Reality is not real

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Into the day…

Surrounding the ‘pizza street’ are what appears to be an ocean of bodies/ all young, dark and beautiful. Walk down the street and on your left are lovely dark skinned young women soliciting business… not for sex, but for me to come into the perspective restaurant and have dinner.

The activity got heavy in Miraflores at about ten at night, and went until about four in the morning. I know this because the window of my hostel * USD$25 per room* faces the street and I could hear the buzz of the youth and traffic before I passed out of carbon monoxide or exhaustion.

Amazingly, at around four in the morning, people were still out enjoying themselves, the people washing the street with water and brooms were busy, and the lights in the John F Kennedy Park shone as bright as day.

I had suspected my reality was not really real.

My confirmation came as I hooked up with Tony, my shoe shine specialist, and we headed out in a taxi to visit some of the memories of my past.

Lima has expanded beyond imagination. The mountain I rode my bike over turned out to be little more than a large hill. The golf course I used to play on has been fully enclosed by walls and homes.

Alas, the area seemed extremely familiar / the specifics had changed, but the electricity in the air was unmistakable. I came upon my childhood home / it was more spectacular than I had recalled. Walking around the periphery, trying to sneak a peek at the pool, or the stables to no avail. I lifted Tony on my shoulders to see if he could sneak a peek and a photo / yet the bougainvilleas growth was more than we were able to overcome.

With all the photos taken, I approached the cab, and before getting in to go onward decided to knock on the twenty foot tall wood door to see if I could possibly have a look… knock / knock / knock / ‘alo, con quien’ came a voice from the other side… I identified myself, pleading with the voice of a boy of ten instead of a man of fourty something.

My heart skipped a beat as the lady opened the door, and there it was, the magnificent patio, with trees, a fountain and the slightly different color pink building. Words can not start to describe the emotions felt, and the memories. Photos tell a thousand words, which still do not tell the story.

Onward into the day /

From Monterico / rich mountain / which we decided meant the neighborhood name represented the amount of rich people in the area were enough to make a mountain / at least that was the only commonsensical definition the taxi driver, Tony and I could consider, as the mountain is not rich and not truly a mountain.

We headed towards Chosica which is about 4,000 feet elevation, out of the fog which permeates the coastal city of Lima / about an hour outside of Lima.

This is where my confirmation of reality suddenly was confirmed.

The masses of people, young, small, tall, beautiful, dark, poor, with Inca shaped faces / full of honor, pride, joy and acceptance of the conditions.

Poor would be the definition from the world I came from. It is not appropriate in the real world, as most of the real world is just like this.

We ended up on top a mountain, adjacent the Rimac river which flows from peaks of the Andes, transporting water which eventually becomes sewage slightly below where we were stopped.

Pachamanca the sign stated.

We entered, and kids were swimming, families resting, young adults kissing hugging and being young lovers on the grass. This was the type of place I had never been, but in which I find myself belonging more with each passing moment I live. Poor financially, rich emotionally and enjoying the simple pleasures of life. Manuel, the cab driver, Tony and I sat down to have a meal.

Steaks, goat, chicken, lamb, sweet potatoes, corn, two types of platains and other assorted items, all cooked in a hole in the ground, red hot rocks , banana leaves, burlap sacks at the bottom, covered with layers of secret spices, banana leaves, more meat, vegetables, spices, dirt, left to bake slowly Just as the Incas had done eight hundred years ago.

The return trip, flowing back down the road into Lima, all the Limeños returning back to the city to perform the work of cleaning, gardening, accounting, moving or whatever the masses do to support the few rich and powerful individuals and multinational corporations.

I almost expect to run into Ernesto Guevara, and go follow him on the road to social equality.

Out of Lima, into Ica in the morning with Tony, my friend.

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