A Facebook update from November 2009 (facebook.com/post.colin):

I’m spending 6 weeks in the States and I’m not eating one grain of rice the whole time!

My January 13 tweet (twitter.com/colinpost):

Life in Latin America is a daily struggle to minimize my consumption of rice.

Rice has no taste. Rice is nutritionally worthless. Rice is filler crap, the most abused filler crap in the world.

I went broke in Bogota, so I’m living and working in America for the summer. People here are always surprised at my refusal to eat rice. I didn’t have anything against rice before moving to Latin America. If you grew up in the States, you wouldn’t think anything of it because you rarely eat it. It wasn’t until about the one-year point living in Latin America that I grew weary of rice. You can’t escape it. If you eat in restaurants, then you’ll have to eat rice EVERY FUCKING DAY.

Rice tastes like nothing. If someone wanted to create a purely fuel food that eliminated all flavor in life, it would taste like rice. However, it wouldn’t be rice because rice is nutritionally worthless.

I’ve already decided that, whenever I start a family, my kids won’t eat rice more than a few times a week. I’d rather not keep it in the house. High consumption of rice may be why Colombia and other countries suck at sports on a global level. How many rice-eating countries make it to the World Cup finals? Argentina eats pasta and meat. Brazilians eat rice but also lots of steak. 2010 champion Spain is known for paella, but most Spanish cuisine does not have rice.

The only public good rice serves is in alleviating famine. It’s cheap filler crap for countries that have trouble feeding themselves. I’m not from such a country.

Nutrition Facts, 1 cup of rice (link)

Calories 193
Total Fat 1g
Total Carbohydrate 44g
Dietary Fiber 1g
Sugars 0g
Protein 4g

For every 44g of simple carbohydrates, rice has only one gram of fiber. A cup of rice contains no significant amount of vitamins or minerals save a measly 10% RDA of iron, which I don’t need given my high intake of iron-rich eggs, beef, chicken, fish, and beans. From a nutrition standpoint, the only functional reason to eat rice would be immediately after lifting weights to spike insulin. However, you’d still be better off drinking a liter of milk for the same effect PLUS protein, calcium, Vitamin D, and all the essential amino acids. (Read why Milk is the Ultimate Post-Workout Food)

Here’s a list of carbohydrates better than rice:

• Potatoes – more fiber and rich in Vitamin C
• Oats – more fiber, protein, and complex carbs for energy throughout the day.
• Beans – maybe the world’s perfect food. Complex carbs with lots of fiber and protein, plus B vitamins.
• Carrots – more fiber plus Vitamin A and beta carotene.
• Fruit – simple carbs plus fiber and lots of vitamins and minerals. And FLAVOR! See my post about the kick-ass fruit in Colombia.

My last girlfriend in AQP, ‘Milagros’, has learned about this blog and hates me. Not only did I document every step of the way in our mostly sexual relationship, but I also cheated on her from the start. She knows everything and isn’t answering my emails now.

This is horrible because I really liked her.

My Swiss roommate Nicolas had seen me with the other girls and noticed a difference with this one. He asked me early on, “You like this one, don’t you?” It was obvious. With all the other Peruvian girls, I’d try to get them out of the house soon after waking up or whatever. With Milagros, I’d try to get her to stay. I had fun hanging out in bed.

The older I get, the less I believe in real love, soul mates, and that Hollywood nonsense. Milagros and I spent days in bed. Days. That’s love. That’s how babies get made. We’d only leave my bedroom for pollo a la brasa when we had to eat.

Milagros didn’t have the brichera issues. A gringo and Peruvian girl get stared at in the streets of Arequipa. Sometimes guys yell insults. I sensed from the other two girlfriends that, even if negative, they enjoyed the attention. Women’s vanity. Milagros, on the other hand, hated it. She’d get noticeably uncomfortable. She didn’t want to stand out. She’d have been happy to stay in bed forever.

Milagros’ genes would be an ideal match. Having athletic children is important to me. I have height but, unfortunately, I don’t have good genetics for muscularity. I have to work hard and keep a strict diet to stay fine. She, on the other hand, doesn’t have an ounce of fat on her body. She’s super-skinny and strong as shit. A body full of fast-twitch muscle fiber that burns everything she eats. My height and her genes would produce excellent athletes.

How do I know she was so strong, besides the time she slapped the shit out of me? From her hugs. I miss how much she worshipped me. She would spontaneously grab a hold of me and hug as tight as she could. With other girls, I can wriggle out of that easily. With her, I’d have to peel her off by her hands and it’d still be an effort. One day I was eating pollo a la brasa when she wrapped her arms around me like that. I’ll never forget the contrast of how tight she held me and my helplessness in her grip vs. the softest, most delicate, wet kiss she planted on my cheek.

She would stare into my eyes with such intensity during sex, never looking at anything else (unless the position didn’t allow it). Her stare was piercing. The sex was amazing. It seemed every time I’d be getting close, she’d get one first and we’d change positions. So I’d have to start almost from scratch. That’s how we’d carry on forever and it was great. I’d be exhausted afterwards.

Afterwards, she’d give me backrubs. Long backrubs that I enjoyed very much. The only thing I didn’t like is when she found a pimple on my back, she’d squeeze it. I scolded her every time but she’d always do it anyway. I always thought this was weird so I never told anybody. In the States, an old gringo told me how much he liked Latina women, and how a Panamanian girlfriend of his did that. He considered it her caring for him in every way possible. So I mentioned it to another gringo down here, who confirmed that he’d had Latinas do that also. I guess it’s a good thing – a good thing you won’t find American or European women do for you. That’s in addition to cleaning your room and folding laundry.

I told Milagros the fact that we had sex the first night we met didn’t matter. However, no guy can eliminate that from his evaluation of a girl’s long-term prospects. I also told her that her age (20 to my 29 at the time) didn’t matter, but it certainly did. 20 year-olds get attached easily.

One of my greatest fears in life is being cheated on by a wife. I don’t know why, but it is. My worst nightmare would be my wife having a kid that’s not mine. I’m cynical about human fidelity.

One night we threw a party and Milagros tried to make me jealous by talking to a German guy for a long time at the end of the night. I was drunk and apparently her plan succeeded. In the morning, she wouldn’t shut the fuck up teasing me: “Tú estabas celoso, tú me quieres mucho.” I wouldn’t tolerate that kind of behavior if it continued.

Another limiting issue was Milagros’ not being rich. After living down here for a while, a gringo realizes he has access to the upper crust of society. Milagros was the daughter of a Peruvian cop, and she was studying to become a nurse. When you’re all liberalized / first-world / Americanized, you think that stuff doesn’t matter. But after acclimating to Latin America you think, “How could I go out like that?” A daughter of a cop studying nursing?

So those were the pros and cons. My target age for marriage and family is 35. I told Milagros when I left that at 35 I might come back for her, and I meant every word of it. Have a quick marriage and pump her full of kids. If I don’t have any prospects at the time, why not? Well, that option’s off the table. I liked that girl so much and now it’s ruined.

This blog turns 2 years old today and I have some thinking to do. Upon leaving Peru, I had decided that I’d tell all girlfriends about this site. One-night stands might be left in the dark, but not girlfriends. It started off easy when I was blogging in English while living in a Spanish-speaking country. However, the popularity of this blog is not decreasing or remaining constant. It won’t be harmless and anonymous forever.

Sound off your opinion in the comments. I know for a fact that many of you people despise me. Now’s your chance to let me know what you think. I’m listening with an open mind.

This is us:

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This is the song I listened to for hours on repeat while getting drunk after realizing she’d read the blog:
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I got these pictures of Latinas for you assholes. They’re mostly from Peru; Colombia and Chile are also represented.

Note: I haven’t had relations with any of the girls pictured here.

Estimadas amiguitas, si prefiera que no publice su foto, mi vida, mándeme un correo a webmaster [arroba] expat-chronicles [punto] com. ¡Gracias, besote!

American groups, from rock bands to hip hop acts, typically have four or five people at most. Salsa and cumbia bands bring out the whole neighborhood: trombones, trumpets, guitars, various percussion instruments, leading vocals, backup vocals, etc. The horns are the key that differentiates salsa and different types of cumbia from gringo music. Once you come to love the sound of the horns, you’ll be addicted too.

Another difference is the theme of the lyrics. Read my post about Love in Latin America for context on why and how Latin music is far and away more romantic. The following songs, as you’ll see in my selected translations, are all about love (with the exception of the last dance song, La Ricotona). These musicians aren’t just singing about love, but live to die for. The passion in these songs simply isn’t in gringo music.

Peru is a poor country (second to only Bolivia in South America), and I’m of the opinion that poverty enhances art via stronger emotions. People lacking in material things feel love more intensely.

I must warn any readers who’ve lived in Peru for an extended period – these songs may arouse longing for that very special country.

Grupo 5 “Motor y Motivo”

This is a meat-and-potatoes chicha track by Grupo 5, the most popular of Peruvian cumbia groups. This is a good warm-up for the gringo ear to start dissecting the sounds, from the horns to percussion to Spanish lyrics.

When some of these popular tracks play in a discoteca, everybody in the place will sing along. If you don’t know the words, you’re not in the club. Popular sing-alongs include El Embrujo, Te Vas, or the top hits by Hermanos Yaipen.

Grupo Nectar “Arbolito”

This is a classic track from a classic group, Grupo Nectar. Grupo Nectar only achieved popularity after most of them died in a tragic bus crash.

I noted earlier that many Peruvians dismiss cumbia for various reasons. I understand how I could think this stuff is corny (cursi) if I’d have grown up hearing it in Peru. But I didn’t grow up hearing it so I think it’s cool. It makes me emotional when I hear it. Lyrics with translations:

That tree, where it’s written …
Your name and mine, your name and mine …

Papillon “Triste Payaso”

The passion in the singing and of this anthem has made it a repeated mainstay. The lyrics aren’t many but they count as another example of how love is a more passionate affair in Latin America. A catchy, solid orchestra backing it up and the lyrics tell the story better than me. Also note the song’s written about a lost girlfriend but sung in a woman’s voice.

No hay licor que me ayude a saciar mi dolor…

There’s no booze that can ease my pain…

No hay mujer que me ayude a olvidar este amor…

There’s no woman to help me forget this love…

Estoy llorando, estoy sufriendo, ella se fue…

I’m crying, I’m suffering, she left…

Llevo la vida de un triste payaso que rie por fuera y llora por dentro…

I live the life of a sad clown who smiles outside and cries inside.

Mis amigos me ven sonreir pero no saben que estoy destrozado de amor…

My friends see me smile but don’t know I’m destroyed from love…

Esa es mi vida, así vivo yo, así muero yo…

That’s my life, that’s how I live, that’s how I die…

Mi rostro sonrie y mientras mi alma llora su lamento de amor …

My face smiles while my soul mourns its love loss…

Dilbert Aguilar “Vuela Palomita”

I chose Vuela Palomita for an example of raw vocal power, some of the best singing to come out of Peru. When I listen to this song, I can actually picture the Peruvian people: from their voice to their skin to their hair. Damn I miss that country!

Armonia 10 “La Ricotona”

This is a chicha dance song. Chorus lyrics translated:

La Ricotona ya empezó a pegar
con este ritmo que te pone a gozar
a que toda mi gente lo baile sin parar
para que toda mi gente lo tenga en todo lugar

La Ricotona has started to hit
with this rhythm that makes you hot
to all my people, dance without stop
so all my people  have it everywhere

(Some of this stuff is hard to translate, so leave it in a comment if you have a better translation)

I don’t know what took so long, but below is my first hate comment.

“Mike de Arequipa”:

You really seem to care about those in need. I like how you handled the situation in the run down hostal in Cusco. It seemed to me that they were in need of a little cash but you were unwilling to forfeit a 150$ train ticket Aguas Calientes. You managed to frighten them, do more damage then the damage you had already done, and then flee the scene to blog about it in a jokingly manner. Bien Hecho! Do you have a name for this type of helping the poor. You are making a mess from city to city in your redneck fashion. Thanks for helping the generalizations about dumb Americans, you represent well! Can’t wait to hear more about your generosity.

Mike left this comment on Why I Hate Downtown Bogota, but he’s referring to The Cusco Incident. At the time of the Incident, I translated an abbreviated version of that post to Spanish and emailed it to some 30+ Spanish-speaking friends and got one (1) similar response. It said I was a ‘delinquent’ with a ‘lack of class’ or something. I later learned that it wasn’t clear in the abbreviated version of my bad written Spanish that I was LOCKED in my ROOM. Regardless, here’s my reply translated to English:

Are you kidding me? The only lack of class here is how that taxi driver manages his business. If I were locked inside a room in an American hotel, the manager would apologize a thousand times and give me a free night.

I was LOCKED INSIDE MY ROOM. What should I have done when nobody downstairs heard me? Wait until the next day when they came to charge me for another day? And how would they open the door? Would their key work from outside when the same broken lock didn’t unlock for my key?

I didn’t explain a few details in the first email:

1. I came back to the hostel several times the first day and asked the brats running the place if the taxi driver said anything about the lock. Every time I asked: nothing.
2. That first night, I had paid for a second night. I was obviously going to come back from Machu Picchu. They didn’t need to DETAIN me.
3. The travel agency women told me that they called the hostel when I didn’t show up at the train station and were told there was nobody by my name at the hostel.

That ratero was trying to take advantage of a gringo, and he chose the wrong one.

Obviously Peru isn’t the most advanced country in respect to human rights, but I imagine it’s illegal even here to detain someone against their will. In English, it’s called KIDNAPPING.

Now what?

Mike implies that I don’t care about “those in need”. Lenin the Taxi Driver was certainly given less in life than I was. I applaud him for being an enterprising guy driving a taxi and managing a hostel. I wish him all the luck in the world. But when he crosses the line of value creation to hustling and taking advantage of tourists, I stop clapping.

It’s common knowledge that taking advantage of gringos is a sport in Latin America. In fact, I got more replies to my story from Peruvians like this one (translated from Spanish):

A la shit ¡¡¡¡ it’s a shame that happened, sorry colin, unfortunately in Peru (and especially cuzco) there are people who try to take advantage of tourists as they please (I know because they haven’t treated me well either), I can only tell you that not everybody is like that and I hope things change someday.

Regards,
César

I got a few replies from people joking that the police had come asking about me, and one guy gave me props for getting out of town through Sicuani.

Lenin the Taxi Driver probably didn’t even call the police. He would’ve had to fabricate quite a bit, as the true story would get laughed at by Peruvian police and especially Cusco police, which has a special department for protecting tourists. He would’ve had to get the youngsters to lie too, and that’s a risky play.

Lenin the shady taxi driver aside, Mike made his comment on a Bogota post and mentioned “those in need”. I explain how most Bogota bums aren’t “in need” in my response to a different hater.

Colombia’s Displaced
But there certainly is need in Bogota, due to displacements. Here’s an intro to displacements as I understand them.

Colombia suffers from the world’s longest-running civil war against the FARC. In the 90s, FARC controlled up to 40% of the country. While current president Alvaro Uribe has made great gains against them, the FARC is still 10,000 strong and controls many parts of Colombia.

Displacements are perpetrated by the FARC or paramilitaries: right-wing, informal militaries in opposition to the FARC. Paramilitaries form in small pueblos that don’t want anything to do with socialism – usually pueblos with a healthy industry in town. Many of these pueblos are located near the FARC, but the government is ineffective in protecting them. So they form their own militias (paramilitaries) which aren’t bound by government oversight or any rules to aggressively engage the FARC. Paramilitaries have been responsible for human rights abuses and war crimes almost as ugly as those of the FARC.

So here’s how normal people get displaced. The FARC or paramilitaries will enter a pueblo and tell the villagers: “This is our enemy’s territory, so you must be supporting them. You have 24 hours to evacuate or suffer the consequences of staying.” Or maybe, “This is our territory so you have to support us. We want all the young men here to join our ranks.”

When faced with this decision, most people abandon their homes for Bogota and other cities, leaving everything behind. They show up with NOTHING. There’s a tent-city in Parque Tercer Milenio of displaced families with nowhere to go.

It’s true that I don’t do much to help “those in need”. It’s an endeavor that interests me, but the God’s honest truth is that I don’t spend much time helping anybody but myself.

But how should I help? If net worth is how we gauge “those in need”, I’m not the one to help. I owe several thousand dollars. Being deep in the red, I’m easily worth less in absolute terms. But we wouldn’t measure “need” like that, because I’m trusted with credit and I have access to money based on my earning power.

So maybe being “in need” means having little earning power. In that case, giving money isn’t helping at all. In this case, education is what they need, whether it be in regards to reading, English, business, or whatever. This idea’s captured in the well-known adage: “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.”

But most people begging aren’t asking for that, and I don’t want to impose on them what I think they should do to improve their situation.

“Philanthropy can appeal to people who want to be loved more than they want to make a difference.” – Jacqueline Novogratz

Some people get a warm, fuzzy feeling from giving panhandlers change. Mike de Arequipa may get that feeling. For those people, giving change isn’t only a service but actually a purchase. They are purchasing the good feeling they get. The panhandler has actually provided those people with some value.

I don’t get that feeling. I promise, I feel nothing. So the panhandler is providing me with absolutely no value. In fact, on the few instances I’ve given panhandlers change, I felt a cognitive dissonance – regret. A couple of those times, the panhandler asked for more. That’s a clear indicator that this is a job for him, it’s his profession. Asking for more is simply part of the sales script to use at that point to maximize revenues. I feel greater cognitive dissonance when that happens.

For these professional panhandlers, your “help” is actually a crutch. You’re enabling their panhandling, and providing an incentive to not get a job. By playing the role of enabler, you’re keeping them in their situation. Damien visited Choco, the historic black town in southern Colombia and reported that there were no panhandlers. Because nobody gives them money, they find something else to do. They don’t get any positive reinforcement for begging.

That quote, from an established philanthropist, captures the phoniness at the heart of many people’s help to “those in need”.

Just before Mike left that comment, I actually gave to a panhandler. I was walking down the street when the sight of a young woman with her two babies broke through to my heart. The babies, plus the look on her face. Maybe she’s practiced at that look, but it got me. She seemed younger than me, but aged well beyond her years. I could tell she was once beautiful.

I didn’t give her money, however. I went to the store and bought an arepa de choclo con jamon y queso, basically a cornbread cake with ham and cheese. They’re pretty tasty. I gave her the hot food in a paper bag. I felt kinda corny for buying food instead of just giving her the money.

I’ve seen her since. She and her family have a trash cart. I assume them to be legitimately in need because they’re a family staying together. When alcohol, drugs, or mental illness are the cause, it seems panhandlers are usually men on their own as opposed to a family unit. So I imagine they’re displaced.

I thought about that girl after giving her the food. I got the idea to treat her and her kids to lunch the next time I see them, and to get her story (to be published here, of course). I never did it because it feels weird.

What if her story is like this: We were displaced by FARC last year and came to Bogota. We live in a tent. We collect glass, plastic and other recyclables to feed everybody and occasionally buy clothes. We’re saving up for a snack cart to sell candy and cigarrettes downtown. Maybe we’ll save up for a cell phone someday, and charge people 200 pesos / minute for local calls.

And what would I say? “Well, that’s a great plan. You have my 1st-world endorsement to its soundness. Now stay focused and maybe you can get an apartment someday; that’s how you climb the ladder!”

What do I know? I haven’t walked in those shoes. If I were some poor, rural Colombian in Bogota without a dime, I might end up as one of these bazucero stick-up kids, or drunk all day begging in the street.

If you’d like to see an article about that family, let me know in the comments or email. For now, I’m following what I assume is a common plan: delaying service and philanthropy until I’m rich.

Dear Mike de Arequipa – you were my first. You’ll always be my first and hold a special place in my heart. I’ll never forget you. Love, Colin.

Links for more info on Colombia’s displaced:

Thousands Flee Colombia’s Conflict (Amnesty International)

Colombia’s displaced rises 25% (BBC News)

Colombia’s Displaced and Discarded (Human Rights Watch)

Besitosssssssssssssssssssss (^^) :0

Disclaimer #1: Of course not all Latinos’ writing sucks. Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Mario Vargas Llosa have proven they can spell. Spanish-language journalists understand the utility of punctuation. And if you’re a Latino reading this, then you can probably write well. Maybe. But the majority of rank-and-file Latinos including white-collar professionals SUCK. This is not debatable. It’s fact.

Disclaimer #2: Remember that I love Latin culture. My decision to live here, the fact that I spend most of my time here, and that I’m creating a new life here – my actions speak louder than words. However, you can’t expect someone to embrace every single aspect of a new culture. The shitty writing will never grow on me.

Disclaimer #3: I want to fully admit and take responsibility for how Americans have butchered the English language. Assuming Jamaican patois isn’t even English anymore, American English is the worst in the world. I apologize for that (with a Z!), especially to you Limeys, but it doesn’t make Latinos’ writing any less shitty.

On to the evidence!

Here’s a typical Facebook comment from a Latina:

Colin, I miss youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Besitosssssssssssssssssssss ;p

21 extra u’s don’t add anything to the meaning, you chimps.

q t pasa, komo va tu vida todo trankilo masomenos?  Ojala no jajaja

OK, Americans intentionally misspell words sometimes but those are gangsta rap idiots. You’re a college graduate. Stop it.

Or ThEy’Ll WrItE lIkE tHiS aNd ShIt

Here’s a sample MySpace username:

<-:.B377A M3X1CANA.:->

Latin America’s primary use for punctuation: web design. That is cutting edge! Pullman Bus is one of the biggest bus companies in Chile. Unfortunately, their website is one of the most atrociously Flash-tastic pieces of shit that are completely normal in Latin America. But by golly their chump-change web developer sure knows how to write page titles that pop!

PULLMAN BUS :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

All caps and 51 colons. Not just 50.  51 (fifty-ONE), bitches!

These examples show more style than substance. Want substance? Here’s an email I got from Milagros, my last girlfriend in Peru:

parece que ya no existo para ti bueno besitos cuidate

Translation:

i guess i don’t exist to you anymore that’s fine kisses take care

God I miss her. Shortly after sending me that email, she set up her Facebook profile and accepted a Friend Request I’d sent some six months ago. I promptly deleted her ass because I didn’t want to see pictures of her with other boys. Excuse the tangent.

Here’s one from Winston:

colin 600000 por nivel no por clace que es cop  me pongo ha hacer propaganta para lo de los  estudiantes hablamos el viernes en grupo de apoyo perdon la demora estaba muy ocupado

For this translation, I’ve deliberately misspelled in English what Winston misspelled in Spanish, and put two spaces between words where he did.

colin 600000 per level not per klass what is cop  i’ll see aabout doing adverdising for students  we’ll talk friday in meeting sorry for the delay i’ve been busy

And I’m trying to launch a business with this guy! By the way, “COP” is the acronym for Colombian pesos.

We’ve seen two emails without one single character of punctuation, not even for 600,000. But those two aren’t exactly elite professionals in Peru and Colombia. Here’s a typical piece from an educated Latino:

aprendeo de los colombainos , hace dos añso casi no tenain turismo , ahora son toda uan potencia del turismo no sabes y nuestro pais tienmuchas cosas por afrecer , peor al corrupcion la falat d eapoyo a la media empresa turistica no nos deja despegar, por que por elyes como la ese congresista , que solo benefia a la elite y no a also verdaderos empresario del turismo , que ahn hecho por demas ?? solo para su benefico , viaja a colombai y aprende!!!

This piece of shit isn’t worth translating. However, Spanish speakers can see there’s no arguing with my thesis. Latin writing sucks. Here’s why in English:

so, you see, most latinos are horrible writers because they spell things wrong, but also they dont use punctuation properly, and its not just teenage females that write like that, let me tell you, its the educated professionals in the white collar world too, like most of the people i know in peru and colombia, some of whom work at multinationals that everybody would recognize, whose products everyone has used, those latinos write shitty emails just like this paragraph-long run-on sentence.

I read Spanish much slower than English. I put chunks together and, as in English, subconsciously find subjects and predicates that form sentences. I look for how the ideas are organized in sentence format.  At least a dozen times, I’ve been reading an email in Spanish before realizing out loud: “This is all one sentence.” One sentence, five lines long, separated by commas.

“You see” and “let me tell you” aren’t exaggerations either. They write exactly what they would say verbally, as if in person. And at every point where they would pause, they add a comma. This is Latino Writing 101. That’ll be 100,000 pesos. Email me now for the PayPal link.

Root Cause: Latinos Don’t Read

Latinos don’t read. In my opinion, being well-read is the most important criteria for writing well. Even short of being a professional or interesting writer, I’m just talking about writing coherently. If you never read, your writing will suck.

Before you haters get your panties up in a bunch (I have haters now), check out this post by my pata, Stu: Peru’s Reading Culture. Stu is a good liberal boy who loves cholos and isn’t only down here to make bread and exploit women like me. Just kidding. But if you’re going to hate on me, you better send him your poorly-written dogshit too.

I was once asked about the bookstores in Bogota. What are the big ones? I had to laugh at that one – bookstores. There are no Barnes & Nobles or Borders down here.  Nor are there the small, hipster shops (my favorites) like Subterranean or Left Bank in my hometown. There are dusty and dirty used-book shops, and not much else.

The newspaper industry in Latin America is a throwback to early 20th century America – mostly tabloids. You probably associate tabloids with the gossip mags that cover Brad & Angelina or Britney or whoever. But tabloids got their start in America by covering violence. The first American tabloid was founded in the early 1900s by a Harvard MBA who got the idea after seeing the huge crowd around a stabbing victim. He realized there was a market for blood and guts. So tabloids in their early days covered violent news in great detail, and were available at newstands surrounded by men in trenchcoats and fedoras. Only in the last few decades has the industry morphed into suburban housewives in the grocery store checkout lines examining some poor celebrity’s cellulite.

Newstands in Peru are exactly how I imagine the early 1900s tabloids. Sensational and provocative headlines in huge type scream: ‘BURNED to DEATH!’ or ‘Mother of Two RAPED and MURDERED!’ Next to those front-page headlines, some publications put a picture of a girl in a bikini. That’s how you sell reading here.

The Spanish web is about as developed as the English web was 10+ years ago. For most subjects, especially technology, there simply isn’t a Spanish option to read and stay up-to-date. Honestly, I’ve thought about stealing content from the most popular blogs and publishing it in Spanish. Unfortunately, I’m a good boy with integrity. Plus, nobody’d read it.

I disagree with Stu where he attributes the lack of reading to (1) only Peru and (2) poverty. First, I would extend the problem to all of Latin America. Second, I whole-heartedly disagree that poverty plays any role at all. I’ve bought books that cost the same as an empanada, and most cost less than the average lunch.

I believe it comes down to culture, again. I think they don’t read because most Latino boys are more likely to pick up a guitar or go play soccer, and girls are more likely to watch telenovelas or chat the night away on Messenger. God bless ‘em.

One of the main reasons I love Latin America is the more social culture. A warmer culture. Everybody parties. Everybody. But the downside is that most people won’t sit down alone and get lost in a book. And they write like morons.

I recently discovered Maddox’s website. In my opinion, it isn’t biting the style if you disclose inspiration and award props. So there.

There are rules to taking taxis in Latin America. I’m going to explain and contrast the Colombian rules with the Peruvian rules. Then I’ll explain why, ironically, I prefer the Peruvian rules.

Jump to Peruvian Rules, Peruvian Horror Stories, Colombian Rules, Colombian Stories (no horror), or Conclusion.

Peruvian Rules

In Peru, you never simply hail a taxi and tell the driver where you’re going. If you do this, regardless if you’re a gringo or not, you’re going to get ripped off.

First of all, not all taxis are safe in Peru. You can’t hail any taxi in the street. In Arequipa, there are a few safe brands. The Arequipa taxis have signs on top of them with the company logo. Some of these companies are very diligent in their vetting and hiring practices. They weed out thieves and choros with gang links. Some logos represent not-so-diligent companies. And still some of these logos were on signs found in the trash by some asshole that just bought a yellow car and is now making a living as a taxi driver.

At first, I only remembered two safe brands to get around, the two most common: Turismo Arequipa and Taxitel. After a while, I noticed that some companies or solo acts were making signs that mimicked those companies’ logos. They used the same fonts and colors, and used names like “Turista Arequipeño” or “Taxicel”. I had to get better at discerning the real from the fake.

After some months, I started adding brands to my safe list: Imperial, Teletaxi (seemingly a knock-off of Taxitel that rose to prominence and security), etc. And I started getting a little risky with unrecognized taxis. If I were with a group of people going to lunch, it’s unlikely we’d have any problems. Or if I were with Damien – both of us 6’3 (192cm) and him black – I usually didn’t worry about it. We didn’t make ideal marks.

Lima taxis don’t have the big signs atop the cars. The safe taxis in Lima have a company logo on the passenger-side door with a telephone number. The telephone number is what indicates safety. This is how it was explained to me during my one week in Lima (limeños, please correct me in the comments if necessary). Anyway, I thought this was a pain in the ass because you can’t spot the phone number from two blocks away. It’s written very small. You have to wait until the guy slows down and is right up on you so you can look real close. Sometimes I had to tell a taxi driver: Never mind.

Once you’ve chosen a safe taxi, you need to determine the price. Simply getting in and going is not how it’s done because the taxis don’t have meters. Instead, the price is negotiated beforehand based on the destination. Here’s how it goes in Peru:

1. The client hails the taxi.
2. The taxi stops and, from the passenger window, the client tells the driver his destination.
3. The taxi driver quotes a price.
4. If the client agrees, he gets in. But since Latinos love need to haggle, he’ll usually come back with a price lower by 1 sol or 50 centimos.
5. The taxi driver may agree or spit out a middle-ground price.
6. At this point, the client accepts or declines.

This process was annoying when I first moved to Peru because the taxi drivers all gave me ridiculous prices. However, after a few months, I picked up the Peruvian talk and they could tell I wasn’t a tourist. They started giving me fair prices.

Sidenote – Many of my Peruvian friends were annoying with their negotiations. I’d often take a price slightly higher than it should be for the sake of getting the deal done. Peruvians would refuse trips over 50 centimos (15 US cents!), and then wait 5 – 10 minutes for another safe taxi.

If a taxi asked for 4 soles to take me and three others downtown from Saga at 11pm, fine. That’s fine. Let’s go. But Arequipeños will wait for the 3 soles deal, saving about $0.33 USD.

Peruvian Horror Stories

The worst case happened soon after I moved to Arequipa, and became a national news story in Peru. An Israeli tourist was found strangled to death in a field near Carlos’ apartment in Sachaca. She’d been raped by more than one person. Peruvian President Alan Garcia publicly mentioned the case, vowing to catch the killers of the “Israeli journalist and soldier who was murdered because she dared to walk the streets of Arequipa alone.” Police arrested three suspects. It turns out the girl took a bad taxi. Story here.

One day at lunch with Carlos, he got a phone call from a friend of his. He was immediately engrossed in the story he was hearing, and told it to me after hanging up. Carlos’ good buddy, an Arequipeño born and raised in Arequipa , got a little overconfident in his hometown.  He was shitfaced wasted one night and got in an unrecognized taxi. He was almost passed out in the backseat when the driver stopped the car. He sat up to see where they were when the driver said, “Dame tu billete.” Give me your wallet.

Carlos’ buddy asked what the hell he was talking about. The driver told him to give up his wallet or he was going to let the two guys standing outside into the cab. Carlos’ buddy took note of the two guys on each side of the car. He locked both doors. A struggle ensued. The guys managed to unlock the doors and pull him out of the car, hitting him over the head with a metal bar. He woke up bloody and broke. He got stitched up and then called his buddies to tell the story.

My old roommate Roy – my good buddy and super-tight homeboy who’s going to visit me here soon – is a dumb-ass. He also got really wasted one night and jumped in a bad taxi. He fell asleep in the passenger seat on the way home. When they arrived at our apartment, Roy stumbled out of the taxi drunk. The taxi drove off. In his drunken stupor, Roy couldn’t figure out why the taxi drove off before collecting the fare. It wasn’t until the next day he realized he was missing his cell phone. The driver lifted it from his pocket while his drunk-ass was fast asleep.

Colombian Rules

By the time I first visited Colombia, I had already acclimated to Peruvian rules. So I asked the hostel employees how to recognize safe taxis. They looked at me like I was stupid. Aren’t there safe taxis and unsafe taxis? Same look. I asked if it was OK to hail taxis in the street. They said it was – with a tone like ‘Of course.’ I confirmed like three times that all taxis are generally safe and I could just hail them in the street. They agreed each time.

Since then, I’ve heard Colombians claim that not all Bogota taxis are safe. They say you have to call a taxi. I’ve disregarded this advice. There probably is a bit of danger, but here’s the difference: in Peru, not all taxis are safe. And NO Peruvian would say that they are. NOBODY. At least half of Colombians say that hailing taxis is safe. And I haven’t heard any horror stories yet. So I assume they’re safe. For now.

Colombian taxis are much bigger, although they rarely have working seat belts. Lima law requires passengers to wear seat belts, and many drivers enforce it.

Colombian taxis have meters – called taximetros. You don’t have to negotiate the price beforehand, which I liked when I came to visit last year. It was a relief. However, the meters don’t count in pesos. They count in some unknown number that starts with 25. The price you pay corresponds to a price guide which most drivers (should) hang from the head rest of the passenger seat. So if the meter reads 80, you consult the guide and see that 80 corresponds with 5000 pesos, or whatever. The taxi drivers know all the prices by heart. Sometimes they don’t post the guide where they should and rattle off the price from the top of their head, usually rounded up to the next thousand or so.

It’s important to make sure that the driver resets the taximetro to 25. Otherwise, he may trick you into paying for the last customer’s ride in addition to yours.

Those are the rules as I’ve learned them. However, I’ve only got 3 months in-country so I may have more to learn. My stories may serve as indicators of what I need to learn.

Colombian Stories (no horror)

My worst story happened my first month. I found a job teaching English after only two weeks in Bogota. I was still living at Hotel Aragon in La Candelaria. My first fascist class required me to be at Calle 187 (187^th Street) at like 5am.  My hotel was at Calle 13 (13^th Street). It doesn’t take a math major to figure out how far this is.

I had to leave the hotel around 4am. The TransMilenio doesn’t start running until 5 so I had to take taxis. I called cabs from the hotel to pick me up (I had already been robbed at this point so I wasn’t eager to walk around La Candelaria at 4am dressed business casual with a backpack). The first day of class, I got picked up by an honest taxi driver. He wasn’t very nice, but honest. He cut right over to Avenida Caracas and hauled ass up to the Autopista Norte. Seriously, he drove so fast I was clutching the door handle with white knuckles. We arrived in like 20 minutes (30 minutes early) and the fare was 17,000 pesos.

The next day, I was picked up by a nice but dishonest taxi. This fucking guy took me up Avenida Circunvalar all the way to Calle 170. Circunvalar is the eastern-most thoroughfare running north-and-south. It’s in the mountains most of the way. It twists and turns and climbs and descends. I sat in the back seat incredulous. How could this dumb-ass try this shit? I was so new in-country though, so I was hesitant to tell him which way to go. I didn’t even know the names of Caracas or the Autopista. I thought that if we arrived in time and it was the same price, no big deal.

We slowly made our way north creeping and crawling and I started to worry. Time was ticking down. If I were late for the company bus, I would miss class. The price was climbing past 17,000 pesos. I developed a plan.

This asshole arrived at my stop and enthusiastically pressed the button on the taximetro, which calculated a price of 23,600 pesos. He turned around with a smile and cheerfully said, “Veintitres mil, seis cientos.” I gave him a 20,000 note and told him that’s all I had. He said something like, ‘But the fare is 23,600.’ And I said something to the effect of, ’20,000 is all I brought with me, man. This same trip cost 17,000 yesterday. So I don’t know why it costs so much.’ And I got out. He drove off. I had another 20,000 note in my pocket.

I don’t know much about the economics of a taxi driver. I believe that if they use the meter, then the company that owns the car knows exactly how far the trip was and takes a specific cut of the fare based on that distance. I hoped that after paying his company, he made less money on that deal than he would have if he took Avenida Caracas and charged 17,000 pesos. But I don’t know.

So the main way the Colombian taxi drivers get over on you is by taking you for a ride. The second way seems insignificant, but they do it often to gringos.

When my brother was in town, he and I and another gringo, Geoff, took a trip to check out Parque 93 one Sunday. When we arrived, the driver quoted us something about 3000 pesos more than what it should’ve been. Geoff started arguing and asking for clarification. For 1000 pesos each (about $0.50), I didn’t really give a shit.

But Geoff did. He wanted to know exactly why this should cost so much. He summoned a guy working at the corner store in front of where the taxi was parked. When they got it all figured out, the taxi driver admitted that the fare should be $1500 pesos ($0.75) less than what he had charged.

At night (after 8:00pm) and on Sundays, taxis add a 1500 peso recargo to the fare. This guy rounded up the fare to the next thousand and then added a 2500 peso recargo. I’ve seen them charge 2000 peso recargos; it varies. But it should be 1500. Not a big deal in my opinion. However, Geoff doing that and me underpaying the other guy, deters aprovechadores from pulling that shit on gringos in the future. We’re making it easy for the next gringo. You’re welcome. Warmest regards.

Conclusion

As much as I hated the Peruvian system at first, I’ve come to prefer it. At first, it sucks I have to haggle with every cab driver and it sucks that some of them are thieves. I used to think, Why can’t this backward country be more like Colombia and get meters for God’s sake?

But I’d take the Peruvian way today. At least it’s clear and upfront. There’s a system with rules I can live by. Not all taxis are safe. Fact. This is how you spot the good ones. Fact. Determine the price beforehand – there are no bullshit rides and no surprises. Fact. The Peruvian driver hauls ass to get there because he’s losing money if he’s losing time. In Colombia, everything is ambiguous. Not every taxi’s safe, but most of them are. There’s no way to discern. And there are meters, but you have to know the streets to make sure the guy’s taking you the right way. Pain in the ass.

Movie “Hangover” is titled / advertised in Argentina: “Que Paso Ayer?” which literally means, “What happened yesterday?” Subtle difference.

I commented on his update:

The word for ‘hangover’ is different in almost every Spanish-speaking country.

Mexico: estar crudo
Peru: tener resaca / estar resaquiado
Colombia: tener guayabo / estar enguayabado

And those are just the regional variations that I’ve learned. Spanish is like that for a lot of words. Pain in the ass if you ask me.

And then some dude commented this:

Or it simply could be that they found the word “hangover” offensive as a title and changed it so that it still reflected the theme of the movie.

I’m not going to argue with some dude I don’t know on a friend’s Facebook update. But that comment indicated that there are some completely uninformed people about Latin culture out there. I thought of all the things I would say to him in explaining exactly how wrong he is. And I realized that these might be interesting stories for the blog. I hope so.

How many different ways is that dude wrong? Answer: two. First, alcohol is not a controversial or sensitive subject in Latin America. Second, Latin Americans’ brand of sensitivity is not oriented toward subjects like that.

First up, alcohol.

Latin America is not the only culture different from the States in this respect, but it’s probably extreme. Alcohol doesn’t have the negative stigma at all. There was never a prohibition. People are allowed to drink at a younger age – by the law and social norms.

People get real drunk. People get fucked up. Yes, people in the States also get fucked up. But since moving down here, I’ve seen some things you don’t often see back home.

My first month in Peru, I was riding in a taxi with somebody down some busy sidestreet. Traffic was slowed almost to a stop. Some drunk walked in front of our car and the driver hit the brakes. The drunk half-fell on the hood. Pushing up and balancing himself with his hands, he contined on. Nobody in the taxi said anything.

Another night my basketball coach was giving me a ride home. We were heading up Avenida Goyeneche or Venezuela when we saw, in the street, somebody trying to pick his drunk friend up and carry him to the sidewalk. The drunk had apparently passed out in the middle of a 3-lane, one-way thoroughfare where cars haul ass. Dude was laid out in the middle of Lanes 1 & 2. Coach easily swerved clear. And he continued whatever point he was trying to make, not even mentioning the sleeping drunk on the boulevard.

One weekday I was going to lunch near Plaza las Americas in Arequipa. This short, indigenous-looking drunk came up to me with an ear-to-ear grin. We shook hands. He had like three teeth. He held a clear, unlabelled bottle half-full of some clear liquid. I don’t remember the name of that stuff, but I’d heard it’s strong, cheap, harsh, disgusting bathtub gin they drink in Peru. We parted ways and he stumbled off to who knows where.

Aside from the street drunks, I’ve seen productive, industrious young people get drunk in ways I don’t see in the States. I’ve seen, on more than one occasion, dudes drink themselves to vomiting within an hour. That means entire glasses full of hard liquor – slamming it. And then doing it again. And their girlfriends shrug it off like, ‘Oh well. He got stupid drunk again. I’ll just wait it out for a while and put him to bed.’

Check out this video of a popular drinking song from the peasant mountains of Peru. This get-drunk song is sung by a 10 year-old girl! (I love this Peruvian folk music, but urban Peruvians HATE it)

“Cerveza, Cerveza” by Wendy Sulca

And in Colombia, it seems that degenerating into an all-day-every-day drunk is a profession a significant amount of men go into.   They’re all over, usually leaning against a wall with their hand out. I’ve seen big piles of puke on the bus a few times.

Even when drunks are being particularly annoying, normal people don’t get mad about it. They dismiss him: “Es un borracho.” He’s a drunk – in the same tone as if saying it were raining outside.

Second point, Latin sensitivity. Before starting with examples of political correctness and sensitive subjects, here’s a case of a Latin title mis-translated to be less offensive in the gringo market (the other way around). Colombia’s own Gabriel Garcia Marquez chose Memoria de mis putas tristes for the name of his last novella. They released the English edition with the title Memories of My Melancholy Whores. “Melancholy” is a little more sophisticated and proper than the literal translation: Memories of My Sad Whores.

Ideas in general aren’t likely to offend Latinos. I haven’t thought about this aspect too much, so the way I say it may be a little inaccurate. But it seems to me that politically correct ideas or the content of messages aren’t offensive so much as a the way the messages are delivered. I offended Peruvians a couple times in the way I’d give them a pen or pencil, dropping it on the desk in front of them. Or people being very blunt without warm greeting can come off rude. But ideas? Not so much.

The first and most obvious example regards fat people. In the States, you’re not really supposed to call people fat or make them feel bad about their fatness. In Latin America, on the other hand, fat males are reminded of their fatness all their lives (not necessarily so for women). If you’re a fat male in Latin America, your nickname is ‘Gordo‘. This is fact. I’ve met so many Gordos that now when I meet a new group of guys, I already know the fat guy’s name. If you’re a fat Latino, you will not only be called Gordo (Fat Boy) as your nickname, but you will also be referred to in the third-person generic term el gordo (the fat boy).

One day I was talking to my Peruvian ex-girl Rosa about hooking her friend up with my old roommate. She replied something like “Creo que a ella no le gustan los gorditos.” I don’t think she likes FATTIES. She said it without a trace of malice or humor in her voice at all. Completely normal.

I went to Girardot, Colombia with my buddy Oscar, who’s really fat. If you’re really fat, you might get it worse than Gordo. We went swimming in a river and all his cousins and family called him ‘Free Willy’ or just ‘Willy’. They tried to get me to call him ‘Willy’ too.

Just before I moved to Colombia, there was a verbal spat between Peruvian president Alan Garcia and Bolivian president Evo Morales. In responding to a reporter’s question about some Peruvian policy, Morales explained how he thinks obesity is a mental illness. He thinks obese people are mentally ill. He explained that Alan Garcia is quite fat, and that his ideas are warped by this mental illness.

This is how their heads of state talk!

Brazilian president Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva is famous for making statements with sexual innuendos. He once said to George W. Bush that they need to find the ‘g-spot in their negotiations’.

Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez is my favorite to watch. He has a weekly, hours-long television show broadcasted in Venezuela. He often lambasts his cabinet, seated in the front row, on national television. You have to watch this Frontline documentary on Chavez, “The Hugo Chavez Show” (features video of some of his public hazing).

There’s also this video of Chavez insulting Bush for no less than 3 1/2 minutes:

Sexual harrassment is another PC subject in the States. Very sensitive, very taboo. In Peru and Colombia, I’ve seen office guys grab a hold of their female coworkers. With the female fighting and turning her head away, the male will force her head toward his and kiss her on the lips. No big deal. I’ve seen this a few times.

And finally, my last and most extreme example of how Latinos aren’t as sensitive about ideas and offensive topics as gringos are actually comes from the States. I worked as a server and bartender in college. Our kitchen, like all kitchens not charging double digit prices for a sandwich, was all Mexican. Illegal labor Mexicans. Mexicans born and raised in Mexico who took a 3-day hike to get to the States. Mexicans who don’t speak English. Not Hispanics born in America.

So our restaurant hired this little retarded guy to bus tables part-time. Some social service organization brought him by and asked management if they’d give him a job so he could learn how to do things, earn money, and have somewhere to go every day. Management agreed to the idea and we had a slightly handicapped busboy from the ghetto for a while.

The Mexicans started fucking with him the first day. They threw fries or wasted food at him. The dishwasher would spray him with the hose when he walked by. If he tried to confront them, they would square up to fight, picking up cutting knives and whatnot.  All the while laughing their asses off. These were grown men – most of whom have a handful of kids.

In Latin culture, alcohol isn’t a sensitive subject.  In fact, there aren’t many sensitive subjects at all.

Everyone feel free to disagree with me in the comments.

Latin culture is the most romantic in the world. Is this good or bad?

Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez is set in an unnamed town assumed to be Cartagena, Colombia and spans from the late 19th century – early 20th century. As a teenager, Florentino Ariza falls in love with Fermina Daza the first time he lays eyes on her. He embarks on a letter-writing campaign professing his love. She falls in love with him and they begin to write regularly. They plan a marriage and life together, without ever having spoken and behind the back of Fermina’s overbearing, ambiguously-criminal father.

Fermina’s father learns of the relationship and is infuriated, for Florentino is the illegitimate son of a shopkeeper. The marriage would run contrary to his plans of social-climbing by marrying his daughter off to blue blood. He grabs Fermina one day and takes her on a weeks-long trip through the Colombian countryside in an attempt to break the affair. The lovers keep a secret correspondence with the help of Fermina’s cousin and make plans to marry when she finally returns.

When Fermina returns, she meets Florentino and impulsively ends the affair. Florentino is devastated. Fermina marries a promising young doctor who’s just returned from a university in Paris. Florentino vows to have her someday despite the fact that she has just married. Dr. Juvenal Urbino and Fermina Daza have two children and lead a compatible life. Fermina’s father’s dream is fulfilled as the couple ascend to the town’s social elite through the good doctor’s public service and Fermina’s beautiful grace.

The book begins with Urbino’s death at an old age and proceeds to recount the characters’ histories. While the married couple led their perfect marriage of convenience, Florentino Ariza embarked on 622 affairs in hopes to distract the love burning in his heart – all the while waiting patiently for the good doctor to die so he could reclaim his precious Fermina. On the night of the good doctor’s funeral, after all the mourners leave, the now 70-something Florentino says to Fermina: “I have waited for this opportunity for more than half a century, to repeat to you once again my vow of eternal fidelity and everlasting love.” On the night of her husband’s funeral. It was 51 years, 9 months, and 4 days after first professing his love to her as a teen. He knew the exact number because “not a day passed that something did not happen to remind him of her.” After some resistance, Fermina succumbs to Florentino and they live happily ever after sailing the Magdalena River.

Aside from the surrealism seen in all of Garcia Marquez’ work and other Latino writers, the theme of love is unrealistically portrayed with a passion absent in other cultures.

In America, “dropping the L-bomb” is slang for when your significant other first says, “I love you” for the first time. I got just as many A-bombs (Te amo in Spanish) from one year in Peru as the previous 29 in America – 3. And one of the L-bombs in America came from a Brazilian exchange student. Now granted, the Peruvian women were surely enchanted with my gringo-ness, the dreams of visiting America and meeting my gringo relatives, the assumed life of security, and being seen by her family / friends being married to a big, handsome gringo. But the quick-to-love sentiment did not just apply to me. I was not special. Peruvian males I knew experienced the same thing, as I saw with my basketball teammates. And the females aren’t the only ones quick to love. I saw my buddy Roy crying his eyes out for a girl he’d been dating for just a few months.

The passion for love is palpable. Almost every neighborhood in Latin America has a small park. And in every park on any night you see couples huddled up on all the benches – cuddling, kissing, talking and holding hands. Every park in every town. Public displays of affection are controversial to nobody. Latinos spend much more time in intimacy. The married couples I’ve gotten to know are different than typical American couples. The men seem to enjoy their wives’ company. They’re proud of their wives. They love their in-laws.

A higher percentage of Latin music is about love and relationships. There are certainly party songs and political songs, but love songs are more common. Even in reggaeton – Latin America’s version of hip-hop – love is a more consistent theme than in American rap. If you look at pictures of reggaeton artists or hear the music and don’t understand Spanish, you’d probably assume it’s the same subject matter as in rap. But it’s not. There’s none of the misogynistic lyrics, the bitches and hoes, the player and pimp shit. .

Contrast that with what you hear in American music. The most popular rapper of all time, Tupac Shakur, wrote one song in praise of women: Keep Ya Head Up. Ironically, it was released around the time he was convicted / in prison for sex abuse. His other songs professed that he’d never love a woman. Snoop said in ’94, “We don’t love them hoes.” And you probably have your own examples in your head right now.

Merely playing romantic music in America can be a cultural faux pas. I dig love songs. Probably because I wasn’t desired by many women until well after puberty, I used to dream about love. I dreamed about loving a woman and having a perfect marriage, in which neither of us ever cheated and we had a ton of kids and lived happily ever after with no divorce. I built the idea up in my head just as Florentino Ariza did with Fermina Daza. I listened to R&B from a young age.

But it ain’t cool to play that music in gringo culture. My college buddies made fun of me. Or they’d yell at me to turn it off. It’s gay (I never understood how songs about love between a man and a woman were gay, because “We don’t love them hoes” seems more gay to me).

Between our hostel and Barranco’s pasaje of bars, we were offered weed an average of five times per day; the average fluctuated with how much time we spent in the neighborhood.  Barranco also features the best murals in the city (but I must say Bogota puts Lima to shame in this regard).  Click here for a separate post with pics of all the murals.  Jump to SALVEMOS BARRANCO!, Kaminu Hostal, Galería Lucía de la Puente, Pedro de Osma Museum, or Help Retro Bar.

SALVEMOS BARRANCO!

SALVEMOS BARRANCO! (Save Barranco) is a rallying call for the neighborhood to keep Barranco as it was.  It took me a while to find out what the march specifically intends to accomplish, but I eventually learned that the city closed some major street, which resulted in an exponential increase of traffic through Barranco.  The smog, the noise, and the traffic annoy the locals.  So Barranco must be “saved”.  The posters are in windows on every block.  I found a flyer for an awareness march.  We saw people with Save Barranco! T-shirts with megaphones trying to drum up protesters.

Kaminu Hostal

www.kaminu.com

We stayed at the coolest hostel directly under a historic bridge, Puente de los Suspiros.

Piero Laos Vanini manages the place.  He’s a great guy, always joking.  The night after Ryan and I got in our little tussle, we came back and drank beer on the roof until 6am.  I realized at some point that Piero was in a tent nearby and probably didn’t sleep all night long.  I apologized the next day.  He laughed it off without a trace of bitterness.  I brought him some causa from Metro, which he appreciated but insisted wasn’t necessary.  I’m his Facebook friend now.  See his profile here.

Piero has some artist friend who decorates the place with his paintings.  On the roof is a patio with kitchen, bar, and a weight set with about 50 pounds of plates (nobody’s getting big on that shit).  Piero employs some hottie, whose name I forgot and picture I didn’t get, who recommended La Noche and Bartini to us (two of the best bars we saw in Lima).

Stay at Kaminu if you’re visiting Lima.  One thing to be aware of: Kaminu is located on Bajada de Baños, a sidewalk leading from the Barranco Plaza de Armas to the beach.  So most taxi drivers won’t know how to find it.  Be sure to tell them to drop you off at Puente de los Suspiros and just follow the cobblestone sidewalk downhill.  Kaminu is on the right.

Galería Lucía de la Puente

www.gluciadelapuente.com

While walking aimlessly through Barranco, we came upon a hidden little gem: the Lucía de la Puente art gallery.  The gallery features work from Peru’s best artists.  There were hundreds of paintings.  We didn’t have time to see them all.  This gallery is a must-see for art lovers in Lima.

Pedro de Osma Museum

www.museopedrodeosma.org

The Pedro de Osma Museum is in the southern end of Barranco, almost bordering Chorrillos.   Most interesting were the old school religious paintings. When Spain colonized Peru and South America, they wanted to convert them to Catholicism.  Since most of the indigenous couldn’t speak Spanish, the Church communicated many stories through art. Their overall strategy worked, as Peru is now more Catholic than Spain. In fact, Latin America’s more Catholic than Italy itself.

There’s also the Silver Hall in another building.  Three beautiful buildings of artifacts and paintings surroung a beautiful garden for ten soles.

Help Retro Bar

Our last night in Lima was a Thursday.  Diego said Help Retro Bar, or Del Carajo, is the best Thursday night spot in Lima.  It’s located at Av. Catalino Miranda 158 in Barranco, help.pe.

We arrived around 9pm (very early).  We drank with the promoter, Emil.  Arriving so early was a good idea because we took advantage of the 5 soles beers ($1.59 / 20 oz. Beer).

The place is a huge, open space and live music venue.  There’s a truck parked inside with a table in the bed.  Funky paintings and retro pictures decorate the walls.  In the back, there are two TV’s set up with Super Nintendo and Sega!  A local painter, Tito Babbio, was roped off in the VIP section while working on a canvas.  To the side of this section was a blank canvas and a table with different colored paints and brushes for anybody to work on.  I wrote “STL loves Barranco” so high on the canvas that none of the Peruvians would be able to obscure it (haha, shrimps!).

The bar eventually filled up with no less than 400 young, beautiful people.  Great scene.  We got drunk and had a blast.

I later talked Emil into giving me some bracelets so I could meet Tito.  Tito was pretty down-to-earth.  Email Tito at pearLman33 at hotmail . com

Tito’s Paintings

Lima Haters

I had a terrible impression of Lima from my time in Arequipa.  Arequipa is quirky in that Arequipeños consider themselves a different country.  They won’t say they’re Peruvians, they are Arequipeños.  The pride is similar to Texas and Texans, but more extreme.  Arequipa has its own flag and passports.  The founding day of Arequipa is a bigger party than Peruvian Independence Day.

Due to the hometown pride and dislike / jealousy of Lima, I’d only heard that Lima was too big, congested, gray, and dangerous.  The only good thing Arequipeños say about Lima is the food’s better.

I found Lima to be a great city.  Of all the things people say about Lima, nobody ever says that it’s beautiful.  Which is a shame, because it is a beautiful city!

Barranco

We stayed in Barranco and spent most of our time there.  So much so that it warrants a separate post on our experiences and points of interest in Barranco.  See Save Barranco!

La Molina

I knew Diego, a Limeño, from college in the States.  He’s since graduated and returned to Peru.  I called him before we arrived in Lima and he invited me to a party in La Molina.  By the time we got there, the party was winding down and everybody had been drunk since lunch.  But this was definitely an upscale part of town, and more suburban than Miraflores.  La Molina is the kind of nice, quiet neighborhood where you have to have a car.  Diego’s pad below:

Magdalena

So I got this horrible map from some restaurant (great food, horrible map) in Barranco.  The map seemed good because it points out several tourist attractions, but it was horrible because it’s not drawn even close to scale.  We got lost in the Magdalena neighborhood for hours in search of Museo Larco Herrera, which is also mapped on the wrong street (Avenida Marina instead of Avenida Bolivar).

But we saw a lot of Magdalena.

Magdalena seems like a middle-class, urban area in the heart of Lima.  Nothing particularly beautiful, but nothing particularly bad.  The voyage in and around this part gave us an idea of how big Lima is (~8 million, or the size of Chicago).  And in a city that big, there are miles and miles of concrete, streets, houses, residential, people, buses, restaurants, stores, etc.  Nothing beautiful, nothing particularly bad.  But big.  Big, vast concrete.  Take it from me: don’t get lost.

Larco Museum

We took a taxi directly to the Larco Museum the next day, learning that we had circled it 1 ½ times the day before without ever having come close.  The Larco Museum is Lima’s #1 attraction according to the Trip Advisor public opinion.

Larco Herrera was an early-20th century Peruvian who collected artifacts from the different cultures.  He collected so many that he realized some couldn’t be attributed to the cultures they were attributed to.  For this reason, Larco Herrera is credited with discovering the Mochica culture in Peru.  In my opinion, the Mochicas made the most worthy artifacts in the museum.  They made erotic pottery with all kinds of sex images: doggystyle, missionary, oral, and even threesomes.  Also from the Mochicas are a strange blade and chalice.  The blade was used to cut the throats of defeated soldiers from other tribes.  The chalice was used to catch the blood from their throats and offer it to the priests and leaders of the tribe to drink, which I assume they did.  Sound like cannibalism to you?  It sure does to me, but a bad-ass culture nonetheless.

Aside from the exhibits, the museum’s garden and building is marvelous.  I wish I had money because I would’ve eaten in their on-site cafe to look at the garden longer.  This museum is an example of how to make beautiful scenery even when the sky is overcast 9 months / year.

www.museolarco.org

The blood chalice with slicer, a gold vest that didn’t turn out well, and some oral sex pottery.  I could have sworn we had more pics of the erotic pottery. But my brother’s kind of a lazy dumb-ass.

Miraflores: #1 Gringo Destination

Miraflores is the affluent, urban part of the city and destination of most gringo tourists.  Miraflores, located just north of Barranco, features Larcomar, Kennedy Park, and Calle de las Pizzas (Pizza Street).  You can find high-end shopping, tons of restaurants, and casinos.

Larcomar is a mall on the coast and seemingly Lima’s focal point of tourism and affluence.  Above the mall is a looking point over the Pacific Ocean and Lima coastline.  In the mall are expensive restaurants, high-end nightclubs, and top notch shopping.  The Marriott, arguably the nicest hotel in Peru, overlooks Larcomar.

Kennedy Park is a few blocks inland from Larcomar.  The two square-block park is bustling day and night with tourists and locals shopping, dining, people-watching, etc.  Rachel in Peru told me that Kennedy Park at night is where you can score weed, but any needs we had in that respect were more than met in Barranco.

Pizza Street is adjacent to Kennedy Park.  Pizza Street is an alleyway of bars and restaurants less expensive than Larcomar.  Walking Pizza Street was extremely annoying because each establishment has a host whose job is to entice people to come in and eat / drink.  Since there are 20+ establishments in the alleyway, you’ll have to hear at least 20+ solicitations.

It should be noted that Miraflores is the Lima bricheras‘ natural habitat.  Bricheras are Peruvian women who look to meet gringos.  My Lima brichera stories can be found here.

I’m surely leaving a lot out concerning Miraflores, but we didn’t spend much time there.

Pics of Larcomar below

Pics of Kennedy Park, a church, and a sweet Miraflores house

Chorrillos: The Beach

Chorrillos is the first neighborhood south of Barranco, which is south of Miraflores.  They’re all on the coast, but Chorrillos is the closest thing to a beach community.  The problem with the Lima coast is that it’s mostly rocks.  The biggest waves seem to be north of Miraflores, and there are surfers there, but they have to walk over rocks to get to those waves.  There’s no beach scene on those coasts.  The Barranco coast has a beach scene, and I went swimming there, but there are no waves and the water is kinda gross.  And occasionally stepping on rocks discourages doing  flips and other types of horseplay.

Chorrillos seemed to be the closest thing to a beach atmosphere in Lima city.  It had the longest coastline of sand of anywhere I saw.

Callao: Gangsta!

One of our taxi drivers told us he lived in Callao, which he said is dangerous.  Guns and gangs and the like.  Later that day, the manager of our hostel recommended we see Callao.  No joke.  There’s a cool pier with boat tours, and the Military Museum.  He said that parts are bad, but some parts are safe and beautiful.  Sold!

Three taxi drivers refused to take us to La Punta in Callao.  We thought they were refusing because it was so far.  We finally found a willing driver.

I don’t know the name of the street we took into Callao, but it was a major thoroughfare and we had to stop often because of stop lights and traffic.  My brother noted the sketchballs and skanky-looking people all around.  I started to notice them too.  This would not be a fun street to walk, even during the day.

From up front in the passenger seat, I noticed a motorcycle pass us on the right.  A husky Peruvian dude, riding on the back of the bike, stared at me while they passed.  His head was turned toward me sideways, making direct eye contact. After the motorcycle passed our taxi, the guy turned his head completely around to hold the eye contact.  At the time, I thought he was another Peruvian who likes to greet gringos.  He kept staring until the motorcycle passed the next car and out of sight.

The taxi driver noticed our little exchange and, as soon as the motorcycle sped off, shook his head and disgustedly said, “Choros.”  Gangsters.  He said Callao sucks and we need to be careful.

The guy on the bike didn’t have any malice in his eyes.  Not an ounce of hate.  In hindsight, I think he was looking into my eyes to size me up, or maybe he couldn’t stop staring while wishing he found us on a different street with less witnesses.  Maybe they do their jackings from that motorcycle and he was trying to judge if they could pull it off.  Who knows?  The lack of malice in the guy’s eyes had quite an effect on me.  Very different from the gangsters in the States.  In the States, it’s hate.  With that guy, it seemed to be just pure economics.  Nothing personal.

We arrived at the pier, which seemed to be protected despite the fact there were no gringos around.  There were Peruvian tourists taking pictures and peasants selling things.  We took a boat tour around the bay for five soles.  There’s a sailboat parking lot and a yacht club.  And a busy port sending and receiving shipping containers.

We finished the boat tour and went strolling around the small, protected part of Callao.  The Military Museum had just closed, but I was having a great time looking at the architecture of downtown Callao.  It is the old Spanish architecture you can find in downtown Lima, but not restored.  The buildings are completely untouched and almost falling down.  It feels like you’re walking around a ghost town from the 17th century.  ENCHANTING!

I was in absolute awe on every block, and with each block wanting to see more.  One block looked especially cool to walk down and we headed that way.  A dirty old man who washes windshields for change yelled at me that that was a bad place and pointed toward a cevicheria on the corner.  I dismissed him as a crazy old man and we kept walking.

Two seconds later, a gentleman dressed business-casual in clean clothes told me not to go down that street.  Not safe. Ahh.  Now I get it, as I remembered the guy on the motorcycle.  You don’t need to tell me three times.  Ryan and I promptly turned around and had ceviche at a place we had already passed.  Ryan didn’t like ceviche, but he has no taste.

We stayed at Diego’s house our last night in Lima and his father called the family’s private driver to pick us up and take us to the airport.  This kind of taxi is specialized and more expensive than the kind you hail on the street.  He showed up in a Jeep Liberty.  I noticed we went through Callao to get to the airport.  He told us this way was faster, but he wouldn’t take the same route at night.  Too dangerous.  Then he showed us his pistol, explaining that he was ready in case of trouble.  He said it was a .32.  I didn’t really know what to say.  Cool gun, man?

Despite the proximity to danger, I highly recommend seeing Callao for the architecture near the coast.  I haven’t seen anything like it in all my life.  My douchebag brother lost the pics so you have to go see for yourself!  Here is a link to Google Images of Callao.

BETTER YET, this post has a comment from Stu in Peru with a link to his pictures of Callao, which are AWESOME.  But they are only pictures and it’s just not the same as walking those streets.

Water Park

One night we took a bus tour, which took us to all the downtown sites including The Park of the Reserve Magic Water Tour.  This water park was one of our main highlights in Lima, a must-see.  It’s a beautiful park with several giant water fountain displays.  One is a tunnel of water streams you walk through.  Another is a web of fountains you can stand in and, depending on how careful you are, get wet too.  Excited kids get soaked.  At the end is the grand finale, several huge fountains on which they play a light show to classical music.  Ryan says Lima’s Water Park crushes the water fountains at Bellagio in Las Vegas.

Lima Nightlife

Our first night out, Ryan and I went to a jazz club in Barranco called La Noche.  Monday nights feature live music.  Red Bull & Johnny Walker Red are 10 soles.  We put down about four of these each plus a few pitchers of beer.  The music was awesome, featuring a diverse set of at least ten instruments.  We went upstairs to a patio that overlooks the Barranco nightlife pasaje, where we met a young hipster Peruvian chick who gave us a small amount of marijuana.

She left us for a few minutes.  Brothers being brothers, we didn’t need long before a fistfight broke out.  We were at it for two minutes at the most before the bouncers separated us and kicked us out.  I had a sizable knot above my right eye which can be seen in some of our pictures.  We smoked the weed and tried to go back in.  The bouncers denied us entry.  However, I must still give La Noche a very favorable rating, especially on Monday nights.

The next night we went to Miraflores in search of “Peruvian girls who speak English.”  Bartini in Larcomar is the primary Tuesday night spot.  This was the night of the bricheras – Peruvian women who hunt gringos.  Click here to read more about that evening.

Wednesday night we went to Aura, also in Larcomar, in an effort to evade bricheras.  Aura is the most expensive nightclub in Larcomar, as far as I could gather.  Entry was 20 soles.  There were no bricheras on attack inside.  We bought a fifth of Smirnoff for 140 soles and sat at a table.  We eventually made friends with a group of five girls.  We left with two of them for a karaoke bar.  Karaoke in Peru is much different than in the States.  I used to flat out refuse to go to karaoke bars under any circumstances.  I was dragged one night in Arequipa to find that everybody can sing (as opposed to in America).  If you don’t sing well, you’ll get booed off the mic.  So karaoke in Peru doesn’t feature horrible singing like it does in America.  We left the girls after an hour or so.

Thursday was our last night in Lima.  We went with Diego to a lively spot in Barranco called Help, described in the Barranco post.  I took a liking to a terribly prude coworker of Diego’s named Claudia.  I spent the entire night hitting on her to no avail.  She admitted that I was cute but wouldn’t hold my hand or any even talk alone.  Diego took some funny pics of when I tried unsuccessfully to kiss her when saying goodbye at the end of the night.

At Help, Ryan somehow took a joint from one of the bouncers and we smoked it in the taxi on the way to Diego’s house.  I didn’t sleep all night before we were picked up by the family driver for our 10am flight.

Nightlife and Miscellaneous Pics

The business card slogan is “No need of fashion, good prices and funny people” – obviously the better translations would be “No lack of …”

Address: Calle San Francisco 302a

Email: el_balde68 at hotmail . com.

You can freshen up by reading these posts: Amigos and Bricheras and The Brichera Scowl and the Second Date.  I’m now leaving Peru, so I thought I ought to share what I’ve learned.  Plus, I scored a one-night stand with my first bona fide brichera during my last week in Arequipa.  Jump to My First Brichera!, Type 1, or Type 2 bricheras.

My First Brichera!

Some may define my first girlfriend as a brichera due to the story in which she lost her mind.  But most Peruvians said she wasn’t.  She didn’t speak English.  Plus, I was her first (and probably last) gringo boyfriend.  So my first real brichera was the one in the following story (an English-speaking girl studying tourism fits the bill better).

Ryan arrived on a Wednesday for his two-week trip to help me move to Colombia.  We went out to El Balde for a few beers before moving on to Deja Vu, the primary brichera spot in Arequipa.  We ran into some friends and talked upstairs before I moved to the dance floor.  I was dancing with two girls while I noticed a different one staring at me from across the floor.  I smiled at her, but stayed where I was.

Some time later, I was walking with Ryan past the bathrooms and I saw that girl coming out.  I introduced us.  She spoke a little English.  Keeping the conversation going felt like pulling teeth so I split, leaving her with Ryan.  Ryan later told me Brichera was touching his leg and making eyes at him.  They found me downstairs and I sat them down with some friends.  A few minutes later, Ryan got up and told me she was all mine.  Brichera had been asking about me (Ryan later admitted that was a lie).  I sat next to her and we talked for ten minutes or so before Brichera started kissing me.

We made out for a while before going to the dance floor.  We drank a lot.  Brichera drank fast.  After finishing a beer, Brichera asked if we should get another (implying I buy).  I decided to invest in a round.  While dancing, Brichera suggested we race drinking that beer.  I barely beat her (that’s fast!).  She said we should get another.  I wondered if I was getting taken for a ride.  Oh well, I invested in another.  We finished that round as the bar was closing around 4am.

Because Brichera seemed to be a bit of an alcoholic, I told her I had more beer at my apartment.  We could keep the party going there.  She said that sounded good.  Could her friend come?  What friend?  Brichera had a cute, brichera wingwoman huddled up with some prissy European.  The friend didn’t want to come with us.  Fortunately, mine did.

The taxi dropped me, Ryan, and Brichera off at the corner near my apartment.  Brichera pointed at El Tablón, suggesting we get food.  Again, I wondered if I was getting taken for a ride.  Well, she’s already come with us to the apartment.  One more small investment may pay off.  I bought a quarter chicken and fries meal (to-go!), which we shared in the apartment while Ryan went to bed.  Brichera was drunk and weird.  She would bite off some chicken and then kiss me until I bit some of the chicken from her mouth.  Kinda gross.

After eating, Brichera said she just wanted to sleep in the same bed.  That’s fine, let’s get in bed then.  “Just sleep” turned into butt-nakedness, which turned into hair-pulling, hard-spanking doggystyle.  My investments paid off.

In the morning, she woke me up with oral.  Her hair was wet.  She had helped herself to my shower, which must have been cold because nobody turned on the water heater.  Good oral.  Then she got on top and rode it until she completed the unfinished business from the night before.  She laid next to me.  She asked for my hand, which she wanted to kiss.  I put my hand up to her face and she licked and sucked and kissed each of my fingers for at least five minutes.  Then she turned me over and gave me a half-hour massage.  Great massage, for 30 minutes!  Then she left.

Type 1 Brichera

The Type 1 brichera is the stereotype that’s out for financial gain or social climbing.  This kind can be found around Calle de las Pizzas in Miraflores and in Cusco.  I’m sure they exist in Arequipa, but nothing like in Lima.  See the definition of a brichera on Urban Dictionary here.  I wrote the preferred definition (#1) last year, but the second definition (#2) is an over-the-top explanation of the Type 1.

Although Cusco is known for bricheras, I didn’t meet any.  Granted, I drank myself too retarded to talk to anyone.  Lima’s where I found Type 1′s.  My brother and I were planning our night in Larcomar, but didn’t want to pay Larcomar prices for our first 5 – 7 beers.  My buddy Diego dropped us off at Calle de las Pizzas, which I think is hilarious to call Pizza Street.

Pizza Street is actually an aisle of bars and restaurants around the corner from Kennedy Park.  We walked this gauntlet to be solicited by someone from each and every establishment.  There were so many sales pitches we stopped saying ‘No,’ opting instead to just ignore and not make eye contact.

After one trip up the gauntlet, we still hadn’t chosen a bar.  I was hesitant to run the gauntlet again when two women approached us.  One was black, overweight, with blond hair extensions down to her waist.  The other was light brown, cute enough, and slim.  They asked where we were from.  They made small talk.  They kept talking.  Forever.  I was uncomfortable.  I made an exit strategy, pardoning ourselves for one of these bars.  There are prostitutes that work Pizza Street, and we met some, but these two didn’t offer us ‘massages.’  So I assume them to be Type 1 bricheras.

We bought a couple beers at the grocery store and drank them on a bench in Kennedy Park.  Two Peruvian cuties walked past us.  They noticed us looking at them and they stopped at the next bench over, despite the fact that a couple occupied that bench.  They leaned against it, in effect waiting for the couple to leave so they could sit there.

Ryan and I finished our beers and I decided to greet the girls on the way to the grocery store for another round.  I asked them if there was any specific bar on Pizza Street that was a cool place to party.  The cuter girl said she does know a place and we should all go together.  I was a little creeped out at the aggression and said my brother and I actually had to go to the store first but maybe we could meet them there.  The cuter one said they could go with us to the store, and then we could all go to the bar together.  The other brichera, also cute, picked up that they shouldn’t come with us.  I said that we’d go to the store and meet them back at this bench, then go to the bar.  We didn’t come back to the bench.

Ryan and I bought two more beers and decided to exit the Pizza Street / Kennedy Park lion’s den of Type 1 bricheras in favor of Larcomar, where I hoped to meet clean and rich Peruvian women.  We went to Bartini on the recommendation of the hottie that worked at our hostel, after I asked where we could find ‘the Peruvian girls who speak English.’

We entered Bartini and immediately started getting looked at by hot Peruvian women.  One group on the other side of the bar was so obvious that I waved at them.  Three heads simultaneously snapped towards each other in a hurry as if they weren’t looking at us.  Another group danced their way over to us.  One intentionally kept bumping into me while another struck up a conversation with my brother (in English).  I assumed this group to be Type 1′s because of the hottest one in the group.  The absolute stunner in a white miniskirt had a gringo on her arm.  The biggest nerd I’ve seen in Peru.  This couple made no sense.  He wasn’t ugly per se, but nerdy and awkward.  Probably an engineer (nothing against engineers, but even you engineers know that a lot of your peers are nerds).

Type 1′s generally make me uncomfortable and I’ve never indulged in one, so I don’t have intimate details.  I imagine that nerd at Bartini would.

Type 2 Brichera

Type 2 is a different story.  Disclaimer: this is going to be a politically incorrect explanation, but since when have I cared about offending people?

The need for a Type 2 came up after one specific brichera encounter.  I met a tall, beautiful Type 2 through a friend.  Later, that friend told me that the Type 2 only dates gringos.  Every boyfriend she’s ever had was a gringo.  Whenever he hangs out with her, it seems she is always emailing or chatting online with some gringo in Europe or the US.

I made out with her one night at Deja Vu.  I called her later that week and she invited me to a party at her house.  I went to find her house is huge and nice.  The nicest house in Peru I’ve seen.  Her family’s rich.  Upper-crust rich.  So why would she be chasing money if she is already set for life?

Now, to understand Type 2, I have to explain what I’ve learned about the racial issues in Peru (enter politically incorrect analysis).

Peruvian’s culture and national identity is a product of two races.  The indigenous people of the region and the Europeans who colonized them.  The whiter Peruvians, the more Spanish, still control most of the wealth and power in the country.  The darker, more indigenous Peruvians are the poorer, less-educated Peruvians.  When angry at the lower classes, Peruvians will often dismiss them as cholos or peasants.  I think most Peruvians associate themselves with the European side of their ancestry.  The US and Western Europe are the richer, more developed countries in the world.  I think each Peruvian wants to believe he / she has more of that in them than the people who built Machu Picchu.

And they all grow up watching Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, or Pamela Anderson and Jennifer Aniston in American movies.

There’s a white girl I know – so white it looks like she doesn’t have an Inca in all her lineage.  And all the Peruvian guys think she’s the hottest in town.  I like the brown look and I consider many other girls more beautiful.  In fact, I think the white girl wouldn’t even be considered above average in the States.  But their subconscious desire for white looks trick their mind into thinking she’s so beautiful.

I think the Type 2′s identify with or aspire to be a part of white culture as more of a rejection of the indigenous culture.  While their skin might be a mix of the two civilizations, they want to believe that their mind, their insides are more of one than the other.

Conclusion

I think these two types sum up the motivations of the brichera.  Surely there are hybrids, but I think they clearly fall into the two categories.  If I had to choose one, Type 2′s seem like better bets to me.  I never had a go with a Type 1, but they’d surely be good for at least sex.

To put things in perspective, one should understand how many blacks are in Peru. In Arequipa, there are effectively none. I must have gone a two- or three-month stretch without seeing a black face at least once. I read and hear that there are more in Lima. I recently spent a week in Lima and, while you certainly couldn’t go a month without seeing a black face, there are much fewer than I’d anticipated. In one week, we might’ve seen a couple dozen black people at the most. Chincha is the historic Afro-Peruvian community and, while I never visited, Damien did and said it’s a lovely town. But only about 25% black.

On to the stories.

Around mid-October, one of my street’s security guards asked me who I was going to vote for in the upcoming US presidential election. I told him I don’t vote, but I was cheering for Barack Obama. He said “NO!” and waved his newspaper at me. He implied that a black president would be a disgrace.

My second week in Camaná, I caught up with the group of friends who all work at Hotel San Diego. We were all talking shit in their room and getting ready to hit the beach. Somehow the subject of my being American came up. One of them said, in heavily-accented English, “Yes, but you have your fucking nigger president.”

And at the celebration of my old basketball team’s city championship, a running joke of the night was how my mom is having sex with the black Barack Obama.

While the whole world seemed to have been cheering for Obama, it certainly wasn’t the whole world.

Machu Picchu is quite removed from Cusco.  The Incas never told the Spanish about it so it was virtually unknown for 500 years until Hiram Bingham, a Yale historian, re-discovered it to the outside world in 1901.  Evidence shows that a German businessman found it in 1867 but kept it a secret in order to loot the artifacts.  Now Machu Picchu sees over 2000 tourists / day!

Most of these tourists take a 4-hour train from Cusco to Aguas Calientes, the tiny town at the base of the mountain where Machu Picchu sits.  From Aguas Calientes, they take a bus to the top of the mountain.  The more dedicated tourists can take the Inca Trail, a four-day hike from Cusco which I imagine was how the Incas had to get to Machu Picchu pre-Colombus.  There is also a two-day option for those who won’t spend four days hiking and camping.  I have heard these routes are amazing and, if some gringo ever insists I take them to Machu Picchu, we’re taking the trail.

My idea of hiking was to skip the bus from Aguas Calientes.  I do not recommend this terrible idea if you’re going to arrive from Cusco via train on the same day.  They say it’s a one-hour hike, but I swear it was at least 90 minutes, probably 2 hours.

The train from Cusco drops off around 11am.  I killed an hour in Aguas Calientes eating lunch.  Two hours hiking.  By the time I arrived at Machu Picchu, I only had 2 hours or so to hang out.  I could spend a whole day there.  It’s that cool. However you go to Machu Picchu, I recommend arriving to the ruins first thing in the morning (before the mass influx of gringos) and hang out all day.  It’s that cool.

DISCLOSURE: I bought a small quantity of marijuana in Cusco with the intention of burning one before entering the ruins (which I did).  This may have enhanced the experience for me, as I intended it to.  If you’re going to hike up the mountain to Machu Picchu, don’t puff until you’re at the top.  I’m glad I waited because the hike was a pain in the ass.

As soon as you arrive to Aguas Calientes, you can’t help noticing the natural beauty of the area.  The Andes Mountains meet the Amazon rain forest to create a mountainous but plush, green view in every direction.  Waterfalls are everywhere.  The local culture is very indigenous.  Aguas Calientes is a pure tourist economy, offering anything from chullos and sweaters to hotels and restaurants to any knick-knack you could possibly sell to the 2000+ daily visitors to Machu Picchu.

There’s not much to say about the hike up the mountain, besides recommending that you not do it.  I’d also recommend not having three beers at lunch if you ignore my advice.  In all fairness, the hike may have further enhanced my Machu Picchu experience by making me feel as if I earned it (although not like someone who did the Inca Trail).  Outside Machu Picchu are two restaurants, gift shops, and even a hotel – ample accomodations if you want to spend the whole day there.

I rarely spend much time thinking about the Incas and Inca culture, but you can’t help it once you arrive at Machu Picchu.  What were those people thinking when they built this?  As primitive of a people as they were in most ways, how were they able to build something more beautiful than any other civilization in history?  They built it as a resort.  They didn’t go to Machu Picchu for only a day.  It was a getaway.

If you follow a trail around the back of Machu Picchu, there lies the Inca Bridge, where you’re not allowed to go.  The path takes ten minutes to follow, so there’s ample opportunity to burn one or pee. I did both.

I had strangers take pictures of me. I met the nicest French couple who loved my Clinton ’92 t-shirt.  And when I asked an American girl to take a picture of me, her father came out of nowhere and said, “Hey, you’re that crazy guy from the bar last night.”

Me: “What are you talking about?”

Him: “You don’t remember me?”

Me: “No.”

Him: “Ha ha.  You were having a good time.”

Me: “Are you serious?  I met you?”

(Long story, see The Cusco Incident)

Pictures

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It’s very important to go to Machu Picchu at the right time of year.  If you go during the rainy season like Nicolas did, you may also say something stupid like “You don’t have to see Machu Picchu”  (the last pic is his – sucka!).

I spontaneously decided to see Machu Picchu in my remaining time in Peru and packed a backpack before heading to the bus station. I arrived in Cusco at 6am Monday morning.

I intended to stay at my friend Billy’s hostel, where I stayed when I was in Cusco last year.  My taxi driver – Lenin – immediately started selling me his own hostel.  He asked how much I was paying at Billy’s place.  I answered an absurdly low number: 15 soles / night ($4.69).  He told me he would give me a private room and bathroom for that price.  I told him I’d think about it.  As we were passing Billy’s hostel, I noticed it seemed closed so I told Lenin the Taxi Driver that I’ll stay at his place.

While checking in and getting my key, I noted this hostel was a shithole.  No matter, the price was right.  Before taking a nap, I locked the deadbolt to my room with the key.  I slept for three hours or so.  I woke up and got some things together to go see Cusco and buy tickets to Machu Picchu.

When I tried to unlock the door, my key wouldn’t unlock the deadbolt.  This same key that locked the deadbolt was turning round and round but the deadbolt was not moving.  I was locked inside my room.  As I noted earlier, this hostel was a shithole and I could see that this door’s lock was also a piece of shit.  In Peru, doors have these large metal boxes for locks and door handles.  I saw that I could probably pry this metal box far enough off the door so that the deadbolt would come free from the wall.

First I banged and banged on the door in hopes someone downstairs would hear me.  I banged and banged and banged and nobody could hear me since I was on the third floor.  So I went to work on this metal box.  I pried and banged and pried and worked on the door for five minutes or so until I had bent the metal box back far enough that I could open the door.  The lock was bent into complete worthlessness.

I went downstairs with all my things to find Lenin’s little brother and sister (they manage the place while he’s driving his taxi and recruiting guests) watching TV. I told them my lock was broken and I want a new room.  The boy gave me a new room and I went out to see Cusco.  I decided that there was no way in hell I was paying for that lock and I would leave the hostel if Lenin tried to make me pay.

I took a city tour for 20 soles ($6.25).  I was skeptical that the tour could last four hours like they said at the tourist agency.  How much stuff was there to see?  The bus first brought us to Qorikancha – the Santo Domingo of Cusco Convent.  The tour guide went into long, boring explanations of absolutely everything and I realized how this tour could take four hours.  There were some cool paintings, so it was worth the 10 soles to get in.

I wondered how many more places on the tour would charge to get in.  I paid for a 20 soles tour, and that’s really all I wanted out of this tour. Next we went to Saksaywaman, which I had already seen last time I was in Cusco.  This entrance was 40 soles.  I opted to stay on the bus with the driver.  After all, Saksaywaman isn’t much more than a bunch of big rocks.

After an hour, the group came back to the bus and we drove to a different patch of rocks.  I learned that the 40 soles paid for the same ticket for these new rocks which I could clearly see from the bus.  They all went in and I asked the driver how many more of this tour’s stops cost money.  He said all the rest of the stops are included in the Saksaywaman entrance.  I asked him how I could get back down to the plaza if I want to skip the rest of the tour.  He pointed up a hill and said a taxi would eventually drop a tourist off at the entrance to Saksaywaman.  He also pointed down a hill at a forest and said I could walk.  Saksaywaman sits on top of a mountain and overlooks Cusco, seemingly quite a walk.  But that sounded cool.

I took off on foot into the forest.  I had a nice time and saw a lot more than I would’ve seen on the whack-ass tour.  I walked for five minutes through a forest of tall skinny trees and came upon the road thirty feet below a dropoff.  I spotted three peasant women sitting on a blanket and asked them how to get down.  They pointed me in the right direction and I continued my descent.  I came into a residential area with sidewalks instead of roads and passed through two or three neighborhoods until I had descended the mountain into the city.

I found my hostel.  I asked the little kids if they told Lenin about the lock.  No word.

I went back out and ate at Rosie O’Grady’s, the Irish bar that boasts the highest elevation in the world (so I’ve heard) and also owned my Maca’s family (Maca is Carlos’ baby’s mother and fiancee).  Maca’s cousin Heidi (Billy’s girlfriend) was managing.  She took me to a special office which services tourist agencies so I paid bottom dollar for my Machu Picchu tickets (about $150 altogether).

I went back to the hostel to shower before going out.  I asked the kids if Lenin had any news for me.  Nothing.  I paid the boy another fifteen soles for a second night.

After eating dinner, I bought some weed and went back to the hostel to roll it into joints.  The two front doors are always locked and a manager has to let people in and out.  I knocked and knocked and knocked.  Nobody answered the door.  I couldn’t get into my own hostel!  What a shithole.  I rolled one joint on the stoop in front, ringing the doorbell every five minutes or so.  It probably annoyed the other guests, who I could hear, but they couldn’t let me in because they don’t have a key.  I went to a restaurant and ate a second dinner just so I could inconspicuously roll joints on the table.

I smoked one on the way to the bars.  As I entered the first place, my jaw dropped as I took in the scene.  The dance floor was packed … with white people.  Wall-to-wall gringos.  Where the fuck was I?  Cusco.  I was stoned and had a beer while looking around at all these white people, which I am not at all accustomed to seeing.  Then I split because it’s not my scene.

I was out all night drinking.  I got back to my hostel around 4am.  I was supposed to wake up at 6am for Machu Picchu.

I woke up at 7:30 and panicked.  I definitely missed the train to Aguas Calientes.  I was worried I would have to buy new tickets ($150).  I packed a few things in my backpack and put on my Machu Picchu clothes.  My plan was to run to the office where I bought the tickets to see if they could do anything for me.

I ran downstairs and the two little brats said that I had to pay for that lock.  Lenin told them not to let me leave until I paid.  The girl was extremely annoying in how loud she kept yelling “Tienes que pagar por la chapa” and “Tu la rompiste.“  I told them I’m not paying for that lock and went back upstairs to get all my things.  I was activating my aforementioned plan of leaving the hostel.

I came back down and told them to let me out.  They said I had to pay for the lock first.  They called Lenin and he would be at the hostel in seven minutes.  All too familiar with Peruvian time, I set my phone alarm for exactly seven minutes.  I paced back and forth, fuming, wearing my backpack with all my things in it.

I had missed Machu Picchu. I was still quite drunk.  I only slept three hours.  And now I had to deal with this lock shit.  This all brewed a perfect storm of rage.  My plan was to stay close to the two glass doors and, when Lenin unlocked them to come in, I would push him out into the street and start yelling at him.  If he offered any resistance, I would knock him out in front of all his neighbors.

My alarm went off.  I told the little shit-sticks that seven minutes had passed and I was leaving.  They refused.  I told them I was going to throw their computer through the doors.  I grabbed the boy by his shirt and pushed him against the wall.  I obviously wasn’t going to hit a kid, but I wanted to scare him a little.  I grabbed the handle of the door while I said, “Si tu no abres esta puerta …” and I banged the door a little bit to make some noise …

And both doors shattered into hundreds of little pieces of glass (it was an accident!).  As soon as the last piece hit the ground, I leapt over the pile and sprinted down the street.  My backpack must have weighed at least 30 pounds (thanks in large part to my 965-page hardcover copy of The Snowball: Warren Buffett and Business of Life).  I turned after three blocks and sprinted two blocks uphill (Andes Mountains uphill).

I wasn’t running or jogging, but sprinting – on my toes, chin tucked, full-range arm-swinging.  Like a wide receiver after a reception in the backfield with a cornerback on his tail.  After five blocks, I slowed and started panting.  I needed water.  I needed to get off the streets.  I saw an old man sweeping the stoop of his hostel.  I asked him how much for a room.  35 soles ($10.94).  I’ll take it!

He showed me to my room, which was very nice.  This hostel was no shithole.  He even brought me a towel, toilet paper, and bar of soap.

I changed clothes and ran to the office where I bought my Machu Picchu tickets. I was super-paranoid of every police car. The lady who was supposed to meet me at the train station said she called my hostel and the kid who answered the phone said there was nobody by my name at the hostel.  Perfect!

The ladies in this office devised a way for me to change the date of the train ticket.  One of them went with me to the train station, where I was supposed to explain that I got robbed early that morning so I couldn’t travel.  I didn’t want to lie and felt nervous about it, but I pulled it off.  I acted like a dumb gringo who only speaks English.  It worked and they changed the date on my train ticket to the next day.  YES!  After leaving, I kissed the girl that accompanied me to the train station several times on the cheek and invited her and the other girl in the office to lunch later.

But now I had to worry about this whole Cusco Incident (the incident being me breaking a lock and two glass doors of a hostel and fleeing the scene).  Normally, I wouldn’t worry because I got away with all my stuff.  However, I gave my NAME and PASSPORT NUMBER when I checked in.

So Lenin had a description of me (I’m somewhat unique-looking) plus my name and passport number if he were inclined to have the authorities look for me.  While I have a good grasp about life and culture in Peru, I have no clue how police and the authorities work in Peru. Will they be looking for me?  Will they hold me at the airport if I try to leave the country?  Would they even care?  I needed to consult some Peruvians.

I emailed Carlos an abbreviated version of the story.  He replied right away saying it’s probably not a big deal but that I should get out of Cusco as soon as possible.  I met Ward in Cusco for lunch and he thought there was a good chance that Lenin didn’t even call the police.

I went back to Rose O’Grady’s and bought lunch for the two ladies who helped me.  Billy was there!  After the ladies left, I told him the story (over a few beers to calm my nerves).  Billy didn’t think it’d be a problem, but he did think that Lenin called the police and lied to them (leaving out that he was in effect detaining me illegally).  Billy said the police would probably look for me at the airport and main bus terminal over the next few days.  He recommended that I go to the Zorro Estación (the bus station for poor people) and catch a bus to Sicuani, a tiny pueblo two hours out of Cusco.  In Sicuani, there’s another terminal where I can catch a bus to Arequipa.  Billy said the police wouldn’t be looking for me at either of those stations.  A plan!

I went back to the hostel for a nap and worried that Lenin might check all the hostels in the area.  I used a fake name and no passport number at the current hostel.  But as I said, I am easily describable and my check-in time corresponds exactly with the Incident.  Then I realized I hope he does find me.  I want to knock him out just for putting me through all this.

Although I wanted to stay off the streets as much as possible, I took a long walk after my nap.  I passed through a peasant part of town, crowded with markets and poor indigenous people.  Arequipa has peasants, but nothing like Cusco.  Remember this was the Incas’ capital city.

That night I went out drinking.  I got so drunk I don’t remember much.  At one point, I was in a place with a live pseudo-rasta reggae / punk band.  I got a picture of us getting high.  At another point I told somebody trying to sell me drugs that maybe his mother’s for sale, I might be interested in that.  And then I was drinking at a table with three Germans when I didn’t like the tone from one of them.  I stood up on him, ready to scrap.  He didn’t want to.  And in some danceclub I was dancing salsa and twirling Peruvian girls, unfortunately too drunk to talk or do anything else.  When it was time for bed, I was too drunk to make the three-block walk home without stumbling and looking like a wasted idiot.  I had to sit down at a park bench in Plaza de Armas for ten minutes with my head in between my knees to muster up the energy to walk home normally.

I somehow woke up on time and went to Machu Picchu (separate post).  I’d planned to catch an overnight bus back to Arequipa afterwards but I was dead tired.  I paid for another night at the hostel and checked out the next day.

It was time to execute the plan and escape Cusco.  I ate at Rosie O’Grady’s again and talked with Maca’s cousin Paolo.  He told me about a collectivo service that goes to Sicuani.  If I took one of these shuttles, I wouldn’t even have to show my face at the Cusco bus station for poor people.

I took a taxi to the collectivo parking lot, an operation with five vans that leave once they fill up.  9 soles ($2.81) for a two-hour ride to Sicuani, and it arrives faster than the bus.

Billy was right: the authorities definitely wouldn’t be looking for me there.  Sicuani is the smallest, poorest little pueblo I’ve seen to date.  I get stared at in Arequipa, but I got stared at in Sicuani.  I imagine there are more speakers of Quechua than Spanish in this little town.  I had three hours to kill in which I ate and looked around.  I asked at five different places; none had cold beer.  Every single woman in the town had the custom pigtails, hat, dress, and blanket backpack (with or without baby inside).

The bus was just as poor and peasant as the town (but only 18 soles / $5.63 for a seven-hour bus trip!).  The family in front of me spoke in Quechua.  One woman in the family slept on the floor in the aisle, her feet directly to the right of my aisle seat.  We got to Arequipa around 3am.  I got away smooth!

Cusco Quick Facts:

• I was originally going to call this post “You Don’t Have to See Cusco” and the Machu Picchu post “You HAVE to See Machu Picchu.”
• Cusco is typical of tourist towns with little other industry (New Orleans pre-Katrina, Amsterdam, Las Vegas).
• Everything is over-priced (compared to the rest of Peru).
• There are a million and one ways to spend money and Cusquenos are good at getting you to spend it.  I was constantly hounded to buy snacks, shoeshines, massages, drugs, oil paintings, crafts, etc. etc. etc.  I said “No” no less than fifty times per day.
• While it is over-priced, the food is EXCELLENT.
• Saksaywaman isn’t worth it (it’s rocks!).
• City tours aren’t worth it.  Here is a list of points of interest for you to do your own city tour:

1. Museum of pre-Colombian Art
2. Inka Museum
3. Museum of Religious Art
4. Musuem of Natural History
5. Cathedral
6. Triunfo Church
7. Sacred Family Church
8. La Merced Convent
9. San Blas Church
10. White Christ

• If you went to Cusco and stayed around the plaza, briefly seeing Machu Picchu, you didn’t really see Peru.
• If you really want to know the Cusco area / character, get back to Lima or Arequipa the same route I did (via Sicuani).

Conclusion: I think I need to give another run at sobriety.  I feel that, one of these days, I’m not going to come out on top.

Pictures

(other pics of the typical Cusco views on a different post)

So around 1pm, I went to a sauna in the Jose Luis Bustamante area.  You pay 10 soles to enter ($3 USD).  They offered sandals, but I was already wearing mine.  I passed into a locker room and stripped down to my swimming trunks and sandals.  I passed the locker room into the bathhouse of tiled, white floors with tables and benches.  Four showers.  A steam room (camara de vapor).  A sauna (camara seca).  A TV room showing South American soccer.  They sell beer, water, juice, and soda.  And there are putas in bikinis selling massages.  I ordered a beer and alternated between the steam room, sauna, and showers.

There was only one puta working.  She was hot enough.  Very brown.  Kind of thick.  Seemingly bored.  A few other guys were lounging around, not interested.  I hung around drinking beer for about an hour just to see if any other girls were working.  It seemed there was only one.  She asked me if I wanted a massage.  I did.  She led me to a staircase, and a small room and closed the door.  The room featured a shelf with a bottle of lotion and a tall, padded bench.  I paid her 60 soles ($18.63).  She asked me if I knew what a massage was.  I told her I did as I dropped my shorts.  We got started.  She asked me if I like latinas.  Yes I do!

I finished and went back to the bathhouse area.  I ordered another beer.  I wanted to hang out in the sauna and steam room some more.  That’s when I saw a different puta.  Really cute.  Fair complexion, cute face, dark hair.  Really young.  She was wearing a Brazilian-style thong to show off her shapely butt cheeks.  I went into the sauna.  She left the guy she was talking to and bee-lined to the sauna.  She sat across from me in the dry heat.  We were alone.

She had an embarrassed smile while we talked.  I’m 29.  She’s 20.  I’m Colin.  Her name’s Fiorella.  She asked me if I exercise while touching the lower cleavage between her breasts while looking at me.  The tension in the air was too much.

She said she saw me come back from the massage room with the other girl.  It’s true.  But I might want another massage.  In fact, I was already sold.  I just needed time for the juices to start flowing again.  Another guy came into the room.  Then the the first puta came in and sat next to me.  Then another guy came in.  Now it was a crowd.  I was almost drunk again and started clowning, telling jokes and such.  Fiorella laughed loudest.  I left the room for another beer.  When I came back to the bathhouse area, I felt a pinch on my butt.  I turned around to see this young puta, Fiorella, giggling.

I noticed WWE wrestling was on in the TV room.  I sat down front-and-center with my beer.  I watched a match in which some guy I didn’t know beat another guy I didn’t know, to the crowd’s dismay.  I have a soft spot for wrestling.  I kept drinking.

I was drunk at this point.  I started talking to the other guys in the place, which seemed like a taboo (talking to other guys in a brothel).  But I was funny so they humored me.  In the steam room, they place pounds of leaves over the steamer to create a pleasant smell.  Aromatherapy.  I don’t remember what the leaf is called.

I looked for my young honey.  Because there were so many guys at that hour (4 – 5pm), she was busy.  I watched her come back with an old, gross guy.  We made eye contact and she winked.  But she had somebody else in line.  She went back to that same room with the next paying customer.  She was busy from the moment she pinched my butt until now.  It didn’t bother me.  I waited for at least an hour drinking and drinking.  It was finally my turn.

She sat next to me and asked if I wanted a massage.  I said I did but I can wait until she is ready.  I offered her some beer.  She drank a short glass and said she’s ready.  We went to that same room I was in just a couple hours ago.

I paid her and said that I don’t know if I’m ready to have sex but I just wanted to meet her again.  I told her I wanted to hang out with her outside of this place – if she wanted.  I told her I live in Cayma.  She said that sounds cool.  How can she get a hold of me?  My phone got cut off.  Can I call her?  She said she doesn’t have a phone.  Well I guess we won’t be hanging out.  With her eyes down there, she said she wants to see me with my shorts off.  I took them off and reiterated that we don’t have to have sex if she doesn’t want to.  She grabbed it underhand with a facial expression of a kid with a new toy.

We started doing it.  She was so adorable sucking her thumb during doggystyle.  I didn’t finish by the time there was a knock on the door.

I’ll miss that girl.  I got dressed and headed out.  My drunken judgement was acting on my plans from before going to the sauna.  I called Rosa.  She sent me an email earlier that week (I ran into her a few times in the last two weeks and told her I was moving to Colombia.  She sent me an email saying she would like to ‘talk’ before I leave).  She agreed for a date around 10pm.  Still drunk, I sprinted through a shower and over to Carlos’ place to drop off some work documents.  Then I ran downtown to meet Rosa.

It seemed like Rosa wanted more than talk.  We went to Istanbul for a drink.  I drank juice and she drank scotch.  I was almost nodding off at the table because of how drunk I got at the sauna.  I told her I was tired from working so hard with Carlos on our new business.  She believed me.  She asked me how long it had been since I’d been with somebody.  Three hours?  I told her a month.  I told her about the chibola.  She said she hadn’t been with somebody since January.  I told her I bought a DVD on my way downtown.  The Wrestler starring Mickey Rourke and Marisa Tomei (remember my aforementioned soft spot).  Would she like to watch it at my apartment?  She would.

We made it a few minutes into the film before making out and petting.  We did it.  I couldn’t do it very good.  I told her I was really tired from working all day.  She believed me.  We slept until she went home around 2am.  We met for ceviche the next day.  Afterwords, we did it again – better.

At the end of the weekend, it didn’t hurt anymore.

Special undies

Before the trip, I went to REI for camping equipment. I bought a fleece, backpack, and a very special item: a $25 pair of special underwear you can wear for 4-5 days that doesn’t absorb odor/moisture. Happiness Level: A+

Cocoa Tea

We arrive in Peru. Upon arrival I notice the slight elevation sickness that everyone talks about so I drink the forbidden Cocoa Tea (made from pre-Cocaine leaves), which is supposed to dull the pain. Instead of the euphoric, drug-leaf-ridden tizzy I was hoping it would put me in, it made my stomach do jumping jacks while my upper intestine fell asleep with the door shut. Happiness Level: A-

Soup and nasty meat

We ate at various Peruvian diners. After eating 5 local meals I came to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter what you order in Peru. You’re guaranteed two things: Soup and nasty meat. Let’s see, I’ll order the Lomo Saltado: steak with french fries. Yum-o right? Yum-oh-fuck-no was more like it. A big bowl of bacteria-friendly, lukewarm chicken soup with various hard bits at the bottom to break your molars. Then a freeze-dried piece of steak, which was somewhere in between the process of making steak into jerky (you can’t enjoy it at either end). Not to mention the side of carrots and peas that made me want to run to the nearest Kaiser Permanente cafeteria on a Tuesday. Happiness Level: B+

The Trail

We discover an amazing 4-day tour called the Inca Jungle trail. This included a day of hiking, a few days of mountain biking, sleeping in a covered hostel each night and an air-conditioned bus ride to the top of Macchu Picchu. We do not take this trail. Instead we take the Salcantay trail, which is the hardest possible trail to take to Macchu Picchu: 5 days of hiking by foot, sleeping in thin tents in 20 degree weather, and a 4am wakeup call to scale Macchu Picchu to the top. But hey, we’re all soft San Diegans who complain when it’s 65 at night, this should be easy. The first day is amazing. Fresh air, a cool breeze with the sun beaming down. I’m so excited for the trek that I don’t even mind the soup and nasty meat the tour chef slops out. We arrive at the campsite, taking photos of the Andes in the distance. This is what life is all about, sharing great experiences with friends in remote places. Then it starts to hail. Happiness Level: B

The Flood

The tour group is excited to have made it to the first destination, laughing and monkeying around the campsite. The night sneaks up on us as the porters set up our tents. We all barrel into a nearby shack as the cook serves us up our final meal of the night. Soup and nasty meat per usual. Then it starts to pour rain. The three of us run to our tent and zip up the flap as soon as we can get our muddy boots inside. We set up our backpacks in an attempt to sleep on the rocky ground. Soon the storm turns into a bloody monsoon and water floods down the mountain under our tents. (Yes, the tents were setup at the bottom of a hill). The water soon turns to ice and freezes at the bottom of our tents. Sorta like sleeping on a waterbed in a freezer. Then water seeps into the tent, creating what I like to call a Cluster-Freeze. Happiness Level: F

The Huddle

We unzip the tent and run to the shack where we had eaten dinner. We scour for blankets or a place to sleep. At this point we realized the doorless shack was colder than the tent. We grab 3 of the small stools that we had used for dinner and rush them back to the tent. Into our shivering madness we did “the Huddle”. We position the chairs into a triad facing each other and went into an awkward huddle. David smartly suggested that we put the one non-soaked sleeping bag over our heads. Unfortunately all 3 of us are equipped with blazing-ly fast digestive systems, and when I say blazing, I mean it. So here we are, recreating a scene from Mel Brook’s Blazing Saddles where they eat beans around a campfire. Each horn that blew caused for a retreat outside of the blanket, which caused us to come up with a new game plan. We decided to mix it up, three in a row side-by-side, triangle position back-to-back-to-back, sleeping bag over top, sleeping bag over the legs. Nothing was working. We ended up 3 in a row as if we were riding a 3-man-motorcycle. 3 full grown men sitting on small child size stools like the 3 stooges in a canoe. Happiness Level: F-

The Hamster

No one sleeps that night as we brave the storm in our soaked tent. We finally come upon good luck in the morning as 2 French women are taking a 2-hour taxi ride from town to the campsite. We take the taxi back on a road with no pavement and plenty of slippery rocks. We heard that it’s common for the locals to eat “Cuy” or as we call it “Guinea Pig”, “Hamster” or “Herbie”. We found a wandering chef who took us to his favorite local restaurant that served the pet delicacy. After our bowl of soup, the Cuy was served. Rice, potato and a big brown ball of hot hamster served on a plate. I ate my hamster in silence as our chef tour guide stared at us eating. Thankfully the little guy didn’t have much meat, just tons of little bones that I could hide under the pile of rice. Sorry Herbie, you don’t taste good. Happiness Level: D+

Wannawhat?

After a night of eating late night pizza with questionable cheese and dipping hardly-fried fries into spicy yet tasteless green sauce, we wake up and walk up the mountain trail to Macchu Picchu.  The view is amazing, beautiful ruins made of rock and green grass. My stomach starts to rumble, leading to a verp of chocolate energy gel, acid and Hamster sauce. I stay positive and take it as a sign of my digestive system doing it’s magic. We decide to climb the highest mountain in Macchu Picchu called Wannapicchu. It’s a 45 minute climb at a 45 degree angle. As we climb up, I notice how tired my legs are and start breaking a sweat. We reach the top of the mountain and I look down at my stomach. It gives me the middle finger as it gurgles the stew brewing below. It hits me. It was time to “go”. I need to rush down the hill. I glide down the mountain, clenching my backside harder and tighter on each bumpy step. A pack of German tourists block my path with a half-walk, half-stand-in-your-fucking-way while shooting off-center pictures of plants. I duck through their unwashed bodies and make it to the start of the path. My stomach taps me on the shoulder and says, “If you’re not going to poop…”  I proceed to puke up water onto a patch of ancient rocks. A lady at the front of the bathroom is collecting 1 Sol ($0.30) to use the bathroom. I nearly punch her in the face (my wallet is in the storage bin). Thankfully I found a Sol in my pocket and take the best seat in the house. I say my final goodbyes to Herbie. Happiness Level: B to F to A+

Case of the ruins

I stay sick for the next 3 days, bed-ridden for one, popping antibiotics like popcorn and praying to survive our final days in Peru. The train to Lima is leaving in 10 minutes so we run to the station. As we arrive to the gate, I decide to let out one of my sickened farts outside of the train. As I let the bugle sound, I feel my shorts fill up as if I had made a smoothie from my ass. “Never trust a fart” my wise friend had once told me. I trusted, and now I have sharted. I run to the bathroom, lock the stall and pull my pants down to examine the damage. I had been spared. My special durable REI underwear had saved me, acting as a nest, holding in all of my “eggs”. I threw the $25 diaper into the trash bin and thanked the Gods of REI for sparing me after my case of the ruins. Happiness Level: D- to A+

Pictures (see all 371 pictures here)

I got really drunk and ran into Rosa, my ex-girlfriend. I told her I missed her. I told her I still think about her. I tried to kiss her. She kept saying that I wasn’t her boyfriend anymore. But she smiled while she said it. I don’t remember saying goodbye.

Damien made out with some thickie and took her to the beach for a couple hours. We caught up later and I wanted to sleep on the beach. He insisted on taking a taxi into town and looking for hostels. It was dawn on the beach, and he wanted to ride back to town to look for hostels.

We went back to town and no hostels had rooms available as the sun started beating down. We slept on park benches in the central plaza. We woke up and went to the beach. I started drinking with the old buddies.

I saw José, one of my basketball teammates. José is a clown and also a pretty muscular guy. The combination enticed me to hit him with a few body shots. He ducked at some point and I connected with his head. I apologized and everything was OK. But my hand still hurts today, three days later.

At another point, Mauricio told me to throw water at some guy on the beach. The guy was tall and seemingly handsome, and walking with five girls. I filled a glass with seawater and drenched him from behind. He acted mad. But he didn’t do anything. Later, Mauricio claimed he never told me to do that.

Damien left around 5pm. I wasn’t ready to go yet. I somehow wound up with some girls in a taxi back to Camaná. I wandered around the streets drinking. I bought a pint of rum and joined a group of guys at a street tea bar. Cart vendors sell fresh teas with various ingredients at makeshift bars. These vendors and their customers usually seem really poor. I brought my pint of rum to the tea bar and told the bartender to make a huge amount of tea with all the herbs and additives, to spike it with my rum, and serve everybody around. I talked shit with these guys for a while before taking the bus home.