Finally my brain worked this morning. My pen ran out in the cafe last night and I'm desperate to write. I was going to despair for the third time this morning but then I remembered my date book came with a small little pencil.
I had a really wonderful stay in Peru. I am leaving utterly ungracefully. A series of little issues:
1. When the clerk in the hostel called the bank for me regarding my eaten ATM card, she relayed the recorded message she was listening to, that my only option is to cancel my card. Another new card makes my third this year. I've had this last one for less than a month! I think maybe there is a $10 card replacement fee.
2. Upon check-out my hostel bill came to $104 solars, more than I expected, more than what the internet site I booked through said it would cost and more than the type of room I actually booked. I had only taken $100 solars out at the ATM and still needed around $30 for a cab to the airport. Of course the hostel doesn't take credit cards so that's another $3.85 in Cashpassport withdrawal fee down the drain.
3. Worst of all: when I get to immigration at the airport I realise I had forgotten about the exit card I filled in upon arrival. I've been carrying this slip of paper with me in the pocket of my red bag. Of course now that I need it it isn't there anymore and I can't think where I've put it. I had a hopeless dig through my bag, knowing all the while it wouldn't be there, and then went back to the immigration officer and said 'No puedo helgadia', which I think means 'I can't find' - but he only understood my English. In the end losing my exit card wasn't a big deal; I simply had to pay another $15 solars, which I had on me. But here's the stupid part: as I was walking away to the gate, I remembered that I had put the card in my belly pouch. Sure enough, when I checked there it was, safe and sound. $15 solars wasted.
I am having another 'triple' sandwich at the airport. I have just eaten the little blue cheese and cucumber sandwich I brought - consoling myself - but I figure I should spend the last of my Peruvian change, so I eat again.
I get so upset about what are really small amounts of money. I hate it. I had a nice stay at Pirwa hostel and instead of leaving with thanks and a smile, I left aggrieved and scowling, which is wrong. It wasn't as expensive as I thought in the moment (around $15 AUS per night) when I actually did the math: $27 solars per night is $12 AUS, which is a perfectly reasonable price. My emotional relaxation due to this recalculation indicates that $3 makes a bloody difference to me!
What bothers me is that I waste money due to my own stupidity - so, not only the loss of money but my lack of sense. And now it turns out that the fucking prices here at the cafe are in dollars and not solars! Arrgggh. So I pay in dollars and give my $9 solars to the waitress. I hate this. Next time I travel to only one country so I only go through all this once!
Monday, July 13, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
9.02pm, Tuesday May 19, KSA Tomada ....such a lovely afternoon
I have spent the most enjoyable afternoon with G, a couchsurfer I arranged to meet with at Larcomar, the shopping plaza on the sea in Miraflores. We sat in a restaraunt called Mango and ate dessert while looking out at the ocean's fog. I had something pudding-like, apparently fruit-flavoured though it tasted more lke cheesecake, and a lukewarm cafe au lait. I was given a coffee cup and three mini pitchers, one of espresso, one of water, one of milk. Gratifying to play with but I prefer my coffee hot.
G is a handsome and lovely, open, intelligent and interesting professor and artist. I talked and talked to him. We spoke of movies and plays and my thesis and working. I did not talk about my zits or my weight. That's what happens when I am with a male. I control myself in order to make a confident impression. That's not to say I wasn't painfully aware of my zits or my unflattering black shorts the entire time. I wore them because I was pretending it was a hot day and I didn't want my vanity/insecurity to determine my clothes. We talked a bit about the experience of growing up under communism and then major upheavals of government.
We also talked about existing on the fringe of the arts world, which for him is a choice, for me a lack of personality. While he craves obscurity despite his many successes in the arts industry, I crave fame and would be fine with hanging out in the art-power circles if they'd have me in all my existential unmaskedness.
G has lived in Vancouer and Boston but loves Lima and Peru. We talked so much that the fog cleared and the ocean lay steely blue beyond us.
G drove me to Baranco, the city's old bohemian quarter overlooking the sea, where some painters and sculptors still live and now home to popular clubs. We walked along a wide cobbled path between old summer sea houses and looked out at the ocean. It was a beautiful warm moment of the night, the sun setting a light pink band across the horizon in a lightly but evenly clouded sky. I could have stayed there forever.
We drove on for another view of the sea and then went below the major highway where the city has recently installed large sculptures, several fountains and a footbridge. This little public area appeared to be in the middle of nowhere but it is where people cross to go to the beach and there were rows of closed beachside stalls, wooden white with slatted sides.
G's love of his country is inspiring - as was W's fondness for her city - and I wish that I was staying in Peru longer. I hope to keep in touch with G and meet him again soon.
I am now back in the bookshop for a second round of triple sandwich and beer. The sandwich was less perfect than Monday night's but still just what I wanted.
Earlier this evening I stupidly entered my pin number incorrectly three times in an ATM machine and it ate my card. Stupid!
I should go before it gets to late.
G is a handsome and lovely, open, intelligent and interesting professor and artist. I talked and talked to him. We spoke of movies and plays and my thesis and working. I did not talk about my zits or my weight. That's what happens when I am with a male. I control myself in order to make a confident impression. That's not to say I wasn't painfully aware of my zits or my unflattering black shorts the entire time. I wore them because I was pretending it was a hot day and I didn't want my vanity/insecurity to determine my clothes. We talked a bit about the experience of growing up under communism and then major upheavals of government.
We also talked about existing on the fringe of the arts world, which for him is a choice, for me a lack of personality. While he craves obscurity despite his many successes in the arts industry, I crave fame and would be fine with hanging out in the art-power circles if they'd have me in all my existential unmaskedness.
G has lived in Vancouer and Boston but loves Lima and Peru. We talked so much that the fog cleared and the ocean lay steely blue beyond us.
G drove me to Baranco, the city's old bohemian quarter overlooking the sea, where some painters and sculptors still live and now home to popular clubs. We walked along a wide cobbled path between old summer sea houses and looked out at the ocean. It was a beautiful warm moment of the night, the sun setting a light pink band across the horizon in a lightly but evenly clouded sky. I could have stayed there forever.
We drove on for another view of the sea and then went below the major highway where the city has recently installed large sculptures, several fountains and a footbridge. This little public area appeared to be in the middle of nowhere but it is where people cross to go to the beach and there were rows of closed beachside stalls, wooden white with slatted sides.
G's love of his country is inspiring - as was W's fondness for her city - and I wish that I was staying in Peru longer. I hope to keep in touch with G and meet him again soon.
I am now back in the bookshop for a second round of triple sandwich and beer. The sandwich was less perfect than Monday night's but still just what I wanted.
Earlier this evening I stupidly entered my pin number incorrectly three times in an ATM machine and it ate my card. Stupid!
I should go before it gets to late.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
1.04pm, Pirwa hostel rooftop bar ....tamale goodness
I have taken a photo of my meal: a tamale, passionfruit, carambola and a blue cheese and cucumber sandwich - a feast fit for a queen!
On the way back from the gallery I walked the wrong way up Chiclayo. I passed a chocolate shop and when I turned around to go back the other way I decided I was MEANT to get chocolate, especially since I promised Solita I would sample chocolate on her behalf. I bought two dark truffles, one with coconut and one with caramel inside. Very good and only $3 solars.
The tamale is also very good. I found one piece of chicken in it, but it was easily cast aside.
A turtle's head is very phallic, the neck all wrinkly and growing. (There is a pet turtle up here at the hostel.)
On the way back from the gallery I walked the wrong way up Chiclayo. I passed a chocolate shop and when I turned around to go back the other way I decided I was MEANT to get chocolate, especially since I promised Solita I would sample chocolate on her behalf. I bought two dark truffles, one with coconut and one with caramel inside. Very good and only $3 solars.
The tamale is also very good. I found one piece of chicken in it, but it was easily cast aside.
A turtle's head is very phallic, the neck all wrinkly and growing. (There is a pet turtle up here at the hostel.)
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
11.26am, Galeria de Centro Cultural PUCP
For once I am writing while still in the presence of what I write about. I am at an exhibition of works by Peruvian artist Cristina Galvez. A good portion of her work is sculpture and drawings of animal- or form-faced human forms, skinny, with arms that taper off a quarter of the way down. Their armlessness and straight thinness is disturbing and the fantastical quality fo the characters I find very masculine. A series of ink drawings tell a story of a faceless king, and loop-faced queen. The king is murdered, there is a battle.
Other of Galvez's works are quite different and lovely: two ink or charcoal drawings of women with a cat; a beautiful sculpture of a hollow, slant-eyed and sad-looking tiger; a sculpture of a trapeze artist, a woman projecting herself back from a dangling triangle, hands gripping the bar, feet just above. It is all black and the woman is formed of wire-like long gobs of swirling metal.
A series of simple sketches in pen show Indian people - a snake charmer, female dancer, the back of a rickshaw - and there is a series of erotic orgy sketches titled 'joie de vivre'. I particularly like a sculpture of a sitting woman that is completely her metal drapery.
It is difficult to imagine that the same imagination produced these various works.
Other of Galvez's works are quite different and lovely: two ink or charcoal drawings of women with a cat; a beautiful sculpture of a hollow, slant-eyed and sad-looking tiger; a sculpture of a trapeze artist, a woman projecting herself back from a dangling triangle, hands gripping the bar, feet just above. It is all black and the woman is formed of wire-like long gobs of swirling metal.
A series of simple sketches in pen show Indian people - a snake charmer, female dancer, the back of a rickshaw - and there is a series of erotic orgy sketches titled 'joie de vivre'. I particularly like a sculpture of a sitting woman that is completely her metal drapery.
It is difficult to imagine that the same imagination produced these various works.
Monday, June 29, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
10.45pm, Monday May 18, lower bunk ....such a nice day
It is late (yes, yes, in my normal life it is all too early) but I wanted to write a little bit. I have come from a nice dinner with J. The vegetarian restaurant was not open, so we walked a bit and found a little restaurant catering to locals rather than tourists - cheap meals, non-atmosphere, dotted with old men. I had a tortilla verdura, which was a straight omelette, enormous, with canned vegetables, served on a bed of rice with green yoghurty chili sauce. J had grilled chicken on a bed of rice, with fries and salad. We shared a large bottle of beer ($5 solars).
J is a psychologist, finishing her PhD with hopes to be a researcher. We talked a lot about our issues and self-betterment goals. It was nice talking with another open American. Overall it was such a lovely day - sunny (my nose is sunburnt), full of good conversation, gorgeous objects and buildings, adventure, relaxation, triumph. But more detail tomorrow. Now, sleep.
7.16pm, Monday May 18, hostel bar ....just quickly
I am shortly to go off to dinner at a vegetarian restaurant with J, an American doctoral scientist from Michigan. We spent the day together in the beautiful city centre of Lima, all conquistador architecture - government buildings and cathedrals. Yellow boxy buildings with several stories of enclosed black balconies; an enormous white governor´s mansion reminiscent of both Buckingham Palace and London´s Parliament building.
J and I listened to the military band play American tunes in front of the mansion and went to an awe-inspiring Franciscan monastery. Surrounding a small, beautiful dry-looking courtyard with palms, oleanders and other green flowering things, the monastery has a general grand spaciousness that was changed over the centuries, from wall friezes which only bits of can be seen after layers of wall were scraped away to whitewash. These balconies are covered by ageing wooden ceiling tiling. The monastery´s major stairway is topped by an impressive Moorish wooden star-patterned dome and in the cathedral the figures of saints are intricately carved on every friar´s seat, which all face a stand for an enormous songbook. The monastery also houses a library that still has 300-year-old parchment books (that only special researchers may touch), a skylight and a classic spiral wooden staircase to a balcony level.
Underneath the monastery are catacombs, burial home to 250,000 people. Archeologists have organised the bones they found according to type, and in a few deep pits decorously arranged them in kaleidescopic patterns of skulls and bones. There are many higgeldy-piggeldy narrow passageways and random rooms, making the catacombs look more like a secret escape route or covert prison than anything else.
J and I listened to the military band play American tunes in front of the mansion and went to an awe-inspiring Franciscan monastery. Surrounding a small, beautiful dry-looking courtyard with palms, oleanders and other green flowering things, the monastery has a general grand spaciousness that was changed over the centuries, from wall friezes which only bits of can be seen after layers of wall were scraped away to whitewash. These balconies are covered by ageing wooden ceiling tiling. The monastery´s major stairway is topped by an impressive Moorish wooden star-patterned dome and in the cathedral the figures of saints are intricately carved on every friar´s seat, which all face a stand for an enormous songbook. The monastery also houses a library that still has 300-year-old parchment books (that only special researchers may touch), a skylight and a classic spiral wooden staircase to a balcony level.
Underneath the monastery are catacombs, burial home to 250,000 people. Archeologists have organised the bones they found according to type, and in a few deep pits decorously arranged them in kaleidescopic patterns of skulls and bones. There are many higgeldy-piggeldy narrow passageways and random rooms, making the catacombs look more like a secret escape route or covert prison than anything else.
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