More blather from the deep South

Two days ago, I found the beach. It wasn't all that hard, really. Just look at a map, figure out which street you're on, and head in the direction that says "Pacific Ocean -> thatta' way."





















I was elated to find myself near the water again. For several reasons, number one of which being that it was the only breath of fresh air I'd swallowed since arriving in Lima. The air pollution here is pretty bad. I was writing to my friend, Akoua, yesterday and I touched on this issue a little bit so it's still fresh in my mind. Right now the majority of cars (and there are a lot of them) run on diesel and are pretty poorly maintained (something about a lack of standards). So when you breathe in, you're breathing in all those toxins. Which my body personally responds to by congesting my sinuses and swelling the lymph nodes in my neck. (They say this allergic reaction to Lima will pass in time.)

In any case, in the 1980s oil companies discovered that the Peruvian rain forest has some pretty major deposits of natural gas. So they began giving the old Indian tribes the boot, in exchange for a few shiny, pretty items (it's called "taking advantage") and started harvesting Peru's natural resources. Which Peru exports, instead of using to their domestic advantage.

Basically, instead of using their own resources to provide their own people with cleaner energy sources, which in turn promotes the health and well-being of its citizens, the Peruvian government insists on making the wealthiest 10% even wealthier.

I'm a big fan of the little guy, so if a little bit of frustration creeps into my story, now you know why. (If you're interested in more accurate reporting, please see Kelly Hearn's work through the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting.)

Now where was I? Ah, yes, breathing in toxins on the harmonious streets of my adopted city, Lima. And hanging out by the ocean, which is where, by the way, perfectly reasonable people such as myself hurtle themselves bodily off of cliffs:





















I can't wait to do that! One of Anthony's coworkers (and, incidentally, one of my former colleagues from my heady days as an agent for the State Department) lives with his family directly across the street from the paragliders' launching station. One of these days, he and his two-year-old can wave as I take one small leap for...mankind?

Needless to say, I walked around for five straight hours that day and I have something to tell you: Lima is HUGE! I barely touched a few square miles of the city in one tiny neighborhood, and there are miles and miles to go...

I also did the Spanish-speaking world a favor and signed myself up for some language classes. I've mangled so much of the language since I arrived, and so few people understand me, that it now appears to be necessary to spend some of Anthony's hard-earned dough on a few lessons. Starting August 4th, yours truly will be spending five days a week in intensive Spanish.

The good news is that the instructor they sent out to test my ability told me a) that she never usually laughs so much during interviews (meanwhile, Ryan is telling her that she completely forgot what her masters degree is), and b) that I am actually at a pre-intermediate level in Spanish. Since my last Spanish class was taken in 1997, I am pretty impressed that I remember anything beyond, "Hola, como estas?"

I also checked out the South American Explorers' Clubhouse in Miraflores. The poor, socially awkward young man they left in charge of the Clubhouse was scary enough to motivate me to never return. I wish him all the best (abrazos a ud., Alex! Nada pero amor, mi amigo...), but he made me so incredibly uncomfortable that I don't care what kind of discounts SAE offers its members in Peru. I'm willing to pay full-price at those US$3/night hostels.

Other adventures included my attempt to find Jeff's cousin's coffee shop, without knowing an exact street address or the name of the cafe. There were several (very painful) conversations in Spanish, before the lovely peruanos put me out of my misery and spoke to me in English. One young gentleman was even nice enough to walk me down the street and point out the location of the newest cafe on the block. It turns out that he was dead right, but it was slightly after 3PM at the time - part of the two-hour afternoon time slot in which the coffee shop es cerrado (closed). Boo.

By the time that adventure was over, I realized it had been about eight hours since I last ate or drank so I began the hour-long trek (I got a little lost!) home.

So, for your viewing pleasure, here are a few pictures...