On Travel Stories Podcast with Hayden Lee. Featuring Jeff Baker

Now featured on Travel Stories Podcast with Hayden Lee.  Jeff is telling his story “Can an Ocean Rise Up From The Ocean”, from our time in Peru, March 2016.

LISTEN NOW, “Can an Ocean Rise Up From the Desert:,  (Picture Gallery below)

COPY OF STORY:   is there such a thing as an advanced traveler? How about Intermediate? After touring Europe and most of the US, I wanted to reach the next level, but how?

The bus started rolling and the hustle and bustle of Lima gave way to a lonesome narrow highway running along the blue-grey ocean water. The sky was clear and brilliant. Everything looked pleasant – even the rock covered hills and desert plains. Occasional green pastures and rows of neatly planted trees and bushes passed by. A warm feeling began to arise inside me, then our bus entered a small village.

Most everything in site looked unfinished. I noticed a structure I presumed to be somebody’s home, I wanted to think that three walls were erected with full intention of a forth wall. This was  unsettling to me –  considering my plans to rest my head and enter unconsciousness within one of these structures.

Laundry was strung any place a line could be anchored, hand painted signs hung haphazardly above doorways – stray dogs roamed and vendors sold wares among barefoot kids kicking anything that didn’t make their feet bleed.

All right, nobody put a gun to my head and forced me to choose South America for a month of travel. We could have returned to London or Paris where buildings for the most part stay erect and the standard of living seems to exceed our own. Those cities are the prom queens of geographic location aren’t they?, blessed by God himself – looking fabulous without makeup  at the crack of dawn.

Outside my bus window it looked more like the girl next door. Or – like the bad boy she used to date…whos’ outside with a bunch of his cousins. . .and they have crow bars

 turned from the window and faced Donna “Glad we are staying in Ica and not a place that looks like this. She returned a half smile and I sunk I bit deeper into my seat. As we returned to the highway I felt relief as our bus passed sun-illuminated fields of green. A sheep herder lead his flocks along the shoulder and I wished I had a canvas and palette of oils. It was the perfect time for Donna to announce our next stop would be Ica. Certainly it would be nicer than that last village. It was the place the Spanish deemed ideal to plant vineyards and make wine. Tuscany, Bourduex, and Napa Valley came to mind. I closed my eyes and watched photos dance across my mind  – wineries with their tree-lined roadways leading to colonial era mansions…

Sandy cliffs plunging to the palm tree lined lagoon of Huacachina, The yachts cruising past modern seaside mansions in Paracas.

I took a deep breath and imagined the family- owned fruit farm where we planned to stay. There we’d lounge on wicker rocking chairs atop the tile floored veranda of the plantation house, in the wind path of an antique fan we’d hold chilled glasses of pureed exotic fruit harvested from the assortment of beautiful trees swaying in our sight beyond. A twinge of excitement came over me as the bus downshifted

“Let’s go Jeffery, This is Ica” Donna started stuffing things into her pack. I opened my eyes and looked out the window. My intestines began to tie a square knot.

The smiling Luis met us in the lobby. We paid a flat fee to stay in his family home/ plantation and get his guide services. I’d put him in his mid thirties.A good looking fellow that reminded me of a younger Harvey Kytel. He seemed fit and was probably one of those guys who never try out for a team – The types that show up and the coach assumes they are an ascendant of Carl Lewis or Jim Thorpe. As impressive as he was in stature, he didn’t exactly have the looks of a plantation owner.

“Have you enjoyed your trip been so far? He asked, loading the packs into the back of his Chevy SUV.

“Great.” I said realizing something was different. – his English was strong. He told us he lived in Atlanta for several years. After a week in Lima struggling with the local language, it was nice to converse freely, so nice it took my mind off the buildings passing by…

Luis pulled into an unassuming residential neighborhood and stopped at the driveway of a house. He dialed his cell phone and a few moments later a young man that sort of looked like him emerged and opened the garage door. Perhaps the plan was to pick this guy up and give him a lift to the plantation. Luis pulled the car into the gated carport.

“This is it”  

This is the plantation?

The house was four stories tall and relatively modern. Parts look to have been remodeled recently. Luis lead us up to an outdoor area on the third level. Once there I heard a strange voice coming through a mega phone that reminded me of those sunrise prayers blasted over Tehran in the movie Argo. Luis tells me it was the local bread peddler as he opened up a small suite at one end. Donna and I were surprised to see a newly remodeled bedroom and private bath with lots of marble tile and slate – like a hotel room you’d find in Palm Springs. “You like it?” he asked and smiled when he saw our response. As we unpacked, I heard another amplified voice from the street – this time a woman. From our window I peered down at the street and watched her makeshift bicycle cart hauling an insulated case of ice cream.

Later I returned to the balcony and with my elbows resting on the rail, continued studying our neighborhood. A red brick building looked to be still suffering from the 2007 earthquake. It was half-covered by a huge leafy tree that was now brilliantly illuminated by the rays of the setting sun.  In the near distance I spotted a small park where children kicked a soccer ball across a tiled playground. On the roof top of the building next door, I watched a woman carry a small pot of flowers. She waved at me and smiled.

Eventually,  Donna and I rested our road weary bodies on a brand new bed with fresh sheets. The cross wind from two windows felt wonderful and lulled us to sleep.

My eyes opened when an all-to familiar sound attached my eardrums. I sat up and cursed the rooster in the chicken pen below our window. Morning already? Technically, Yes – My watch read 2 AM. When my hearbeat returned to normal, I fell back asleep only to be awoken again an hour later. I lay awake staring at a black sky and cursing the internal clock of the feathery fellow below. Sure as shootin’ another one rung out, but this time something else stood out –  I could hear the faint crowing of other roosters in the distance, after a moment, our guy ruffled his feathers a bit then cried out. Was he protesting the pre-mature crowing of his peers?  

When my alarm rang, I was thankful that Donna was blessed with a goodnight sleep, and even more thankful that Luis would be driving all day. Our plan was to visit the beach town of Paracas an hour drive west. I packed my sun screen and prayed that our agenda would include a lounge chair on the sand.  

Paracas was more of a marina than a sandy California-type beach. It’s primary draw was to ferry  visitors out to see the marine and bird live of the Bellestas Islands. We’d be joining the crowds later that day, but first up was a visit to the Paracas national park. We followed Luis past the touristy shops and cafes. I nearly fell over when a dog almost flew into me. Okay it was actually a pelican, but still. Another one was perched atop a railing and looked quite bored as a local man tried desperately to talk a woman into posing next to it. It was amusing to watch her resisting his insistence. A long line of tourists waited along a dock. Between us and them sat a small boat on which an older man – I assume a hand – stood on deck removing his shirt. Followed by his pants – and yes – he’d gone commando that day. With less than impressive family jewels hanging for all to see. He fiddled with his swimming trunks for what seemed like an eternity while blushing ladies turned away or buried their eyes in the shoulders of their incredulous boyfriends. A nearby security guard watched the entire ordeal and –  was actually yawning.

A few miles down the road was the entrance to the Paracas National Park. Luis rolled down his window and gave a ranger tickets and passports. At the grand canyon or Yosemite the ranger booth sits in the middle of breathtaking scenery. Paracas was nothing like that. The key word here is Nothing. Because it had a lot of that. It made California’s San Joaquin valley look like the rain forest.

“No Life” Luis said.

“No plants? No animals?” I asked

“Nothing.”

Acres and acres of flat sandy nothingness passed outside our window. Luis told us the paved road beneath us was new and I felt grateful they installed it before our visit. I could not imagine navigating nothing without something. I began to feel a little embarrassed. Was this all there was of this national park? I recalled recent visits to Grand Canyon and Crater Lake, two national parks we’d visited within the past year. Both celebrate holes in the ground, but at least those holes were surrounded by – “something”.

This place was deemed a national park by the higher ups of Peru, so there must be something good about it – One could pitch a tent and not worry about hanging a bear bag. Or – well that’s all I could think of…

As miles clicked off I felt more unsettled. Our nature as a hunters and gatherers must keep us on a constant search for life, no matter how civilized we think we are. Why did I suddenly feel like a Nomad in search of a home? Such a parched landscape summoned an inner voice that advised me to move on – quickly.

Eventually something came into view. It looked as though an ocean was rising up from the middle of the desert. Beyond were hazy blue mountains, containing our little sea. Waves lapped the shore. We got out and hiked down a rocky path to a small sandy beach that looked to have been carved into the base of a cliff. “La Mina Beach” Luis said. There, a small group played in the crystal clear waters. We took off our sandals and waded into the refreshing water. Luis explained how we’d traversed the base of a peninsula and arrived at a bay on the other side, hence the illusion of a sea appearing out of nowhere. Tents were set up on the sand and I envied those who could spend the entire day here, let alone a few days.

Down the road was Red  Beach, named after the deep burgundy sand . We stood above the crashing waves and green moss covered rocks. It was spectacular. Donna went on a photograph binge, but I remained there on a small cliff, just staring out at the blue sea and those distant mountains. A feeling of rightness and well being came over me.  I couldn’t remember the last time something had such an effect on me. A range of other emotions started in  –including a little bit of guilt.

Could it be that reaching the next level wasn’t about doing or going, rather not doing – like not trying to reconcile my expectations. As I pondered this notion, I felt a strong hand on my shoulder. It was Luis – “do you like it?” he asked.

Yes I replied – Its not what I expected – it’s more.