Dakar to Lima.

As the car wound its way out of the neighborhood into the traffic heading north and then west out of the city, I stared out the window. I tried to commit as many details to memory as I could: The women selling nuts on the side of the road; the mototaxi drivers lounging on their bikes; the children playing futbol in the dust; the Sahara desert, blown by the wind, coating the city in a thin reddish film. It wasn’t until we were almost out of the city that I grabbed my camera from my bag to make a few last images as we drove, capturing a few images on the fly as we sped by.

I tend to get emotional whenever I leave Africa, and the radio echoed my sentiments. Lionel Ritchie sang “Stuck on you,” Locko sang “Don’t Go.” The traffic slowed to a crawl, and then as we took a left turn towards the A1, it dissipated. Behind us, the sun set through the haze.

We made it to the airport in good time and I bid Ibrahima adieu. I promised to look him up next time I was in town, to contact him if I decided to make the trip to Mali. He has friends there he can connect me with to help me travel around the country. I handed him the fare and he called me when I was in the terminal. He hadn’t handed me back the change. I told him to keep it. It was a tip.

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The flight to Madrid was uneventful. I had a seat by the window and did my best to sleep through the night. We arrived almost half an hour early and we disembarked in the dark. I walked to the Neptuno lounge, eager to get as much sleep as I could, but was turned away. My flight wasn’t until 13:05 and I wasn’t allowed in until 4 hours before my departure. It was 04.30 in the morning.

I wandered to the gates and did my best to sleep on the benches, drawing two together so I could put my feet up. The armrests kept me and everyone else from laying across them.

The flight to Lima was almost 12 hours. I sat next to a couple and their baby, who had turned 4 months old that day. She was incredibly well-behaved. Behind me another young mother handled her baby and a young boy. I put my headphones in and prepared myself for the long flight.

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In Lima Oscar met me at the airport. It was great seeing a familiar face. He offered to help me with my bags but I told him I was ok. He led me to the car, helped me stow my bags, and then drove off into the night.

Lima looked cleaner and more modern than the last time I was here, a little over a year ago. Or maybe it was the comparison to where I had just been.

We drove through the neighborhoods around the airport and then headed towards the darkness of the ocean. It’s that approach and turn to the left, the cliffs to one side and the ocean on the other that makes me feel I’m back home in Lima. It’s especially thrilling during the day as the city gives way to the sea and I hear the first crush of waves against the shore, get my first taste of the salty air.

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The next morning jet lag had me up earlier than I had planned, even after having slept less than I had hoped on the plane. I looked to plan out my day, surprised to see that the grocery store I frequent had been razed to make room for an office building. A friend offered to drive me to another; she had plans to go grocery shopping, but I demurred. I have a tradition I like to keep: having cebiche at La Mar Cebicheria as my first meal whenever I am back in town, and I was determined to get there before it opened to secure a table.

I took the long way ’round, walking first to the malecon to get my first view of the ocean before turning north towards the restaurant. It was a hot humid morning and the city felt listless, slow to wake and get on with its day.

At the restaurant, I asked for a seat at the bar and ordered the Afrodisiaco—partially for the name even though it has nothing to do with Africa, something that took my jetlagged brain a minute to realize—and the tuna tacos. The sea urchin came with a choice of sauces, and I asked the waitress for her recommendation. The criolla is more Peruvian, she said. I chose the criolla. I ate and thought about the last two times I had sat at the bar, the people I had met, the times to come. I had forgotten how comfortable it is in Lima and determined to return for three to four weeks later in the year. These two weeks are not enough.

I picked up groceries from Wong and biked home, planning to spend a quiet afternoon reading on the couch. I fell asleep.

Not wanting to miss the sunset, I had set an alarm for 18h. My body wasn’t ready to wake up but my mind forced it to get up, put on shoes, and walk out the door.

Surfers spread out over the ocean, small dots on the sea. Now and again I watched as one caught a wave and rode it towards the shore, stopping short to paddle back out again. The sun cast a rosy path upon the water, narrowing as it approached the horizon.

After the sun had left the sky, I decided to walk the malecon, towards the Larcomar shopping mall. There wasn’t anything I particularly wanted to buy; I was looking for a destination. And as I walked past familiar landmarks—the Faro de la Marina, the Parque del Amor, the creperías—I let the city reassert its hold over me. Like Buenos Aires, it feels like home. I’m happy to to be back, happy I’ve committed to returning again soon. 🇵🇪