Travel Writing in Peru: Archives

LAUREN BROSTOWITZ writes: I'm sitting in my hotel room wearing shorts and a tank top, reminiscing about the blistering cold back in Chicago that makes it almost unbearable to even conjure up the strength to walk to 7 Eleven. I've only spent three days in Peru and it feels like it's flying by. As the fan blows my hair around and circulates the humid night's air, I hear taxi drivers slamming their horn in hopes of picking up a customer. I hear Krista's Peruvian flute music that she bought at the Inca Market. All the noises of a beautiful, exotic city are surrounding me. I've never felt this free and far from home before in my life. I absolutely love it.

Krista, my roommate back home and hotelmate, was sneaking photos of me while I'm passed out after she told me to make a little bed in the corner because I was getting crabby. Sleeping on an airplane is like riding a cactus across the country. Horribly uncomfortable. When I awoke Elio Leturia, one of our professors, was waiting to take us to our hotel. We are staying in a beautiful, quant space called La Castellana where Krista and I spend our time looking out our window, listening to the sounds of Peru and waving at locals on the street. I'm enjoying every day we spend here.

have found myself wondering about Peru's subculture. I myself have tattoos and facial piercings, thus I began wondering if my appearance generated more stares, or if it was entirely irrelevant. Considering I go to art school, I've become accustomed to seeing eccentric peers; however, tattoos and piercings are scarce here. Until yesterday, it seemed as though tattooed Peruvians were as hard to come by as the vegetarian burrito I've been desperately trying to get my hands on since I arrived.

But, it looks like my futile attempts at finding that burrito might eventually amount to that spicy treat I've been dying for because yesterday when I went to conduct my interviews for my first travel article ever, I discovered Peru's small tattoo culture near a dirty wall with beautifully rendered green and purple spray paint that read MONSTER.

On Bajada Balta, in Miraflores, just past a run down house where a chicken sits in a window, there are two tattoo shops that are both impressive. Coyote's tattoo was seemingly nicer, plus I'm a sucker for loud pulsating electronic music. Inside Anthony Pachero, 28, a real estate agent from New Jersey, sat on a bench similar to the one's I've sat on back home. A wild haired Peruvian man, Luis Velásquez, with his labret pierced and gauged (the area just below the lower lip) who also had his ears stretched to the size of a quarter, was pumping needles up and down into Pachero's back. Pachero was getting his last name done in gothic letters.

We talked for a while and Elio's nephew, Daniel, did all my translating, which made my job a lot easier; however, it was difficult to get direct quotes.. because I unfortunately cannot speak Spanish fluently. Luis Velásquez, 28, has been tattooing for ocho años and his work is pretty remarkable. Plus, he's a super super super babe.

LAUREN BROSTOWITZ writes: The Inca Market is a place where you can find authentic Peruvian souvenirs for a reasonable price that is usually always negotiable. I managed to find these beautiful braided bracelets and a super soft brown and orange alpaca sweater for only 45 soles, which is about 15 U.S. dollars. I was only able to haggle the price of the bracelets from cinco (5) to two for ocho (8). I couldn't barter with the oh-so-nice English speaking Lois when it came to the alpaca sweater because I was paying, or technically Krista was paying in credit since I left my plastic at the hotel. After shopping at the market I gave a little boy who was holding a blue bag of candy one sole. I couldn't resist his sad face that was smudged with specks of dirt. I popped the candy in my mouth only to realize I had bought cough drops although I don't think my inability to read Spanish was to blame. He probably had no idea what he was selling.

So, if you're looking for gorgeous delicately painted pottery, or a beautiful scarf, definitely check out the Inca Market in Miraflores, Peru. It's a bit past John F. Kennedy Park (a.k.a. "Cats Park" by Columbia students due to the large amount of stray cats that Lauren Wille wants to take home) and quite a hike from the hotel. I shouldn't have worn my sandals because my feet were absolutely killing me when I got back. Luckily though, I have flat feet.

LAUREN BROSROWITZ writes: As we approached the Iglesia de San Francisco (the church of Saint Francis), which is the most visited church in Lima, Peru, I was sort of unenthusiastic. I wasn't raised Catholic, or Christian for that matter, and my parents never enforced religion upon me, hence my pagan, agnostic ideologies. I'm that person who sprints through the Chicago Art Institute's labrynth of Virgin Mary paintings and the Holy Trinity in search of contemporary work. Morbid images of Jesus Christ and dead disciples don't inspire or interest me. As I got out of the taxi and prepared for our group tour, I tried to remember the last time I got dressed up to go into a church but I couldn't conjure up a date.

In the corridor we waited for our tour guide and stared expressionlessly at a giant three dimensional crucified Jesus that was hanging off the wall. I saw a bunch of little white balls blowing in the corner and jumped saying, "Those are little spider eggs!" But Elio, my professor, looked closer and laughed. "That's popcorn," he said. I sighed and went to sit on Krista's lap to give her a noogie, feeling it very appropriate. Shortly after we began our high-speed tour through the 1674 church.

Once we got to the giant rooms where my voice seemed to echo for miles, I suddenly felt this intense rush of energy. I was absorbing hundreds of years of history at that very moment. My apathy turned to interest and my sacrilegious swears about how corrupt religion is faded while I stared at sculptures of men and women with parted lips and eyes with no pupils. The smell of mold and urine filled the halls and my imagination ran wild as I wondered about the origin of the latter.

Eventually after our tour guide realized we were sneaking photographs in the church, his patience with our ignorance and obvious tourist appearance grew thin. He started speed explaining the rich history of the church in four or five sentences. We flew through room after room of towering bronze sculptures, intricately carved ceilings and cracked oil paintings of prophets I'll never remember or recognize.

Finally we got to the mass burial grounds called the Catacombs. According to our annoyed tour guide, the church has stopped renovating these graves because the excursion became to dangerous. What has been unearthed during the digging stretches the entire span of the church. 75,000 people are buried in the 17th century tunnels and many of the bones are stacked in eerie geometric patterns that almost resemble a modern morbid mandala. Theresa was nice enough to stay in the back with me in case I freaked out and panicked due to the tightness or heat. I'm super claustrophobic. But none of the corridors were small enough to touch my shoulders so I never really felt uncomfortable. It was gorgeous down there in the dark dusty, moldy tunnels. Unfortunately, our tour guide pushed us through the catacombs faster than any other room we visited.

LAUREN BROSTOWITZ writes: As I walk through beautiful Lima, I notice people staring at me and other classmates. Do these stares simply reflect a universal, instinctual curiosity all humans possess? Or, are these burning stares microscopic in essence as a culture attempts to decipher the trends and appearances of another? Although it feels uncomfortable at times, I am also guilty of locking eyes with strangers in an effort to better understand the inhabitants of a far away land. And in these moments of silence, pupil aligned with pupil, there is a sense of wholeness that blossoms. In these moments amidst a thick language barrier one realizes how little they know about the world and those who feed from it. Yet, simultaneously I find myself trying to communicate through thoughts and energy as I pass large crowds of people I know I'll never see again in my life, hoping to transpose positive thoughts into the minds of those I cannot speak to. I'm hoping to take back feelings that are intuitive and beyond words. Feelings that shape your life forever.

LAUREN BROSTOWITZ writes: I sat on the train, my ears filled with Sara's Peruvian flute music, I bit my fingers down to the bone in anticipation. I couldn't believe I was on a train to one of the seven wonders of the modern world. Honestly, something magical happens to the human body when the eyes are forced to stare at beautiful mountainous landscapes for 3 1/2 hours. Through the window of the wobbly train I watched Quechua men and women carrying large rainbow colored bags up and down paths. Some had tools and were cultivating the land. Baby pigs played in the mud and cows and llamas grazed in the foreground of what looked like a postcard. It was amazing. In those moments I felt guilty for never even having my own garden.

Once at Machu Picchu, I zig-zagged through the corridors where our tour guide showed us the temple of the sun and other landmarks. I kept gazing at the very top. Out of breath, the class and I stared from tourist face to giant rock and back again in awe as we climbed jagged stairs. When I finally reached the top of the ancient ruins, I of course took as many photos as possible. After the photo-ops and the giggles the rest of the group went down to eat lunch. The six of my friends, most of whom I met on the trip, trickled behind to indulge in the once in a lifetime opportunity. Needless to say, we packed a picnic.

Something even more breathtaking than I could ever imagine occurs when one sits atop a moist plot of grass at the very top of the ruins. I stared down below at the center of Machu Picchu for twenty minutes in silence. You watch your life flash before your eyes if you sit still and quietly enough. You think about birth and wonder about death. You become the air and the mountains. Complete tranquility. You definitely cry. . . that is for sure.

Silently, sandwiched in between Krista and Sara (two other wanderers that took this course like myself) I tried to imagine Incans living and breathing below me but sadly couldn't do it. I inhaled slowly as I tried to free my mind of all distractions that I have collected throughout my life in the United States. I exhaled fear and regret. Those moments and those thoughts will stay with me forever.

I've always wanted to travel to Peru, specifically to hike the 2,000 year old ruins. Now, I can look at images of Machu Picchu and remember the smell of it, which is a scent I've always wanted to collect. Sara told me I should have brought a jar, but I like the idea of never smelling it again. They say scent is the strongest sense capable of recollecting memory. Maybe when I'm back in Chicago I'll catch a little bit of Machu Picchu upon the breeze. Only hopefully I don't cry again.

LAUREN BROSTOWITZ writes: After almost a full 24 hour span of connecting flights, bad movies, decent airport food and poor sleep I'm finally home. The journey back wasn't difficult, aside from the unfortunate difficulty I had with my awesome, newly bought Peruvian bag when the strap broke. I managed to somehow fix it and still bring Jeff's cajón, a little box drum, back safely. For only 55 soles I was able to add another instrument to his already abundant collection. Before we all left the airport Elio's nephew, Daniel, who helped me out without a lot of my translations, came and hung out while Sara, Lauren and I all enjoyed our last hours in Peru. He brought me an awesome hat with my name spelled in grafitti. Sara got one too for paying for dinner . . . a couple of times . . . (Thanks Sara!). Now I just have to unpack my things, which is a task I am dreading.

As I lie in my bed, of which I longed to sleep in after only two days on our rock-hard mattresses in Lima, Peru, I am left with the vibrant memories of a country I only began to understand. I lie in bed retracing my days with an urgency that absorbs my contorted reflections that already seem so far away. I'm trying to hold on to it all. The passing imagery of multi-colored houses that scattered the mountain landscapes and the contorted faces of those who attempted to comprehend my Spanglish are flashing in my head. Mixed with the drastic change of scenery, my brain seems to be trying to readjust to the rapid movement. The sudden switch in environment that makes me say, "Wow. I miss Peru."

So as I remember the people I met, like Renzo from IPAD, Instituto Peruano de Artes y Diseño, the school we were studying at, and his love for Salvador Dali and Frida Kahlo, I hope to see them again someday. To the lovely girls at the IPAD banquet who fought through the language barrier, I wish you three well. To Daniel Leturia, thanks so much for doing my translations and for showing me Peru through the eyes of which I saw threw as well, I hope to see you in Chicago in July. And to the random people whose faces are still quite vivid, I hope your smiles do not diminish. And until I can visit again, I will forever remember the night I stood atop the solarium and watched your beautiful sunset fall across rows of buildings in the distance. I'll remember how I stayed until it was dark, until it was quite and the company of friends gave life to the night. I'll always remember Peru.