It is January 2, 2006, my first full day in Lima (and South America). Checked into a hostel in central Lima. I decided to go for a walk, eventually leaving central, entering the adjoining neighborhood of Rimac. I noticed the suburb was poor but so are 90% of the countries I have traveled. Some cities and neighborhoods being much poorer than Rimac. While walking I snapped a few discreet photos, making my way up a hillside to a large (Christian) cross for a sweeping view of the city. Just beyond the last houses on the hill is a water tower (as seen in the picture). Three male youths are hanging out at the top of the stairs. So noted. I walk by, putting some twenty feet between me and them, stop to catch my breath. The youths separate. Two go around the water tower and disappear from sight; the third walks by me and descends into the houses via another set of stairs. I circle the water tower and find a set of stairs that continue up to the cross: excellent! Now over the water tower I spot the two youths coming off the face of the hill, climbing over the railing and onto the stairway. One walks by me, the other remains in front of me. The youth who walks by me brings his hands up to his face and makes it known he wants my camera. I glance over to the second youth in front of me; he is raising his shirt to expose two knives tucked into his pants pressed against his stomach. I will forever remember the expression on his face: the classic gang member look, head tilted back and to one side, looking down his nose at me. My first ever digital camera -- an Olympus Stylus 800 -- is only 10 days old. In a split second I had one thought flash through my head: " Fuck you you're getting my camera! " and without scanning the terrain below I lept over the railing, dropped ten feet, landed flat-footed, jumped down an additional three or four steps, spun around to look up at the two youths. Both were just standing there looking down at me. One had the audacity to speak to me in a conciliatory tone. I scoffed out loud, whirled around and took off down the hill, rounding the water tower, reconnecting with the stairs descending into the houses. Down more than fifty stairs and no sign of pursuit I eased my pace, snapped a few more pictures of the neighborhood ("Hey, get off my roof!"), then exited Rimac altogether back into Central. In the days to follow I met other travellers who tried crossing the bridge from central into Rimac. They were promptly stopped and turned back by the police. I thought it funny as they had blonde hair and light skin. The police never took notice of me because of my dark(er) 'Latino' colorings. Needless to say I began implementing a strategy I used some twelve years ago in Pakistan. I began the transformation into 'the Pakman.' As Pakistan is one of the most unstable countries I have been in -- with Karachi as probably the most dangerous city I have ever been in -- while touring for three months I ceased shaving and wore my clothes to such a state of holy-ruin that I had locals -- upon finding out I was Canadian -- consistently asking me why I dressed so poorly. One guy even offered to buy me a new shirt. I thought if South American cities are to be hunting grounds for tourists then I aim not to look like a target. Judging by the number of people that look at me in the street, 'the Pakman' is now of a more relaxed state of mind, content to know it is he who is doing the watching and not being watched. To take the picture above I paid a tourist bus service to take me to the top of the same hill. I had to immortalize the moment. Welcome to South America, Tsiktsik! Below are additional shots of the Rimac suburb.