The bus to Lima, 20 hours and 1,300 kilometres to the south, is a spaceship on ten wheels. Board service and reclining seats are crowned by the entertainment programme. Vin diesels at full volume through three outbreaks of human error that are hard to beat.
On the left, the poorest street villages and dusty steppe like in northern Brazil pass by on the Panamericana. On the other side, the sun conjures up a sunset over the Pacific that even Bob Ross would go for. Then the whole bus shouts: “Gooool!” Peru has qualified for the World Cup. Peru is bitterly poor – and its joy is a mixture of Sambodrome, religious fanaticism and GDR. For days.
Lima is a culture shock. Nine million people and, compared to the rest of the country, richer than any capital on any of my previous trips. It surpasses everything including Thailand, Vietnam, the Philippines, South Africa, Zanzibar and Egypt many times over. In my neighbourhood of Barranco, luxury high-rises full of millionaires’ flats are lined up next to classicist city villas – in the countryside, Peruvians often don’t even have the money for a corrugated iron roof.
Here, once public cul-de-sacs have obviously been completely transformed into gated communities: Security guards at the entrance, warning signs, barbed wire and electric fences bear witness to the gigantic disparity between rich and poor. All the houses are in top condition – or are in the process of being renovated. Compared to northern Peru and Ecuador, the prices for food and buses quickly rise by a factor of three.
The long bus journey from Máncora leaves me with a severe 360° infection, which gets worse over the course of the day with a fever, severe cough, headache and Montezuma. The next morning I go on tour anyway. Similar to Cape Town, Lima also has an extra bus lane on the city motorway. But that’s the only thing that works. The metro buses are always overcrowded and it takes 45 minutes to travel the 14 km to the city centre. The cars on both sides take even longer. On a single journey, I count three fender benders and a pile-up with six people involved. Rien ne va plus.
The guide on a city tour through the centre uses the words “Yes?”, “I know.” and “Listen!” 342 times within 2:15 hours. Funnily enough, his tour past some interesting colonial and neoclassical architecture still remains subterraneanly boring. My brain runs out through my nose, it’s no longer needed today.
Smog everywhere, damn rich suits, police with machine guns, security agents and damn unfriendly Lima snobs. You can ask, but it’s easier to get help in any other place in South America. A fat limousine arse chases a non-motorised old man off the road in his cart, who is just disposing of the rich people’s rubbish. I turn green at the traffic lights. A limo arse almost runs me over, touches my legs. I knew he wouldn’t stop. Enjoy hitting his bonnet with both fists. Puta Madre!
My GoPro housing doesn’t make it any longer. I drive another five kilometres east to the biggest GoPro shop in Lima. It’s tiny. Original housings cost up to a nice €120 – the Chinese copies, which may not fit, still cost €70. I need a replacement from home. Another two hours on the bus. Everyone sits in silence like zombies and stares at their mobile phones. Almost as funny as in New York. Or rats. They become hormonally infertile if the population density is too high. Limanese hopefully too. I don’t begrudge them that. I’d never survive seven months here…
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.