Peruvian Traditional Boats Part 1

Here begins a tale concerning my quest to meet and document the traditional boats and boatbuilders of Lima.

I found myself in the back of a taxi, windows down, salty sea air wafting in, en route to a swanky club here in Lima. A club that has it’s roots in rowing, but is now the most prestigious lifestyle club in Peru. Their membership exceeds ten thousand, across multiple locations. I hear the joining fee is greater than most Australians would earn in a year. The club is opulence exemplified, sporting private beaches, sailing, rowing, multiple bars, restaurants, indoor sports facilities etc. etc.

Juxtaposing this scene, separated by a bricks and mortar wall, is the most wonderful of beaches, brimming with boats, fisherman, and everything else one would expect from a working waterfront. This is where the real Peruvians come to swim. I felt a yearning.

So, the next day I wandered on down, somewhat apprehensive. Not only is there a beach, but I discovered there’s also a substantial jetty, fish markets, car park, and of course, a few ceviche cafes. I really wasn’t sure if I should enter. I had been warned it could be dangerous, and I know as well as the next person that there’s only one thing worse than a gawker getting in the way of someone trying to make a living, and that is a gawking gringo. I knew where I stood. So I loitered at the end of the road, looking out and admiring the fleet, as well as the boats pulled up on that part of the cove, some were in disrepair, others were under repair. One fine double ended was enjoying a newly fashioned stem, a large dinghy had a few new frames going in, and another sweet double-ended was having her bottom replanked, needless to say there was plenty for the eyes to feast on.

I stood there watching, waiting, hoping. Hoping perhaps the boatbuilder would return to the beach to hang another plank, refasten the hood ends to the new stem, or fashion another floor for the dinghy. I was getting a few strange looks; who was the barefoot guy and why was he hanging around?

Then, out of the blue, appeared a man; a short, well set fisherman with lines and creases scoring his face, the sort that can only come from a lifetime by the sea. Unlike the others, his eyes sparkled and smiled in a way one only encounters a handful of times in their life

He called out, something in Spanish.

I called back, something in English.

He laughed.

I laughed.

He gestured I come closer.

We shook hands.

A friendship was born.

Through increasingly animated hand gestures, and the friend in my pocket, google translate, I explained I was a boatbuilder from Australia, and that I would like to meet the man who repairs the boats on the beach. Joaquin, as I discovered when he proudly presented me his fishing license, gestured to me that the man who repairs the boats lives up that hill over there. That was all. I gestured that I needed him to show me the way, I wasn’t sure if he was interested. With a rub of his thumb and index finger, and a wry smile, it was clear Joaquin was saying. “We can go there…but it’s gonna cost ya”. I pulled out some coins from my pocket, a nod affirmed it was ample payment.

So we set off…up a steep hill, walking on the side of a busy road. Half way up we both stopped to relieve our bowels by way of a dusty embankment not two paces from the oncoming traffic, what a sight it must have been. It was at this point I decided shoes might have been a wise choice. This was a moment. Joaquin and Tom, friends.

The completion of our ascent led us to the head of a less than desirable corner of town. As Joaquin strolled on past the cart selling chips, soft drinks and cigarettes, entering into this obviously disadvantaged part of town, a pang of fear came over me…these were the areas I was warned about; no-go parts of town. Dogs slept on the road, ramshackle dwellings spilled upwards, outwards and every which way. When was the last time a blonde Caucasian, with a crisp white shirt to match, walked up this street?  I then remembered that no good tale starts in a nice neighbourhood, nor does a proper boatyard. Onwards we marched.

One corner, two, up an alley, down the next, past the mongrel dogs, not far to go, my friend gestured. We rounded one more corner and before me was a sight like no other, Wooden Boats!

Amongst the ramshackle and the rubble, piercing the sky above the six foot brick wall like a nymph figurehead, was the bow of a new wooden boat. In frame, and partway planked, with a hefty stem, this boat was a sight to behold.

Joaquin could sense my excitement, he smiled, I slapped him on the back with glee. We arrived at a funny white double door in the brick wall, there was no signage here, I guess it was quite obvious what the establishment was all about. Well, there was no signage except for a neatly painted ‘Red Bull’ energy drink logo, quite odd I thought. Anyway, I was looking up at this boat, wondering how the boatbuilders get up to work on her, there was no proper staging to speak of, then wondering also how the boats come down when complete. But then it all made sense… Red Bull gives you wings!

We entered. The ground felt good underfoot, a dirt floor covered in dust and shavings, a proper boatyard. Once inside this compact establishment I counted five boats under construction, three were round bilge, sawn frame, transom sterned, beamy, shapley fishing boats, perhaps 25 feet. The other was a smaller vee bottom skiff, perhaps 15 feet, next to it was a larger vee bottom boat, length yet to be determined. From what I could tell there were 2 boatbuilders working, the old man owner working away, and a younger fellow sweating it out. There was another old fellow too, he was family. I saw a small bandsaw and a homemade wooden table saw. There were a few hand tools lying around, that was it. No roof, no workshop to speak of, hell, they don’t even have an ozone layer, the sun shines bright here.

This whole time I was beaming, smiling, looking and laughing. Joaquin could see this was brining me great joy, he too was smiling. I was crawling around inside the boats, up and down ladders, pointing, touching, admiring. In short, an overload of the senses. Perhaps that’s what it’s like to be a child.

We stayed some time, the boatbuilder kept working, Joaquin stood around smiling, chatting to his friends, I was absorbing as much as I could. Some time later we decided to head back home, Joaquin had something to do. The walk home was filled with conversation, quite funny considering we had perhaps 20 words in common, sometimes we didn’t understand each other, but most of the time the message came across. I hadn’t noticed until then, but the whole time I had been with Joaquin he had something small under his arm, wrapped in a black plastic bag. He noticed me looking. With a grin from ear to ear he pulled out a weatherbeaten paperback! It was in Spanish, of course, but I recognised the author, Lin Yutang. “Life, Life” exclaimed Joaquin. Ah ha. ‘The Importance of Living’, the witty 1937 book covering the Chinese philosophy of life and it’s use as an antidote to the ‘modern world’. Quite fitting I thought, for a man whose lifestyle would be almost identical to that of his grandfather’s.

Joaquin wasn’t just a fisherman, he was a fisherman who could read, he was very proud. My heart warmed.

When we got back to the little cove he waved at me to continue onwards, he wanted to show me something. We clambered over a few old boats untill we got to a large fishing dinghy pulled right up on the rocks, perhaps on a 30 degree slope. It was covered in blankets that were held down with rocks. Up forward was a small, sunken foredeck with two miniature doors. We both climbed onboard, he opened the doors. The inside was littered with clothing, odds and ends, and rubbish. This was Joaquin’s home. With just enough room for his torso under the foredeck, he was a happy man.

We laughed and smiled, he could understand my appreciation for his way of life. I think Lin Yutang could learn a thing or two from my friend Joaquin. The fisherman’s philosopher.