NB There are 2 blogs for Lima. This is the second. To see the first, just change the date.
The police station, with its boxy concrete rooms, was in an area of Lima little frequented by tourists. We sat in a hot, dark room furnished only by a couple of plywood desks, an old typewriter and a dilapidated, rusting metal filing cabinet four drawers high. The only decoration was provided by a chiclets chewing gum wall clock and a couple of reports on known felons scattered across the desktops. In the hall outside, a couple of local women sat playing with their hair and a child started to cry.
The desk sergeant sat opposite us, his dark waistcoat hanging limply open along with the top 3 buttons of his shirt, lethargic in the airless heat. An animated conversation took place between the policeman who had brought us here and an officer in sharply pressed beige, shoes polished to a high sheen, peaked cap and Police Academy shades. A brief silence - then D was lead away to a separate room to give her side of the story. An hour of desperate Spanish later our stories were compared and our fingerprints taken. We were free to leave.
Like Sunderland AFC on too many occasions this season, we wuz robbed.