Monday September 2, 2019

San Salvador, El Salvador, to Lima, Peru

Numbers 20:22-29 

v. 25-26  [The Lord said,] “Get Aaron and his son Eleazar and take them up Mount Hor. Remove Aaron’s garments and put them on his son Eleazar, for Aaron will be gathered to his people; he will die there.”  So Aaron was “gathered to his people” and went to heaven, which is ultimately a better thing for God’s people than life on earth, and Moses stayed to finish the work God had given him in this life.  Lord, I thank you for the trip we are about to take to the Andes.  It’s already been an adventure on our “practice climb” and “practice ruin” in El Salvador.  Please don’t let yesterday’s hospital visit be “practice medical treatment” for us in Peru.  Please walk with us on our journey and bring us safely home to finish the work you’ve given us in our lives.

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The embassy was a no-go.  Really too bad.  Chris made French toast and we looked up yesterday’s mystery animal.  Capybara? said Chris.  That’s the name we were thinking of but the capybara looked too fat and snout-nosed.  Our botanical garden animal seemed to be an agouti.  Really?  Who has ever heard of an agouti?

Maurice and I folded our laundry and finished packing. Chris watered his grass wall.  We all had time to use our gadgets.

Finally Chris said, “Well, do you want to go to the pupuseria on the way to the airport?”  Well, of course!  I didn’t know how I could go back home and tell my pizza-making buddy Jose that I didn’t eat any pupusas in El Salvador.

Chris’ house is at about 3000 feet and the road is downhill all the way to the airport.  We turned off in Olocuilta, a crossroads lined with pupuserias and brightly painted tree trunks. 

The approved place was the Pupuseria Olocuilteña, a long low green and white building. 

The grill was right on the road, under a roof but with no front wall. 

Behind it was a little shop with drinks and the cashier.  Farther along under the roof were several cramped seating areas with no space between the benches at the little tables lined against the walls.  It was hot.  We sat by the louvered front window wall where we could see two ladies at the stand across the street patting their own pupusas into shape and putting them on their grill.  Chris explained our order sheet and we each picked two pupusas.  I got one with beans, cheese and chives and one with spinach and cheese; the men were more inclined to meat.  Pupusas are sort of fat pancakes, two sealed together over the filling, and served with a jar of red sauce.  Chris said they’re usually finger food but he managed to get us plastic knives and forks.  There was also a big jug of a cole slaw-looking concoction.  Chris said it was vinegary, not something he cared for, but of course I tried it—to Maurice’s consternation.  It’s not cooked, he said.  It’s vinegar, I said.  Maybe even fermented.  I only tasted it, though, because once again he and Chris were right—we’re getting on a plane.  That’s also the reason I didn’t get the nut drink Chris ordered, horchata, which is too bad, because the sip I had from Chris was delicious.  

Our lunch stop was a true cultural experience.  As we passed more painted trees trunks and left town I commented on a line of parked yellow school buses.  “They’re not school buses,” said Chris.  “They’re just buses sent from the US after their useful lifespan, waiting to get repurposed here.  Haven’t you noticed all the buses are repainted school buses?”  And colorfully painted too.  A little farther down the road was the exit for Chris’ favorite village-to-pronounce:  Zacatecaluca.  Oh, yes, that is gratifying indeed.  Zacatecaluca.  Unfortunately it’s not someplace to go, having been designated one of the ten most dangerous municipalities in the country.  On we drove, past the dozens of coconut stands, and too soon we were at the airport.  We hopped out, grabbed the luggage, and since Chris was double-parked he said, “Can’t dawdle!” and gave us quick hugs and drove away.  No drawn out farewells here.

The plane quickly flew in a lovely arc over the coast and out to sea.  As darkness settled we wondered if the driver in Peru really was going to meet us, wondered if we really could hike at altitude and even breathe.  It was chilly so, before I laid the blanket over us, I zipped on my pantlegs.  I would have done it anyway before we landed, before the customs people saw my spotted legs and thought I was bringing typhoid into the country.  

Dinner was…bad.  We picked pasta; the sauce on the minuscule portion was way too salty and had unpleasant cheese sprinkled over the top.  Plus we had a salad.  “Are you going to eat that?” I asked Maurice as he poured on the dressing.  He’s usually the one after me about eating safely, and we’re not supposed to eat raw fruit or vegetables that you can’t peel.  Remember what Chris said about lettuce?—you just never know.  But this is an international flight.  Don’t they have standards?  But where did they get the lettuce?  Dinner was puny, we were short on vegetables and we wanted the salad.  I looked at that big chunk of tomato lying across the lettuce.  I decided to go for it and poured on some dressing.  When Maurice looked over at me I had eaten the tomato—it was the best thing about the flight, fresh and ripe, unlike standard airline or restaurant tomatoes—and was starting on the shredded cardboard carrots, though sadly I abandoned the lettuce.  Maurice followed my lead.  Worst airplane meal I’ve had in years (except for the tomato).

In Lima there was a phone stand with no customers right by the baggage claim so Maurice sent me over to get us Peruvian SIM cards.  The two lolitas playing with their phones deigned to help and it was fairly painless.  Outside a little man was holding a sign with Maurice’s name on it.  Soon we were zipping through the city, and I do mean zipping—between lanes, around cars, making a lane where there was no lane.  Traffic was wild—9 pm and it looked like rush hour—rush hour with a just-drive-wherever-and-however-you-like mentality.  Chris said he told us about the driving and the plane food, and suggested using our filter on the hotel water.

The limo ride cost $27.  We didn’t have any ones, and my understanding was that tipping in Peru is limited to guides and high-end establishments.  “Do you have any change?” I asked the driver.  “Thank you,” he said, taking the $30, pocketing it and shaking our hands in a hearty goodbye.  He didn’t know much English.

Our room was…sad.  No apparent heat or cooling adjustment, just a window that could be opened to the blaring traffic.  No bottled water.  No kleenex and certainly no washcloths (for which I am prepared, because there never are).  A doorstop and a peculiar pointy hump in the bathroom floor tripped me every time I took the two steps to the towel rack, which held two and a half small and droopy towels.  The shower rod tilted peculiarly.  Up to this point this would be a fine Camino room (if we were paying a Camino price).  But absolutely worst of all was the sign telling us not to put the toilet paper in the toilet.  I just don’t get this.  Is this the custom in all of Peru?  (All of Latin America?)  This is…distasteful.  Surprisingly high quality toilet paper though.