The Real Housewives and Retired Generals of Lima

We are standing at a dead-end street high up in Lima’s Barranco neighborhood. Having never paraglided before, I scan for some kind of sanctioned jump site. Juan and his business partner, Sergio, whose arm was in a sling, had just picked me and Alice up at a nearby coffee shop. I thought we’d caravan to a formal location. Instead they drove us a half block and parked. 

Follow me, Juan says, not looking before he crosses the street. He hops over the rusted guardrail and onto the hard rockfall mesh that holds riprap and loose debris from dropping off the cliff onto the freeway 400 feet below.

He motioned up to Sergio who was standing next to a shell shocked Alice, holding her phone at her waist, still dutifully filming my final moments. I am the only one sanctioned to fly here. Juan explains, noticing my apprehension. But the government just held elections. So we might have issues with the authorities. We should go quick.

I gingerly stepped into my harness. Unsure of a response.

You speak Spanish? He asks while starting to unravel the enormous paraglider canopy right the fuck on the jagged edge of the cliff face.  
Only with retired Peruvian generals. I respond. Trying to keep my eyes from bulging as my brain calculates what is happening. I boot a broken beer bottle that was standing like a kicking tee from our path. 
Ah, yes, I learned most of my English guarding American servicemen on the base. The best way to learn, how you say, “idiom”?
Indeed. The military can be quite colorful, I say. As I started disassociating from my body.
He laughs at this. 
His English is perfect. Can barely detect an accent. Normally I’d be curious about his backstory, but not now.

With good wind, we would end up out there, he points far up off in the distance where a motorized paraglider putters with ease. We would fly around for a few minutes. Then land over there. He points to a gentle slope of grass.  But today we won’t get that high. 

Why didn’t I choose the motorized option, I wonder.

Where will we go today? I ask. He pulls hard on my harness straps, ignoring my question, then attaches his harness to mine. I look behind us and see the giant chute laying flat against the rock, like a deflated beach ball. 

When I say “go” run as fast and straight as you can right off the edge. He says firmly. You must not trip. Okay? If you trip we are in trouble. 

Okay.

We will wait for a wind set that should give us enough lift to jump. He stops and smiles, his chrome blue eyes glinting in the afternoon sun.

See…… the vultures are coming. He points up.

I follow his finger. There are in fact vultures. They are so close I can see the pigment in their fleshy necks. Juan busies himself keeping the line from getting tangled on the rocks and it dawns on me we are standing in an informal dumpsite. Broken glass and decomposing garbage bags litter the runway in front of me.

Go! he yells suddenly, and we charge straight into the abyss like a drunk centipede.

Once airborne we can immediately feel the canopy is not full.

Shit! he yells. Grunting at his levers.

 We plummet to the four lane highway below.

I’ve always had one foot in the next life.

Now I had two.

I first met Mariana naked. I’d heard so much about her beauty it almost felt appropriate. And why should she close the door when she’s changing clothes? This was her house after all. 

It was the morning of the baptism and we were staying in Mariana’s guest room on the third floor of their luxurious home nestled in the Beverly Hills of Lima. An area known as San Isidro. The baptism for young Nico would be at the families country house, located an hour and a half outside the city. At the country house was a pool, immaculate grounds and lodging enough for a small battalion. Nico, though no longer a baby, would be receiving his first catholic sacraments out on the estate. Due to travel challenges, it had taken the far flung family several years to organize the massive celebration. And massive it was. Rarely had I seen an individual so doted on. Let alone an individual still speaking in monosyllables.

Upon arriving at the country house my greatest fear immediately became alcohol poisoning. Catholics + Festival x Overnight lodging =  Full Tilt Slosh. A bonanza. By afternoon, when drinking in the morning, I rarely possess much will to live. By evening, my existence becomes one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books where every ending occurs early and unwell. At the baptism, the drinks flowed freely just as soon as the water dried on the young boy’s forehead. 

Mariana came by our table to say hello during a performance. I meet you now for-mally. She said to me with a bright smile, apparently unembarrassed by the circumstances of our initial introduction.

She was the most beautiful person in the room by a long stretch but didn’t maintain eye contact for longer than a second. She was busy scanning the room for competition. Hunting for a girl with slightly bigger eyes, better makeup or a more athletic rump. Once spotted it gathered all her focus. She points it out of course.

“Jania is so pretty.”
Everyone can see Jania is not that pretty.
“Look at her feet.”
Well yes, Jaina does have nice feet. A water buffalo for an ass. But grant you, great feet.

It is inevitable the upper crust become preoccupied with the small and the peculiar. These episodes are then overemphasized to generate drama. They need the attention. And it’s no different in Peru. Wealth is the great equalizer. It normalizes everyone to the same pettiness and paranoia. 

I leave the table and wander to a far corner. The party is under an immense tent which holds dozens of round tables, a bar, and a stage to host performances throughout the day. In the back there is a table of old men with pigskin jowls and peppercorn hair who are wearing uniforms. I decide to join them.

I’ll never give up being young. That’s why I’m sitting with you guys, I say, while pulling up a chair. They smile and nod. Their English is worse than my Spanish. 

The older you get the more value you see in spending time with those who don’t flinch at the gallows.

Thats the Oprah of Lima. Said Alice, who had followed me to the table and was now standing behind me. She always senses my vibrations. When they are off she tries to redirect me. 

Across the tent I spy a flock of clucking hens and a few men with chins up like matadors. Must be Oprah’s crew. Mariana hustles over to join the welcome line along with most of the foreigners who despite speaking minimal Spanish have somehow intuited the celebrity appearance.

At my table no one moves. I scan the circle of Generales Jubilados. They all stare at something, though I cannot tell what. It just isn’t Oprah.

Im off to take a nap. I say, standing up. The generals suddenly take notice of my presence at the table and look at me worried. Uh, oh. ¿Hay algún problema? They ask. Has he been hit by the early drunk stick?

No. He’s just heard rumors about how you all party. I think Alice explained in Spanish. And he is following Socrates’ credo, “know thyself”. I nodded in agreement with her.  We all shared a smile.

Just then explosions erupt.

I duck for cover. From underneath the table I can see the shape of the bombardier. Fireworks are shooting splintered strobes that form the name of the baptized toddler who is now sucking on the corner of a table cloth next to me. His parents have long ago abandoned him to the nannies who are off flirting with Oprah’s handlers. This is the first time the little man and I are alone. We reach an immediate unspoken impasse. After a brief staring contest that culminates in him doing a strange ass-drop dance conducted while waving one hand, I walk over and join the staff, assuming someone will find the prized toddler. An adult resisting his charms was surely the most unique experience of his day.

I joined the wait staff as they were putting the finishing touches on unburying a pig. I always seek out the proletariat at formal events. And not just for the narcotics. We meet eyes and immediately they see I expect nothing from them. It is a place of calm. Where no one is pretending. Pachamanca, as its known, is a traditional Andean method of cooking that involves utilizing an underground oven. The method has been used for centuries. The staff was busying themselves pulling out pieces of meat and vegetables wrapped in banana leaves that had been cooking for many hours.

The following morning our drive back to the city was immediately mired in a game of logistics. Despite 17 cars and 23 chauffeurs there still seemed to be inadequate coordination from the staff who were all hungover, and the family who were incapable of giving directions because they couldn’t see straight from behind their sunglasses. Due to my nap I’m actually sprite as a wood chipper. Hacky sacking a deflated rubber ball alone by the pool. On the bumpy ride back to town I decide I should take up the repeated recommendation to go paragliding while in town. I arrive back in Lima from the baptism just in time for my funeral.

Juan continues grunting with great effort as we swoop straight for the power lines that trace the outline of the highway. To call this a “swoop” is a flex. It was a plummet. This is what the metaphor “dropping like a rock” feels like. We have a sail but there is nothing in it. There is no resistance to the fall.

How we missed the power lines will forever remain a mystery to me. The highway as well.

We skipped across the highway’s shoulder like a pond rock, crashing onto the pebble beach with incredible force.

Juan hopped up ecstatic, whooping like a child. I checked my extremities. 

I looked up at him from my indent in the earth. What a rush! He yells. And claps my shoulder. 

I’ve done 5,000 jumps from this place. He says while vigorously pulling in the lines and shouting into his handheld radio “Policia, Policia!, Que rapido Sergio!”

Juan smiles down at me.

And that was the worst.