I distinctly remember following the passenger megaherd to the Llegadas internacionales luggage carousel at Juan Chavez International Airport, listening to the sexy female intercom voice greeting 'Welcome to Lima Airport. . .'
Auntie M, Gus' tour guide conscript, is missing on arrival. Even worse, owing to a battery charging catastrophe, my phone has run out of electric go juice, so I'm flying incommunicado
But I feel good about my Spanish, belting out confident "Holas" and "Graciases" to the bored customs officials at the currency exchange post. With every monosyllabic Spanish answer, my confidence grows. I took two years of the language in my high school, did I not? What could possibly go wrong?
And then I step into the clusterfuck of Juan Chavez Airport's Arrivals area. With over ten million people, Lima is the second-largest city in South America, and it sounds as if they all showed up at the airport to heckle me.
A complete sensory overload of reeking armpits and guttural shrieks, it's like stepping out into some Emilio Westphalen-inspired version of a '90s grunge music video. Bug-eyed security dorks and airport employees look around anxiously as taxi drivers, chauffeurs, and genuine batshit crazies push and scream at the top of their lungs while holding up placards with exotic names on them. I'm shell-shocked, unable to grasp even the simplest syllable tossed my way, hoping to find Auntie M's friendly face amidst the mosh pit of frenzied faces.
Doug, you're not in Portland, anymore.
People of all stripes ask me unintelligible things, but my brain's locked up, overloaded with Spanish verb conjugations. Calm down. Remember basic language training. Name. Rank. And make up a serial number.
By my fifth lap around the airport, I stink of the shitmist of defeat, and even cabbies shun me like I've keistered an ibogaine suppository prior to arrival and now I'm doomed to walk in circles around the airport for the rest of my days like a Golem with PTSD.
Is this the punchline in one of Gus' sick jokes? 'Aye Duck, fluck you and your stupid stories'. I search around, seeking a savior, but there's nothing but a blur of faces. What's plan B? Pissing myself silly, then playing "Hide and Seek" in a locked public toilet stall until the next flight out arrives?
Maybe?
Then I see it. A tortured scrawl on a piece of cardboard in a maelstrom of whirling bodies. My port in this storm. A slightly built, tall twenty-something with the faint beginnings of a porn mustache firmly holds up the sign reading 'LaLaLa Tours for DOuG' with the 'u' squished between the 'O' and the 'G' like an afterthought.
It's now or never.
"Hola."
He turns around, squints, then forces a grin.
"¿Qué tal? Doog?"
"No Doog. Doug."
A scowl and a burst of light-speed Spanish encoded in a hyperdrive filled with slang. My eyes glaze over. Say something. "¿Cuánto cuesta. . . uh. . . ?"
"You is. . . for Auntie M?"
Oh thank God. "Sí."
He grabs the lightest pieces of luggage and we head out to his taxi. I have no clue where we're going. Rolling out of the parking lot, it hits me just how vulnerable I am. Visions dance through my head of being cast in the starring role of a drug lord's snuff film somewhere in the Amazon.
I gained an important insight, however. My Spanish skills truly suck.
Reader Warning: You may have some James Bond-type of training. You may be a NASCAR champion. You may have taken up ice road trucking as a relaxing hobby. In a former life, you may have been a world-renowned war correspondent or done three tours in Iraq. Or maybe you had to stitch your buddy's legs back together after his wingsuit escapade went awry.
None of that tame horseshit will ever prepare you for the adrenalized extreme sport of driving in Peru.
Scientists theorize that the smallest distance in the universe is Planck length. It isn't. The smallest measurable distance in the universe is the amount of space a Limeño feels they can squeeze their car into during rush hour traffic.
And squeeze they will, so learn to acclimate to having hundreds of mini heart seizures from all the four-wheeled metal coming at you.
There is no road rage down here. Only survivors' grief. Death via head-on pile up on a four-way stop is a natural part of life in Lima, and should be embraced, not feared.
At first blush, Peru is a nation of walking suicides. Pedestrians crouch behind parked cars, a silent prayer in their throats, only to make the big leap of faith into the crosswalk, which looks like the Omaha Beach scene in 'Saving Private Ryan' with blaring car horns for a soundtrack.
Learn to enjoy darting perilously close to a tanker truck full of materiales combustibles, whose driver is throwing up on himself from a pisco hangover. Think of the bragging rights you'll have after you tell your friends that you've just been sideswiped by a semi truck and your boring Subaru station wagon has instantly been converted into a convertible. Did I shit my pants? Who has the time? I haven't even left my driveway yet.
After checking my pulse, I notice my taxi driver's annoyance at all the traffic distracting him from the phone app game he's playing. But really, who can blame him? After all, if you're almost certainly going to get into a head-on collision today, why fight it? Maybe throw the opposing drivers off balance and complete your morning by commuting in reverse?
Bracing for impact, the taxi driver races past ten cars waiting on a newly minted green light. We dart into head-on traffic, past a woman on a unicycle juggling bowling pins for spare change, before quickly cutting off the lead car, leaving car horn blasts behind us.