Deportes and Recreation 3: Running the Waves

Mis estimados,

According to the free statistic generation program that comes with Google's blogging platform (yes, everything is tracked on the internet), and your kind, generous comments, it would seem that the last blog entry was a bit of a hit with you lot.

Which makes sense. I am not surprised that you would prefer to hear what people (especially people other than me) are like and what they do around here. Rather than, say, read another banal navel-gazing account of how I cross the road, or a silly anecdote created for the sole purpose of setting up a cheap yoga/street food gag.

Unfortunately, for this entry we revisit familiar themes more suited to what really is just another vanity blog. At least I hope the photos, which are rather flattering just up to the point where they capture me actually doing the activity that I am attempting, make up for the lack of any insight on life in Peru or the absence of thinly-veiled social commentary.

This is the last installment of the Deportes and Recreation theme (for now). In the subsequent entries, I will try to get up to date on all of the other advances in my life: finally moving into my apartment in Pius Square (superfluous, very odd), rock concerts in the jungle (sort of like Bluesfest, if it attempted to be interesting), a visit to lovely and relaxing, but somehow rainy and cold despite being just south of the equator, Ecuadorian village (Thanks for the photos Yo and Mitch!), and bullfights (bloody, but fascinating)

And the sun, hidden so long behind the Pacific clouds of cement, is with us more and more. Here's to that  (Don't forget to click the links folks – it's half the fun!)

I am a wave and this is how I fall. At the cinderblock beach restaurant under the massive tarp where we had our lunch, we sat on plastic chairs and watched as Doc, walking forward and with his arms arching and then collapsing downwards from high above his head, explained how waves break and crash. First, his body and arms described the wave's gentle roll formed when it meets a gradually rising shore, and second a forceful, downward plunge for when the seabed suddenly rises.

As the only regular and viable means available to escape the all-encompassing urbanity of Lima, I am now regularly surfing (and when I say surfing, I mean subjecting myself over and over to the violence of waves, occasionally on a board, mostly off it, and very rarely on my feet), and Ricardo, aka Doc is one of my first surfer buddies and instructors. Some time ago (how long I could only guess) Doc retired from psychiatry to dedicate the rest of his life to being a self-described surfer bum, and now his therapy is limited to teaching others to do what he loves most: correr olas. (Literally “run the waves: a more descriptive and interesting term for surfing, which I find makes it sound like a mix of something foolishly daring, say like bull running, and something outdoorsy rugged, like log rolling.)  But Doc isn't content in merely teaching one to surf. He also offers to strengthen you psychologically, which amounts to a tough love school of teaching. But more on that later

The first teacher was Ito, a young surfer in his early 20s from a small town in the north, who came to Lima recently following his pata  (slang for buddy). I found him working for one of the many surf schools that litter the beach in Miraflores offering boards and instruction at a fee to surf-curious tourists. I was keen to learn so didn't bother much with exploring my options, and just chose the first school I came across, and luckily Ito was a fairly good teacher. 

Upward Dork

What first became evident were the obvious overlaps between surfing and yoga.  The instructions followed a series of motions and positions that would easily fit in with any style of yoga and likewise force you to discover and somehow even use previously unheard of muscles hidden away in impossible locations between bones, perhaps deeper under organs or even slotted under glands, known only to ancient hindu mystics and only recently by modern medicine. Muscles that give one inner strength and grace, and as such have never previously applied by me.

Mostly, since you have to push your chest up and arch your back to be ready to spring up once a wave is caught, there is a lot of upward dog. A scared upward dog precariously balancing himself on a moving board, finding himself suddenly rising and rushing uncontrollably forward up on a swell, faster and faster towards the beach, with barely any time to even realize all of this, never mind remember what he is supposed to do next, before a viscous catapult and somersault under the waves. Downward dog.

Now you see me...

...now you don't!

uh?

But my first lesson was a gentle affair thanks to Ito's surfing by numbers method. Position 1) arms forward, paddle position; 2) hands under chest pushing up, arched back (the upward dog), 3) right leg bends and moves forward, and finally 4) stand. Easy-peasy, especially with Ito holding the very long board and pushing me while actually counting out the steps for me. I did this a few times, and not being utterly useless, I managed to get up. Mildly rewarding at best, but a start.

On my own, it was a different story. Of my few attempts, only one or two were at most half-realised: upward dog, up on one leg, up on one leg, ok well, up on one knee, one more, c'mon one more!, hold on, oh, shit, come on, fuck, mmmpppfpggpppp, *gasp*.

Still, I was pleased. It felt great to get into the water, which wasn't at all cold with my wet suit, and it was great to exhaust myself, as I used to do on the Gatineau ski trails, which this activity is supposed to replace - especially since there are many similarities here as well.

First you have to exert quite a lot of effort just to get up on to a crest before you could enjoy all the potential energy you've earned. Second, that effort and the subsequent rush makes you forget about the city, the cars, the basically everything other than what you were doing. And third, well, I get thrown around a lot and really don't have much control (there are less trees in the ocean, but alas many rocks and boulders). Also, just like learning to ski, what seemed like a super human effort at first, slowly seems more and more reasonable, and the fear recedes each time you take a brutal fall and don't die.

With this one attempt under my belt, I went with my colleague Nicolas to the more powerful beach south of Lima, where I met Doc. Doc's psychological approach was to first show me roughly what to do, mixing metaphors as he went along (It is like dancing with a woman.  You have to stand like a boxer), while strongly urging me never to think about it, ever (Your mind will screw you up). He knew me well. 

Then he let the ocean teach me the rest.

Doc and I: gnarly dudes

With this initial mental guidance, I then followed Doc in, and it took a seemingly Herculean effort (which really wasn't), after being thrown back by wave after wave, to reach a relatively calm spot past the breaking waves. Tired, I expected to rest but.... Now, go, go, go!!! What? GO!  Now? Oh, ok. Paddle, paddle paddle, frantic paddle, up on a wave, and....crash, somersaults, etc.  Paddle, back... Now! Go, go, go! ...paddle, paddle..up, crash.... etc. And so it went, over and over: .

See how easy I toss your body about? It would be nothing for me to simply swallow you whole.  This is the lesson of the ocean.  

Still, undeterred I kept at this, even and stupidly up to the point that in what would be my last attempt - with arms totally and exhausted, with which I realistically couldn't even expect to execute the slightest of slight upward dogs - I was tossed into the waves but this time continually, and as I panicked: seemingly endlessly, barely able to catch my breath whenever my head went above water, since my arms had very little strength left.  Eventually, I managed to get back on the board, but now heading towards rocks.  I decided it was time to call it a day, and weakly did my best to paddle and kick myself away from danger, and rode the white foam onto the beach, like a sad, beaten walrus. Rolling over on to the sand, I said to Doc, who like a gnarly Merlin somehow appeared, No Mas. No. Mas.

He said, that was ok. The point of the first few times is to learn how the ocean moves, and to gain confidence within yourself. I guess also to learn your limits.

Since then I tried a couple more times, mostly on gentle shores, and even legitimately caught my first wave, however small, all by myself. It felt quite amazing: once I realized that I was actually standing, the first thing that came to mind was: Holy shit, I can't believe I am actually doing this! Followed by Wow, this is great!   There's nothing like your first time.

One can dream...

Deportes and Recreation 2: Workers Playtime

Quieridos.

Lima is a city of nearly endless anticipation.

Recently, after nearly a month of recounting, the city finally learned which of Lourdes Flores, of the centre-right, or Susana Villaran, centre-left, would be their first woman mayor.  It took 23 days, but Villaran was finally acclaimed victor. Among her first acts was to create a public transit commission. Bless her.

And after over two months of playing fleeting coquette, the shy sun still refuses to permanently come out from behind its veils. So, still we wait and hope that soon it will deliver us from the grey-grey.

Here's a story about a pick-up soccer game in the neighbourhood.  Hope you like it.

Bored, one Saturday I read of an art studio giving a spray-paint workshop in another end of town. Having plenty of time to kill, I decided to walk there along the beach. On the way, I saw some day-labourers with an old black plastic ball heading towards one of the many cement mini-soccer fields that have been installed near the ocean. They had just finished their shift, and most of them were still wearing their work clothes and had their helmets with them. 

I wasn't that into the idea of an artsy workshop, but really needed to burn off the pent-up energy of my boredom, so I asked if I could join.  Fortunately, I had some shorts and a t-shirt with me because I had planned to go to yoga or the gym after the workshop.  After I furtively changed behind some rocks by the ocean, I joined in on the usual pre-game ball-passing and aimless target practice that characterizes soccer warm-ups all the world over, as we waited a long while for more players to arrive.

Eventually, people trickled in but then others came bringing news that the employer's business office was about to close. And with a sudden commotion everyone ran off lest they miss out on their days wages.

Assured that they would be back, I sat alone on the concrete slabs dusty with sand against the rusty goal and read an old Peruvian book I had with me about life in the Andes. It described abundant mountain rivers of unknown origins and destinations that likely ran past the very villages that either my new soccer friends or their parents left in order to live in the pueblo jovenes (trans: Young Towns, i.e. shanty towns) that grew around the old perimeters of Lima, which now comprise up 2/3 of the city's population, and much of its work force.

After about half an hour of reading, they came back but with more people. There was more of the usual preliminary kicking around, and there were also many introductions and explanations of who I was, where I came from (ah, de Canadá, que bueno), and how to properly pronounce my name (Do-mee-nee?).

After all this, deliberations began on how to form teams and how to deal with the problem of too many people. After much discussion it was decided that we would have three teams, and that the composition of each would be decided in the classic schoolyard way, by captains choosing us one at a time.

It was a bit confusing at this point to figure exactly what was going on, but I think I went mid-round (I believe the fact that I was about a foot taller than most players probably compensated for the fact that I was from Canada, and therefore probably crap).

Still, things weren't exactly settled for some reason, and discussions continued with the number teams fluctuating as their sizes waxed and waned. By the time the dust, or sand, settled, I lined up with Lucio, Alvarez and Rigoberto, feeling somewhat like an overly tall gangly foreigner  against four other folks, while two people waited in the wings to play after 15 min.  I unwittingly got stuck in goal, mostly because I wasn't too sure what was happening, which I thought was a touch exploitative of them. But then again I was the new guy....

And so, about a full hour after I had asked to join, we were ready to play.

The pace was lively, and the plastic ball was difficult to control as it bounced on the slippery, sandy, cement. There was a lot of changes of possession since no-one could take more than one or two quick steps before running into another player, and even the most accurate passes usually had to ping-pong towards their destinations. Goals mostly occurred opportunistically if a player found himself with the ball and just enough space near the net to blast it forward. But there were also a few good passing plays, setting up easily slotted goals. Everything was hotly contested for, which made it very entertaining.

Not sure how long I was in net for, but after a while I got a touch bored, and somewhat annoyed after facing a few impossible blasts from fairly close range. The plastic ball did not tickle. So, just for fun, I decided to have a crack for myself just in front of my own net. My shot even surprised me with its speed and accuracy as it neatly zinged the bottom right corner of the opposing net (my imagination even saw flecks of rust fall off the post as the ball brushed by it). Of course, it was disallowed, as they rushed forward to explain the shot was taken from outside of the permissible goal-shooting zone, but I think the point was made

Finally allowed out of net, I really learned how difficult the surface was to play on.  It was almost impossible to stop after a run without sliding half the distance of the field or falling over, and the hollow plastic ball was somehow both heavy on the head, but light enough for the ocean breeze to have its way with it.

With me on, we soon took the lead with a few flukey goals, but the opposing team was more organised and eventually closed the gap. Unfortunately, their go-ahead goal abruptly ended the game, as the blistering shot sent the ball flying across the sand and bounced on to the adjacent highway.

There was a moment of anguish as the ball lay helplessly on the tarmac and we frantically jumped and shouted in vain to get the attention of the approaching swarm-of-cars in hopes that they should take some pity and not destroy our ball.

But the cars showed no mercy, and the ball gloriously exploded as it was run underneath a speeding Nissan.

A tribute to the fallen

After a second's mourning, deliberations began anew and someone was dispatched to buy a new ball, while the rest of us just sat around and chatted while we waited. This is when I learned a little more about where they were from, and what they were doing. They all lived in Villa Salvador, or thereabouts, but their families were from the mountains of Ancash, Cajamarca, Ayacucho, and some from the coast up north in Trujillo.

Day labourers, they were currently working on the coastal beautification projects, laying down grass, ornamenting paths, constructing buildings. They worked 5 and a half days a week, and played soccer on Saturday afternoons, when their weekends began.

They also of course asked me the usual questions, what the capital of Canada is, and whether I have seen polar bears, etc.  Interestingly, they were very taken aback after I answered how long I would be here, because of the shocking implication that I was guaranteed work for that long. This really surprised and impressed them, and they even took the time to ask me further on this point. So, let me get this straight, you know that you'll have a job for three years? Uh, yeah. (contemplative silence). They on the other hand went from job to job, and might have a few weeks of job security at most.

To change the subject, after spotting some surfers on the horizon they asked me if I surfed. I told them I am learning, and they then asked how much a board cost. Again, awkward silence.

This is when the painfully obvious thoughts occur, the absurdity that I likely make more in a day than any of them make in a month, how unlike them I don't have to worry about where the next pay-check would come from, or that in a few months time, when their work is complete here, I will be able to return and enjoy all of it, while they will likely not.

The theater of battle, under the shadows of the illustrious Larco Mar Mall and the Marriott Hotel. 

But we're not here to moralize. And in truth the conversation didn't focus on that for long, and got lively again after a few teasing jokes about Peruvian and Canadian girls, each other, also likely me, and about the back-packers who walked past.

Soon enough a new ball was brought, and after new deliberations on who would be trusted to keep it (Rigoberto, of course!) we started again. This time I started on the bench and got to take a few photos, before I gloriously returned to slot few home. 

Good thing too because when we finally wrapped up, I learned that losers pay winners. With a record of one loss and one win, I broke even. But I understood what made the game so competitive. At five soles a loss, not cheap!

Once accounts were settled, we said our good-byes, and they explained that next week began a new job, so they couldn't say where they would play next.

They then got into their car, and sped off to their homes.

And I walked away alone to my yoga class.

Deportes and Recreation 1: Working on the Bod

My dearests.

So, it's been two months since I flew out of Canada's then sunny skies, and descended into these far greyer ones. Two months! Long enough now for me to start a normal quotidian life - as I have described in my first posts.

Of course, there are many interesting, fascinating, fun, sometimes unfortunately depressing, and even baffling, moments. But in truth, am still trying to get a grips with this city, and hope to describe it's wonders faithfully soon: the run-ins with the falconers or skateboarders on the malecon, the amazing cultural scene, the flashy denizens, the incidents with utter poverty, and lots and lots of life outside in parks, on the beach, in restaurants, and of course on the streets.  

And then there is me, your lonely hero trying to make a life for himself among the throng. In these next three posts, I will describe my attempts at joining in with the sporting fun.

Hope you'll enjoy them.

--

Although my first post didn't mention it, I did start physical activities pretty quickly. On my first Saturday in town, my colleagues planned an intra-Lodge soccer game in honour of the Peru-Canada friendly occurring in Toronto . And the following week, my colleague and friend Waleska organised a horse ride just south of the city, which took us through recent cement-brick urbanisation growing among the farmland, under a highway overpass to the beach, and eventually back again. Except that on our return leg we actually went on the overpass, and our group perilously negotiated our horses along the appropriate Panamerican Highway exit, hoping they would respect the general rules of traffic, as the cars, trucks, combi-busses, and moto-taxis passed us.

 The Peruvian Beach Cow, one of Peru's lesser known wild animal species (courtesy of Waleska R., who I hope doesn't mind).

And in efforts to work on my bod, I tried out a local gym in a visit that left me startled at how weak I had become before I realized that everything, of course was, in kilos not pounds. Subsequent days brought pain.

Probably because it would be hard to find something that would replace the positive body image attitude of the ol' humble Centretown Ottawa Y, which seemed to say hey, it's ok, we're all a little chubby here, and also because I fear doing more damage to my broken back and knees, I've ditched the gym-scene for now and joined a local yoga studio.

I started with the evening power yoga class because the word power helped me overcome any masculine insecurity. But these classes ended too late, and so I decided to try the only other evening option, the Ashtanga class, which I was surprised to learn was led by a 6 or 7 month-pregnant woman.

In fact, the first time I went in and saw the heavy-with-child teacher as I opened the door, I understandably mistook it as prenatal class. Embarrassed, I quickly closed the door, but it then occurred to me that there were men in there, none of whom looked pregnant - neither did any of the women. So, I went back in, and surely it was just a normal yoga class, taught by a perfectly normal and very pregnant woman.

What was most amazing (and also somewhat demoralizing) was how well and easily the instructor could get into the positions while a whole new life developed inside of her. Whereas I had trouble with the mere child's pose alone, and the only thing in my belly were the salchipapas I ate earlier. 
 

Say ommmmmmmm!

A Day in the Life

Note: I wrote this the night before the minor earthquake hit Peru, near Lima, so this is why it doesn't give it any mention.  For the record, it was minor (5.7) so I heard it more than I felt it.   It did last for quite a while, and that did freak me out.  I found myself wondering if I should make a run half-naked down 7 floors in case it got any worse.  Luckily, by the time I collected myself it was over and I went back to an uneasy sleep.  When morning came, I had forgotten all about it, and only remembered on my walk to work (although it took me a while to reassure myself that I hadn't dreamed it).

Hi, everyone.

Thanks for all of your comments.  I am really glad so many of you liked my first post, and that some of you even thought it was entertaining, which is funny because nothing interesting happened. It must have been the photo of the baby alpaca.  It was also fun to see all the places the blog has been viewed (hello Zambia!).

To make this blog slightly less pedantic and actually interesting, not just pretend interesting, I am have started taking photos of regular scenes here in Lima, and will soon put them up. Also, I just bought my first surf board, so that bodes well for humbling self-depreciating tales.

But, although nothing still hasn't happened, I thought I would give a brief description of my daily routine here, so you, my friends, can get a better sense of what it is really like to live in Lima while performing the noble duty of representing the Crown. So now close your eyes and read words below, magical words that will transport you the fabled land of: Lima......

... to put you in the right frame of mind, you should first have the right soundtrack. Contrary to what you might think, you wont hear that much pan flute music in Peru, especially in Lima. Rather 80s music dominates, the cheesier the better. Yes, Lima is constant yacht rock party, and ELO is on regular rotation. I can even prove this empirically: during a one week period I heard Lionel Ritchie's "Hello" twice, and saw the video once.

Neither Hall nor Oates.

Of course, you also have the constant yet jarring noise of the famed noisy, alarmy swarm of cars. To get a sense of what that's like, occasionally smash your face with a hammer while smoking 78 cigarettes.

Ok, with that, we are ready to begin.

I wake up very early every morning to milk the llamas and slaughter the guinea pigs (which the locals call cuy) for breakfast. Then, I shower, brush my teeth, put on a snazzy suit, and cut a dashing figure as I walk out my apartment door, as befits a man representing the Crown. Passing the guardsman (who the Peruvians call, funny enough, wacheemen) I cross the threshold to do battle with the swarm-of-cars who dare me to cross the street without the benefit of traffic lights or human decency (it's much like a real-life game of Frogger if you will. But you have run out of quarters).  If all goes well, I arrive safely at the Great Canadian Lodge, even if a little frazzled and smelling slightly of diesel (it's ok, so does everyone else).

Who wachees the wachee men?

When I reach work I  REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED espionage REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED Ivana Humpsalot REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED a baby Alpaca!? hahaha! REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED until it is time to leave work REDACTED REDACTED.

Once safely at home, slightly more frazzled and diesel-smelling, I settle down and cry into my miserable dinner of quinoa and potato, pathetically sad with loneliness.

No, just kidding. Seriously, I have a fantastic life, where, depending on the night I can look forward to REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED Ivana Humpsalot REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED a baby Alpaca!? Ewww! REDACTED

That pretty much sums it up.  

This weekend, I expect to begin my surfing tutelage, so watch this space for exciting photos of me on the beach, and perhaps even of my new surfing buddies, or at least of the guys who kick sand in my face.

Oh, and the sun has started to come out.  Happy spring!

A representation of the Crown

Welcome to Pius Square

Buenas tardes, todos.

Welcome.

I would like to introduce you to my first blog, where I will try to fill you all in on my little adventures, petty grievance, and dubious observations as I collect them down here deep in the heart of Lima, Peru. My hope and expectation is that eventually I will find something worthwhile for you to read. Meanwhile, look at this fancy picture.

This is where I live

While I am here, let me give an update to those of you wondering how I am doing.

First, it must be said that there is something unholy that a city located so close to the equator and at sea level should be so cold. What is really strange is that the temperature never drops below 12 or so, yet Lima is able to generate such humidity as to be brutal. I only exaggerate a little.  That and the automobiles - the endless, restless swarm of noisy, honky, alarmy, menacing cars - conspire to make the atmosphere a bit too grey and damp. Such that I now have a touch of the flu, and am forced to write with a baby alpaca scarf wrapped around my neck vainly trying to keep me healthy.

Why oh why?

My only hope.

Sorry, had to get the major complaints out of the way.

Other than that, am adjusting relatively well, as could be expected since I have been here plenty of times before. People at work are nice, I've been able to get out to a few bars, concerts, and even saw a homage to a well-loved Peruvian poet on the 10th anniversary of his passing. Cesar Calvo born in the jungle metropolis of Iquitos, who made a name for himself in Lima with his melancholic verse and famed womanizing in the 60s (he might have even sung a song called Suzanne, but I am not sure). His poet friends told stories of their time together, his work, and exploits. All of which was touching and clever. I only understood about 20% of it.

Did Cesar and Leonard hang?

(So, maybe I can use this blog for this - to introduce my faithful to neat Peruvian stuff. I hereby suggest that you all check out Cesar, and the modern pop-rock-dance fusionist Miki Gonzalez.)

Being in city-sprawl, it is much much harder to be active than say in green Ottawa, where I have been spoiled by my ability to run off and play in the woods. So have tried out yoga en Lima to deal with my back that aches (I threw it out after packing, moving, and moving and unpacking), and that is the limit of my physical exertion thus far. Eventually, my dream is to learn to surf too. As you may well know unless you are sad and ignorant, Lima is on the coast and sees pretty good waves. So, to escape the city, I am forced to swim out into the ocean. Should be fun.

Me and my eventual surfer buddies

My refuge in all of this sprawl is currently under renovations, so I am stationed at a very nice temporary apartment mere steps from the Great Canadian Lodge (also known as the Embassy). It has nice features like a balcony (so I can curse at the cars driving by), free internet, a big screen TV where I can watch endless soccer and, very surprisingly, the Mighty Boosh! Amazingly, the walls of this building are unable to spare me from any of the damp cold, while simultaneously drawing away all of the heat from my body.

They understand my pain

My new place will be much larger, but in an older, and let's say uniquely designed building. Saw it today for the first time, and it became very evident that I will have much needless space, and can comfortably accommodate 6 people before using a couch, a further extra room, or putting more than 2 people to a bed. (yes, I am asking for visitors). It also overlooks a most serene park named after the most serene (and fairly controversial) Pope Pius the XII (hence the name of this blog). Mom would be happy at least.

I know you are all sitting there dying with questions like:

So, when will you get to go out and visit exotic ancient cities in the jungle?

or

How are you surviving without your shipment of 14 Nutella bottles?

or

How's your bum?

But, amigos y amigas, all in time, all in time. It is late, I am tired, and so I go now to wrap myself in a blanket, lie by the useless heater, and wait out this cold, cold night.

Fret not, adventures, or at least awkward cultural mishaps, await!!

Abrazos!

Domenic