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I have now returned from Mancora and have been installed in front of the computer at the office, as usual, for the past couple of days. My concerns about getting bored on the week-long holiday in the single road town came to nothing, I grew accustomed to the sedentary days and wished I had longer to spend in the sun. As with my previous trips, it again seems odd that the weather differs so much within the microcosm of the city, than in Mancora. Although not cold during the day, the heavy cloud delivers that same damp humidity and sense of static time – 8am looks and feels almost identical to 6 – from which I had escaped on my trip north.
The blue vistas and expansive horizons have been replaced by ashen skies and the confines of frosted glass around my desk. I thank Miraflores then, that the area never fails to live up to its name – look at the flowers – and that at least on my lunchbreak I can enjoy the parks which dot the area. The immaculate flowerbeds, green spaces and communal parks which flank almost every roadside, line pedestrianised areas and bisect neighbourhoods throughout Miraflores were one of the most striking and pleasant surprises I discovered when I first arrived. I soon saw the reason behind their faultless appearance: the huge army of staff employed in taking care of these areas. As such, it’s rare to see a green space without a figure planting or deadheading flowers, watering the lawns, mowing grass or emptying bins.
The weather seems to have had little effect on the plantlife during my time here and throughout winter these areas continued to bloom, providing at least a little brightness on the drabbest of days. My working week lunch spot is a park directly opposite the office where, as a result of my daily picnicking, I’ve been able to observe the cyclic activities of the area. Every day without fail I spy my friend across the lawn, wearing a traditional colourful knitted jumper and ankle-length black skirt, sitting with her male companion, surrounded by several huge plastic bags. These posed a mystery until I realised she was selling lunches and, although we’ve never spoken, I’ll sometimes give her a wave and she will silently reply. Amongst other fellow picnickers is a regular who, each day, goes to the same tree at the edge of the park to retrieve a rolled up piece of cardboard to sit at his same spot on the other side.
In a city park in the UK, attempts to lunch would probably be interrupted by hoards of hassley pigeons which resemble winged rats. In Miraflores though, even the most common bird life is more attractive. Pale grey feathered and bright blue-eyed pigeons peck away uninterested at an acceptable distance, and spotting a humming bird is always a bonus.
The main interruption, in fact, is the park staff themselves who, once a week, arrive at my usual spot in a gang brandishing noisy electric lawnmowers and strimmers. The level of upkeep is obviously hugely appreciated, though sometimes it does seem that these jobs are created just to boost employment figures. When I was at lunch today I counted nine grass mowers, as well as the two men who always accompany the group wielding grass shields should – heaven forbid – any grass cuttings escape the neat confines of the lawns and stray into forbidden pavement territory. I am all for keeping things looking nice and clean, though do pity some of these workers who, it seems, have not yet earnt their mowing stripes and are relegated to more mundane tasks. However, the job of these two workers was trumped by another who I saw not emptying the bins – which is the task and profession of a higher-ranking official – but cleaning them. Although I am always reluctant to head back to the office after my lunchbreak, I did not envy this particular individual the thankless task of daily bin cleaning.
letters from lima 