Day 2: Lima and the joys of lucuma

The good thing about arriving at night is that I felt refreshed the next morning with little jet lag. After a good shower, I made my way downstairs to join my grandfather for breakfast. My uncle Alejandro, who'll soon have the baby, was delighted to see me and happily talked as we, Yessica and my grandfather sat to a delicious breakfast of bread rolls with butter and cheese (or in my case just butter) and evaporated milk with hot water. I prefer it to fresh milk, which I was told is more expensive here.

We stayed talking throughout the morning, I skyped home to tell my mum about the journey, then sat and talked with my grandfather as he listened to his radio. His days are generally spent listening to radio since he doesn't generally want to go out, and my uncles are working during the day. My uncle Mañuco came over with my cousin Alvaro, it was good seeing them. Alvaro has autism, his ongoing obsession is his plans for his own transport business and he asked me many times about the timetables, destinations and advantages of his airline over others, and insisted that when I get to Spain I will quit my job to work for him.

Yessica took me out for lunch, it was good to get out of the house and I enjoyed eating traditional Peruvian food. Afterwards we went to her antenatal class, where we watched videos of caesarean sections, conception (a bit late for that...?) and left just before the exercises since she had a consultation. Given that she and the other two women in the class are eight months' pregnant, Yessica had hoped that the class would go into more practical things about babycare, we had a good laugh about the session while we waited for her doctor.

On the way back we stopped off at the supermarket so Yessica could buy a DVD player since she's generally too tired to leave her bed, and I got some lucuma ice cream. Lucuma is a wonderful fruit, and the ice cream flavour is heavenly. As we left the shop Yessica got us some rice pudding from a small shop, which I happily ate after dinner. Unhappily I felt ill immediately after.

The evening was spent talking with my grandfather and eating spaghetti. We listened to Charlie Chaplin for a good hour, then he sent Mirian out to buy Chaplin biscuits. I can't say that I enjoyed them, but my grandfather was content to eat his biscuits, always telling me to help myself (thankfully, in a way, his blindness meant he couldn't tell that I wasn't eating many of them). Feeling ill after the rice pudding, I made my way to bed and hoped I'd be well by morning.

Day 1: Half a day's journey with half a film's sleep

The 12 hour flight seemed shorter than in previous years. Maybe the sleeping meds I'd taken helped.

After a lunch of surprisingly edible pasta and a small pastry, and having filled in my landing card, I took the meds and fell asleep. The sedative gave me a whole 2 hours of sleep: I was woken by the family next to me (3 in my row, 4 in the row behind) asking if I could move my seat forward to pick up something they'd dropped. I half-watched a film and fell asleep, to be woken again half an hour later by the person next to me wanting to get out. When she came back, she asked to borrow my pen for her landing card. No problem, I thought, soon she'll hand it back and I can sleep again. It turns out that nobody in the family had a pen, so it was a good 45 minutes later once my pen had been passed round everyone that I got it back.

Back into sleep, woken an hour later by the person behind me tapping my shoulder asking again if I could move my seat forward so she could pick up something. Back to sleep. I was kindly woken by the person next to me for the snack: a cheese and ham sandwich. I cannot stand cheese or most hams, so I passed it over and went back to sleep. Woken when I was accidentally nudged by the person next to me when she gave her rubbish to the stewards. And so the flight continued: half-watching films, sleeping, waking, watching the other half of the film, then sleeping.

Finally, the seatbelt light was back on. I saw the welcoming sight of the sea and fishing boats as the plane turned and at long last bumped onto the runway at Lima. I have to admit that my eyes were a bit wet when I heard the steward announce that we were now in Lima: after so long away, I was finally here.

A short customs queue later, I was soon waiting for my suitcase and was almost surprised after previous experiences of long-haul flights that it arrived, and intact at that. Bags in hand (well, on trolley) I made my way through to arrivals, where my mum's friend's brother who runs a taxi company was waiting for me. We chatted a bit during the half hour journey to my grandfather's house, and soon there we were. In the dark I recognised some landmarks on the way, and was relieved to at last see the house.

After paying the driver, my grandfather's maid Mirian answered the door and helped me to bring my bags inside. She showed me straight to the room where my grandfather was: I'd last seen him when he came to Europe for the first time two summers ago, it was good to see him and he was happy that I was there. He's now almost blind and quite deaf, so as I ate the dinner of spaghetti that Mirian prepared for me I talked loudly to him about the flight and the family. My uncle's on-off partner Yessica, who lives there as she's due to give birth soon, joined us and we chatted for a while before I was shown to the room where I'd be staying.

As in previous visits to my grandparents' house, I stayed in my aunt Gloria's room. She died five years ago, it felt sad to see that her room was stripped bare and nothing of what she'd owned was left. My grandmother died three years ago, so only my grandfather and Yessica live there now, with Mirian staying during the week. My uncles would come to visit in the daytime.

In the meantime, thankful that I'd read an article advising to keep pyjamas at the top of my hand luggage, I swiftly changed and gratefully sank into the bed welcoming a good night's rest.

Dreams of home-away-from-home

After over four years of dreaming and wishing to come back to Huancayo, at last I stood in the queue at Madrid Airport in front of the screen brightly proclaiming 'Lima'. I felt nervous then, and not only for the 12 hour flight. Going back to Peru after four years was to go into the known and unknown, unsure which was which. What would have changed? Would the people I'd met and loved as family have changed, and who else would I meet? How much had I changed in four years?

I first went to volunteer in Huancayo when I was 18 years old in the summer between the end of school and the start of university, and wrote about my experiences here. Since then I hoped to go back, and had the opportunity when I was 20 during the Easter holidays in my second year of university, which I wrote about here. Before I'd started volunteering in Huancayo, I'd been to Lima every two years or so to visit my mum's family, and in later visits had travelled to Cusco and Iquitos as well as exploring more of Lima. To go for four years without visiting Peru was therefore unknown, and at times it felt as though I was missing a part of myself.

So why did I wait so long?

In my third and final year of university, I had little time to travel, managing a week in Venice during Easter. The following summer, as a recent graduate I was low on funds and spent some of my holidays backpacking across Bavaria with friends and a short break on the beach in Spain, as well as attending mental health courses and becoming a Mental Health First Aid instructor. I then started my postgraduate studies, which involved a week in India attending lectures delivered by the WHO and visiting mental health centres. Shortly after that I started an internship at a mental health hospital, where my food and housing was covered, and when that ended I focused solely on my studies and delivering mental health courses for free to charity staff through the local government. Consequently the following summer I was still penniless, and managed to escape my dissertation for a week to travel around Spain with my mum and grandfather when he came to Europe for the first time. The following autumn I returned to India for my final exams and viva, and spent an extra week after graduation travelling around North India. When I returned, I started an internship in social services administration where all of my pay went on travel fees for my daily commute from Coventry to London: the following summer I took a few days off work to collapse on a beach in Spain before returning to the job I loved but tired me out. When that ended, after a fruitless jobsearch in UK I was offered a job as an English language assistant at a primary school in Madrid, which I started in January this year. For the first time I was earning a salary that allowed me to save a little after rent and food, and with school summer holidays free from work, the first thing I did when I received my first month's pay was to finally book my plane ticket to Lima.

And now, the plane was here in front of me. When I walked off it 12 hours later, I'd at long last be in Peru. Still with mixed emotions, and bearing in mind my mum's sound advice when I shared with her my worries to "Stop philosophising and enjoy myself, and remember that life is a tapestry made up of my own and others' experiences," I began the final leg of my journey to my home away from home.