Big City Nights (Part 2)

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Goal #3 - Bragging Rights

I spend most of the week on the patio with my laptop - typing away. I keep a steady stream of coffee running through my bloodstream to maintain focus.

But sometimes I switch out the coffee for a liter of Inca Kola. Inca Kola is considered the national soft drink of Perú. It began in the mid-1930's when a Peruvian (José Lindley) born of English immigrant parents began experimenting with lemon verbena - a perennial shrub native to parts of South America. The beverage was instantly popular. For most of the rest of the century, Perú was the only country in the world where Coca-Cola was unable to dominate the market. Unable, that is, until 1999 when the Coca-Cola Company gave up and bought 50%!o(MISSING)f the Lindley Corporation to create an unstoppable cola coalition.

The soda is a bright golden yellow. It is very sweet and tastes slightly of classic bubble gum. Tell a Peruvian this and they are apt to frown in confusion and explain that no, it certainly does not. But ask anyone else and they will agree with the bubble gum assertion.

In any case it's good. Or at least I like it. And with a market penetration of over 30%, Perú agrees.

After breakfast on Wednesday, the computer stays off and packed away. I walk out to the street and hail a cab. I ask the driver how much it is to go to the U.S. embassy.

"20 soles," he replies.

What a load of horse shit.

I talk him down to 12 soles. But that is still $4. If I had a job, I wouldn't care. But I don't.

I also don't have a choice. My passport is nearly full. There are just three little squares available for entry/exit stamps on the inside of the back cover. I would have taken care of it in La Paz, but the embassy was in a mild state of total evacuation. Pansies.

Anyway, I did it. I have reached a golden moment in life. I have managed to travel so much in the past seven years that I actually filled my passport.

For seasoned travelers, this milestone is like some sort of Nirvana state - passage to a higher state of consciousness.

What percentage of the 6 billion+ people walking around the planet can claim having done this? What percentage of Americans? What percentage of people from Northeastern Oklahoma can claim it?

I sit in the taxi and saturate myself in statistical rapture.

I can see why the guy is charging so much. The embassy is way the hell over on the other side of town where I can't imagine anyone would normally want to go.

The embassy is an enormous eggshell-colored fortress enclosed in a concrete wall and guarded by soldiers in full camouflage uniforms - automatic rifles pointed down to the pavement at the ready.

I get through the security checkpoint and walk up the long sidewalk that leads to the main doors. They are monstrously tall. I pull one open. It's incredibly heavy. Did the Soviet Union have Lima listed as a secondary nuclear target?

Once inside the nicely air-conditioned services office, I wait my turn to walk up to one of the small (bulletproof?) windows. I slap my passport down and coolly request that extra pages be added. For woe is me - it is full.

The Peruvian woman behind the window takes the passport and explains in immaculate English that I'll have to come back at 4pm to pick it up.

That's over six hours away.

So 24 soles roundtrip. Two roundtrips. That's $16. This is a painful expense for a backpacker.

But I suppose it is a reasonable price to pay for a traveler's merit badge.

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In the afternoon, I come back to the embassy and pick up my passport - which is now nice and fat with extra blank pages. The taxi bill so far is up to 36 soles.

I walk outside to where there were plenty of taxis waiting in the morning. But it is now after official service hours, so there are no cabs to be seen.

I wait for several minutes to see if one passes by. None do.

Eventually, a dinged-up little Fiat pulls up to the curb. The guy inside gestures to his back seat to ask if I need a ride.

This is an unofficial taxi. A "clandestino". Despite what I've said about them in the past, they are quite a bit more prevalent in Lima, and Limeños use them all the time. But I'm no Limeño, and the guy can obviously tell I'm a gringo given where we are.

But to Hell with it. I don't want to wait here for another half hour.

"How much to go to Avenida Arequipa, near Calle de las Pizzas?" I ask him through the window.
He pauses for a moment. "Um. Eight soles?"
"Ok."

A 33% discount from the previous three cabs.

I open the rear passenger-side door by reaching in through the open window and pulling on the inside latch. This is to ensure that I can hop out at any moment. The guy does a U-turn and we head off down the avenue.

He isn't going in the wrong direction, but it is a different route than the other cabs took. But I'll let it go for a moment. He is obviously taking side-streets and shortcuts. If he tries to drag me off to some crap neighborhood to rob me, he has sorely underestimated my knowledge of Lima geography. I know where we are. I know where we are going. More or less.

He eventually hits a main road that leads us directly into the setting sun - toward Miraflores.

In the end, he gets me to the hostel in less time, for less money, and during rush hour on top of it. Cool.

There's no reason for me to have written all that. I just wanted to brag about the passport.

Goal #4 - Omnivore

Today is Saturday. Again.

There is a colonial neighborhood just south of Miraflores on the coast called Barranco. Every weekend, there is a small food festival near the central plaza where one can try all sorts of traditional Peruvian dishes.

I skip breakfast in order to maximize hunger. At around 1:30, I walk down to the corner to get a taxi. I find one and ask the driver how much to go to Barranco.

"Fifteen soles," he replies.
"Fifteen?" I can get to unexplored realms beyond the embassy for that. "No, that's too expensive."
"Nope. Fifteen. It's in a different district."
"I don't care if it's in a parallel universe, it's just on the other side there."
"Fifteen."
"Never mind."

Instead of wasting my time with the taxis that are used to buzzing around this area and taking posh housewives from the grocery store to their posh high-rise apartments, I walk 45 minutes down to Larcomar. Larcomar is still pretty ritzy, but at least it's closer to Barranco.

Once I get there, I ask another driver.

"Twelve."
"Ya vamos, it's right there man," I complain, pointing down the coast.
"Ok, how much do you want to pay?"
"Five."
"No way. Eight."
"Seven."
"Ok."

El Sabor Barranquillo ("The Taste of Barranco") is held in the heart of Barranco. Either side is lined with tables behind which women slave over gas-powered grills and soup pots.

At the entrance, one woman is selling a large selection of anticuchos. These are skewers of marinated beef heart grilled to perfection. A small, peeled potato is plopped onto the end of the skewer for good measure.

The potato may sound dull. But keep in mind that pre-Colombian civilizations of the Andes were the first in the world to cultivate potatoes. There are literally thousands of different varieties found here, and they produce an incredibly wide range of rich flavors. Forget Idaho.

But anticuchos can be found on any street corner. I came for the good stuff.

After perúsing the various options, I decide on a plate of Ají de Gallina. This is essentially chicken cooked in a thick, yellow sauce made from the ají pepper. It occurs to me that this was actually the first Peruvian dish I ever tried years ago in an excellent little restaurant in Manhattan.

Unfortunately, the plate is huge. Once finished, there is no way I have room for more. On the way out, I ask another woman who is making carapulcra how long she will be here.

"Until 9," she says.
"Ok, I'll be back when I have more room."
"We'll wait for you."

I take a stroll through Barranco. It is a lovely place loaded with beautiful architecture. Houses and buildings are painted in a dizzying array of blues, yellows, purples, and greens. Flowers of an equally vivid spectrum adorn most of them.

A few blocks out of the center, I see a group of what I assume to be clergymen standing at the mouth of a small street. They are all dressed in robes of a deep royal blue. Or maybe it's purple.

Several pedestrians - mostly small families - are turning the corner and walking down the narrow street. One of the clergymen drops the butt of a cigarette onto the sidewalk and puts it out with the toe of his shoe. The men then walk down the street. I follow them to see what's up.

A little ways down, a cop stands next to a few traffic cones - presumably to block vehicles from entering. Beyond that, I can see several more men in the purple robes. And beyond that, there is a large gathering of people.

I reach the crowd at a three-way intersection and begin to see what it is. About a hundred people are gathered on either side of the street, all moving around to get a better position. In the middle of the street is a large vessel of sorts. I recognize it as being very similar to the floats carried in Spanish parades during Easter processions. Several of the men in purple robes stand around the float.

Today is November 1st. This is known as All Saint's Day in Spain - although not celebrated much.

"Dia de Todos los Santos?" I ask a man standing next to me.
"No, Nazarenas," he replies.

Now if I have it all straight, the story of the celebration starts in the early sixteenth century. An anonymous slave painted a portrait of Christ on the cross on a wall in the impoverished neighborhood of Pachacamilla. In November of 1655, a fierce earthquake struck Lima - all but destroying the city and killing thousands of people. In Pachacamilla, nearly all buildings were reduced to rubble - save one. The wall with the painting stood without the slightest hint of damage. This was considered to be a miracle by the local people and soon a cult following formed.

This perspective was denounced by the Catholic Church, however. Church authorities sent a painter to the wall with orders to paint over the portrait - thus destroying the object of such attention. But when the painter climbed his scaffolding to begin the vandalism, he was struck by an intense seizure and was unable to proceed. Not giving up, the Church sent another to do the job. And then a third. They both suffered the same fate as the first.

In1687, a second quake struck Lima - with identical results. At this point, the Church recognized the phenomenon as a miracle and gave approval to the following.

Later, the Church commissioned an oil paintng copy of the original. In November of each year, the painting was marched around the city in a procession.

Why this is now centered in Barranco, I'm not quite sure. Nor am I certain of what the ultimate fate of the wall and painting were. Perhaps someone out there can fill us in.

Behind the float, a small marching band stands at the ready. After a few minutes, they start up. Taking their cue, the robed men hoist the float up and onto their shoulders and the procession begins to amble slowly down the street - the crowd walking slowly alongside.

After a few blocks, the music stops and the men gently set the float down again. Much of the audience gives a short applause.

It is much simpler and less elaborate than the Spanish Easter processions, but the rhythm seems to be identical.

I follow the parade for a while and eventually break off down another side street. It's nice to see, but I need to be burning more calories. The only thing I want to celebrate today is the ritual eating of the sacred carapulcra.

Closer to the coast, there is a quant little avenue that gradually heads downhill - leaving the rest of Barranco towering above on either side. At the end of the street, you come out onto a landing halfway down the coastal cliff with an immediate view of the sea. I take a footbridge across the highway and downstairs onto the Barranco beach.

It is a beach in the loosest sense. Rather than sand, it is made up of countless rocks - most the size of a soccer ball. Not exactly the ideal place to throw down a towel and soak up some sun (what sun?), but it does offer one interesting feature.

I walk down to the edge of the water, take a seat on one of the more accommodating stones and wait for a wave to come in. When it does, it slowly rolls up the rocks and stops just in front of my feet. When it rolls back out, the force of the water causes the rocks to shift and rumble in their place. This creates a low, crackling sound that is heard not just in front of me, but up and down the entire beach.

I sit and listen to the waves and rocks for a few minutes. I note the time and remember that Luis should be back from Cuzco by now. I climb the stairs to the foot bridge and walk back through Barranco to the food festival.

While I stand in the short line to ask for the carapulcra, I feel a slight vibration under my feet that lasts about four seconds. Having lived in Madrid for a few years, my subconscious tags this as the passing of a subway train underground and dismisses it. It is only when several people at the festival gasp and start to buzz with conversation that I realize that I have just witnessed my first seismic tremor.

My reaction to this is one of disappointment. Come on! It's my first earthquake. Knock a few windows out, at least. Scare me a little!

Anyway, everything is still standing. It's a miracle!

The best way to describe carapulcra is that it is a type of dark stew that is thick enough to serve on a plate - usually on a bed of rice. It is normally made with beef, pork, or chicken. I had it with bacon once - not bad, but not recommended. But the flavor is so rich that I suspect meat could be altogether substituted with any number of other things. Worth looking into if you're a vegetarian. I only mention it because there are a lot of you traveling down here - bitching and moaning about how hard it is to avoid meat in Latin America.

Anyway, the stew is made with an arsenal of spices and herbs that I cannot begin to identify. One of the key ingredients is papa amarilla. "Yellow potatoes" are one of those special species of spud that grow in the Andes. The flavor is intense and delicious. It is a crime against Humanity that they are not widely available across the planet.

When the plate comes out, I realize the trouble I am in for. In addition to the large mound of rice, the carapulcra comes with a pile of spaghetti noodles on the side. This is way too much food to eat on top of what I have already eaten. But I dig in, anyway. All the while, I glance up the row of tables to where one lady is selling slices of mango pie. I really want to try that pie. But I know it won't happen.

Far short of finishing the carapulcra, I stumble into the street with an abdomen on the verge of going supernova.

I'll never eat again.

Saturday - Again

Back at the hostel, I find Luis and we go over the plans for getting to Iquitos.

There are a few ways to get there. The easiest way is to take a direct flight that costs about $116. You can also take a bus to Pucallpa or Yurimaguas. From either, there are riverboats that travel to Iquitos.

But the riverboats take a few days. Moreover, some of the bus routes (especially to Pucallpa) are subject to frequent hijackings. In the end, we decide to just take the flight. I feel like I'm cheating a bit - the idea was to get all the way to the States without flying. But it's already November. I've got to get moving.

We then spend some time going over Luis's options for getting from Ecuador to various cities in Central America where he wants to spend some time in Guatemala.

By the time we're completely fed up with staring at flight schedules, bus routes, river routes, and currency conversion rates, it's 10pm and time to go out. Luis's Peruvian friend, Alejandro comes over and introduces us to his two sisters that have come along. We all pile into his car and head off.

For a warm-up, we go to a very nice, classy bar in the heart of Miraflores. I certainly can't afford to drink here all night, but it's a good place to start.

At the bar, Alejandro catches the bartender's attention and then points around to the rest of us.

"Pisco sour? Pisco sours, right?"

The two sisters and I agree readily. Of course.

"What's a pisco sour?" asks Luis.
The Peruvian reaction is uniform. "You've been here a week and you haven't tried a pisco sour?"

If Inca Kola is the national soft drink, the pisco sour is the national cocktail. Pisco, as you will remember, is a distilled grape liquor. A pisco sour is made with pisco, lime juice, and egg whites. There are a few other things thrown in, but I've usually had three or four of them by the time I ask someone for the recipe. So I never remember.

"Ok, I'll try one," says Luis after being educated.

When they come out, he takes a sip.

"Hey! That's good!"

We stand around sipping our drinks and discussing the options for where to go next. We'll probably end up in Barranco which has a killer night life full of pubs, salsa clubs, discos, live music, and whatever else you might want.

NOTE: The following dialog may not make a whole lot of sense to those not familiar with Spanish drinking culture.

Luis turns to me. "Ok so if we go to a discotech, we have to try something."
"What's that?" I ask.
"Güisqui con Inca Kola!"

I laugh and choke on my drink. I can't help picturing Luis standing in a smoky Malasaña club with a tubo glass of DYC whiskey in one hand and a bottle of Inca Kola in the other - occasionally pouring the soda into the whiskey and bobbing his head to the music.

"No, no, no," he goes on. "Better yet, pisco con Inca Kola!"
"Dude, shut up! People can hear you. Don't give away the ideas. We're going to open a bar in Lima and sell this stuff."
"Yeah, we'll be rich!"

A waiter walks by holding a bottle of red wine by the neck. I point to it.

"Forget calimocho. Incamocho!"
"Yes!"

We take our drinks upstairs and find a table in the corner to sit. After a while, two of Alejandro's friends join us - another Limeño and a guy from Venezuela.

After a second round of pisco sours, Alejandro claps his hands together.

"Ok, kids, vamos a Barranco?"

Yes. Vamos a Barranco.

Once the seven of us get there, we find a small, dark place playing lots of reggaeton and dance/hip-hop.

Luis and I go up to the bar.

"Ok, ready?" he asks.
"Ready." I reply, keeping a straight face.
He waves at the girl working behind the bar. "Two whiskeys with Inca Kola, please."
"Sorry, I don't have any Inca Kola," she says without the slightest hesitation.
"Oh," says Luis, looking at me with an expression that borders on devastation. "Ok. Whiskey and Coke?"
"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, I guess."

Part of the disappointment comes at missing the opportunity to try the new drink that will undoubtedly reign over popular culture for the next thousand years. But mostly we're upset that she didn't even react to such a preposterous idea. Were we not the first?

The evening follows the standard formula. Drink. Talk. Repeat as needed.

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Comments

[Mom]

Please, please, please, try the mango pie before you leave. Or maybe I'll get motivated this summer and try to make one.