It All Begins in Lima

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The line-up at immigration is long and edgy, moving at about a person every ten minutes. After twenty minutes, we noticed our particular line-up now lacked an immigration officer, and so began the game of skipping lines with the goal of ending closer and not further away from where you started. Nearly an hour later, I was stamped and on my way to the baggage claims, where heaps of luggage sat like cars on a bombed Iraqi highway. It was chaos, and my backpack was nowhere to be seen. First panic. 25 minutes later, it miraculously appears and I thank God, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha and Bono. It’s almost two hours since the plane landed, two hours late, and there’s chaos just beyond the final customs check. Oh little man with the sign, where are thou? Nowhere, and now the panic strikes again, adding to the humidity, noise and heat. I figure I’m screwed, but then I notice there are even more little men with signs outside, and there is my guy with a sign, and once more I give thanks to the universe. His name is Nesto, he speaks zero English, which is OK, because I speak zero Spanish and neither of us know where we’re going. The only words I can make out are “dangerous” and “lost” and the map book is out, driving at breakneck speed (at one point reversing at about 60km an hour for about five minutes), no road order whatsoever, smog, noise and colour reminiscent of a night club. The street is lined with neon Discoteca signs, the early hour heat debilitating, and I smile like a dog that’s been given a dinosaur bone. Welcome to Peru.

His name is Joseph Berry, but from now on I’ll call him Mr Lima. A call to the Peruvian consulate in Vancouver introduced me to Marybell, and Marybell’s brother has a good friend named Joseph, and Joseph will take care of me in Lima. We got in touch via email and when he found out where I was planning to stay, a $6 a night hotel somewhere downtown, he checked it out and felt utterly responsible for saving my life. I am now in a spacious room inside his gorgeous villa, a B&B located in the historic, olive-tree suburb of San Isidro. He greets me at 3:30am, shows me my room and promises to wake me up for the beach tomorrow. The culture shock is intense, and I lie awake as if my dreams and body are unable to make sense of it all.

True enough, I am woken in the morning with a fresh breakfast and a manic Mr Lima, interested and excited and 100% genuine. He is 42, but the gray hairs have to fight major battles to invade his thick black hair. In the car is Astrid, his childhood friend who speaks good English. We pick up Joe’s girlfriend Zenia and the next thing I know we are driving south to a private beach. When we think of Lima, we don’t think of beaches, but that will change. The pacific waves were immense, the weather hot, the water warm, the folk friendly. I see the suicidal taxis that are common the world over, massive billboards with half naked woman dry-humping beer bottles. I see slums, desert, overcrowded mini-buses. I see teams of tight-clad promo girls, and so many of the women I see are stunning. I see a class culture divide as solid as any I’ve seen since South Africa, in the language, in the clothing, in the attitude. I see girls giving free massages on the beach, and I see the ground as an Incan beauty kneads my back like dough because Johnson & Johnson are promoting some new cream. I see Lima, and I like it.

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