Lost in Arequipa

If I were in Montréal, it would be trivial to find myself some new shoelaces. I would know exactly where to find some, go there, and buy them.

I do not know where to buy them in Arequipa. But, when I left Montréal with laces that were already fraying in the centre, it never occurred to me to bring some replacements in case they snap in Perú.

So I asked the woman at the front desk where I could find shoelaces. I asked in español, but I had to point at my remaining shoelace as I didn't know the word (hilera, in case you're wondering). She sent me to a certain street where I found shoe shops, but they didn't seem to have any hileras. Not surprising as, same as back home, they mostly catered to women's shoes, and here, women mostly where platform wedges, often without laces.

Desperate, I walked into a Bata (and cringed at the idea of being in Perú and giving my tourist dollars to an American outfit), and asked them if they had any hileras. No. None. No hay. "¿Sabes donde puedo comprar?" She tells me in the market in front.

I went to that market last week. Had a delicious stuffed pepper and amazing papas au gratin (much cheesier than what you find in Norte America). We walked through the entire thing but I never saw anything that looked like it might sell shoelaces.

Inside, I walked around until I saw a stand that could possibly maybe sell them. No. Nada. No hay. I ask the same question and she points outside and say that I'll find some at the next corner.

The next block doesn't have anything shoe related, but after there are some more shoe shops. Not the Bata kind, but the local kind.

It is at this point that I become the only white person on the road.

I am very grateful for my month of classes in español.

Inside, I ask again. No. Nada. No hay. And, once again, I am directed further down the road.

Walking, I am looking around, both sides of the street, trying my best not to look like a tourist. Even though I am only the white person on the street. The only person wearing shorts. The only person with a rucksack. At least, I tell myself, my map is hidden in my pocket.

A few blocks later, I see a guy repairing shoes. Inside, I ask about laces. Hay. She pulls out a ball of laces all wrapped together, and starts to untangle them. She pulls out one. "Demasiado larga." Another one. "Demasiado pequeña. ¿Hay una entre los dos?" And, much like Goldilocks, the third one is perfect. "¿Cuanto cuesta?" One soles. Forty cents.

After lacing up, for the first time in a day, I buy a second one in case the other shoe has a wardrobe malfunction as well.

Now, this isn't complicated, I could simply backtrack to where I came from and find my way back to the hostel from there. My legs could use the break after three days hiking through the cañon de colca. But, I know that, even though I am no longer on the map given to tourists when they arrive, my navigational skills can direct me back the hostel quicker. I just have to go south. Or the direction that I'm calling south (I come from Montréal, the only city where the sun sets in the north).

I recognize nothing. I am still the only white person, and I'm getting stared at more than usual. But, even were I the type to feel threatened, it's hard to when you're in a neighbourhood with fancy houses and private schools.

I'm on the lookout for Lima calle, I know it runs diagonally and leads to my hostel.

But, it never shows. Instead I find myself at a drop point. You know, where the road ends and there's a ten metre drop before the city continues. So I turn right. This will obviously lead to my hostel.

If it were dark outside, I would jump into one of the taxis that make their way through the streets at all times, outnumbering the personal cars at least two to one (as always in Arequipa), but it's sunny. And hot. And, even being stared at, I feel perfectly safe.

I pass by restaurants. Corner stores. People waiting for the micro. Electronic shops. Places to fix your computadora. No sweaters made with alpaca. No magnets with googly eyed llamas. No money changers. No tour guides offering to send me up the Misti volcano. Life. Like I know it. Except where everyone is shorter than me.

After a while I realize that, perhaps, my navigational skills aren't what I thought. I could be a street away from my hostel, or kilometers away. I can see the sun, but I have no idea if I'm nearing sunset or am still midday.

So I turn right. Knowing that the plaza de armas, the centre of town, must be in that direction. And I walk, and walk, and walk, until I see another white person. In shorts.