It´s (Not) Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas, Guzman the Merman, and Other Peruvian Christmas Classics

Faithful readers, in the spirit of the season, it´s time for our first annual Christmas sing-along. Or rather, since this isn´t a live performance and I´m not about to upload any videos of me squeaking my way through ¨Silent Night¨ or ¨Joy to the World¨, it´s time for our first annual Christmas sing-in-your-own-head as you read-along.  Only this isn´t your typical holiday special; it´s Christmas done south of the Equator.

I've talked before about how the inversion of seasons south of the Equator has messed up my psyche, and now that the holiday season is upon us, that claim couldn't be any truer.  While folks back home are bundling up in their warmest scarves and sweaters, I've spent my weekends at country clubs and beaches. While they´re browsing the local nurseries for the perfect pines, I´m growing fond of palm trees.

While the local supermarkets, casinos, and department stores have strung festive garlands over their edifices  and stocked their shelves with bearded, bundled Santas and hot chocolate, I just can´t seem to find the holiday spirit amidst the ocean fog and muggy weather. But perhaps my sentiments would better be demonstrated in musical form:

Guzman the Merman

Sing along

Guzman the mermaid is a fairy tale they say/He was made of sand but the betchy girls know/how he came to life one day. Oh! Guzman the merman was a jolly happy soul/with one bottle cap and one lime nipple/and all the rum his gills could hold…

It´s (Not) Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

Sing along 

It´s (not) beginning to look a lot like Christmas/Ev´rywhere you go/Take a look at the sand, glistening once again/Beneath the Lima sunset all aglow…

O Palm Tree

Sing along

O palm tree, o palm tree/ much pleasure doth thou bring me.

Where´s The Snow? Where´s the Snow? Where´s the Snow?

Sing along

 

Oh the weather outside ´s delightful/but our beach burns are so frightful/To Chincha and back we go/Where´s the snow? Where´s the snow? Where´s the snow?

Mashup Finale: Up on Diego´s Beach House Rooftop/ We´re a Couple of Misfits/Deck the Halls

Sing along 1, 2, and 3.

Up on Diego´s beach house rooftop Jennie paused/Out jumped Josué Córdova/Down to the kitchen for chips and dogs/All for the little ones Christmas joys. Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn´t go? Ho, ho, ho! Seriously: Who wouldn´t go? Up on the rooftop beer tops went click!/ Down through the gullets of all us misfits.

Ohhhhhhh! We´re a couple of misfits/ we´re a couple of misfits/ What´s the matter with misfits/ That´s where we fit in. We may be different from the rest/Who decides the test/Of what is really best?

Fast away the old year passes/fa la la la la la, la la la la/ Hail the new,ye lads and lasses/ fa la la la la, la la la la./ Sing we joyous all together/ fa la la la la, la la la la/ We rejoice for sunny weather/ fa la la la la, la la la la.

I´ll be home for Christmas. Expect more caroling. And next time, please, stay on pitch.

Sustainable Tourism: Preserving and Showcasing Peru´s Treasures

Belen market, Iquitos

Allow me to make a few introductions.  First Carlitos, an independent guide who works in Arequipa and Colca Canyon country.  Carlitos is a young, 20-something-year-old Peruvian who´s finishing his studies in tourism while living the life of a full-time guide. Second is Gart, general manager of San Pedro Lodge in the heart of the Amazon. Gart is a Dutchman who moved to Peru 6 years ago and wound up sharing his love for the Amazon by taking over the reins at San Pedro Lodge in April.

While these men´s backgrounds—and the regions where they´ve chosen to work—differ vastly, their thoughts are consumed by a common problem: sustainable tourism in Peru.

I´ll admit that I, like many people, hadn´t given much thought to the concept of ¨tourism¨ before coming to Peru. As a child, most of my family vacations were to other U.S. cities, where the negative impacts of tourism are mostly observed in the form of chain restaurants and brand name stores stamping out competition from local retailers and mom and pop shops. But in a country like Peru—where interest in cultural, historical, and ecotourism is exploding—the subject cannot be ignored. 

During our Colca Canyon trek, I remember that Carlitos mentioned the struggle of balancing the expectations of tourists with the needs of the local citizens of Tapay, Cosnirwa, and Malata. He´s trying to figure out how he can give tourists a ¨local¨ experience without exploiting the natives or making them seem ¨primitive¨ or ¨exotic.¨ And he´s also grappling with the best way to share the capital generated from canyon tourism: is it better to let the locals sell their own products or to give them a cold cut of the money?

Taken on the boat ride back to San Pedro Lodge.

In the Amazon, the implications of tourism are both economic and environmental. Over a glass of camu camu juice, I heard Gart discussing jungle tourism with a man from San Pedro village.  Gart stressed the importance of educating local community members about the dangers of pollution and deforestation, both of which put native plant and animal species at-risk. He also noted that this type of carelessness drives tourists—who come to the jungle looking for an opportunity to ¨commune¨ with nature—away.  Yet locals argue that until they start reaping the benefits of tourism—increased cash flow and employment opportunities—the logging industry is their only viable career path.

In fact, all of Peru´s greatest treasures are simultaneously vulnerable to and dependent upon tourism. On the border between Peru and Bolivia, locals who inhabit the islands of Lake Titicaca have notoriously (and repeatedly) been cheated their fair share of tourism capital by the agencies who ferry travelers there, leaving the locals with very few resources to provide their families with food and shelter.

Not just a picture of Machu Picchu´s impressive terraces: notice the string cutting the photo diagonally. It´s there to measure the movement of the stones and the mountain.

Even the country ´s crown jewel, Machu Picchu, is in danger. According to the National Chamber of Tourism, the site will have attracted at least 1 million visitors this year alone. This signifies a giant boom for Peru´s economy, but it also means  the Inca´s most impressive achievement is rapidly eroding and deteorating. Due to poor regulations of the site, UNESCO has, on several occasions, threatened to put the ruin on its list of World Heritage sites in Danger.

With the potential for the Amazon jungle to be included on the list of the New 7 Natural Wonders, it will be interesting to see if—and when—the Peruvian government will start making aggressive changes to the tourism biz to protect the country´s natural and manmade wonders. Unfortunately, with the industry generating over $3 billion in revenue this year, the likelihood of short-term changes looks dismal.

For now, like it so often happens, our hope is not in the hands of the national government, but in individuals like Gart and Carlitos.

Tales from the Jungle: Ophidiophobia

I stood with an orange-spotted anaconda around my neck, waiting for someone to snap a picture.  Accessorizing with a necklace that could constrict at any moment is not how I pictured spending my last vacation in Peru, and yet, there I was, smiling stupidly.

See, as far back as I can remember I’ve been afraid of snakes.  On a fourth grade field trip, I remember running through the reptile house, shielding my eyes with my palms and looking straight ahead, too afraid to meet the eyes of a boa or a python. The first time I saw someone holding a constrictor on the streets of Key West during a family vacation, I had a similar reaction: run.  My fear of snakes is so ingrained that I can’t even do a Google search for the word “snake”— I’m too afraid of what I may find.

So how did I come to find myself with an anaconda draped around my neck in Iquitos, Peru?  Maybe an accurate way to describe it is peer pressure. All of the other interns here have traveled to Iquitos, leaving my roommate and me listening to second-hand experiences and praises for weeks.

“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” our co-worker, Eric, bragged. “One of the best trips I’ve taken in my life.  You have to go.”

“But what about my fear of snakes?” I asked, imagining the jungle to have a snake dangling on every tree branch, the grass infested with slithering bodies and darting tongues.

¨Didn´t see even one, ¨ Eric countered.  ¨Don´t let that hold you back.¨

Reluctantly I booked my plane ticket and began my mental preparation for a snake-filled adventure. Being a highly anxious person, I always feel my best shot at reducing stress is having a plan for the worst case scenario, no matter how ludicrous that situation may be. So what I imagined in this case is that at one point or another, I´d be bitten by a poisonous snake during a jungle hike or in my slumber at the lodge.  Sounds silly, but I truly believed there was a good chance the lodge manager would have to ferry me to the local clinic after a snake attack.

The other thing I do to prepare myself for a possible snake encounter is to review everything I know about snakes.  This preparatory work is highly annoying to anyone within listening distance, because for weeks on end I blabber on about how snakes can open their mouths 180 degrees and swallow their prey whole; how they can slither, swim, leap and climb with their legless, wingless, finless bodies; how with one swift movement, they command so much power, while I have always been awkward, shy, clumsy, indiscrete. To be a snake, then—so natural, so adaptable—is to be the opposite of me.

My roommate, Maureen, was perhaps the best person I could have traveled with to the jungle. That´s because she also has high anxiety levels and understands all my mumbo-jumbo about needing to mentally prepare myself and have an exit strategy.  This trip forced her to confront her greatest fear, too: flying. So in the weeks leading up to our trip, many of our conversations were held completely in the world of worst case scenarios: What if the plane crashes? What if the plane crashes in the middle of the jungle and we survive, only to find ourselves surrounded by hungry snakes? And, perhaps worst of all: What if there are snakes on the plane, as chronicled in the notoriously terrible Samuel L. Jackson movie of the same name? We tried our best to come up with hypothetical solutions for everything.

During our conversations, I also organized my fear of snakes into perceived threat levels.  The psychological term for this, I later learned, is a ¨fear ladder.¨ My fear ladder is categorized, much like terrorism threats, by color:

•    Highest threats—Black, brown, and dark green snakes. Also: cobras, rattlesnakes, and anything over 3 ft.
•    Mid-range—Brightly colored snakes (even though these tend to be more poisonous than black or green snakes).
•    Lowest threats—Albino snakes. Can´t be sure why, but I have a sneaking suspicion that maybe it´s because I saw Britney Spears hold one at the MTV Video Music Awards and still live on for many more pelvic-thrusting, lip synching years…

Britney paving the way.

Of course, when I arrived to the jungle, I was happily surprised to have no immediate reptile encounters. In fact, the encounter didn´t come until we visited the local zoo.  Remembering my fourth grade experience, I knew the dreaded moment was most likely upon us.

Trying to diffuse the situation, Maureen asked our tour guide, Gino, if we´d be seeing any snakes during our visit, explaining my fear to him.  This was a grave mistake, as Gino not only answered in the affirmative, but used the opportunity to tell a series of stories about encounters he and every person he´d ever met had had with snakes. One involved his hand swelling up for two weeks after being bitten (in turn legitimizing my own fear of a poisonous snake bite), while in another story, he chronicled the tragic story of a hunter being swallowed alive. 

These were like ghost stories to me, and my fear grew with every tale; as I rounded each corner, I expected to find snakes slithering at my feet. Or, even worse, dropping suddenly from the branches above.  My face became flushed from the heat and the fear. I tried my best to stay behind Gino and Maureen in the event of a snake encounter, but not so far behind that a snake could slither out of nowhere and come biting at my heels. 

Just when I thought I couldn´t take the suspense any longer, the climactic moment came:  ¨There the man is standing, waiting to take your picture with the snake, ¨ Gino said calmly.

¨Can´t we just take a different route? ¨ Maureen asked, noticing how my body had stiffened.

¨No, we have to walk this way to see the other animals, ¨ Gino explained.

¨That´s okay, ¨ I tried to gulp down my fear. ¨Let´s just walk past it and move on.¨  

¨But it´s not going to hurt you, ¨ Gino insisted.

I shook my head.

He laughed. ¨You´re the first American I meet who’s afraid.  Strange.¨

¨Really?  Because I know lots of people who are afraid of them, ¨ I retorted. ¨Maybe they just don´t come to the jungle.¨ What I really meant to say is, Maybe they´re not stupid enough to come to the jungle.

Gino laughed again, walking towards the snake.  He plopped down next to it on the bench, where it was coiled, liberated from its owner, allowed to slither freely.

The anaconda did not move.

¨See? ¨Gino pressured.  He began to pet the snake´s sculpted body.

The snake´s owner hustled over, excited to reign in the sale. He was old, tanned, and wearing a tank top and beach shorts. ¨¿Una foto?¨ He encouraged. ¨Tres soles. Varias posturas.¨ Varias poses. As if I even wanted one.

¨Tiene miedo,¨ Gino offered, pointing to me in my cowardice.

The old man, determined not to lose the sale, hurried to pull out a book of pictures, which he believed would assure me of the snake´s good track record. There were bikini-clad girls wearing it, grown men making kissy-faces at it, even a girl who looked no older than 8 wearing the oversized constrictor on her petite frame.

Gino pointed at the last photo.  ¨See? Even the little girl´s not afraid.¨

Do you kind of want to hold it?¨ Maureen broke in, the only reasonable voice of the bunch. She understood my mixed fascination and fear, noticing how my eyes were transfixed on the anaconda´s every movement.

¨Yes,¨ I admitted. ¨But I think there´s a 50% chance I will flip out.¨

¨Want me to hold it with you?¨ She offered.

I nodded. ¨As long as you hold the head.¨ It was a ridiculous request, but I knew it would make me feel better.

With our consent, I watched as the toothless man eagerly draped the black bodied, orange-spotted beast over Maureen´s shoulders, still holding onto its head.  Then he offered the head to me.

I bristled again, my heart rate quickening. This wasn´t how the arrangement was supposed to work.  Maureen was supposed to hold the head and me, the less scary lower half. Normally I am somewhat timid in expressing my desires, but in this case, which I neurotically considered one of life and death (despite countering photo evidence), I abandoned all reservations.

¨La cabeza para ella, ¨ I insisted, pointing to Maureen.

The man nodded in acknowledgement, motioning me to the other end of the snake, which he lifted onto my neck and shoulders. He put the tail in my right fist and the head in Maureen´s left.

At least it had orange spots, only a medium threat...

I expected the snake to start coiling, but it did not move.  I realized it had probably been heavily sedated to interact with tourists, and that I was just perpetuating its torture by giving the toothless man my business. For the first time in my life, I felt something close to compassion for a snake.

But it was too late now. The anaconda was on me.

The sensation was so surreal that I can´t accurately describe it. For all the anxiety, all the mental preparation, all the hype, the snake-holding itself does not hold a prominent place in my memory. Because Maureen and I were sharing the burden, the anaconda´s weight was not overwhelming.  And because the jungle beast was sleepy and inactive, there was no movement to recall.

The snake hung limp and lifeless over our sweating bodies, like a large prop. Only an occasional flick of the tongue indicated its true vitality. 

¨Chicas valientes,¨ Gino said, nodding approvingly after the photos had been taken and the snake had been removed from our shoulders.  ¨Let´s go.¨

But I knew it wasn´t as simple as that. Just because I´d held a drugged anaconda once did not mean I would forever be cured of my fear. I had been somewhat prepared for this encounter; the greatest fear comes from surprise ones.

Still, it was a step forward, so I kept walking.

Jungle Bound

Friends, I´m happy to report that the decision has been made of where to spend my final vacation in Peru: as of this Sunday, I´m jungle bound.

The trip couldn´t be any better-timed.  Exactly two weeks ago—on November 11, 2011—the Amazon made the provincial list of the New7Wonders of Nature. While the results of this competition won´t officially be announced until early 2012, inclusion into the New7Wonders campaign could mean the beginning of a second tourist boom in Peru. The country´s economy is still riding high off the 2007 competition, which selected Machu Picchu as one of the new man-made wonders amongst the ranks of Chichen Itza (Mexico), the Taj Mahal (India), and the Great Wall of China.

My visit to the Amazon will be based in and around Iquitos, the largest city in the world only accessible by air or boat. But my tracks will only be making a minuscule dent in the Amazon´s density, which spreads an impressive seven million square kilometers and totals over half of the world´s existing rainforests.  Its vastness and diversity (containing 1 in every 5 living species) is incomprehensible.

So what´s on the itinerary? My wonderful roommate Maureen and I will see pink dolphins, jaguars, manatees, toucans, and mosquitoes (default). How will a girl who winces at the mere mention of snakes make it through the jungle unscathed? Well, that´s for another blog. 

In the meantime, I´m preparing for my jungle excursion the only way that makes sense: by listening to songs that make shameless and distasteful allusions to it:

Kool & The Gang/ Jungle Boogie

The Beach Boys/ In the Jungle (The Mighty Jungle)

The Troggs/ Wild Thing

Guns N´ Roses/ Welcome to the Jungle

The Rolling Stones/ Monkey Man

Emma Louise/ Jungle

Jay-Z and Kanye West / Welcome to the Jungle

Stay tuned.

Creamfields Wasteland: A Short Parable

Creamfields Perú, 2011: I could tell you about how my roommates and I prepared for the all-night electronic concert by sleeping all day, shoveling heaping forkfuls of pasta in our gullets and smuggling cereal bars into the remotest pockets of our purses.  I could tell you about how David Guetta got the party started with his Top 40 dance hits and spark-shooting robot aides. I could tell you about the performances of other main stage dance DJs—John Digweed, Laidback Luke, Afrojack.  But instead, I want to tell you a precautionary tale.

Entering Fundo Mamacona (the Creamfields venue) on Saturday night was like locating paradise for twenty-somethings along the Panamericana Sur highway: balmy air, well-manicured lawns, skyscraping palm trees and free cigarettes at the entranceway; stands selling beer, Red Pull, pizza and anticuchos (shish-kebab cow heart) to nourish the mobs throughout the night; tarps laid down in front of the staging areas to catch the fallen debris from careless, hungry/thirsty hands.

At first, the tarp ingenuity seemed to work.  When we stole away to the central open area from the bobbing sea of bodies after Guetta´s set, there was plenty of space to accommodate or group.  We sat cross-legged or stretched out on the grass, idyllically sipping on our beers, breathing in the springtime air, and listening to the pulsing music from afar.

But the harmony between man and nature did not last.  The more beers consumed, the more plastic cups disposed.  Garbage cans piled over.  With the constant movement, the tarps did not catch the debris as anticipated. All of the trash migrated to border between tarp and grass, creating junk fences for concert-goers to leap over on their travels to and from the staging area.

The mobs must have gotten hungry during the second and third sets, because the next time we went in search of green space, plates and personal pan pizza boxes littered the lawn. You had to kick the orphaned cardboards out of the way to make a suitable space to sit, while lying down lost its allure entirely.  When the sun came up again, there were no clean spaces in which to sit at all: bodies still rested, but they slept with plastic pillows.

Sure, sure, I know recklessness is the object of any all-night concert, and that teams of cleaning crews would be coming in the next day to restore the garden to its original pristine state; by the following nightfall, there´d be no traces of the Creamfields wasteland at all.  But where would be that garbage´s final destination, and who would be swooping in then to clean things up?

Not Your Average Travel Guide

Over the past two months, I’ve had the pleasure of working with Jason Demant, founder of Unanchor.com, on a 3-day travel guide to Lima’s best attractions. What makes this start-up itinerary site unique from other travel websites is that Jason is 100% committed not only to providing daily schedules for the independent traveler, but also doing everything he possibly  can to ensure he/she won’t get lost. Unanchor guides include clearly-marked routes and pictures with live hyperlinks that jump to Google maps and websites with more information about each destination. Every detail of the itinerary is designed with the tech-savvy traveler in mind: no more lugging Lonely Planets around or popping into internet cafés to double check your direction.

Peru´s new logo, scrawled into a mountainside in Central Lima.

As for my part, my itinerary just went live this week and is now available on the Unanchor site.  Writing my first itinerary has given me an even greater awareness of what this city has to offer.  My tour de Lima includes stops in Barranco, Central Lima, Miraflores, San Isidro, and Surco to visit everything from catacombs and ruins to art galleries and world record-breaking fountains.  I think it makes a pretty compelling case for Lima, whose reputation has been smeared by its crowdedness, its pollution levels, and its seeming lack of “cultural importance” in a country that holds both Machu Picchu and the Amazon.

But the city limits of Lima occupy only a tiny space on the Unanchor itinerary map.  The site includes guides for all over the world, helping travelers plan their next vacations in Seoul, Sydney or even to little-known sites and attractions in their home cities.  I know I’ll seek the expertise of Unanchor guides on my upcoming trips; I encourage you to do the same. 

Guerreros, Monstruos, and Bestias--Oh my!

Tola art installation is one part warrior and one part beast.

Last night I took a peek into the unnerving, shadowy passageways of two twisted creative minds: artist José Miguel Tola and puppet-maker Ety Fefer.  The exhibit, titled Guerreros, Monstruos, y Bestias (Warriors, Monsters, and Beasts), is a celebrated artistic collaboration that dares to confront us with war, marginality and our own humanity. 

One of Fefer´s grumildos.

Fefer´s lifelike plasticine grumildos are adorned with garish war paint, spikes, demon eyes, and hanging tongues, in part inspired by terra cotta warriors and nang yai shadow play; meanwhile, Tola´s weirdly wonderful decoupage-inspired art installations work with motifs like crosses, arrows, rainbows, and outstretched hands. The lucid movements of the lifelike puppets combined with the 3-D textures of the installations produce feelings of exposure and vulnerability for the gawker, as if she or he was one of the displayed pariahs.  Better said—walking through the exhibit is akin to walking through a house of mirrors.  

While Tola and Fefer are both Lima natives, the two were born 30 years apart—in 1943 and 1973, respectively. In this way, their collaboration represents the meeting of two mindsets—the post-modern and the burlesque. Both are innovators in their respective artistic movements, Tola´s work being housed in Lima´s most notable galleries (MALI and Central Reserve Bank, among others) and Fefer´s grumildos recently completing a 40-city international tour.

The exhibit runs at the Sala Luis Miró Quesada Garland in Miraflores until December 4.  For anyone living in Lima, I beckon you to spend an hour in the shadow world. You won´t be disappointed. 

For more information:

Exhibit Preview

Article (in Spanish)

Sands through the Hourglass

Warning: This blog entry is a shameless advertisement for Peru´s mind-boggling diversity.

It´s November (almost mid-November), which means that my return ticket for Christmas has been booked and my days as a copywriter in Lima are numbered.  I´ve got one last crack at a full-week vacation.  The problem? I don´t know where to spend it.

Perhaps I haven´t adequately equipped you with the ¨big picture¨ of Peru in my writings thus far.  I spend the majority of my days in the dry coastal city of Lima, the country´s hub of government and commerce, where one season smoothly transitions into the next without major changes in temperature or precipitation. It´s smoggy, bustling, and grey, but all of those things start to grow on you after awhile.

While nearly one-third of all Peruvians call Lima home, geographically-speaking, it only comprises a small area of Peru´s land mass.  That leaves plenty of terrain to be traversed outside of Lima.  About a month ago, I sent a message to my friend discussing our various vacation options before deciding on Huaraz, a city north of Lima surrounded by two mountain ranges—The Cordillera Negra and the Cordillera Blanca.  Having already traveled to Cusco and Machu Picchu three years ago, here´s what is still on the list:

Lake Titicaca (Puno)

Lonely Planet makes Lake Titicaca look breathtaking; but is it worth it?

Serving as a border between the highland countries of Peru and Bolivia, Lake Titicaca´s claim to fame is two-fold: 1) According to Incan myth, the lake was the birthplace of the first Incas and 2) It´s the highest commercially navigable lake in the world.  The lake´s piercing blue color correlates to the region´s icy night temperatures, which dip below freezing in Peruvian winter.  Because of its legendary significance in Incan history, the lake is a popular destination for cultural tourists.  Unfortunately, friends who have gone there have described the interaction between tour guides and native peoples as ¨uncomfortable¨ and ¨exploitative¨, as locals living on the lake´s islands tend to earn only a small fraction from the tours that travel there.

Chiclayo
Located in the northern part of the country, Chiclayo is off-the-beaten path for most short-term visitors to Peru.  I´ve seen guide books call it the ¨second most archaeologically important destination¨ in the country, placing only behind the archeological wonders surrounding Cusco (reasonably so).  Chiclayo´s most important attraction is the tomb of Señor de Sipán, whose ancient grave rivals that of King Tut´s in terms of gold, silver, and jewels.  It´s also home to the Peruvian Pyramids and the hub of all things mystical—brujas, potions, herbs, and hallucinogens.  

Iquitos

The Butterfly Farm is one of Iquitos´most visited attractions.

The largest city that´s only accessible by plane or boat, the colonial city of Iquitos is located in the northern part of the Amazon jungle, which accounts for roughly half of Peru´s land mass.  Here, rare butterfly species and jungle animals like spider monkeys, pumas, jaguars, snakes and ocelots roam free, and it´s possible to book a piranha fishing adventure.  Most of my other coworkers have gone there in the past few weeks, and they´ve called the jungle one of the ¨best travel experiences of their lives.¨ The only setback? My crippling fear of one ubiquitous legless jungle reptile: the snake.

Máncora
This one is perhaps the least interesting (and most narcissistic) option:  the northern coastal town of Máncora is known for two things and two things only—its beaches and nightlife—rendering it a sort of Cancun south of the Equator.  I forfeited two months of summer to come here, so this trip would be taken for the sole purpose of sun worship.
 
I´ve said my piece; which would you choose?

Tomb Raider

Night tour of Presbítero Maestro Cemetery (photos courtesy Daniel Noriega Reto).

In the spirit of Halloween, Friday night I took a night tour of the Presbítero Maestro Cemetery in the Callao district of Lima.  What was meant (at least in my mind) to be a creepy adventure turned into two hours snapping photographs of the cemetery’s statues and mausoleums.  This was through little fault of the tour company itself: they did their best by offering the night tour,  guiding us through dimly lit spaces, recounting the most haunting cases of illness and suicide, and once, even enlisting the help of an actress to recite the work of Peruvian writer Mercedes Cabello Llosa de Carbonera—who, plagued with syphilis and suffering from dementia, spent her final years in an insane asylum—in a tone eerily reminiscent of ¨The Raven.¨  But the lighting and the stories never quite cut it for me: the monuments were too beautiful.

The word ¨beautiful¨ may seem like a disturbing way to describe a cemetery, but that´s the only adjective that comes to mind.  (Though I admit, it could simply be because in the past few years, I´ve visited more haunted houses with gimmicky hands reaching up from the earth than actual graveyards.)  The most impressive structure in the cemetery is the Paneteón de los Próceres, which houses the heroes of the War of the Pacific (1879-1884), fought against Peru´s most unfriendly neighbor, Chile.  This two story structure looks more a museum that a mausoleum with its pristine, spacious corridors and neoclassical architecture.  The biggest tombs there are reserved for military leaders Francisco Bolognesi and Miguel Grau, although as our tour guide soon revealed to us, the latter´s remains are not actually kept there.

Paneteón de los Próceres

Family tomb.

Beyond the Paneteón, Presbitero Maestro Cemetery offers a collection of marble statues and ample land for the final resting places of several historically important families.  Reflecting their wealth, the private graves are set up like small estates, with a set of stairs climbing down to the tomb´s main entrance.  The only difference between the grave and the home is that here, the doors are always locked: guests aren´t welcome.

Something´s missing...

Yes, all seemed a little too quiet at Presbítero Maestro Cemetery last Friday.  That is, until we passed through the corridor reserved for agnostics and suicides. Scanning the wall, I noticed something unsettling: one of the coffins had been removed. The space that once contained a body now looked dark and empty; inside, only a few burnt scraps remained. 

When asked by a fellow visitor what had happened to the body, our tour guide offered up the following explanation: destroyed by witchcraft.

Second Invasion?

Where the Wild Things Are: Huaraz, Peru?

Eight hours north of Lima is the small city of Huaraz, nestled in-between the snowcapped Cordillera Blanca and uncapped Cordillera Negra mountain ranges. There, the adherence to tradition, combined with the traffic of adventure tourism, yields a community that is at once insular and cosmopolitan.  Thai curries are served alongside Andean beans and quinoa, Tweety bird´s face is plastered beside Che Guevara´s on the side of a mototaxi, and a MFA graduate can find an incredible library of contemporary English writing, including three volumes of the Best American Nonrequired Reading.  Waiters, security guards, and taxi drivers may not study English, but their ears are well-trained to understand a Spanish-speaking gringa´s accent.  

This unexpected nuance is true of many Peruvian cities, including the well-known tourist destinations of Cusco and Arequipa.  They seem better equipped to meet the needs and expectations of English-speaking tourists than the megacity of Lima, home to nearly 9 million Peruvians.

There´s an easy explanation for this: it´s all about the money. Lima merely serves as a stopover city for most tourists, while Cusco, Arequipa, and even smaller mountainous cities like Huaraz become prime travel destinations. According to Peru This Week, some 700,000 tourists of the 2.7 million expected to travel to Peru this year will visit Cusco, the ancient capital of the Incan empire and cultural hub en route to Machu Picchu. The traffic generates huge revenues for the city, so catering to a tourist´s every need has become one of the government´s biggest missions.

When I studied in Cusco, my professor referred to the tourist phenomenon as the city´s ¨second invasion, ¨ showing us a painting in which the stars and stripes of the American flag hang prominently next to the Spanish flag and the tribute Incan flag in the city´s Plaza de Armas.

Che + dolphin + Batman on a mototaxi in Huaraz.

In Arequipa, our twenty-something-year-old tour guide´s language was more P.C. and optimistic, explaining that he had resumed studies at a local university in hopes of one day giving travelers a genuine local experience without exploiting natives.  But as outsiders, how can we ever be sure we´re welcome, or at the very least, that our presence isn´t invasive? 

There´s no simple answer to that question—and never will be—but for me, a conversation with the resident security guard of the Wilkawaín ruins near Huaraz put my mind at ease for a brief moment.  He asked me what my favorite Peruvian food was, to which I responded pollo a la brasa (rotisserie chicken served with French fries). 

And can you get pollo a la brasa in your hometown?, he inquired.

I nodded. He grinned back at me, proud that even some city he´s never heard of serves the same chicken he´s eaten his whole life. 

Pittsburgh and Peru: Dynamic Duo?

The Lost City and The Steel City make the ranks of National Geographic´s ¨Best Places.¨

The normal sequencing of this blog is being interrupted to bring you a special announcement.  National Geographic Traveler just released its ¨Best Places to Visit in 2012¨ and I am quite pleased to say that both Pittsburgh, PA and Peru have made the list.  The criteria used to create such a list is unclear--especially since small cities are given the same consideration as entire countries--but I for one have always been an advocate for the natural charm and social character of both destinations.

Peru offers countless manmade and natural wonders--it houses not only the awe-inspiring architecture of the Incas, but also the deepest canyons and one of the largest bird varieties  in the world; Pittsburgh´s city skyline via Mt. Washington offers stunning views of the city´s three rivers, bridges, and the steel edifices that forever revolutionized city architecture. Peru draws visitors seeking to learn about the history and culture of fallen empires; Pittsburgh attracts those who want to celebrate America´s football empire, as well as film directors looking to give their characters a new home. 

Perhaps the comparison is far-fetched for the average reader, but for me, the two places are inevitably tangled. They´re my two favorite places in the world, however big or small they may seem.

Read the full National Geographic article here.

Food for Thought

A few weeks ago, Peruvian President Ollanta Humala made the push for Unesco to add Peruvian cuisine to the World Heritage List.  The request comes as no surprise to Peruvians and tourists alike, who must put on their eating pants every time they leave the house: food is not only cheap, but hearty staples like rice, potatoes, and steak come in heaping portions.  Even more than that, each forkful you bite into here comes with the knowledge that you´re sharing in an evolution of taste, a gastronomy influenced by Andean, Spanish, Asian, and African products and flavors.  Here´s just an appetizer platter-sized summary of the Peruvian food revolution:

1.)     The potato

Spanish conquistadors supplied cattle and pigs, but potatoes claim Peru as their true homeland. The potato was first cultivated between 8,000 and 5,000 B.C., its adaptable nature making it one of the first successful crops to survive the stubborn Andean terrain.  The native Andean tribes carved giant terraces into the mountainsides to cultivate their food and developed irrigation systems to prevent erosion.

Flash forward to any Peruvian menú restaurant in 2011, where the spud serves as the accompaniment of choice to Peruvian plates like pollo a la brasa (rotisserie-style chicken) and lomo saltado (stir fry), or stands alone as an appetizer in the form of papa a la huancaína (boiled potato in a special sauce made of cheese, milk, and ají amarillo) or causa (mashed potato and chicken/tuna casserole).  Peru— the true innovator of the meat-and-potato diet.

2.)    The ají pepper
Used as a spread for sandwiches and a dipping sauce for French fries, ají sauce is the ketchup of Peruvian cuisine. This piquant little pepper is also used to make one of Peru´s staple dishes, ají de gallina, chicken served with rice and vegetables in a creamy yellow ají sauce.  The existence of the ají pepper in South America is thought to date back to at least 2,500 B.C., and is most popularly represented in the artwork of the Moche culture.

3.)    Ceviche
Ceviche´s origin is thought to reach back to the Inca Empire, during which time fermented corn and fruit (mainly tumbo) juices were used to make the dish.  The Spaniards offered up their limes and onions, while the Japanese immigrants brought ginger and their mastery fish preparation. Today, ceviche is Peru´s national dish and is popularly prepared with raw fish and fresh citrus juices.

4.)    Chifa
Wander through the streets of downtown Lima and you´ll eventually stumble across the red arch of el Barrio Chino, Chinatown.  Yet the influence of Chinese cooking cannot be contained within these few streets.  Chifa restaurants are almost as ubiquitous as combis in Peru, especially in Lima, where they can be found on almost every other block.  The term chifa itself is a uniquely Peruvian word used to describe the fusion between the countries´ two cuisines, largely caused by the need to adapt traditional Chinese dishes to include readily available Peruvian ingredients. 

5.)    Cuy
Disclaimer: If you grew up in a world where guinea pigs were pampered, fluffy pets named Domino or Buckwheat, this past post may not be for you.

Here in Peru, the cuy (guinea pig) is much more than a pet.  Domesticated as early as 5,000 B.C., guinea pigs were once considered a sacred animal by indigenous peoples.  They were believed to have healing powers and so were rubbed onto the body of diseased tribal members until they made a cooing noise to indicate the area of infection/sickness.  At that point, the cuy would be split open for the healer to examine the internal organs of the rodent and diagnose the disease.

Cuy entree at Jesus´ Last Supper, as depicted by Marcos Zapata

But what´s probably more difficult for English-speakers to swallow is the consumption of their domesticated pets at Peruvian dinner tables.  High in protein and low in fat and cholesterol, quick to reproduce and able to thrive in a wide range of environments, cuy holds a significant place in Peruvian diet, particularly for highlanders.  Even worse to picture—when cuy makes its way to the table, it comes bearing paws and all. 

For more on Peruvian food:
Glossary of Peruvian Cuisine
Pisco Trail

The Real World Lima Soundtrack: Now on Sale!

It´s everywhere. Each day on your walk to work, you pass Steven Tyler´s larger-than-life lips.  Your fine dining experience comes with a side of old-school Bon Jovi tunes, before he shaved his shaggy ´do and went country.  In the hippest bars and clubs, you tap your feet alongside twenty-something-year-old Peruvians to A-Ha and Pat Benetar.  You might have thought your teasing comb and cut-offs had reached their final resting place in a New Jersey junkyard years ago, but you thought wrong.  The ´80s epidemic has merely migrated south—to the Miraflores and Barranco districts of Lima, Peru. 

For the past three months, I have been conducting a hard-nosed investigation of this musical phenomenon.  The shocking truth? Foreign musical acts were once heavily taxed in Peru, triggering reluctance from big name ´80s, ´90s, and early millennium bands to make concert stops in Lima. Any Peruvian hoping to catch a whiff of aerosol hairspray had to travel outside the country to Argentina, Brazil, or (brace yourself) Chile, that skinny—but feisty—pisco-making rival to the south.  An entire generation of English-speaking, rock-music-loving Peruvians were robbed of genuine encounters with their favorite ´80s acts.  So they did the only thing they could do: they passed the unforgettable melodies onto the next generation, and they waited.

Flash forward to 2007.  The tax was lifted, opening the floodgate for ´80s musical icons to plant their leather boots on Peruvian terrain for the first time and revive (or maybe just perpetuate) the electric guitar fever.  Grumble as you may, you know you can´t resist bopping your head to at least one song on this playlist.  Go ahead and try:

1. queen & david bowie - under pressure (1981)
2. soft cell – tainted love (1981)
3. the smiths - there is a light that never goes out (1986)
4. depeche mode - personal jesus (1989)
5. the cure – just like heaven (1987)
6. depeche mode - just can't get enough (1982)
7. A-Ha – take on me (1985)
8. michael jackson – billie jean (1982)
9. michael jackson – beat it (1982)
10. dire straits - money for nothing (1984)
11. bon jovi – living on a prayer (1986)
12. guns n' roses - sweet child o' mine (1987)
13. aerosmith – janie´s got a gun (1989)
14. simple minds – don´t you forget about me (1985)
15. ac/dc – you shook me all night long  (1980)
16. INXS – need you tonight (1987)
17. the smiths - bigmouth strikes again (1985)
18. george michael – faith (1987)
19. new order – bizarre love triangle (1986)
20. dead or alive – you spin me round (like a record) (1984)
21. beastie boys – (you gotta) fight for your right (to party!) (1987)

Complete playlist available here.  Music brought to you by Daniel Noriega Reto, ´80s enthusiast.

Transportation in Lima Part 2: Killer Combi

The Peruvian combi--such an unassuming, quiet creature when it´s resting...

Let´s take a moment to consider the Peruvian combi.  Its stout, mini-van physique that proudly wears the names of all the streets and districts on its route.  Its torn-up pleather seats jammed-packed with Peruvians on their way to and from the office.  Its melody of horn honking, accompanied by the jingling of change as the cobrador comes ´round to collect travel fares.  The unfailing enthusiasm of the cobrador as he peers out the window or steps onto the sidewalk to chant the mantra of his route in a well-practiced monotone: ¨Arequipa, Arequipa, Arequipa!¨ he says, or ¨Todo Benavides, todo Benavides.  Vamos, vamos, vamos.¨   The reprise of his chanting as he ushers old passengers off the bus (¨Baja! Baja! Pie derecho!¨) and welcomes new passengers aboard.

The combi system is a push-and-shove of a transportation system that´s distinctly Peruvian, a well-oiled machine that´s barely detectable to the common traveler.  It starts at the ground level, with the two-man team of the bus driver and cobrador.  The bus driver darts in and out of traffic to shuttle passengers to their desired destinations in the fastest possible time, while the cobrador keeps track of the schedule, the number of passengers, and the number of tickets. It´s the ultimate drag race to the next stop—one combi always riding the exhaust pipe of another, looking for the next opportunity to pass, passengers and passersby breathing in the fumes.  All this hustle is to make money not for the city, but for privately-owned umbrella companies.  Some are legal, some are not.

They call them combis asesinas (killer combis), because in the rat race to the nearest paradero, they´ve been known to hit innocent pedestrians.  Here in Peru, it´s safer to be inside the combi than outside.  With fares averaging one sol (about $0.40), occasional vendors selling everything from office supplies to jewelry, and salsa on the radio, they just might be the more enjoyable option, too.  Great marketing strategy.

Transportation in Lima Part 1: Taxi Muggings

Last Thursday, my friends and I packed ourselves into a taxi outside of my apartment building and headed toward our usual Thursday night spot, Help! Retro Bar in the Bohemian district of Barranco. The air was fresh, the windows were down, and we were belting out the choruses to top 40 staples— Ke$ha´s ¨Tik-Tok¨ and Joey Montana´s ¨La Melodia.¨ (Listen below for a better understanding of how catchy songs decrease mental alertness and good-decision making.) The next logical progression should have been to sing along to one more party jam from the Black Eyed Peas, arrive safely to our destination, and find our names on ¨The List.¨
 

But that´s not what happened.

Like in any well-constructed plot line, there was some foreshadowing as to what was about to happen, but in the moment we were too negligent to notice.  The first sign was that our taxi driver drove us a different route than we normally travel, one that lead us down a back alleyway in Barranco, which predictably like all alleyways, was dark and deserted.  The second sign was that the end of the alleyway was gated and we had to wait for someone on the other end to open it.  The third was that a man in a hooded sweatshirt riding a bicycle stopped to speak with the driver for a few minutes.  In those moments, he must have realized how completely oblivious (naïve?) we all were—a cab full of girls riding with the windows down.  He must have noticed the open window.  And he must have noticed the purse sitting unattended on my lap, ripe for the snatching.


I remember that he circled around the cab one time before pulling up to the window next to where my friend and I were sitting. With one swift motion, he reached down inside, grabbed my purse, and pulled it the whole way out the window, leaving almost no time to react.  Yet somehow in the moment, my usually sluggish reflexes became cat-like. I yanked the purse from his grasp and pulled it back inside the window just in time for the gate to open ahead of us. Crisis averted.

Bohemian Barranco by night.

When I relayed the story to one of my coworkers, she said a similar thing happened to her brother once.  He had hailed a taxi to her apartment in the upscale neighborhood of Miraflores, but had ended up in a shady section of the city called La Victoria. By the time he and his travel companion finally realized they weren´t in the right place, the taxi driver had already parked in an alleyway, where two men were waiting and ready to get in and mug them.  He´d been in contact with them the whole time. Pretty profitable business model.

The point here is that, in my mind, I always thought I was safer riding in a taxi than walking or taking a bus.  I have ridden in 99 taxis here in Lima with no problems, but it´s always that exception to the rule that gets you. Maybe next time I´ll learn my lesson and take the gas-guzzling mini-van nicknamed the ¨combi asesina¨ (killer combi).  But more on that option later…

Ode to the Agrarian

¨How is it possible to feel nostalgia for a world I never knew?¨  ---Ernesto Che Guevara, The Motorcycle Diaries

I spent my Saturday in the company of cows, llamas, and alpacas. The visit didn´t involve travel to Cusco or the northern highlands, but rather a one-hour combi ride to La Molina, an affluent and somewhat suburban-feeling district of Lima that happens to be home to the Universidad Nacional Agraria La Molina (National Agrarian University—La Molina).  The trip was made possible by our good friend Enrique, who studied at the university and wanted to share it with us.

While some of us marveled at seeing farm animals up close and personal for the first time, others felt not as if they were experiencing something new and exotic, but old and familiar.  I belonged to the latter group.  Corn stalks and cows grazing are the typical scenery of a Sunday drive to my grandparents´ house, who used to operate a dairy farm in the quiet countryside of west central Pennsylvania.

Right at home, abroad--Universidad Nacional Agraria

Even though the instances of farm living are becoming rarer and rarer in my hometown, the agrarian tradition of our ancestors is still apparent in many rituals: county fairs, pumpkin carvings, hay rides through corn stalks, senior photos posed in front of props like tractors and wicker chairs. I´ve never milked a cow myself, but as I petted cow MRN 1067, I reflected on how my grandpa used to milk them every day, on how my mom used to say we skim-milk drinkers didn´t know what real milk tasted like, on how she said it was a special treat to ride along with my grandpa on Christmas mornings to make deliveries.  I thought about how my grandpa´s thick fingers and strong, wrinkled hands are the markers of years of dedication to hard physical labor.  Some jobs can be left in an office; others become a way of life.

¨I wouldn´t give you a nickel to travel,¨ my grandpa might say, dismissing my entire move to Peru with one decisive head shake. Likewise he´d probably make the city of Lima pay him before he would move into the thick cloud of smog and cacophonous soundtrack of car horns.

I´ve spent three years trying to piece together the connection I feel to Peru—why I´m fascinated by the lush green terraces and massive stone structures of an empire to which I share no common genealogy, culture, language, or history.  I´ve fumbled for logical explanations, reached for words I did not have.  Why would I spend six months halfway across the world at the expense of separating myself from everything and everyone I knew? 

I´m still not quite sure I can pinpoint the reason, but it seems to me it has something to do with a connection to seed and soil.  With the potato that stubbornly budges its way from the Andean earth against all odds, and the quiet resilience of a farmer, whose stubbornness brings even bigger surprises, defies even greater odds.

September is the New February

It´s September, but it feels like February. I don´t mean that just in terms of the winter weather here south of the Equator—the overcast skies, the lingering cold that settles into the tip of my nose—but in terms of the way the weather makes me feel. I can identify these feelings in the faces of passersby, all bundled up in their winter jackets and wearing fashionable boots: they´re tired of eating soups and drinking teas to keep warm, tired of putting an extra blanket on the bed at night, tired of spending their days in the office and their nights inside. I´m tired, too.

But wait—that´s not the way I usually feel in September, That´s the way I usually feel in February.

View from the office window: February in September.

At home, September means fall. Fall has always been my favorite season. Just one year ago, I wrote about the crispness and colors of autumn in Western Pennsylvania for a memoir class at Chatham.  I wrote about the smell of bonfire smoke after a football game, the tart taste of apple cider on a chilly night, the way the first frost covers the lawn like a delicate spider web. It´s the time of year when friends and family are talking about the first homework assignments and the first tailgates of football season.  Even though I know these things are really happening, in my mind Pittsburgh is just how I left it: tourists ambling down Grandview Avenue with half-melted ice cream cones, workers peering out their office windows, restless with the summer heat.

The stagnation of time is a curious component to living abroad.  I know time is passing where I am, but I can´t imagine it passing back home. For those I´ve left behind, the only time they can imagine passing for me is the time it will take me to come home. They´ve never seen me in this context, crossing the crowded streets of Miraflores or ordering coffee in Spanish. I won´t be the same way they left me at the airport.

It´s September, but it´s February. It´s winter, and I´m a long way from home.

From Noon To Midnight and Beyond

Last Saturday, I danced for 14 hours.  Fourteen hours? You ask. Were you training for some sort of Peruvian salsa competition or the next season of So You Think You Can Dance? Nope. Because apparently fourteen hours doesn´t qualify as marathon dancing in Peru; it´s just a typical Saturday at Embarcadero 41.

Playing card décor.

It all started when my friend asked if my roommates/coworkers and I would like to be put on Saturday´s list at Embarcadero. Having grown accustomed to such lists and their privileges (no covers, no waiting in line), I happily agreed.  He told me the location and the name of the list we´d be on.

¨Great.  And what time should we meet you?¨

¨Around 1PM.¨

¨1PM?¨ I asked, thinking he was surely confusing the abbreviations used to indicate early morning clubbing hours with those of Saturday afternoon napping.  It certainly wasn´t out of the question to arrive at a club in Peru at 1AM, but 1PM?

¨Yeah, 1PM,¨ he confirmed, not seeming to think anything of it. ¨We can spend the afternoon there dancing, then eat something and go clubbing again in the evening.¨

It´s not the idea of daytime drinking that made the 1PM start time sound foreign; most Americans of drinking age have done their fair share of afternoon (and early morning) tailgating for football games and concerts.  It was the intimidating idea that my afternoon hours would be spent inside a jammed packed club, dancing until my muscles ached, rather than in a spacious parking lot with comfortable folding chairs.

How would I make it?

But my friend promised we´d have a good time, and Embarcadero delivered. The day held many surprises, from cover bands and on-stage contests to all the free glow sticks, balloons and felt hats a girl could want. When we were tired of dancing, we refueled with large servings of pollo a la brasa and chaufa at a nearby restaurant.  Then we were back out on the town again (this time at a proper hour) for our second wind of drinks and dancing. 

You know how you hear those Top 40s songs about dancing until 4 o´clock in the morning? As you bop your head to the beat and mouth the words you´re probably thinking, ¨nobody in their right mind actually dances until four in the morning.¨

Make no mistake, my friend.  In Lima they do.

On Second Languages

What´s tricky about a second language is that it is the most unreliable friend you can have. Before heading south, I thought I had made some sort of silent pact with the Spanish language:  I´d remember all of the irregular, nearly unrecognizable conjugations of the verb ir and in return, the language would be patient with me, supplying me with vocab words and grammatical structures at my most desperate hours. But when those desperate hours arrive, my Spanish flakes on me.  And then, typical of any audacious friend who´s prone to disappoint, it comes back to me in fluent spurts of friendship, never acknowledging its previous betrayal. 

You might be thinking that the flakiness of my Spanish is not a reflection on the language itself, but rather my understanding of it. That´s likely true.  My seven years of study have prepared me for lengthy discussions about literature—the metáforas of a Neruda poem, the influence of modernismo and simbolismo in Borges´ work—but leave me at an utter loss when it comes to describing the time I fell off my backyard swingset and broke my arm.  My fumbling description of the Liberty Bell as a must-see historic site in Pennsylvania also leaves something to be desired. (Mainly the word ¨bell¨--try describing the Liberty Bell in Spanish without that word.  Here´s what I came up with: Churches have them? They ring? And finally: the sound they make caused Quasimodo to become deaf? Always falling back on the literary…)

Despite the awkwardness and discomfort of these scenarios, the unexpected upside is that I´m using language more creatively than I ever have before. Fluency might remain on the tip of my tongue, just about ready to roll its first r (but not quite)—and that may not be such a bad thing, especially for an aspiring writer.  Often we take first languages for granted, spewing off any hackneyed phrase or nondescript vocabulary word that comes to mind. But a second language just beyond our comprehension forces us to see the world differently, to make connections we might not otherwise. 

Kitchen counter plate tectonics. 

Take, for example, a conversation my roommate and I had with one of our Peruvian friends while preparing dinner last night. We were discussing (in English) the tremor we felt yesterday here in Lima, and our friend was trying to describe why Lima is particularly seismic. Fumbling for the exact words in English, he used our kitchen counter for a makeshift lesson on plate tectonics. The coastline of Peru, Lima included, sits on the edge of two plates—the South American Plate and the Nazca Plate, the latter of which is sinking underneath the former. In our kitchen plate tectonic scenario, the top counter represented Lima, the bottom represented the ocean. He demonstrated that because the plates moving below Lima continue to collide, scientists fear that Lima will eventually just break off into the ocean.  The distance of the fall was represented by the gap between our two counters. Genius.