An early
rap on the door is followed by the message “Leenda, Manuel is waiting for you
on the land!
A shake of
the head and I manage to squawk “OK… I’ll be right there…???, and I scramble into
my clothes, grab meds and inhale an energy bar, all the while wishing I had
some prior notice about this meet up.
Do I need
my backpack? Yes.
Should I
take a sunhat? Maybe… in it goes
Should I
take a rain poncho? Probably… in it goes
Water? Always… in it goes
My
Passport? Legally required to carry
ID. Oh, just toss the purse in.
Anything
else? Wait! The land survey! Where DID I put it? Oh, there.
In it goes.
Boots or
shoes? Silly question. Boots absolutely… on they go.
Wait! Better pee again before I go.
“Being
right there” involves a 15 minute power walk to the outskirts of town and much
sliding about as I pick my way carefully down the last stretch of unpaved road,
turned to deep muck by two days of torrential rains. I grumble at the mess, but I recognize how
much worse it would be if it were actually raining. Thank you to the Rain Gods. Hopping my way on patches of grass and large
stones, and back, and on I go. The song
“slip sliding away” starts in my head, and I smile at the silliness. The ground
improves as I reach the hill and up I go.
Indeed
Manuel is waiting. He has one of the
brightest, sweetest smiles that you can imagine and he is wearing it this
morning. There is a pile of freshly cut
fence posts that I am sure were eucalyptus trees yesterday, next to a couple of
rolls of barbed fence wire. His son
Carlos and another young man are wandering the property and chatting. I
shake hands and kiss cheeks in the traditional greeting, and with my haltingly Spanish
(and their patience) we find the boundary markers, decide where a gate will go
and I take my leave to let them work.
My closest
neighbours are Carlos and Janet… should I stop in this early? I know that if they find out I didn’t they
will ask why, yet MY cultural tradition (stodgy, reserved Canadian) has me
hesitating. Oh just go on and do
it. I find Carlos busy getting breakfast
ready for himself and the kids I flew
by him on my hasty exit from the Hostal this morning but had seen him arrive
back to his house by motorbike earlier. The
baby is happy playing with Daniel and, with a very deep breath, I settle into a
kitchen chair to actually wake up. “Did
you eat?” asks Carlos. “Si, Gracias” I
reply. I really just want to sit, collect
myself and chat. Breakfast over and I
depart, donning the mud caked boots left at the doorstep. I call out a cheerful “Hasta Luego”, which is
of course returned.
And there again
is the mudfest, just waiting for me to misstep and end up wearing most of the
road. Also tiptoeing her way through the
muck is an old woman (sounds bad no?) carrying a heavy sack on her back. I catch up with her when she stops to clean
her shoes on a patch of grass, and I triumphantly take the last step towards
the pavement. We share a look of
exasperation, a greeting, and a new acquaintance is made.
Dressed traditionally
in dark skirt, shoes, tights, smocked shirt and woven hat with a long grey
braid laying down the back of her black, blazer-like jacket. Bright beautiful eyes, her face is younger than
I expect, not young, but not grizzled and wizened either. Greetings are exchanged. Do I speak Spanish? (oh lord, here we go…) Lydia is her name. What is in her
bag? Corn freshly picked from her patch
of farmland on the hill. Do you have a
house here? No, she lives near town with
her family, but she proudly owns the land she where she grows her corn and
vegetables. She is a cousin of Manuels’
mother. (I think?)
I am from Canada. Canada is very cold right now. Yes, I am the gringa that bought the land up
the hill. No I am not young. Yes, I know my name translates to “pretty’ in
Spanish. I am single. (I leave out the divorced part because it
usually brings condolences and concern… although being single is only slightly
less worrisome.) No, I am not building a
house yet. Yes, the road to the land is very
bad. It has been raining a lot. I took a plane and bus to Chacha. Many hours.
I am sorry about my Spanish.
And so we
continue until we run out of conversation.
A quiet walk ensues until she excuses herself, points to a house and
politely departs.
I walk on…
stopping occasionally to try and kick off some of the heavy poundage of mud
annoyingly stuck to my shoes. This
hurts my back, which I tweaked when last putting my boots on. A shout and wave as Carlos and Janet go
whizzing by on their way to the plaza a few more blocks ahead of me. Kick, scrape, kick, scrape. We are talking a lot of mud here. Glad I picked my boots because this would
have ruined my runners.
Off to get
my first cup of coffee for the day. It
is overdue. Inhale and appreciate the french
pressed, locally grown, organic wonder.
AHHHH.
Sprinkles
begin as I head for my next pit stop… the dreaded BCP bank machine. I need cash.
The machine refuses. I try again. Nope..
OK then… off to the multi-red machine.
Which also refuses. WTF???
No trip to
the market then, I skedaddle on back to the hostal to count my soles and see
how things stand. Not good. I have 130 soles, owe Manuel 200, owe Eduardo
for my room. Have to eat for the next
two weeks. I take a deep breath, relax
my shoulders and resign myself to banking fickleness.
I now have
dirt sprinkled all over my floor thanks to the muddy boots I forgot to remove
while banking distracted. I change into
my runners and grab a broom… no time like the present and all that.
A wander
out of the room and I join Janet sitting on the bench outside her office. Chit chat, banking grumbles and land
talk. She has offered to go with me to
pick up the paperwork and go to the tax offices. It is a short walk, and she provides
translation services with the Notary Public as I try to understand the land tax
transfer and registration process.
This leaves
us confused (no kidding) because no tax documents can be obtained as the land
is not yet officially registered. “What
about a release so I can leave the country?” I ask. He, in his studied wisdom, has no idea.
“We will
ask my accountant” offers Janet. An
appointment is made for the afternoon.
So it is hurry up and wait again.
Not much in
the mood for a siesta (highly unusual I assure you), I spend time perusing the
internet… anybody on facebook? No. Any emails?
Just junk. Comments on my blog?
Nope. But there is a nice game of
hearts to play, and I am happy to report that mostly I win.
Janet
returns and it is off to the accountant.
This woman is a firecracker… completely on the ball and what we find out
is that a) the taxes have never been paid because the original purchaser did it
wrong. b) the notary didn’t give me back
essential paperwork and c) we can take a past vender to court because he
skimmed money on the sale.
Solutions? a) all the land purchasers can force the
registry and tax payment. b) back to the
notary for said paperwork, after a long and tactful discussion by Janet. And c) well I leave it to Carlos to see if
all the purchasers want to file a complaint to whichever authorities here deal
with tax fraud. J
The final
conclusion is that at this point there is no tax due, and just the purchase
paperwork should get me out the door. We
will see. I will be going to the airport
extra early with a written explanation in Spanish on hand.
After this
shemozzle comes another round at the bank, whose machine still won’t
accommodate. At first I am told that my
cards won’t work in their machine.
Nonsense, I explain, since I have used them several times already. The kind gentleman then has us wait while he
makes a phone call. It is a network
problem between Chachapoyas and the main banking system, he says. Try tomorrow.
Okey-dokey.
Thank you
Janet, for all your help today. That is
what friends do she says, giving me one of her pretty smiles. She goes off to see to the baby, and suddenly
I realize that I am starving. A quick
check of the watch tells me why. I am
pretty sure the energy bar is not guaranteed for 9 hours.
At my “regular”
restaurant, served by a familiar waitress, I order my usual meal minus the
fresh juice…( it is pinch pennies time).
I mix it up and sit at a different table though, and try not to inhale
my meal. I am the eat your own arm kind
of hungry.
Back to the
hostal while evening settles over the square.
The sprinkles abate. The
Cathedral is lit. People mingle and
visit. Taxis beep by. Cable TV awaits.
All is
well.