Puede Ser

The plan was simple: take a combi out to the slum of Villa Salvador, pick up a giant bamboo pencil, convince a taxi driver to let us strap a four meter bamboo pencil to the top of his car, and get back to Miraflores. The pencil had been commissioned by the NGO we've been working with to advertise a big campaign for free education for all Peruvian children and all morning we'd been hearing reports from volunteers saying that our pencil had been sitting, unloved, on the street waiting for someone to go get it. Jeff and I had our plan, so we hit the road...after Jeff had a slice of cake.

Leaving the cafe, we picked up a combi right on Av. Angamos, a major east-west thoroughfare about two blocks from our apartment. Combis, I should mention, are not taxis nor any other form of transportation found in America. They are small vans with set routes along the major streets but no set stops. You wave them down like a taxi, and drivers will careen towards you with frightening skill. Working with the driver is another man, sort of like a conductor, who yells out the route, looks for passengers, handles the money, etc. There are thousands of combis in Lima, and every major corner is overrun with calls of "Bajo aca! Dale! Dale! Dale!" I'm amazed at the combis efficiency; hardly thirty seconds goes by without one driving by and you can get almost anywhere in the city for S/1, or about $.30.

After about forty minutes, we arrive in Villa Salvador, a hard town sprawling from organized Lima out to the nuevo invasion, the shantytowns at the very outskirts. Our combi had decided to take a slightly different route than usual, winding down side streets past schools and churches and the flecking paint of election murals, until it became abundantly clear we were nowhere near the pencil. Jeff and I exited at a corner that, visually, could have been any corner in the entire city. Villa Salvador's major streets, hugely wide semi-paved boulevards, all look exactly alike. The real problem with disorientation comes, I believe, from Lima's weather. The light in Lima comes as an ethereal glow in the sky, a muted desert sun trickling through a near-constant layer of clouds. Because nothing casts a shadow, orienting yourself relative to a cardinal direction is nearly impossible during the day. After a short debate, Jeff and I hopped in a three-wheeled mototaxi "El Gato II" and sped south.

Within five minutes, the mototaxi pulled to an abrupt stop - in the middle of the street - to tell us his machine could not take us where we wanted to go. Apparently, after realizing how far we needed to go, he simply gave up and directed us to the nearest combi.

Most combis are fairly quiet, but this particular one had a sense of style. There I was, trying to see if we were heading the correct way, an old Incan woman staring me down across the car, as the combi flew through the slums to an unbelievably loud and tinny "True" by Spandau Ballet.

Finally, after twenty minutes of "El mejor de los 80s," we turn the corner to see our giant pencil sitting on the roadside, a true thing of beauty. Another twenty minutes later, I'm stuffed in the back of a taxi with the pencil as we blast down the Via Expressa back to Miraflores. As proof of their urban conditions, no Limenos so much as raise an eyebrow at a Jew, a Korean, and a giant paper-and-bamboo pencil on the highway.

Our mission complete, we celebrate over a home-cooked Indian dinner. Delicious!

Views of the City

Despite being in Peru two entire months, Jeff Warren seems to be fairly unsettled: his room has nothing on the walls and only a few personal effects attempt to fill his closet. His big purchase, an ornate upright piano from the 1920s, deserves to be in an opulent palace's den instead of his minimalist bedroom. My arrival has stirred something with him, and together we have taken the first steps towards accepting this city and this apartment as our home. We bought shelves, bought me a bed, and - most importantly - a water filter for our tap. Lima's drinking water has both E. Coli and arsenic and is not safe for pretty much anyone. Apparently, lots of people here drink it anyway, get sick, and continue on with life....hopefully.

My room itself is fairly small, and has taken on a distinct dorm-room quality with a mish-mash of furniture types, colors, and attempts at organization. Since we live on the sixth floor, and most buildings in the area are only three stories, our apartment enjoys beautiful views south towards the skyscrapers on Ave. Pardo and north towards San Isidro. My view is dominated by the Huaca Pucllana, a pre-Incan temple complex about two blocks northwest of our apartment. If I squint, which is fairly often, I can see archeologists digging at the top of the ridge early in the morning.

Today, the first buds of spring began to bloom. I may declare September 2nd El Dia de la Marmota. Since the sun never shines here until November, instead of watching a woodchuck we'll just eat a cuy.

On Food & Friends

Yesterday, I accepted Diego's offer to have lunch at his parents' home in Surquillo, a middle-class district about twenty minutes east of Miraflores. We took a combi to his neighborhood, a very nice maze of cul-de-sacs and quiet parks set away from the bussle of the major streets filled with traffic. Next to the gate to his apartment complex, a stray dog lounged on the sidewalk and I petted him, even if every guidebook told me not too. Only suckers get rabies.

Diego's family has a small one floor apartment on the second floor, and after a brief tour we settled down with Diego's mother for a little limonada and lunch. An appetizer of huancaina came first; sliced potatoes in a spicy cold cheese sauce. Next a lomo, a simple steak with mushrooms and rice. For dessert: Peruvians call them panqueque, but it's clearly a crepe. Still, a crepe with a banana and some condensed milk is pretty good, no matter what it's called. Dessert here is an event, and practically every corner in Miraflores has a churro cart selling hot caramel-filled churros, two for S/1 or about $.30. High levels of churro availability will probably keep me sane.

I briefly met Diego's father, an exceedingly happy and energetic man. He was wearing the same white 'Y' baseball hat my father wears.

Afterward lunch, Diego and I drove over to BrucePeru, the NGO both Diego and Jeff have been working with in a big campaign to get free education for Peruvian children. The volunteers there are all wonderful people, each with their own little story: Chris, the physics major from San Diego, seems to be semi-dating a girl here whose name I'm not quite sure of who may or may not be from Finland. Tom - a lanky Cockney - hooks up with a lot of girls by playing the "Tall White Guy" card, something that probably won't work at Fabric. Then there is Kat, a sweet British girl just this side of eighteen with a penchant for cursing at just the right time. These people are our only friends in a city of nine million, and most of them will be leaving at the end of the month.

Salut!

Five hours into my flight from Houston, I finally have a breakthrough with the girl sitting next to me, a plain Midwestern-looking girl I later learn is, in fact, from the Midwestern Plains. I passed her a glass of water and, seeing the opportunity to avoid watching 'Mean Girls' in Spanish, I engage her in the typically small talk of complete strangers. She tells me her name, her life story, her hopes and fears about teaching at an American school in Lima; useless details about a decently useful life. I forget her name almost immediately and then must feign interest as I try to remember it.

Eventually she asks me where I am from, what my jobs is, and who I was visiting in America. To be mistaken as a Peruvian an hour before landing - even by Sarah Plain and Tall - is a good omen for my bad Spanish.

I wait in Customs for nearly an hour before Diego and Jeff welcome me to Lima, the City of Kings.