First Six Hours in Lima

We left Jorge Chavez International Airport in the back of a taxi at 7:15 am. The first thing that stood out was that I was grateful not to be driving. Traffic was gnarly. Bumper to bumper, door to door. Honking every five seconds and old beat up cars vying for position. It was a miracle we didn't hit anyone. 

My second impression was that EVERYONE was wearing a mask. I considered asking the driver whether it was obligatory, but decided against it. Mothers, fathers, children, students, workers⸺they all wore the mask. 

A typical street in Lima, Peru.

Haze or smog enveloped everything. We were excited to see a southern hemisphere sun, but today would be disappointed. Nearby hills, that normally would be painted in color and detail, now stood as mere silhouettes. 

We passed along street after unknown street, not knowing if we were facing north, south, east or west. Buildings were coated in an array of bright colors, but were also falling apart. 

At last the cabbie parked alongside the road and announced he had come as far as he could. We must walk the remainder, which was only around the corner. Our travel from the airport had taken us forty minutes. 

Jirón Trujillo Street on the north side of the Rímac River.

We climbed the stairs to the front desk and as expected they told us it was way too early to check in. But they would hold our luggage. We could come back at two o'clock and our room would be ready.

Running on fumes from an overnight flight, we set out to do our best, exhausted and excited all at once. 

We crossed the Rímac River toward the Plaza de Armas and Lima Cathedral. The first item to draw my attention were all the police. They were everywhere! Armed with military rifles and some with shields, they looked as if they were poised for battle. Almost the entire plaza had been cordoned off and I wondered what was going on. 

I walked to a security guard and asked him why everything seemed to be closed off. He responded it was because of the threat of protests. 

Lima Cathedral.

One of many police found on the streets of Lima.

My second observation as we walked around were all the “works” going on. Every street, it seemed, was under construction. There were obras everywhere. Entire streets had been torn out and now workers laid mortar and brick one by one, taking their time. Buildings were blocked off with construction barricades and streets had detours around the workers. Between street workers and the police, the government must have been paying hundreds of employees on every block! 

After wandering for nearly an hour we finally made our first purchase of food: a sandwich for each. One with avocado and the other with olives. Nothing else. No oil. No mayo. It was the first olive sandwich I ever had. (And in all truth, I thought she said tuna, rather than aceituna!) 

The "obras."

Our fist attraction entered was the Convent of San Francisco, built in the 1600's. For twelve soles each we got entrance and an English-speaking guide. Between her Covid mask and thick accent, I barely understood a word she said, but got the gist. 

The Convent was beautiful. The art work, architecture, carved wooden furniture—all of it amazing.

And beneath it all . . . the catacombs! Thousands upon thousands of bones now laid in neat piles—mostly skull and femur bones—for all to see. We walked through a series of underground tunnels to view the subterranean arrangements. My favorite part came as we stood in a room of ossuary delights while listening to the choir on the level above us sing Gregorian chants. Unfortunately for us, no photography was allowed in the convent. 

The Convent of San Francisco, of course, under construction. Home to the catacombs.

As we had nearly three more hours to kill, I chose to fulfill a goal of mine and explore the hill of San Cristóbal on the north side of the Rímac River. 

To put it bluntly, crossing the Rímac to the north side was akin to crossing into Tijuana from San Diego. Whereas most of the historical sites on the south side were protected by hundreds of police, the north side was a different story. 

Our first attempt failed. 

San Cristóbal Hill beneath a blanket of smog. This area, unfortunately, is too dangerous for the average tourist.

Sudsy water of the Rimac River.

Painted wall on the north side of the river.

We hadn't even crossed the bridge when a lady with the “tourist police” stopped us and asked where we were going. “You can't go over there,” she said. “That's too dangerous. You should stay in this area where all the police are.” She then told me to tuck my camera into my pocket so no one could swipe it.

Part of the north side is semi-safe. Our hotel on Jirón Trujillo Street was there, and a wide array of restaurants and street vendors. But beyond that principal area, things get really sketchy. 

After taking a break on a bench in front of a church, we again tried to venture into that sketchy area toward St. Christopher Hill. We didn't get too far before a man from across the road looked us in the eye. He didn't have to say a word. He only shook his head and waved his finger. A similar experience happened shortly afterward. That was strike three. We gave up our fraught plan. 

This was about as far as we dared venture into the Rimac District.

Armed guard on the street corner.

With less than an hour to go, we found a street cart selling ceviche. Anyone familiar with Peru knows this is the national dish. Our chef, Jesús, turned out to be very friendly. 

We sat on plastic chairs in front of his cart. While he deep fried fish and sweet potatoes, he asked us an array of questions regarding where we came from, and what our plans were. Then he scooped the fried food onto a plate, along with a pile of raw fish that had been marinated in lime juice. He topped it with raw onions, dried corn, salt and other ingredients, creating and extremely strong dish. 

We sat in front of the cart to eat and visit with Jesús. He asked if he could film us, and while I consented, I felt stupid for stumbling all over my Spanish sentences. We were tired and ready for a nap.

Ceviche, the national dish of Peru.

A picture with our street-chef, Jesús.

At last, two o'clock came and we again climbed the stairs of our hotel. Two twin beds awaited us and we plunged our weary bodies. At the moment Lima still felt like a dream, something we had only fancied. Perhaps after a little rest we could return to the streets and make them come alive. ♠

 

 

Into the Canyons

I've been fortunate this past year to travel more than I ever have in my life. I have visited four different countries and have witnessed some of the most breathtaking landscapes on the planet. In spite of that, the one place in the entire world that I love most is in my own backyard. I have had a longing to return home and hike into the canyons. 

This was an adventure for Dave and I. We drove thirty miles on a rough dirt road to get to the trailhead. From there we could see snow-capped mountains in the distance beyond a daunting maze of canyons. 

We heaved our packs over our shoulders and meandered down Navajo slickrock and over sand and sagebrush. Our shadows became longer with each step and the glow off the canyon rim radiated a golden hue. 

After an hour and a half we made it to the willow and tamarisk-choked bottom. It was difficult to find a good place to cross the river where the bank wasn't a sudden drop-off. We found a cattle trail that sloped toward the water. We removed our boots and replaced them with water shoes. We rolled our pant legs up to our thighs, then with steady caution and using a walking sticks as a brace, we walked into the flow. 

The river was ice-cold this time of year. It was indeed November. The brown silty water rose to our knee caps as we hurriedly aimed for the other side. By now the sun had disappeared behind the cold Wingate cliffs that towered over the river. 

We found a good spot to camp next to a cliff with Indian petroglyphs and cowboy writings. The petroglyphs seemed to be a slightly different style than what I usually see in this area. 

We built a fire, which gave us not only warmth, but company. It was lonely down here, and that's how we preferred it. We spent three or four hours next to the fire. 

If we listened beyond the flames we could hear the rushing of the river and the occasional croak of a frog. At one time I fancied I could hear a distant sound of someone humming a song. Was it the sound of nature disguised as a human voice, or was it the call of a phantom? The slightly spooky atmosphere made it an ideal evening for stories of skinwalkers, water babies and Bigfoot. 

Using the beam of my flashlight I walked to the river to rinse off my water shoes. The hoarfrost on the leaves sparkled from the newly freezing temperatures. As I swished my shoes in the current, my fingers touched the water. By the time I returned to the fire, the tips of my fingers from the knuckle forward were completely numb. 

Noises of the night made it a little eerie. People had camped in this very spot for at least a thousand years, so who knew if ghosts were lingering. We knew we were alone. Probably no one else within twenty miles. 

A near full moon rose an hour after dusk. The fire was welcoming, but beyond that the chill was piercing. I could hear the music again. It sounded muffled. Dave heard it also. It seemed to come from around the bend. The sound was so faint that I couldn't tell if it was real or imagined. 

The night was long, but at last morning came. I stirred the ashes of the fire and found warm coals beneath. I added a pile of broken twigs and larger cottonwood branches. Within minutes it resurrected and once again flames were fluttering like ribbons. I stretched out my hands and warmed them over the heat. 

We ate breakfast and packed up camp. The sun was out now, but temperatures were still well below freezing. 

Here there were no easy trails. Only cattle trails occasionally used by humans. Willows and tamarisk grew thickly along the banks. At one point we had to remove our packs and hold them before us as we crawled on hands and knees over the meager trail, pushing through the sapling branches like running the gauntlet. 

Then we came to the river. There was no way around. The current came directly against the red cliff. Once again we donned our water shoes. 

We waded into frigid waters, not just crossing the width, but walking down-stream for fifty yards. The current tugged at our legs and we concentrated to stay standing. Now and again we stepped into a patch of soft mud below the surface and I always worried it was quicksand. By the time we emerged from the river our feet were nearly numb except for the painful sting in our toes. 

We then entered a narrow canyon that was a tributary to the river. Here there was no running water, but occasional mud and pools from recent rain. 

Here the fall colors flourished and vibrant yellow leaves ruffled in the breeze. Canyon walls led straight up and there was a dankness in the air. 

Nearly a mile up the canyon we came to a pool of water at the bottom of a drop-off. Above were two circular arches that led to the next level of the canyon. No doubt that during a rainstorm water would pour from one of these arches as if coming from a spout. 

We admired the beauty of the location. Secluded. Quiet. Our voices echoed off the cliffs. Trees with bright yellow leaves reflected in the pool of water. 

We returned to the river and continued around the bend. Here we found another wall with Indian petroglyphs mixed with a sprinkle of cowboy writings. The writings had been here a long time and a closer look revealed a layered canvas. 

The oldest layer was mostly faded, with etchings in the rock reaching much higher than a man can reach. These included the typical bighorn sheep, elk and other indistinguishable squiggly lines that are commonly found in Native American rock art. It's difficult to know whether these were made by the Fremont or Anasazi or some other unknown group. And as far as the date, that was pure speculation. 

Pecked over this older group of writing was a new, more distinguishable set of marks. Much of it was indigenous, which included a two-headed bighorn sheep and trapezoidal men with bug heads. Mixed with these were the cowboy drawings of horses, men, names and dates. The oldest was 1881, which was only two years after the Hole-in-the-Rock party traveled this way on their epic journey. 

In an ideal world we would have traveled another mile upriver to visit one of the main slot canyons. On a short November afternoon such as today, however, this wasn't feasible. The tamarisk was thick and we had to cross the river seven times just to exit the main canyon. 

We crossed the river for the final time and set our packs down near the cement foundation of an old building that was destroyed by arson over thirty years ago. Nearby stood wooden posts of what I assume was a corral. Once again there were a few etchings in the rock, one from 1932 and another of a cowboy brand. Around the corner we found more petroglyphs, these of bighorn sheep with either a line or trapezoid for bodies. I don't recall having seen that before. 

We removed our water shoes and rinsed out the mud while we let our feet dry. It felt good to put on dry socks. We hefted our packs and followed a side-canyon with a small stream of running water. The trail climbed the canyon wall and soon we stood above the rim where we followed the cairns back to the trailhead. Our shadows grew longer as we walked over the sand and past sagebrush. What a delight this world can be! ♠

 

 

 

My Daughter, the Doodler

In our home we tend to have a lot of notebooks. Some are for school, others for personal use. They may be used as a diary, for class notes, shopping lists and so on. With our older notebooks, there is usually one common denominator: at one time or another Brittany “borrowed” them to doodle. 

Now that she's been gone for ten years, this has been a blessing. Every time I open a notebook and find a sketch of the Eiffel Tower or a poodle, it always brings a smile to my face and sometimes a tear to my eye. 

Between writing stories and drawing random pictures, she left treasures behind everywhere in our home. Her bedroom, which has largely been left untouched since her passing, is a trove of artwork. School projects remain on the wall. Pieces of loose paper or 3x5 index cards sport fancy little drawings. Of course, she owned several notebooks of her own, each displaying her skills. And then there's her journals. She didn't just write her daily events, she drew them. 

Last year I conceived the idea that I would pore over all those notebooks, scour her room looking for those stray pieces of paper, and dig through her journal to collect her drawings. Then I would capture the images with a camera. It has taken me a while to get around to it, but the last two months have been a pure delight, coming across memories that I hadn't recalled in years, and discovering new snippets I had never known. 

One such discovery was a book she wrote and illustrated. It was a retelling of Percy Jackson and the Olympians. The most touching part, however, were the words on the inside flap: “For my two little sisters, Jenna and Savanah. I hope you both love reading this book or having it read to you!” Jenna is now 19 and Savanah, 16. It was as if their sister in heaven had written them a book. 

As parents, it took a while to realize that Brittany's doodling was healthy. In the beginning, when she doodled at school or church, she would get in trouble because we felt she wasn't paying attention. But then we learned that she was paying attention and if she were allowed to draw while listening to a teacher give a lesson, then it would help her focus. 

One of the amazing things about her drawings was that she never needed a reference point. Jenelle recalls one evening when she needed to draw a picture of a Confederate soldier for school the next day. She went in her room and ten minutes later came out with a perfect picture. She didn't need to go on the internet or look in a book to know how to draw it. 

Most of her artwork reflected herself and her real world, as well as her fantasy world. Common themes included girls, fairies, poodles, friends, cousins and anything to do with France, especially the Eiffel Tower. 

A couple weeks ago I was fortunate to meet up with one of Brittany's best friends. Ame is now grown and married, but back in the day they had a playhouse in Ame's backyard. In the playhouse was a fridge and the rule was that anyone who came inside had to write something on the fridge with an erasable marker. Brittany scribbled some words, then drew a picture of a beautiful girl in a pearl-strap dress. Ame's family never erased the drawing. Ame shared that story with us and sent us a picture. What a delight to come across another little treasure! 

For the most part, Brittany's drawings were never official pieces of art, but just doodles. Exceptions usually came in the form of assignments or contests at school. One such project was a “Peace Poster Contest.” Brittany spent time on the computer studying different flags and peace symbols from around the world. She then proceeded to create a drawing that included the Eiffel Tower, a pyramid, the Taj Majal, Statue of Liberty, peace symbols and flags from around the globe. The crowning feature was two doves with their tail-feathers intertwined in such a fashion to form yin and yang. 

The contest was held on a city-wide basis and she won second place. It was only two months before she passed. Now the poster sits behind glass and is on display in Jenelle's room at the elementary school. Young kids come in all the time and are fascinated by the poster. 

Another drawing we are fond of is that of an angel. Brittany drew it for her friend, Lauren. The angel sits atop a cloud with a large crescent moon behind her. A four-point star hangs from the moon and a small bird stands atop one of the points. We didn't know that Brittany had drawn this picture until Lauren showed it to us after she died. She made us a copy and now it is embedded forever on the corner of her headstone at the cemetery. 

It's hard to know what would have become of Brittany had she lived a longer life. She passed away just nine days after her fourteenth birthday. Would she have honed her skills and become a great artist? I don't know. Her greater passion, I believe, was writing. A lot of times her drawings were an enhancement to her writing. In addition to all those doodles scattered around our house are page after page of mostly fantasy stories that she began to write . . . some of them ending abruptly in mid-sentence! As I combed through her room I found one such novella that was 109 pages long and unfinished. 

The legacy of Brittany lives on. Not only do we talk about her and reminisce on her life, but now others are benefiting in her name. Shortly after her death, my brother created a scholarship in her name at Southern Utah University. It is intended for freshman students in the college of Performing and Visual Arts and is called the Brittany Lacy Memorial Endowed Scholarship. It has been a pleasure for Jenelle and I to attend banquets with the recipient of this award. 

As you read this post and look at some of our favorite doodles, I hope you feel just a little bit closer to Brittany. Left behind are gems and jewels more valuable than a chest of gold. My advice to all of us is that we look around and recognize the value of our riches. Not the wealth of the world, but the worth of souls. ♥