A Riot of Our Own

Yesterday I participated in a travel writing workshop.  We did a few timed writing exercises and brainstorming activities focusing on specific travel experiences.  My first two writing exercises ended up being excrement-themed because, hi, have we met? 

For our first prompt, the instructor asked us to write about the first trip we remember taking.  I busted out a little something about my family's trip to Atlantic Beach, NC, where fart jokes served as an overarching bonding experience for the whole family.  Even Grandmom got in on the good times.  The second prompt turned the focus to souvenirs.  I chose to interpret that loosely and wrote about the lessons I learned about travel vs. tourism vis a vis explosive diarrhea.

We also did a brainstorming activity where we each chose a travel experience and as a group, talked through the salient details.  I realized I should branch out from the scatological for this one, so I brought up an experience we had in Peru that I don't think I've ever written about.  After taking some time to research the events in question and unearth some of my own photos from that day, here is a recounting of the first time I felt like an adventurous traveler rather than a coddled tourist.

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Lima, Peru - September 18, 2012

¡Gracias!  We handed over a few soles to the driver and spilled out of the back of his taxi onto the Plaza de Armas, blinking and breathing heavily.  It was the first time we had seen evidence of the sun in days, and we had been nearly asphyxiated by diesel exhaust during the interminable, erratic cab ride from our hotel in foggy, seaside Miraflores further inland to Lima's historic center.

This was Latin America.

The palm trees, the Spanish colonial architecture, the antiquated vehicles.  It was everything we pictured yet nothing we expected.

Andy and I are chronic early risers, and we arrived in the historic district before many of the sights were open to tourists for the day.  We wandered around the Plaza taking photos, and meandered across the street to the gated Palacio de Gobierno, where a few military guards stood watch on the steps.  As we peeked through the bars of the gate and snapped photos, a policia holding an assault rifle strode over to us.

Shit.  Were we not allowed to take pictures?  My three years of high school Spanish a decade earlier, and brief foray into Duolingo in the month prior to our trip, didn't prepare me to talk my way out of a Peruvian jail cell.  I hoped a simple lo siento, no comprendo would suffice in this situation.

To our great relief, the guy only wanted to say hello and practice his already excellent English by chatting with tourists.  He tipped us off that if we returned to the Plaza in about two hours, we could watch a changing of the guard ceremony that was set to take place to honor the occasion of a visit from some foreign dignitaries.

By this time, some of the cathedrals and museums were welcoming visitors, so we set off to explore for a bit.  We visited the Catedral de Lima to see Pizarro's tomb and toured a catacomb.

 
At the appointed time, we returned to the Plaza de Armas, eager to witness some Latin American military pomp and circumstance.  We attempted to install ourselves at the edge of the Plaza directly across from the gates of the Palacio for the clearest view.  Moments after we found a good vantage point, policias bearing riot shields herded us out of the way.  We allowed ourselves to be shuffled along and scouted out a new spot overlooking the Plaza from the steps of the Catedral.

Before long, a procession of sleek black limousines flanked by voluptuous female soldiers on motorcycles sailed past us and disappeared inside the Palacio gates.  It was all perfectly exotic and sexy.  Then a squadron of policias with riot shields fanned out from the center of the Plaza and forced all the civilians out of the square.  Unaccustomed to this type of display of force, Andy and I speculated on what they were doing.  Were they clearing the Plaza to prepare for some kind show military exercise?  Will there be a marching band?  Oh please, let there be a marching band!

 

Rather than a festive brass band, the first notes of the day's true spectacle came from a man in the crowd who raised a bullhorn and shouted, "¡La revuelta continua!"  With that, the policias snapped into action, rushing towards the crowd with their riot shields at the ready.  The crowd began surging towards the swarming policias, chanting along with the apparent ringleader.  Emboldened, he continued chanting into his bullhorn as he descended into the street from the steps of the Catedral, but immediately several policias on horseback forced him to retreat or be trampled. 

Andy may tell you otherwise, but at no point did I feel that I was in danger.  I know that's terribly naive and entitled, but I recall only exhilaration.  This was a true travel experience; the price of admission free but also priceless.  I was leaping over the threshold from tourist to traveler, or rather, I was being shoved by the blunt force of a riot shield. 

Upon the arrival of a few ominous tanks, the crowd, still chanting, scrabbled across the platform atop the Catedral steps, away from the Palacio towards the southern end of the Plaza.  We had no choice but to follow, and had to leap down from a wall at the top of the stairs and run down a side street.  The tanks lurked right behind us, hosing down stragglers and anyone who dared to turn back towards the Plaza.  The putrid liquid emanating from the water cannons was all the encouragement we needed to keep running.

We broke from the crowd at last, and resumed our plans for the day, almost as if nothing had happened.  Hours later, we sat at an outdoor cafe overlooking a smaller, quieter plaza, drinking pisco sours.  The tranquility was interrupted when a procession of at least 100 people marched through the plaza, bearing a banner with acronym SUTEP, led by who else but the man with the bullhorn.

That evening, we turned on the TV in our tiny hotel room.  A local news channel was covering the riot that disrupted the morning's changing of the guard ceremony.  There again was the man with the bullhorn, a leader of SUTEP.  A quick Google search revealed that SUTEP stood for Sindicato Unitario de Trabajadores en la Educación de Perú. United Syndicate of Education Workers.  

We had accidentally participated in a potentially dangerous protest that resulted in clashes with the police and the use of water cannons.  Elsewhere in the city that same day, protesters were injured after acts of property damage caused tensions to escalate, according to an article published on September 27th the World Socialist Web Site:

On Tuesday September 18, hundreds of teachers marched towards the Ministry of Education in Lima’s upper class district of San Borja. When they got there, skirmishes began between the teachers and policemen on horseback. Teachers tried to break into the ministry, and some of them threw rocks that broke 17 windows. Two people were hurt. Immediately, the government seized on the event to indict the strike as “unacceptable and violent” and outlaw it. Another march, this one in downtown Lima, managed to reach the main square of the capital, in front of the Palace of Government—where the president resides—but it was quickly broken up by police using water cannon.

We survived a near-riot following a protest.  A near-riot following the protest of a teachers union.

This was Latin America.