On the Guano Trail, Paracas and Isla Ballestas: A revisit to Mid-19th Century Peru

I hopped the bus at the early hour of 8 a.m., en route to my first south-of-Lima coastal destination: The beach town of Paracas.

The brisk, six-hour tour sped down the arid Peruvian desert coast. Rolling dry hills with wind-blown sand and even drier vegetation is all one could see for miles into the distance. Visions of sand-people would hardly be a shock in this familiar terrain. I had been here before. No, not in the movies, but in the flesh. So, I was accustomed to this surprisingly (to some) arid landscape that runs in shocking contrast to the images of Machu Picchu and the cloud-forest type climate and micro-climates of many parts of the Andes Mountains. On this dry desert trip, Cruz del Sur was the bus of choice (one of the most efficient and expensive liner in Peru) and perfectly welcome given my desire for smooth sailing.

On board the bus, a lively game of Bingo enriched our already enriching ride. The flamboyant attendant/host led the game with his impassioned number/letter-calling and his sumptuous promise of an alluring prize to the winner: the omnipresent bottle of pisco, the official alcohol of Peru. (Note: This liquor is a grape brandy whose fruits are grown exclusively in Pisco--a city south of Lima along the coast--, the area through which we passed during our venture.

As I loosely played the very familiar and very American game, my excitement bubbled upon realizing that I was checking off rather quickly almost all of the numbers called. So fast in fact, that before I knew it, I had one spot left on my Bingo card! A pressure-filled pause ensued. A breath to quell the nerves. And, then, the next jovial call by the attendant: A miss! I gave myself a short bit of positive self-talk as my anticipation increased exponentially in the form of RBH: Rapidly Beating Heart. To add to the intensity, I knew that a few other passengers on the nearly full, two-level bus were close to claiming victory as well. I reveled in my good fortune (which I felt on an intuitive level), as I pondered to myself: Could this "Bingo-roll" on which I was on be a sign of equal success to come during the rest of my fourth official trip through Peru?! Regardless of outcome, at that point, I expected to win. "Just one more!" I ecstatically blurted out to my bus-neighbor.

Next call: B-9. That was it. I had won! I arose immediately. And, in utter satisfaction, I confidently proclaimed, "Yeees, I won!" The diva-like host approached me in a fitting manner and carefully checked my card. A few seconds after his close, and surely perfectionist, examination, I was declared the winner of the Lima-to-Paracas Bingo contest. The others on board the "Cruz" cheered while a few sore-losers chided in playful competitiveness. I laughed proudly in celebration, and immediately inquired about the whereabouts of my much sought-after bottle of pisco, the soul of Peruvian soil! I was soon after awarded the bottle, a spectacle that elicited a kindly cheer from my peers. In good cheer, I offered to open the bottle and share a toast with my fellow cruzeros, who were mostly of European descent, save for a few Peruvians here and there. But the tidy host, with his friendly smile, informed me, "That isn't allowed, mister (a common greeting-error made by non-native English speakers). I'm sorry." As I announced my discontent playfully to him, he thanked me for my excitement on offer as he confessed that the usual Bingo sessions are quite boring. I told him "no problem," and took my seat with pisco in tow to enjoy the rest of my trip.

About an hour away from Paracas, I looked out the window over the arid hills of the Pisco Region. Infinite rows of grape vines lined the foreground with over-stretching, far-away hills in the distance. I marveled at the ironic connection between the hard-fought Bingo game prize and our location with its on-display crops in the heart of the coastal desert of Pisco.

As we neared the coast after having ventured a bit inland for most of the trip, our driver announced our coming arrival. My first sight of the Pacific Ocean came and expanded into view as the "Cruz" wrapped around the entrance into the small town of Paracas. The white-washed buildings and structures characteristic of many coastal beach towns worldwide were also present in this one too.

As we unloaded from the bus, the normal tourism crowd of agents, salespeople, and workers approached the crowd of mostly gringos and crudos (word used to refer to Europeans) in typical fashion. Advertisements for hostels and hotels were pushed assertively by the native Paracans. I, following a momentary refusal to cede to the pleas and prods of the salespeople, finally agreed to one man's offer.

My taxi driver/agent/guide-to-be was a portly fellow by the name of Ramon. I liked his manner even before I met him, so I chose him. We rode off in his Toyota wagon, white like the rest of them. In Peru, the taxis are for the most part either Tico's, a small boxy Yugo-looking machine (of various colors), or Toyota's, the small wagon, usually white.

During our short drive into the heart of Paracas, I inquired about an inexpensive hostel close to the action. Ramon, given his close connection to all levels of the local tourism industry, knew of one immediately. "First though," he told me with his more-than-convincing character and sparkling smile, "I want to show you the tours that we have to offer you here in Paracas." Given my prior interest in these tours and Ramon's integrity on show, I promptly agreed.

A few minutes later, at the agency, a close friend of Ramon showed me all of the possible options in Paracas. The one tour that was of immediate interest to me was of the Guano-stained islands of Ballestas, or Isla Ballestas. Andres and I negotiated a fair price for the following day. We agreed to the quote, and I promised to return early the next morning. After settling into my small and cheap hostel, I decided to take a stroll to investigate this town of which had been of particular interest to me for quite some time.

In the 1850s, with the high demand for fertilizers in an ever-expanding and industrializing Britain and other parts of Europe, guano was a highly-sought commodity. Peru, with its myriad islands of well-accumulated quantities of guano, was a prime location for extraction, transport, and eventual sale. Isla Ballestas, in particular, was an island with thousands of years of guano (in this case dried bird dung) build-up. President Castilla and his contemporaries took advantage of this newly-discovered commodity whose sales to European countries helped Peru achieve some form of economic stability in the shape of fixed budgets, international debt cancellations, and internal security (i.e. establishment of the Peruvian Navy). In fact, during the 1850's to the 1860's, guano exports amounted to 60% of Peru's revenue (Mallon, 1984).

With this integral regional history in mind, I walked nostalgically along the boardwalk toward the center of the action: The series of old wooden piers, peppered with busy fishermen and their daily catch. Calls of pound and price ricocheted to and fro. Laughter arose from some, while others stood stoic or somber. Surely, the life of a fisher is full of the vicissitudes of the sea.

Here, I was able to get a feel for the all-important and primary town industry and to see the remnants of the previous year's earthquake and subsequent tsunami (the latter of which sent huge waves crashing up the shore, causing extensive damage to homes, businesses, and other structures. The influence of the former will be mentioned in part two, entitled "The Broken Arch.")

Subsequently, I observed the work of, in my American eyes, the slow-moving and leisurely constructors (a common judgement of many construction projects in most third world countries given the absence of expensive and time-saving machinery). Nevertheless, I admired their efforts; it's a reminder of the original pace of any worthwhile project. I moved south along the boardwalk, leisurely passing the local vendors and non-local gypsies making and selling numerous goods and crafts: From rings and necklaces; to carved wood figurines and sea-shell art.

Post-bus trip, I was hungry. So, after turning down a few inspired restaurant advertisers, I settled for an empty and away-from-the-noise establishment at the end of the strip. As I mused over the menu, I thought to myself: While being on the coast, one must take advantage of the fresh seafood. And, after all, this wasn't just any fresh seafood; this was Peruvian seafood! Which, according to yours truly, comes from a country with the most incredible cuisine the world over. The first thing that came to mind: Ceviche.

This wonderful and glorious plate made famous by hungry fishermen who "cooked" their newly hooked fish at its freshest point and without the need for fire or stove. So, they packed up some onions, cilantro, garlic, and whatever else, in addition to limes, the "cooking" agent. After chopping the veggies and herbs, and skinning and cutting the fish meat to an edible size, the lime juice was added. All of this sat for about two hours. After that, one of the tastiest meals in the world was consecrated, especially if fresh fish is being used.

I instinctively ordered ceviche and a beer. In addition to this food pairing, I was quickly joined by two teenage Peruvian girls, one of whose mother would be the preparer of my ceviche.

The girls inquired at length about my life in the United States. Much of our conversation was relative to popular and contemporary themes such as Hollywood, American pop music, and television shows. Like many hosts in touristy countries, these girls seemed to be open to the idea of "getting to know the foreigner." For some Peruvians (as in this case), it is a situation that, if "successful," can lead to the betterment of one's life, economically and otherwise (through marriage, moving to that country, etc.) In knowing this and being very aware of their young age, I did my best to lead these girls to the knowledge of my girlfriend who eagerly waited for me back in Lima; she was, and still is, almost twice their age! After finishing my tasty ceviche and enjoying my conversation with the amiable girls, I returned to my hostel for a necessary siesta.

As I laid in bed, the full scope of my larger journey came more closely into focus: I knew that this was part of my trip to Cuzco where I would stay for about one month trekking, learning, exploring, and enjoying. My attention shot back to the past, to my previous experiences I had had in the old Inca capital. Of fun times with great friends made from three years before. My interactions at the language school I taught at on the outskirts of the old city. My befriending of many Peruvians and non-Peruvians alike. Maria, my ex-girlfriend. Jesus, the principle at the language school. Juan Carlos, Sergio, and Gladys, the graduates/workers at the school. Myriad emotions penetrated and filled these memories: Sadness; joy; depression; peace. How would it be on this trip? What will have changed in Cuzco? Would I see my friends again (both those I'd like to see and those I'd prefer not to see)? With so many memories, and so much to be lived in the present, would my memories obstruct, influence, or mar my new experiences? All of these questions would be put to the test in the coming month and a half. For now, some shut-eye was calling.

When I awoke, I felt well-rested and ready for dinner. So I sought-out a restaurant, sat down and ate. While waiting for my food, a large family came in and sat down at the table adjacent to where I was sitting. After a few moments of my apprehension, I finally said hello. Come to find out, that one woman in the group was a Peruvian-American living in the U.S. and visiting her family in Lima. We discussed the U.S., Peru, my new girlfriend back in Lima, among other things. After having enjoyed our cordial visit, I eventually returned to my hostel room to read and prepare for the following day's adventures.

At 6:30 a.m. I awoke primed and ready for the boat ride to Isla Ballesteros. I had a calm and simple breakfast consisting of bread, ham, and cheese at the neighboring restaurant/hostel attached to the travel agency. So I sat and waited for the whole group to assemble. It would be a mixed group of many Europeans, a few Peruvians, and other South Americans. Once each person was accounted for, we were off to the docks to join the other tourists represented by other agencies from Paracas.

It was a picture-perfect day by any thief's standards: hordes of tourists/foreigners, expensive cameras, money belts; all were dependent on the agencies, their guides, and the boat driver. Like in most situations where an assembly of many tourists forms, I am aware of the outside perspective of onlookers. In Paracas that day, the contrasts between rich and poor were mellow, but in other cities like Lima and Cuzco, the contrast is pronounced causing situations that are at times uncomfortable, unbearable, and once in a while violent.

With social-critique put aside, this day's trip would be around two hours: 35 minutes out the the islands, a 45 minute tour through the nooks and crannies of each of the three islands, and then a 30 minute return trip back. Eventually, after the typical Peruvian scheduling/clock issues were resolved ("Peruvian time" is at best a loose approximation), we boarded the medium-sized passenger speed boats. With life jackets fastened tautly and cameras held cautiously in hand, we were off.

At first we started slow so as to see the dolphins that swam liberally through the huge schools of fish being sought by local fishermen. Beautifully and happily they glided along and under the surface of our immediate position. Much excitement was had by all as numerous cameras sounded capturing these rare moments. We then quickly built up speed in the direction of the islands. At the half-way point of the trip, we decelerated in order to catch a glimpse of a formation etched in the sand of a high protruding hill on the peninsula.

It was a tree-like shape/formation reminiscent of the Nazca Lines. Our guide confessed the scholarly uncertainty of the origins of the formation, and offered the possibility of the Nazca connection. In all likelihood, it was a more recent creation probably from the last 20 years resulting from the spike in tourism to the many areas of non-Cuzco Peru; nice gimmick!

Once we reached the islands, it was amazing to see the amounts of guano that still marked the land's territory (though there was much less than you would have found in the mid-1800's). In addition to the shit, there were loading docks, worker quarters, and most present and alive of all: seals! And, oh, I almost forgot, pelicans, gulls, and a few other sea birds all attempting to stake their claim on the islands!

The most mischievous of all, the seals, are very curious animals; they were a joy to watch while they swam and slide in the wake left behind our boat.

As we inspected every side, corner, and alley way of the islands, I contemplated what it must have been like to have been a worker on these islands back in the guano hay-day. Surely long hours, excruciating work, very low pay, and disconnected families (given the fact that fathers lived in the barracks provided on the island). And, given the time period (mid-1840's to the mid-1860's), probably coercive and back-breaking monitoring and controlling techniques were utilized (A.K.A. slave labor).

Although Isla Ballestas wasn't the primary source of guano during the mid-1800's (Chincha Islands was primary), it provides the visitor with an important view into past and present realities operating in Peru. A visit to these islands, and its coastal nucleus Paracas, provides a telling picture about the way in which the superficial characteristics of history are always changing, but the base features often continue mostly unchanged. For example, in place of guano as the primary commodity produced and sold, tourism is now one of its modern-day equivalent. Of course, slave-like conditions aren't as prominent or accepted as they used to be in these parts (although they are in other parts of Peru, i.e. mining), but I would argue that the overall power-structure is fundamentally the same: Lima still dictates and capitalizes from the commodity produced and sold, namely, the commodification of people (or tourists). Limenos and foreigners, given their access to capital, invest in and build hotels, hostels, restaurants, and tourism agencies; local Paracans are for the most part working class; the forms (and commodities) shift but the overall structure continues. An example of worldwide trends. My one hope is that fair-treatment, fair-compensation, and humane conditions are all prevalent throughout.

You know this all makes me ask a few more questions: First off, am I just a commodity? This whole tourism and travel thing, the mass-marketing and providing of "services," am I not just another supporter/funder of the same power-structure that I just attempted to cite for potential unjust activities? Is there any blame to place on anybody, or is this just a system that has been endorsed for a few hundred years (by just about everybody the world over) that's just inherently based on furthered inequality and exploitation (if gone unchecked)? I know that it all depends on the "lens" through which one looks (and only hopes to truly "see"), but what can be done to increase the ability of the working class/lower class to have more opportunity and more respect? 

Just a few questions to consider. In the meantime, let's play another game of Bingo!!!

Copyright, Patrick Roseblade 2021.