tuk tuk was full of neon lit speakers. Three middle aged guys stood around it blasting Red Hot Chilli Peppers on repeat and drinking beer. Every now and then they would try to impress a passer by with a drunken wiggle of the hips. The music finally stopped round dawn when I got up to surf.

A new swell had kicked in over night and clean lines were visible in the distance on the point. Leigh appeared first and soon we were paddling out at Peru's most famous wave. It wasn't massive, probably only shoulder high on the set, however it was breaking like a machine crumbling along the point for hundreds of meters. I quickly bagged some of the longest waves of the trip, if not my life. It was by no means picture perfect Chicama but it was good enough for me. I noticed many surfers walking past the point into the next cove where there was another point break that looked bigger and more consistent than the main point. Me and Xoel walked round the headland and were greeted by slightly over head, perfectly peeling lines.

The rip was pretty strong paddling out to the point and it took constant paddling to hold position in between sets. Just as a good looking wave was building behind me a little motor boat zoomed past dropped four fresh armed surfers in front of me, giving them the priority. I now understand why many surfers here complain about the boats. "It's not proper surfing"... "If you can't paddle then you shouldn't be surfing the point"... The four guys caught all the waves in the set leaving me still trying to hold position at the point. This really pissed me off, however I was also considering asking how much it would cost to join them. Luckily I bagged the first wave of the next set before the boat could drop them back. Apparently when the waves are big and the currents even bigger there can be up to ten boats out here zipping surfers back up to the top of the point. These were some of the longest waves I have paddled into and before I knew it, it was nearly lunch time. I stopped fighting against the current and within four long waves I was quickly back out the front of the hostel. Helen was relaxing under a shady tree opposite.

The sand was now scorching and I had to run up the dunes like a 100m sprinter. Later on we watched a man leap onto a paper bag drifting up the beach in the sea breeze. He waited thirty seconds to give his poor feet some respite before continuing the sprint. It became quite the spectators sport watching various people's techniques. My favourite are the slightly muscular guys in tight vests who start all confident strutting over the sand then slowly speed up to a flouncy skip.

In the afternoon Helen asked Doris for a board from the hostel and had a go. Unfortunately due to the rip, the speed of the shallow breaking waves and the fact she was still not feeling 100% made for a short session and after a few short rides she was done. Annoyingly some prick had stolen my flip flops I had left on the beach. My eyes filled with tears, not because I had lost a good pair of flip flops, but now for the second time today I had to sprint up the sand dunes for everyone else's amusement. I spent the rest of the afternoon angrily looking at every passerby's feet.

We decided to hide from the heat of the day up on the hostel balcony / terrace. A slightly out of tune horn sound, similar to the fruit man in Lobitos echoed in the distance then got continually louder. A tuk tuk pulled up below us full of bread and pastries. It was a dream come true for a bread-a-holic such as myself. "The Bread Man is here" I shouted to Helen and raced downstairs in excitement. After demolishing two massive alfajores (dulce de leche centred shortbreads) and various other treats I trotted back up to the balcony on a sugar induced high.

Later in the afternoon we heard another unusual noise, this time more of a squeaky honk, similar to a vintage motor car. I peered over the balcony again and saw an Ice Cream Man pushing a small tricycle with a bright multicoloured crate on the front. After the success of Bread Man we had to sample the delights of the Ice Cream Man. It turned out you couldn't really order a flavour because his one tub was a fluorescent mix of green, yellow and pink. To be honest it tasted pretty horrid and chemically. Being such a hot day I finished mine and most of Helen's, then felt adequately sick.

We watched the sun set again before joining Xoel and Leigh at Hostel Burrito for dinner. Bet you can't guess what we ate. On our way home the party tuk tuk was back, as were the Red Hot Chilli Peppers.

I decided to paddle out at first light the following morning before the motor boats were awake. The waves were a little smaller than yesterday, however for the first half hour or so I had the pick of the sets and got some really long rides. My legs were a bit shaky as I jogged back up to the point to paddle back out. There were a couple of photographers on the shore, so I asked them if they could take a few shots of me. Annoyingly this thought didn't occur to me the day before when the waves were a lot more impressive. It didn't take long for the boats to put an end to my high wave count, but I wasn't too annoyed as I had had some great rides and my shoulders were burning. I caught a few waves back down into the village and met H for lunch. It had been another long session (four hours) and I was in trouble, after nearly two weeks of surfing Peru's coasts I was faced with the decision to either leave Helen or leave the coast. (Of course I picked H).

Helen was finally back to her old self and was feeling strong enough to head into the mountains in Huaraz to do some climbing. We decided to leave that night. To celebrate H's recovery we went in search of a tiny local restaurant our collectivo driver pointed out as we rattled through the village. Probably a bit risky so soon after H's stomach bug, but she was desperate for something other than plain rice and pasta. It was called Ivones and was crammed with locals and didn't disappoint.

Before catching our bus to the mountains I jogged down to the point to catch a last few waves. Luckily I had the point to myself due to the fierce afternoon sun. It has been great surfing down this stretch of coast but now it was time for a change. With painful shoulders, sore knees and a bright pink burnt nose I climbed aboard the first of two busses out of here. Our destination was the Cordillera mountains so H could climb and I could recuperate.