The eternal mist of Lima

Lima seems to be eternally shrouded in grey, as the mist drapes the capital in a near-perpetual blanket of grey for half the year. Sunshine is a rumor. Blue skies, a myth.

The mist even got a name, la garúa, like it was some mythical beast. While it’s a result from the interaction between the inland desert winds and the cool water from the Pacific, I’m sure the locals blame some divinity or other ethereal means. London is a notoriously foggy city, but Lima has only one fifth of London’s annual sunshine hours in comparison.

Even the author Herman Melville made a famous remark, based on a visit to Lima in 1844:

“It is not these things alone which make tearless Lima, the strangest, saddest city thou can’st see. For Lima has taken the white veil; and there is a higher horror in this whiteness of her woe.”
— Herman Melville, Moby Dick (1851)

The grey skies of Lima from 21st floor.

Lima is the second largest city in South America with almost nine million citizens. The sound of endless honking from the car-clogged streets follow me everywhere I go, as do the mist. But there are some glimmers in the darkness.

I leave Miraflores, the gentrified jewel of Lima’s western edge, and head straight for the historic center of Plaza Mayor. The cathedral is a mix of gold and white, an unashamed display of splendor. I pass by the tomb of Francisco Pizarro, protected by a large iron fence as if the slaughtered ghosts of the past would come to take their revenge on his remains.

Interior of the cathedral.

Another place with connection to the dead is the Basílica de San Francisco, where I visit the catacombs and walk among endless corridors lined with human bones. The ceiling is ridiculously low, so I have to walk hunched for a long time. It’s a large place and supposedly they are still excavating the tunnels in the depths.

Just passing by at Plaza Mayor.

So far I’m quite underwhelmed by both the climate and the food in what is called South America’s culinary capital. But I suppose things can only get better. I grab a bottle of Inca Kola, the too-sweet ripoff on Coca-cola, and continue down the street in search of anything, with the mist as my shadow.