Wednesday November 16

 

For the first time in eight years of travel, I managed to stay up the entire night before leaving.  I plugged two Vivaran, which coincidentally I believe I bought for my first trip in 1997.  I managed to get the laundry done and then the normal pre-trip chores, but the pills left me feeling odd and strung out for hours afterwards.  By the time I packed I felt a little better, but really only had 45 minutes to spare after I’d showered, when the taxi arrived a 4:15am.

 

The reason for this trip was a long and confusing thought process. I recognized I hadn’t traveled in ’05, and stood in danger of making no annual addition to my tales.  For that reason alone I knew I had to plan something, but nothing really was forthcoming. There was a general plan to return to Thailand to see Lauren in the spring of ’06, but things between Lauren and I hit the ever predictable six month apathy point right on schedule.  So I felt open and free to go anywhere.

 

Long before this time Scott had developed a friendship with someone from Argentina, and I spontaneously volunteered to accompany him on a trip to facilitate introductions.  Being an old hand at such activities by now, the trip sounded like something different for me and a good opportunity for Scott.  After initially laughing off the offer, Scott got serious and we pinpointed a time.

 

Upon further reflection, I realized nothing in Argentina would grab me, and my past encounters with Argentine nationals had been less than impressive.   Further, Scott only planned a week in Argentina where as I had two full weeks to kill.  So after a bit of reflection,Brazil seemed to be a much better answer, with a side trip to Buenos Aries to meet up with Scott.

 

I fooled around doing research on destinations and delayed buying a ticket as fuel prices continued to climb.  I discovered that Brazil required Americans to get a tourist visa in advance, in retaliation for Americans requiring the same of Brazilians. 

 

Fair enough, I thought. 

 

Then I discovered that a visa could only be obtained for $100, the same charge a Brazilian would have pay.  OK, I thought, no problem. 

 

Then I found out that a visa could only be obtained for me from the San Francisco consulate, and further, no passports were accepted by mail, they had to be hand delivered and retrieved from San Francisco.  That means I would have to pay to have someone forward my passport and application and then pay to have someone pick it up and return it to me, in addition to the visa fee.  All of the sudden I was looking at $200 or $250 for the visa.  In the meantime, fuel prices had skyrocketed and the side trip to B.A. was now looking to cost as much as the entire flight to Rio. I decided to hell with the Brazilian government.  I called Scott, cashed in my chips with my apologies and rethought the whole thing.

 

I chose Peru, thinking it would be cheap and exotic enough, and should fares change, there would be a possibility I could join Scott in B.A. after all.  So Peru it was.  The departure flight on Continental was at the ball busting hour of 6am.

 

The Ukrainian taxi driver was around 19 feet tall and took a rather scenic route to the airport. I had plenty of time and elected not to complain.  Damage was $55 with tip.  I wondered about Janet going to the airport by taxi and if she was taken advantage of when she left for the airport.

 

Janet was my very good and very brave friend from Korea, who came to visit on her own a couple of times.  On one trip, I couldn’t get her to the airport on her return home, and felt terribly guilty about it.

 

Checking in at Continental Airlines was electronic and first time I’d done it completely by myself.  I passed on the first class upgrade offered me and I later realized it might have been free due to my new “Silver” status with Northwest.  I should have at least found out how much the upgrade would cost.

 

Getting through the shoeless security check was comparatively painless, but I was frightfully early for the flight, plus the plane was going to be delayed about 40 minutes for “crew rest”.  I wandered the concourse for a time, bought an Oregonian and waited for what seemed to be forever. I fought the ten ton pull of sleep as time moved at a snail’s stroll, and the lingering effect of the drug added to my gray malaise. When the boarding call did come, I took the preferred customers route based on my new “Silver” status and got my window seat.  I slept uncomfortably over the takeoff and through about half the flight toHouston.

 

Every time I dream of ways to make the hours of torture in the plane evaporate.  By far, the most successful was my trip to France, where I swallowed a Vicodin along with two airplane bottles of red vinegar the airline called cabernet.  Since a regular supply of Vicodin is not in the cards, I thought sleep deprivation the most sensible alternative.  By the time I actually did nod off, I was clearly beginning to hallucinate in the airport.

 

I woke cramped in my seat to stunning snow capped peaks, gorged canyons and later, the round fields I first saw on the back of Led Zeppelins Coda album.  I realized I hadn’t rated the Continental flight attendants and just as quickly realized I was better off not evaluating them.

 

Houston was the hub of my chosen airline and it was my first visit there.  George Bush Intercontinental (get it?) Airport was surprisingly comfortable, neat and modern.  Only slightly more cowboy hats were on display than one might see in Portland, thankfully. I fooled around as I still had quite a layover, eventually landing in a brew pub that was neither particularly good nor particularly interesting.  Damage for 1 BCB, 2 beers, mozzarella sticks was $37, with tip.  Ouch.

 

I wonder one day if I will look back at these minor points of accounting and puke over myself.  Outrageous taxi trips and top dollar lunches already feels like I let precious resources slip through my fingers.

 

The plane to Lima loaded slowly. Once again I was up front, but got on last.  Of course, there was no overhead space at that point, and the rows of seats seemed incredibly close together.  I wedged myself and swallowed two of the Vicodans and a third later.  Although I did not sleep, the whole flight had a warm and fuzzy hue.  “Elf” and a computer animated film played, to my complete non-interest.  My eyes were pleasantly shut, but I didn’t reach the storied level six of Zombification that I was hoping for.  The comparatively short air trip was much more sufferable than past Asian jaunts.

 

It was long after dark when I arrived in Lima.  My first clue things were slightly different than what I was used to was that the guy directing the plane to the gate did not have his flashlights on to illuminate the orange filters, and was therefore pretty damned hard to see in the dark. I lined up in the slightly chaotic immigration area.  A huge crowd arrived behind me and for once I was quite glad to have beaten them there, no doubt due to sitting towards the front of the plane. Ahead of me in line was some kind of Bolivian troupe, all in matching track suits with “BOLIVIA” printed on the back.  There were about thirty of them, mixed men and women, and some carried colorful feathered headdresses.  I guessed they were a dance troupe or a cultural exchange of some sort.  None of them were more than five feet six and many, both female and male, appeared to be stretching the definition of five feet to the very breaking point.

 

It’s quite doubtful that my mother would approve of much of my travel activities, but I can’t help but think she’d be proud to see her son as a giant among men.  Well, maybe not quite the same way as she would have hoped, but those Bolivians were tiny people.  It reminded me of a time when I had drinks after work with an associate, and no sooner had we seated ourselves in the bar when we discovered there was a midget’s convention going on at the hotel. 

 

I worried about meeting Beatriz as I approached the luggage carousel and happily found the big pack waiting for me.  Nevertheless I found myself behind the entire Bolivian Solid Gold Dancers to get through customs. Somehow I made it around a piece of them and came out to a throng and a half.  It almost felt like the Beatles arriving at JFK in 1964, although it clearly wasn’t my autograph that all the cash thirsty taxi drivers were after.  I stood out like a sore thumb, so if Beatriz was there, she couldn’t have missed me, but I never saw her.

 

I had had several years of college French, and towards the end of my university career I took first and second year hurry up Spanish in the summer, as I briefly toyed with the idea of becoming a language teacher to avoid the real world.  After leaving Eugene in 1991, I did nothing with my Spanish, and so in preparation of my trip, I began to revive it with a CD in the car, figuring it could be useful.

 

To my surprise and delight, it came back readily and easily.  I enjoyed working the language puzzles in my head and remembering the old rules.  Rather than establishing a pen pal through the normal channels, I found a chat network in Spanish and joined, where I met Beatriz.  Bea was 24, lived in Lima and spoke no English what so ever.  She did have a web cam and we chatted regularly in the evenings, which helped my Spanish tremendously. 

 

Bea ran a very small dress shop and began to rely heavily on our nightly conversations.  She had a rather wide face with Asian eyes and particularly full lips.  I wasn’t really attracted to her, but she appeared to take care of herself well, and I appreciated the attention she gave me, as well as the Spanish practice.

 

After several weeks of chatting Bea announced she was about to lose her internet connection. She had had some problems with her shop and had only 10 Peruvian Soles to her name.  She fretted about the loss of contact with me, and I volunteered to pony up the money to keep her going for a while, reasoning that I enjoyed the contact and the Spanish practice. I ended up Western Union-ing her phone bill and internet charge for another month, which came out to a shockingly high $70, including the $20 fee for Western Union.

 

I figured I was being taken advantage of but justified the expenditure and felt comfortable with it. A few weeks before the trip, however, Bea asked for more money to run her shop.  Recognizing a rotting corpse before taking a whiff, I immediately ceased all contact with her.  Unfortunately, I’d already given Bea the details of my flight and my hotel.  Bea responded to my shunning with daily cell phone calls, Email messages and my complete expectation was to see her waiting for me at Jorge Chavez International Airport, and to have a complete Latin Soap Opera scene upon my arrival.

 

As expected, taxi drivers descended on me like vultures.  I was in search of cash and was unmoved when the PTCU card did not work in the ATM.  Amongst fighting off middle aged pip squeaks poking me with stiletto English to play Monte Hall and Let’s Make a Fucking Taxi Deal, I found another ATM, identical to the first, which also refused PTCU.  I was hustled by a guy for which I didn’t understand but he disappeared quickly.  Some of the taxi drivers followed me, which in my heightened state of paranoia, bugged me to no end.

 

A guy hovered fifteen yards away from the second ATM which made me incredibly nervous.  He looked like Mafioso.  A father and his child fucked around in the enclave of the ATM far too long for my liking, and were awarded the Shit, Croak and Die look from me with particular intensity.  This third machine also refused PTCU so I broke down and used the back up US Bank card.  Painful, very, very painful.

 

Security paranoia was to dog me the entire trip, and this experience was an omen.  Typically I find myself arriving in a new environment with a natural paranoia which I believe defends me from potential trouble.  In this case, I discovered my paranoia to be completely justified and rational, which instead of reassuring me, proved to ratchet up my defense mechanism.

 

Using the Master Card for cash was painful for the high interest rate, plus the service charge levied for the honor of letting them loan you money.  I hated doing it, but had no choice.  I really did not want to use the US Dollars I had stashed away just to get me to the hotel.

 

I cut a deal for the taxi and endued up with a particularly gabby driver who was constantly pushing my Spanish to its most reasonable limits and then quite a ways beyond.  I understood about 50% of what he said. I was quite nervous when he started talking about not knowing the hotel and if I’d paid for it already, which I had. 

 

Omen two, the hustle of the Golden Gringo.  Although I immediately felt engaged by the linguistic challenges and puzzles, I developed a sense of weariness that this guy was out to take advantage of me. Before long I would find myself relishing the pay-as-you-expect services of the US, rather than the free market negotiations of the third world.

 

At first glance, the ride from Jorge Chavez Lima looked very third world, sixties viva la revoluccion and that meant not very safe for a gringo. All that was missing was the Yanqui Go Home graffiti.  The driver took me on the beach road, which was deserted and interesting. A cobblestone road led us up to Miraflores, which didn’t strike me nearly as affluent as I’d expected. 

 

My knowledge of the Latin world was limited to a few films and magazine pictures. I had not really applied the Mexican model of poverty, violence and unrest to Latin America.  I expected a more refined, European society for some reason.  What I found was highly a Americanized, disaffected and a somewhat alienated place that dribbled spaghetti western and Castro.

 

Of course, Juan didn’t know where the hotel was, but he was aggressive in asking passers by.  The entire ride I had worried about being set up for some sort of scam and was so grateful when he found the actual hotel I over tipped him. Even so I would have probably used him again had he had a cell phone because I found myself enjoying the Spanish practice so much.

 

A common scam was to quote a price from the airport in Peruvian Soles and then the taxi driver would demand payment in US Dollars. Give that the exchange rate was about S3.4 to the USD, I figured I’d be ready for this particular rip off.  Another, more frightening scam that I read about was a  man being taken in a cab to a location other than he requested where he was beaten and robbed.

 

The hotel was absolutely unglamorous, on a street that was little more than an alley between two major avenues.  I had a little trouble finding the entrance to the place, which looked only slightly better than a loading dock.  I checked into a very typical two and half or low three star place that was pretty spartan and probably overpriced for Lima.  The room was a little worn, but pleasant enough. Perhaps I was just grateful to not have found Bea, nor her messages, waiting for me upon check in.  I stripped down and caught an interesting Jimmy Stewart movie set somewhere in the Arab World, concerning a missing kid and appeared to be a Hitchcock, which I figured out later to be The Man Who Knew Too Much.

 

The phone rang after a while inquiring if I cared to use my welcome drink.  I said, politely, that I would when I damn well felt like it and left it like that.  After about an hour I wandered up to the eighth floor and sat down to drink three Cusquenas, as recommended by the pizza faced bartender.  By 3am I was caught up in the journal and slightly drunk and slightly ill from the heavy Cyndi Lauper Time After Time twice in one day:  Once on the plane and once in the bar. I was perfectly happy not having heard the song for twenty years or so before that, and doubt I need to hear it for another forty now. Total damage was 27 Peruvian Soles, or somewhere between $8 and $9, which for some reason struck me as outrageous at the time. 

 

I was a little disappointed in the bar.  I had hoped for some more interesting music and a cast of characters to observe while I greased myself for the slide into bed and tried to make some progress in the journal.  Instead, the bar, like the hotel, seemed to be empty for the most part.  Given the side street location, the loading dock entrance and the eighth floor situation of the bar, its little wonder no one was there.  Few outside of people like me getting their welcoming drink probably even knew of its existence.