[ Tackling Gorillas in Peru ]

"What's the circus like?" I asked our Peruvian hosts, desperate for some entertainment in this dusty, off-season holiday town.

"No, you don't want to go to the circus," Fernando assured us seriously. Others joined in, suddenly impassioned.

"They say there is a lion," the vivacious young Vanessa announced accusingly, "but it is just a dog with a mane round its neck."

"They say there is a gorilla," joined in Javier, as if battling a common foe, "but it is just a man in a suit." He spat the last words out in low contempt.

"It is a very bad circus," our hosts nodded in earnest waves of agreement.

We gringos - bored out of our minds and already reverting to flatulence as a source of amusement - just stared at each other in a blinding moment of spontaneous, synchronised thought: We have to go to the circus.

Emboldened by several cold, tall bottles of Crytsal beer, we easily overpowered the excited protests of our hosts. A few hotel staff are no match for a group of bored surfers starved of waves and fed a few ales. We'd travelled here, fuelled on stories of the world's longest left-hander, empty desert points, miles of unexplored coastline, in a land steeped with surfing history. The reality we'd met was something else altogether.

We had sat like this, in the stark, concrete cantina of the Posada del Mirador, for only a few languid evenings, looking out over the sleepy rows of squat box-like houses that ringed the bay of San Bartolo. Yet, already, quaint amusement had turned to weary resignation. The Pacific Ocean had lain there stubbornly - grey, flat, shrouded in fog and stinking of fish - since our arrival. And life on land bared its awful truths all too plainly. Nothing happened in San Bartolo. And everyone was mad.

The local community insisted on informing on one another at every opportunity, until the entire population had been branded with accusations of mental instability.

"See that guy over there," Javier would tell us in a conspiratorial huddle, indicating some nondescript passer-by. "He is crazy. You can see it in his eyes."

"That Javier," Fernando, the genuinely insane manager of the Mirador, would hiss as he bent low over our breakfast table. "He is a bit crazy. You can't believe too much of what he says."

"That Fernando," Javier would snort disbelievingly of his employer. "He's crazy. You look in his eyes."

Perhaps it was the weather. It never rained in San Bartolo, or along any of the desert coast of Peru. Some houses had no roofs, others only threadbare bamboo shading. It was over 50 years since any rain was last recorded, and dunes of grey/brown dirt drifted off into the distance as far as the eye could see.

Or perhaps it was the schizophrenic nature of the town itself which infected its populace. On Summer holidays and weekends, San Bartolo was transformed into a bustling seaside playground for wealthy city dwellers from the capital, Lima, 100 kms to the north. They occupied their smart, Mediterranean style holiday houses proudly and overflowed noisily from bars and restaurants.

During the week and in Winter, San Bartolo lay like a discarded toy, gathering dust and fraying at the seams. Shutters went down on drink and ice-cream stalls, bars and restaurants disappeared behind awnings. The town simply shut its eyes and went to sleep. Those that stirred went about only the dull, monotonous duties of daily San Bartolo life.

But a circus. This was not for the wealthy holiday crowds. This was the simple, time-honoured tradition of the townsfolk. Yet this somehow seemed to make it unfit for the eyes of visitors. The circus was the mad uncle stuffed in the attic and we wanted to meet him.

We set out into the night down the lanes of grey dust lined with white painted rocks that served as roads in San Bartolo. Through a grid-like maze we scuffed, past families scattered about doorways and windows, the occasional television set occupying the air with its dull drone and silver/blue light.

Seeing we could not be stopped, Vanessa and Javier eagerly assumed an air of amused ridicule, sharing heartily with us the joke of the circus now. "Yes, yes, the circus will be so funny," Vanessa decided aloud.

As we drew closer to the sagging, patchwork big top, a minor stream of pedestrian traffic trickled towards it, a tinny, crackling loudspeaker urged the crowd on, and painted banners advertised the show's highlights. Lions and gorillas did indeed feature prominently in this promotional material but, in the paintings at least, they looked entirely genuine.

Several trickles of humanity combined at the mouth of the tent and formed a small rabble, purchasing tickets and popcorn at a slow shuffle through the flap in the tent. The interior resembled a rough but intimate, moodily lit theatre. Half a dozen rows of tiered seating lined the perimeter, with scores of small kiddies' chairs arranged closest to the low stage.

The crackling loudspeaker kept up a brisk, running commentary throughout the show, but onstage performers bellowed thunderously without any electronic amplification. Several unremarkable acts trundled across the stage without great fanfare, but the audience roared approvingly at everything.

A hush fell, however, as a uniformed trainer struggled on stage, leading a clearly agitated gorilla by a chain and collar. Kiddies pressed back in their chairs. Even adults gasped in horror as the gorilla bounded about the stage, grabbing at its collar. Could they not see the conspicuous seams that ran down the length of the gorilla's arms and legs? Or were the parents simply joining in the pantomime for the sake of the children? In San Bartolo, it was impossible to tell.

The trainer looked helplessly out at the audience with an expression of pure terror, as he led the gorilla about. When the gorilla finally wrestled its collar off, the trainer threw up his hands and fled. Kids were out of the seats now, their parents oohing and aahing in a low rumble.

The gorilla jumped from the stage and began a theatrical hopping run down the aisle that separated the tiered seating from the kiddies' chairs. Children were running for their lives, squealing and waving their arms.

I don't know if it was the sight of the panic stricken children. Or the days of boredom. Or the several beers I'd slurped in the glow of the desert sunset. But ... I was sitting in the front row of the tiered seating, with a fake gorilla running towards me, children scattering in terror, and there was only one irresistible, instinctive reflex in me. I leapt from my chair, cut a path through the tide of children stampeding towards me, dipped one shoulder, accelerated into a determined trot, and tackled the crazed circus beat about the waist. Years of Australian Rules football training in the art of the shirtfront had paid off. The impact of the shoulder knocked the wind out of him, and he wheezed helplessly as my arms locked around his middle.

He was surprisingly light and I easily hoisted the struggling primate over my shoulder. My companions reported from the rear view that my quarry waved its arms and legs in the air for a few violent spasms, before collapsing limply about my shoulder. Kiddies stopped in their tracks, turned and began to cheer. Their parents joined in. I marched down the aisle to the stage and returned the demoralised gorilla to its trainer. The pair shuffled off, their act ruined. As I swaggered back to my seat, small children formed a kind of impromptu guard of honour, gazing up in wonderment at this pale, foreign saviour. "Superman, Superman," several of them chorused gleefully. Scattered applause hummed through the crowd as I resumed my seat, to hearty backslaps from my fellow travellers.

Throughout the remainder of the show, the spotlight would be shone on us sporadically and clearly disparaging remarks would be made over the loudspeaker or by the clowns on stage, to uproarious laughter from the audience. Only one word was recognisable out of the excited, Spanish babble. "Gringos!" We squirmed uncomfortably, smiling nervously at our neighbours while they held their stomaches and guffawed at our expense as if they might die.

It still puzzles me. I'm the sort of person who will never make a fuss at a restaurant - gulp down deep fried ducks' beak rather than suggest someone got my order wrong. For one magical evening in the depressed seaside backwater of San Bartolo, I was a hero. I have probably already passed into local folklore. We went on to find some of those desert points, explore some of that lonely coast, living in bamboo shacks we built on the beach. But that night in San Bartolo remains a personal highlight.

And herein lies the very essence of travel. To shed the constricting armour of your station in life at home. To become a "gringo" or some other alien character in the eyes of a curious local people, and to feel the liberty of acting upon spontaneous impulse, freed from the constricting expectations of others.

Then again, there are probably places where, if you tackle a fake circus gorilla you could wind up with a knife in your guts. Travel is simply a matter of tackling the right gorillas.

First published, Deep magazine, 1996