September, 2017
This all begins in the district of Ancón, Perú,
A small vacation town for the elite of Lima in the 1970s, Ancón’s desertic surroundings have now mostly been settled and urbanized.
Just north of the city, lies a pre-Incan necropolis dating back to 8000 BCE.
North of the bay of Ancón and until the next municipality of Chacra, there’s nothing but foggy desert and sandy lomas.
My friend Sebastián from Ancón often ventured into the coastal side of this desert to catch some waves with friends.
He tells me of a time when he traveled where the desert meets the sea.
Sebas got off at the last settlement before the coastal Panamericana plunges into the dunes, trying to meet his friends on the beach.
Walking on the side of the dune, his friends were nowhere to be found and, after hours of wandering, Sebastián was lost.
From the point where he decided to turn back and hitch a ride until the point at which he saw a human being, he does not know how long had passed.
Several trucks stormed by his side, none stopped.
It was night by then.
He walked in a thick foggy darkness only broken by the occasional approaching headlights and subsequent roar of speeding trucks.
He could hear the ocean clamoring beneath him, and felt the humid wind carrying the fog.
Exhausted and starving, he arrived at a settlement, where a woman found him and helped him.
He stops talking, looks me in the eye.
“The whole time I felt a constant tap on my shoulder.
Like somebody trying to get my attention.”
I almost don’t believe him.
“And you never turned?”
“I knew something bad would happen if I turned around.”
“Can you take me there?”
Days later, we are at the market, buying water and food. Board in hand, Sebastián takes me to the bus stop, and we set off.
We pass the last of Ancón, and the desert valley steepens until the road starts to disappear behind the dunes.
The precarious road has claimed its victims, I find as we pass visible car remains at the bottom, where the dune meets the waves.
We arrive at the last settlement and Sebas asks the driver to drop us off farther down, which he objects to at first, for our safety.
Reluctantly, he lets us off in what I can only describe as the middle of nowhere.
The bus leaves. Further ahead, the road bends beyond sight. Up the hill, the top of the dune disappears to the fog.
I look at the horizon, and see none. I look down, and watch the ground as it plummets to sea-level.
We begin our descent, which feels like walking on air, as the sand gives way and lets us slide down the dune.
A pungent stench reaches deep in my nose, and Sebastián points out the decaying carcass of a sea lion.
Once at the bottom, we find a series of huts, some improvised from recycled wood, others built a propos.
All empty, as I am sure we are the only people in a very broad radius.
We choose the hut furthest from the sea lion, and Sebas dives in with his board. Meanwhile I, camera in hand, approach the body.
While Sebas surfs in a place he knew too well, I have never seen a landscape like this in my life.
If solitude had a face, it would look like the beaches of Pasamayo.
The desert becomes the sea in such an unceremonious way, simply ending and giving way to the vast, violent Pacific.
As I walk I see more and more of this violence. The sea lion, three seagulls, a porpoise.
I begin to think of the countless humans that must have lost their lives to the road, to the waves, and suddenly Sebastián’s story is a lot more believable.
Chills now crawl up and down my spine as though they were waves on the sand.
I turn to make my way back, and the sight overwhelms me.
I see… nothing.
It is more frightening than any ghost. This level of vulnerability I haven’t felt anywhere else.
Months after my return,
I found that Sebastián had lost his life to the waves,
doing what he loved the most, on a summer day,
February 3rd, 2018.
Que en paz descanses, amigo.