After canceled flights and many nights, I arrive in Lima. I am greeted by the same overcast sky that I left 3 years ago; a heavy blanket of alpaca wool wraps tightly around this coastal sprawl once known as the City of Kings and that 1/3 of Peruvians now call home.
Like many cities in South America, Lima's neighborhoods reflect the vast disparities between the rich and poor. My hostel, which on the outside looks like a 21st century hobbit dwelling after one too many pisco sours, is in Miraflores, an upscale suburb of Lima that overlooks the mighty pacific. Here you may stroll leisurely through the plush parks filled with art installations, enjoy a freshly brewed latte from starbucks or dine on authentic Peruvian cuisine at the local Tony Roma's. This is where tourists go when they are homesick and where Peruvians go when they are sick of home.
still can´t believe howard schultz sold our sonics
But I am not at this point yet, in fact, I am on the other end of the spectrum. I am overwhelmed with embarrassment and sadness that this is what my country exports to the rest of the world. I did not travel for 3 days to eat a plate of ribs or order a grande soy chai (though that sounds damn good as I write this). I traveled to see how other people live, to interact with different cultures, to get my feet dirty with life after spending the last year couped up in my room, my nose stuck in case studies out of fear that Craig Thomas might cold call me the following morning.
I race to the nearest bus and for 1 sol (30 cents) I leave this western disneyland in the fog-covered horizon and make for downtown Lima. For 1 sol I become an urban astronaut; traveling across planets separated by money and the color of one's skin. Modern buildings of concrete and straight lines soon make way for crooked colonial palaces, worn-down from hundreds of years of Spanish rule and 20 years of pollution that even the Chinese would cough at.
An old man places his hand on my shoulder and asks where I'm headed. I reply with much excitement "el centro" to which he responds "por que quieres ir al centro? Estas mucho mas seguro en Miraflores." I quietly mutter "exactamente." The old man sits back in his seat, rolls his eyes and a thought bubble begins to rise from the top of his head, with the words 'crazy gringo' forming in its center. Perhaps the old man is right; it is my privilege that drives me to leave behind all the comforts of the 21st century for the crowded decaying beautiful struggle that is downtown Lima.
I step off the bus and weave a path through the crowded streets toward la Plaza de Armas, the heart and soul of Lima's past. Along the way, I am approached by countless venders, selling everything from cell phones to wind-up toys with the passion of revolutionaries and the ruthlessness of used car salesmen. I take a short-cut through what appears to be a public market, only to realize that I have stumbled upon an oasis in the middle of this overcrowded desert; a jungle of bananas, mangos, guavas and half-a-dozen other fruits I've never seen before in my life appear before my eyes. Clearly I have been in the northwest too long. I buy one of everything for a whopping 5 soles (less than $2) and continue on.
you know you want one
La Plaza de Armas is an impressive sight. The brightly colored colonial buildings and intricately carved wooden balconies stick out like a watermelon in a potato patch among the backdrop of Lima's run-down city center. For a moment I feel like I've been transported to 16th century Spain, but before I have time to fret about the oncoming inquisition, the site of armed troops and hungry tanks brings me back to present-day. Clearly Peruvians take their names very literally.
that´s one mean looking tank
Before heading back to Miraflores, I make one last stop in el centro: Chinatown. If you thought dim sum and hello kitty apparel were confined to North America and China, think again. Lima is home to the largest Chinese population in Latin America, a result of mass immigration of Chinese laborers at the turn of the 20th century. I grab a late lunch at one of the many chifas (Chinese restaurants) scattered throughout the area, pick up a humbow for the road and make the long trek back to Miraflores.
dim sum and then some
Safe and sound back in la tierra del gringo, I take a stroll along the coastline. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below are a soothing contrast to the hustle and bustle of the city streets. A man asks me if I'd like to have my portrait made. I casually reply "no gracias", but just as I'm about to continue walking, I notice the first American export in Lima that I'm proud of. There, among portraits of what I assume to be second-rate sitcom stars, is America's next president. A smile stretches across my face - this is a sign; A sign of hope; A sign that one day the dark cloud of oppression, corruption and desperation that has covered Lima since the arrival of the Spaniards 5 centuries ago will give way to a more equitable way of life; A sign that it is time for me to get the f outta Lima and head to my new home 9000 ft above the sea level.
obamarama
I hurry back to my hostel, skillfully stuff my backpack full of unnecessary items with the expertise of a chef preparing a chile relleno, say my goodbyes to the various backpackers I've met along the way, and flag down a taxi. "A donde vas?" asks the driver. Hasta Ayacucho.
