Between the Andes and the Pacific

Last night, Mamita told me we would make bread when I returned. I’ve been eager to do this with her. At home, I make yeast bread about once a week using the oven. Here, we’ll use a wood-burning clay oven.

At breakfast, Mamita said she already missed us. Over the years, she has watched all her family come and go, often tied to faraway places. But this time, we will return. I kept hoping Abuelita would go with us. “Lima hace calor,” she says—it’s too hot. I felt that way too when we first arrived in Lima. The air was stagnant and stale. A thin layer of dirt covered everything—floors, shoes, cars. Lima hugs the ocean, and the city is flat. When we go back, we’ll stay near the coast, where the tourism and money are.

At the bus stop this morning, we saw our friend. He’s eight—we met him in a combi during our first days in Mancos. He was eager to talk with us and told us about the black and white mountains the main road winds between. His mom runs the bus stop, which also has a little convenience store. She gave the boys small toffee candies.

On the bus, I look at the houses near the road, searching for signs of life. In the U.S., cars are parked in front of houses. Here, many homes look abandoned. The windows and doors are shut. There are no doormats, plaques, house numbers, or potted plants outside. Many houses have unfinished top floors, abandoned mid-construction. Eventually, the towns fade and give way to endless green pastures. The towns have speed bumps that slow the bus, but now the road opens up and we pick up speed. We fly down the mountain roads—it’s as if the driver could do it blindfolded, the way he maneuvers through the curves and hairpin turns.

“I have to pee,” Enzo says.
“Can you wait until we stop?” I ask.

The bus only makes one stop during the nine-hour trip—for lunch and a bathroom break.
“I have to pee,” he says again.

I get out of my seat and grab him. We start making our way toward the front of the bus. I hold onto Enzo with one hand and steady myself with the other. I open one door to exit the seating area, walk two more steps, and open the bathroom door. Our bodies sway with the curves of the road. I hold Enzo steady while he pees, trying to keep it all in the bowl as the liquid sloshes around. We head back to our seats. I give Leifer a proud, accomplished glance as I pass.

The bus stops for lunch in Chasquitambo. We get off and I take the boys to the bathroom. We order seco de res—a hot lunch, of course. There’s a woman behind the counter breastfeeding her baby.

We continue on our way. I see long, tall green stalks—fields of them.
“What is that?” I ask Leifer.
“Sugar cane,” he says.

I always ask him what’s growing—he always knows. We also see vines of passion fruit. I give Lucca a lollipop to pass the time. I’m amused that it’s passion fruit flavored.

As we get closer to Lima, litter piles up along the roadside. I remember a conversation I had with Leif. The boys had thrown trash and I told Leif not to.
“I see other kids doing it,” he said—he observes everything around him.
“Yes, but we need to keep the ground clean so others can enjoy it,” I replied.
“Maybe those kids’ moms aren’t telling them not to.”
“Perhaps not.”

Seatbelts and trash—problems we do have solutions for.

That night, we stayed at Leifer’s sister’s place. Tía Trini picked us up from the bus and made us chicken soup at home. Leif woke up in the middle of the night itching—mosquitoes. It’s cooler in Lima than it was when we first arrived in early March, but still warm enough for the bugs. Again, I think: we can’t do this—too many bugs. But the next morning, we were all uplifted by Tía Julia’s arrival. She brought balloons, blew them up for the boys, and chased them around.

We spent the day preparing for our stay in Miraflores. I slowly make my way through Spanish conversations with Leifer’s family. They are gentle with me and compassionate about our circumstances. They worry for us, and for Leifer. There is always a big lunch and a table to laugh around. The boys eat. Enzo is happy to have chicken.

My parents are here. I am thrilled—a little bit of home, comfort, and ease. I wonder what their experience will be like. Our Airbnb is Peru lite—no bugs, clean floors, a quiet neighborhood, Disney+ (or “Disneyland,” as Leif calls it). The ocean breeze moves.

I may just be a true tourist for a week.