The deal with Peru

So a lot of people have asked me why I went to Peru, and my favorite answer is “why not?” The truth is that while I’ve spent extensive amounts of time in Central America, I had yet to step foot in South America. I was perusing some wall comments left by my brother on a mutual friend’s Facebook profile and I figured out that he was planning a trip to Lima, so I asked if I could tag along. The rest is history.

As it turned out, the timing could not have been more perfect (if not a little tight and hectic). I booked the flight months in advance, but I ended up being hired at Scripps Networks a couple weeks before departure, and had to schedule my last day at Playboy for Friday, January 4th. At 4am on Saturday I boarded an Avianca flight from JFK to Bogotá, Colombia and said goodbye to civilization as I knew it. The whole flight was supposed to last about 7.5 hours, but I was delayed in Colombia for a mere 8 hours after they canceled my connection. Brilliantly, my phone decided to die halfway across the Gulf of Mexico, so I was left without any contact info for my brother who was patiently waiting for me at the Lima airport. Luckily, Avianca searched deep, and out of the goodness of their heart decided to give me a meal and one (1) free international phone call. It felt a bit like prison if I’m being honest. National guards with six-shooters searching bags for contraband while government posters extolled upon me the virtues of “not being a drug mule.” Being that I’m a child of the digital age, I had very few phone numbers committed to memory. I dialed Mom in Mississippi because I knew she would be able to get in touch with my brother, and then (on my own dime) I called Natasha and left a message (that girl likes to sleep). My thought was that if I disappeared off the face of the planet (and in the back of a narcotraficante’s pickup truck), at least two people would know where to start the search party.

After a crappy meal and some crappy sleep, I re-entered airport security, boarded Avianca flight 21, and flew the remaining 2.5 hours to Lima where my brother and his slightly inebriated friends were waiting with open arms (and a fluorescent blue donut). We all hopped in a cab (after some heated negotiations for $20 soles and a kick in the balls) back to their hostel in the center of the city so I could drop my bags off. In all honesty, what I saw of Lima that night was pretty ugly. In tune with Central America, flushing toilet paper (when it was even present) was forbidden, as where toilet seats of any kind. Smog, litter, and bad music followed us down abandoned alleyways and across vacant public squares. We made our way to a loud disco filled with unattractive kids and I drank 2 “Piscos” which are the local delicacy. While the guide books will wax on about the quality of the fruit and the intricacy of the sours, I can tell you that they taste pretty much like a daiquiri you can get on Bourbon St. Only with an egg mixed in. Yum.

First thing the next morning we got breakfast and then made our way to the bus station in hopes of seeing some sun and warm Pacific waters. The next bus didn’t leave for several hours so we crossed 8 lanes of highway traffic and found a casino called “The Golden Palace.” While there wasn’t much gold there, there was toilet paper, which I hoarded like a pack rat. I then gambled for the first time. I put 20 dollars onto a scan card for the electronic roulette machine, promptly doubled my money, and then lost all of it. Meanwhile both my brother and his two friends made money. SUCK. Then I watched my brother win another 20 bucks at a slot machine. Totally disenchanted, I took 2 dollars in coins from his cup and sullenly dropped them into the “Mystic Pharoah” which promptly spit out 10 dollars. Then I lost all of it. Again. I repeated this formula (take money from brother, make money, lose money) until he got fed up and decided to cut me off. Probably a good decision as “quit while I’m ahead” isn’t a concept I take to heart. I’m much more of the “run it into the ground” stubborn type.

Finally it was time to get on the bus. We drove 11 hours to a beach town called “Chiclayo” that the Lonely Planet called “charming.” Turns out “charming” means covered in trash and somewhat like how Baghdad is presented by CNN. Being that I was in the Southern Hemisphere, in a country that is largely desert, I kinda expected the water to be warm. Not so. Instead of swimming, we hung out in this hippie/beach bum colony of bamboo pyramids with straw mattresses called “Katuwira” where we were given room and board for $50 soles (17ish dollars) a night. We also got a guide by the name of “Mario” who drove us into town and ushered us past the tourist bullshit and straight to the good stuff. One stop was to the witch doctor’s market where we saw jars of the hallucinogen “Ayahuasca” and various other devilish concoctions. Then he took us to get some dollars exchanged for local currency. Normally, as a traveler, you chose a bank if you want the best rate but don’t mind sitting in a long line, or you go to a quick “casa de cambio” and eat the difference. This didn’t fly with Mario. Instead, he pulled up to a busy corner in the center of town where little men wearing fishing vests stuffed with cash ran up to the car window and gave the best exchange rate I’ve ever seen. I’m still not quite sure how it worked or if it was even legal (doubt it) but it was new and cool.

After a couple nights in Chiclayo, we decided to press on. A short pick-up truck ride to the other side of town and we boarded a bus to Piura. This town was much busier and livelier than the last but we had more traveling to do. From there we chartered a ride on this mutant mini-van (seriously the biggest mini-van I’ve ever seen) which drove us 3 hours away to the beach town of Mancora. Finally we had arrived in a town that had a pulse. Even though the main strip of nightlife was located directly on the Pan-American highway (complete with fire breathers performing while huge oil tankers parted the crowd), I had a blast. We woke up late, hit the beach, had great meals, and then ended the nights mingling with the locals and drinking Cristal (the cheap beer, not the champagne). The highlight of Mancora was probably taking surfing lessons with the guys. For $50 soles a person, we each got a long board, a wet-suit, and a personal teacher who paddled us out into the ocean and then thrust us into oncoming waves. As it turns out, the actual “surfing/standing on the board” was the easiest thing and came to me on the first try. The hardest part was simply paddling out there. My upper-body was not equipped for the brutal paddling, crashing, and scraping that is –getting out– to the waves. The board is remarkably stable once the wave takes a hold of you, and I was able to steer back and forth as I rode straight into shore, almost taking out a small chubby Peruvian child along the way. After a second wave, I was so exhausted I could barely think and decided to call it a day.

I also managed to get sick for my last day in Mancora, partially because of the abuse that was surfing, but also because I think I consumed way more Ceviche than any American should ever attempt. I crawled into bed at 8pm and sweat out a feverish night while holding my ribs (which I was convinced were broken but were only badly bruised). This may sound like a bad ending to the beach, but considering the stunts I pulled during the previous parts, I probably deserved it.

Finally, it was time to head back to Lima in hopes of catching a flight to Bogotá without an 8 hour layover (fingers crossed). My brother and I boarded the sleeping section of a double decker bus and rode 13 hours back to his hostel “The Points.” Turns out, Lima wasn’t such a hellhole. This part of town was picturesque, quiet, and faced a beautiful beach. And his hostel was filled with hot European chicks. I flirted for a bit, grabbed a bite to eat, and then flagged down a cab for the airport.

Luckily, my return flight was uneventful. Between the bus from the beach and the flight to JFK, I probably got almost 13 hours of sleep. This was good because we touched down at 5am, Monday morning.

It took me 1 hour to get out of immigration, and then another hour to get to my apartment in the Lower East Side. I had just enough time to take a shower, change clothes, and grab a bite to eat before my 8am appointment to start the new job.

So here I am. It’s day 4 of my career as a front end developer at Scripps, and it’s honestly the best job I’ve ever had. The office is in a very hip part of town (The Chelsea Market by the Meat Packing district), and I have a great boss. There is a full slate of exciting projects ahead of me which will not only challenge my existing knowledge but force me to learn new stuff. And Peru is but a fading memory of last week.

More photos available on Flickr.