Trujillo
by Scott KloosI am certain of nothing but the Heart's affections and the Truth of the Imagination.
-John Keats
-John Keats
The Pan-American Highway passes through sugar cane fields, massive rolling dunes of sand, and incomprehensible quantities of trash and litter that tear at my heart. The largest city north of Lima, Trujillo sprawls out under a hot, coastal haze of field-burnt smoke. The bus pulls into a station on the outskirts of town where each of the horde of taxi drivers motions to me, pointing at the laminated license around his neck.
-Taxi, meester? Taxi, meester?
One guy grabs my arm and tries to relieve me of my pack.
-Where are you going? You need a hotel?
-No, I wearily shrug trying not to look too tired after an almost sleepless all night ride watching poorly copied, scratchy sounding dubbed in Spanish B-videos, I already have one.
I walk towards the main plaza orienting myself to the map several times before getting my bearings straight. The plaza is very clean with large modern art statues and shiny smooth cement. Two young girls prepare to float away under their varicolored umbrella. People purposefully march around the well manicured garden patches taking pictures of the tall palms, trunks painted white, that gently sway in the light breeze. The usual shoe shiners, ice cream vendors, and crutch bearing beggars prowl, moving languidly in the too early heat of morning. Portrait artists beckon, and blind, orange-vested lottery ticket sellers silently stare into the abyss while old men sit patiently on park benches with bags of seed. The pigeon mass grows as taxis circle and honk incessantly.
The Hotel Americano, which once must have been very elegant, is slowly sliding into a state of disarray. The beautiful woodwork is dusty and marred from years of careless furniture moving and the inevitable decay of time. The intricately patterned tilework of the lobby floor, where a couple dances to very upright and dignified Latin music, is dingy, unwashed and hidden beneath layers of vibrancy diminishing wax. Upon this the Marinera, the folkloric dance of the region in which a peasant worker courts the rich wife of an estancia owner, will be performed all day. The woman, defiantly sensual, spins-the arc of her long skirt forming a boundary of forbidden desire. She taunts him, twirling a handkerchief around his head. His eyes remain locked upon hers in a deep, confident gaze as he steadfastly approaches, moving ever so close but never quite touching her. And then the music stops. The dancers walk off smiling and chatting, dripping sweat as another couple prepares to dance. This weekend is the national championship, and the hotel is filled with hopeful contestants.
From somewhere far away I can sense a hint of the dignity in which the little, filthy, thick-bespectacled clerk behind the ornately carved desk once held himself as he hauls out the huge guest registry and asks me to fill out the yellow, time-stained pages as if I am some visiting foreign dignitary. I imagine him years ago tracing out with a ruler the lines that divide Name from Document Number, Mode of Transport from Purpose of Trip, and Date from Signature, carefully switching from black to red pen, flipping the page back to be sure he is recreating each and every page exactly as the first. He stands before me, a symbol of the faded glory of Peru, which each day is eclipsed ever more by the time cheapening incursion of American-style pop culture. I stand with him stuck between worlds and watch as he disintegrates, molecules flowing into the lobby that surrounds him.
The silent porter leads me up a wide, curving staircase to a dimly lit and musty room without windows. He fishes the key out of his pocket and opens the door. A roach scurries away. I thank him and he turns himself around and wanders off. I wash my socks in the sink and lie down to take a nap on the mushy bed.
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