Census

I was walking home from work on Lima’s ocean, the roaring of the waves making it hard to hear athe call.

“Buenos Noches, Miss.”

It was Samuel, the doorman at my building. He’s from Venezuela but has a larger English vocabulary than our American president.

“I hate to bother you, but there’s a woman from the Census Bureau here. She needs to ask you some questions.”

The Census Bureau? Wanting to talk to me? While I’m not a citizen of Lima, I am a legal resident and was curious about the survey. Who do they count? Everyone? Am I as important as the next guy?

“Sure,” I replied, not really sure how I’d navigate a list of questions about things I never think about, especially after spending the last few drops of my mental energy figuring out how to mail letters to the USA during the tariff wars (If you are waiting for a postcard from your friends who went to Machu Pichu? Forget it. Mail to the USA has been suspended).

Samuel quickly volunteered to be my interpreter over the phone. I pulled up a rock on the ocean, hoping nothing would get lost in the translation or commotion of the ocean.

The questions were not what I expected. Many were asking about income indirectly, like the questions about my housing.

“The walls in your home, what are they made of?”

Hmm, I pondered. “Aluminum. I live in a gigantic beer can.”

Samuel sighed. “I see. ” He interpreted my answer to the woman and fired another question.

“How many bathrooms, Miss?”

“Two.”

“Dos banos,” he explained to the census taker. “Do you have hot water?”

“Not always, but I’m OK with it.”

“Do you have any pets?” It depended on if he counted the numerous street dogs in this country that are owned by everyone and no one. For instance, these bodyguards that accompanied my hiking group to Palacala Falls on Sunday. After the journey, a hiker actually treated them to meal.

“No,” I answered. “But I did have a guinea pig.”

“Any other pets?”

“Yes, but they stay outside.”

More translation and then another question. “Are you healthy?”

I think so, but I do pray to St. Agatha, the Sacred Saint of Breasts. There’s even a nipple cookie in Italy created in likeness.”

“Does she live with you?” Samuel asked.

“No, but I think I saw her Sunday.”

Samuel cleared his throat, not translating my response. “Do you go to church?”

“Yes!” I answered, not lying. I attend the Anglican Cathedral of the Good Shepherd ” No breasts. Just a lot of old folks who like to eat cake together afterwards while forced to wear a name tag. I slumped. Is this really my social life? But I do like God. I thought of my more lively mid-service prayer meeting on the bus, conducted by a stern woman with parted black hair and a Bible so worn, there is no gold on the outer pages. This zealous woman gives us an hour of power during our morning commute.

Samuel scribbled away.

“Do you recycle?”

“I try.”

Don’t ask about trash in Lima and how vultures are helping out.

Next question. “Do you have a car?”

“No, but I do own hiking polls.”

More scribbles from Samuel. Another sigh. “Last question, Ma’am. Can you read Spanish?”

“Only when there’s more words than pictures.”

The Census was an interesting experience. I got a free sticker for my time. Woohoo!
Palacala Falls is about 90 minutes from Lima. A good six hour hike.