An unexpectedly busy day

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.