danielbaylis.ca

Dear Family and Friends,

When I travel, I’m a sucker for interacting with locals. And this week’s social events enabled me not only to practice my Spanish with a couple groups of Trujillanas, but I also somehow managed to turn paper into food. I’m a social butterfly AND an alchemist.

Allow me to explain.

On Tuesday I was downtown Trujillo, leisurely sitting on the steps of the fountain in Plaza de Armes, when a friendly man started chatting with me. He posed simple, harmless questions that I could easily understand in Spanish. Where are you from? What are you doing here? How long will you stay? As any language student will attest, it always feels nice to be able to comprehend and reply.

However, I wasn’t without my suspicions. As a white-skinned westerner, many opportunistic locals see me as an occasion for financial gain. I am offered “discount” tours. Taxi drivers beep their horns for my attention. Men want to sell me knock-off sunglasses. I have a dollar sign stamped on my forehead. And subsequently, I am hesitant to engage with people who approach me on the street.

Yet the irony is tragic, as I dearly want to interact and engage with local people, and to make my travel experiences as genuine as possible. So I responded eagerly to the innocent questions of this inquisitive man.

His name was Mariano, and he was accompanied by two female friends, Luna and Sabrina. I discovered that the three of them lived and studied in Trujillo, and were out for an evening stroll. So I began to stroll with them.

We walked and talked for a few blocks. These local folks seemed kind, and were patient when I attempted to form mashed up Spanish sentences. And as I was about to excuse myself to tuck into a café to further my research endeavors* (The Trujillo Cake-Tasting Index), they invited me to continue a few blocks and share drinks at a bar. It sounded like a wonderful plan.

* Don’t, however, let this brief change of plans lead you to question my commitment to my dessert-based research project. Rest assured that I am still fully devoted to sampling all the offerings of this cake-loving-city. No type of torte shall escape my scrutiny. Now please, continue reading.

So there I was on Tuesday evening, sipping cervezas with three locals, chatting about the best things to do in the city, who are our favorite international music stars, what we studied in university and how eating Indian cooking has the potential to lead to explosive diarrhea. You know, the usual Canadian-meets-local-Peruvian gabble.

It was lovely.

*          *          *

On Friday afternoon, I was again in the downtown area, walking through the Mercado Central, when a man walking beside me commented on how beautiful the women were in Trujillo. He motioned his hands over his chest creating air breasts, and then nodding his head in approval. My attention was focused on satiating my desire for caffeine, and not necessarily the plumpness of the Trujillana female rack, so I simply replied with a smile.

Then came the inevitable opening line inquiring as to where I come from was posed.   I politely responded, “Canada.”

“Oh, I worked in British Columbia, as a cook on a cruise ship,” he bounced back.

My attention was peaked. I was born and raised in British Columbia, and I’m always curious to hear people’s stories of their visits to my homeland. I didn’t respond with an inquiry to continue a conversation, but nor I didn’t dismiss myself to further my coffee quest either.

The Peruvian boob-fan waved over his two friends, and soon I was having a conversation about local food, the beautiful women of Quebec and the challenges of learning a new language. One of the fellows, Juan, told me he was taking an English class, and as part of the English class he was giving people surveys to deepen his understanding of the language. He wanted me to participate.

After my Tuesday experience of lovely conversation over beer, I thought this would be another opportunity to practice my Spanish and to provide the occasion for others to practice their English. I’m here in Peru as an English teacher, and someone had expressed interest in assistance with the language. I had nothing specific to do, other than sip espresso. Thus, I felt the request was not overly demanding, and I agreed.

“First, let me get a cup of coffee,” I insisted, needing a bit of an attention-span-enhancement.

Ten minutes later, with cappuccino in hand, I was walking with the local guys to a bar of their choice, weaving our way through the Spanish colonial streets of central Trujillo. After approximately ten blocks we arrived to an average looking drinking hole, and quickly agreed that the front room was far too noisy. We moved into a quieter space in the back.

A big glass bottle of Coca-Cola was ordered, and conversation continued about Trujillo and the neighborhood where I was working. The guys seemed truly amicable, and insisted to pay for the drink.

When it was time to get to the formal part of completing the survey, I was given my first question, which Juan had scribbled out on what looked like scrap paper.  The question read, “What do you think of the pollution in Peru?”

Well I certainly had thoughts on this topic! This city could undoubtedly use some recycling infrastructure. A compost education program would be a brilliant idea. And what about bike lanes? I wondered how could I express my complex sentiments in a way that would be simple enough? I’d find a way. What luck for these guys to stumble across not only an English teacher, but a writer as well!

But before I dove into the response, one of the fellows asked if I could break 100 Soles (around $35 USD) for him. The bar was unable to change a bill. I was resistant to the idea because I was also familiar with the challenges of larger notes in a city where a single coin is the staple for economic exchange. A big bill basically gets you nowhere.

But these guys were nice, so I pulled out my wallet, and shrugged, apologizing that I only had 80 Soles. The guy handed me the 100 Soles note, took my 80 and said that we’d find change afterwards. “Whatever,” I thought. Because of my limited Spanish comprehension, I am often left to rely on faith that situations will resolve themselves. Besides I had his 100 soles bill.

The fellows went to the front of the bar to take care of the tab, and I began to respond to the first question.

5 minutes passed. My question was now complete, so I looked about wondering to where my friendly locals had disappeared.

10 minutes passed. I began to play on my iPod, flipping through my “Spanish for Dummies” application, and practicing my basic greetings. Perhaps they went to the street to bring back some change?

15 minutes passed. My “friends” were no where to be seen. I started to feel like a buffoon. The reality of the situation was encroaching.  For real?

20 minutes passed. Disheartened, I stood up and exited the bar quickly, hoping that nobody had notice what had just occurred.

How could I have been so naïve?

*          *          *

I was fairly certain that the 100 Soles bill that was now in my possession was counterfeit. I thought quickly about how I could turn this situation into less of a loss. I wanted to spend it somewhere, to at least get confirmation of the hoax that had just occurred. But to what business should I go? Where would I not feel guilt about spending money that I assumed to be counterfeit? Where could I transfer this bullshit without fear of karmic retribution?

I immediately knew where to go: a corporation.

I turned my feet back in the direction near to where I had begun my Friday meandering, began walking quickly towards the glossy Metro Supermarket.*

*I have confirmed that Metro is owned by one of the biggest retails giants in Peru, Corporación Wong. It is part a multi-million dollar conglomerate that oversees 65 grocery stores across this South American nation. Now please, continue reading.

But this was blood money. I wanted my 80 Soles back, but that extra 20 Soles did not belong to me. So, if the bill actually worked, what could I buy with the extra Soles that I could donate? I jumped around the Metro market grabbing coffee and milk and eggs and bread. I would bring back offerings to the Horizon volunteer house. My fellow travelers were always hungry, and had a similar passion for caffeinated beverages. With basket full, I chose the most naïve-looking cashier stood in line to pay.

My palms began sweating.  What were the consequences of this type of fraudulent behavior in Peru? Could I be incarcerated? Would I spend the rest of my days being some dude’s fair-skinned bitch in a Peruvian penitentiary?  I noticed the bright-eyed young woman at the register examining each bill she received from customers. Even the measly 20 Soles notes. Fuck.

I played it cool, looking around casually as I heard the beep of each of my purchases being scanned. The total came up on the cash register. I didn’t even look, I just handed her the bill.

From my peripheral vision, I could see her doing the normal investigation of the authenticity of the bill. She paused, and then I heard the register open.

Shazam! Accepted!

I was handed 76.87 Soles, and even given a sweet smiled, “Gracious.”

I quickly left the store, jumped in the first taxi I saw and returned home with a bag full of breakfast ingredients… food that I obtained, essentially, for free.

*          *          *

I look back on this week of interacting with locals with a certain befuddlement. It’s a complex situation that leaves me hesitant to come to conclusions on this city and its residents. On Tuesday I had a really lovely experience with some genuinely kind locals. On Friday three opportunistic douchebags scammed me. Is Trujillo a safe city? Well, yes. Do I need to be guarded? Well, unfortunately, yes, also.

I am a bit embarrassed about my own participation in the events. I am supposed to be a wise world traveler, I have essentially quit my life to go forth into the world in search of generosity and benevolence and a greater human connection. Am I being naïve? Still, I know not to open my wallet in front of people I’ve just met. This is true whether in Peru or Prince George (my hometown) – it’s simple common sense. Yet there I was, whipping it out in front of three guys I met mere minutes before. At some point, my desire to be a gracious foreign friend clearly outweighed the risk of being hoodwinked.

In my quest for kindness, I was kicked in the gonads.

I honestly felt really sad sitting in the bar alone, realizing what had happened to me and staring at an irrelevant, yet well crafted, paragraph on what Peru could do to curb pollution. The money I feared I had lost, approximately $35 USD, was not a major forfeit. It was the overall cost of believing whether to trust or mistrust people continues that seemed to be risky, seemed to be pricey.

And I here I am, at the end of this letter, but still without a grand conclusion. Instead, I’m left with this itchy question that might not be resolved any time soon.

Is it safe to trust the people I meet in this world?

I just don’t know.

Sincerely,

Daniel

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