Happy New Year from...The Steel City

Roberto Clemento bridge welcomes me into the "City of Champions."

From the very beginning, the end was in sight. In my first blog post, I talked about how the six "Real World Lima" interns--Millie, Maureen, Caroline, Eric, Andreas, and myself--were in the position to have a "brief, uncomplicated fling with Lima." More naive words could not have been written.

The honeymoon phase of life in Lima is over, but there are unresolved feelings to explore. Half of us are home for the holidays, while the other half remain in Lima with new jobs or are off-the-grid somewhere in South America. Even though I'm glad to be in the company of family and friends, my experience here in Pittsburgh can only be described as...disorienting. I keep looking for bins in which I can toss my toilet paper (instead of flushing it) and noting the general absence of noise--and traffic--in western Pennsylvania.

Everything has started to bloom in South America, but it's time for me to slow down for awhile, to settle into the fog and gray of winter.

For now, Yaka 'Lita is going into hibernation. But I've made it my New Year's resolution to not be away for long.

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.

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)

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…

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.

Top 5 Most Difficult (Mundane) Things to Do In Lima

A traveler´s truth that my roommates and I have come to know well is that the things we take for granted at home (i.e. buying groceries or mailing a letter) can be big adventures in a foreign country.  At one point or another, the most mundane activities have left all of us puzzled, looking for clarification and explanation from Peruvian friends and co-workers.  Cultural confusion—as opposed to culture shock—is the most accurate label for classifying the following five mundane activities: 

5.) Buying a cell phone
By the third week here, a few of the other interns and I were feeling nostalgic for the convenience, portability, and privacy that a personal cell phone offers. Thus we traversed afar (down the street) to the neighborhood Claro store, one of the biggest cell phone providers in Peru. 

It was a Thursday night, but the place was teeming with disgruntled businessmen and disinterested teenagers, all with one cell-phone related issue or another. But the problem with the phone store wasn´t the sheer volume of traffic: it was the number of lines.  If you´re hoping to get an issue resolved at Claro, you´ll have to stand in at least three separate lines: one to discuss your problem/purchase, one to pay for your problem/purchase, and one to pick up your purchase.

That description might not do justice to the stress. You´re probably thinking that the store has nice, orderly lines right next to one another for speed and efficiency—a sweet, if naïve, thought. So now picture that there are 25 different lines with about a half dozen customers in each, packed so tightly together that it becomes nearly impossible to tell whether or not you´re in the right line. And the most frustrating part? The first salesperson you meet always has easy access to the storage cabinet that contains the cell phone you need. Wanted: efficiency expert.

The most stressful ATM en el mundo.

4.) Using Your Bank´s ATM
Yes, you read that subtitle correctly. This isn´t a grievance against using any old ATM in Peru, but the ATM where I actually set up a bank account one month ago. Insert card, get no cash. I´ve tried to withdraw soles.  I´ve tried to withdraw dollars.  I´ve tried to withdraw different amounts each time. I´ve tried to withdraw it at different branch locations. I´ve tried to withdraw it from checking and savings. Tried to withdraw it holding my breath, with fingers crossed, with one eye open…

3.) Crossing the street
My friend Eric describes crossing the streets of Lima as having ¨a sort of Darwinian logic.¨ In this mad world, a ¨walk¨ sign doesn´t mean walk, and a driver beeping and waving his hand at you doesn´t mean you have the right of way. 

2.) Going to the movies
In the absence of cable or Netflix, my roommates and I decided to venture out for an evening film at Larcomar. We surveyed the not-so-thrilling selection of movies until we found one that caught our eye: Me enamoré de Nueva York (New York, I Love You).  Theater #12—4:50 p.m.  Price: S/. 18. My roommate approached the counter window to purchase our tickets:

--¨Hola. Tres para Me enamoré en Nueva York.¨
The cashier pointed to another line--shocker.  (Why are there always so many lines?) We sauntered over there, confused about the direction we should be heading.  With each line we passed, the cashier pointed to the next one, until finally we were at the exact opposite end of the place we started.  We waited in line some five minutes more before we reached the front of the new line.
--¨Hola. Tres para Me enamoré en Nueva York.¨ My roommate tried again.  This time it sounded more like a question.
--¨Setenta y cinco soles.¨ Seventy-five soles?  Mathematically, that couldn´t be right.
--¨¿Cuánto cuestan?¨ My roommate repeated.
--¨Setenta y cinco.  Es sala bar.¨ 
--¨Que es esto?¨ What´s that?
--¨VIP.¨ The cashier said.  VIP? What did that mean—that they were going to deliver gold-dusted popcorn to our seats?
--¨No, queremos los regulares.¨

The cashier shook his head, annoyed.  Defeated, we got out of line.

1.) Buying 1 Liter Bottles of Beer
There´s not much to relay about this one because six weeks later, we´re still confused.  My roommate managed to buy a liter her first day here but has been unsuccessful ever since.  We´ve been able to buy beer cans and small bottles, bottles of liquor and wine, but not liters of beer.  Here are a few theories we´ve had, in flashes of brilliance and confusion:

•    One liter permitted per customer (Disproven)
•    Purchase prohibited past a certain hour (Half-disproven: Sale of alcoholic beverages in supermarkets ends at 11PM.  But we haven´t been able to purchase the bottles at more reasonable hours either, like 3PM).
•    Purchase limited to Peruvian citizens/banned for expat consumption (No strong evidence to support this, though a leading theory for some time.)

All we know is that the word ¨deposit¨ has been thrown around a few times, but how that deposit is made, and how that first bottle of beer can be purchased, remains a mystery.

So Much Cooler Abroad: ¨En la lista¨ in Lima

Curious things happen while abroad. Sometimes you find yourself lost in the cultural jumble at the Claro phone store, scratching your head and wondering why you have to stand in three separate lines to buy a cell phone. Sometimes you find yourself unable to understand a word that comes out of the supermarket cashier´s mouth, despite seven years of Spanish classes.  And sometimes you find yourself ¨en la lista¨ (on the list) at one of the hottest clubs in the hippest district of Lima. 

My fortunate brush with exclusivity is thanks to four degrees of separation—a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend.  The mystery man that gets me into Peña del Carajo every week is named Clive. I´ve never met him, and I don´t have the slightest idea what he looks like. Until last night, I didn´t even know his name. But as I am pushing my way through the throngs of anxious club-goers outside the main doors each week, if someone mentions that I am ¨with Clive¨, I get motioned to the front of the line.

Wall art at Peña del Carajo, Barranco.

Those who know me at home would immediately recognize that Peña del Carajo, located in the nightlife hotbed district of Barranco, is too hip for me. By 11PM, the street outside the club is bumper-to-bumper taxi traffic; hundreds of college-aged Limeños push through the crowds in their coolest threads: off-the-shoulder sweaters and leather boots for the ladies, Abercrombie and Gino polos for the fellas.  There´s women selling big, sparkly earrings and men selling packs of cigarettes by the door; inside, there´s graffiti and Warhol-style paintings on the walls.  The music spins on into the wee hours of the morning—it´s suddenly 2, 3, or 4 am, well past the time when even after-hours bars shut their doors in U.S. cities. Yesterday, we saw an artist bring his easel onstage. There, in the midst of thumping music and crowds so thick you can barely swing a hip without bumping into someone, he completed an elaborate profile sketch.

It´s the kind of place I would never think to venture back home, opting instead for a house party or a dive bar.  Yet the unusual mix of salsa and reggaeton, eighties classics and top 40 is strangely satisfying at Peña del Carajo. It´s not that I´ve lost the identity I had before I moved abroad: when I return to Pittsburgh, I´ll probably find myself with the same habits and preferences.

Routine is comfortable, but the word ¨routine¨ itself implies a life played on repeat: nights out at the same bars in the same neighborhoods, having the same conversations. Ready for a new beat.

Real World Lima

The initial comparisons were unavoidable: six twenty-something strangers picked to live and work together in Lima, Peru. Two guys and four girls divided amongst two apartments. We are writers, so instead of confessionals, we joked about writing our deepest, darkest secrets in blog form. We toasted to our new lives in Lima over Inca Colas and Pisco sours—the makings of any good MTV show full of satisfying drama.

Celebrating Peru´s Independence Day. Rooftop view.

But in reality, we are six like-minded strangers in transition: some of us have just finished up school, while others have ventured into the journalism world only to be turned away. The expat life offered by our new employer charmed us—an apartment paid in full, a monthly salary, and three weeks of vacation to explore Peru´s diversity: beaches, deserts, mountains, and rainforests.

The other day, we watched the semi-finals of The Copa America soccer championship with a few Peruvians. They jested about how we English-speakers always find an excuse to travel—gap year, study abroad, work abroad. What they were getting at is that we´ve only taken the first wobbly, uncertain steps in becoming ex-pats: we´re out on our own in Lima, but we´ll be hugging our family and friends at the airport before the New Year.

If we thought we´d be living here forever, the excitement would wear down, be quickly replaced with longing and nostalgia. As it stands, the six of us are in the position to have a brief, uncomplicated fling with Lima.  At age 23, that´s just the sort of relationship I´m looking for. The world expects stability—stable career, stable family, stable relationships—but the expat life allows for transience and messiness. For crossing personal boundaries and physical borders.

For now, that means settling into the garûa and grey of Lima winter with a cup of tea and my new favorite candy bar (a noteworthy accomplishment for a chocolate lover). There´s a hazy view of the Pacific from my office window and some writing to be done.