The Lost City

First off, since it looks like I’m going to be staying in Peru for an extended period (more on that later…), it seems appropriate to change the title header on my blog.  If you translate the page into Spanish, “The Shining Path” becomes “El Sendero Luminoso,” which also happens to be the name of a communist terrorist organization operating in Peru in the ‘90s.  I’ve met more than one person whose family had to flee the country during that time for fear of kidnapping, assassination, or worse.  The last thing we need is the riot police smashing down the door of The Ice House and hauling my ass away.  Then who would make tasty pizzas for the people??  We’ll go with something a little more innocuous…

So, contrary to the best laid plans, I am now employed as the chef and co-manager of The Lost City bar.  Frankly, the opportunity was too good to pass up – eat and drink for free, cook every night, make fun of stupid people, socialize with interesting people, flirt with the attractive ones…  The bar has only been open for a few months, so we have some work to do in building a consistent clientele, but just being open consistently and providing a reliable and quality product will help immensely.  There is also a lot of work to be done trying to appeal to the touristicos, primarily through Internet promotion, but we did have our first group come in on Saturday saying they found us on Lonely Planet online.  Good start.

The vast majority of bars in Cusco are noisy clubs and pick-up joints, but our niche is more the neighborhood pub.  We have the best pizza in town, the best bartender anywhere (sorry Joe and Wolfie…), and one of the only places in Cusco where you can go out and actually have a conversation.  The tag line on our sign is currently, “Great drinks.  Killer popcorn.  Mostly interesting conversation.”  That seems about right.  Although that does not preclude the occasional all-out drunk-fest; Saturday night turned into Sunday morning and before I knew it I was locking the doors at 8:30 am.

The behind-the-scenes of running a business down here is also quite interesting.  No, I do not have a work permit.  I have the same stamp on my passport that anyone else would have.  Apparently, getting it extended is just a matter of a bribe at the immigration office.  We know a guy…

Half of the people that walk down the stairs are looking for money…protection, pisco, ice, trash guy, kid trying to sell gum and finger puppets to the drunks.  Two nights ago, a kid came running down the stairs and tried to swipe a bowl of popcorn.  When we told him, “No.” he yelled “Fuck off!” and ran back up the stairs giggling.  Not bad for 7 years old.  Maybe I can be a foster parent after all. 

Shopping for necessary supplies has also proven to be more work than I expected.  I try to do most of my shopping at the cheaper local markets, which are just open stalls under a big tent.  Chicken Alley is particularly disgusting to me, but I’ll be damned if they don’t have the tastiest and cheapest chicken I’ve had…unless they’re out of chicken…which seems to happen regularly.  In fact, sometimes, there isn’t a goddamn chicken in town.  (Even though I can hear the bastards quite clearly when the sun crests the hill at 5 am.)  There is a large grocery chain in Cusco called Mega, but even they seem to be randomly out of the most basic things on certain days – chicken, mozzarella, bell peppers, green onion.  I always block out an hour for shopping and always end up taking two.  Fucking Latin Time.

But the most intriguing (and mysterious) part of the business is the accounting.  As far as I can tell, the plan goes something like this (jesus, I can’t believe I’m putting this in print…):  We pay the Accountant For Gringos (yes, all the gringos in town with business interests have the same accountant…doesn’t seem like that will end well…) 200 soles a month.  He takes whatever expense receipts we have and then writes up bills of sale to match them up and we show exactly zero income each month.  If possible.  As far as I know.  Just as long as I make it to Bolivia before too long, it should be okay.

Despite all this, Rich (my sexy Peruvian bartender) and I are having a great time (yes, Grandma, sometimes TOO great…).  I’m currently scheduled to be here until sometime in February…until the plan changes.  We open Tuesday-Saturday nights and then go to rehab Sunday and Monday.

The local A-tier futbol team did finally get their shit together long enough to stage a match.  Impressive, considering I just walked past a poster for an upcoming “telethon” to keep the team on the field.  The fanatical, earth-shattering, Molotov-enriched experience I was seeking didn’t materialize (likely because they finally announced the 11 am Sunday kickoff at 10 pm on Saturday night).  However, it was certainly worth the experience.  Once.

We bought tickets on the street to avoid the line at the “ticket office,” which was, literally, one brick missing out of the stadium exterior wall.

Macarla and I also bought red dragon masks to show our true support of the team…only to find out at the end of the game that the mascot is actually a donkey…  What the fuck kind of mascot is a donkey? 

The game itself was pretty entertaining until I started actually watching the other team play and figured out how shitty they were.  No wonder we’re scoring at-will…  Apparently, Iquitos is somehow in worse shape than our pathetic squad?

The best part for me was the bad calls.  The entire crowd is yelling at the ref, telling him, “Your sister is my whore!” and, “My uncle is fucking your mother right now!” (actual translations from Rich…sorry Grandma).  But I chip in a “SCREW JOB!!!” in English and everyone stops and looks at me like I’m poisoning their children.  Classic.

I thought I should also give a brief “NATURAL GAS CRISIS 2010” update for my regular readers:  This week, the natives tried to seize control of the airport (I’m not fucking joking), but the Policia were not having that.  There was a major traffic situation in that direction of town, but otherwise nothing serious. Then there was an announcement mid-week that the consolidated native tribes are forming a political party and putting up a candidate for the presidential elections next spring.  Their candidate was extradited from Bolivia two weeks ago and is currently awaiting trial for sedition.  (Again, I’m not fucking joking.)

The job is taking up more of my schedule than I was anticipating and I’m struggling to find some balance, and, more importantly, time to write.  (No, mom, it has nothing to do with drinking with the regulars until 3 am.)  But I’m enjoying the hell out of the experience and meeting new characters every night…and that’s the whole point, right?  The Great American Novel will surely appear out of the rubble of my late-night adventures.  Or at least an obscure liver malfunction.  (I’m pretty sure my English Lit professor told me that is the touchstone of all great writers…of course, I did go to public school…)

Cusco V

I’m sitting in the café trying to write this and the hottest local girl I’ve seen is sitting next to me trying to talk to me about movies.  In Españolish.  This relationship doesn’t have legs, but we can sit here and pretend to communicate for as long as she is willing…nothing but time…  And I’d love to go the movies, but here’s the problem:  There is no movie theater in this town.  There is no bowling alley either.   Seriously, 350,000 people and there is nothing to do here but eat, drink, dance, and take pictures with baby llamas.  Maybe the sweet baby jesus will bring me a copy of Glengarry Glen Ross and Goodfellas for whatever religious holiday currently has the locals launching fucking mortars right outside my room every 15 minutes…more on that later.

Anyway, back to the girl…  Yes, she sucked two glasses of wine out of me, but her absolute reticence to talk about family or anything remotely non-trivial left me a little suspicious.  Someone’s getting gringoed here.  We can’t go see a movie, so her response, naturally, is dancing.  I actually walked with her to the doorstep of the disco and had one foot in the door before reason broke through:  “No, no goddamn disco tonight.  Buenas noches.”  Maybe I am actually learning.

I spent 8 hours last Sunday sitting in the street drinking beer with Michael from Santa Monica and Bologna Face from Cusco.  (Come on, mom, it’s Sunday!  What the hell else am I supposed to do??)   Michael owns The Lost City Bar and we sat out in front, rocked the music, watched baseball on my laptop, hassled the local kids (who repaid us with a sneak confetti attack), chatted with the local stray dogs, and soaked in the Cusco sun.  At one point, the tourist police came by and said we couldn’t sit on the sidewalk with the barstools…so we moved them out in the street instead.  Not sure about the logic there, but happy to comply, officer. 

We took a brief road trip to another friend’s bar and re-enacted the confetti sneak attack to less-than-stellar reviews.  Nick walked in, looked down at the little yellow dots all over the floor, looked up at the little yellow dots all over Michael’s hair and shirt, and looked at me.  Then he walked back out.  Time to head back down to The Lost City!  Certainly one of the most entertaining Sundays I’ve had in some time.

On Monday, I moved (up the goddamn hill) to my sweet new casa.  It’s quite remarkable to be in a 3-story house with 3 bedrooms, 2 baths, a huge kitchen and equally huge living room after a month in my dingy little apartmento.  My roomies are good friends (Alex from Nottingham and Macarla from Brisbane) and I’m looking forward to 6 weeks here…with a major exception.  The entire exterior of the house is glass.  Quite beautiful during the day and the views of the city are awesome.  But, of course as you know, single-pane glass is not exactly an insulator, so when it’s 70 degrees outside, it’s 70 degrees inside.  Yay!  And when it’s 40 degrees outside (every fucking night), then it’s 40 degrees inside.  The place has picked up the moniker “The Ice House,” and it seems to fit.

Despite the cold (I went to the local market and bought two more llama blankets…not quite enough…), I really enjoy being here.  Alex and Macarla both have day jobs (suckers!), so I have the house to myself most of the time.  We celebrated our first night with Korean bulgogi and Chilean boxed wine.  Classy.

There has been some sort of religious festival for the past 4 days outside a huge cathedral by the house, some 50 yards away.  (You could make a killing in this town doing tents and parade floats.  Seriously.  Three hundred days a year…)  I don’t mind the speeches on blown-out Radio Shack speakers.  The mini-parades are kind of cute.  The marching bands have some appeal (although it’s waning quickly).  I wouldn’t even mind the fireworks if they were using sparklers, firecrackers, and roman candles, per usual Cusco protocol.  But no, these fuckers have graduated to major explosives.  Tuesday night I was in bed reading and literally jumped out of the bed when they finished for the evening by dropping a gross of M-80s into a metal can.  (I’m still trying to finish Solzhenitsyn’s account of the Russian humiliation in the early days of World War I, which probably doesn’t help.)  Apparently that was the warm-up act, because the shelling continued for another 3 days at 30-60 minute intervals, offset just enough to catch you unaware.  I think I’m going to dig a trench to sleep in until this bastard festival is over.

In other local madness, the Peruvian government has declared a state of emergency in the Cusco Province because of violence related to natural gas resources.  A consortium of foreign companies and the government are trying to increase gas exports (for profit, of course) when there are massive shortages of natural gas all over the country.  And all this at a time when hundreds are dying in Peru because of record cold temperatures. 

The Plaza de Armas was closed all morning yesterday because of protest marches. (And more fucking mortars.  I was standing there innocently soaking in the proceedings and the crazy bastards made me spill my coffee.  Where are they getting these things?)  There is also a long wall of protest signs along one side of the plaza.  I’ll let you be the judge, but I think these people are a little bit pissed off (Alan Garcia is the President of Peru):

Last night I wandered down to The Lost City for a drink and a chat and got blindsided by quite the interesting proposition.  Michael needs to return to the US for 5 months and asked if Rich (the bar manager and my roomie Macarla’s boyfriend) and I would be interested in keeping the bar open during that time.  Rich would do drinks, I would cook and we’d split the management, daily prep, marketing, and comic relief duties.  It was absolutely not my intention to get a real job or to stay in Cusco for such an extended period.  At the same time, it would significantly cut down on my bar tab and provide a steady stream of great stories.  Every night that I’m in there I meet new people from all over the world, certainly my favorite part of this adventure.  It’s definitely worth some thought…stay tuned!

Cusco IV

I actually got sucked in by “Hotel California” even though I knew it was way too early for that.  Now I’m sitting here listening to a Peruvian “rock band” try to make the gringos shake it.  Not sure that I’ve ever seen anyone dance to “Another Brick in the Wall” in The States, but they’re getting after it here.

Back to your questions:

The Lifestyle:  Okay, I have to admit it.  I get up every day between 10 am (nah, too early) and noon, go out for breakfast, and then go to the plaza (many to chose from) and sit for 4 hours to read and write.  Then I go back to the apartmento to speak to the Internets and put on my night clothes (I’m fancy like that…actually, no, it’s just damn cold at night).  Then I meet friends at the restaurant, the bar, or the music club.  If things go well, I hoof it back up the hill towards home at midnight.  If things don’t go well, I fall down the stairs out of a goddamn disco and into a Tico cab at 6 am.  This is my life.

Sustainable?  No.  (Unless the novel is really fucking good.)  Entertaining?  Relaxing?  Enlightening?  Interesting?  Hell yes.  I will do this as long as I can afford to.  It is amazing how many compelling characters I have met in the last three weeks alone.  And the freedom (i.e. time) to focus on my art and my own journey is invaluable.  There is also something to be said for living your life from noon to 4 am…

The Soundtrack:  Thank fucking god I’ve moved out of my “Total Eclipse of the Heart” phase.  That was a long 3 months if you were inside my poor noggin.  For me, there is always a specific soundtrack that I associate places I’ve traveled:  Federico Aubele = Honduras.  Norah Jones = Korea (don’t ask…).  Tool = Amsterdam.  Genesis = Rome (great story if you buy me a couple drinks).  Here’s what I’ve been hooked into for the past 2 months in South America:

Emiliana Torrini – The only thing that can calm my nerves on a fucking Peruvian bus.

Jose Gonzales – Haunting.  Yet delicious.

Andrew Bird – I recommend “A Nervous Tic Motion Of The Head To The Left” for inspiration.

Broken Bells – “It’s too late to change your mind…you let loss be your guide…”

The Shins – Natalie Portman says it will “change your life.”

DeVotchka – Gypsy music…seems appropriate.

Carla Bruni (Sarkozy) – She sings too!

Stan Getz & João Gilberto – Bossanova always brings me peace.

Yes – I don’t know what is wrong with me.  But you asked…

The Llamas:  Everyone here wants your money.  I suppose that’s also true at home, but here they come right out and ask for it.  (Maybe it’s more honest that way?)  If you sit in one place for an hour, you will be offered everything from llama sweaters to fresh juice to cocaine to postcards to massage.  The best gig going seems to be the “dress up in your indigenous gear and bring the llama to town.”  Variations on the theme include baby sheep and the Inca Warrior getup, but touristicos are all suckers for the llama.  I paid one sole for this photo (she asked me for US $5 and I laughed heartily…viva capitalismo!):

The Reading:  I’ve had a lot of people ask about what I am reading while I’m down here.  Frankly, some of the best times I’ve had in the past couple of months involve simply sitting and reading.  There is something truly magical about having a good book and absolutely no timeline or responsibilities.  If I had the money, I’d probably just sit around and read for the rest of my goddamn life. 

“Mirrors” – Eduardo Galeano – Uruguayan journalist who writes about politics and history, most famous for “The Open Veins of Latin America” (a must read if you haven’t…there was a big stink in the US press when Hugo Chavez gave a copy to Barack Obama).  This is his last novel and an ingenious progression of human history through short bites.  Brilliantly constructed.

“1984” – George Orwell – Picked it up in Quito and LOVED IT.  Again.

“We Say No” – Eduardo Galeano – I had to re-read the chapter “In Defense of Writing” four times before I could bear to give it away to someone else.

“The Rum Diary” – Hunter S. Thompson – For some reason, I had never read this one.  HST is always good fuel for the internal fire.

“The Act of Love” – Howard Jacobson – Dark.  Ugly.  Oppressively painful.  Fucking loved it and had to read it again.  Made me feel worse (or better?) than when I read “Despair” by Nabokov.

“Confessions of an Economic Hit Man” – John Perkins – Found a copy at a book exchange and went for another dip.  If you need any explanation as to why I can’t get a decent fucking cup of coffee in South America, you should read this. 

“August 1914: The Red Wheel I” - Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn – Meaty, but brilliant.  I have plenty of time to chew.

I’ve been spending a lot of time (because I have nothing but time…) analyzing my experience in Cusco and discussing it with those who will listen to my ramblings.  I’m always fascinated by the different people that I meet and their approaches to life.  Here’s the nut:  When you are on vacation, you drop many of your daily distractions and try to “seek” another experience; the barriers come down, in many ways…but you have that return flight to deal with.  When you’re an ex-pat, you are stealing time in a different place – open to what you’ve chosen, but you have to find a way to live.  I’m somewhere in between and maybe in the best of both worlds…until the money runs out.  I should probably consider taking that travel agency job.

In the next few days, I’m moving into a super-swanky house – unfortunately, up the hill one more brutal staircase – with a huge kitchen and a rooftop porch overlooking the city.  Cool roomies, great view, space to hang out and write, and even (gasp!) a small space heater.  And my share is still only S/250 (~US $80) per month.  Unreal.  Can’t wait to make sweet tacos.