Melquiades and his wife

Melquiades and his wife have their wedding picture hung on their wall, their only adornment. (I am so, so sorry to not have her name as part of this post, but somehow I never caught her name during our visit, and when I later asked everyone what her name was, no one knew it.) 

We visit Melquiades on an excursion with Yannina, Mario, and Dieuwe, and while the adults are busy discussing product samples and the kids are running around, I am transfixed by the photo. They are so young and beautiful in it. Their whole lives lie ahead of them. I wonder what their plans and hopes were, and how often they look at their photo and remember them. 

They work together, producing retablos, scenes inside of eggshells, plaster stars, dried fruit skins, shells, or cardboard boxes.

Melquiades left home when he was 13, worked in a lead and zinc mine for several years until he was fed up with how he was treated. Then he began working full time in artesanía. 

He learned artesanía from his parents, then taught his wife so they could work together. As their six children grew up in and among the workshop, they learned too. Two of them now operate their own workshops. All live in Lurín, one of the southernmost districts of Lima.

It is an adventure just to get to Lurín. First, we take a bus across Miraflores, then Surco, to get to the Panamerican Highway, about 45 minutes away, depending on traffic. We walk down the ramp to the highway itself, then wait in the noise and congestion under the bridge for the right bus to come. It’s far, so the buses aren’t as frequent as we have come to expect (meaning that instead of waiting 2-3 minutes for our bus to come, we might wait 10-15 minutes). 

There are many people waiting for buses or taxis or colectivos there. For others, this is their place of work, where they sell candies or sodas to commuters. And there are beggars. The noise of the rushing traffic, so close to where we stand to wait, is deafening. I can’t imagine spending hours there, let alone every day, and I wince when I think about the permanent damage that might be happening to the babies and young children who accompany their mothers while they sell or beg.

Once we’re on the bus, the trip takes another 45 minutes. We go from congested city center to the outskirts where occasionally a giant trash fire spreads a huge plume of black smoke for miles. Buildings thin out and there is a giant sand dune to the left and the ocean to the right. Small restaurants line the coast and pedestrian bridges allow transport to the shacks and small businesses along the sand dune, which, if you climb it, brings you to Villa El Salvador. The bus leaves the highway and take a back road past a cemetery and religious retreat center, then pass archaeological ruins. Finally we approach Lurín. It’s a drastic change; it’s sand, sand, sand... until boom, a line in the sand is drawn and Lurín starts. 

Melquiades and his wife live about 15 minutes past the beginning of Lurín, in a small rented shack without running water. While they would eventually like to purchase their own land and build their own home, they currently do not have the means necessary to do so.

Before we leave, I ask them if I can take their picture with their wedding photo. They readily agree and stand solemnly beneath their young selves. Unfortunately, the glare from the incoming light obliterates their young images. Yet the image remains, at least in my memory.