“Do you observe the pictures of the Parque des Aguas, hmm? Behind are the fountains, greater as Dubai and Las Vegas. We are the highest fountain. 80 metres, okay? Yes.”
How many tour guides does it take to drive a writer insane? Just one, it turns out, when combined with a bus tour where you can’t see the actual attractions, just photos of them posted on boards outside, and you’re never quite sure what you’re supposed to be learning – is this fountain “greater than” or “as great as” similar fountains in other places? And certainly one where I’m asked if my eyes work, repeatedly. Okay. Yes. I get it.
“There are three of the city’s top restaurants on this street. Ceviche, BBQ chicken and Pisco Sour. We recommend you a…Pisco Sour. We recommend you ceviche. Do you know ceviche? And cuy. In your countries they are pets but here we eat them. They are eat whole, staring you on the plate. 0% cholesterol, okay? Very saludable. We recommend you. Yes.”
Thanks for recommending me (to whom?), but please tell me the names of these so-called best restaurants next time, so that if I want to eat a guinea pig that stares at me from the plate, I can do so.
All this to say, I was not the ideal bus tour customer. We got off in a plaza solely to take pictures. I did not. We were also given permission (but only 10 minutes) to go chug a Pisco sour in the Hotel Maury. Again, I did not. Then another plaza for more pictures. No history, no stories of intrigue, no epic battles or scandals. How did that guy in charge die, again?
But then we got to the catacombs. And although the tour of the place itself was very basic, the monastery and crypt and church, thankfully, spoke mostly for themselves. The Moorish tiling on the open garden, the quiet despite the nearby presence of downtown Lima, the pre-Mass room where the monks wash their hands (clean their bodies) and pray (clean their souls), and get dressed before the service. The room features pictures of saints next to pictures of martyrs, all painted to reflect how they died – the beheaded one’s head is half on. No blood, just a fun game of “guess the death method.” The one with flowers and a glass was poisoned, clearly, said the tour guide. Most were unclear to me besides the beheading, but finally the tour was requiring some critical thinking, so I was starting to be interested.
If the monastery’s garden was quiet, the catacombs under the Cathedral are where sound goes to die. It’s very peaceful. And safe – the archways between rooms are a form of earthquake protection. The Cathedral fell 3 times in earthquakes, the monastery once, but the crypts survived unscathed. The bones didn’t get off so easy. Back when the crypt was still accepting new residents, the monks would move the bones of the past residents from their resting places to make room for the new bones of rich dead people who were willing to pay for a less occupied grave.
So what do they do with all the bones from past rich people, forced out of what they thought to be their permanent resting place? Toss them in one of the waterless fountain that absorbs the seismic waves of earthquakes.
In Lima there’s always something to remind you how odd the city is. For tourists, all the bones in the crypts are arranged into groups of femurs, tibias and skulls. You don’t see many of the other bones. It’s bone art. But the dead certainly weren’t buried this way. And the fountain where all the bones were haphazardly thrown at some point is now decoratively arranged into a kind of compass, the bones arranged by type in a circular, clock-like pattern. Who placed them so artistically, I asked? “It is for the tour, to make them look this way,” says our stellar guide. She doesn’t seem to think anything’s wrong with that.
“That’s stupid,” is my response. “The rich dead people who paid for burial are probably rolling in their graves…” My sarcasm, however, was lost in translation, I’m sure. Yes.
Then into the church itself. We pass a young Fransiscan on our way. He’s maybe 16, on his way who knows where, since the monks still live (a now non-cloistered life) in the tourist-saturated buildings.
I’ve seen a lot of churches, but this one is up there. No tour, no explanation of the decorations, and I still think it’s one worth seeing. I have no idea when it was built, who came here, who married here, who died here, where the gold came from in Peru, or why it looks like a Vegas light show in some ways (hopefully not for the tourists). But I do notice someone brings in fresh lilies every day for the different bible scenes set back in enclaves along the sides of the main area, and the giant bouquets add the first feeling of life to the entire structure that I’ve felt all day. What happens to the lilies at the end of the day I don’t know. But tourists aren’t supposed to ask these things. Just click, drink and spend, according to our tour guide. The gift shop is on the way from the monastery to the church. You want to buy some postcards, says our guide. There is also a refreshment stand at the entrance to the catacombs. I doubt the Fransiscans of yore were buying 2.50 sole Incan Kola. (Karma did come back to haunt me for my cynicism, though, as I hit my head on the ceiling of the catacombs. I’m not tall, but a 6-foot person would be in trouble on this tour).
Despite dripping in both sarcasm and sweat after the tour, I am glad I saw the church and catacombs. Actually, in the church, I sat, not crossing myself, but finding myself humming “Hodie,” all the words to which I remembered from choir in my youth. “Christus natus est. Hodie salvator apparuit.” The monks now sing rock-style music behind their closed but not locked doors, but maybe at some point chant rang through the main hall and they felt the sense of awe and humility that overwhelmed me and so many others in that place.
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