The learning curve accelerates when you travel. You've got to be on your toes. Customs doesn't give you a brochure at the border outlining the country's do's and don'ts. One morning you're in Miami and that evening you're in Piura, Peru. You've skipped winter altogether and landed smack in the middle of a world that was just fine without you.
What are you doing here, it seems to ask? Why on earth have you chosen to grace our place with your presence? Who are you and what do you want from us?
No matter what side you find yourself on, the visitor or the visited, the brain automatically begins processing difference. Things are broken down into dualities to ease assimilation.
He is white. I am brown. They speak Spanish. I don't. They live behind thick, brick walls and wrought iron gates and fear street thugs and thieves. That's new for me. They consider Halls a candy and garnish their hamburguesas with Doritos and hot chili sauce.
Barefoot children in your son's old soccer jersey beg for change through taxi windows. Sickly stray dogs on their last legs roam dirt streets by the dozens.
Similarities abound, of course, and I'll relay these in time. But one is struck initially by the contrast of a new situation.
Here are four facts one must quickly come to live by in Peru:
First and foremost, boil your water. Everyone does it. You have to. It's not treated. While what flows from the tap might appear as clean and clear as our driven snow, it isn't. Mean little microbes are ready and willing to party in your plumbing. You do not want this.
For that matter, don't eat anything sold on the street. Even if it smells great and looks good, avoid it at all costs. If you swallow it, you will see it again.
I knew better, but I took a crack at some papas rellenos from a young street vendor. They were delicious, stuffed with strip steak, diced onions, and melted cheese. Two nights passed, and I'd nearly forgotten my escapade. Tuesday morning was not fun. Woe the wrath of two palm-sized potatoes.
Another must, take extreme caution walking (or bicycling) these streets. The pedestrian has no rights here. The roads sing with the dissonant music of high-pitched horns, buzzing engines and choking motors. There are no stop signs. If you don't flow, you don't go.
Aggression is an order. It's a poorly choreographed yet strangely efficient vehicular dance. Move with purpose and don't expect anyone at anytime to be thinking about anyone but themselves.
Fourthly, be kind to thy huachiman. That's a Peruvian phonetic for watchman. All the neighborhoods that can afford them, have them. Each household pays a small, monthly fee to help insure themselves against thugs or thieves.
In my district, El Chipe, there are men stationed on each corner from just past dusk until dawn. Their whistles pierce the night, letting each other know when people are about.
There is much talk of robberies and assaults. There are very few open yards. One enters most homes through spiked gates and broken, green 7-up and glass coke bottles are sunk in the concrete of fences that could potentially be climbed.
Piura materializes like a true oasis out of Peru's northwestern, coastal Sechura Desert. It is 60 miles from the westernmost point on the South American continent and just over 50 to the nearest point on the Ecuadorean border.
Now in early summer, the sun is blistering by 1 p.m. The streets empty. People lounge like big cats on beat-up chairs outside dusty doorsteps. The heat burns like a welding iron, and one quickly realizes the true genius of the afternoon siesta.
Matt Wittmer is a columnist for the Southeast Missourian and an avid traveler and cyclist. He is teaching English at the University of Piura in Piura, Peru. Reach him at matt.wittmer@gmail.com.<I>
Connect with the Southeast Missourian Newsroom:
For corrections to this story or other insights for the editor, click here. To submit a letter to the editor, click here. To learn about the Southeast Missourian’s AI Policy, click here.