A Day in Mira Flores

June 18, 2011 –

On Wednesday I went into Lima with Walter. We were going to go by bus so I could learn the way on my own, but we ended up taking a taxi the whole way. The taxi driver drove like a race car driver. Fast and furious and effectively. The speedometer needle flickered spasmodically between 40 and 60 mph as if it didn’t know quite how to handle the variances of speed it was always subjected to. At one point, when we arrived to the city, the driver leaned out the window and folded his side mirror in to enable his car to squeeze through a tiny space so he could advance in the lane. “The way Peruvians make more lanes than what are on the road is just like how Jesus fed all those people with the loaves and fishes,” Walter told me. And it’s true, these drivers will make five lanes out of three. The queues of cars uneven and each one trying to find an opening to keep moving forward.

 Walter had to go to the Dentist so I walked around Mira Flores on my own. I’d been looking for a good ticket to get to Cusco. I’d found some spectacular deals online but they were prices only for Peruvians. I was beginning to think I’d have to hitchhike. Walter suggested I go to a few of the travel stores in Mira Flores and check out their rates. So I did. I went to three different ones and got quotes. They were all fairly similar. I’d found a good deal online for foreigners with Peruvian Airlines. As I wandered I saw a Peruvian Airlines office and went in. The quote was about 20 dollars cheaper than the other places I’d been that morning so I went ahead and bought a ticket to Cusco from them. I’ll go for a week in July.

After taking care of my point of business I wandered the streets. I stopped at The Haiti, a restaurant I’d heard was a hot spot. I sat and drank an espresso and watched the people walk by. Like a tourist, I asked the maître de if he’d mind taking my picture. “Why would I?” he demurred. “It’d be my pleasure.” One of the waiters stood behind him telling him to raise the camera just so to get the best composition for the photograph.

I walked to Larco Mar stopping to look at old buildings and fun stores along the way. Once at Larco Mar I sat and watched the waves crash up onto the rocks, listened to the sound of the sea that blended in to the sounds of the city. Some time passed and then a group of Peruvians in native garb marched in to the front of the platform and performed several dances. After they finished their dances they posed for pictures for all the tourists. I had mine taken with some of them.

 I blend in, right? Okay. Okay. So I don't blend in that much. How about now?

I stopped at a couple of the stores inside the Larco Mar center. With my Cusco ticket in my bag I decided to look through some books about Cusco and also one of Lima. The boy tending the store stopped to answer a couple of my questions. I asked him if the Museum of the Inquisition was near enough to where I was to walk to. He said, no, and that it’d be better to take a taxi since I was alone and I’d have to pass through a little bit rougher part of town. He gave me some other advice about taxis to take and ones not to take.

When I got ready to leave he said he was just getting off work and would walk with me back to where I was going to meet Walter. His name was Rodrigo. He’s studying Political Science at the University and talked my ear off as we walked. I told him I was interested in going to Barranco at some point. Barranco is a spot for musicians and bohemians with lots of live music and parties. He gave me his number and said he’d love to go along with me if I did decide to go.

I caught up with Walter and we grabbed another taxi. We’d gone a little ways when Walter tells the driver to pull over. He got out of the cab and went down the street to talk to someone. A while later he brought over a character of a man with an old lamppost. Walter was going to buy it but had to go to the bank to get some money. So we packed in the man and the lamppost and all went together to the bank.

 The man told me the lamppost was 400 years old, to be sure and not let Walter paint it, all he needed to do was clean it and it’d be beautiful. He bared his shoulder to show me how he’d been hurt from carrying it all across town. He told me of the twenty years he’d been out collecting antiques and how wonderful everything that he had was.

When Walter got out and went to the bank, the character had me take a picture of him and his lamppost as a reminder.

Ruins, Llamas, and Me

June 14, 2011 – Pachacamac

I put a hair tie around my right pants leg to keep my pants from catching in the chain, pack snacks, water, camera and notebook and take off down the road. Walter drew me a map. It went something like this: Go down the road. When you come to the green bridge, don’t take it just keep going. When you come to the red bridge, turn right and go over the bridge.

Pass through many small towns. When you come to the light in Pachacamac you’re probably still 5 kilometers away. You’ll see the ruins to your left.

It more or less went that way.

The roads between Cieneguilla and Pachacamac are rocky, sometimes paved, sometimes not, sometimes a mixture of paved and unpaved. The road is frequented by buses taking tourists and locals all around, by big cement type trucks, trike taxis, cars, people, dogs, cyclists. And everyone on the road just assumes the whole road is theirs.

I’m trying to stay out of the way as much as possible. I keep my ears tuned for vehicles coming up behind me and watch the ones that come straight on at me. Almost every car that passes honks. Sometimes this is just the usual Peruvian mania about honking, the rest of the time it’s because I’m a gringa.

One car wants to try and scare me, I think. I’m on the right hand side of the road and he’s coming opposite. So he should be driving on the left. But he doesn’t. He comes directly at me. The only thing I can think is the line from Hunt For Red October where the American Submarine Captain says, “The hard part about playing chicken is knowing when to flinch.” Fortunately, I don’t get run over. I don’t flinch either.

The way is pretty.

Most of the time. The mountains are on both sides. The little towns are sparked with daily life; small bodegas, little tiendas, car repair places, the usual indications of this current humanity. Some spots aren’t as pretty with piles of trash, the smell of cow and garbage. Along one mountain wall are crude shanties. I guess we live wherever we can. I like the breeze in my face. I like the easy rumble of the road underneath my wheels. What I don’t like are the dogs that run right up next to my knees and bark at me as I ride by. I don’t think they’ll bite, but it’s still a little daunting. I try to just ride on by. Geraldine told me that when she walks home she carries a rock because one dog always comes up behind her when she doesn’t have one and nips her ankles. When I step off the bike to walk, I reach down for a couple rocks, just in case.

Thirty minutes into my day long trip, I’m already mud splattered and sweaty. This doesn’t stop the local Peruvian dudes from whistling as I go by. Only one yells after me, “I love you.” Right. Another one passes me slowly on his motorcycle. He turns when he gets in front and looks me dead in my sweat-drenched eyes and asks if I want a ride. Boy please.

The girls I pass give me shy suspicious glances or just suspicious ones. I’m not sure how long it’d take to make friends. Maybe it’d be as easy as asking directions. They seem reserved. I think it’s more reservation than unfriendliness.

When the big trucks go by I’m caught in a swirl of dust, dirt and exhaust. I’m caked in a thickening veneer of grime. What an adventure! I’m caught up in it.

I ride through what looks like a tourist town. The El Alamo is off to my left,

 a fancy looking place painted a bright yellow. There’s a hotel/restaurant off to my left. In front of it are tied a sheep, another sheep, and a real live llama. I stop to tell him hi and take his picture. I must really be in Peru.

I’ve left early enough to make the two and a half hour bike ride, see the ruins, and get back before dark. This is my plan. I do well on time. I ride through a busier town and finally see the ruins off to my left.

I’m not sure how to get to them. So I stop and ask directions from a little boy at a kiosk. He tells me to go to some door and ask the lady and pay her and she’ll let me in. He points me back in the direction I came from. I get to a place I’d passed on my way down that says, Museo del Sitio. I’d thought that maybe that would be the entrance to the ruins, but not being sure I had passed it by.

I’m almost back to the entrance to the Museo when I yell across the road to a walking man, “Excuse me, is this the way into the ruins?” The man tells me no. I have to go back down to where I had just been and find the door and pay and then go all the way around the world to get to the ruins themselves.

So back I go.

Across the street from where the boy’s kiosk is, I ask a parking lot attendant where the entrance to the ruins is. He pulls his earbuds out of his ears and tells me that the old man was talking crazy talk and that the entrance to the ruins is through the Museo. I repeat everything he’s told me just to make sure. “Really?” I ask. He assures me it’s so.

For the last time I head up the hill. Sure enough, under the Museo’s sign and down the hill, there’s a ticket booth. I buy a ticket for 7 soles and have to leave my bike there at the entrance. “It’ll be safe here?” I ask the attendant. “Of course,” she says. I have a slight twinge of worry. Dear Incan Gods, please don’t let anyone steal this bike. My track record is already bad, I don’t want to make it worse.

Shedding my worry and bolstering my trust in the human race I leave the bike behind and head down the road leading to the ruins.

The ruined buildings themselves are cordoned off and have signs that tell you that Passing is Prohibited. I got spoiled at the Cieneguilla ruins where I could climb where I wanted to climb. But for preservation (of ruins, no less) I think they’re doing a fine thing.

I ask a girl to take my picture in front of the ruins with a ramp (that’s pretty much what the information sign in front of it said) and she does.

A few twists and turns later, I spot an American. I guess we do stick out like those oft stuck out sore thumbs. I hate to peg him as a total whitey, but I still ask him in English if he wouldn’t mind taking my photo. He’s very to himself. He takes the picture but doesn’t make any small talk, so I let him be. I let him be, but I still turn and take his photo just for the heck of it when I see he’s once again absorbed in his Peruvian Ruin Guide.

Over the ruins a group of buzzards circle. I stop to watch them.

The buzzards circle the ruined temple’s peak

As if they remember sacrifices
Of long ago
There’s nine of them that I count
Waiting, circling, circling and waiting
Perhaps they’re just waiting for more of us to die.

 It’s not really as morbid as all that. I just like to ponder. I ponder my way back around to the front, glancing at my watch and knowing I’m still doing okay on time. I buy some Chifles and some water from the little kiosk at the visitor’s center cafeteria. I eat one bag of Chifles (remember these are fried platanos. Not raw, but they have salt and I need to replenish and rehydrate), three bananas I bought from a lady on the side of the road in the town just before the ruins, and two apples. I swing my bag back in place over my back, collect my bike and get back on the road.

The whole way home is uphill. I kid you not. I’m not sure I’ve ever done a 16.8 mile ride in my life. My legs are a little spent and I thank my obsessive workout habits and my history of spins (stationary bike workouts that I wrote that are killer) for aiding me in the trip back. But I still walk a lot of the way.

I try to remember to stop and look around as I’m wiping sweat on the shoulder of my shirt. These things I’ve already seen and I’m grateful I was paying attention on my ride in. This helps with me taking the right way back to Cieneguilla; back through the busy town, left at the roundabout, on forever until I reach the red bridge, take a right, on and on, past town after town, up hills, past barking dogs, by the funny rock walls, past the whistling Peruvian guys, until I finally see the green bridge. The green bridge is the last leg. I’ve never loved a bridge like I love that one. I press on.

When I see the sign that says Cieneguilla 4 KM. I think, “Cake walk” and walk the rest of the way back home.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Yesterday I had a slight worry attack. What if I can’t find a way to bring in some money? What if I can’t go see the sights I want to see? What if I’ve told everyone I’m going to lead adventure trips and then I don’t? Will that invalidate my whole existence? What if I lose another dog? What if the sun never comes out again and this winter never ends? What if…  

Some days are just like that.

I’d gone to sleep too late the night before. When I woke up I wasn’t in the mood to do anything productive but had this nagging voice in my head saying that I should be doing something. It was a clash of the mind. Perhaps I’m really Gemini with two parts that sometimes war. Now there are two ways to fix that type of mental war. Number 1: Do something productive. Number 2: Tell yourself it’s okay to not do anything and rest easy.

I didn’t do either. So I spent the day in neither a productive nor a restful manner.

In reality I’d done several things. I’d researched some travel blog sites and signed up for them. I’d found out that Vagobond http://www.vagobond.com/ is going to publish on July 11^th an article I submitted. I’d read up on some writers groups in Peru to see about maybe trying to organize a writers retreat at Casa Del Gringo. I’d even taken some time to catch up on some fun things via the internet.  

I know myself. I know those days that seem depressed are really just cloudy mind days. They pass by. I simply have to ride them out. I’m trying not to get into too many cheesy analogies, the point is not all days feel perfect. And that’s okay.

Today on the other foot, I let myself be. I did some yoga. The sun came out, literally, and I spent most of the day reading and enjoying the warmth.

I sit near the pool
In the sun
Music plays in the background
Rhythmic songs in Spanish
I listen to the melodic tune of the voices of the people near me
Enjoying the warmth
Then, Somewhere Over the Rainbow and What a Wonderful World starts up
The one sung by that Hawaiian guy
Skies of blue…
And I think to MYSELF
I am over the rainbow
And yeah,
What a wonderful world.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dWeL181JFIk&feature=list_related&playnext=1&list=AVGxdCwVVULXcFovjGdk27z8bN0bK_mQ-I

Later on, Mary, Walter and I went up the hill to the market. Sunday is a busy day in Cieneguilla and it was fun to be in the middle of the busyness.  

Mary had to go to Piura (a town about 16 hours away by bus) to take care of some business so I tagged along on the trip to take her to the bus station in Lima. The original plan was to go to the oldest hotel in Lima before taking Mary to the station and get a Pisco Sour (Peru’s special drink), but plans change. This is Peru. This is okay.

After we dropped Mary off, Walter drove me through downtown Lima where I saw some of the old government buildings, the oldest cathedral in Lima (in Peru?), and the President’s Palace. The architecture is amazing. These buildings are simply huge. I’ll go again one day when there’s daylight to take some better pictures.

When we’re driving through the streets of Lima, Walter asks me, “Does this look like the United States?” as if he thinks it does.

“No, not really at all,” I reply.  

Ruins and Rats (always the rats)

6/10/11 Friday

First things first. Peggy came back! And as with the prodigal son or the found denarius in the parable, there was much rejoicing.

Today I pull out the bike again and head out. This time sans dogs. I’m heading toward the Cieneguilla ruins. Walter gave me some directions. Something like, “Go straight. Cross the bridge. Then keep on going straight until you reach them.” Before I leave I ask Geraldine and Jose if I’ll be going the correct way. They have a rather long discussion about how to get there. In the end it basically boils down to what Walter told me, except there’s a left turn at the end instead of a go straight. Geraldine says, “You can ask people along the way.”

I pack some apples, a nutritional bar, a hat, a fleece jacket, my camera, and a notebook; throw my leg over the bike and go. Cieneguilla is a place of contrast. Rich and poor, dry and flourishing, stark and elaborately garnished.

When I cross the bridge I hear a motor-taxi slow and start to pass. I turn to look and make a gesture to stop him and he stops. I ask him if I’m going the right way to the ruins. He tells me yes. The people I pass are conservative, in that they don’t meet your gaze or initiate a hello. But if you ask them a question they’re more than willing to help out.

The ruins are ruins. I marvel at this other contrast. How the residue of the past stays pressed up against the living. Abutting the ruins are a farm and an orphanage. La Cima (The Peak), the orphanage is called. While I’m eating my apples and my Prana Bar I hear the orphanage band playing a song I recognize. It takes me a minute to catch on even though I know the tune. Past the flute and the staged drum rolls it registers. It’s The Beatles “Yesterday.” How funny, I think, to hear this song at this place. Yesterday, in these ruins, there was life. Yesterday, all these people’s troubles were far away. The places they had to hide away in are now crumbling mortar and dust.

I wish I could read in the walls and in the dust what happened, what these people felt, how they lived. I ask the air and get no response.

Full of questions that I have to make up answers to, I take my bike and head back down. While I’m out and about I decide to see more of Cieneguilla.

Down a main street I see some of the restaurants that I’d heard some of the Casa Del Gringo clients talking about. A street over and up the long hill I go to the market and get some more fruits and vegetables. One of the ladies already knows me. I always (I’ve been three times so far and I’m talking in absolutes) get carrots from her because they look the best. I pause in front of her stall and she says, “Carrots?” Yeah, please, I’m predictable. Thanks.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch. Just kidding, but I do go back home and settle in to do some writing.

Later, while we make our respective dinners Geraldine and I discuss all manner of things. At one point we’re talking about rats. I’m not sure exactly how we got to this topic but she compares the rats that live in the trees (and roofs) of Casa Del Gringo to the ones in Lima. She says the rats she’s seen in Lima were ill-kempt, dirty, with balding patches of mottled skin. The rats of Casa Del Gringo on the other hand have shiny pelts and fair faces (I’m suddenly reminded of Reepicheep in the Chronicles of Narnia). She says the CDG rats are healthy ones. They eat avocados, pecans and mango. They look after their wellbeing. She says they’re environmental rats. These rats have Gone Green.  

And Then There Were Three - A Sad Tale

Thursday, June 09, 2011 – And Then There Were Three

This is a story with a sad ending and I hate to tell it because I’m the villain of the tale. I’d like to go back about 4 hours and replay things. But that’s not possible.

The morning and afternoon had gone by quickly. Walter and I worked on his book. We did our PX90 exercise which was killer on the legs. Then I picked up some of the pecans from the yard before the parrots could get to them. Earlier Walter had told me he had some bicycles and that I could use one to go tour Cieneguilla and ride up to the ruins that I’ve been wanting to check out. The day got away from me and suddenly it was three o’ clock in the afternoon. I asked if it was too late to take my ruins excursion and Walter suggested I just go for a ride down the road and then cut back down the pathway next to the river across the street from the house. “It’ll give you a chance to test out the bike. Take the dogs,” he said. “They’ll like it. Only I’ll keep Peggy here with me because she doesn’t listen.” It was a good plan.

The front gate is always kept locked with a chain and padlock. So while he opened the gates and tried to get Peggy to stay, I inched the bike out. The dogs were ecstatic. They were all ready to hit the road, even Peggy. None of them wear collars and Peggy wasn’t listening to Walter tell her to stay. Just as I was getting ready to push off and go, one of the families who’d gone to lunch in Cieneguilla came back. It all seemed so chaotic and for whatever reason, I decided it’d be best to just go, to take the dogs and get out of the mess so the family wouldn’t get accosted by animals. I knew or I didn’t, but Peggy was with us.

This is the moment I wish I could go back to. When I saw Peggy there with me, Gringo, Negra and Lulu, I should have turned back and taken her to the house. She’d have had a little adventure and then been fine.

I pressed on. She was staying right with us and we were doing just fine. I stopped a couple times to take pictures. It was a fun adventure.

We went by a slew of dogs that stay out in the road guarding their respective territories. Lulu stayed close by, panting as she trotted next to me. Negra, dashed all around, exploring the underbrush, splashing through the water in the ruts in the roads. Gringo kept at the front until his 13 year old joints protested. Peggy kept pace with Negra.

After about fifteen minutes we reached the end of the road.

The vines against the wall to the right of us had a mess of cats living inside it. There were piles of trash in the underbrush. The dogs ran all about, barking and inspecting. I called them as I crossed the narrow way to get to the dirt path that runs parallel to the river and to the road I’d been on. Somewhere there, at the turn, Peggy disappeared.  

When I looked back, I saw the three dogs with me. But no Peggy. I figured, wrongly, that she’d catch up. That’d been my experience with dogs before. Before I’d gotten half way home I should have turned back to find her. I called for her, but she didn’t come.

When I got back to the house Walter was outside clearing out tree branches. “Did Peggy come back?” I asked.

He said no. I told him I’d lost her at the turn. I took the dogs and the bike and went back the same way, yelling for her and whistling. When I made the circuit and returned again to the front gate, Peggy wasn’t there. Walter rolled out his motorcycle and took the same route. For an hour we ran up and down the roads, me on a bike and Walter on the motorcycle, calling her name and whistling. By this time I feel completely awful, irresponsible, and unlucky.

What an awful person I am. I get here, stay a week, and lose the guy’s dog.

We met back up at the gate, shaking our heads to say we hadn’t found her. I’m distraught. “I’m really sorry,” I said. “This is going to make me cry.” And it does.

“There’s no use crying over spilled milk,” Walter said, using a cliché as is his wont. He hugged me with a brotherly pat. But I still felt bad. Really bad. As if hard work would redeem the loss, I helped him clear out the tree branches and sweep up the leaves he’d been cutting down. I’m not catholic but penance seemed like the only option I had for the forgiveness he wasn’t asking for.

“People steal anything you don’t lock down,” he said, “and even things you do. Gringo’s brother got stolen from me. And Mary’s little dog was stolen. We had to pay one hundred dollars to get her back.” This makes me feel better and worse at the same time. “In about five minutes, you should take the bike and go down the main road and call for Peggy there. People will be getting home from work and maybe you’ll see her.”

So I went. Calling and whistling, hoping against hope (to use my own cliché) that I’d see her and the day would end more triumphantly.

I went back empty handed and sad hearted.

While I’m mourning in the kitchen, I overhear Walter and Jose talking. Walter’s disdain for people and his lack of trust in humanity is evident, but Jose is much more given to hope. He tells Walter that Peggy has run off before, found something to eat and then come back later. He figured she’d just found something at the end of the road and would come back when she was ready. Jose said he’d go a little bit later and call for her too.

With this spark of hope I get through the evening. I say a little prayer to the god of the dogs and wait for a miracle.
Peggy, please come home.

Rats in the Roof

June 8^th, Wednesday, Cieneguilla

I’ve been in Peru for one week today. I’m not what you’d call a native, per se, but I’m finding my feet. I tried out my 15 sole bottle of wine last night. Wine connoisseurs should quit reading at this point. I drank my glass of vino out of a coffee mug and stuck the cork back in the bottle to close it up.  You get what you pay for is an accurate statement, it wasn’t bad though, the taste a little sharp, but I had a nice tranquil evening. I read some, did a little writing, watched about half an hour of The Universal Soccer commentary where the main commentator talked so quickly that his Spanish sounded like one incredibly long word, and went to bed early.

I got up this morning with a sense of need to get things done. How American of me, right? I’m looking for the balance between doing and being. There has to be a way to live in the Now and still plan for the future. I find myself thinking, “Okay, what next?” So while I was planning the After This part of my life, I saw the sun peak out from behind the clouds and turned off my computer and went and soaked up some warmth.

I was there in that moment and nowhere else. I think I also got sunburned.

There are a lot of birds that flitter through the grounds. Yesterday I saw a hummingbird. Today I saw a pretty red bird with dark wings. He was skittish, a little camera shy, and didn’t let me get very close. Here’s the best picture I could get of him.

The green parrot who made three swoops across the pool for a drink said he didn’t do photo ops and flew away. I watched some yellow butterflies cavort and wondered what the three buzzards high up and circling were up to. I think the creature that makes the “weoh, weoh” sound which I thought was a frog is actually a bird. I’ll have to figure that one out. I’d kind of like to see a frog though. I’m not looking for one to kiss and turn into a frog, but I suddenly think it’s been a long time since I’ve seen one. When I and my sibs were kids we used to find them, pick them up, and then run quickly back to the house to wash our hands when they peed all over us. Good times.

Geraldine and Jose spent the morning trying to figure out how to keep the rats from taking over the main house’s roof. I’d seen a rat cross the beams in the little covered porch I was writing from a few days ago. It made Negra go crazy. She wanted to tear it limb from limb. I got up to see what she was barking at and saw the brave rodent thumb its nose at her and disappear into the darkness. It was a little bigger than the rats I’ve seen in the States, but fortunately not as big as an ROUS.

I made a banana, maca, Chocolate Green Super Food, ginger and water shake this morning. Unfortunately for me, the blender bottom was loose and I lost about 1/3^rd of my breakfast. I’ve been spoiled to my VitaMix whose bottom doesn’t unscrew (someone this paragraph is starting to feel really dirty) and forgot the important life lesson of: Always Check that Blender Parts are Secure. I tuck this away in my head for future reference. I don’t think I’ll forget again. Food is too precious a commodity to waste by stupidity.

The climate in Cieneguilla is much easier on my skin than Colorado’s was. In Colorado I felt I needed to invest in lotion stock, but here, I hardly ever even think about it. Per Walter’s suggestion I use Avon Skin So Soft to ward off bugs. So far it seems to be working.

Casa Del Gringo has a family staying here; a husband, wife and their daughter and the wife’s parents. The man is from California and the wife is Peruvian. They’re taking pictures by the pool near where I’m working so I offer to take a full group photo. The man asks me where I’m from. I tell him Colorado. But sometimes I feel like I’m from nowhere. Maybe home is where you are. Home is where you go.

I get my first thing by mail today. I'd asked for a pony and a puppy and got both! (Tim Christian! You’re the best!! Cheers and thank you!)

Walter crosses the yard and says, “It’s a miracle.” Mail delivery is iffy if anything here. I’m pleased. I need to figure out how to send letters and whatnot myself.

It’s Wednesday, somehow the day’s name doesn’t really matter. I’m not living by a clock.

Walter says he’ll take me to the orphanage tomorrow to meet the children. There are also some ruins nearby. So I’ll be sure to take my camera with me. Nos vemos mañana.

Tuesday - Market Day

June 7, 2011 – Cieneguilla Tuesday

I basically have the place to myself today. Walter has gone to Lima to take care of some business or other and won’t be back until late. Geraldine is here, but she’s working. I’m not sure where Jose, the other groundskeeper is. I take my computer to the patio and work for a couple hours on Walter’s memoirs. Someone had asked me, “Why would anyone want to read his book? Who the heck is he?” It’s a good question. Why do we want to read any story? To learn, to live through someone else’s experience, to laugh, to cry, there’s a lot of reason why. There’s also something in all our hearts that makes us want to record our own existence. Maybe we have to validate ourselves through words and know that when we’re gone something of our time on earth will have been noticed, read by at least one other. Maybe also his is a story that is interesting to read about. Time will tell, to use the cliché.  

 The  neighborhood dogs are going insane. The whole world is rife with barking.

Negra and Peggy

I don’t know what got them all so riled up. There are four dogs here at Casa Del Gringo, there are neighboring-place dogs, and there is a pack of dogs that live outside the walls. At night sometimes they howl. Right now they’re talking non-stop. It sounds like the part in 101 Dalmatians where the dogs are trying to pass down the message that the puppies have been stolen. Behind their noise I can hear the soft cooing of doves, and the occasional ribbit of a frog.

It’s chilly now. I go change my light jacket for a little heavier one. I’m sitting in the covered patio. I have a view of a variety of trees with the mountains as their backdrop. I stop and remind myself that I’m in Peru. It seems incredible.

Earlier, Geraldine found me and asked if I was going to go to the market. We were out of rice. It’s a Casa Del Gringo staple. It’s also one of the foods that will help me keep from starving until I can figure out how to get enough fruits and veggies and whatnot to tide me through a day. I’m almost there. I’ve gone to bed hungry a couple times, but I’m not starving. As a vegetarian, and a mostly whole food/raw food eater, filling up can be a bit tricky at times. It’s not impossible though.

I grab my bag and head to the market. It’s about one mile from where I live. I walk the whole way. There are little taxis that will take me to and from, but I don’t mind the exercise or saving a sole (which is worth about 33 cents). About three minutes into my walk I realize I’ve forgotten my camera. I’m not energetic enough to come back and get it and it’s kind of nice not to be totally pegged as a foreigner. I’ll have to remember to take it next time. I pass some walled in houses, walk past the ovalo (the roundabout), past a little park with swings and slides, past some small shops, and finally get to the market.

This is my third trip to the market. I’m getting better about knowing what an item should cost and taking Walter’s advice about asking more than one seller the price. I buy rice, quinoa, a variety of fruits, some broccoli, some garlic and some onions. One my way back I spot a Liquoria.  In a splurge completely contrasted to my earlier thrift I buy a 15 sole bottle of Merlot (fifteen soles is less than six dollars, I think). I feel incredibly grown up, metropolitan and traveled. I laugh at myself.

Before I head back into the walled and secluded paradise of my home, I go gaze at the river that is just across the street from Casa Del Gringo. Later, when I have my camera and more time, I’ll explore more.

I’ll work on the other chapter of Walter’s book tonight and then I’ll be caught up. I’ll go make a bowl of rice and eat it with some garlic and onion. I’ll be warding off more than vampires with my breath. I feel I'll be safe tonight.