LOBITOS

Lobitos is a tiny coastal village to the north of Peru. As we were in Arica, a coastal city in the north of Chile this meant embarking on a couple of mammoth 20 hour bus journeys. It's a bit of an unusual route choice, however as we eventually want to fly to Iquitos in the jungle from Lima, this was the only way we could explore Peru's northern surf coast.

We crossed to the Peruvian border town of Tanaca using a local bus for about £2.50. Don't try and smuggle any fruit or veg, we were caught with an perfectly ripe avocado for lunch! I could almost hear the conversation now... "What are you in for.", "Veg smuggling". We asked if we could eat the evidence, but the guard just threw it in the bin and waved us on. In Tanaca we booked the first leg was with bus company 'Flores'. A 21 hour journey from Tacna to Lima. It was much cheaper than Cruz Del Sur (90 soles instead of 140soles) and we decided to give them a chance. To our horror, after the guy cleared up the rubbish from dinner, he stopped the bus and threw the rubbish bag out the door where it rolled down a hill. DO NOT USE FLORES BUSES !!!

The second leg was with trusty Cruz Del Sur from Lima to Talara. This company is the most expensive in Peru because everyone gets their own tv screen and super luxury seats, kind of like business class on an aeroplane. Our bus attendant welcomed us on board and our Spanish still isn't great but it seemed like he told us only weeing was allowed in the toilet and we should tell him if we needed to go for anything else...!

As we rolled in to Talara the pale buildings wobbled in the heat. A tuk tuk driver, taxi driver and motorbike driver walked into the bus terminal (this could be the beginning of a joke) and hurried over as we disembarked. They all knew we wanted to go to Lobitos, about a 45minute drive, and they all wanted to keep quiet about the Combis (locally run mini buses) that go there frequently. We had already read about the Combis and eventually managed to get the taxi driver to give in and drive us a few blocks to where they leave from.

Every seven or so years the effects of El Niño (Giant Pacific storm system) wash away many roads and bits of town in this region of Peru. Over the last two years we have got pretty good at accidentally visiting places in the off season, but this was a whole new level. As part of the costal road was missing presumed dead, we had to take the inland route and cross a section of road more bumpy and untrustworthy than anything we had just experienced crossing the mountains from Bolivia to Chile.

Lobitos is a small battered fishing village sandwiched between an abandoned military base and a vast oil field. At the northern end of the beach, ocean battered fishing boats litter the sand at the foot of a crooked pier, next to the rotting legs of an old one. Out to sea the skeletons of dozens of oil rigs are dotted on the horizon towering over any boat that ventures near. The surrounding landscape is quite depressing and almost apocalyptic. Giant dinosaur like oil pumps guard patches of dusty dessert, continuously nodding with irregular clicking and squeaking sounds like a buggered metronome. Someone should oil them! At night the flames from the refineries turn the sky orange. Not only is Lobitos home to a large amount of fish and oil it is also home to a large amount of waves. This is Lobitos's trump card and is why hundreds of surfers make the bumpy journey here through the rubbish strewn dessert.

Within five minutes of arriving without a clue about where to stay or even which direction to walk a ute pulled up with a blonde haired surfer called Mono hanging out the window, he said to throw our stuff in the back and then drove about trying to find us a place to crash. He seemed to know everyone and within five mins had put us in touch with a girl called Rosie who was looking after a Hostel called Wayra for some friends in the off season. She said she was from Penzance and we instantly started to reminisce about Cornwall. She has lived here for three years with her fellow, a local guy called Bocito. I think it's a nickname which translates to 'Small Mouth'. Over the week they introduced us to many of their friends and a few times I joined Bocito and his mates on morning surf trips. There were a few others staying in Wayra whilst we were there, Zoe from the states, Maria from Madrid, Lauren from Switzerland, Boris and Raphael a couple of friends of the owner, Quinoa a friendly cat and Jason, a panting lump of a dog who rarely shows any emotion or excitement. I really liked him.

Our room was great with big windows and a patio out front which looked over Lobitos's famous point break. We would end most days with an evening surf then grab a couple of beers and watch the sun sets. They were pretty special.

Due to the resent rains lots of the town had slid down the hillside onto the beach, in fact a massive section of the main road had collapsed. Rosie said until recently the roads in and out had been impassable and the only way to come and go was by boat. For me this added to the charm and slightly adventurous picture of Lobitos I was building in my head... until mid week when the small number of restaurants and shops were running out of supplies. Most things I wasn't too bothered about, but the lack of beer to wash down dinner instantly popped the tranquil bubble I was living in and caused me to grumble. Luckily the village shop never completely ran dry.

Most days followed the same pattern. Wake up, surf, breakfast, surf, lunch, surf, dinner, beer, bed. In the gaps we explored the cracked dusty streets of old wooden colonial buildings that give this little village its charm. Apparently most of them were built by the British when they came looking for oil. Many now are either derelict or have been converted into bohemian little hostels or restaurants. 

Unfortunately not only had we arrived here in the off season for the weather we also had arrived here in the offseason for surf, as the southern swells had left and the northern swells hadn't quite arrived. This meant the picture perfect point breaks Lobitos is famed for and my friend Johnny swears by were not really working properly. I still scored some good waves so I shouldn't grumble, however I did grumble.

We surfed a number of places over the week, mostly a break called Piscinas, a left hand point break behind a tidal swimming pool cut into the rocky headland. It's in the middle of the abandoned military base which makes for an interesting setting. There also is a little hostel there called El Cuartal which does really good burgers and overlooks the wave.

Another good wave came one morning when Bocito gave me a knock round 6:45am saying 'Golf?' I thought it was pretty early for such things and that it was a little out of character for a surf obsessed fisherman living in a dessert. It turned out Golf was a beach break at the bottom of a valley which the Americans (Whenever they were here) used as a rustic golf course. The waves were over head and we scored some good rides but the rip was a killer for the arms and shoulders.

One afternoon I went for a long walk in search of a better wave. I walked south round the coast after clocking a few surfers heading in that direction. It was an eventful trip. Firstly after following a cracked dusty track made of sharp rock and rubbish (which I later had to dig out of my foot with a penknife), I rounded the headland and jogged down to the sand to give my sore feet a rest. Little did I know at the bottom of the slope was a deep layer of wet mud that had a sneaky layer of sand which had blown over the top. Before I knew it I looked like I had shat my self and unsuccessfully tried to clean it up with my surfboard. A trail of brown foot prints scarred the postcard perfect beach as I made for the ocean to wash off. There were no waves or (luckily) people here to witness, just me feeling sorry for my self. I carried on along the coast and could just make out a distant wave breaking away from some rocks a fair way off. However in between me and it was a sheer cliff, a lot of oil extraction equipment and a large flaming refinery. I climbed up the cliff and tip toed across the scorching hot dried mud road. Soon I was inline with three surfers and the breaking waves, however I was fifty feet up. I kept waking and eventually asked three oil technicians outside the refinery how I get down. I had to walk even further and climb down onto a different beach round another headland then pick my way round on the lower rocks, nearly stepping in a dead seal which evidently was having a worse day than I was. Luckily the wave was worth it and the three guys from Spain were good company. I asked now they got here and they pointed out a gap in the cliff revealing a simple sloped sand dune to the top which I had missed one cove down from the one where I had my mud bath.

One evening we went for food at Mono's roast chicken place. When we arrived a family were just finishing up and the kids were glued to a Spanish dubbed version of Babe. A bunch of guys I recognised from the water strolled in and sat a few tables down and soon we were all hooked. An uneasy moment arose when the family left, but luckily no one thought to change the channel. Me, H and three other grown men sat quietly eating chicken and watching a pig.

In the afternoon at some point towards the end of the week I heard an odd sharp horn sound, kind of like someone learning the trumpet but just making a hollow breathy sound. Bocito and a few others from the hostel ran out onto the road as this means the fruit man is in town. He was a sun baked smiley chap with a van piled high of fresh fruits and veg. No one knows when he will arrive so when his truck pulls into town it's a big deal. I bought a massive pineapple and two of the most juicy sweet mangos I have ever tasted.

The day before we planned to leave H started feeling really weak, then hot, then achy. It seemed like she had developed a small fever. We decided to stay an extra night as the thought talking the crazy dirt road back to the highway might have been the final straw. That night we saw for ourselves the effects of El Nino. A storm system rolled in around 4am bringing with it crazy amounts of thunder, lighting and heavy rain. Headlights raced up the beach as beach house owners hastily removed their 4x4s from the muddy sand before it was too late. It was so heavy we were unsure weather the roads out of Lobitos would be passable. In the morning more of the already crumbled road was missing as was the regular toot toot of the mini busses to Talara. Helen was feeling a tad better, but not well enough for the boat out of here. The only other option when the rains come.

We spent a fun moment watching a bunch of guys try and rescue a bogged 4x4 from the mud. One by one it seemed the whole village got involved as each passing bloke couldn't help giving their 50 cents worth. They were at it for a ages and soon we lost interest, however a while later a five guys walked up the street covered from head to toe in mud followed by a brown 4x4.

Luckily late afternoon after a lazy day, a small surf and a lunch time beer, we noticed the buses were back as they tooted their way around the village. The day had been a hot one and baked the muddy roads into a passable state. We packed up, said our good byes, then part shook, part slid our way out of town back on to the highway. Our next stop would be Pascasmayo, twelve hours down the highway and home to one of Peru's longest waves.