primatesperu

 

"Ten days in Lima?"

Standing outside the MINAG permit office, I felt like someone had handed me a large bar of chocolate and at the very last minute, taken it back.  I’d just been told that it would take two weeks to get our research permit printed and ready. What’s worse, the tentacles of the economic recession had reached my little spot of heaven in the jungle and the weekly boat to the field site had been cancelled. We would have to wait almost 13 days for the next scheduled boat.  What on earth were we going to do for ten whole days in Lima?

Setting about it in his typically logical way, Gideon made a list of all the last-minute errands we had left to do, about five or six major things in all. Shelving my disappointment I pulled out the Lonely Planet Guide to Perú, and began to read. This is the story of our whimsical experience of Lima and her limeños.

As soon as possible, we arranged to meet our fabulous Peruvian contact, Inés, who has endless patience with research permits and muddled extranjeros.  We would have been absolutely lost without her help.  When she smilingly offered to show us where to make our purchases in Lima, we jumped at the offer. That’s when she took us to Lima’s incredible downtown or central where we found the booksellers’ street, the surgical equipment street, the musicians’ street, and even the pornographic cinema street. Before we knew it, and in a far more organized fashion than we had anticipated, we had acquired most of the items on our shopping list.

With almost a week left to go, we were able to allow ourselves to slide just a little into vacation-mode. We made it to the Museo de la Nación, literally, the Museum of the Nation, and left even more muddled about Peruvian cultural history than when we entered (there’s just so much of it!). We visited the zoo and watched people ogle at and feed lots of spectacularly exotic creatures (or maybe they’re only exotic to us – coming to think of it, I did see three teenage girls chasing a squirrel down the path yelling “Ardilla! Ardilla!”). The Parque de Las Leyendas is worth visiting if only to see the fully conditioned turtles, tapirs, mountain goats, alpacas and macaws accepting morsels from passersby at the edges of their enclosures. Of course, the primates, as one can expect in such an environment, were real experts at working their audience. They alternately squabbled and gamboled in their enclosures, being particularly human and winning the hearts of their adoring public who flung them everything from plastic bottles to plastic wrapped sweets. It made no difference that there were signs everywhere stating that the diets of the animals were to be respected. Gideon and I pointed this out to a gentleman busy feeding a baboon some cereal in a plastic cover – it was too hard to resist, he was standing directly under the warning sign!

Walking away from our first zoo-experience that felt like a cross between a carnival and a pet store extravaganza, we realized that the ocean was only a few blocks away. Lima sits on the coast and is literally covered in mist year-round. Unlike its counterpart on the other side of the Andes, it almost never rains in this Grey City. Remarkably, the coastline consists of a huge cliff that overlooks the ocean, with the rocky beach almost inaccessible at points, some 60m below you. As the coast curves along neighbourhoods with captivating names such as San Miguel, Magdalena de la Mar, and Miraflores you can always look along the cliff to see the next township ahead. Some parts of the endless lookout are beautifully landscaped with manicured lawns and mosaic parks.  Others are in the process of construction and it looks like a large part of Lima’s garbage is being compacted to reinforce the cliffside.

Our meanderings along the bluff created in us an unquenchable thirst. After circumnavigating the several hundred pollerías that have arisen to provide for the nation’s eternal love affair with chicken, we finally found a small Chinese restaurant with signs of cerveza in the window. Our entrance caused quite a stir. The current patrons of the restaurant did a terrible job of hiding their unabashed curiosity and amongst many whispers to each other, spent the next 40 minutes staring at us drinking our beer. Having spent the day walking about the town, I have to say, this sort of thing wasn’t entirely unexpected.

Gideon, we have discovered (much to his chagrin and my delight), is a walking attraction. He gets cat-calls and stares wherever he goes in Lima. Often, assorted women of all ages call out to him in Spanish, assuming he doesn’t understand them and he hotfoots it out of there, blushing like a bride. I believe they are all convinced that he’s something out of a movie, or better yet, a telenovela. I, on the other hand, have the absolute opposite effect on the population. Being as brown as a nut, I merely raise some eyebrows as to my rather poor language skills and of course, they’re all secretly wondering how on earth I snagged such a hottie.

The only place we ever visited in which we were both completely ignored was Lima’s Hotel Bolivar. Situated in the Plaza San Martin, the second largest square in central Lima, this ancient edifice just reeks class and colonialism. Ornate carvings line the doorway and sculptures abound in the hallway. We wandered in to the lobby and were ignored. We found the restaurant after some difficulty and were ignored. We sat ourselves down at a table and were ignored. We somehow managed to place an order and received our ceviche, or marinated raw fish, which I have to admit was excellent. Their pisco sour is not for the faint-hearted – a single glass of this traditional drink will sweep you off of your feet and leave you in a distinctly wobbly frame of mind. It did much damage to my already feeble control of the language. Someday, but not here, I must write of how we then tried to purchase 8 different sets of air tickets from a Peruvian travel agent who spoke no English at all.  In any case, pleasantly intoxicated, we stumbled out of there and were, thankfully, ignored.

Only two other incidents really stand out in my mind when I think of our time in Lima. They concern (oh no! not again!) our extraordinarily overweight bags and Gideon’s yellow fever vaccine.

I revisit the vaccine incident with some trepidation because the very thought of it makes me quiver with indignation. It all began with a discovery – after spending 3 months planning this large project, down to the very tiniest details, we discovered that due to some unmentionable idiocy on our behalf, we’d forgotten to get Gideon his yellow fever vaccine during our summer spent in India. Being that it is almost cheaper to fly to India to get medical care than it is to drive to one’s local hospital in America, we’d picked up all our spare meds there at cost price. Somehow, this one vaccine had slipped out unnoticed.

We asked around at the hostel for a hospital and were told to try the clinica nearby. We set out one bright Saturday morning and crossed, for the first time, the very large Avenue Javier Prado. Thus far, it had lain there, like some giant heaving and throbbing display of automobiles, continually spewing gasoline fumes and endangering pedestrian lives. Peruvian traffic is a tad worse than Indian traffic, which is really saying something. There are no traffic lights that anyone seems to obey but instead, a little pedestal in the center of an intersection contains a single policeman that ought to be given the Purple Heart for his service to the nation. Valiantly he gesticulates this way and that, lending order to the whole bristling mess.

The chief problem with Limeño traffic is the combi. These mid-sized vans travel in clusters, always with a conductor hanging out the door. Their destinations are painted along the front and side of the bus but in case you miss these, there’s always the incessant chanting of the conductor.

“Arequipaarequipatodolamarinatodolamarinalacolmenaaaa, la colmenaaa!”

You know with a little practice that he means the bus is first going to Ave. Arequipa, after which it will turn off and run the full length of Ave. La Marina ending up at the famous La Colmena intersection. Their incessant competing with each other means that a combi driver will not stop for anything but the police, and they are a real menace on the street. His only goal is to be the first in the herd to hit the next paradero or bus stop, to catch the most passengers he can. The combis whiz by so fast that sometimes you jump in while the van is still moving. They cost only about 1 sol to go pretty much anywhere and therefore, are an excellent way to get around town.

Returning to our story though, the other side of the Ave. Javier Prado beckoned invitingly and we took the risk and darted across hand in hand. Like something out of a postcard, tiny little houses lay side by side, packed into the quaintest little blocks. The streets were mostly silent and empty. Every other home had converted its living room into a little store and from everywhere peeked little signs for copías or farmacías. Each corner had its own garden, complete with cacti and bougainvillea. At least one home on each block had a large floral pattern running along its side. None of the homes were grey or brown, as is customary in cities. This is where the real limeños live!! I fell in love with it all instantly.

And then we reached the hospital.

From afar Limeño hospitals look like large churches, with spires and pretty balconies and names such as solidaridad or milagros (miracles). As you draw nearer though, you begin to think that your original impression was definitely misguided. At the entrance, in glorious technicolour is a large poster, with pictures arranged in a grid with small writing underneath. The very same thing is found outside most little restaurants in Peru; in fact, I’ll wager that hospitals and restaurants both get their posters made by the same chap! It looks almost exactly like a large, colourful menú. Upon drawing closer still however, you nearly keel over in horror because it is anything BUT a menú. Apparently, the dear citizens of Lima suffer from every variety of fungal infection of the toe there can be – and I challenge any of your imaginations to come up with worse looking toes. One positively chokes at the door and then, nerves in tatters, staggers in only to be told that no, they don’t stock the yellow fever vaccine. More relieved than upset, and clutching each other for support, we somehow stumbled out, trying desperately to forget what promises to be a regular feature in my dreams.

After several of these experiences, one gets slightly more used to the sight and can avert one’s eyes at just the right moment. However, there were just no yellow fever vaccines to be had in the next three clinicas. We finally, contacted our friend Inés for some help with the matter, as our departure was getting closer by the day. Happily, she agreed to help. The first day, Gid brought only a copy of his passport along and so we had to call the whole thing off – Peruvians are really big on originals, don’t bother to take a copy of anything anywhere because you’ll be turned away. The next day we met up again and on the way to the hospital closest to us (Hopsital A), mentioned to Inés that the clinicas with the toe-fetishes all mentioned that the Hospital B was the place to go. Deciding to go with their advice we changed our plans and headed to B. Of course, upon getting there we were told that they were out and we should go to third hospital (let’s call it C). We took a bus to C and found out that they charged 65 soles for the shot for “internacional” people. If we wanted it for free we would have to go to, of all places, Hospital A. Retracing our steps and uttering muttered curses we headed back to A only to be told that no, they just don’t give that shot anymore. So we went all the way back to B again and dished out 65 soles for the vaccine. I let Gid know in no uncertain terms that if he so much as gets a whisper of a fever or turns even slightly jaundiced I might give him the boot myself.

Anyhow, it’s more likely that he’ll come to a tragic end at the hands or rather, mouthparts of the bugs that have latched on to him already. Yesterday, he had about 7 bites. Today there are 3 news ones. I must point out that I have none. We’ve changed sheets, towels, and laundered his clothes. We think that there’s probably one sadistic bug that’s living on him that just wanders about his person biting him at will. To look on the bright side, at least he’s not going to die of yellow fever.

On that cheery note, this brings me to the end of my story. It is only fitting that we close with a brief (not quite) mention of our bags, and their whereabouts. In a moment of clarity, a travel agent mentioned that the Peruvian airlines have cargo services for the cheap transfer of oversized baggage across the Andes. Cheered vastly by our conversation with a representative of one such company on the phone we proceeded to pack our bags and take four of them to the cargo facility outside the airport. Our friendly cab-driver Hector regaled us with the tale of the most recent hindu movie he had watched which, after some 20 minutes of high-spirited Spanish, we were able to identify as none other than Slumdog Millionaire. When we got to the office, of course, is when the real fun began.

The Lima cargo office is situated at the very end of a really large and very empty parking lot. The loading dock is some 5 feet off the ground and all bags must be hoisted up there manually. Hector and Gideon huffed and puffed over this endeavour while I located the official in charge. I was given a form to fill out that rather flummoxed them when they learned that I was both the sender and receiver of said packages. It was at that moment that some bright spark decided to let us know that there was a serious chance of our bags getting wet, as it was raining like hell on the other side of the Andes. We briefly tried to reason with them but then realized that there was more to this allegation than met the eye. From the woodwork crept a couple of shifty looking lads clutching large rolls of plastic. They sidled up to Gideon and whispering through the side of their mouths, offered to encase the bags in plastic for five soles. Seeming to notice them for the first time, the enraged cargo official banned any plastic-king of bags on the premises. To our horror he demanded that we lug all the bags across the giant parking lot, outside the gates, where the same shifty couple of individuals could manually wrap our bags. Needless to say, we put up a bit of a fight at the thought but we were outshouted in rapid Spanish.

Hector and Gideon began the arduous task of carrying each bag to the end of the parking lot where it was turned every which way and wrapped in plastic. I remained to guard the rest of the bags on the dock. Over the next twenty minutes I flew by the seat of my pants into explanations of all kinds that stretched the very boundaries of my Spanish vocabulary.

“Are you carrying anything dangerous?”

No, of course not. I’m just a student going to the jungle.

“ What are you going to the jungle for?”

To study biology.

Look of panic on official’s face and I hurry to reassure him that there was nothing dangerous and medical in the bags. I’m only studying the biology of monkeys, not humans.

“Do you have any sprays in your bags?”

Of course not, just some small creams for blocking the sun and bugbites.

“Are there any batteries in your bag”

Shit. Calling the electroejaculator a giant battery will not work this time. No, no batteries, just a giant.. umm… weather guage (!)

And then, from another official about my age or younger, in English no less – “Where are you from?”

Does it matter?

“How old are you?”

I don’t see how this information is relevant!

“Come on, you can tell me, how old are you really?”

I REALLY don’t appreciate your tone. Would you please not ask me about personal information that isn’t relevant in the least to this situation???

Blank look. “Really, how old are you??”

Unbelievable. I almost kissed Hector when he came back and rescued me from this lot. After a lot of hauling we got the bags into the X-ray machine and watched them go through. We were invited to view the operation through a screen from the other side. When we got there, we learned that the official with all the worries about what was in our bag was the one operating the X-ray machine. Was he just not sure he’d catch everything on the screen? We will never know. And the busybody with the smattering of English was the person responsible, of all things, for weighing our bags, and creating a bill for us. Needless to say, he did so with tight-lipped annoyance and it was only with great restraint that he didn’t hike up the price at my unwillingness to flirt.

Today the bags would have reached Puerto Maldonado, covered in wet plastic with all our equipment in a thousand pieces most likely. I wouldn’t be surprised if they used them for boxing practice before getting them on the flight. Nothing to do but wait these ten days out and go to Puerto Maldonado and see for ourselves!