OneWayTicket

Day 73: Meeting Gandhi in Lima

Considering this is the city where middle aged women zip around in Bajaj autorickshaws labelled The Tigers of San Miguel and curvy bikini-clad women on signboards exhort you to drink Brahma beer, it shouldn´t have surprised us that we bumped into Gandhi (see the man himself above) at Lima´s Chinatown, right?

Oh well, it was one of those perfect holiday days.

When we landed in Lima two weeks ago, our launch pad for a whirlwind tour of Peru, we thought it looked like East Delhi. Perhaps it was because it had been raining. This time round, with one day to go before we left for Sao Paolo, it looked decidedly brighter. We´re going to spend the day exploring, I informed the weary husband who had visions of lying in front of the telly and watching some trashy Peruvian music channel.

What do you do when you´re in a city for a day, you´re stuck with a crap guidebook and the TimeOut is not written in English? I usually log on to The New York Times´ 36 Hours in XYZ City series. Obviously it´s just a starting point--I know if I had 36 hours in Bombay I would do more than go to Dome and Bombay Electric.

Peru is tough, but it´s been my favourite country so far. If ever there was a country that deserved a Mere desh ki dharti song, this is it.

In many ways it´s like home. Some neighbourhoods in Lima seem even more out of synch with Peru than, say, Mumbai´s Malabar Hill is with the real India. At least in Malabar Hill the real India is just outside your doorstep. In Lima, the bubble is much less porus, and the high-altitude dust of the rugged Andes just a distant puff.

We walked down a well-maintained street of Miraflores (where we were staying) to Larcomar--Marine Drive on steroids ie a seaside walkway clinging to a cliff above the Pacific Ocean where you can spot surfers even in winter. I wanted to pop in to the H. Stern at the JW Marriot to see if I could pick up some Inca-design jewellery for my mum. The store was closed (and the next day at the airport I found it was totally overpriced anyway--stick to India or Dubai for gold) so we wandered through the streets of Miraflores.

NYT had suggested a route and we took it--past the parks with marigolds in the heart of the neighbourhood, the street artists (see photo below), the street food vendors (Peru is big on street food--fried guinea pig skins anyone?), and past Cafe Haiti, an old world coffee shop. We found ourselves at the steps of a movie theatre where they were screening M Night Shyamalan´s The Happening (or El Fin De Los Tiempos) in English. The show was at 4.30 so we decided to come back then (read my two bit review below).

(Photo, above: painters sell their work on a Lima main street)

We hopped on to a micro headed downtown. The tiny buses with full blast music are Lima´s only real means of public transport and it was fun to watch the conductor try to convince any large group of people he spotted on the sidewalk to hop on. Eventually we got off and continued the trek on foot. Our plan was to walk hand in hand through the Plaza San Martin and get to Plaza Major (see photo below), the restored colonial heart of Lima; then lunch at Chinatown and head back for The Happening.

It was a loong walk but after all those tourist buses, wandering through neighbourhoods with beautifully maintained colonial buildings was brilliant. Like in India, there´s always something to look at in Central America -- we walked past a church with two muzzled, hefty doberman on guard (see photo below); a policeman blew a furious whistle at a little girl who plucked a flower at the Plaza Major and ran away swiftly as half the square laughed; a lady selling "zero cholestrol" quail eggs laughed disbelievingly when I informed her I was a vegetarian.

At Chinatown, NYT had recommended Salon Capon, but all the restaurants looked equally good. Since the newspaper recommends Trishna in Bombay, the husband rebelled and picked his own favourite. I got a plate of stir fried veggies with rice and non-alcoholic Chicha and the husband feasted on a lunch buffet of all kinds of unmentionables.

We saw very few Chinese in the restaurant (which actually looked like a large wedding hall and reminded me of the breakfast places in Hong Kong) the husband says it´s just a sign of their diminishing population in Peru. The first Chinese arrived in Peru more than 150 years old--their names are still carved into the flagstones of Lima´s Chinatown.

(Photo below: Peruvian Chinese food tastes exactly like Indian Chinese!)

After we had overeaten, we walked back out to the crowded street. I glanced at a kurta-clad man disbelievingly and nudged the husband: "Doesn´t that guy look just like Gandhi?" Now we were both staring and hey, it wasn't the Mahatma's long lost twin. This man was carrying placards that had Gandhi's picture on them and was talking loudly in Spanish about the Indian icon and karma.    

"Are you Indian?" I asked. "Nope, Peruvian." We couldn´t understand each other so we smiled vigorously and decided to take pictures instead. First, Gandhi alone. Then Gandhi asked if we wanted to take a picture with him. So I photographed the husband and Gandhi, and a crazy tourist who insisted on piling on to the picture. Next, Gandhi wanted to know if he could pose with his arm around me. No thanks, I said as he handed me a pamphlet. Later, when a friend translated, we learned this guy wasn't exactly into a turn-the-other-cheek philosophy. And yes, he´s on http://gandhiperu.hi5.com/ if you don't believe me.

Our day was almost stranger than a Night Shyamalan film, I thought as we headed back to the movie theatre in a cab. This man is one of my favourite directors (yes, I loved Lady in the Water) but even I'm beginning to worry now. Cinematographer Tak Fujimoto was the only saving grace, I thought.

Still, as we walked into the park outside the theatre enroute to our hotel, I couldn't help but shiver as the trees rustled.

In the park, a jalebi-shaped pit was full of oldies cheering a young, suited teenager who was belting out romantic numbers. Soon, the oldies got up and began dancing vigorously to the songs (Photo, below: Dancing the park).

We stayed there for a while, and I tried to ignore the rustling trees.

The husband thought my tour had ended, but after a couple of Pisco Sours back at the hotel I dragged him to the bohemian neighbourhood of Barranco. It was quite dead but we found a lovely Italian-Peruvian restaurant where one wall was plastered with vintage family photographs. On our way out, the husband, using his rapidly improving Spanish, told the smiling, elegant doorman that it was our last night in Peru and that we had just enjoyed the perfect last meal. The doorman shook hands with him and blew me a kiss.

And we were off to Sao Paolo.