Noise

Trip Start Sep 28, 2011
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Saturday, April 21, 2012

Chan-Chan is a massive archaeological site discovered not so long ago in and around Trujillo.  We don't go there.  We sleep late and have a lazy day wandering around the city, eating some decent grub and taking a few pictures.  I manage to order some contact lenses, Paddy buys new sunglasses, we do laundry and get accosted by an English speaking suspected rapist either trying to be very helpful or get us in the back of a van.  We catch snippets of El Classico, which in spite of being one of the biggest football games of the year (everyone is either Barcelona or Real Madrid here) the only TV we find showing the contest is a big screen in the window of a casino.  You can't see anything because of the bright sunshine and the crowd that blocks the street eager to watch their heroes.  Right on cue at the final whistle an entrepreneurial type hidden in the masses enrolls a stack of Real Madrid team posters.  You can't blame the lad for trying.

Trujillo is a nice enough town, with a decent plaza, good restaurants and friendly people.  What spoils the whole set up, is the taxi drivers.  In particular their inability to go more than a few feet without blasting on their horn.  The noise is almost unbearable, and it will really get on your wick.  So much so you'll find yourself getting road rage as a pedestrian.  There is absolutely no need for it.  Waiting two seconds behind another vehicle;  BEEEEEP!!  Approaching a crossroad;  BEEEEEP!!  BIP!!  Upon spotting you going for a run;  BIP!! BEEEP!! MEEEEEP!! BIP!! BIP!!  It will drive you crazy.

Yes I said going for a run.  I went for one with the best of intentions of at least trying to keep my extra stone at bay.  Why I want a taxi when I'm jogging around the city centre with a bottle of water I don't know.  Three in a row sometimes.  I don't get in the first one, I don't get in the second one, so I'm not going to have changed my mind and want the third one am I?  BBBEEEEEEEEEEP!!  For the love of god; pack it in.  Bring in a tax.

Most travelers tend to stay in the small beach town of Huanchaco.  This is exactly why we don't stay there.  Trujillo is pretty much devoid of gringos at the moment, which suits Paddy as he much prefers to go local.  We're out far too early once again, getting blocked in a microbrewery called Hops.  The two pint pitchers go down a little too easily, and before long we have once again cock blocked ourselves.  I find myself sitting on a beach as the sun comes up playing bad covers to a load of Huanchaco residents demanding Bob Marley.  I've got Oasis and Damien Rice in my locker when this pissed.  Paddy doesn't recall much, except for chasing bar staff around with a pad and a pen.  I'd been following an average looking English girl who goes home with an Australian sporting a gut similar to a pregnant alcoholic pie-eater.  Bang goes my excuse for not being in good shape.  I slink off with a sandy guitar, gritty hair, a puzzled expression and a lot of shame.  That new leaf I've been promising; it's time to turn it over.









 

 

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