8.00am, Tuesday May 19th, Pirwa hostel bar ....the curse of pimples

'Pimples' is such a harmles word compared to what goes on on my chin. Before I left for this trip I developed more huge painful zits that I tried to leave alone. I gave in to my overwhelming desire to massacre them: they hurt. So I came here with a series of welts that I have been incredibly self-conscious of, commenting on my face to others, particularly when I am told I look so much younger than I am - 'It's the zits', I say, 'Like I'm fourteen!' I was hoping they would go away by the time I got to Venezuela but instead I got another one that I turned into a vibrant scab while wandering around Lima yesterday. I hate my face!

But now I drink coca tea, the stuff that cocaine is made from. In tea, rather than drug, form, its properties are 'restorative and energetic', anti-diaretic, helpful for altitude sickens and tiredness,
'relieves tiredness of voice' and 'regulates the metabolism of carbohydrate'. It is nice - a sharp green tea flavour.

I was woken up at 6.30am by the three very loud boys who sleep in the room adjacent to mine. They also woke me when they came home late last night. They don't seem to understand the concept of hostel and my earplugs are no match for them.

Upon emerging into the bright sun from the Franciscan monastery yesterday, J and I picked a direction and walked. We saw the colourful houses of Lima's poor rising up the side of a mountain with a cross on its peak and wandered an area full of little shops in the wall, selling fabric, spectacles, decorative crap and other sundries. We turned a corner and found the Inquisition Museum, which J had wanted to see.

I was suddenly very tired. The museum was free but the tour in Spanish, so I can't tell you much about the tour. We began in the Inquisition room, church-like, with three mannequins sitting behind a big table and an accused mannequin to its side. The tour led through rooms with cut-away floors exposing bits of stone dungeon-like torture chambers. Simulations of torture, such as water poured in the eyes, were also provided by mannequins. Overall, a rather gruesome place.

Again picking a direction to walk, J and I stumbled upon the Museo de Oro - museum of gold -housed in what seemed like an old bank building. The entry floor displayed coins from various epochs of Peru's colonial history. An upper floor housed a collection of paintings organized to take the viewer through the defining movements of Peruvian fine arts. There were some lovely works here - a painting of two llamas, one standing, one sitting; a mother and child; some abstract works. The lower floor showed us a collection of ancient Peruvian pottery and jewellery, and the Inca gold - necklaces, masks and dishware. The pottery was wonderful - cute, squat animal figures - and all of the work had much personality and celebration. The gold was mostly hammered, thin, patterned pieces, though there was also some beaded necklaces with gold charms.

I felt tired to the point of illness at the Inquisition Museum, better as we wandered, and by the time I was ready to leave the gold museum I wanted nothing more than to lay down and sleep. J and I found a cafe - a huge, long room with green arched and rendered walls and neon green light in the back room. I had what tasted like banana cake with dates. J and I felt refreshed after eating and drinking water and sitting for a while, so we decided to try catching the bus back to Miraflores.

J's guidebook recommended buses as safer than taxis. The hostel worker decried buses. I feel up for any adventure when I am not alone and I always want to take public transportation when I am in a new city. So, to the bus! After some discussion and street-crossing and questioning we found a bus to Miraflores and it was me, ME!, me with my non-existent sense of direction and hyperactive tendency to get lost, who recognised where to get off. It was such a moment of triumph!

We found ourselves a mini-bus, one of several types of buses cruising around the city, and we sat up front. The bus drivers are crazy and beep all the time and nearly hit other vehicles as they weave in and out of traffic lanes. But aside from the dangers of impatient bus drivers, I never felt unsafe, sinffed nary a whiff of danger. I wonder if people get overprotective of tourists, or perhaps overreact to tourists' own fears? Safety, it seems, is a very subjective sense.

Whereas Buenos Aireans do not believe in sitting on toilet seats, Lima folks do not flush toilet paper. Throwing toilet paper into a bin is gross for all involved.

It looks to be another sunny, beautiful day. This time I put sunscreen on.