It All Begins in Lima

« Return to Peru

Joseph “Mr Lima” Berry has friends who rent a holiday home at Les Playas Totoritos, and they welcome me warmly. Not even twelve hours off the plane and I’m getting sloshed on the beach with the locals, the sun sizzling my white, winter skin. Their English varies from good to none, but I never feel left out, never feel foreign, largely due to the friendly nature and enthusiasm of Mr Lima. I eat my first home-made ceviche and it is delicious, play bats with Delfina, a mother of three who looks like she just walked off a fashion ramp. The beach is full of well-to-do folk from Lima, and Peruvian women are more distracting than you’d think. “Candy for the eye,” says Mr Lima. Eye candy indeed. We swim and sand and I take some pictures, drink more beer, a Cuba Libre (rum and coke), a cold shower. Soon we’re back on the road, cranking the classic sounds of Journey and Supertramp, arriving at a beachfront mall straight out of Miami. Here I drink my first Pisco Sour, the native drink of Peru, which tastes like a margherita, but screws you closer to absinthe. Mr Lima knows everyone, people stopping and saying hi and hello and my cousin knows someone in La Paz. Everyone around me speaks in Spanish, but I listen intently, as if at any moment someone will press a button and it will all make sense. It doesn’t, but nobody minds a quiet, smiling guy with a fedora. Joseph tells the story of the $6 a night hole I almost dug myself, and everyone is shocked. “Your laptop, gone, first day,” he says, and I believe him. “You are one lucky guy,” he says, and I believe him too.

That night, Mr Lima arranges me to go out with Astrid’s 22-year old daughter, Melissa. She picks me up with a quiet, sweet couple and we go see a friend of theirs perform at a bar downtown. Melissa sparkles and glows, smelling like the fresh jasmine that surrounds the San Isidro neighborhood. We have a grand old time, drinking straight pisco shooters, hearing Hey Jude mangled twice in one night, walking amidst the local core even though I look like a total gringo asshole. She negotiates with cabs until one finally agrees not to rip us off, and I arrive home sloshed and happy and completely, utterly over stimulated.

Waking up, I look for the bedside table in my Vancouver room, but it isn’t there. They say you’re a real traveler when you wake up not knowing where the hell you are. It only took me one night! The routine that lends so much meaning to our lives has been taken out of the Modern Gonzo equation. Every day, something new. Melissa picks me up to show me downtown, where we visit the main square and a 17th century Francescan Monestary that houses the bones of 25 thousand people. I come head to head with batshit (the catacombs are built using guano bricks) and lose, smashing my temple into the low ceilings. The Franciscans ruled this town, probably with the same leather straps they used to whack off with. Naturally, there is a great sense of hell and brimstone.
“Jesus,” I say, staring at massive 17th century canvases, depicting, yes, Jesus.
Earlier, we walk through a gorgeous park where an olive orchard still resides, planted by the first Spaniards. The trees are knotted in pain and beauty. Next to the Peruvian flag above City Hall is a large rainbow flag, straight out of the Pump Jack Men Only Nightclub. Melissa explains that the rainbow flag belonged to the native Peruvians before being co-opted by the Village People. Ironically, Peruvians are not very tolerant of homosexuals, further proof that God has a great sense of humour.

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