Lima, Peru

Tuesday, December 14, 2004:

The first order of daily business was to head back down to American Airlines, confront the agent from hell, and get my ticket dates changed. Amazingly, this worked without too much trouble. I even managed to get through the ordeal entirely in Spanish, without staring dumbly and blankly too many times. While I was not issued new tickets, I was given a sheet of paper with a new itinerary, told I was reserved for the flights, and instructed to present my ticket, along with the paper, when I went to the airport for my flights. A bit complicated, but this was the same thing the agent on Utila had me do when I changed my flights there. It worked. This would work too. And so my plans for Brazil and Rio are now as follows:

Feb. 20, 2005: Fly from Buenos Aires to Rio
Mar. 1, 2005: Fly from Rio to Johannesburg, South Africa
Apr. 14, 2005: Fly from Johannesburg to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

This chore finally dispatched with, I hailed a taxi on the curb outside the AA offices. "Cuanto cuesta al Museo de la Nacion?" I asked the driver.

He was an older man with a sparse head of white hair and skin pulled taut across his narrow, bony face. He wore sunglasses. He smelled like a cross between Aqua Velva and a dead octopus. Perhaps like a dead octopus that has been marinating in Aqua Velva for quite some time. Whatever the case, the dead octopus was most definitely not a fresh dead octopus.

The driver stared at me through his aviator shades. "15 soles," he said, quoting me twice what I had expected to hear.

"No," I said and turned to walk away.

"Ey, ey, ey, ey, ey! Amigo!" he yelled, "how much? how much?"

"7 Soles."

"9."

I got in the cab. This was all just so annoying. 9 Soles was too much, but I didn´t want to waste any time over 2 or 3 Soles (less than $1.00).

"Where you from?" he asked, "Canada?"

"Si," I said. "Toronto." If somebody I don´t like asks me if I am Canadian --- and I can foresee pissing them off in the near future --- I figure I may as well have Canada take the blame for my deeds.

We drove. The driver babbled numerous questions and told me about a man he once met who was from Canada. Apparently, there was nothing else he knew about the man other than that he was from Canada. And, hey, you´re from Canada too! What a fantastic coincidence.

When we reached the museum after --- what else --- a nightmarish ride down the expressway, I handed the driver a 10 Sole note and asked for change.

"Como se dice propina en Canadiense?" [How do you say "tip" in Canadian?] asked my ripe, octopus-infused driver.

I laughed, snatched my 1 Sole, and left the cab. You don´t tip taxi drivers in Peru, particularly not when they overcharge you and think that Canadians have their own language. "Eh," does not count.

I then spent the next hour and a half wandering through the enormous National Museum, which is filled with various pre-Incan relics from the Sipan, Wari, Moche and other cultures of Peru and South America, many in excellent condition and very detailed. Most of the works were ceramic, but some exhibits consisted of drawings on enormous rocks that had been removed from their original sites. The variety and size of the display is overwhelming and exhausting, but the place was worth the visit.

As a final note, my driver on the way back did not try to rip me off, perhaps impressed by my effort to acquaint myself with his nation´s heritage. I told him I from the U.S. (NYC) and tipped him an extra Sole.

America: 1
Canada: 0