Perú is a land of stark contrasts. There is wealth and poverty, culture and ignorance, safety and danger like in most countries. And perhaps these are easier to see here because there are less degrees of each, making the contrasts more marked, more apparent, and harder to ignore.
I can walk around beautiful South Orange County and see the contrasts if I bother to look for them – there is homelessness, there are children who go without, all hidden behind the shiny veneer of incomprehensible amounts of wealth, sandy beaches, whitened teeth and surgically-altered women.
In Lima the contrast smacks me straight in the face, challenges me to look the other way, and smirks when I can’t ignore it. I can’t pretend it’s not there as I land at Jorge Chávez International Airport and see the result of nineteen years of proliferation of communities built on dirt by people who migrate to the capital because they can’t find a way to subsist in their hometown (incidentally, in Lima they make a killing by bucking the system).
My daughter’s first comment on the land where I come from is, “mommy, Perú is brown!” I smile a sad smile thinking how right she is and how much she doesn’t know. I flash back to the days when my university classmates and I had to conduct surveys in communities just like the ones we see from our window seat, where homes had no floors, roofs and many walls were built with straw, and children died of respiratory infection lacking proper medical treatment. I don’t know what the reality of those communities is now, but I can’t imagine it’s much different.
We land, and the airport has undergone a transformation – nineteen years don’t go in vain, and nobody is waiting for me to come back in order to make improvements. As we drive away, I see more of what I remember that hasn’t really changed much. For better or for worse, communities around major airports don’t seem to fair very well in many places around the world.
One thing quickly becomes evident. Lima has expanded into once unoccupied land, and in land that was occupied it’s grown vertically. Houses have been replaced by apartment buildings in most residential communities (my own childhood home included). Streets have stayed the same. Do the math and what do you get? Congestion beyond what anyone can describe coupled with the most
chaotic driving conditions I can think of.
Where three lanes merge into one, I find five lanes of cars trying to beat each other for that leading spot. Lanes and signs are completely disregarded, red light and traffic cops being the one and only exception. There are driving rules, hundreds of them, but one rule prevails: break all other rules. The law of the jungle is king here, where Darwinism can be applied to any street in the city at any time of day – only the fittest survive.
I have forgotten all the roads, only remembering snatches of avenues that we used to drive through when I lived here. Many of them come back quickly, despite the fact that none of them look like anything I remember. And here I find more contrasts. On any given stretch along the main avenues I find restaurants and shops in houses that used to be just that, houses. It all has an air of slow decay, except for spots where investment has led to modern structures, the emergence of international chains – Starbucks leading the charge – and a general feel of order and luxury that turn the whole into an oxymoron.
The pavement is as irregular as ever in some sectors. In others, it is broken at each intersection as several cities undergo modernization of their dated traffic lights with smart versions. There is now a
bus line that runs along one of the central expressways. Construction is underway for a train that will connect the Southern part of Lima to downtown, with the hopes that it will ease congestion. Progress has its price, however, and Lima finds itself trapped in utter gridlock during rush hour, which will last from five to eight at night in a city that’s the size of a handkerchief. Everything is close. And it can take forever to get there.
Traffic also brings back something that I miss dearly, as it is a reflection of much of the Peruvian culture. I get past the initial shock, thanks largely to the horror I see reflected in my husband’s face (in all fairness to him, he’s sitting in the back with my mother at the wheel, watching how she and everybody else manage to advance through chaos, horns blaring, brakes squealing, seemingly unaware of the whole while in reality paying very close attention.) I find humor in the situation. I find comfort in what we call “criollismo”, which I can only explain by saying Peruvians take a lot of things in stride, with humor, and by and large like to find the cracks in the system whenever possible.
I also find comfort in the fact that, despite how horrendous traffic is, in the face of the worst driving I have ever seen, in complete opposition to the way we drive in the States, there is no road rage. Nobody gets mad, nobody displays aggressive behavior, and under the lawlessness of the road I find almost a code of ethics – it’s ok to cut off my neighbor, deny passage to the guy trying to get in my lane, get so close to the car in front of me I can almost hear the sound of our bumpers kissing, and I can lean on my horn when another car intrudes too far into my lane so close we can touch each other. It’s ok as long as none of us does it with malice.
We push as far as the car next to us will allow us to push if he had the lane first. We’ll share the lane if we have to. We’ll keep on moving at risk of staying stranded in no-man’s land if we stop. We won’t truly help each other, but we won’t drive attempting to harm anyone either. It’s interesting. And to be honest, it turned out to be quite fun. I’m sure that last part is only true because I don’t have to live with it for the long run. For the faint of heart, there’s always a taxi.
People feel safer now than when I left, and that’s probably true of me as well. The attacks perpetrated by Shining Path are a thing of the past. Muggings still exist, as do kidnappings (mostly of the “day” variety), so I keep an eye on my belongings and hold my children’s hands with a death grip. Vigilance is key, as Peruvian muggers prefer the smart robbery where they walk away with your wallet or your purse and you are none the wiser. Confrontation is not their style as general rule, so staying aware of our surroundings keeps us relatively safe. In fact, Jim and I avoid getting mugged in downtown Lima by keeping our eyes open, much to the disappointment of two men who’d judged us unaware tourists (and much to my relief, as I was concealing our Canon 5D Mark II under my scarf).
Safety comes at a price as well. My mother claims robberies are down, people don’t get assaulted, and Lima is safer than ever. At the same time, she has a super-duper alarm system, electric fence included, as does everyone else; the alarm codes are never shared with the maids, who might be in cahoots with somebody else; there are security guards all around the city; fences and security guards have sprung up in most residential communities, serving as deterrents to crime; and cars can be purchased with bulletproof steel and windows (yeah, there is demand for such thing). Safety is relative, and much of it could be considered an illusion. (Addendum: just found out one of my school friend’s husband had his car completely dismantled at a restaurant on the one night they didn’t have security… case in point!)
On the other hand, we can go anywhere without feeling like we’re being taken advantage of like we feel anytime we go to Mexico. Exchange rates for dollars are fairly consistent from the bank to the grocery store, from the tennis academy to the restaurants in town. And the service is absolutely and unquestionably without reproach. This is not a sign of servitude but of pride in what they do. It’s a sign of hospitality and good will.
We sit down for lunch at an outdoor restaurant next to Kennedy Park in Miraflores, and I realize they don’t have
Picarones for dessert (most restaurants don’t, but my hopes are high). Our waitress offers to get them for me for dessert. Finding out I have a nineteen year-old craving, she goes out of her way, walks two blocks from our location, and brings me back three orders of Picarones from a local street vendor. We tip her handsomely, and her manager asks that we redo the charge slip, as she doesn’t trust that it was us who put down the amount on the bill (a sign of the general mistrust of the people in the people. I almost went in to tell her a thing or two, but judged it would cause more trouble than good).
Visiting
Miraflores did me a world of good, and not just because of the Picarones. Miraflores has changed some and not at all. Businesses and restaurants have been replaced all along Larco Avenue, except for the Minerva Bookstore that has been in the same corner for longer than I’ve been alive; or Manolo’s restaurant, where they still serve some of the most amazing churros filled with custard, whipped cream or chocolate; and the shoe store where my parents bought me my first pair of loafers.
The City Hall where my grandmother used to work is still there, looking as good as ever, next to the
church where my parents got married (same church where they probably should’ve been struck by lightning, but that’s another story). On the other hand, my grandma’s house (property of the city), is no longer there and has been replaced by the city’s cultural institute, fittingly enough if I may say so myself.
At the start of Larco used to be a park and an acoustic shell for outdoor concerts (a miniature version of the Hollywood bowl in my child’s memory recollection). It now is “
Larcomar”, where one can find fine shops, numbers of excellent restaurants, and oddly enough for me, TGI Friday’s and Chili’s. A Marriott stands tall along the street there now.
We walk by the street where I was born, and my dad finds a relative of the doctor who brought me into this world. I remember the location of a club where I used to go when they had under-eighteen nights. Miraflores has changed, but it hasn’t. And the people certainly have stayed the same. I finally feel like I’ve come home.
We spent a week in Lima, never enough time to do all the things I wanted to do and show my husband the place where I came from. We managed to do a quick and dirty stop in
downtown Lima, which is looking quite beautiful. There are nice restaurants now in a little passage perpendicular to the old central post office. The façades are painted and clean. The balconies are restored.
The Cathedral is as beautiful as ever and the relics quite impressive. In an old convent (Santo Domingo Church) lies Santa Rosa de Lima, the first saint of the Americas. San Francisco Church boasts a tour of the old Jesuit monastery, the church and the catacombs, which connect with two other churches through underground tunnels. There is architecture, tradition and history here. We don’t have nearly enough time to do it justice.
One of the nights we went to
Las Brisas del Titicaca, where we enjoyed a beautiful show of typical Peruvian dances, including my favorite, the
Marinera Norteña. I manage to watch this through tears in my eyes that I am unable to contain, emotion swamping me, a mixture of pride and sadness taking control of my being. Jim gets a taste of our culture, appreciation in every moment we spend there.
We made it to
Barranco one afternoon. We visit El Puente de los Suspiros (the bridge of sighs), the central plaza, and go looking for my mom’s childhood home. On the one day I leave the house without a map, I also manage to get completely lost in an area I used to know well enough, and miss the house. We have the girls in the car with us and travel into an area where I’m not positive I would want to get stranded at night. Long story short, I panic, Jim takes the wheel, and we have to ask a taxi to get us to a main road from which to get home. Jim enjoyed driving. A lot.
Lima looks a bit tired. Smog does a number in most areas and a layer of dirt covers the city. In others, dirt accompanies disrepair, and it makes me miss CC&Rs. Luckily for us, the usual grey cover that envelops the city dissipates long enough for the light to cast its glow and give us a better look at the old maid.
There is progress in many areas and in many respects. There is a sense of reward instead of hopelessness. I take comfort in knowing that my friends and family can work hard and build a life for themselves. Priorities are different here. People work not so much for the accumulation of wealth and property, but to sustain a comfortable life that allows them to enjoy their family and friends, that allows them to do the things that are important to them and that build memories. That allows them to have those things we all want but sometimes forget about in the rush of daily life, Blackberries and deadlines.
Perú is a land of contrasts. Perhaps the most striking one is the fact that we have a land rich in resources but no discipline or foresight to develop it. The government invests in infrastructure for the main cities but not on the people who can and will be the engine of progress.
And all in all, some of my greatest memories and a part of me will always be there.
