Right now I am in a small town in central Peru called Jauja, and, for the first time since I´ve been in the country, it is raining. Springtime. In Lima, after dark and as the streets cool off, the perpetual gray haze that hovers over the city succumbs finally to gravity and comes to rest on cars and sidewalks; but that isn´t rain, just a general dampening of things. This rain tonight brings to mind how ill-prepared I am for any actual bad weather. I have a water-resistant (not -proof) windbreaker and waterproof shoes, but otherwise I and my two bags are absorbant. According to my guidebook, the rainy season doesn´t begin until December, but there are always variations between the coastal, Andean, and Amazonean weather patterns. The weather may end up occasionally dictating my travels; this might not be an altogether bad thing. Having no set itinerary for the next five months is liberating and even exhilarating. But at this early point in my trip, it also makes it quite hard to decide, at each step, what the next step should be. Currently, I have a wealth of options (places, directions, lengths of stay), each as valid and as feasible as the next. Over time, perhaps some places will call out to me more than others; perhaps not.
Sometimes this indecisiveness feels like a bad thing. It can be frustrating to try to make the most of where I am, while the question looms of where I ought next to be. For the most part (again, it´s early days), though, it offers a welcome challenge and a sense of adventure at every turn. Which, after all, is a big reason why I´m here at all. The unexpected, the chance, the detour may not always be serendipitous but I can at least have a better likelihood of appreciating them if they are not just obstructions in a pre-set charted course. I´m not traveling to "find myself;" that will inevitably work itself (myself) out, and doesn´t interest me much. What I do enjoy is "finding myself in new situations and then seeing what happens." As long as I keep that mindset, which generally I do, it´s not too hard to find the serendipity in any unlooked-for occcurrence, and to make the most of it as such.
To wit: my time, so far, since leaving Eugene.
The train ride from Eugene to LA was enjoyable at first, then tedious. I asked the man sitting next to me what I ought to do in LA, for my first visit, with only a day to do it in. He said Disneyland. I went to sit in the observation car. The next day, in some city with John Steinbeck connotations, I forget which, the train stopped to pick up passengers. All the smokers on board got off to smoke, and I got off to use the ATM and buy a sandwich from inside the station. While I was there, the train left. I had my smaller bag with my passport and book and camera in it, but my other bag was still going to LA. I asked the ticket-counter-man what would be the next best way to Los Angeles; he gave me a ticket for an Amtrak bus - at no cost, which was very nice of him - to Santa Barbara, and a transfer ticket for another bus to LA. I got on the bus okay, and as it bowled down the vast Californian freeway, I tried to figure out who to call to ask that my bag be saved for me until I arrived at Union Station. Then we pulled off the freeway to a bus stop in some small town, and across the street, at the train station, I saw my train. The bus had been going fast enough to make up for the train´s head start. I hopped off the bus, onto the train, checked to make sure my luggage was alright, and off we went.
This is not the last, but rather the first of many stories to come about bad-timing-gone-good in the world of transportation.
After spending the night in a plaza in front of a condo/mall in Korea Town, I opted to go the J. Paul Getty Museum instead of Disneyland. Looked at impressionist stuff, mostly. Then I flew to Lima.
My friend Chael met me at the Lima airport. He was a few minutes late because it took him a while to find the right bus to take him to the airport and, once he had, it collided with a taxi and everyone had to switch buses while the two drivers argued over whose fault it was. The last time I had seen Chael, he was about to graduate from the U of O. Since then, he has spent two years on a south-bound trajectory, hitchhiking, camping and couchsurfing, mostly by himself, learning Spanish as he went along. His presence in Peru and his stories about his experiences were a strong factor in my choosing to come here, but I don´t know if I can, or if I want to, follow his model of travel as such. In less than three weeks, I think I´ve already taken more inter-city buses (two) and stayed in more hotels (three) than he has in two years.
Chael´s travels have changed him, but mostly into a more well-defined version of himself. He is gaunt, shaggy, and his clothes are worn and torn and frayed and faded. But he walks with a confidence of purpose that is new, and his congeniality and sense of humor are patina´d (not the word I´m looking for, but use your imagination) by an initial impression of reserved self-reliance.
He took me to Camilo´s house, which was his house too, and which would be my house as well. Camilo´s house, which deserves to be the subject of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez-esque Magical Realist novel. It is in a neighborhood in the eastern part of Lima, called Surco. Surco is not generally frequented by tourists, not because there is anything wrong with it, there´s just not much to see besides people living their daily lives. It is a warren of quiet (by Lima´s standards) streets without names, hedged by two-story buildings, the top floors residential and the ground level chiefly commercial, housing restaurants, small shops, and mechanics´ and plumbers´ and upholsterers´ workshops. Our house in question looks abandoned, and, in fact, was. Camilo borrowed it, half-built, and only finished the job to the extent of making the place habitable. Its floors are concrete, its walls a patchwork of plaster and bare brick. There is water, a gas burner, and a mini-fridge that smells to high heaven when opened. Each room in the house is devoid of furniture save for a mattress. None of it looks appealing in the least. Camilo tells his guests with pride that it is far below the standard of living of any house in the neighborhood. He pays some small rent, and he welcomes any and all travelers to stay as long as they like, rent-free. Rent: free. There lies the house´s first saving grace. As the initial distaste for the cold and the dirt wears off, other redeeming qualities become apparent.
There have been as many as fourteen people at the house at once; during my stay, there were only four, and then five. Chael aptly calls it the House of No Ends. Not only because the building´s construction unfinished, but also because the stream of couchsurfers coming and going is undending. Sunlight, diffused by the gray clouds above Lima and then seeping into the house through plastic-bag patched windows, gives no hint as to the hour of day, and time, at times, seems almost meaningless in the House of No Ends. Most people, including me, show up expecting to stay only a few days at the most - a resolve initially reinforced upon first view of the living quarters - and end up staying for weeks. Chael showed up in May; he only moved on at the beginning of September.
Camilo himself is immensely interesting. His father was the second-ranking political functionary in Peru´s left-most political party in the 80s. The fight against the Shining Path during the same decade took much of the power away from the left, and Camilo´s father retired from politics and is now a professor at MIT. Camilo was a precocious child who finished high school when he was 13 and had his Bachelors´ degree in economics by the time he was 16. After receiving his Masters´ degree, he has been working as an advisor to a governmental agency charged with national development . He is now 27 and preparing to go to Holland for a Ph.D program. I have no idea, really, whether any of this is actually true. It´s what he tells people. I do know that he is very intelligent and has a rather insane amount of facts, history, and statistics that he can reel off indefinitely in support of his argument in whatever discussion is being held. He is sometimes very awkward, in the way very smart people are, and his primary source of entertainment, after reading economics papers and graphic novels, is to make exceptionally racist, sexist, and/or xenophobic comments to his international houseguests and watch them react with varying degrees of indignation. At times, he can be quite hard to get along with.
Everything I´d heard and read about Peru´s capital reinforced the idea that there would be little to hold me there for very long. The keywords one hears again and again from those who´ve been there are unappealing: gray; dirty; polluted; huge; and with only a sparse smattering of the cultural and historical landmarks that generally draw tourists to visit cities. Indeed, Lima´s chaotic foggy sprawl did not immediately impress me favorably, and my first few days, serving as my introduction to the city, the country, and the continent, were tiresome at best and occasionally disheartening. But with time came familiarity, and the chaos and grayness were gradually leavened with enough order and color to bring the city´s good qualities to the fore. My three or four days turned into twelve, before I finally left Lima, excited to see the rest of the country, but with a long list of places and things, as yet unexplored, that I hope to check off when I come back to the city in January. After an initial period of figuring out the basics of geography, of communication and transportation, and seeing the obligatory attractions - which are truly not all that attractive - I began increasingly to find elements of the city that did appeal to me. One of the great luxuries of having five months of travel ahead of me, with no particular schedule to follow, is that I will, with luck, be able to take enough time to establish more than just a passing impression of places and people. Find the artifice beneath the superfice and whatnot.
Lima feels vast. It stretches and bulges along the coastline without any real center to speak of. There are six or eight sectors (neighborhoods? cities? I don´t know what to call them) within the city, connected by six-lane highways bordered by the same autobody repair shops and KFCs and Gold´s Gyms as the highways of any other city. It generally takes an hour to get from one sector to another. There are taxis, but the public buses are equally as prevalent and much cheaper - although often jam packed and usually barreling heavily along the razor´s edge of a collision with any given stationary or moving object in the vicinity. The Centro, the oldest part of the city, is grandiose with its huge cathedral and government buildings, and avenues of baroque crumbling colonial mansions from the days of the viceroyalty. Miraflores is where the backpackers are told to go. There are hostels, movie theaters, and overpriced fast food restaurants. The guidebooks call it safe, but it just feels sterile. Barranco is called "bohemian" and is full of art galleries and cafes and parks and trees. Those are the parts of Lima that have tourists, and things for tourists to look at and buy. But the things I liked most about the city are not as readily pointed out as the tourist attractions, and it took me a while to notice them. The colors, first of all. The overall impression is inescapably gray, but there are intermittantly buildings, especially older ones, are painted in pastels and primary colors, with sharply contrasting trim that flourishes and flows along the borders of windows and doors. Windows that are protected by unique and fanciful wrought-iron bars, doors that are made of surprisingly thick, heavy wood but with delicately raised carvings of floral and faunal symmetries. Earthquakes, fires, bombs, and urban development have resulted in a constantly surprising mix between old and new styles of architecture, seventeenth century merchants´ brick houses with enclosed wooden balconies sharing a wall on one side with modern white plaster simplicities and on the other with hastily built decaying wooden storefronts. And for every style of house, seemingly, there is a matching subset of Limeño citizens. It is neither a young person´s city, nor an old person´s city. There are slick teenagers in shiny jackets and there are old ladies in bonnets and shawls. It is Peru´s capital and largest city, but the politicians and businessmen work one street over from the plumbers and bakers. There is a great deal of mass-production, brand-driven consumerism to be seen, but the folks who value handcrafted artisanry are equally as evident.
Another near-miss story involving a bus:
One day I went to the Centro, which for most tourists / employed people is not the center of Lima, but the far north. It was built next to the Rimac River, which nowadays marks the border between the "good" and "bad" sides of town. The difference is apparent: on one side, colonial houses shaded by well-kempt colonnades of trees; bright sparkly fountains; tourists and Limeños eating ice cream and shopping for electronics. On the other bank if the river, a hill covered with brightly-painted shacks of plywood and corrugated metal, like a smaller version of a favela in Rio de Janeiro, the open spaces filled in with cardboard and plastic shelters, the shells of old, cars, and piles of trash. You can see all of this from a hill, but in the Centro itself it is all out of sight.
I passed a pleasant afternoon, looking at old buildings, art galleries, and the people in the streets. I had a spaghetti dinner at a restaurant that is famous for spaghetti, as well as having been a hotspot in the 20s for Peruvian writers and artists. Then after dark I walked along the pedestrian streets lined with high-end stores, and bought an ice cream cone. A young couple, my age or younger, heard my accent when I ordered my ice cream and asked if I was American. I said I was. They said they were both college students and wanted to practice their English. We talked a bit and they invited me to have a Pisco sour with them at the closest bar at hand. I was suspicious of their friendliness, and kept my hand firmly over my wallet, but said yes, so we went inside and had a drink and they asked me questions in broken English about the U.S. and my plans in Peru. Then they left to meet some friends, and I left to find a bus back to the house.
Finding a bus is more of an art than a science at the best of times in Lima. There are many, many buses, but generally only one or two of them go where you want to go. Since it was late and I was not very familiar with that part of town, I asked people where I ought to stand to catch the right bus. Different people gave me different answers. An hour passed. Finally I saw a bus that listed among its destinations Miraflores. I wanted to go to Surco, but I knew for a fact I could easily take a bus from Miraflores to Surco. A lot of people got on the bus and I was right in the middle of them all, so I didn´t ask, as I usually do, to confirm the bus´ direction. The bus went along, and people got off. The bus crossed the Rimac and followed along the base of the hill with the mini-favela. I figured the bus would go a few blocks, make a right turn across another bridge, and head toward Miraflores. More people got off the bus. I thought, "Ha, what a good opportunity to see the part of the city everyone has warned me never to visit, from the safety of a moving bus." There were only about seven or eight other passengers by this time. The streetlights ended and the only illumination other than from cars´ headlights came from piles of trash burning on streetcorners, surrounded by small groups of huddled men. I decided I didn´t want to be on this bus, after all, but I also didn´t really want to get off just then. The pavement ended, and the bus bumped slowly over a dirt road for six or eight more blocks, to a giant parking lot filled with buses. The bus parked, and everyone got off it. I put my money in my shoe, which probably has never fooled anyone, put my sweatshirt hood up, my head down, and walked as purposefully as I could past growling dogs and staring men, back to the paved road and then to the streetlamps. There, I hailed a taxi (there are always taxis). I felt somewhat better once in the taxi, but it was a very beat-up taxi and, with the state of mind I was in, I thought the driver looked like the kind of guy who might kidnap passengers and rob them (I was slightly reassured by the scandalous amount of money he wanted in exchange for driving me across the river). After a toe-clenching (to keep my money safe) ride, though, he delivered me as promised back to Surco.
When I got to the house, Camilo was there watching a movie with some of his Peruvian friends. I told them about my night across the Rimac, and they assured me that, had I been a woman, or of lighter hair color, or just less lucky, bad things would have been guaranteed to have happened to me. Since then, I´ve been scrupulous to a T about asking buses´ destinations before boarding them.
Aside from that one incident, I never once felft in any real risk in Lima. It is a city, and people don´t go out of their way to be nice to you, but nobody, as far as I know, ever sought to cheat or rob me. Apparently two of Camilo´s guests from a few weeks before my arrival were robbed, close by the house in Surco, but they had to some extent brought it upon themselves by trying to buy marijuana. They found a guy who said, "sure, sure, give me ten minutes to fetch it and meet me in this dark alley over here." They waited ten minutes and walked down the alley, and were met by two men with big guns who took all their money, passports, and jewelry - but left them a bag of weed. One good reason not to smoke.
There is a reason the safe parts of the city are called that: they are full of police, and every business and public building of any significance has at least one security guard. Their ubiquity speaks to the awareness of a prevalent criminal intent that would go unchecked were they not there. But most of the police guarding doors do it while sitting down and reading the paper or listening to the radio. Surco, like some of the other safe neighborhoods, is surveilled at night by video cameras. There is a brightly-lit building, made completely of clear glass, that houses a huge bank of TV monitors, which are monitored intently by two police officers. To one side of this glass safety-box, operating solely by the light it gives off, there is a collection of about ten food carts. They sell mostly cheap things that can be eaten with your hands or from a stick. Potatoes, rice, hot dogs, liver, tripe, fried pieces of the chewy parts of chickens. On nights when we didn{t cook at the house, Camilo, Chael, and I would walk there to buy our dinners. At ten or eleven at night there would still be a throng of hungry neighborhood people, most of whom knew each other. They would buy their food and then go stand in front of the windows of the police surveillance-station, and eat and watch with interest the comings and goings around their neighborhood.
Which leads to two important topics: food, and TV.
TV is popular here. Every restaurant has a TV, and everyone in the restaurant sits facing it while they eat. According to Camilo, literacy has improved dramatically over the last decade, but people don´t much read for pleasure. Pirated movies are available on nearly every streetcorner, and soap operas and game shows are very popular. My favorite game show is called "Sing, If You Can!" Contestants, who are good singers, choose songs and then perform them onstage. The audience judges them and picks the best performer. The show´s main concept, though, is that while the performers are singing, they are subjected to various trying circumstances: being lowered up to their necks in ice water, for instance, or being pelted with tennis balls. Whoever manages to finish their song with the most grace and poise wins.
There is a huge used-book market in Lima, that operates in covered metal stalls that take up a couple city blocks. According to the internet, it is the largest collection of books in a single location, anywhere in South America. Each stall is packed, floor to roof, with books; packed to the point of rendering it impossible to differentiate any single book from the stack as a whole. Taking out any book from the stacks other than the one at the very top is out of the question. I bought a collection of essays by Mario Vargas Llosa, which was wrapped in plastic and was clearly used, but looked in good shape. But something, a bookworm I guess, got into it at the top of the spine and ate a tunnel through the pages. It´s still readable, and it has a great deal more character than most books.
Among so many books, the options for good reading are surprisingly limited. Since so few Peruvians read books, the market caters mostly to students. Reference books and textbooks, from elementary to college-level, make up the majority of the stalls´ stacked stock, along with flashcards, maps, and, most fascinating, ready-made science projects: painted foam-board volcanos, cardboard dinosaurs, popsicle-stick models mechanical processes, and so on.
As for food. The food in Lima was often good, sometimes not. It was always cheap. Away from Lima I have so far found meals to be more reliably good, and also much cheaper. In Lima, a meal of soup and a main plate of rice, potatoes, and chicken, with a piece of lettuce and a slice of tomato on top, would be just under $3; in smaller towns, it´s more like $1 or $1.50. I discard the lettuce and the tomato, as the most likely to lead to stomach ailments, but otherwise, I tend to eat whatever comes my way. Whatever comes my way, in the sense that I rarely know what I am asking for when I order. Some restaurants don´t even give you a choice. No digestive problems yet, though I don´t doubt that I´ll get sick sooner or later (D-Day, so to speak). I don´t eat raw things much or cooked things that have been sitting in the open for a long time if I can help it. I´ve eaten a great deal of street food, which my guidebook warns against, and find it well worth the risk (easy to say, of course, when I´m still parasite-free). The prevalence of cheap, tasty food is wonderful, although it is hard sometimes to find food that isn´t fried and served with a side of french fries. On days when the available Peruvian food options aren´t appealing, there are innumerable "Chifa" restaurants, which serve Peruvianized Chinese food. Chifa places are hit and miss, but when they are good they are excellent.
I generally eat one real meal a day, alternating between dinners and late lunches, and filling in the gaps with a daily Sol´s worth (about 40 cents) of bread - which at most bakeries is ten palm-sized airy white crusty loaves - which I eat with honey or jam. Pastries look incredible, but have thus far been a complete disappointment. They all taste stale and dry.
Food markets, outdoors or under cover, are extremely stimulating and a wondrous feast for the senses. Away from Lima, every place has a once- or twice-weekly market, and farmers, shephards, fisherfolk and artesans come from the surrounding area to sell. There are many constants: huge burlap sacks full of dozens of varieties of potatoes, carrots, and corns; skinless chickens hanging from hooks by their necks and disembowelled hairless pigs splayed across countertops; and woven blankets and knitted hats and carved and painted gourds. But each time I´ve gone I´ve found new things, too. Especially in the Mantaro Valley, where I´ve been for the last few days, Peru´s agricultural heartland, where there are easily twenty kinds of fruits and vegetables that I´ve never seen or heard the names of before, as well as dead birds and animals I cannot identify. Some of them look delicious. Others are questionable. All of them must be tasted.
