In which Alison aquires some vocabulary and a map

Well, I’m still about 3 weeks behind in my blog posts, but I’m trying to catch up! My flights from Lima to Puerto Maldonado were uneventful, and after lunch in Puerto with Ysabel (one of Megan and Antonio’s friends), I went to my hotel, sat down on the bed, and noticed how strangely quiet and empty it seemed. I twiddled my thumbs for a bit and tried to find a map of the town so I could navigate the streets by myself, but was unsuccessful. This wasn’t a barrier to getting around; since motorcycle taxis are the main form of transportation in Puerto (see Gabe's photo), all you have to do is flag one down and tell the driver where you want to go. As a small, foreign female, I was rather uneasy with the idea of leaping onto the backs of motorcycles, telling the drivers—who are invariably male—the place I wanted to go, and speeding off with no idea whether we were actually headed there. But for the time being, there was nothing for it but to hail a mototaxi and whiz towards what I hoped was the right destination.

I had some chores to do. First I headed to the mercado (market) to shop for supplies. The mercado is a bit overwhelming the first few times you visit it. What seems like a countless number of stalls crammed with food, toiletries, hardware, dishes, shoes, toys, clothes, DVDs, or what-have-you is all jammed together into a single city block. I wandered the maze for a few hours trying to learn the logic behind the layout ...I made so many circuits that two Peruvians working behind the counter of a hardware stall began to wave and smile at me every time I passed.

I also took advantage of the public phones to call a bunch of you folks and say hi! This may not seem particularly newsworthy, but after living in the rainforest for a while, a telephone call feels like a special and slightly miraculous treat.

One afternoon I wandered into a grocery store, which also felt special and slightly miraculous. Among other things, I was searching for molasses. Why, you ask? Elementary, my dears—to make chocolate chip cookies! The first time I baked them at CICRA, the larder was sadly lacking in brown sugar. The result was still tasty, but I am determined to introduce my Peruvian friends to the deliciousness that is a real, authentic chocolate chip cookie. So, this was a culinary mission. After I’d browsed around for a while, an unsuspecting staffperson came up and asked if I needed assistance. I froze. I had, of course, forgotten the word for molasses. “I’m looking for a sweet [sudden pause… wait, what’s the word for brown???] …uh, a sweet liquid sort of like sugar, which is used in cooking” I said in Spanish. The man gave me a blank stare. “Um…” I continued, “How do you say the color of this?” I asked, pointing at the wooden shelves. “Rojo? Amarillo?” he asked, and began pointing to various sweet red and yellow liquids, including honey and ketchup. “No, no… what’s the color of wood?” I asked. “Amarillo? Rojo?” he repeated as he pulled some marmalade off the shelf and tried to hand it to me. I’ve been told that in Japan, they call the grass blue instead of green. Apparently in Peru, wood is not always brown. After some more pantomiming and circuitous questions, I got him to tell me the word. For the record, it’s “marrón.” “Okay! I’m looking for a sweet, brown liquid similar to sugar.” He led me straight to the molasses. For the record, that’s called “chancaca.”

You know those times when you see someone eating alone in a restaurant, and wonder how they came to such a sorry state? For several meals during my stay in Puerto, I was that person. For the most part, I didn’t mind at all. But when I walked into a restaurant one night and sat down to wait for a menu, I must have looked especially awkward. A man who looked to be in his 40s came over and said in remarkably correct English, “Hi. The waiters are already serving me… if you want, you can move to my table and get your food faster. I’m only going to eat a quick meal, so I won’t be there long.” He smiled and walked away. Now, normally I do not accept dinner invitations from strange men. But something about the way he asked seemed distinctly un-sketchy, so on the spur of the moment, I joined him.

His name was Daniel, and it turns out he was originally from Mexico City. He’d worked as a dive instructor for tourists for many years. (This explained his unusually good English, but per my request we spoke in Spanish.) He’d quit his job to become an artist; in fact, some of his work was hanging in the very restaurant in which we ate. Daniel’s lifelong dream was to eventually buy a small café where he could serve coffee and showcase his art, but he mentioned that work was very slow for him at the moment. I didn’t realize how slow until after the meal, when he went to ask for a discount because he couldn’t pay the full price of his dinner. (The meals there cost about $5.) Daniel was frustrated that so few people appreciate art. He argued that art is meaningful and necessary, and that it makes a greater difference in people’s lives than, for example, a lot of scientific research. I answered that this was precisely my problem; that I was thinking about going to graduate school, but worried that I wouldn’t accomplish anything constructive to improve the lives of others. But he suddenly became very insistent. “No, ¡hazlo! ¡Hazlo!” he urged. No, you must do it! “Do what you love; that’s all that matters. Anyone who follows their heart makes a difference.”

After the meal, Daniel helped me finally find a map of the town. As I stood on the curb, I told him I wanted to come visit his café someday. “Well,” he smiled, “it’s still a long way off.” We wished each other good night and good luck. I flagged down a motorcycle and hopped on. As I zipped down the dark streets with Daniel’s roadmap tucked away in my pocket, I still had no idea whether the driver was taking me where I expected to go. But this time, I felt that wherever we were headed, it was in the right direction.