31 December 2007

31 December 2007
Hola desde Lima, Peru,
The gleam in passengers’ eyes let you know that the smell of land was wafting softly over the sea as we churned eastward and our first real landfall since leaving Easter Island. Considering that we were only ashore for four hours at Easter Island and we didn’t really go ashore at Pitcairn Island, we have been at sea on the lovely Pacific Princess for eleven days straight with litle testing of our land legs to see if they still work. It is really a strange sensation when you step ashore, after along period at sea, and the realization creeps over you that the floor has stopped moving. Most people stagger for a few minutes as they reacquaint themselves with Mother Earth, bless her solid quickly wearing out self.
Our first visit to Peru was a call of convenience rather than attraction. Several hundred of our passengers elected to take the three day tour to Machu Pichu while others chose a two day tour to the Galapagos Islands. San Martin, Peru was a good spot for both of these transfers. Other than that, those of us who stayed behind rejecting such exotica were left with few choices. There was a birding tour in the small bays on the coast of Peru and another tour to see the devastation created by last summer’s earthquake that centered on Pisco, about 45 kilometers from the port at San Martin, effectively leveling the entire community. We were told that the 7.0 quake lasted for almost ten minutes.
While San Martin is named after the Liberator of Peru, General San Martin, and the site played a significant role in the fight for Peruvian independence, little else was shared with us about the town. Actually, to call the place a town is a complete misnomer. It is simply a seaport that serves the southern part of Peru and not much else. Marty and I donned our adventure outfits, big hats and sunscreen, and headed out of the gates of the port. After walking a mile or so, we looked ahead and didn’t see a soul. We looked behind us and didn’t see anyone following. We came to a quick conclusion that our adventurous spirits probably weren’t going to produce much excitement in our lives.
Several taxis stopped as they passed us to sell us rides to wherever. In each case we told the drivers that we were looking for a telephone where we could call the United States. Each dutifully produced
his cell phone and looked quizzically at for a moment before deciding that it wouldn’t do. We were told several times that there was a hotel a few miles down the road that “might” have a telephone we could use. After walking another mile or so through interminable sand dunes, we came to a high spot in the road where we could see ahead for several miles. No building was in sight. As a matter of fact, nothing was in sight except more sand dunes with the ocean off to the west. We finally succumb to the next taxi that stopped when he told us there was a telephone shop in the next village that could help us. The next village was another six or seven miles north along the road we were hiking. The town, Maragossa, was a small fishing village of perhaps 400 population. Our driver wound his way through a variety of shops and houses and sopped in front of a shop with a telephone sign sandwich boarded in front. We hopped out and received a quick lesson on how to use the shop’s satellite cell phone and I was in business. My first call went through immediately but then died before Marilyn Athenour had a chance to discover who was on the other end of the line. My second call was to Dottie and she came through clear as a bell. The phone had amplification so everyone within 100 meters was privileged to my call. At first, I turned to the gathering crowd interested in what the Gringos were doing and asked as politely as I could, Privata,Por Favor. This only brought more people off the street into the already crowded eight feet by eight feet shop. In defense, I ducked through a dorr at the back of the shop leading into the shop keepers home. Now I had two little two year old staring at me from behind their stark nakedness. They didn’t seem to mind what probably sounded to them like nonsensical “cooing” so I didn’t mind them listening in. As Dottie and I talked, I noted that my path had led me to a new sociological discovery; Peruvians don’t have doors on their toilets. The facility was very clean and inviting but I hadn’t been invited.
While I was chatting it up by satellite, Marty was outside keeping in eye on the taxi driver who had promised to take us home when we were finished. He attracted almost as much attention as my conversation with Dottie. In the latter case, we found later that there was only one man in the village who could understand and speak English. Even without the necessary language skills, I guessed that the characteristic noise that emits through puckered lips was a message that all could understand. Anyway, back to Marty. He was first approached by a man with a boat who wanted to take him out in the bay on a fishing expedition. When he rejected that offer, another wanted to take him to what the locals call the “Little Galapagos”, some nearby islands that are thoroughly encrusted with guano deposited by the thousands of birds who call the little islands home. This gentlemen too left dejectedly with head hung toward the dirt road in front of the shop.
Next came a string of lovely young ladies who spotted Marty as something of a sport looking for a good time. Poor Marty doesn’t understand any Spanish but he had no difficulty understanding the sign language involved in pressing the message. When I finally finished my call, I came back into the shop to find Marty in the middle of the street saying cutesy little things in English like No!, I said No! Stop touching me and other such endearments. Our calls completed, we asked our Taxi driver if anyone in town could help us make an airline reservation. My Spanish got the message across and we soon found ourselves in front of a Travel office, perhaps the nicest looking shop in town. The two girls in the shop knew nothing about aviones or aerolineas or reservationes so our driver took us to a café overlooking the marina where dozens of small boat rocked gently with the tide. The gentleman was introduced to us with grand eloquence and we knew we were probably speaking to the patron of all patrons in Maragossa. He quietly but positively told us that there used to be a travel agent in Pisco but the shop no longer existed. He suggested our best bet would be in Lima. We thanked him with returned graciousness and returned to the cab.
Our chatty cab driver asked me where I was from and all the usual questions. I in return asked him where he lived. He told me he lived in Pisco. I immediately asked if he had been effected by the Tremulo or Sismo as they call earthquakes in Peru. He told me his story. At the time of the earthquake, he was in his cab about a mile from his home. The street immediately filled with rubble. He ran to his home to find that the second story floor had collapsed so that the pile of his remaining house was less than two meters high. He frantically searched around the house and found no one. His neighbors helped him begin to search through the rubble until he found his wife, his nine year old daughter, his fifteen year old son and his two parents, all dead. I offered my hand over the front sseat mumbling a simple “lo siento” and “tu familia son con Dios” I couldn’t think of anything else to say to the poor man. After about five minutes of quiet, he perked up a bit and and asked me, “Y usted Senior, tiene una familia”. I told him about my two daughters and there families. He then asked, “tiene una espousa?” I responded “No amigo, ella is muerta”. He raised his hand for mind and gave my hand a squeeze. When we finished our drive to the port and I was paying the fare, our eyes met momentarily and he opened his arms for an embrazo. What can I say?………….
Our next port of call, Callou/Lima, Peru, provided some welcomed site seeing and a new experience. Marty and I decided that the first thing we wanted to do was to explore Callou, the town adjacent to Peru’s largest seaport. Both of us had been to Lima in the past to see the sights so we were looking for a new venue to explore. A free shuttle took us to the port gate where we had to show all kinds of identification just to get through the gate. Once through the gate, we were besieged by the dozen taxi drivers parked at the curb waiting for fares. We made it through the phalanx of drivers safely and without succumbing to their terrific deals and began our walk away from the port. Within a block, we became aware of a police car following us slowly at the curb. A few minutes later, we couldn’t help but notice that one of the policemen had left the car and was walking at a brisk pace to catch up to us. Once he was abreast of us, he asked where we were going. I responded that we were going “por pie”, for a walk. A donde, to where he asked. We told him we were going to town, Callao. With this response he shook his head, seeming somewhat in disbelief. He simply said “no senor.” I asked,” porque no?” He resonded “senior, es muy peligroso!” “Peligroso, como peligroso?” I queried. The policeman simply passed his hand across his throat in a gesture that was unmistakable. Within that moment, Marty and I had reversed course and headed back through the gate to the port and safety.
We then took a shuttle bus to the nicest part of Lima, Miraflores, where I set about one of my errands for the day to buy some stamps. The shuttle dropped us off in front f a Marriott Hotel so we went in knowing that somewhere in a nice hotel you can always find stamps. My first request sent us up stairs to the business center where a lovely young lady sold us some stamps and took my stamped mail and put it in her outgoing mail box. We asked about directions to the center of Lima and the older section of town. She frowned and told us we didn’t want to go there She added that no one who doesn’t need to be in the city center on a holiday would stay away, way away. Apparently crime is a big thing in Lima and it gets especially bad over the holidays when spirits encourage otherwise nice people to be not so nice. Our slight apprehension about believing the policeman at the port was reinforced when she added that it was particularly bad near the port. She said that the weekend will produce a dozen or so deaths in that area, often involving people who were minding there own business in the wrong place. Wow!
With our mail on its way, we hit the streets in search of Mercado Artisano described in our guide book as being special. On the way, we found a barbershop where Marty got a much needed but very quick haircut. The barber looked as though he had learned his traide shearing sheep but Marty looked a lot better after his efforts. I decided I didn’t need a haircut that bad.
We met some very nice people along the way who offered helpful advice and directions. One man, on the other hand, responded to my carefully worded and pronounced Spanish request for directions with the comment that he spoke English and he couldn’t understand my Spanish. I thanked him for his help but I didn’t smile.
The Marcado Artisano met all expectations. It was more than the usual collection of stuff for tourists. The quality of everything we looked at was top notch making our mile walk to and return more than worth the effort.
On Monday, both Marty and I were requested to go on tours to assist the guides. My tour was a city tour that I recall taking the last time I was in Peru. This tour took us into two different downtown 16th century monasteries that I didn’t see on my previous tour. Both were grand and loaded with 16th and 17th century religious art. We were reminded that the Lima megalopolis is home to eight million people. Peru as a whole has a population of 27 million. 85% of Peruvians are Catholic. While Spanish is the official language in Peru, there are 44 recognized dialects spoken. The people who live around Lake Titicaca have a language of their own that is not recognized by the government but spoken by my most residents none the less.
Lima has the distinction of never having rain. The last recorded rain fall in Lima was in 1936. There are occasions when the usual high humidity raises as high as 100%. Instead of rain, a mist is present that sometimes measures as much as several thousands of an inch in a single day. Even when it “mists”, you would be well advised to water your lawn.
In case you were wondering, I didn’t lose anyone in our tour group although each time I counted the group when they got back into the bus I always got a number bigger than the last count.
Lima is divided into five “neighborhoods” each with its own elected mayor but having nothing to do with the person who serves as Mayor of Lima. The new President Garcia seems well received by most but there remains about 40% of the population who would prefer the return of the now jailed ex-President Fujimori. If he can swing another 10% of support, he could possibly get out of jail and back into politics. Seems like a natural progression ti me.
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Tonight will be a shipboard celebration of New Year’s Eve. I’ve never been at sea for such an event so I’ll be well equipped to tell you all about it tomorrow. The only thing I know for sure is that lobster is on the dinner menu tonight so It shouldn’t be too bad of an evening.
……………….con amor,
Yo esiro por todos un aventuro y prospero ano Nuevo,
And may you look forward to the mysteries and adventures you will meet in 2008!

Grandpa Bill, Dad and Barnacle Bill