Why I don't visit churches

I don't do cathedrals. 

For sure, they can be full of fantastic art and give us meaningful insight into the beliefs and ways of life of the past. That's all great. I might peek in one if I happen to stumble upon one and feel like some solemnity might be in order. But seriously, when you enter your fifth cathedral, do you still remember the first? When you've read the plate about the painter of the frescos, taken a picture of the altar and stepped back out into the sunshine, has any of it stuck with you?

I'm wary of museums, too. If I live in a place for a year, then, of course: I'll probably visit most of them. I'm profoundly interested in history, politics, art, design – all that stuff that museums are usually good at. But a museum run in the sense of a pub crawl is beyond the point. On this trip, as I've been constantly moving from place to place, I still haven't been inside one single museum.

You know, there are these guide books, "Lonely Planet" they are called, and they are awfully popular. You'll find them in the backpacks of almost every traveller in almost any hostel. At the tables of the hostel bar, the backpackers compare notes with each other and discuss which Lonely Planet recommended experience they have or haven't done yet.

One series of books the Lonely Planet Corporation has is called X on a Shoestring. It's for people for whom seeing a country or two isn't enough; they want to travel at least half a continent. Europe on a Shoestring. Southeast Asia on a Shoestring. The World on a Shoestring (coming up). The word shoestring is supposed to refer to cheap travel, but in my mind, it evokes an image of someone drawing a line from the main attraction to another onto a map with the help of a string and then sticking to it.

I used to own one of those books too, years back, and I know what great writers they have. All you have to do is to open one of them, any of them, and you'll feel like you're missing out on some great fun somewhere in the world. "Be sure not to miss the amazing experience of...", they'll write. "Ideally, you'll get to X the night before, do Y and Z, and then get up early the next morning to..."

And the readers do! They dash from rafting to horseback riding, from canopy tour to hot springs, from mountain biking to temple ruins, from bird-watching to swimming with the dolphins. And inside cities, from cathedrals to museums. Tick-tick-tick, they tick off to-do lists in their guidebooks, click-click-click, they snap the selfies with the temple ruin or the friendly dolphin, tap-tap-tap they post them for the world to see. At the end, they'll feel like they've seen everything there was in the country to see.

What I like to do is watch. I watch people, how they go about their life, what kind of work they do, where they go. I listen to the people on the streets and buses, see how they talk to their friends, partners, or strangers. I observe how mothers and fathers behave with their children, what children are allowed to do and what not, how the children play and how they talk to their parents. I look at what people eat and what they buy, what happens in situations of buying and selling, what kind of shops there are. 

I look at how people have decorated their houses or their yards. I watch celebrations of birthdays or other parties in the streets or in parks. I try to find places where I can hear people sing or see them dance. I go to places where local people go: bus stations, cinemas, educational institutions, vegetable markets. I visit parks and squares and observe how people spend their free time, and what kind of people seem to have free time. I look at how people laugh.

Whenever I get the chance, I talk with the locals and ask them questions, but I rarely approach complete strangers – as an intruding outsider, I feel I don't have the right. I like to remind myself that whenever I set my foot in some city, I'm stepping into other people's home, and none of that was made just so that I could have a great experience.

Before I arrive, or during the first days, I try to read or hear and understand as much of the local history as possible. After that, I just breathe in the way of life. There's so much of it, you don't have to worry about it running out anytime soon.

Cine

In La Paz, it's even harder to find anything vegetarian to eat on the street than in Peru. On the second day, after walking for hours and eating only biscuits, I give up and look up a veggie restaurant in town. This will save me from starvation.

While waiting for my meal, I chat with the two workers of the restaurant. The girl is from Chile and a little punk, but not too much. She's very cute. The guy, co-owner of the place, comes from Norwegian Lapland and looks like an elf. The girl who's a little punk but not too much says that there will be a free screening of a film at a cinema that evening. I ask the guy who looks like an elf why it is for free, and he just shrugs his shoulders: That happens sometimes. But it's in a neighbourhood I haven't been to yet, and since I had wanted to walk around there anyway, it sounds like a perfect plan.

On my way to the hostel, I stumble across a demonstration on the Plaza Mayor. A big demonstration. The people have filled the whole square, amongst them children, young and old people. It's not a very warm day, and everybody is wearing jumpers and jackets. Some have taken over the balcony of a building. Street vendors mingle among the crowd as usual.

Afraid of appearing blatantly ignorant of some hugely topical issue in the country (or being punched by some frenzied demonstrator), I choose not to ask anyone what the protest is all about. I try to read some of the banners, but they don't reveal the mystery either ("30 mega projects -> 30 disasters!"). Instead, I ask the kitchen worker of the hostel when I get back.

"Oh, it's about water", she says. "Water?" I enquire. She tells that there is a serious water shortage in the city and people are at the end of their rope. "And the government doesn't do anything", I suggest to empathise with the protestors, but she says it isn't really the government's fault. "You know, the water is gone", she smiles helplessly. "Climate change."

I spend the rest of the day roaming the streets of unknown neighbourhoods and find the cinema on time by 7:30. It turns out that the old beautiful building is actually a municipal theatre and the film to be shown is a work of some film students. Both the elf and the punk show up to accompany me, and once we have taken our seats, I ask the girl why she has left Chile. "Chile is terrible!" she exclaims. I'm surprised. What's so bad about Chile? "The people", she replies. "They're awful. I like Columbia, Bolivia and Paraguay."

Then there are four young men on the stage in suits, and the one holding the microphone is almost in tears, talking about the overwhelmingness of finally seeing their film being screened. But when the film – a drug mafia crime thriller – begins, it is so badly made (even for a student film) that we decide to leave half an hour into the start. I'm not disappointed, though. It's been a good La Paz day.

Ciudad de los Reyes

Lima is divided into 43 districts, of which 30 are considered the City of Lima. Each district is huge, with 200,000–400,000 inhabitants.  That means there are actually 30 different Limas, each with their own centres, characteristics, and levels of cleanliness and security. The everyday life happens within one's own district; people are not necessarily familiar with the other areas. The population of the whole city is almost eight million.

What is common to all the different neighbourhoods is that the buildings are low, mostly two or three storeys high. Only near the Pacific shore are there luxurious high-risers. The whole city looks like it's grown on its own account, spreading in different directions, with buildings of varying height and width having been built in a haphazard manner where ever there was space.

The only planning that seems to have gone into how to city is structured is the planning for cars. Everywhere, the neighbourhoods are cut with massive, noisy avenues with six or more lanes. It's still not enough: all the lanes are always full of cars, the air filled with exhaust smoke and the sound of constant honking of the horns. In the midst of all this there are people, stepping in an out of small buses, doing their shopping at the fruit stands in the corners, going on about their life.

"Excessive playing causes gambling addiction" – but to me, ludopatía first sounded like something even more horrendous...!

Looking from afar, the buildings spreading into the horizon resemble sinister, square creatures with ghost-like eyes. It's  because the windows are mostly darkened and thus often look like there are no window panes, only holes. Only after looking closer in some poorer areas I realised that some of them indeed have no glass.

The colour of Lima is dirty white. It's not just the buildings that are mostly some shade of white; it's also that the sky is overcast much of the time. The climate of Lima is pleasant – it's usually between 20 and 26 degrees Celsius – but the sky is often covered with clouds. The pollution must have something to do with it, but I was also given another explanation: The bordering sea is so cold that, hitting the warm air of Lima, it always creates new clouds.