An Open Letter to Peru

Dear Peru,

We've been together for 6 months now, and while I still have a few weeks to go before I make my way into Chile (I know, I know, you hate Chile. Get over it.), I wanted to say a proper goodbye, via an open letter on a little-read blog.

In 6 months, we've had some good times and bad. Conquering the Inca Trail, finally laying eyes on Machu Picchu, exploring the Amazon, setting foot on floating islands of the world's highest lake, as well as being pick pocketed, almost being eaten by savage dogs more than once, then stepping in their fresh poo. Ah, Peru.

In 6 months, I've seen the good, the bad, and the ugly. And boy has there been some ugly. The public urination/deification for one. I've seen more adults relieve themselves more often than any one should have to. When I explained to my students that public urination/deification is actually illegal, they asked why? Why? Why? Because it's disgusting. Because it's unhygienic. Because it's unsanitary. You know that aromatic scent that makes you scrunch up your nose when the winds picks up? Yeah, that's the smell. Piss Alley got it's name for a reason. To the men: those kissing noises you make when a woman walks by? (you know who you are) are not okay. And don't tell me it's a cultural machismo thing, because the Peruvian women don't like it either. Just stop.

You are a land of contradictions. Of majestic remains from a powerful empire and extreme poverty. You beg for business, never relenting until we agree to buy something, then you never have the change to give back. You want business, but don't know what to do with it. You seem to work so hard, never taking a day off, yet there's a laziness beneath that just won't quite finish the job. If I needed a metaphor, I'd say you're like a dog. Warm and friendly, but then you lift up your leg and pee on my shoe. Actually, that's not quite accurate. You're like a dog that sits on my shoe and poops on it. A runny, diuretic kind of poop, because that's what happens when you drink the water here. Or eat at the wrong restaurant. Or eat a bad piece of fruit. Or a number of other things that I don't care to recall. Case in point: My family, who I was so excited to see this morning, is still in Lima, and will be spending the night there. Granted, this is really more the fault of an anonymous American corporation (that rhymes with merican dairlines), but these things just seem to happen here.

And while I've had some interesting trips to the bathroom, I'm still not giving up on you. I don't seem to care anymore if the girls at the orphanage kiss me with their snotty-nosed faces. Or, such as happened last week, if they sneeze directly on my hands and I have to wash someone else's sneeze off my hands. I've met more strangers here than I ever would at home, who greet me with a simple buenos tardes, senorita, while waiting to cross the street or sitting on a bench. As long as it's not accompanied by a 'wow', or a me gusta, or a crude kissing noise, I'm happy to practice my Spanish with them. Almost daily, I look around at the colonial buildings and the Andes rising up behind them, and I think to myself "I can't believe I live here."

I'd tell you never to change, Peru, but I don't think I need to. Viva El Peru.