Global Nomad Travel

San Francisco Church, Lima

06/27/10

Six months in…

Boxie-boo did her morning happy sway, mimicking the dance of the sugarplum ferry after 16 pictures of beer. Bingo bang bang was in full motion. Her smile gleamed like a well-oiled pair of buttocks. We were stoked!

As a result of catching up on sleep, I woke up in a good mood, feeling a presumptious happiness, like a dog when a doorbell rings and thinks the visitors arrived for him. Nothing could have further from the truth, unless I said I toured a whale´s vagina…that would be farther from the truth.

I ate a banana for breakfast. This is important.

Gravity had made me a really down to Earth kind of guy, until a taxi driver pick-up put me back on the insane diet - I lost my mind, replaced by a photo of a duck robot. He laid a massive egg in my bootae that cracked with battery acid and entered my veins with a rage, while tickling with feathers. Giggidy. It turned out to be a confrontational morning, where even the flags at nearby hotels said nothing to each other, only waved.

The Pukhara Hostel called a taxi at an agreed price of 15 Sol to take us the San Francisco Church. We got in the cab and around the corner, the driver demanded 25 Sol. Looking back on another confrontational moment with a taxi, I realized I was being insensitive. I told the driver to stop being a stupid liar without considering how incredibly difficult that must have been for him. The result was us getting out of the taxi, then being stalked by the driver who had a peculiar look on his face, as if he was driving naked from the waist down.

We got in another taxi, 12 Sol later. I then realized had I told the driver to think before he spoke, I would have never heard a word from him again. I had enough rage for him that had I sat on a whoopie cushion, a chair would have exploded and everybody would have been fed scrambled duck eggs. I suppose, after six months traveling, taxi bullshit was no more fun than a party with hemmroids. Thinking of this moment, the yelling driver and post-drop-off stalking, even my inability to use emoticons properly got to me :).

My mood changed immediately when the second taxi stopped. It was as if the whole world was a mirage - the taxi driver dropped us off and asked for no more money. It was a twilight zone moment, right before we entered a church with 35,000 bodies.

For the rest of the story, please whistle the tune to X Files.

“Watch your head,” our guide said as we entered the catacomb (tomb). “We do not want 35,000 and one bodies.”

There was no funeral music, no tears, a sight beyond emotion. The walls were solitary mounds of brick, the ceiling low as we stood on unseen tombs. It was cold, a perpertual sight inbetween twilight, between life and death. The ceiling drooped in flickering lights, moving shadows, on a motionless landscape. With my head ducked down and an eerie chillness against my skin, it was impossible not to believe in ghosts.

With the smell of decay, we walked where the dead slumbered. It was a room of empty dreams, where unspoken souls whispered. The pathway was lined with bones, even deep wells filled with human skulls. My breaths felt stolen, my neck hairs raised and steps watched. I felt my bones crawling within my skin. Senses strong. The world outside was forgotten.

“This is so creepy,” Boxie-boo said, walking through a low passage way, dim-lit and cold, appearing to be the route of death himself. Human remains surrounded her on both sides, as she glanced down making eye contact with eyeless skulls.

“This place has to be haunted,” I said, surrounded by the dead. “This is really *beeped* up.”

No photos were allowed, but I managed to find one online that someone must have snuck from inside. The above link illustrates the art of death at San Francisco Church, using thigh bones and skulls to make a flower out of human bodies.

Surprise ending: You are not reading this. We are all in a mental hospital reading messages in Alaphabet Soup.

That´s all for now.

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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. 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.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.