I am up at 7 a.m. waiting for the taxi.

The plan is that the tour bus will pick me up from a city hotel at 9 to start the tour which will finish about 4 hours later. My taxi arrives, takes me through slow moving peak hour traffic once again, and drops me off at 830 a.m. I sit in the swish elegance of a hotel foyer there is no way I can afford, feeling and looking distinctly out of place with my travel clothes and small day backpack, keeping an eye out for the tour bus.

An hour later, with the bus a no-show, I decide to ask the hotel staff for help. A number of phone calls take place. I am told it will come so I sit and wait. Another 45 minutes pass. I am now very worried that I have been completely missed and will have to return to my host’s house with my sad story. I am about to call her to let her know when the concierge waves me over; she tells me someone is coming to get me. A few moments later a harried-looking man arrives and calls out my name. “Jen Underrson?” I motion that it’s me. I thank the concierge for her help. The man almost pulls me to a car and shuts the door speaking rapid Spanish the whole time. Who is this guy? It is not a tour bus but a private car. I have no idea what’s going on but take comfort that he knew my name. We pull out into the Lima traffic.

I ask him to speak slower so I can understand. I have found that when you do that people slow down for a micro-second, but then pick up speed again sometimes increasing in pace. I gather that the bus that was supposed to collect me got caught in traffic of an accident on the highway. We actually pass the remnants of the accident scene with ambulances and police, on the opposite side of the highway. He gesticulates madly while talking. I can tell he is stressed. Apparently the tour company organised for him to collect me and take me to the tour bus. I feel so much better with this knowledge. But there is more. The bus has already started the tour, so we have to catch it in a game of cat-and-mouse.

We enter the narrow streets of the old town. The congestion is still as bad as the rest of the city but at least we are nearing our destination. The driver dodges people and cars in a mad rush, all the while gesticulating madly, speaking Spanish to me, and calling people on his mobile phone. After hanging up from his call, he tells me we need to look for a blue bus. After a few moments I spot one in the distance. “Un bus azul!”, I tell him. A blue bus. he grins at me and, for the first time calms, down a little. We approach it slowly as we are caught in the gridlock. I prepare to jump out at any moment’s notice. The bus gets temptingly close, almost teasing us. We both tense as we finally pull alongside, though both the bus and our car are still moving. My driver waves with both hands while driving beside the bus, yelling the whole time. He decides to call again on his phone. Suddenly, he catches the attention of the driver. They talk for a moment, while moving, with my driver incorporating me in his hand signals. My driver then becomes glum and gives me a serious look before delivering his news. “Otro bus.” We have found a blue bus, but the wrong one. There are two, one for Spanish speakers and one with an English-speaking guide. We have to look for another blue bus.

After turning another corner, I spot another one in the distance. It is pulling up and people are disembarking and crossing the street by the time we reach it. My driver swerves to a stop, calling out to the guide across the tops of cars passing by us. She stops and sees me and smiles. All is well. I can join them from here. I thank my driver and watch him disappear into the maze, then turn around and enter a bank.

 

Well, it was a bank but it is now a museum. I try to relax and listen to what my guide is saying after the stress of the morning. She is telling me that my arrival was perfectly timed because now we will be walking around the town centre for the next two hours. I am relieved to be with the group and to hear a language I can easily understand. I see a man hovering in the background who accompanies us everywhere but is not a tourist nor part of our tour group. He introduces himself to me but I don’t find out his role until later.

The bank houses artefacts from ancient Peruvian civilisations, with the Incas being the most recent. I admire the adornments for both men and women made of metal alloys comprising mostly gold and copper. I only know of the Incans so I am interested to hear that they have at least 15 other civilisations represented here.

 

Next, we move around the corner to the main Plaza which, in typical Spanish style, is grand and boasts cathedrals and municipal offices using grand architecture. We can wander here and listen to the official military band for about twenty minutes before meeting again across the plaza at the chocolate shop. I walk and listen and watch, soaking up the atmosphere.

We spend a while in the chocolate shop learning how chocolate is made before continuing on to nearby alleyways housing small shops selling touristy goods.  It is wonderful to take in the bright colours and see Andean women up close selling food or trinkets. I have seen Andean women in the movies but I thought they were only in Bolivia. I realise that the Andeans are all through these northern parts of South America, and the women in Peru wear trilby hats, not bowler hats.

 

We enter a cathedral that is a working monastery. It houses the bones of thousands that died during the Spanish conquest of this country. It is a sobering experience, seeing many skulls and femurs from those who died of disease and suffering, all housed under the flooring of the cathedral. We have to descend multiple steps and enter cave-like tunnels, similar to catacombs, in order to see them. I feel claustrophobic down here, breathing in the ancient  dust, and am happy to exit to the ‘fresh’ air.

The next stop is Miraflores, an upmarket part of town with plenty of places to eat and shop. Oddly, it has a park dedicated to cats. People can come here and pat or spend time with them. From what I can tell, the cats don’t appear mangy and most seem well kept. This is where the tour ends.

However, as I have missed about two hours of my tour, I have organised with the tour guide to pick up the start of the next tour and see the first two hours of it, essentially completing a whole tour but in two parts. What I have missed is a drive around the city. I am dropped off at Miraflores along with the man I met earlier, Senor Luis. He is going to accompany me to lunch and then ensure I rejoin the next tour. I find out that he is a representative of the tour company and he supervises and assesses the tour guides to make sure they are understandable and helpful. He was assessing my tour guide this morning, but now his job is to look after me. I tell him that I am fine to get myself some lunch and return to the pickup point at the allotted time – in 40 minutes. He shrugs good-naturedly and watches me walk up the street. I had spotted a restaurant with wifi.

I order some fish and a Pisco Sour combo deal and sit and relax. I email my host to let her know what has happened and to not expect me till a little later. She is working from home so I know she will receive it. After 20 minutes my meal still has not arrived. I wave at a waiter and ask. It is coming. I only have 20 minutes left to eat and walk back. I didn’t want to drink without food but I decide I  won’t have time otherwise. Sipping Pisco Sour is impossible and I find it goes straight to my head, as I haven’t eaten since 7 a.m. and it is now 2 p.m. Finally, with 10 minutes to go I have to walk up to the counter and tell them to make it ‘to go’ (“para llevar”). I pay and take my takeaway container with me and hurry down the street. I am munching on my food when Senor Luis returns. We board a small bus and after a few changes of buses we are finally on the right one; the tour begins. Senor Luis sits beside me and nods off while I listen to the English speaking guide. As we drive the guide points out recently discovered ruins in the middle of the city, ancient olive trees planted by the Spanish, various monuments and buildings, and the meanings of suburb names and their origin. He is funny  and interesting. After about an hour and a half, we reach the point where I joined the tour – the bank/museum. Here Senor Luis and I alight.

 

Senor Luis asks me what suburb I have to go to. I am happy to find myself a taxi home but he insists on accompanying me, finding a taxi, getting a good price, and sitting with me in the back seat chatting the whole way. The drive takes about an hour and a half. I am glad that this taxi system means a price is decided prior and not by the minute like in Australia.

At first I think that Senor Luis going above and beyond the call of duty for an ulterior motive, but soon he is telling me about his wife and adult children, and asking me about Australia. We discuss languages and the state of the country. He even calls my host a couple of times to update her as to our progress. It is great practice for me to listen to Spanish non-stop for an hour and a half, responding too, but I find it quite tiring also.

We reach the suburb in which I am staying. The taxi driver is unsure where to go. We stop and ask just about every person that we see to get directions. After about 30 minutes searching, the taxi driver decides that the street doesn’t exist. I tell him as clearly as I can that I was there last night so it certainly does. I am unsure if he believes me. He sort of slumps at the wheel, beaten. I tell him to try another street, but this time turn right. It is the correct street.  I know I have a good sense of direction but even I am surprised. Both men cannot believe it either, and comment to each other in Spanish, not remembering that I can understand them. We pull up to the right house. My host is out but has asked a security guard to give me the key.

I pay the still amazed taxi driver and I get out. So does Senor Luis. I protest that I am fine and we are at the right house, and surely doesn’t he want the same taxi to take him back? No, no, no, he says. The taxi driver drives off.  The security guard hovers. I let myself into the gate and my host’s dog tries to escape.  Senor Luis takes a moment to write his name, phone, and email on a piece of paper for my host for future reference. I try and keep the dog inside the gate all the while Senor Luis is writing and talking and pushing the note paper through the gate to me, with the security guard talking to me and making sure I am ok as well. I thank the security guard, and assure Senor Luis that I will pass on the message and thank him profusely for all his help.

It feels like I am in a farce; in fact the whole day has felt that way.

I shut the gate and door, and walk back into the house with the dog. I sit down in the kitchen and take a deep breath. The dog comes and rests her head on my leg. I pat her and tell her, out loud in English, “what a day I’ve had today.”