Letters from the Field: August 1-2, 2014
New York to Cusco
James L. McElhinney © 2014

Several months ago my wife Kathie Manthorne received word that funding had been approved for a grant she submitted to the Getty Foundation on behalf of the Laguna Museum of Art, for an exhibition exploring the subject of landscape in the art of Mexico and California. The exhibition will be part LA/LA (Los Angles/Latin America), the second installment of the Getty’s new Pacific Standard Time initiative. When Kathie was invited to deliver a paper at the Universidad Católica de Lima on historic artworks depicting Franciscan missions in California, we decided to arrive in Peru five days early to visit Cusco and Machu Picchu, and then explore Lima and its environs at the back end of the trip.
Driving from Washington Heights to Newark Liberty International Airport on a Friday afternoon might have presented a few challenges, but the moment we chose to depart provided us with no delays. Kathie noted the high water level in the salt meadows flanking the Jersey Turnpike, and I was reminded of John McPhee’s In Suspect Terrain, in which he traverses the United States via I-80, across the Hackensack River to the north, far behind us.
Passing the Meadowlands Sports Complex on our right, the turnpike traverses vast wetlands via an elevated causeway before being borne aloft on a ribbon of elevated roadways. Rising up out of the marshes to the east, the dark, rocky face of Snake Hill is adorned by a polychrome tapestry of aerosol graffiti. A lone yellow brick smokestack is the solitary relic of a tuberculosis sanatorium and lunatic asylum that once stood on the volcanic promontory.
Exiting the turnpike, depositing the car in the B section of the long-term parking lot, we caught the bus, checked in and suffered the routine vexations of airport security before embarking on a non-stop flight to Lima, where we arrived about nine hours later.
No direct flights exist between any of the New York airports and Cusco. Because the most frequent connections are through Lima, it would be our first destination. Arriving late in the evening, the second leg of our journey had to wait until morning.
Passing the night at the enchanting Hotel Costa del Sol, literally twenty meters from the arrivals terminal at Jorge Chavez International Airport. Leaving the terminal we hewed a path through a predatory swarm of taxi and limo drivers vying for fares. Our driver in Cusco explained that in Peru the difference between a private automobile and a taxi is whether or not the owner had purchased a dome light and displayed it on the roof of his car. Street hails in Lima are risky affairs because unprincipled taxi-drivers have been know to deliver fares into the hands of ruffians and thieves who then force their victims to withdraw cash from ATMs. We heard one tale of an American who took the wrong taxi and lost everything but his underpants.
We checked into the hotel. One of the two small elevators bore a sign reading “Fuera de Servicio” because as we discovered in the morning, it was reserved for the use of construction crews who were adding two floors to the existing structure.
Following ubiquitous Latin American construction practices, many buildings in Lima are constructed in stages. Reinforcing bars are left protruding from the structural elements at or above roof level of a building so that more floors might be added in the future.
We skipped the customary Peruvian welcome of Pisco Sour cocktails and went directly to our room, barren as any bunker, noteworthy for its opulent sterility and surprisingly comfortable mattresses. Bone-white concrete walls were decorated with three small, square abstract paintings that seemed to be inspired by macro vision views of river stones or aquarium pebbles. Both pictures were secured to the wall by mysterious means as a deterrent to thievery. Our room was on the far side of the building that faced the city, away from the runways. Spared a night of screaming jets, we awoke around seven in the morning and found the restaurant hotel offering a typical Norteamericano breakfast bar featuring breakfast links the size of Vienna Sausages, Yanqui-style belly-bacon sliced prosciutto-thin and fried to a crisp, along with pain-perdu and maple syrup. Quiche Lorraine was prepared as a frittata cut into brownie-sized chunks. The rest of the menu was spread out in a row of steam trays and tables. Apart from hot dishes were assorted sweet rolls and marmalades, washed down with strong percolated coffee. The Peruvians seem to be fond of caffeinated drinks and we saw at least one Starbucks in central Lima, and most restaurants were equipped with espresso machines. They also use a lot of powdered Nescafe, as well as a kind of syrup/concentrate to which boiling water or heated milk is added to prepare a cup of coffee.
We soon learned the value of being well fortified, as back in the terminal we had to stand our ground against queue-jumping senior citizens. The typical Peruvian is a bit shorter of stature than most North Americans. Those of indigenous blood are slightly shorter than mestizos, but being no larger than European children failed to hinder dogged abuelitos from cutting ahead of anyone who lowered their guard for a split-second.
The terminal was an orgy of confusion. Luggage chariots pushed across serpentine passenger queues crisscrossing one another in a gigantic human granny knot. Guarding the entrance to the cordoned rat-maze dividing the public areas from the check-in counter was a kid of about nineteen, who kept nervously looking over his shoulder, waiting for his cue. Uniformed employees wandered back and forth, indifferent to his perplexity.
A stocky middle aged Peruana called out “Mas rapido!” followed by a chorus of similar exhortations up and down the line in a Babelic host of tongues.
Kathie had been swept a distance of two or three positions ahead of me, but when an airline employee pulled her out of line. I joined her. Examining our papers, the kid at the security podium waved us through to priority check-in, where our bags were tagged and boarding passes printed. Going through yet another security screening, Kathie once again found herself ahead of me in line. She called out for me to join her, but in defiance of local custom I demurred from jumping ahead.
As Kathie’s queue inched forward, I was suddenly pulled out of my line and directed to a security checkpoint at the far end of the barrier, where I passed through an expedited screening process a few minutes ahead of Kathie. Despite the reign of chaos, our plane pushed away from the gate five minutes ahead of schedule with every passenger buckled into his or her seat. During our brief travels in Peru, we came to appreciate that disorder by Anglo standards manages a surprising level of efficiency. We soon became airborne, passing over the Puerto de Callao jutting into the Pacific, leaving behind the Costa Verde and crossing La Ciudad Gris a few miles inland. An hour later, we landed in Cusco. Passengers raced to the baggage claim, but we all had plenty of time to gather our thoughts as the ground crew took its time to locate our luggage.