Lima Journal 7/25?

7/25, I think…. Lima de Santa Rosa, named after the first woman saint, the only woman saint of the new world. I can’t help comparing Santa Rosa‘s namesake.

From the air one can see the desolate landscape, the mountains of feral sand, tiny irrigated plots along a dry cobblestone riverbed akin to Baja and Southern California. The Rimac, the speaking river, speaks no more. Her mouth is full of garbage and human waste. Ecuador’s prosperity and lushness does not survive this far south.

From the air one can see immense piles of human waste and burning garbage heaps. I did not want the plane to land. From Jorge Chavez International Airport it’s a grim and dismal ride. The waste disposal system in a Third World country is its precious rivers. Ecuador hardly seems Third World by comparison. Slums surround the city, this is much worse than Mexico City or even Guatemala City.

Jesus, our taxi driver, lives up to his name, and becomes a savior indeed when he drives us to yet another full hotel. Our ride through the working class slums along the Rimac, is a horror to behold. The river is a cesspool and garbage dump all at once. No matter how hard you squint, you cannot envision what it once looked like.

Water, this precious commodity by which the Inca, and the pre-Inca civilizations arose, is fouled and dirtied at the nest. This is pollution to the extreme. Garbage burnt by the river shores stinks like a tannery.

John says any port in a storm when the hotels of our choice are filled. But this shitstorm is too much to bear. The alternative, another downtrodden dive, if we reject it, will we have no place to stay? We’re afraid we won’t find lodgings until Jesus delivers us to a residency in the embassy section with classical Greek inspired fin-de-ciclé Edwardian residencies on a tree-lined cul-de-sac, replete with marbled balconies and stained glass windows.

We are told there is no room there either, and this time we truly despair, until Jesus speaks to the manager. Magically, a room appears vacant. We are led to a round room, once a foyer. We say goodbye to Jesus our milagro savior and begin the business of unpacking.

We have trouble squaring our beds in the round room, once a tower. We joke: how to drive a Pollack crazy: put him in a round room and tell him to stand in the corner. This place with its marble floors, bay windows and faux balcony truly is a refuge.

I cannot shake the images of the Rimac, an open cesspool and garbage dump, so like the Russian River.