Peruvian Journal

                                                                               

       by Daniel Cano

January 21, Lima, Peru
Smooth flight from LAX to Lima on LATAM airlines. Professor Brandon (as the Peruvians call him), colleague, anthropology professor and trip coordinator, at airport to greet me. My flight arrived at 11:30 PM. The rest of our group coming within the next two days. Brandon told each he’d be at the airport in Lima to welcome them to Peru. He’s got a lot of taxis ahead of him.

January 22, Lima, Peru, 9:30 AM
Three-hour time difference. Still, I make it to “free” breakfast in hotel, LIMAQ, restaurant. Brandon and Dave, second to arrive, finishing their meal. I take a seat at their table. "Watch the coffee," warns Dave, a harbor patrol cop from Santa Monica, "it's strong." Brandon off to airport for another pickup. Dave tells me he has been with Brandon on other trips, like the one to Guatemala and Belize. I’ve also been there with Brandon. I taught English to a group of study abroad students. Brandon taught archeology, his specialty. He’s originally from Indiana by way of Connecticut then Los Angeles, UCLA. Latin American indigenous cultures are in his blood.

1:00 PM I arrive two days early to rest and acclimate, concerned my, sometimes, hurting feet and tired legs might not withstand the next 17 days in Peru’s highlands and valleys. The folks in our group, age-wise, are spread out, four college students, two retired married couples, one in their late 50s, the other 70. Dave, retired early, is in strapping shape, and works part-time at the pier. Hal, an ex-hippie from Berkeley who has just left his 69th birthday behind, and me, a septuagenarian, once an avid traveler who has slowed some since my retirement three years ago, nothing to do with energy or desire. I mean since I no longer have to rush off to work every day, I’ve begun to enjoy observing what I’d always sped past, from the different neighborhoods where I live to even the plants, trees and sounds of the suburbs.
                                                                             

 

In my hotel room, I tire of reading. I grow stir crazy. I put on my shoes and go out into the mid-day heat. The LIMAQ is off a main drag, Avenida Elmer Faucett. That’s a hellavu name for a main boulevard in Lima. I quickly learn the locals don’t consider I’m in Lima. They tell me I am in Callao, a neighborhood bounded by another, San Miguel, about fifteen miles from downtown Lima. Everything looks pretty rundown, like the outskirts of other major Latin American cities, and not unlike many U.S. cities, minus the KFC, Popeyes, Carls’ Jrs., etc.

The buses and vans here look like Mexican hand-me-downs. Everyone is going about his/her business. A woman points me to the bus stop where I can catch a bus into Lima, 2 soles, about 75 cents (3.34 soles = $1.00). (It will take me awhile to catch on.)

I push my way onto a bus. I feel like I’m in Puebla or south of Mexico City, many dark skin people, mestizos, mostly, dressed in jeans, sneakers, t-shirts, and baseball caps. The women also dress simply, modern-ish. Our bus pulls off the boulevard and into a gas station to fill-up. A man, a gauchupin (very tall and light-skinned) complains to a woman next to him. She looks like an Indian grandmother. She smiles politely at him. He says he can’t believe a bus would stop for gas during rush hour. He looks at me. I shrug. He readjusts his ear plugs. He couldn’t have heard us if we’d replied, anyway.
                                                                               

After a few minutes, we’re back in the thick of traffic. I enjoy the sights, schools, parks, businesses, government buildings. A half-hour later, I am in downtown Lima, busy, rush-hour, modern buildings everywhere. I spot a Starbucks tucked away in a quaint outdoor mall. I want to see old Lima, the historic center.

People don’t understand when I ask for La Plaza principal, Plaza de Armas, or la catedral. The city moves past me. Another guachupin, tall, European-looking, standing in front of a business, hears me. “El centro historico?” he asks, simple, direct. Why didn’t I think of that? He points me to a busy side street and tells me to follow it to the end. I follow directions. Of course, I come to a fork in the road, a construction site before me. A woman sees my confusion. When I tell he my destination she tells me any road will get me there.

I continue, as if I’m in Robert Frost’s poem "The Road Less Travelled," except I choose the one most travelled. After 45 minutes, my feet shoot me warnings. I stand in front of the cathedral, the plaza mayor spread out below, surrounded by municipal buildings.
                                                                               

                                                                                         

I see a plaque on the cathedral wall. It reads: “Francisco Pizarro, 1535.” I am in the right place.

The sun shines and I bask in the glory of Atahualpa and Pizarro, founders of modern-day Peru, for better or worse. A tour through Lima’s centro historico is on our itinerary, so I don’t stress my ignorance of the place. I did read the Conquest of Peru, as well as James Lockhart’s book the Men of Cajamarca years ago, so I do have a feel of what took place on this ground back in the 1500s, Atahualpa’s kidnap and murder at the hands of Francisco Pizarro and his forces.
                                                                                   

In a letter from Lockhart’s book "Letters and People of the Spanish Indies," one of Pizarro’s soldiers wrote of the encounter with Atahualpa: “We took this Lord by a miracle of God, because our forces wouldn’t be enough to take him not to do what we did, but God gave us the victory miraculously over and his forces. You must know that we came with Governor Francisco Pizarro to the land for this lord where he had 60,000 warriors, and there were 160 Spaniards with the governor, and we thought our lives were finished because there was such a horde of them, and even the women were making fun of us and saying they were sorry for us because we were going to be killed; but afterwards their bad thoughts turned out the opposite. …We attacked them and seized the lord and killed many of his people, most of the ones that came with him, and then we went out where all the rest of the warriors were, all armed with lances 15 feet long, and we routed them all. In the rout we killed 8,000 men in about two hours and a half, and we took much gold and clothing and many people. It would be too long to tell if all were told.” (Gaspar de Garate, Cajamarca, New Castile, 1533)

I wander the zocalo and try to imagine the meeting of the Inca and Spanish. Mostly, I can only conjure up ghosts, a sensation, an idea of what must have taken place here, the blood and sacrifice.

There are groups of tourists. I spot a young man standing alone, a clipboard in his hand, and a sign hanging from his neck, “Free lance tour guide.” I ask him, “How much of the plaza mayor is original?”

He comes to life. So, he doesn’t get his hope up, I tell him I am with a group, and we have a tour planned in about two and a half weeks, after we return from the Andes and Machu Picchu. He answers, “Other than the cathedral’s facade, little is original, due to earthquakes and fires. Remember, we surrounded by volcanoes. That building on the corner, the small one, is about the oldest building here.” It's a simple two story wood building.
                                                                                     

Attached to his clipboard, he shows me photos of the plaza mayor in different stages of constructions, going back to the late 1800s. “Most of the newer construction is from the 1900s. Lima’s cathedral was built on top of Inca settlement, though Atahualpa’s city was not nearly advanced as Moctezuma’s Tenochtitlan, with its pyramids, waterways, and floating gardens. I thank him, give him a sole, and move on.

I explore the city center, a myriad of restaurants and souvenir shops, crowded in among government building and other businesses. I find the river, a fastmoving dark brown wash carrying debris to the ocean. I cross the bridge and enter a 18th century neighborhood, Spanish style, two story homes, businesses on the first floor. Each balcony is covered in a wood burka, I’m told, so women could go out onto the balcony in private, without men gawking at them.

Everything is yellow, mustard colored. The neighborhood is called Apurimac, same name as the rebel group Sendero Luminoso, who operated in el valle de los rios, Apurimac, Ene y Notero (VRAEM), I copy from a street sign. Its leader Abimael Guzman is eligible for release from prison. Most Peruvians believe he will remain behind bars, but with the amount of corruption in the country, who knows?
                                                                                       

Guzman, and his group, are seen by most as a terrorist organization who slaughtered many Indians in the mountains who would not join their cause. I feel a heaviness in the air, as if I’m being watched.

Back across the river, I stop to see a young woman in a tight red dress dance, a blend of flamenco and modern dance, the fused Peruvian flute and rock music pumped through two large speakers. She draws a large crowd. Every few minutes, two men move among the crowd passing the hat. Though people smile, everyone looks depressed, or it's just me.
                                                                                 

     
It takes me a half-hour to walk back to the Starbuck’s, where the bus dropped me off. My energy level drops—fast. I don’t wait for a bus. I see a man in a black Toyota Corolla holding a sign Callao. “How much?” I ask. “Two soles he answers. I know he’s a bootleg driver, legal but not advised for tourists. I go against my better instincts and jump in. He takes in three more passengers, and within twenty minutes, we are in Callao. He points the way to the hotel. I have no idea where I am.

I walk Callao’s back streets and enter different neighborhoods, a mix of old and new homes, but overgrown lawns, a park in the center of each neighborhood, weeds, broken swings, dilapidated basketball courts. I ask passersby where is Avenida Elmer Faucett. I try giving it a Spanish pronunciation. It sounds odd. A man tells me I’ve been on it for the past fifteen minutes, but farther south than my hotel. I ask a man in front of a bike shop if he knows where the LIMAQ hotel is. He looks up the street and points. It’s in front of me.
                                                                               

I’m tired and sweaty. I go to my room and shower, put on a change of clothes and head across the street to dinner, a place called Roky’s, upscale, $7.00 dinners, pricy for Lima. Most Peruvians meals are meat, potatoes, and veggies, with a soup or salad, or a fusion of Chinese-Peruvian, nothing Mexican here, or Incan, nothing ranchero, unless you want alpaca.

Back in my hotel room, I read, watch Mexico’s CNN, listen to what might be Madero’s last days in Venezuela, and fall asleep.

January 23.
I miss breakfast, oversleep. In the lobby, I run into Brandon, our fearless leader. He’s making his last trip to the airport. Everyone was looking for me this morning, going on an outing to the beach community of Miraflores. I told him about my excursion yesterday. “Today, I’m staying in.”
                                                                                     

I walk to the kiosk and buy a newspaper. I ask the attendant, an old man inside, which paper is the best. He says they all lie to suit their own political agenda. He hands me Peru 21, the most informative, he says. He gives me the rundown on corruption in Peru. Like Mexico, it sounds, everyone is on the take, especially the Fujimoristas. I tell him I won’t need to buy any more newspapers. I will just come down and ask him for the news. He laughs at that. Tomorrow, we leave for Cusco. We need to catch our van by 6:00 AM It will be a long night.