Of Pisco and Peru: Iquitos
Pt. 5
“The first thing we see as we travel round the world is our own filth, thrown into the face of mankind.” Claude Levi-Strauss, Tristes Tropiques
Well, thanks for that charming little tidbit, Claude. Puts a whole big, fat bummer on this travel thing, don’t it?
Auntie M and I spend a day in the Iquitos slow lane, dodging tuk tuks while loafing around the main boulevard and malecon like a couple of sloths on valium. We pay a visit to a butterfly farm, then, to slake our stomachs, we head off on a small skiff for lunch on a floating restaurant.
Launching out from near the Plaza de Armas, the sun’s blessed us with its presence, and even the cloying breeze feels good.
But maybe the sun’s an acquired taste? Auntie M wipes her brow and waterproof rain pants. “Stinky!”
Stinky? Jesus! Do I have armpit issues. . .again? No, I put deodorant on an hour ago. “You mean sticky?”
“Sí. Sticky.”
She smiles and all is right in the world, even as the stern-faced guy with the over/under shotgun stares holes through us.
Protection. The captain’s idea to help dissuade the local piracy syndicate from stealing our lunch money.
Landing at the flotilla for food, we’re quickly whisked off to the backside pool area and sun deck. Seated at a comfy cabana for some shade, we’re heavily into a late ceviche and pisco sour lunch hour when Auntie M’s ‘DISCO BITCH’ hand fan goes into overdrive as she fidgets with her aviator sunglasses.
I raise my pisco glass. “Ah. You’re so cool.”
Auntie M giggles, then strikes a pose and adjusts her sunglasses, pointing her head down like a fashion model. “Nope. More than cool. I es. . . eh-stu’pen’dous.”
Shaking my head. “Stupendous. Still got that bright light visa dream with the big house in Bel Air still rolling around in your head?”
Auntie M pushes herself back in her chair and sips her drink. The ‘DISCO BITCH’ fan is fluttering at an eleven. “I prefers Malibu, and why not? Es free to dream. Just like eh-someone else I know who knows no eh-Spanish coming to Eh-South America to starts a new life?”
“We’re all Americans, remember? Who knows, maybe in a couple of years I’ll be giving Lima foodie tours in the Spanish I learned from listening to the commercials you recorded from your mansion in Malibu?”
Auntie M raises her glass for a toast. “To the future.”
“It’s always uncertain and the end is always. . . flucked.”
Our glasses clink as Auntie M smiles skeptically. “Did you just comes up with that?”
“Nah. Some great and wasted man once said that.” Pausing for a second, I reach down and fish out my trusty notebook from my backpack. “Gus would love it.”
“Gus again?”
Should I spill the beans? “Ah, you know, he’s my. . . special friend.”
DISCO BITCH quits fluttering and Auntie M leans forward, like she’s giving away a secret. “Eh-special friend, huh?” Seeing me stymied, she wrinkles her brow. “What es you writing?”
“Nothing. Just scribbling.”
“Eh-scribbling, eh? Let me see.”
She reaches over but I pull the notebook away. “No. It doesn’t mean anything. Just some notes from my conversation with your brother.”
Auntie M glances down at her lap. She fans herself, then looks over at me.
“Mi hermano? Dougito, that es impossible.”
My head whips back with a jolt. “What do you mean?”
“Dougito, my brother eh-speaks no English. Not one word.”
Is she joking? “He speaks better than you think. I know what I heard.”
She chortles, then turns up her nose at her forkful of lettuce, corn and sweet potato. “No, you must have spoken eh-Spanish.”
I place my drink on the table so I don’t drop it. “I did?”
The ‘DISCO BITCH’ fan is in full effect. “Sí. An entire conversation in español.”
“Really?”
“You must has. Dougito, you is fluent. ¡Que lindo!”
“Huh?”
She beams. “It means, uh, ‘How cute!”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. Cool. Maybe Gus was right, after all? Kick ass! I’m bilingual!”
“Es you eh-sure, Dougito?”
“Sure I’m sure.” I give her a sly wink, all false confidence. “Hola. Excusez vous but vas linguaggio naar je sprechening?”
She laughs boisterously, then peers down at my plate full of ceviche and lomo saltado, sniffing at the scents of onions and marinated sirloin. “How does you do that?”
“I’m faking it.”
“No, I means how can you eat like that and not gain weight?”
I grin and hold up my glass of pisco. “It’s called cirrhosis.”
“Oh, es that new?”
A shrug. “Kinda.”
A quick glance down at the sparse greens on her plate, then Auntie M raises her glass for a toast. “Then fuck these fad diets!”
CLINK.
Before I can protest, she grabs my plate and scoops up my lomo saltado.
So good, thank you ❤️
I was watching the movie Trading Places (from the '80s) a few weeks back. One of the main characters is named Randolph Duke (R. Bellamy). I kept on thinking, "Why does that character make me think of Substack? It's driving me crazy. Does EVERYTHING have to remind me of Substack?" Eventually: Wait, oh, yeah, now I know why, I know that name or a form of it...