Vale un Perú

A week ago Peru voted again. We're still waiting for someone to tell us what we decided.

And this week I read a line: you only understand your country once you stop living in it.

I didn't read it as a pretty idea. I read it as a bill. One I've already paid.

"Vale un Perú"

In Buenos Aires, when something was worth a fortune, the old-timers would say: "vale un Perú". It's worth a Peru.

The first time I heard it, I asked where it came from. They told me about the silver, the gold, a country that was once a byword for wealth for half the world.

I grew up inside it and nobody had ever put it to me like that. I had to cross a continent for an old Argentine guy to hand me back something that was already mine.

My country was worth something. And I was hearing it secondhand.

I was "Perú" and I was "Marto"

At work they called me Perú. In the band, Marto. And when we played out in the provinces they'd yell from below the stage: "ehh, Marto, peruano". For a second I felt like Nolberto Solano.

Martín Beas live with Melian, packed theater. — With Melian, packed theater. Conquering a country while I was conquering myself.

I said it every chance I got. But I only set foot in Peru once a year, on visits. I loved it from a distance. Which is the easy part.

I came back to conquer. I took a punch.

At 29, almost 30, I came back. 10 years later. I came back convinced I could be the Peruvian Galperín, that 10 years abroad were a passport. The plan was beautiful in its arrogance: if I'd made it abroad, I was going to crush it at home. I sat down to plan 1 year thinking I was mapping out the next 2. It was the next 10.

Peru took that passport and tore it up in my face.

I pitched accelerators, investors, an American who'd already put money into a business like mine. He smiled and said no. And behind him, plenty more. Always the same verdict under the politeness: you don't have the pedigree. I'd come from playing heavy rock in Buenos Aires and from coding and designing since I was 19, on hundreds of projects. Didn't matter a damn.

And it didn't come alone. The inside stuff fell apart too. I went from driving Buenos Aires to Rosario on a whim to waiting for my mom to send us food on weekends. Because there wasn't any, man. From the car and the open road to my mom's cooking pot.

I was back in my country. Back to 0.

So what do I think of Peru?

I still don't fully know. But I know something.

It's been a week since the runoff and we still don't know who won. Colombia counted theirs in a couple of hours. And I get this strange anger: the grandkids of the people who built Macchu Picchu can't count a few votes today.

We lack technology, sure. But something older weighs more: the idea that the hustler is the one who wins. The smartass, the guy who bends the system instead of making it work. We reward him. And then we act surprised at the result.

That's why I think the country should be run like a startup. And don't tell me it can't be done. Growth is never luck: it's discipline, focus, cash, people who take ownership. When Peruvians put their minds to it, we're fucking great. The problem was never ability. It was where we pointed it.