Sneaking Toward Tomorrow

The glorious feat of avoiding election season in the United States is somewhat compromised by the onslaught of idiotic, viscious, obnoxious emails from Al Gore, etc. that follow me around the globe in the age of constant technological surveillance. You are not outside of the bounds of political double speak anywhere...

However, the glorious feat of avoiding election season in the United States is compromised moreso by the accidental arrival in the middle of election season in Peru. Here, literal hundreds of political parties swarm ballets, which for lack of registration I have not seen personally, but which must be either on the scale of war and peace or written in size 1 font. Every streetcorner has plastered on its walls a new party, a new face, a new slogan, a new symbol - and the symbol the height of importance, for amidst the sea of candidates with repetetive, unoriginal, untelling slogans there exist no hope of a sole citizen floating in his inflatable raft of voting rights could ever remember the name of a single candidate, I´m sure. So while walls, businesses, restaurants, houses are splattered with permanent paint of political grafiti launching names of questionable morality meters high and blocks wide; the southern equivalent of elephants and donkeys rise to utmost import. As if a concession of "we know you don't care, we know you can't decifer the madness", each party has amplified its symbol to monstruous proportions. "Just look for this...and draw an X on it." A one in a box, a pot in a box, a heart that reads "Somos Peru," a shovel, a hammer, a two in a box...the options go on and on, though you may never see two symbols twice save on the same wall for years to come. At least one wall still reads, "Fujimori 2000." Fujimori is in exile in Japan amidst pleas for extradition after heinous corruption.

But, get to the point, you say? Who would I vote for? Given all the wonderful campaign platforms - my favorite of which is "por mas obras" or "for more works," I'll admit that I must revert to exactly where they want me. I, that is, would vote for my favorite symbol - which without much reason, is simply the boxed clay pot. In fact, I'd probably vote for the boxed clay pot before any of the gems of the free world who keep filling my inbox with pleas and accusations from that wonderful box we call the senate - more and more appearing to be the grown-up form of third grade (any allusion to republican scandals is, I assure you, unintentional).

So through all the propaganda we went, chugging along canyons and curves as the brown vegetation of the altiplano gave way to the brown expanse rolling hills diving from the central Peruvian heights toward the coast and into the driest desert in the world. In Ica, the heat inspired many indulgences in ice cream, and one in ceviche. We managed enough energy to clamber over to Huacachina and, amidst the oasis centered in massive sand dunes, propped boards on our backs and carved turns in granular bliss. Bliss, that is, save the granularity that invariably finds a home under eyelids, provoking reminiscences of a Colorado childhood vacation.

We seized the opportunity afforded from a sporadic national holiday for the wake of an ex-president’s succumbing to cancer to find our way to a few Cristales and a disco full of teenagers. While Jenny danced the night away with one of them, I planned escape. Soon, we were in a different bar of different ages – all still gawking at the whities where, of course, whities shouldn’t be. The story of our existence.

A jump to Pisco (town) where we remembered that we don’t even like Pisco (drink), and onwards to Lima. Filled with awe at contrasts as the monotonous third world squares filling hillsides in the suburbs morph to grand colonial buildings amidst a constantantly hazy sky in the city’s center. We wonder just which view people remember after years of intermission between trip and real life – that is, when my friends mention Lima, do they see the grand lights upon white European walls in the magic of the night; or do they see the bland facade of monotony hiding people and Peruvian culture in the outlying areas. Given the incessant warnings – don’t go there, it’s dangerous. There too. Just stay here, better. – I’d assume the haven of Plaza de Armas captivates more. But who knows – as Che describes, the coin may fall 10 times on heads, but we may arrive late. We may see the only fall of tails, and from there our conclusions may stem. We are all wrong. We are all right.

An expanse of ruins lay on the city’s southern flank. Brown ground merges to brown brick that modern development theorists or jump-to-conclusionist travelers with a humanitarian bent would call meager houses scrounged by the poor; what historians would call impressively conserved ancient relics; and what New Mexicans would call Adobe. There, amidst the bland monotony that seems to extend to the 4th dimension thanks to the previously mentioned perma-haze surrounding the city could lead to the inscrupulous soul missing the point. And in fact, for me, most of the complex was pointless.

But there, in a small exhibit inside of the museum, is a simple placard to make the trip, entrance fee, afternoon worthwhile. Pachacamaq, the God to whom this entire complex is dedicated, is a wooden stick reminiscent of an elderly man’s cane. And therein, the universe as ancients perceived resides: the three levels of existence, the duality of all things, their symbolism, their beliefs. All encompassed in a stick held to the highest reverence, and I can’t help but make comparisons to Hinduism of today; and I can’t help but see a little glimpse of the roots that this indigenous land maintains even in the face of Western morphs – for as we return out of the ruins and back to the spectrum of Christianity the parallels become obvious. In every town, a separate celebration for a separate Señor. In a manner unseen, by me at least, in the West, Peru seems to celebrate infinite incarnations of Jesus; and with each of them a different idol residing in a different town. This could be, in some way of thinking, Hinduism or ancient Andean religions metamorphosed behind a convenient inquisition-evasive facade of modern Christianity – or if not a facade at least a morph, a mix. Even Pachacamac – the Señor de los Temblores – has morphed into a bloody image with a thorn of crowns upon a cross. This is, perhaps, the most interesting insight into Modern Christianity I have found on this southern continent. It implies plurality amidst a frame of conformity. But then, everything does, I suppose.

In Lima we became spectators in the name of the Señor de los Milagros at his very own Corrida de Toros. In a magnificent dance, matadors turned the bullring into a spectacle of talent and art as we came to quickly appreciate what is not the completely inhumane killing of bulls; but what is a delicate talent. Some matadores we booed from the ring, unimpressed. Some danced with the bull magnificently, deserving and receiving explosive praise from the crowd. The spectacle was so novel, so intense, so captivating that I brushed aside a coincidental meeting with an acquaintance from Jackson, Wyoming during a bathroom break from the ring. “Frank! Wow! Taking in a Bullfight? Well, I guess I’ll see you back in there.”

As the seventh bull fell, we moved from red capes to red carpets as newfound Limeño friends courted us with amistad back at the plaza de armas, and with just enough beer in us to get us going, we found our way finally to a taxi and to the airport.

I would love to say that we had grand ambitions for our next destination. I would love to say that we wanted to revel in ancient civilizations, or to analyze the modern world, or to dig into the deepest depths of mythology. Alas, I cannot make such romantic claims, as the draw was in its most basic truth a simple draw to food. Tacos. Mexico. We arrive.

As if emerging from months in the wilderness, my body suddenly reminds the stomach that it had learned to adapt to, learned to survive in, not learned to love the piles of rice and thin tough steaks of the Andes. The body screams as we walk through the markets of the centro historico, with wafts of chorizo, tacos, tostados, chilaquiles, birria, floating past nostrils, ignoring the body’s plea that it is full from the last round of delicious quesadillas. Despite the fact that funds are now nearly non-existent (the brownie enterprise, after all, suffered a severe lack of assets as ovens and chocolate proved scarce commodities to a traveler in the Andean nations), we gorge ourselves completely. Contentedly, we are in the culinary oasis of Mexico City.