JOEL GRIFFETT

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If you passed through the historic centre of Lima on any given Wednesday in January like I did, you’d be forgiven for failing to notice a country in crisis – the former president in prison and his replacement, Dina Boluarte, enjoying her newfound power a little too much.

Nothing seems amiss – short of the splashes of graffiti ‘Dina Asesina’ scrawled quickly on walls – until you notice the rows of police officers stood idly at strategic locations on the way to Plaza Mayor, all leant on riot shields. Some look serious and pensive, anticipating an oncoming storm. Some laugh and joke and some stare blankly at their phone which undermines their supposedly menacing presence. The one man who dumped his riot shield to get his shoes shined was just taking the piss.

The closer I got to Plaza Mayor, I began to feel that underlying tension. Huddled in archways around the square were actual riot police with masks and helmets, not just officers with shields. The entire square is fenced off and police flank each side. It’s hard to take it all seriously; one officer is letting tourists through the barricades to take photos next to the giant letters that spell Lima in one corner of the Plaza.

Doubling back on myself back down to Plaza San Martin I was disappointed. A limp and lazy protest was circling the square. Police watched on but they needn’t worry – they couldn’t even get everyone to chant the same slogan. One held a sign saying ’50 dead already’ another read ‘Dina Genocida’

The news does a fantastic job at convincing us the world is more of a mess than it really is. This was no different, even as over the next few days the protests in Lima intensified as bus loads came up from the south, clogging up the abomination that is Lima’s traffic. Up Avenida Arequipa thousands slowly march up from the ‘plush’ suburbs closer to the coast. As if it’s carnival time, the protest is both serious but upbeat. The chants are more aligned, drummers provide some rhythm. Wave after wave of collectives and syndicates walk patiently up the road. Traffic piled up behind as they looped back round. Riot police stood two or three rows deep across the road. Most protestors kept their distance from police. A couple of TikTok ‘influencers’ strayed from the procession and waved their phones towards them, not quite close enough to be considered brave or noble.

I didn’t know what to make of the situation anymore. Last night as I headed back to the centre to sleep, the taxi was diverted by another protest heading south this time. The driver tutted and muttered something under his breath.
I leant forward ‘what do you think about the protestors?’ I asked.
He cleared his throat and let loose a fascinating tirade.
“Communists. Terrorists. Delinquents.”
“Who?”
“Everyone. Castillo and his supporters,” he continued, “They’re destroying Peru. No one wants to come here now. No business. No money. No bueno.
Just because a bunch of terrorists and communists want blood spilled and murder for their ideology.”
I saw earlier in the day a news report on a Venezuelan arms cache that had been found and raided in Lima. He practically spat out of the window at the mention of Venezuelans.
“They’re all here, spreading their communism. They’re half the problem,” No one in Lima seemed to be the biggest fan of Venezuelans…

He wasn’t finished; Castillo is a dangerous delinquent. Corruption is rife.
Apparently, Peru is the only country fighting Communism in South America.
“From what I saw on the outside, Castillo was more popular?”
He swatted my suggestion away immediately.
“Only if you’re an idiot,” I wasn’t sure if he meant me or the protesters.

I wasn’t quite expecting him to fly off the handle like this. The diversion had drove him loco and he swerved all over the road as he craned his neck to look at him. He still wasn’t finished. We stayed parked up, engine running on the street outside the hostel for at least 10 minutes after we arrived, showering me with knowledge that I couldn’t quite take in all at once.

I continued to ask taxi drivers and other locals about the situation any chance I got and I received the same response, more or less, every single time. The first taxi driver felt very strongly about the situation and therefore he spoke with great fervour, but most other people essentially agreed with him – although their words were far more measured.

Day by day, the protests got bigger and the agitators got emboldened. Thousands more descended on the city and many more blocked the Carretera Central, putting broken stones all over the road, and thus blocking my way to Cerro de Pasco.

Instead I was consigned to watching news in Chifa restaurants. The news had fooled me again; it had warned me of the imminent carnival at lunchtime and when the dusk approached, once more. My eyes were transfixed by the clashes happening live in the centre – riot police vs makeshift shields. The place wasn’t far off warzone and it’s hard to imagine what anyone is doing amidst this chaos, huddling indoors waiting for it to stop? Once I could pry my eyes away I noticed my delusion. In the warm evening air people walked by the large open front of the restaurant as if everything was completely normal, no tense shoulders hunched whatsoever. It’s hard to take it seriously. The ominous and continuous presence of police and riot gear is unsettling but this is unshaken by how many of them leave their gear unattended and wonder off to buy something or take a piss. After lunch I strolled past at least 10 riot shields all resting on the outer fence of a faceless but clearly strategic building. The urge to steal one was tantamount; I could easily outrun these distracted policemen. The only problem was the flip-flops. Another street, another row of bored coppers. An ice cream seller wheels his cart past trying to drum up some business. No takers. Later, a popcorn seller plonks his cart right on the corner of a busy intersection as the procession glides past. Business is booming.