The strangest, saddest city

It’s almost winter here and you can tell. The mostly sunny days, the days when it would even turn occasionally hot for several hours in the morning, are over. If the sun comes out at all, that is cause for celebration. The air is cool and grayness is settling in.

Herman Melville called Lima “the strangest, saddest city” and on the colder gray days, I can understand why. The garúa blowing in, the gloominess, the chill in the air, not seeing the ocean when we are staring directly at it, all take their toll. It’s easier to feel low on these days and think about what I miss about home. 

Staring at the ocean... compare it with an identical photo with the sun out.

While I love living here and would stay much longer if it were possible, what I think about most are friends. I am really looking forward to being close to people we love and who love us back. I value this time with Sam and Simon, our daily adventures, doing nearly everything, including work, as a family. But going for a year without friends to hang out with has been hard at times.

Just like at home, La Leche has been a lifesaver in connecting me with several other moms, adding in some social interactions on a monthly basis and establishing a couple of friendly relationships.

And we have a lot of casual conversations at parks with other parents, which can be nice. But few people seem interested in actually getting together. Perhaps that is a casualty of living in another country: you get tired of meeting other people who are here for a limited engagement and therefore you decide not to invest any time or energy in them. I get that.

In Ann Patchett's most recent novel says, “Never be so focused on what you’re looking for that you overlook the thing you actually find.” That quote has stayed in my mind all year, as I struggle with Spanish, parenting, feeling friendless, and missing various comforts of home. What I've been looking for was fluency in Spanish, not necessarily friends. I have certainly found my journey with Spanish interesting and compelling, enough to keep me fixated for a long time on continuing to learn it. We have found interesting work, Simon is enraptured with his two favorite playmates, and we have become explorers throughout all parts of Lima. I love our opportunities here. All of these are certainly gifts. And yet, still these strangest, saddest days come and go.

Adventures at the supermercado

Last fall I wrote about our local mercado, the one I shop at daily and is one fabulously short block from our apartment. It had taken me awhile to realize that nearly everything I needed or wanted from the supermarket (a 25 minute walk, assuming zero stops at parks along the way) could be purchased at one of the tiny puestos in the mercado. I just needed to ask around until I found it.

This has nicely cut down on treks to the supermarket. It’s a haul and it’s expensive. Still, there are things we want, like good coffee or a block of chocolate. So there we go, every so often, fueled by our addictions.

What is interesting about the supermarket is that they tend to have people stationed strategically in different departments, hawking their product. For instance, in the milk aisle, someone from the brand Gloria is there to help you pick out the right can of evaporated milk or box of whole milk. Ditto for the soap section, diapers & wipes aisle, ice cream nook, and cookie area.

This whole side of the aisle is nothing but milk, boxed in nearly every way imaginable, with about half of the milk options being evaporated milk. 

This is the (compared to the US) tiny ice cream section. There are no giant freezer aisles here , just little arrangements of kiosk-like cases for similar products. The D'Onofrio lady is watching me check out her competitor's products. D'Onofrio has a lock on the Peruvian market. Unfortunately, they are a Nestle-owned company.

In the toiletry/pharmacy section, there are about six women stationed to sell beauty products. 

Every single one of these women was selling a different brand of toothpaste. Walking by feels a little like running the gauntlet.

There are an equal number of helpers in the wine section. I’m not entirely clear whether they work for the store or for a brand. 

In the meat and fish sections, there is a line on the floor indicating where you should park your cart (perpendicular to the cases, about 3 feet away) so that the carts don’t impede pedestrian access to the display cases. Parking tends to be pretty orderly.

Eggs are at checkout (unrefrigerated) as an impulse buy, like a candy bar would be in the US. Other items are in surprising places. At least, they are surprising to me and my sense of supermarket categorization. Last fall I was at Plaza Vea for baking soda. I scoured the baking aisle with no luck. I asked for help. “Baking soda? In the spice section.” Okay, whatever.

Recently I was at Wong and needed another round of baking soda. I went first to the spice section. It wasn’t there, so I figured perhaps it was in the baking section. Maybe Plaza Vea and Wong just categorized their products differently. Giving up, I asked a couple of people for help, and someone finally guided me to the toiletry/pharmacy section. It is safe to say I would never have looked for it there.

At the checkout, there is a preferential line that we can join if Simon is in tow. But we have to be careful that elderly ladies will not push their carts in front of us and cut in line. After it happened several times, we learned our lesson and are aggressive about guarding our place. 


We went to the store today to get some photos to accompany this post and I was busted before I got half of the photos I wanted. "Please don't take photos here, señora," the plainclothes store manager-type person said. I half expected him to confiscate my camera. Thus, no funny photo of the meat market cart lineup...

Shopping is always an adventure.

Paco and Rafael

Much of our time in the office is spent writing up artisan histories, documents that describe in pictures and words the artisan’s process of creating their products, and a “how to get there on the bus” document in case there are future volunteers who will make a visit by themselves.

While I want to share parts of what we learn, the sheer amount of info is daunting. My goal is to post a couple of relatively brief cuentos from time to time, but without posting the artisan’s entire story. If Sam gets back on the blogging bandwagon, perhaps he will share more of their stories there. Here are two for today.

Paco
After the business part of our visit to Yenny and Julio’s workshop was completed, Julio brought out his parrot, Paco, for us to meet. Among his many interesting features are the following: he goes crazy with jealousy if Yenny tries to hug or embrace Julio when Paco is within sight; he says “hola” when he hears the telephone ring; and, when it comes to matters of drinking, he is a Peruvian parrot through and through: he only drinks Inca Kola. 

Paco suspiciously checks out the gringos

Yenny, keeping her distance from Paco and Julio

Inca Kola, yuck! I mean, yum!

When we got back to the office and were going through older photos of Yenny and Julio’s workshop, I found a photo of pottery samples that Paco had wormed his way in on. 

Rafael
Rafael del Campo’s workshop is crammed into two rooms in his small home. 

He and his twelve workers even produce artesanía crammed into small spaces.

This worker is building tiny nativities in tiny bottles, in a tiny nook carved out of the pottery workshop

He has submitted paperwork for permits to build a second story, to expand the workshop, but expects a lengthy delay: “It’s Peru.” After he shows us his workshop and current orders, he shows us the stuff he’d really like to produce. And they are gorgeous, interesting, and unique. But for it to be affordable for a client like Global Gifts or Ten Thousand Villages to buy it, Rafael would have to experiment in ways to make them much lighter, by not using so much clay and perhaps altering the design, as the weight alone would make it cost prohibitive to ship. And to feasibly produce these in larger quantities, he would have to upgrade his kiln.

 

But these are such cool designs, and he would get to tap into his creative side... I want him to be able to do this instead of (what looks to me like) the same ceramic pieces that every other artisan makes. 


I suppose I should quit wanting a lot of the artisans to be able to follow their creative side into the unknown world of market trends and flighty consumer tendencies, and stick with the things that are proven to have a market and which pay bills on time, but I want them to be able to follow their passions and make a living at the same time.

¡Porque Perú!

One night, when we were living with the señora, one of our housemates mentioned that she couldn't buy a Metropolitano bus pass at a certain station. Unsure whether she meant that a dispensing machine was broken or if that particular station just didn't sell passes, period, I asked why: "¿Por qué?" Before our housemate could answer, the señora interrupted. "¿Por qué?" She sniffed. "¡Porque Perú!"


Why? Because it's Peru!


It became a joke, one that Sam and I would tell each other on occasions when we thought something was funny or strange. Why was the señora so particular with us? ¡Porque Perú! I had to go to the doctor and called up Christina's clinic, which has multiple locations. When I asked how much it would cost, the voice on the other end asked which office I planned to visit. "Why?" I asked. "Because the price is different depending on which clinic you go to," she said. "It's 70 soles in Chorrillos or downtown Lima, 100 soles in San Borja, and 120 soles in San Isidro." ¡Porque Perú! The postal carrier delivered a package from my mom, but when I asked where her other boxes were, he asked me for a special tip, told me of course it was not necessary, but that it might help the rest of the packages arrive. ¿Por qué? ¡Porque Perú!


And then it passed from our daily usage and I forgot about it, until last weekend. We had decided to go to a free concert we'd read about in the newspaper, one that sounded like it would be Spanish-style flamenco guitar music. Sign us up!


The concert was to take place in a museum located in a new (to us) Lima neighborhood, so we went early to explore. There was a lovely little plaza in front of the museum, complete with a beautiful photo exhibit, so we played with Simon and looked at the art.


We still had an hour to kill, however, so after awhile, we started to leave and explore side streets. Then I noticed perhaps a dozen people lining up for the concert. A line forms an hour ahead of time for guitar music? It seemed excessive but I got in line too while Sam and Simon continued romping around.


A guard came out after 20 minutes or so and told the line of people, now over 100 strong, that the invited guests were welcome to enter through a different door. "What about those of us who were invited by the newspaper?" called out the woman in front of me. "Where do we go?" The guard smiled faintly and said the doors would open soon.


"When are the doors supposed to open?" I asked her. "Hmpf," she said. "This is Perú. They were supposed to open a half hour ago. If we're lucky they'll open by the time the concert starts."


We eventually got in and were surprised that the auditorium was so small and already so packed with people. Our plan - to sit in the back, on the aisle, in case we needed to make an early exit, but leave at intermission regardless - was foiled when we ended up in seats as far away from the exit as possible. Okay, that's fine, I told myself. Don't panic. Simon will be OK for half the concert. We just need to make it to intermission.


The guy in front of us had a program. "Can I see that?" I asked. "Or, could you tell me when the intermission will be?" He offered me the program but rolled his eyes: "Don't trust it. There is an intermission listed, but this is Perú. You can't trust what they tell you."


After a lengthy wait during which I worried incessantly about how Simon might behave during a concert where one is supposed to be quiet, and berated myself for thinking that a concert near his bedtime was a good idea, a woman stepped up to address the packed house. "We are sorry for the delay. There are over 100 people waiting outside to get in and we are trying to convince them to leave. We will begin in five minutes."


A half hour later, after four loooooong introductory speeches by various important people, the musicians entered. After tuning their instruments, the harpsichordist abruptly stood up and said, "No flash cameras, please; it will damage the paintings." She started to sit back down, then straightened up again. "And there will be no intermission."


Arrggghhhh! ¿Por qué? ¡Porque Perú!


Simon was mesmerized for six pieces, tranquil for three, and ready to go for one. We snuck out, jostling about every person possible between our boy and our backpack, ready to make our way home. "Wait," said a guard. "You can't go back out that way." He started walking with us. "There are still people waiting outside and if you leave from that door, they will want to come in." He took us deep into the bowels of the museum and we exited through a guard shack onto a dark side street. How sneaky!


We walked around to the front of the building and saw perhaps a dozen hardcore devotees waiting at the door. I have a pretty good idea of what they were saying to each other.

Warning: dangerous cuts ahead

Simon needed a haircut. My last few attempts to give him one had resulted in him crying and hating the whole process… not to mention a really lopsided cut. I decided to take him to one of the official little kid haircut salons, even though the cost was outrageous.

At 38 soles a cut (roughly $14, high for this market), I would expect a massage, a free gift, or something spectacular. Sam’s and my haircuts are only 11 soles at the neighborhood peluquería a couple of blocks away… but then again, we are pretty cheap. (Whether we are cheap enough to try out the one I saw yesterday for a rock-bottom five soles a cut is up in the air.)

My rationale for forking over soles galore was that they would know what they were doing. And they did! It was worth every sol. Simon was fascinated in his little car, looking at his cute self in the mirror, never once squirming, complaining, or being anything less than enthralled. 

Simon now spots the kiddie haircut cars at random spots, tries to climb into them, and mimics scissors cutting his hair. He actually asked to get his hair cut the other day. I am ready to swear allegiance to this kiddie salon. 

Sam isn’t, however. A couple of weeks ago, he found a peluquería with kiddie cars in Barranco for seven soles. “Let’s go there next time,” he suggested.

One of my favorite parts of Simon’s haircut involved a seatbelt. In nearly every taxi we have ever been in here, the seatbelts don’t exist, fit, or have the necessary other half. Maybe, as the bus driver illustrates below, the critical part is to just have it draped across your midriff.

Yet Simon's little car had a well-fitting seatbelt, and he was carefully strapped in before his cape was velcroed on.

Seatbelts for haircuts is such a brilliant idea. I hate getting my hair cut and tend to panic halfway through each one. But with a seatbelt (and maybe a pisco sour), perhaps the experience would be a calmer one.

We’ll check out the Barranco barber for Simon’s next cut… if there are seatbelts. Do you think they would notice if I brought my own flask with me? More importantly, do you think they would let me sit in the kiddie car? 

Construction zone

Lima is in the middle of a construction boom, and in the blocks near our home, the construction sites are mostly apartment buildings in various states of completion. Due to the frequent earthquakes, Lima has a regulation that buildings cannot be taller than 30 floors. Still, this provides for some tall buildings to watch as they are built, floor by floor.

I get scared just seeing them build; look at them, balanced on a board, putting in rebar! 

This is a closer view in case the earlier photo was not spine-tingling enough.

Simon has really developed a love of construction equipment while here, including making up his own signs for certain things like buckets (they are always two, on a pulley system, and so his sign is using both hands, one high, the other low, and then switching their places) and bulldozers (he pushes out one hand like the bulldozer pushes out its shovel).

Buckets, take 1

Buckets, take 2

A backhoe was parked near our apartment while the driver took a nap inside the cab... Simon seized the opportunity to try out the loader. 

My parents gave Simon a little excavator, which has been a huge hit (as you may have guessed from earlier posts), especially on artisan visits or at mealtimes at restaurants when we linger longer than we would at home. There are so many things to put in the loader and move around, like lots of coins or rocks. 

The excavator (and juice) buying us time to enjoy a coffee

The excavator buying us time at an artisan's workshop

They also brought Simon a cool book about 100 different trucks which is helping me to increase my vocabulary so I don't keep stammering, "look at that, uh, truck" or "the thing that moves dirt". It's been fun to see how Simon now notices a whole new class of trucks as a result, like tow trucks and impact hammers.

A regular activity with Simon is to go on a walk to check out various construction sites. Watching excavators fill trucks with dirt and rocks, or workers filling wheelbarrows with cement, then wheeling them to the elevators running the backbone of the building's skeleton, or cement trucks piping in the next wall or floor layer: there is always something fascinating going on. 

Relaxing on the sidewalk, watching the construction show

Once, while we were traveling through the Sacred Valley and enjoying seeing intricate ruins and gorgeous landscapes, I was recounting the day’s adventures with Simon as we were winding down for his nap. He bolted upright and mimicked an excavator’s scooping and dumping, reminding me that not only had we seen an excavator working, but that it had been working in the middle of a river. How could you forget that, Mom? That was the highlight of the day!

While Simon likes to check out what equipment is in use at each one, I like to inspect the signs. 

I pretend that these signs mean that the construction workers take frequent breaks to do aerobics, or at least that it is a caution to be aware that construction workers may break out with a dance move while shoveling dirt. 

I suppose it's just the orientation on this one... but they almost never have it oriented so that the worker is leaning over; he's always busting a dance move with the shovel!

This is another favorite. Doesn’t it look like they are reminding people of a rule to wear underwear? Or perhaps underwear with suspenders?

If there were no accompanying text, I could convince myself that it were true, instead of being about a safety harness.


I also like these. Some joker with a stencil flower put flowers in and around the various signs at this site.

I can think of a certain husband who might benefit from the one below as a street sign, to aid in avoiding tripping over curbs.

I just like this sign, what with the drama of the slipping person.

The construction boom is far more dependent on manual labor than in the States. An example: to move a pile of bricks, there is a chain set up of perhaps 15 men. One picks up a brick from the pile and tosses it to the next man, who tosses it to the next, and so on. The bricks move slowly from outside on the street to inside the construction area. They make it look effortless, as if they were tossing pillows around. These men are strong. And yes, it’s always men. I have yet to see a woman as a worker on a construction site. 

Another example of manual labor: note that there is a ramp of boards set up against the dumpster. This dumpster was slowly filled, wheelbarrow load by wheelbarrow load.

I'm not sure what the safety standards are... this worker is standing on a board, which is balanced on two ladders, drilling holes into a concrete wall. 

I'm secretly hoping that one of these days someone will invite us in and let us sit in the cab of the excavator while it moves around and does exciting things. Did I say Simon was fascinated by the construction sites? I suppose it is rubbing off on me, too... I want to operate the excavator!

A tale of two talleres

One of our most recent artisan visits was to two talleres (workshops) in Villa El Salvador: a mother and daughter, each with her own taller, living side by side.

Zoila, walking me to Ruth's workshop, on the left. Zoila's is the door on the right.

Zoila learned how to form and fire ceramic figurines out of necessity when her husband abandoned her with no means of supporting their three children, ages 12, 6, and 2. She didn’t have any skills for a trade and sold little treats on the beach to get by. One of her friends did ceramics and Zoila thought, if she needed to learn something to make a living, why not learn ceramics? But her friend was reluctant to teach her, so Zoila hung around and attempted to learn by quietly watching her friend. Then she went home and tried to replicate her work. It took her a full year of trial and error before she produced a piece she was satisfied with.


Her kids grew up in the workshop and each had their responsibilities. Ruth, the oldest, used her creative flair and vast imagination to design the pieces. Oscar, the middle child, painted the detail work. Clara, the youngest, helped Zoila form the clay and paint the background colors. And so they survived.

Zoila, in her one-room workshop

She has created many molds for her ceramic pieces over the years.

They moved around the southern districts of Lima frequently but finally secured their own land about 15 years ago, a small plot in Villa El Salvador. It’s not far from the beach; the ocean is on the other side of a huge sand dune and across the Panamerican Highway. Now Villa El Salvador is a large district but it started as a land invasion in 1971.

This giant, empty sand lot is the soccer field.

As her children got older, they continued helping Zoila in the business but also began following their own pursuits. Ruth, now 36, opened her own ceramics workshop seven years ago, and loves any kind of artistic expression, from painting to designing carpets of flower petals for the local Good Friday processions. 

Ruth showed us a picture of her grandfather, which was the model for the as-yet unfinished painting on the left.

Clara, now 26, works in a factory to make ends meet, in addition to helping Zoila as needed. Oscar completed a degree in commercial exportation and was the logistics side of his mom's and sister's businesses.


Three years ago, Oscar was helping Zoila finish an order when he decided to go hang out on the beach for the afternoon. “I’ll paint the eyes when I get back,” he told Zoila. Hours passed and Oscar didn’t return.


Oscar had drowned. He was 27 years old.


Several weeks passed and Yannina started wondering where Zoila’s order was. It was past due and she was surprised she hadn’t heard from her. She called and Zoila recounted what had happened. Yannina assured her that she would talk to the client and get more time to complete the order. “But I can’t finish the order. I don’t know how to do the eyes,” Zoila told her. “Oscar did that.”


Zoila eventually somehow finished the eyes and was surprised when Yannina kept calling her to inform her of new orders every two weeks or so. As this was far more frequent than usual, she thought she knew where they were coming from: “Oscar is sending us these orders.”


Zoila and Ruth live side by side. But their homes couldn’t be more different. Zoila’s is pretty dark. The only natural light that comes in is from the open areas where the walls and roof don’t meet. There are four rooms, shotgun style. The odor of animals is strong. You can hear neighbors moving around behind thin walls. 


In contrast, Ruth’s home and workshop is light-filled, thanks to a raised roof in one section, windows filling the space between the walls and raised roof. Flowerpots are in a small outdoors space, separating her workshop from living space. Incense burns incessantly. Still, the level of poverty they live in is astonishing.


Sam told me on our way back home that he thought they were better off than they are, based on their appearances every time he’s seen them at Manos Amigas. We shared that with Yannina and she nodded, saying, “The poorest people almost always dress themselves very carefully.” And yet Ruth told us that before working with Manos Amigas, they were "very, very poor." I can only imagine what that means. 


Ruth is able to work solely as an artisan because she can fall back on her husband’s salary if needed; he works as a security guard for a Catholic home. Zoila, however, cannot survive on just her artesanía alone. She has a small store at the front of her home where she displays some of her work but also sells miscellaneous gift items to friends and neighbors.

Zoila's store

Simon went crazy when he saw Winnie-the-Pooh on Zoila's store wall. She promptly took it off and gave it to Simon. He's not exactly showing his happiness in this photo but it's now hanging on his wall, which he points out to us several times each day.  

I am drawn in by Zoila and Ruth’s stories for several reasons. Obviously, Ruth’s losing her brother/Zoila losing her son hits very close to home, as my brother Jared died of leukemia four years ago. Their grief is very present and I relate to that.

I also appreciate how Zoila fell into pottery out of necessity but now Ruth is doing it out of love. Granted, Ruth works in ceramics out of necessity too, but she is so clearly an artist and loves the creative process. And her work is gorgeous and distinctive.

I really like Ruth's style.

I first noticed Ruth’s work when she brought in muestras in December. I don’t like nativities at all, period, and I don’t understand the craze to buy more and more of them (nativities being a great seller at Global Gifts and a large percentage of what Manos Amigas’ artisans produce), but I saw a nativity product sample that Ruth had produced and loved it. Not enough to buy it for ourselves, of course, but enough to be really excited about learning more about her and seeing her work. (Sam thought the nativity was beautiful, too, and therefore you will be able to buy it at Global Gifts this upcoming holiday season!)

The nativity in question

I am also a bit biased towards Ruth's work because she listened intently to Sam's presentation at the artisan training in December, the one where he suggested ways to design products to sell better, based on his experiences at Global Gifts. She told him how much she appreciated his input and that it had really helped her brainstorm new ideas. "I designed these pieces after your talk," she said, showing him several sculptures of a teacher reading to one or two students. "I wondered," Sam said. "I ordered a bunch for Global Gifts!" By the time this post is actually up, they should be in the stores.

A final reason why I am captivated by her work: Ruth's figures do not have eyes or detail work on their faces. I wonder if that is somehow an homage to her brother.


A mom trying to survive teaches her daughter the tools for her own trade. The daughter takes her skill to the next level and produces art. I wonder what Oscar would have been able to do, had he lived.