The Huaca Pucllana Ruins, Lima
06/26/10
Taking off my shirt and dropping my pants (I see that I already have your full attention), I reached into my belly button and pulled a clump of lint the size of a small grape. I then thought of my readers and named the clump stalker McGee. Waiting for the shower to warm, I shivered enough that had I still be wearing pants, I would have been tempted to pee myself.
Our room was cold beyond the blankets, as in our experience, Peruvian hostels were not heated. This fact combined with no water pressure resulted in half my body burning, while goosebumps immediately formed where the lack of water missed. Half shivering and half burning, it was another hit of goat menopause.
In the shower, I had the provocative dance of a squirrel who confused his shadows for nuts: jerky and twitching, voice chirping and hands aimlessly flailing with soap, body spinning and trying not to cry, with my muscles tight and face scrunched, giving me an innate ability to be permanently constipated. The light gave me a shadow. The water gave me no nuts. The squirrel in me prepared for starvation.
I know what you are thinking - what a whining bitch - and you´re right.
It was in that very moment when the coldness near changed me into a woman, I realized I was beginning to miss those familiar comforts of home:
-a guaranteed good night´s sleep
-a warm shower with pressure
-knowing food would not give me diarrhea
-taking a dump without worrying abut stepping in poop or having to thow the toilet paper in a garbage can due to poor plumbing
-being treated as an equal and not a foreigner to be conned
-seen as a human being and not a white man with unlimited money who can buy everything
-paying the same price as locals without having to barter for 30 minutes
-etc.
Sorry, I needed to vent or the “laowai” in me, Chinese for foreigner, risked randomly biting people in public or refusing to wear clothes. Recently, I had begun to lose patience for many things: menus shoved in my face, salespeople grabbing my wrist, being stalked by honking taxi drivers or beggars gripping my pants. I needed a break. I said I would tell you what it is like to travel around the world, and sometimes, more than anything else, being constantly treated like a foreigner drove me near madness.
Venting over.
I cannot complain too much, or else you guys will forget how terrific I smell. It was a frustrating morning, admittedly over something I had dealt with many times before. All in all, I was glad we found a hostel to stay at in Lima. The night before we left Cusco, we received an email from the owner of the Albergue Miraflowers House telling us that our reservation was cancelled, less than a day´s notice. After hours of searching online, I managed to find one hostel with a private room for the day we landed, the Pukhara Hostel, in the neighbourhood I wanted of Miraflores.
After giving us some much needed rest, we headed out to the Huaca Pucllana, jumping in a taxi for 8 Sol.
Miraflores was a grimmy town, messy with faded painted and a sky of a perpetual fog that highlighted the bulky and grey architecture. Overcast and gritty, the buildings were stained with rusted air-conditioners and dusty satelitte dishes. Small homes were covered in metal bars with windows smoked stained. Haunting. Our driver made the sign of a cross while we passed a church, while I slouched, to keep my head from banging into the ceiling at intersection potholes.
Looking up at walls sprawling with grafitti, we passed packed vans with rusted wheel wells. Our driver turned, moving along a residential side street with some flowers and cacti plants, then pulled into a parking lot that appeared to be brown sand melted over black rocks. Bumping to a stop, I leaned forward to pull the sol from my wallet and banged my head.
For 10 sol each including an English guide, we entered the Huaca Pucllana ruins.
Inside a small gallery were ancient tools including stone to mould ceramics and a hair comb that appeared to be made of small nails wrapped in cloth. There were pots designed with shark symbols, figures created from bone and sewing needles made from cacti plants. We had entered the time of the Lima people, dating back 200-700 AD, well before the Incas. It was a strange sight, one with a massive crumble of an ancient pyramid, surrounded by modern buildings, both shrowded in the city´s winter grey.
The pyramid appeared to be a giant pile of books, faded into hardened dust, set up ladder-like towards the top, uneven and appearing fragile, able to disappear with a gust of wind. The Huaca Pucllana took 200 years to build and was once home to a perfected pyramid for religious purposes, administrative buildings and markets for trading. Our guide explained it was built using the “Bookshelf technique” to protect against seismic activity, allowing movement between the stacking enclopedia-sized shelves.
Archaelogists at the site had found the remains of food, fruit and vegetables in the temple for offerings to the gods, including human skulls for sacrifice. Since women represented fertility and children represented purity, the Limas sacrificed them for their godesses.
“There were women like governors and high priests,” our guide said. “This is why it was a martriachal society.”
“Sacrifice was not seen as punishment, but an honor.”
On top of the pyramid, our guide stood on dirt turned hard as stone. He pointed to holes where tree trunks were planted, alongside walls painted yellow, in an area to pay respect to their ancestors and praise their goddesses. Within the small holes, priests and followers placed offerings in area cracked in the shape of lightning bolts. The women priests would lead the people, paying their respects to the sea and moon. Looking down along the unbalanced bookshelf of brown, the bottom looked like receeding, ocean-front cliffs in low tide, stepping into a desert of sand. Up top, the female leaders would smash pottery with rocks as an offering, often after a customary meal of guinea pig - something Peruvians still eat today.
“You might find it weird to eat guinea pig,” our guide said, “but we find it weird other cultures keep them as pets.” I suppose in some countries, a Canadian pet store is a slaughter house, from stray dogs being hunted in China for their brains, to guinea pigs deep fried.
On this day, I also realized how few things excited us anymore. Seeing and learning about new things had become a daily activity. My boredom changed the moment I met one of the world´s ugliest dogs.
The site had Peruvian Hairless Dogs as pets, walking around with red blankets against their backs. With a few random red hairs and diseased-looking black skin, patchy and with scab-like red marks, Boxie-boo was afriad to go near them. I petted one once it stopped growling. It felt like worn leather with spikey hairs, similiar to an elephant.
“They say if you pet them they can cure things like arthritis,” he said. Boxie-boo was still unconvinced and was hiding behind me.
At night, we gave ourselves a rare treat since Africa - the enjoyment of cooking for ourselves. Back home, it is simply a routine and something to be done. Even grocery shopping had become enjoyable. For giggles, I am always tempted to secretly throw a box of condoms into the carts of a little old lady, use her same checkout just to watch for the cashier’s reaction. When traveling, being able to make whatever you want - in our case, Boxie-boo´s steak recipe, corn and a giant salad - was one way for us to snap out of our travel negativity and continue. We were thankful the Pukhara Hostel, the first in since Johannesburg, had a kitchen we could use.
That´s all for now.
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