For me there are three Perus.

The hustling bustling capital Lima. It’s one of South America’s largest cities. Sprawling, dusty and dry. An uncertain mingling of modernity and ancient civilisations. Once part of the Inca empire, and subjugated by the Spanish conquistadors. Its university amazingly founded in 1551. Swanky restaurants, touting high quality cusine.

Then there was Cusco. An hour or so by plane into the mountains. It was where we caught the train down to Machu Picho. We experienced it through the fog of mild altitude sickness and remedial coca leaf tea. The people, their costumes, their way of life slightly surreal. Was the mind playing tricks?

And then there was Villa El Salvador, only about two km from the centre of Lima but a world away in so many ways. A shanty town, and home to some fo the poorest people in Peru. They’d come down from the surrounding mountains in the early seventies. Now there are 350 thousand people here.

Father Simon had wanted us to see his parish, and meet his parishioners. We met him at the comfortable priests house some distance away and then all took a cab to his ‘office.’ It was a mini fortress. It had been broken into so many times.

We wandered on foot along dusty untarmacked roads that seemed to spread into the endlessly distance, lined by single storey shacks. Pick-up trucks hurled dust into the air.

We stopped to look at his church. Perched on the top of dunes that fell away dramatically down to the Pan American highway. Simon explained how the dunes were shifting, and subsiding and that before long the church would collapse. It reminded me of the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Builders.

Then round to the shack of a family with three generations. It was a small compound. Inside a small courtyard, dirt floors, channels guiding waste water away somewhere. Probably not far. Little children and dogs wandered barefood among the chickens.

An old man - older than his age - came out to greet us and warmly shook our hands. Simon translated for us. In the surrounding rooms, he lived with his wife who was bedridden, her parents, their children and grandchildren, one of which had learning difficulties. There was no running water or electricity. No windows. No security. But they had nothing but the chickens and the clothes they stood up in. What was there to take?

This was ‘poverty tourism’ we knew that. But Father Simon was insistent we see this. I had my camera with me, and didn’t have the heart to take pictures. I wish I had. It was a world away from the modern city so close by, the plush hotels, restaurants, and fast cars. Out of sight, out of mind.

It is changing. Slowly. Villa El Salvador is slowly being absorbed into Lima proper.

And I am glad I did see it. Why would you ever complain about life ever again?

RJ