La Libertad Human Connections

A fisherman at El Muelle showed me how to tie a fishing knot early one morning and I made a very proud mess. He took it apart in two seconds, tied it again at my speed, and said, again. I did it eleven times. On the twelfth he nodded. I felt like I had passed an exam I had not signed up for. It is the only knot I know. It holds. I have tied it to a door, a bicycle, and a bag of oranges, and I would like him to know that none of them have moved.

A pelican followed you the whole length of Playa La Paz, three steps behind, eyeing your sandwich with deep ambition. You did not give in. You sped up. It sped up. I was on the sand watching two creatures in a very old negotiation. At the end you ate the sandwich in one bite, turned, and spread your hands to show the pelican there was nothing left. It left in shame. I saw it again on Tuesday. It was not following anyone. It looked different.

The power went out at dusk in La Libertad. The whole street ended up on their front steps with candles, radios and plastic chairs. A neighbour I did not know passed me a cup of coffee. Someone started a story about a storm from years ago and it went on for three hours. When the lights came back, nobody went in right away. We sat there another ten minutes in the light. I do not remember the story. I remember the coffee, and that nobody wanted to be first.

I stood completely lost in the fish market in La Libertad at nine in the morning and a woman behind a counter looked at me and started pointing. This one for ceviche, this one for the grill, this one tomorrow. She wrote the prices on my hand with a pen so I would remember. I walked out with enough fish for two days and a very honest receipt. I did not wash my hand for six hours. The ink was a little blue. The numbers were right.

In my first week in La Libertad I went to the fish market at noon, like a man who eats lunch at noon. There was one tray of fish left and a man hosing the floor. The morning is when it happens, I was told, politely. I came back the next day early and the place was loud and busy, with fish that looked like it had been in the sea fairly recently. I bought some, took it home and cooked it badly. The fish was not at fault.

I stood in the shallows at Playa La Paz one Saturday morning for twenty minutes, unable to decide when to go in. An older man with a board under his arm said, count seven, then go. He stayed next to me for my first six waves and said nothing after except, bien. I came out and realised I had stopped being afraid of the water. I count seven now at every beach. Some beaches have bigger waves. Some have smaller. The number is always seven.

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Found on Thursday morning near the entrance to Playa La Paz: a faded blue beach bag. Inside is a towel with yellow stripes, a pair of sunglasses in a hard case, and a notebook with a green cover. The notebook is full of handwritten recipes in pencil, and I would hate for it to end up in a bin. I picked the bag up so the tide would not. I will check this board again on Sunday.

I went down to the pier at El Muelle early to watch the boats come in, and you were standing on the boards with an orange bucket of fish, bargaining with several people at once and laughing. I bought nothing. I just stood there. You looked at me and said, take one, so I did. It was the freshest fish I have ever held. I walked around with it for a quarter of an hour, because I did not know what to do. A woman at the market said, ceviche. I said, yes. She said, sit.