Lobitos,

Un mar de recuerdos
A Sea of Memories

Texto y fotos / Text and photos: Rolly Valdivia Chvez

88 an Per Camino Peruano Camino Peruano an Per 89

No s por dnde comenzar. Pienso, escribo, borro mis palabras. Lo intento una y otra vez. Nada. Mis frases son grises, no convencen, tampoco emocionan. Quizs debera posponer esta historia, alejarme del teclado y salir en busca de la inspiracin. Podra encontrarla en la arena o en las olas de ese mar que est all afuera. No es mala idea. Salgo para respirar a pulmn lleno. Vuelvo a mi refugio temporal. Mi escape fue intil. No encontr la inspiracin, solo gente, mucha gente, demasiada gente. Una multitud entregada al bullicio, al furor, al caos veraniego que convierte a algunas playas en bares o pistas de bailes, en ferias en las que se vende de todo y, a veces, hasta en tierras de nadie en la que se roba y se delinque con total impunidad. Disculpen mis palabras. Estoy alterado, molesto, acorralado por esa msica estridente que no deja de martillear en mis tmpanos. Eso no es lo que buscaba. Eso fue lo que encontr, entonces, mis recuerdos me llevan a otra orilla de este mismo mar, pero localizada mucho ms al norte, en la regin Piura, en la provincia de Talara, en el distrito de Lobitos, a 1121 kilmetros de Lima. Al tacho con la inspiracin. Escribir ese relato viajero que la desidia me ordenaba a posponer. Solo espero que las palabras me hagan olvidar las imgenes que acabo de ver all afuera. Si eso ocurre me sentir ms tranquilo, no, Tranquilo no, se llama Tranquilino y le dicen Tranqui, me dijeron en Los rganos (otro de los distritos de Talara), al anunciar que partira hacia Lobitos. Don Tranqui, lo sabra despus, es uno de los residentes insignes de una localidad que fue el campamento petrolero de una compaa inglesa a principios del siglo XX, pero que termin convertido en zona militar. Hoy es una especie de pueblo fantasma o territorio arrasado, no por la furia de las olas o los remezones de un violento terremoto, sino por la codicia de una banda de malhechores. Por obvias razones no se llevaron el mar. Pero s el muelle y hasta los tanques de agua. La iglesia se salv de milagro o por temor a la justicia divina. Eso solo lo saben los perpetradores de semejante atentado contra el patrimonio arquitectnico. No don Tranquilino ni el par de surfistas que devoran un pescadito frito en el porche de esa casa monumental que es tambin un restaurante y una bodega.

I dont know where to start. I think, write and then erase my words. I try again and again. Nothing. My words are gray, unconvincing and uninteresting. Perhaps I should postpone this story, get away from the keyboard and go out in search of inspiration. Its not a bad idea. I go outside and fill my lungs. I returned to my temporary refuge. My exit had been fruitless. I had found no inspiration, just people, a lot of people. Too many people. A mass of individuals enveloped in the noise and frenzied movement of the summertime crowds that transform beaches, bars and dance floors into spaces where everything is for sale, or occasionally even into a no-mans land where offenses are committed with impunity. Forgive my words. I am upset, angry, penned in by the strident music that hammers unrelentingly at my eardrums. That is not what I had been looking for. But that is what I had found, and so I let my memories carry me to another shore of that same sea, located much farther north, in the region of Piura, the province of Talara, in the district of Lobitos, 1121 kilometers from Lima. To hell with inspiration. I will write that travelers tale which idleness had caused me to put off. My only hope is that the words will help me to forget the scenes I have just witnessed outside. If I can achieve that then I will feel calmer, tranquilo No, its not Tranquilo. His name is Tranquilino and they call him Tranqui, they told me in Los rganos (another district of Talara), when I said I was heading for Lobitos. Don Tranqui, I would learn later, is one of the most famous residents of a district which started life as the drilling camp of an English oil company in the early 20th century and was then transformed into a militarized zone. Today it is something of a ghost town or wasteland, and this is not the result of the fury of the waves or the effects of an earthquake, but rather the greed of a bunch of delinquents. Of course, they couldnt take the sea. But they did make off with the pier and even the water tanks. The church was saved, either by a miracle or fear of divine justice. Only the perpetrators of that assault on the nations architectural heritage know the answer to that, not Don Tranquilino or the pair of surfers devouring fried fish on the porch of that monumental structure which is both a restaurant and a store.

Entre las nubes. El sol pinta el atardecer con sus rayos dorados, entonces, Lobitos se llena de sombras y claroscuros. In the clouds: As the sun paints the sky with its golden rays, Lobitos is flooded with light and shadow.

All vive el personaje del que me hablaron en Los rganos. All se aprovisionan o piden un buen men los viajeros que buscan olas retadoras y playas sin multitudes. Tambin vendran quienes gustan de las construcciones antiguas, pero las casas de pino oregon del tiempo de los ingleses estn heridas de muerte, por la avidez de unos delincuentes que, segn varias denuncias, vestan el uniforme de la patria. Pueblo en ruinas, mar vigoroso. Contradicciones en una zona costera de viento alborotado. Calorcito prometedor. Orillas amplias que invitan a caminar siguiendo los susurros de la brisa. Aguas inquietas ideales para la prctica de diversos deportes nuticos, como la tabla, el bodyboard, el windsurf y el kitesurf. Un escenario muy distinto al que recorr hace tan solo unos minutos. S, quisiera estar en Lobitos, en su muelle, en su plaza que es pura tierra o en el atrio de su iglesia cerrada. Quisiera baarme en sus aguas y observar un encendido atardecer pero no es posible, estoy en este cuarto que me sirve de refugio ante el caos veraniego que me acorrala y atormenta. Solo me queda recordar y escribir hasta que encuentre una manera de terminar esta historia. Ya s, culpar a la inspiracin. Dir que sigue ausente. Dir que se qued en Lobitos.

That is where the character they had told me about in Los rganos lives. That is where those travelers who come in search of challenging waves and little-known beaches buy their provisions or eat a good meal. Others come because they like to look at old buildings, but the Oregon pine houses from the time the English were here are wrecked now, destroyed by vandals who, according to several accounts, wore the uniform of the nations military. The ruined town lies next to the living ocean. In that coastal region of occasionally rough winds, it is warm in Lobitos and the wide beaches invite one to walk in the sea breeze. The waves are ideal for water sports including surfing, body boarding, windsurfing and kite surfing. It is a very different place from the one I walked through before sitting down and writing these words. Yes, I would like to be in Lobitos, on its wharf, in the main square with its earthen surface, or in the atrium of the redundant church. I would like to bathe in those waters and watch the bright red sunset But that is not possible. I am here in this room, seeking refuge from the summer chaos that surrounds and torments me. All I can do is remember and write, until I find a way to finish this story. I know. Ill blame the muses. Ill say they are not here. Ill say that I left them behind in Lobitos.
Camino Peruano an Per 91

90 an Per Camino Peruano