I thoroughly enjoyed the Day of the Dead - probably one of my favorite days in Peru so far. Here in Peru known as the el Día de los Difuntos, or the day of the departed, cemeteries were filled with families visiting the tombs of loved ones who have passed away. In school in San Francisco, the quick lessons about el día de los muertos often focused on Mexican traditions, sugar skulls, and face paint. In other words, my knowledge about the holiday is pretty limited.
I looked up a couple different big cemeteries that would be fun to visit, consulted a map, and figured out that I would take the bus I take almost every day, and then transfer to the light rail and make my way to the northern part of the city. As I left the apartment, Mariela told me that maybe I should just take a taxi, and to be careful as she always does. Lima can be dangerous, take care of yourself please, she says, as I quietly close the apartment door.
Getting there ended up being pretty painless. I did notice as I headed north on the train that many of the neighborhoods we passed were quite run down. Car parts and rubble covered roof after roof, and the scenery became overwhelmingly dark, industrial, and gray, with occasional splotches of color of laundry drying on clotheslines.
I walked through row after row of tombstones covered in flowers. I had never been to a Catholic cemetery before; my cemetery experience is limited to Jewish cemeteries and Buddhist and Daoist temples in Japan and Taiwan with shelves of urns of many generations past. I had never been to a cemetery with tombs stacked seven or eight high, fifteen to twenty across. The cemetery was full of alleyways, some falling into a grid pattern, while others radiated like spokes from a central tomb or small garden. These tall “buildings” made up the urban structure of this ghost town. The tombs themselves were mostly white, or a slightly dirty ivory, but were dressed up with flowers, candles and food — wearing their Sunday best on a Monday.
I spent about three hours at two different cemeteries across the street from each other, listening to bands play music, flower vendors working hard on seemingly one of their biggest business days of the year, families praying, uncles laughing while drinking beers in front of tombs, and children running around and asking for more candy. Others found a quiet spot to sit, prepared with a few tissues in their pockets. Because many tombstones were high above the ground, visitors flagged down the groundskeepers and had them climb flimsy wooden ladders to place bouquets in their stead, often calling from below to rearrange it slightly or have the red carnations on the left instead of the right. The cemeteries were vibrant, and alive.
I got home the same way I came, and had dinner at home. My host family asked about my day, and I explained that I had gone to Presbítero Maestro and El Angel. My host mom, Wendy, looked really confused. I said how I had gone north on Avenida Aviación, and I got out my phone to show her on the map. Wendy raised her voice - are you okay, she asked. I explained how I had a really nice time and said how I really liked this holiday. Too bad there isn’t a day to remember loved ones like this in the U.S., I added.
Why did you go there, she asked. That’s in a very bad part of town. You should never go there again, she continued. Kevin is almost 20, she said pointing at her son across the table, and has lived in Lima all his life, and has never been to that part of town.
I began to apologize. In all honesty, I hadn’t felt unsafe the whole day, or really at all while in Peru so far. I’ve stayed alert, consulted maps before going out, and always had small change for buses ready in my pocket without having to fumble with my wallet. Wendy told me not to worry, and that she just wanted to make sure I was safe. As the tone lightened, she quickly interjected again, imploring me not to visit that area again.
I completely understand my host family’s reaction. If my family had visitors who said they had gone to the Bayview or the Tenderloin in San Francisco by themselves, I could see myself having a similar reaction, offering alternatives of other places to visit. I personally have spent hardly any time in either one of those neighborhoods though, but know that they have a reputation for being dangerous.
While very aware of these neighborhoods’ reputations, I have also heard that there are many artist studios in the Bayview that I would probably enjoy visiting. It feels odd to pass judgment on a whole neighborhood based on news articles rather than my own experience. Realistically, I probably will not visit that area in Northern Lima again. There is plenty more to see in other parts of town, and as a foreigner and visitor, I do realize that I put myself at greater risk.
When I return to San Francisco next summer, I want to give some more consideration to how I think about the neighborhoods in the city in which I feel most and least comfortable. If I see an open studio that sounds interesting, I should consult a map, figure out which bus to take, get some change ready in my pocket, and go.