mi vida Limeño

We found ourselves equally suprised at the surrounding company.
¨Man, we´re all from the States,¨ Matt said. It was weird that after two weeks living in and working at a hostel, surrounded by people other than my countrymen, there I sat with a Floridian and Coloradan commemorating the late great Michael Jackson.
¨We are going to look back on our lives and remember where we were when he died,¨ said Robin. ¨And it will be Lima f**king Peru.¨ We saluted the King of Pop while his music played on repeat in the background.

***

I haven´t seen all of the touristy things in Lima, even though I´ve been here for well over 6 weeks. But I do believe I have seen a Lima that most don´t see. In fact, most travelers use Lima as a hub for buses and flights to places in the mountains, in the jungle and on the coast. But not me, I squeeze ever centavo out of Lima that I can while I stay free at a youth hostel in the heart of the tourist district.

During the day, I teach English. I have been taken on as a substitute teacher for a big company, and they send me out to different ventures to teach business people how to speak the business language. One job was in a township called Lurin, an hour taxi ride outside of Lima. On the way I was blessed with a private viewing of the slums making up the outer crust of the overflowing desert metropolis. Shacks matching the same brown color as the dirt they were built upon sit slantedly side by side by side by side, topped with corrugated tin roofing. I stared for as long as I could as this area is shamefully fascinating.

Another jobs requires a 45-minute combi ride followed by another 15-minute combi ride to a company that supplies yeast and smells like tomato paste. On the ride out the combi-man tells me to be very careful where I am getting out. One of the passengers echoes his sentiment.
¨You don´t want to get out there,¨ the passenger says. I tell him I have to, but assure him I will be careful. He says he is getting off there too and will help me find my second combi. He actually walked me step by step to the next combi ride and to the door of my company. I was greatful, but this part of Peru didn´t look any different than the place I used to live. I couldn´t figure out why it was so dangerous. ¨I was a couple blocks from here,¨ my new friend said, ¨and got robbed. I didn´t have any money so they took my socks.¨ I was happy not to be wearing socks.

The next day I missed my stop and got off a couple blocks later. A woman on the street asked me where I was going with a what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here-stupid-gringa look. ¨There are chanchos everywhere, miss. Be very careful.¨ I assumed chanchos were bad guys, so I took care as usual. On my walk to the right stop, nothing dangerous stood out, just strange looks from locals.

Each combi ride seems to come with a gringo tax, as I pay more than any Peruvian does to get to the same place. When I argue, they won´t budge. I agree to pay the premium in hopes that it goes to a dangerous community of purse snatchers that will spare me. Not that they would get anything from my purse except for some spare coins and a book of English phrases.

I come back to the hostel in the afternoon, scarf lunch and start my shift behind the bar. The work is relaxed and mindless, and very social. And like any bar job, flirting = tips. I find myself in an exhaustive state by the end of the week, and even the simple opening of beers and pouring of vodka cokes is taxing. I sleep well, even with the bedbugs unabashedly chowing on me in my slumber, and wake up to do it all over again.

Riding home one day, I noticed a bumper sticker that said, ¨Do you spend more time on the bus than with your friends?¨ I laughed with a sigh, and nodded off to a small siesta as my combi bumpedly made its way back.