On Riding the Chombi

This Saturday, riding the chombi (public bus) for about two hours in total allowed me to grow accustomed to it’s rhythms, and thus, a rhythm of Lima. The bus accelerates and stops abruptly, over and over and over again. Street vendors move in and out of the bus, selling Sublime chocolate and every type of packaged food: candied reddish peanuts covered in sesame seeds, chocolates with almonds, snacks made of quinoa. Each time we rode the bus, once to the central market and once back to La Molina, some man would board the bus and assertively give the well rehearsed story of difficult life and misfortunes. On the bus ride back, the man also had a child. “they use the children,” my companion told me before he began his speech. The child’s head lolled to the side. I found myself wondering if this child would grow to participate in this lifestyle or choose another. I wondered if he would live that long… In the moment of this thought, I realized I had never seen a truly sick and vulnerable baby, one whose life could soon vanish. When the man finished his speech, I was surprised to see almost everyone on the bus hand a few coins to the man. After my companion gave her coins to the man, he left the bus, all the while feeding the baby a part of a granola bar a passenger had given him. Half ended up falling to the dirty bus steps. “A social problem,” my companion commented after the man left the bus.

As we rode across the city, my companions explained the main streets. “This street we are passing over the top of is Javier Prado. It runs from east to west in the city.” The street we were traveling on was part of the Pan-South American highway. It runs from north to south along the cost of al Peru. “It is the most important highway in Peru. It even runs up to Ecuador and Colombia,” they told me. WE passed the most modern shopping center I’ve ever seen with spectacular modern sculpture, lights, and fountains. 15 minutes later, we passed the mountains of los Barrios Altos, the High Neighborhoods. I was struck by the bricks and thousands of wooden shipping palates stacked on top of the houses and buildings. This is the most dangerous district of Lima.

It was an even busier than usual Saturday in the central market of Lima. First, we visited the Chinese store, where my companions bought some of the most inexpensive tea I’ve ever encountered. They loved to shop, so I felt liberated to explore everything in the market. It seems where ever I go in the world, there will always be a little China town, a Chinese market, and thus a little bit of my friends from home. After their attempt to purchase a quarter of the tea in the shop, we chose one of the countless chifa restaurants (chifa is Peruvian Chinese). We ate so hunger that we were not talking much. As we ate, we heard silverware slam onto a table. A stalky, angry man pushed back his chair away from his family, and stood aggressively in front of the waiter. In an instant, the entire kitchen staff emerged, stepping between the two men, the restraining the thin and firely angry young waiter. The kitchen staff successfully removed their friend, and the family left. When the waiter reappeared, many in the restaurant said things to the waiter like, “what a disagreeable family. It’s not your fault.” To me, the camaraderie for the waiter, and the waiter for his job, was pronounced.

Next, we wove our way out of China town and into the market, where everything you might desire can be found for an incredibly cheap price. “This is the oldest market in Lima,” my companion told me. The inside of the market holds fruit, vegetables, and a meat market. The only circulation in this old two level building is through the door. Here, all the rank odors of the market collect. Out of the many open, rectangular white sacs, we purchased spices and herbs for dinner that night.

Cooking in the Peruvian kitchen is not unlike driving in Peru. Everything appears close to disaster, to boiling over, or to burning. However, it resulted in the most beautiful and delicious meal I've shared here. Surprisingly, we made the exact dishes I chose to cook for my Peruvian preparation dinner: papas a la Huancayina and arroz con leche. In a country of delicious food, homemade still remains unbeatable.

Reflecting on the day in the central market of Lima, I am amazed at the cooking, the market, and my kind friends. However, my amazement is happily based in the present. How good it feels to be here, with myself, and the paper, reflecting on a day simply… lived.