Peru Travelogue
Chapter 1: Culture Shock in Lima

September 5-8, 2003

Friday, September 5

We arrive in San Diego from New York at 3:00p on the 4th. Quite a stupid thing to do given that we have not packed anything for the month-long trip yet. I am, as usual, in good spirits and full of optimism, which Maggie attributes to carelessness. I am not careless. In fact, I am quite careful to let her pack everything. This ensures that we won't forget a thing. I even make a short visit to the office to set up my mail forwarding.

We wake up at 3:00a to the sound of the alarm, my cell phone, and subdued cursing. The cursing turns out to come from me and I feel generally unhappy about the prospect of driving to Los Angeles, then flying to Atlanta, and finally flying to Lima, the last two legs of the trip in ridiculously crowded plane seats. There's no choice despite me suggesting we postpone the trip indefinitely, and so we soon speed out on the Jetta, with two duffel bags housing our packs and everything else. The freeway entrance is closed for repairs and we have to take a long detour South, which does nothing to improve my disposition.

Locating the parking lot and getting on the complimentary (not counting the obligatory tip) shuttle goes without a hitch, and I am almost relieved to hear at the ticket counter that we have no reservations with Delta. I cannot afford to let Maggie know I am secretly hoping for an excuse to turn back, so I fake the appropriate indignation with pleasing conviction. I also wave the piece of paper given to me by the Delta dude who effected the flight postponement several months ago. While my indignation does nothing useful, the paper serves its purpose and the ticket lady locates the record on the computer. It appears that the Delta dude did not, in fact, make new reservations although he did succeed in canceling our original ones. I almost explode with the thought that we paid $100 per ticket to have our flight rescheduled. Fortunately, the ticket lady decides to help, for me a distinctly novel experience with Delta, and books everything. We even get exit row seating although we'll have to travel separately from Lima to Atlanta.

I am almost in a good mood again and that lasts precisely 10 minutes, the time to check our bags and reach the gate, where a sign informs us that Delta has chosen our flight for an experimental service: all meals will be on pay-for basis. What?! I thought the grubby, high-fat, high-cholesterol miniscule food portion was included in our $500 tickets. Now we'd have to spend $20 to buy two meals of the same dubious quality, but perhaps served with a smile. We thwart Delta's program by purchasing equally bad airport food.

Nothing happens on our way to Atlanta and then Lima, which for a plane is a very good thing. This, unfortunately, means that there is nothing much to write about, interesting air travelogues being defined by events one likes to read about but not experience. The only mildly amusing event that could have been a major disaster happens on the ground in Atlanta: Maggie forgets to exit the ATM program, enabling the person using the machine after us to withdraw quite a bit of cash from our account. The people who happen to use the ATM next manage to call her to fix it. I do not wish to recall my yoga contortions in the plane seat, especially because I foolishly refused the offer of sedatives.

We arrive in Lima at night. There are no walkways for disembarking and instead we do it the old-fashioned way with buses. It's already dark and cold. I am wearing my San Diegan outfit which is suited for the beach and streets close to it. I had heard Lima was also on the Pacific, but now feel the failure to check temperatures in my teeth. Passport control is efficient (the last efficient thing we are going to see in Peru) and we drag ourselves into the crowd of jubilant people and pick-pockets waiting for the passengers from the States.

Maggie has arranged for a person from the hostel to meet us at the airport and I am startled to see that they have apparently kept their promise: a hastily scribbled "Slantchev" placard points us to a smiling woman. She speaks not a word of English but our Spanish is good enough to point to an ATM, rub two fingers together, and say "denaro", which causes her to escort us to the Change Bureau. We do need local cash (soles) but not at the ridiculous exchange rates offered by the bureau. I extricate myself and lumber to an ATM, where I promptly obtain $200 in... dollars. The irony does not escape me when I end up at the bureau again.

The confusion in the building is tripled outside. During our 10 meter long street crossing, we are accosted no less than 50 times by taxi drivers promising ever-decreasing rates. We follow our own driver and imitate her behavior, which means simply ignoring everyone. She instructs us to wait by a long line of cars until she brings her own, and we do so, using the opportunity to look over the people around us.

That does not last long because every time someone intercepts our look, he offers to give us a ride. There are several traffic cops around but nobody pays any attention to them. It is not clear that it would have helped if anyone did because all they do is blow their whistles, whose sound is drowned in the constant honking of the cabs. The cabs move in a bewildering array of old, battered, and noisy cars, most of which would fail any sort of certification for road worthiness in any second-world country. When our driver shows up, her car sounds like a bulldozer and looks like a wreck stolen from an auto graveyard.

It is also tiny. All cabs are tiny, mostly the infamous Ticos from Daewoo. We put one bag in the back and another to keep Maggie company in the back seat. I thrust myself in the front seat, leaving my legs and left side out of the car. We then drive off, at top speed of 10 km/h, with me convinced that this is the vehicle's top speed, Maggie distraught by the ominous grinding coming from the engine, and both of us chucking all of this to experience. After all, we are in Peru!

Lima is an ugly city. It is the worst slum I have ever seen (admittedly not many) and looks destitute and dangerous. We pass by rows of two-storied houses in chaotic disrepair (if they ever looked good). There is garbage lying everywhere although we don't see the dead dogs promised by one of the guides. The road from the airport must pass through the worst neighborhood, I conclude and try to sound encouraging to Maggie, who looks at the scenery with palpable disgust.

I am also wrong about the car, which accomplishes impossible feats of speed, maneuverability, smog emission, and noise. Our lady driver is insane, that much becomes obvious within the first 5 minutes of the ride. (Only later will I find out that she is only mildly aggressive by local standards.) The few road signs she either totally ignores or subverts on purpose. We try to figure out the rule for crossing an intersection, but it eludes us. The method seems to be relatively simple: drive in as fast as possible, avoiding collisions to the best of your ability, and then honk copiously while simultaneously pressing the gas and brake pedals. The wonder about the method is that it worked although not without providing us with several adrenalin rushes.

Soon we pass by Plaza Mayor, and the driver points out the Cathedral and the Presidential Palace. We fail to be impressed because we are disturbed by the lack of change in the surroundings leading up to what we thought was the major downtown center of the city. Only two options remain: (a) the president lives in a slum, or (b) everything is a slum. I turn to Maggie and try to convince her that everything will look better in the daylight. She does not seem to hear me. I settle for option (b) and console myself that we are not going to spend much time in the city.

While I look at each successive narrow street and thank our luck for our hostel not being there, we come to an abrupt halt. Oh, no! We have arrived, as attested by the microscopic note attached to the front of yet another sloppy building. We are quickly ushered inside, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I notice that it looks better there than outside. At the very least it appears clean and well-maintained. There are also other tourists (easily distinguished by their white skin, expensive clothes, and the look of bewilderment mixed with disbelief), which I take to be a good sign.

The people at the reception desk do not speak English either, and I am first to witness the halting attempts of a guest to explain something to them using his Spanish phrase book. I shudder at the thought that very soon I will look just as incompetent. Our driver also acts as the bellhop and shows us our room (D-3) on the third floor. After a cursory examination of the room, we agree to take it and gratefully part with the first Peruvian we've met, giving her $10 for the trip, and something extra for the tip.

The room is a double, has a private bath, and looks quite basic. At least it's clean, as Maggie confirms after suspiciously sniffing the bedding. This will become her little ritual in every new temporary housing place we'll visit. We agree that we're not hungry and that we should go to bed as soon as possible in order to maximize our time tomorrow. As we undress, someone outside tries to open the door. Not a good sign.

I cautiously peek through the window on the door (!) and see two confused guests, obviously startled to find me inside. They have the wrong room, or so they claim, and I close the window as tightly as possible and lock the door. After staring at the flimsy lock for a few moments, I tuck our passports and all the money into my shirt, then stuff it under my pillow. I am a light sleeper, but do not want to take the chance of not hearing someone stealing our clothes from the hangers on the wall.

As Maggie and I huddle under the covers, we hear the unmistakable sounds of someone urinating very close by. The sound of the toilet flushing is enough to rip me out of bed and get me peeking again through the door window. Our worst fears are confirmed: our room is adjacent to the public toilet serving the entire hostel. Hoping that most rooms have private baths, we fall asleep.

I wake up several times, each one to the tune of urination and flushing. Around 3:30a, there is some variety as a bunch of totally drunk Europeans return with incredible racket. They loudly discuss their plans for tomorrow, and then there's lots of urinating and some flushing. I am pissed off to the point of discussing it with Maggie when I notice that she is peacefully snoring, apparently unaware of the pandemonium next door. She is wearing her earplugs. She has always been the smart one.

Saturday, September 6

Franciscan Monastery (view from the hostel roof)

We almost sleep in late, which is to say all those darn tourists swarm to the restaurant half an hour before it opens at 8:00a. Judging by the noise level, they are all deaf, extremely hungry, and have several rhinos for pets. I am sure that the bastards who kept slamming the bathroom door through the night are among them. We ignore the ruckus as best as we can and somehow manage to squeeze three more hours of valiant, but ultimately futile, struggle to fix the red eye. Finally, some time around noon, the realization that we have not come to crumple semi-dry bed cloths (as fun as this is) kicks us out of bed and into the restaurant.

Maggie has stage fright when it comes to speaking Spanish. Who would have thought? I find ordering quite easy with the help of the phrase book:

"Coffee... hrmph," I say, pointing to the line that reads "with milk."
"Ah, cafe con leche."
"Yes! I mean 'Si'," with triumph in my voice.
"Your Spanish is very good," the waitress lies in broken English.
"Spasibo."

I am trilingual already, or at least feeling it. With the help of the phrase book, I order bread and am quite surprised when the waitress does, in fact, bring us two slices of the appropriate flour product. With stomachs full, we are ready to brave the downtown of Lima.

When I say "brave", I mean it. The day being Saturday, el centro is packed with vertically challenged locals, all dressed in dark clothes and looking purposeful. The tourists are easy to spot, especially from my height --- tall, white, and sporting colors from yellow to gaudy purple, but all at least two shades lighter than the local spectrum and probably ten times more expensive. Suddenly my TNF/REI clothes felt costly. Heck, they must cost twice the average salary here. The shoe-shine boys cannot be making all that much considering the fact that foreigners tend to wear hiking boots or running shoes, all eminently un-shineable.

Within 20 meters of the hostel it dawns on us that we have forgotten an essential piece of survival equipment: gas masks. The city reeks of exhaust and seeing what we breathe is only fun in L.A. This reminds us of Sofia on a really bad day but generally the pollution here must be much worse. I find myself longing for the air in California... the irony.

We stroll down Jiron Ancash and Jiron Carabaya to Plaza Mayor. Strolling in Lima is an extreme sport. Drivers regard walkways as extensions of the pavement and are prone to using the horn for everything from "Pardon me, I just ran over your feet" to "Want a taxi?" and "Get out of the way! Bastard!" The traffic police, a truly ubiquitous sight, regard the chaos with detached amusement and only get agitated when a pedestrian zigzags among cars. Then, and only then, the police blow their whistles and help stuff the pedestrian under the wheels. All cars like they have seen better, much better, days a long, long time ago in a galaxy far away. The last time I saw such automotive carnage was in Palermo, where I attributed it to Italian temperament. I must say that the Limeños out-Italian the Sicilians.

The guidebook says Lima used to be the most beautiful city in South America. This means that either the standards were a bit lax or that population growth (explosive, up to 8 million from a mere 300,000) has overwhelmed the city. The downtown is unimpressive or, rather, quite impressive in the wrong way. The traffic chaos is something familiar from Europe although its audible enhancements are peculiar to this part of the world. The city is poor. Except for the banks and the Casa del Presidente, the two/three storied buildings are crumbling, hastily put together botched construction jobs. If the government had any money, one of the earthquakes that regularly visit the city could have done it some good. As it is, the picture is depressing. There are many slums like these on Sofia too but there are also nice and clean streets, which are not in evidence around here. People also look poor. We hardly ever saw an over-dressed Peruvian.

Cops everywhere, in several flavors: traffic, riot, tourist, and military. Also, the presidential guard police (no, not the one in gaudy uniforms). The armored car in from of the palace's gates leads me to believe that someone in there needs guarding. Whatever love the government has inspired in its own people does not seem universal. All these uniforms make us a little uneasy. After all, maybe there are so many of them for a good reason even if Sendero Luminoso is only a memory.

In general, the downtown does not feel safe. This is entirely subjective. For all I know, Lima is as safe (or unsafe) as New York, perhaps even more so. Maggie gets the worst of the jitters --- she is constantly looking over her shoulder and seems forever tense. I don't see why. We have tied our bags to a support column in our room, distributed all the cash on our persons, and hid copies of our documents. I also carry the Spanish phrase book with me at all times. The book lacks translations of several useful phrases, like "Hey! That Peruvian bastard just stole my JC Penney card!" but did offer "I am screwed" in several spicy vernaculars. For all the dire warnings in the books, the locals do not seem dangerous enough to jumps us without a trampoline.

We take Jiron de la Union to Plaza San Martin where we see some historical dude (presumably the Liberator Jose himself) on horseback swimming in a sea of honking cabs. We promptly march back to Plaza Mayor, for cultural purposes. On our way, we are offered cocaine.

The Cathedral is enormous and partly orange. It seems to me that the new paint clashes with the older stonework, itself in timelessly fashionable dirty grey. We pay S./5 entrance fee each and acquire an English-speaking guide who, as we later find out, is not included in the price. She is enthusiastic and informative although the latter is inversely proportional to the former on account of her English rapidly disintegrating under pressure. Still, we imbibe some history.

It turns out Pizarro was not a nice guy. His claim to fame is slaughtering a bunch of Incas and founding Lima on the spot where indigenous Indians had already founded several hundred temples, although unquestionably failing to incorporate them into a city proper. Pizarro then ran afoul of fellow Spaniards when he sent some of them home dressed as Venus emerging from the sea shell (it's true, we saw a painting). The rather conservative Spaniards did not take well to the Playgirl pictorial and offed Pizarro, depriving him forever of the opportunity to build a racially integrated school which was his dream. This is what our guide told us in a nutshell and although the story diverges substantially from the standard accounts (e.g. Hemming's book The Conquest of the Incas), we stared deferentially, making appropriate tourist noises on what seemed like lulls in her narrative.

We see the Bones of Pizarro, which is less visual than it sounds because the bones are in two sealed boxes. We are told that the smaller box holds his skull but for all we know, it could have been the other way around --- closed boxes, remember? To the sensible "Why is the skull in a separate box?" we get the enigmatic "Because it is separate from the body." I decide not to press home the point that after death the head needs not be attached to the body in the usual way. We move on, vaguely suspecting a rather interesting story behind the two boxes.

We are then escorted through a series of Catholic paraphernalia, all in escalating pretentiousness and varying degrees of utter lack of taste. I am not fond of religious "art" and the Cathedral does nothing to change that despite several "tsk-tsk" occasions, such as the one when we marvel at some exquisite wood carvings that took the artist 28 years to complete. The pinnacle of the experience is the exhibit of some important old geezer's collection of doll-houses, or, as the faithful reverently refer to them, nativity scenes.

If you don't know what a nativity scene is, count yourself unblemished. It is a fanciful depiction of some biblical episode, usually involving a naked Jesus (as a baby, you pervert), and a lot of sheep, also naked. As with everything Catholic, it is all decorated with gold, terribly ostentatious, and ridiculously expensive. How the itinerant monks managed to convey the virtues of penury with these things remains a mystery. I understand the locals usually liked the show despite being invariably puzzled at Joseph's reaction to his wife's revelation that she has been virtually impregnated by the Holy Ghost:

Mary: Joe, I have wonderful news.
Joseph: We got the carpentry account at the Temple?
Mary: No, better. I'm pregnant.
Joseph: Jesus Christ!
Mary: Good suggestion. If it's a girl, we'll call her Wanda.
Joseph: You, whore! Your Dad said you were a virgin.
Mary: Oh, darling, but I am.
Joseph: Sure you are and I am the Prince of Light.
Mary: Actually He will be for His father is the Holy Ghost.
Joseph: Holy-shmoly. If I get my hands on that fuckhead, I will turn him into a ghost. And stop referring to the little bastard with a capital 'H'.

(Mary spends 30 minutes calming down her husband and finally persuades him that God Himself --- and, incidentally, here's proof that He is not a She --- has impregnated her. Joseph agrees to raise the little bastard but has Mary promise that it won't happen again. He wonders why God did not simply turn into sperm and let Joseph implant His seed. Joseph is understandably miffed.)

That the preachers explained all this with gilded sheep is astounding.

We reach a particularly fanciful nativity scene. The guide proudly explains that as soon as local artists learned how to uglify perfectly good carvings in Spanish style, they began producing the stupid scenes all by themselves, supplanting their imported teachers. However, these home-grown artists always infused their work with Peruvian symbols and sensibility, both of which apparently involved sticking toy llamas in every scene or painting guinea pigs in the backgrounds.

We leave the Cathedral after settling with the guide for her services. It's funny how the crowd of foreigners that coalesced around us during the tour dissolved instantaneously like Indians in a dense forest when mention is made of payment. We handed over all our change, S./3, which must have been enough or else the guide can fake a really convincing smile.

We next go to an Ukiyo-e exhibit. Yes, we do realize the incongruity --- fly thousands of miles to sample Peruvian culture and end up at a Japanese woodblock print show. But such is life with Maggie, a rabid Hokusai fan. We are also told that there are many Japanese in Peru, so in a way, we are sampling the local culture.

By the time we exit the museum, the day is almost spent. Well, actually it's barely 5:30p, but we are kind of hungry and a bit cold. After eyeing with distrust the wonders of local unsanitary dives, we choose a burger joint called Bembo's, which was recommended by some website.

"Combinacion Royal": S./15.90
Regular-size fries: included
Small drink: included
Getting a cup of mayo after ordering Coke Light: priceless.

The burgers are very good although Maggie finds another occasion to grumble, this time over the amount of pepper seasoning. I think it is perfect. To soothe her nerves, she gulps down half a kilo of Fererro Rochér, the most overpriced excuse for candy, if there ever was one. On the other hand, by the time we realize that we should not have eaten the lettuce and tomatoes (because both are sure to have been washed, badly, in local tap water --- bad news for our toilet paper), we have demolished the meals. Time to head out.

We pick a bench on Plaza Mayor and endeavor to enjoy the late afternoon but instead end up practicing various nuances of "No" in response to an endless procession of shoe-shine boys, all with indomitable merchant spirit, armed with what must have been totally disarming rhetoric. Since neither I nor Maggie speak a word of street Spanish, our shoes remain sadly unshined.

So much for the first day in Lima. I do hope that the rest of the trip will offer more than today's highlight: the little kitten now snuggled un my lap as I write. It is unbearably cute, or would have been if it did not have diarrhea that it periodically got relief from in the nearby pot. There is also the parrot that says "¡Hola!" (now with a thick Bulgarian accent after Maggie spent some time trying to get it to say "Zdrasti" --- "Hi" --- in our language).

The day draws to a close with the sounds of locals watching a football (soccer) game, Peru vs. Paraguay. By last count, the Peruvians lead by four goals. I fall asleep imagining walking up to the rowdy crowd and shouting "Peruvian football sucks! Long live Paraguay!"

Sunday, September 7

Peru beat Paraguay 4:1 which causes the noisiest patrons to sleep in late due to heavy celebrations. By extension, this allows us to catch a wink and when we wake up around 8:00a, I feel incredibly well rested. After a quick breakfast (same omelets as yesterday), we set out to fulfill the five-year plan that Maggie has so carefully drawn up the night before.

It is all quite organized, of course, with names of places, prices, hours of operation, and whether they are open on Sundays. Naturally, she has forgotten to write down the addresses. This does not turn out to be a problem because we promptly forget the entire list in our room.

After retrieving the list later on and realizing to our dismay that we still need to carry around the Rough Guide, we get our bearings and waltz into the Franciscan Monastery on Plazuela San Francisco. The day being Sunday and the time being mañana, there is a rather solemn-looking (and presumably boring as hell) Mass. The church is full of people dutifully reciting, occasionally standing up, and even embracing each other from time to time, a very friendly reminder of the Inquisition. The priests look as gay as Catholics can only look in their ceremonial robes.

We stroll nonchalantly among the believers and nobody pays any attention to two blatantly ungodly atheists but it occurs to me that maybe we should get out before we end up being the attraction of the day. We hurry out, almost tripping over beggars strategically positioned around the exit. With typical callousness that only comes after years of practice, we politely pretend not to see them and make our way to the museum entrance.

The woman who sells us the tickets is very polite as well although she cannot suppress a tinge of disapproval mixed with annoyance when we flash the student cards at her, halving the entrance price with the gesture. We peek into the vestibule and realize that we need a guide because there are no explanatory notes anywhere, in Spanish or otherwise. I look up the phrase in the guidebook:

"¿Dónde hay un guía que habla inglés?"
"*(#)@@=+... cinco minutos )#*@()$$!."
"¿?"
"Next English tour - five minutes."
"Gracias."

I hate it when they do that but at least I get to flex my new Spanish muscle. We mill about for a couple of minutes together with a distinctly British-looking blonde. Then the obligatorily diminutive female guide shows up and leads us in.

The monastery is very impressive. There's plenty of art, both Spanish imports and locally produced, and all of it in the typical pure black to extremely dark black shades of the 16th century. Very cheerful, really. The usual suspects grin at us: apostles, martyrs, and a whole lot of immaculate conception stuff. For some bizarre reason, the Peruvians cover all ancient mosaics and frescoes with gaudy modern paint, leaving only 1 sq.m. of the originals for tourists to admire.

My favorite part of the tour is the Library which looks like something out of The Name of the Rose. Dusty parchments, thousands of books losing the battle with mildew, and four openings in the ceiling for light to read by --- I almost see the monks scribbling inside.

We then go to the catacombs, a somewhat claustrophobic experience although not for reasons one would expect. Not that they are spacious, but the throngs of tourists positively make them devoid of oxygen. About 70,000 Limeños are buried there, all neatly stacked one on top of another, nameless, and forever anonymous.

Not like the benefactors entombed here and there in private crypts. There are several of those scattered around the monastery, the location of each dependent on the extent of the benefactor's benefice. From what I can tell, most of the gifts are ivory crucifixes imported from the Philippines. I wonder how many of these can guarantee me a small ossuary in that room with the stunning carved ceiling of Nicaraguan cedar, all meticulously hand-crafted and held together by pressure without glue or nails, the Spaniards being the usual cheap but inventive selves.

We chat up the Brit who identifies herself as Jastine, a 30-year old lawyer who wants to work for the U.N., the Human Rights Tribunal at The Hague in particular. It makes me think about all my colleagues back in the States, who not only do not want to work for the U.N. (unless they hold a Ph.D. from Columbia and do not want to starve unemployed) but even regard it as mildly useless, if not actively harmful, organization. They are wrong, of course, but unless some of them actually join it, the U.N. will become an European anti-American club, which just as naturally will be the end of the grand experiment in world governance.

We go back to the surface where I make a puny attempt to snap a shot of the congregation without a flash, hoping that the image stabilizer plus improvised support will do. Outside the Sunday market in the square is bustling with activity and pigeons, all rather fat, which means they are better fed than the shoe-shine boys. We invite Jastine to join us, both because she does not seem to relish the idea of walking by herself in downtown Lima, and because she's a great conversationalist. That last one impression holds until she tells me she thinks I am an American, which is not offensive to me, but does rid me of the illusion that I have retained a strong vaguely European accent that makes me sound more intelligent. Now I just sound like an unplaceable hick --- every American always graciously guesses I am from some part of the country, usually the opposite end. Well, now I am officially a true cosmopolite, a man who speaks English with an unidentifiable accent.

Jastine's rating improves tremendously with Maggie, whose accent she finds charming and intelligent. Oh well, one out of two ain't that bad. Lost in these thoughts, I barely notice the distinguished-looking structure on the right. We are here, at the Museo Nacional de Arqueologia, Antropologia y Historia, where they have no student discounts. Most exhibits are trilingual (Spanish, English, and French) so we decide to make do without a guide.

The museum is fascinating in an amusing and morbid way. Amusing because most of the exhibits seem to be various drinking, ceremonial, and decorative vessels, all exquisitely painted, and depicting everything from monkeys to copulating couples, triples, and quadruples. I am quite partial to the cup shaped as a man masturbating an enormous penis, which also doubles as the spout. Drinking from this must have provided endless occasions for rowdy party fun.

Morbid because the ancient Peruvians also depicted, in glorious detail, all sorts of sicknesses, deformities, and... well, odd religious rituals or illustrations of beliefs (like a woman masturbating a dead guy). Between a sickly mummy and close-up photographs of effects of syphilis, the museum curators have placed pottery exhibiting the exact same lesions with gruesome precision. After all that, the skulls look positively welcoming.

The skulls. Lots of them too. The museum is actually quite tame, with most of the baldies displayed to show how the ancient Peruvians deformed their children's heads to produce rather spectacular alien-looking shapes for social segregation and identification purposes. In contrast, the skulls in the catacombs of San Francisco monastery seem undistinguished. The ancients' preoccupation with death has seeped through the ages despite efforts to uproot it and supplant it with Catholic mysticism. There is also some odd efficiency in these deaths. The catacombs were quite well organized in disposing of the bodies, which where brought in and stacked in decomposition chambers first. Then, after a year, the bleached bones were moved to wells for more compact and efficient long-term storage. We saw one well, at least 10 meters deep and about as many in diameter, almost full of bones. You do the math but let me note that human skeletons do seem to compact rather nicely.

The guide there also complained about the lack of money. Apparently, they are always short on funds for bone-sorting. It's true, they spend a lot of time sorting bones and arranging them in attractive still lives, all in order to count the number of people buried there. I tried to imaging what a fund-raising drive would look like: "Donate your solés so we can count the soles!" Can't see a lot of people going for that.

Anyway, we get out of the Museum and hail a cab to the Museo de la Nacion. The driver inquires into our respective nationalities and seems quite well-versed in modern geography and politics.

"¿Bulgaria? Ah, Europa!"
"Si."
"Hungary - Budapest."
"Si. Bulgaria - Sofia."
"Bueno. ¿Y tú?
"Inglés," Jastine also likes to practice her Spanish.
"Tony Blair crazy."
"Ugh. OK. Si," she graciously concedes, clearly not wanting to go into that particular controversy. But the driver does not give up all that easily:
"Crazy, si. Margaret Thatcher - blah! Malvinas. Crazy."
"Si, si," and in a muffled voice, "Just watch the damn road."

At this point, the guy gets so excited that we receive a brief course in British foreign policy that consists mostly of references to Tony Blair, Budapest, and craziness. Can't say that we disagreed with his take on world politics.

Amazingly, we don't die even though the cabbie spent most of the ride gesticulating vigorously and watching everything but the road. He pulls over next to an imposing concrete structure and we exit, with me summarizing our chat: "Adios. Tony Blair - crazy Hungarian!" This makes him so happy he refuses the tip.

This museum is cool: a lot of that pottery we've gotten used to and a whole lot of dreadful replicas of stone art and famous places, all made of cardboard. We can tell they need donations badly but can't bring ourselves to shell out $20.00 for the CD-ROMs with 3-D reconstructions. We are tired and hungry. Time for Miraflores.

Outside the cabbies are waiting. We are barely out the door when the first one approaches. How much to Miraflores? S./50, which causes Jastine to have a spasm of sarcastic laughter. She walks on to the next one without even dignifying the ridiculous price with a counter-offer. I think of a sensible one, S./-20, but don't know how to say a negative number in Spanish, so I let it be.

The next one offers S./15, we counter with S./5, which causes him an apoplexy. While he is still writhing in fake indignation, the third one snatches the initiative with S./8, which we promptly bring down to S./6 with the irrefutable logic of pointing to each of the three of us in turn and saying "Dos" with an air of finality. That does it and we hop in. We never find out what happened to the two cabbies we neglected.

The cab drops us off at Parque Central in another country. Miraflores has about as much in common with Lima Centro as the Upper East Side does with Harlem in Manhattan. People are cheerful, dressed much better, and there's a supermarket next to numerous overpriced coffee shops and pizza parlors. All I need is a mini-mall.

We locate the number of a coffee joint heartily recommended by the Rough Guide. After eyeing the massive iron shutters of the place obviously abandoned in the previous century, we dive into an unlisted but heavily populated sweet shop. I am now developing certain suspicions about the Guide. Maggie, who picked it over the Lonely Planet I had bought, wants to hear none of it. She seems to believe that I have either falsified the printing or else have somehow caused the coffee shop to close.

I eat my cheesecake which, although not quite up to Cheesecake Factory standards, at least weighs less than a ton. I almost don't feel the pricks of my weight-mindful conscience. We settle on a plan over watered cappuccino (this, by the way, seems to be the preferred way of making it around here; hot mater with some milk and a smidgen of coffee to give some color to the crema). The plan is simple: find the ocean front, drop by Jastine's hostel, fill up stomachs with local non diarrhea-inducing cuisine. Even I can remember it although I admit to forgetting the first two parts. Fortunately, the girls drag me along with their purposeful selves.

We march down Avenida Jose Larco and there's actually some sunlight coming through the usually impenetrable cloud cover. Cozy banks, expensive hotels, modern amenities, everything makes us relax, including an obscene number of fair-skinned tourists. And then, between two lush palm trees, glistening in the reddish haze of the sunset, against the azure backdrop of the murmuring ocean, I spot my El Dorado --- the mini-mall!

It is called "Larco Mar" and has everything from cheap mall food that no one in his right mind would eat voluntarily to sushi at $80 a plate that no sane person would ever pay for. The mall is crowded and Maggie gracefully eases her way into an outfitter --- she, it turns out, has developed a sudden, irresistible, and quite irrational need for another fleece.

At this store, these cost more than the Golden Fleece and they are not even alpaca. I can't stand the shopping and do what any man would do in my place: leave the wife with the credit cards and head straight for the toilet. I mean this literally, not metaphorically.

The mall toilets are modern and operated by photo-sensitive cells. To my amusement, I notice that this is news to many locals who try to push every protruding part of the mechanism in the vain hope that it would flush. They walk off in frustration and then turn around startled by the sudden flushing sound when the cell activates. Since I am used to not knowing how to operate toilets in foreign countries (I once locked myself in a restroom in Italy and wasted a good 10 minutes trying to get out before I realized that the door would not unlock until the toilet is flushed), I enjoy this rare moment of technological prowess in my favor.

Of course, I forget to zip up my fly. Maggie shows up empty-handed.

The sun has set and the sound of the breakers is astounding. It is much louder than the Pacific at San Diego, probably owing to the large number of pebbles that the waves drag to the shore. A huge cross perched on a hill and shining in the distance prompts some asinine comparisons with the idiocy on top of Mt. Soledad. This one can at least be considered utilitarian because it could be doubling as a lighthouse.

Satisfied with the view, we go back to Jastine's hostel where she checks for messages from her traveling companion. Well, her alleged traveling companion really because she has not managed to even get out of London on account of the Brazilian jet leaking oil and getting grounded for repairs. What a way to begin a 6-week adventure! Especially when their schedule is tightly packed, compartmentalized to the minute, and calls for some feats of organizational skill almost every day. Fortunately, there is no message, which may mean her friend is finally en route.

At this point my brain finally activates and begins flashing part three of The Plan in bold letters: food. We follow another recommendation of the Rough Guide that leads to another discouragingly familiar iron shutter, this time diversified by the presence of a persuasive padlock. My doubts about the Guide begin to fester as I realize that the "rough" in the title is no whimsical misnomer. Maggie is eyeing me in full expectation of a silly comment that she could use to blame the fiasco on me. I swallow the "I told you so" before I am made to swallow it several times over.

At any rate, Maggie's silence is eloquent and I say nothing. She'll pay for this later. Many times. We halt at some random joint where I almost follow Maggie in ordering ceviche but regain my senses quickly enough after being told it involves raw fish. Now, I do eat raw fish (sashimi fan, that's me) but I do so at places I can reasonably assume have access to sushi-grade fresh fish or that I can sue. Maggie is braver, stupider, or more adventurous (which amounts to the same thing), so she orders it. I go for a safely grilled pork chop with Freedom Fries, which I find satisfactory.

My wanton exploration for tonight is limited to a bottle of Inca Cola, which is yellow and tastes like Red Bull, only sweeter; i.e. it is complete crap. We break another S./100 bill to pay for the meal and hail a cab.

We exchange emails with Jastine, wish her luck in her journeys, and she leaves, at which point yet another strenuous bargaining session ensues with the cabbie. In the end he agrees to S./8, which seems reasonable for the 20 minute ride back to the hostel. I spend my time practicing saying "pare aquí" (stop here) so I can sound knowledgeable. Of course, I blurt it out fully two blocks before the hostel, probably out of nervousness, and the cab disgorges us well away from our destination. I should have gone with "stop there" instead and make a mental note to learn the other word.

We hang around in the internet room a bit, mostly to read fascinating penis-enlargement emails that I get by the hundreds, and then retire to our room, where we find our luggage intact, much to our surprise. My underwear, which I washed the night we arrived, is still wet. We are too tired to care and we are running low on toilet paper. This is my fault because Maggie has been constipated since New York.

Monday, September 8

I wake up early due to excitement. Today is the visit to the Inquisition museum. I have been primed by the exhibit in San Diego's Museum of Man and now long to see the real thing, the seat of the dreadful institution right here in Lima. We first stop for our customary quick breakfast of delicious yogurt, honey, granola, and fresh (peeled) fruit. I pay with a S./20 note and am still enjoying the coffee when the proprietress comes back and asks in a stern voice, waving the note in my face:

"Where did you get this?" Turns out she speaks decent English when she wants to.
"Urgh. Some restaurant in Miraflores." I think I see where this is going.
"Which restaurant?"
"Can't remember," and then, in an utterly touristy innocent voice, "Why?"
"This money is no good. Fake. See paper? Fake."

She crumples the note with her fingers and then gives it to me. I do the same but feel nothing. She takes out another note from her pocket, crumples it and gives it to me:

"See real paper? Different."

I nod. To me, the only difference is that the fake note simply looks new. I feel despair creeping over me; I will never be able to tell them apart, meaning that we are forever exposed to the possibility of getting stiffed with counterfeit money while in Peru. The fake note even has a watermark. But then I notice that the little red symbols in the corner of the fake note display distinctly less detail and appear smudged. Here's one way to tell them apart!

My initial embarrassment rapidly morphs into triumph as I pontificate to other travelers at the restaurant on the differences between real and counterfeit money. They all seem appreciative although I detect a little "this would not have happened to me" glimmer in their eyes. I used to have this glimmer as well. Now I have a fake S./20 and a great conversation piece.

We head out for Museo de la Inquisicion. It is next to the Congress building and there's a bunch of picketers outside the fence. No rioting as of yet but plenty of police sporting painful-looking equipment and several water-spraying machines to ensure our quiet cultural visit.

The museum is free and the English tour of the premises complimentary... if you can get it. We wait for about 20 minutes, patently ignored by everyone in uniform, until I wonder out loud whether I have put on my invisible cloak this morning. This attracts the attention of two Americans also idling by. They have been waiting there for 20 minutes already before we began our wait.

While we discuss the advantages of San Diego over San Francisco, several groups of elementary school kids walk by, all visibly pleased by the tour. They all wear uniforms, each school apparently having its own design. Generally, the boys wear ties and suits, and the girls wear jackets and skirts. They all look cute and remind me of my days in uniform back in the Soviet Union and Bulgaria.

I have always liked the uniforms and never forgave my high school for getting rid of them in the wake of post 1989 de-communization reforms. Without a dress code, students began using clothes to differentiate themselves. Not so when everyone is forced to conform to the same look --- then we were compelled to seek other ways, academic, artistic, or athletic, to distinguish ourselves from one another. Maybe not quite as useful as dressing up, but at least less colorful. I also quite liked the school seal on my jacket: I went to the most prestigious high school in the country and people always stared at the emblem with envious recognition. I have never been above liking being the object of worship, or, failing that, simple envy.

Finally, the guide picks us up and she is already bored, which she proceeds to demonstrate with puffing and eye-rolling while delivering her memorized set-piece. We look riveted and this seems to appease her sufficiently to prevent her from skipping over two-thirds of the exhibits. She only skips over a third. Not too bad for a complimentary guide.

Once she gets up to speed, however, the guide becomes quite entertaining. Clearly a non-Catholic, she mocks the whole idea of the Inquisition, its pretentious and fake concern with the eternal souls of the people it tortured, and it's "scientific" rationality.

It seems that the Lima Inquisition was the poster-boy of the PR department of the Spanish barbarity. A bit less vicious ("only" about 1,300 people tortured in over two centuries), it almost put a humane face on this least human institution. The doctors they employed (to ensure that victims do not die prematurely) were also pretty good and only four people died accidentally during torture. With some sarcasm, the guide implied that the inquisitors did not follow proper procedure in these four cases because of mingling by the civil authorities. Had they been left to their own devices, they would not have killed these people, only tickled them into confessions.

In this story, the civil court is the villain. The pious Inquisition forbade mutilation and the cutting off of various extremities. On the other hand, the civil courts practiced these with reckless abandon. The death penalty was also beyond the jurisdiction of the ecclesiastical court, which tended to concentrate on the rack, the water torture, and occasionally indulged in strangulation. Curiously, Indians were not usually brought before the Inquisition. The priests believed that one had to be aware of the faith before being accused of trespassing against it. Sensible? Sure, until one recalls that in these cases the prisoners were automatically remitted to the uncivil civil authorities.

We go down to the prison cell underground but nothing much remains there. Almost the entire structure had collapsed in the 18th century earthquake and the reconstruction had not been thorough. Overall, there is a lot of emphasis on history and very little on the more lurid aspects of the Inquisition. As I stand in front of a huge painting depicting an Auto da Fe during the 17th century --- Plaza Mayor is immediately recognizable due to the prominent fountain that still stands there --- I think back to the exhibition in San Diego.

The people there have a finer understanding of the human psyche. The neatly arranged replicas of torture devices are accompanied by graphic illustrations of their proper application along with detailed textual descriptions of how they worked and for what crimes they were used. All this is set in a semi-dark hall with appropriately menacing Gregorian chanting for musical background. No boredom --- guaranteed. Your stomach may turn, you may puke, but you won't be bored. I remember coming out nauseated and disgusted, which, I am sure, was exactly the effect the curators were aiming for.

Nothing of the sort here. Only several mannequins standing in for the milder forms of torture. Enough to excite the kids. I doubt that anyone would walk out of the San Diego exhibit with a smile. But then again, that one was without question much more powerful and, owing to our inexplicable fascination with human suffering, would remain with me much longer than the tame history-oriented exhibit in Lima.

We part with the two Americans and saunter to Plaza Mayor to take pictures. We are just in time for the noon change of guard at the Presidential Palace. The ceremony begins at around 11:45a and lasts until 12:30p. It is not to be missed. Flashy red and blue guard uniforms straight out of the 19th century, funny marching style (sloppy and not well synchronized), a band with shiny instruments playing a delightfully out of tune and out of rhythm rendition of "El Condor Pasa," a general shouting some incomprehensibilities that elicit saber waving from the other soldiers, and a bunch of tourists staring through the iron bars --- all somehow appropriate for Lima. It would have been less exciting without the police clearing the Plaza of locals and then making sure no one came within two meters of the iron fence. The president must be loved dearly by the population. Or maybe they were just making sure nobody harms the incompetent marching band.

Maggie finds all the excitement lacking and tugs at my sleeve indicating a wish to move on. I scowl in response determined to see the ceremony through, and she yields. This means that she'll be silent, sullen, and sulking for the next hour or until she is fed, whichever comes first. More photos of the ubiquitous policemen, a quick photo-op with an Indian woman getting a shoe-shine, and we are ready to go to the Rafael Larco Herrera Museum or, as I call it, El Museo del Penis.

This was recommended to my dear wife by one of her male professors, which makes me question the academic standards in Utah. The museum has two parts, the main exhibit and the interesting one. The latter is the famous collection of Moche erotic pottery.

We hire a cab for S./7 and the driver takes us to the Archaeological Museum, which is not where we want to go. He has no idea about the Penis place and I am reluctant to gesticulate an explanation. He inquires after directions and finally locates the street, which is sufficient for I know the number.

The museum is the most overpriced yet: S./21 per person plus another S./20 for the guide, whose services we decide to forego. I trot through the exhibit of thousands of fascinating pottery pieces. I can only see so many of these in two days, so I wait outside for Maggie who has suddenly decided to read every little note on every single display. I concentrate on photographic a dog on the balcony of an adjacent building.

Maggie eventually comes out obviously enthralled by the several metric tons of illustrated clay inside. We enter the other building which houses the real Penis exhibit. It is small but worthwhile. Besides the usual masturbating guys, there's fellatio, anal, vaginal, and group intercourse, plus some necrophilia for good measure, and several acts for which I do not know the names. Pretty neat although not very erotic. I take a picture of one surprisingly modern-looking penis piece. It seems that the more openly pornographic and scandalous modern artists want to be, the more they will have to copy what's been done before. The irony is that striving for originality seems to mean studiously avoiding any learning about the past. No gay sex though.

Our next stop is the South American Explorers (SAE) Club in Miraflores. I hail a cab. I have memorized the question "Do you know this address?" but quickly butt head against the limit of my Spanish as the driver answers in the negative and then asks a series of clarifying questions. I give a series of confusing answers but he finally pulls out what looks like a map and locates the street. We agree on the distance by measuring it with fingers, and strike a bargain that it is worth S./6. We hop in and the driver naturally gets lost.

He's a helpful one, this one, and not ashamed to ask for directions, which he does three times before we find the street we need. But we do make it to SAE. Because this guy has been so helpful, we tip him an additional S./1, reflecting that thus far, Lima taxi drivers do not live up to their scary reputation.

Taxis comprise about 70% of Lima's traffic, the other 30% equally divided between colectivos, universally driven by lunatic asylum escapees, and suicidal pedestrians. In short, taxis are everywhere, and they are quite cheap. With the exception of that one guy who quoted us the price of a NASA trip to Mars, everyone else is pretty much in the middle of the ranges suggested by the websites. Even then I automatically offer about 25% less, and we usually settle in one or two rounds of bargaining.

Getting into a cab is easy. Riding it is another matter. I learned to drive in Sofia, where the traffic is notoriously unruly, unruled, and dangerous. Yet even I have the occasional skipping of a heart beat when our taxi passes within microns of other cabs, trucks, and buses. The pedestrians apparently believe themselves to be indestructible and unfortunately drivers seem to think so too. They go around people in proximity that back home would cause either immediate arrest for reckless endangerment or at least elicit a fist on the car roof from a disgruntled pedestrian. Nobody takes any notice here.

Nor do they regard the red lights and STOP signs as anything more than suggestions whose meeting is entirely optional. If people or cars halt for a red light, the line does not hold for long. It sways impatiently back and forth, and then swells threateningly until it bursts into a stampede well in advance of the green light. All this in full view of the traffic cops who leap into regulating the flow ex post, usually doing nothing more than confirming the act of crossing by stopping the traffic who has the green light. Add to all this the incessant blaring of horns, and the confusion is total.

The above only works when they stop on red. Often they don't bother. Curiously, one of our cabbies halted on green and waited for two others to cross the intersection on deep red for them. Maybe I am completely color blind?

The SAE club lives in a charming cottage and is peopled by extremely helpful staff. We hang around long enough to read some Cuzco trip reports, drink tea, and get one of the girls to make a reservation in Cuzco for us over the phone. We then head back to central Miraflores to grab a bite.

What we end up grabbing are seats in an overpriced pizza place at the ludicrously overpriced Calle los Pizzas, a side street off the central park that not only looks and feels like a tourist trap, but, judging from the number of trapped tourists, also functions as one.

The large ham pizza and deserts cost us S./63, an obscene amount by any reckoning, but we are happy because the food is delicious. The waiter carefully scrutinizes the S./100 bill before forking over the change. He has good reason, of course, and only then do I begin to notice how meticulous everyone is when accepting money.

After chatting up two British girls on a 2.5 month tour of South America, we decide to stroll aimlessly around Miraflores. At least, this is what I think we've decided. Maggie takes the lead in navigating the streets and before I can detect the unmistakable search pattern, we end up at an outfitter's store. She is looking for a fleece again!

I make an anemic attempt to dissuade her but it only serves to goad her into an even more determined pursuit of the elusive prey. I give up and ask for directions to the fleece hangers. We find them, all five of them, at which point Maggie proceeds to read methodically all virtually identical labels, and then grumble at the unfashionable appearance of the styles. She tries two fleeces but likes neither. We scurry out and I find myself reproaching her for not buying the Golden Fleece yesterday. It all depends on perspective, you know.

There is another shop further down the street but this time I firmly plant my feet on the ground and demand a rematch. I win and we go back to the Larco Mar mini-mall, where Maggie finally secures that damnable piece of outerwear at the inflated price of $59. This is victory for me. It all depends on perspective, you know.

They day is spent. Another taxi ride to Plaza Mayor and we find ourselves in a small convenience store buying toilet paper. I then decide to try the authentic churros that are sold everywhere. They are delightful and thankfully a bit too sweet for Maggie, so I get one almost entirely for myself.