lima's garúa

In winter, a fog, called the garúa, envelopes Lima.

The garúa holds Lima in a steady twilight throughout the day, so you can never know if the sun is rising or setting just by looking at the sky. It is thin and easily dissolves into the near background to reveal a world intensely detailed and surreally decontextualized, like having your picture taken in the third grade in the school gym, sitting in front of a gray plastic poster with a rainbow painted on and hot lights warming your cheeks.

Kenji Mizoguchi liked to use fog, as thick and meaty as merengue, to blur the boundary between reality and dream worlds. Can fantasies and desires nourish the corpus as an apple does? The garúa—a sinister, luminous blank—is not so generous. There is only one world, the garúa says. Here it is, on a silver platter, I can show you, reveal all, in minutiae, that in the one world you live in, there is no mystery, only ignorance and denial.

You are born of dying flesh, the garúa says. The moment you take breath, the only certainty in your so-called life is death, and yet you insist on calling what you do "living" instead of what it is: dying. You are born to die. There is neither mystery nor miracle to your existence.

But no, you are not satisfied with calling the period you spend dying "existence," the garúa says. You require meaning for your living, in your dying. You think existence is devoid of meaning, of purpose. And your meaning is defined by, driven by, those ephemeral dreams, fantasies, desires. In your self-estimation, you are too important to exist.

Can't you see? the garúa says. To exist is enough. Do not attempt to discover meaning in your dreams, the unsavory cud of a diseased and deluded mind. Your meaning is that you exist. Or else you will have died without ever being.

Do you want to know your future? the garúa says. Do not try to see beyond the fog. All you will find there is death. Turn your gaze to me, while you are still dying, while there is still time to die, and let me show you that you exist, in all of your splendid details.

prometheus un/bound

These are men doing restoration work in Chan Chan, a tremendous complex of palaces built by the Chimu.

I think there must be a difference, difference between ordinary workers reconstructing indifferently and artists creating with vision.

I wonder how these workers can begin to comprehend what they are working on, if they understand the sanctity of their work, so out of context as they are. Which part of their souls are they offering? How many pieces have their hearts been cut up in to throw into the fire?

What does an artist ask of god and what becomes his art if his plea does not risk divine wrath and retribution?

perfect day

I think I miss my friend, Valerie. I think I know this because I am obsessed with a song by The Cranberries. Yes, another one. Unless you are one of the two people who lived with me in a triple room for two years in university, you probably have no clue what I am talking about. Let me explain.

One sunny day, Valerie, cheerfully and unsuspectingly, played a CD by The Cranberries. Instantly I became addicted to "When You're Gone." It made me feel so sad. And I felt sad at the time, most of the time, at university. Listening to a sad song helped because I could hear the pain echoed back, just a little.

Valerie and Khanh can swear to the fact that I played that song over and over and over, to no relief. Hundreds, thousands—no it must have been millions!—of times I played "When You're Gone" (and to this day, I still don't know the words to the whole song).

I recently returned from a trip to Argentina. On my previous trips out of Lima, I had always been glad to return: from Venezuela, from Cusco, from Chile, from Cusco again, from Trujillo and Chiclayo. Not this time. This time is different. I am not glad to be back in Lima. Instead, I want to be back in Argentina.

Who knows why this is. In any case, I've been in a slump, for more than a week. I have sequestered myself in my room and have been playing—it seems endlessly—this second song that Valerie gifted me (accidentally).

For Valerie:

I had a dream
Strange it may seem
It was my perfect day

Open my eyes
I realize
This is my perfect day

Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old

Birds in the sky
Feeling so high
This is my perfect day

I feel the breeze
I feel at ease
It is my perfect day

Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old

Forever young
I hope you’ll stay
Forever young

the fox's secret

The fox said to the Little Prince, "What is essential is invisible to the eyes" and "The time you wasted on your rose is what makes your rose so important."

Finding what is true, what is essential takes time. And the time you waste on finding that which you seek is what makes your search so important.

But never be fooled into thinking that what you seek does not already belong to you, is not already by you, does not already reside inside you.

two birds

Two birds on a rock
who would sing sang not
in stillness they kept
in silence they wept
alone together.

one night of lovin'

Actually, more like 30 seconds of doggie humpin'.

Humo, my canine housemate, doesn't realize it yet. He thinks that Elizabet found him a novia (translates to girlfriend but in this case a bitch) because she's being nice. She is, sort of.

You see, Humo has been getting more and more aggressive, especially during his daily walks at the neighborhood park. He tries to fight and bite any dog in sight and once even broke loose from Elizabet's lead and got into a tumble with a much bigger feral dog. Lucky for Humo, his opponent wasn't interested and no dog got hurt.

But Elizabet has had enough: enough of the barking, the pulling, the yelping, the dry humping. She got Humo a novia so he could sire Humitos and then she's going to take him to get his testicles lopped off.

Any day now the novia will be ready to receive Don Humo. But he only gets one shot. That's it. Then snip snip!

My only regret is I won't be around long enough to fully enjoy the benefits of a softer, kinder Humo. And, if he is successful, I won't get to play with the fruits of his one night of passion. Despite my complaints, I'll miss the old man either way.

tea time

Our stay in Buenos Aires is drawing to a close. What I will miss most is tea time, time to sip and time to nip, time to chit and time to chat. Time to sit, time with friends. Time for seconds and minutes to work their business.

tigre

If you take the train all the way north, past Belgrano (where Indra Devi has a yoga foundation and where the small—literally two blocks—Chinatown is located), past Olivos (where Valerie and the president of Argentina live and where you can find the best gelato in the world), past San Isidro (where the old money of Buenos Aires keep their quintas), you'll reach Tigre.

Tigre is the name of the town at the delta of the Paraná river. It used to be farmland and timber port. Now it is home to wealthy Argentines who can afford a weekend home or two, artists, and hundreds of poor who make their living from weaving the tall reeds that grow in the delta.

Once at Tigre, you can take a tourist boat that will show you different sights. You can also take commuter ferries that pick up and drop off passengers at docks, located in someone's backyard, instead of bus stops. Along the route, you might see supermarket boats making house calls or gasoline stations with boats parked in the water waiting to fill-'er-up-super.

We booked passage on one of these commuter ferries to Tres Bocas (Three Mouths), an area 30 minutes upriver, where we strolled along the bank, battled mosquitoes, and played with dogs before the taking of cake and tea.

On the way, we sailed past the house of Domingo Faustino Sarmiento, a president during the Argentine Republic's early years. (It's just my opinion but with a name like Domingo Faustino Sarmiento you've just got an obligation to amount to something high and mighty.) It is a quaint little yellow wood-framed farm house—enclosed in a gigantic glass and steel box. Now that's a sight!

cry protest

There are frequent protests on Avenida 25 de Mayo. That's the avenue that leads to the Casa Rosada, the presidential palace.

Hospital workers, transit workers, teachers—everyone wants higher pay and better conditions. According to Valerie, many protesters are professionals, meaning they get paid to protest. The government responds to unions by giving money to the organizations which in turn use the funds to pay protesters to demand more money.

This is not always the case, I suppose. There are legitimate grievances. But my sense is that the system is corrupt and broken. There is little sympathy from the general public because 1) the tactics used by the protesters cause serious damage to innocent bystanders (like absent teachers and severe traffic disruptions) and 2) the protests are so commonplace that hardly anyone notices the reasons for the protests anymore, just the nuisance of the demonstrations.

roses at dusk

Walk through the rose garden at dusk. Many are still in bloom. Like wine, each rose has its distinctive scent. Most smell like soap to me, no thanks to the many rose-scented soaps on the market.

glorified chucky cheese

Back in October, I visited Caracas, Venezuela. On Carlos's recommendation, I went to the children's museum.

Though it was almost deserted of visitors, the museum was impressive. Not only was it comprehensive (it covered geology to biology to space exploration to...), the exhibits were educational and interesting and there were multiple guides on hand to demonstrate experiments and answer questions.

Because Carlos is working on building a museum in Carabayllo, we decided to visit the children's museum in Buenos Aires for ideas. We were expecting something similar to, if not better than, the museum in Caracas.

Our first clue should have been that the museum was located in a mall. Albeit it was inside the Abasto. The Abasto is a magnificent building that used to be a central market. It is located blocks away from Carlos Gardél's home and when Albert Einstein visited Buenos Aires, he made a point to visit the Abasto. Sadly it fell into disrepair and disuse and in the late-90s it was renovated and turned into the largest shopping mall in Buenos Aires.

At first, we were cheered on by the happy, vibrant colors. But quickly we realized we had been ensnared into one big advertising trap. For example, there was a child-sized MacDonald's where little Ronaldo can flip plastic burgers and serve up plastic french fries. There were exhibits by Coto (a local supermarket chain), Banco Hipotecario (local bank), Nestle, and Colgate among others.














The only remotely educational exhibit was a bit of a blooper for me. I saw a rounded white bowl and a blue ladder. I thought it was a ship. When I climbed up and saw a slide, I got excited and slid down the tube. On the way down I was eager to climb the ladder and do it again.

To my horror, when I reached bottom there was no way out. I was obliged to crawl through a plastic tube for some minutes before florescent lights shined sweet cool rays on me once more. It turned out, I had flushed myself down a gigantic toilet bowl, crawled through sewer pipes, and washed out into a treatment tank: I got to experience the life-cycle of poop. Yay! (I think.)

carlos [heart] cat

Carlos is allergic to cats and don't care for them in general. But it doesn't have to be this way. There's medication he can take. Plus, he's naturally gifted with a warm, snug lap, which would be a shame if it went to waste. The cat's happy. You can be, too, Carlos.

feria del libro

It is the largest book fair in the world: The 33rd International Book Fair in Buenos Aires. For two weeks, citizens of the world—1.2 million of them—descend on La Rural* and buy millions of dollars worth of books.

The crowd there was thicker than the 6 train at rush hour. We loved it. We loved browsing through shelves and boxes and piles of books, from serious academic titles to forgettable fluff. There were also lectures, discussions, and book signings, which we didn't have time to attend. What we loved most was being among others—individuals, couples, families with children**—who also loved books and loved to read.


*La Rural is like the Jacob Javits Convention Center in New York, except 100 times more beautiful and 100 million times cooler. It had its beginnings as an animal auction and still hosts annual animal fairs.

**I never thought I would be so glad to see so many children at an event.

radio colifata

Each Saturday from 3 p.m. until 6 or 7 p.m. the patients at the mental hospital, Jose Borda, put on a radio show.

Hospital Borda, located in the southern part of Buenos Aires, is a sprawling complex of concrete buildings and occasional courtyards. In one corner of a nondescript courtyard, underneath a scatter of trees, on a patch of shabby grass, patients interview live audience members, play guitar, sing, dance, recite poetry. Millions tune in.

Colifata means crazy, in the most positive sense, like crazy-wonderful, crazy-inspired, crazy-fabulous. Alfredo Olivera, a psychologist, created the program as a form of therapy for his patients. He produces, directs, and moderates the show.

Carlos and I arrived around 3 p.m. There was already a crowd of patients, psychologists, and the curious gathered, sitting on plastic stools in semi-circles around a fold-out table with the radio equipment. Almost immediately, patients approached us, greeted us with a customary kiss on the cheek, and welcomed us.

Three hours later, the sun set. Our fingers froze and our rumps ached. There was still a queue of patients waiting to present the materials they've prepared during the week. The doctors hung up storm lights on branches as we got up and waved good-bye.

cabaña las lilas

We splurged. Cabaña las Lilas is one of the fancier restaurants in Buenos Aires. They raise their own cattle and have a reputation for fine beef. The atmosphere was casual, the service was prompt and attentive, and the bill breathtaking (especially for two unemployed soon-to-be students).

A note about food service in Argentina: It is consistently excellent. Anywhere you go, for the most part, waiters are knowledgeable and professional (though most don't smile and the real professionals don't use pads to write down orders) and the food comes quickly.

cementerio recoleta

The cemetery in Recoleta is possibly my favorite place to visit in Buenos Aires. The who's who of Argentina politics, culture, and business rest here.

Each tomb is unique and the architectural styles usually reflect the period in which they were built. Underground are additional storage spaces two or three levels deep. What we see on the surface represents only a fraction of the dead in Recoleta.

The most exclusive and expensive property in Argentina, probably in the world, is in this cemetery. (In 2004, a plot sold for about $300,000.) Space rarely opens up because most plots have a perpetuity clause. This means that the land is in the family for eternity. Neither the city, the state, nor the country have any claims to that land. Families who own the plot contract caretakers to clean and maintain the tombs. Unfortunately, when family lines end, it also means that there is no one left to care for the tombs and they often fall into disrepair and there is nothing anyone can legally do about it.

Ironically, Recoleta was originally settled by the Recoleto branch of the Franciscan order who practiced poverty and extreme mortification. They built their church on the outskirts of town, some miles north of the center of Buenos Aires. When plague struck in the late-1800s, wealthy families moved north, permanently transforming Recoleta into the most exclusive and opulent neighborhood in Buenos Aires.

Thanks to Evita, starring Madonna, Eva Peron's tomb is the most visited in the cemetery. Actually, she did not wish to buried in Recoleta because of its association with the rich and powerful. For security reasons (at some point, her body went missing for 17 years and was eventually discovered under a false name in Italy) her coffin is sealed in concrete and buried four levels deep in the family tomb.

Like the fascinating lives they lead as rich and famous people, there are fascinating tales of death here too. An 18-year-old woman from a wealthy family suffered an cataleptic episode. Her doctor pronounced her dead and ordered her entombed. When the girl woke from her trance, she found herself sealed inside her coffin. The girl's grandmother, who always had her doubts, eventually was able to arranged for the body to be exhumed. They found scratch marks inside the coffin and an autopsy revealed that the girl had died of asphyxiation.

ciencias naturales

Pilar is a biologist and works in the ornithology department at the natural science museum. She gave Valerie, Carlos, and me a personal tour of the bird collections in the basement where they clean, stuff, and catalog birds they bring back from field trips.

It was amazing. There were closets filled with drawers filled with stiff, puffed, and perfectly preserved birds, some dating back to the early 19th century. The smell of mothballs, too, was overpowering.

After our private tour, we visited the museum proper. There was a short hallway lined with aquariums inhabited by depressed fish. There was a room filled with colorful seashells. There were several rooms of giant marine and dinosaur fossils. Apparently, Argentina is rich with dinosaur fossils. Looking at the gigantic skeletons, I saw a resemblance between the saurians and me. Even though we have different numbers of vertebrae and theirs are generally much larger than mine, I saw that the shape and function remained similar. I never thought I had much in common with a lizard, even knowing the statistic that our DNA sequence is about 98% identical. But seeing the rib cage, the metatarsals, the jaw, the eye sockets, I felt strange and as if I was only a smaller, slightly misshapened extant version of the mighty beast.

fat cats & drunken sticks

In the garden of the natural science museum are a tree called palo borracho meaning "drunken stick" and tens of cats. The cats are fixed and fat. Perhaps they are fat because they are storing up insulation for the approaching winter; perhaps they are fat because ladies who come by to feed them each day give them too much food. However fat they are, I'm sure they are still a quarter of the size of my two fat cats at home.

choripan

In New York, you can get hotdogs and pretzels on the street. In Buenos Aires, street vendors grill succulent sausage, beef, and pork. We stopped at this station and ate three meatwiches while we waited out the rain.