Huaraz, Peru May 2-5, 1979
Ay! Tengo resfriado! Tengo resfriado! I awoke today feeling the ‘grippe’, as they call it here, so I decided to take it easy, not go on any long hikes. Instead I wandered through the mercado, looking at hats. Everyone here wears hats – felt hats, straw hats, woolen hats, hats of many colours, broad-brimmed hats, happy hats, worn-out frayed at the edges hats, two hats. Must buy a hat. And a basket. So many beautiful woven baskets. I drank another jugo at a sophisticated looking jugo bar – not only does it have a dueno who sits behind a cash register hauling in the soles while two or three young boys mix of the pina, papaya, banana, manzana y melon, but it also has an amazing sign, advertising the benefits of jugos naturales para su salud, and promising that if the customer isn’t satisfied, their money will be refunded!
The mercado itself is similar to Ecuadorian markets – a series of stalls, mainly wooden, sometimes with canvas ‘rooves’ held up by poles, or sometimes inside a concrete edificio, crammed with fruits and vegetables, soaps and household items, plastic wares, clothes, shoes, herbal remedies, fish and meat, cheese and butter (and manjar blanco!), typica items, etc. etc. And as always the little clusters of Indios sitting on blankets with their little piles of fruit or vegetables arranged in front of them, their basket of lemons or eggs, their bowls, or little plastic bags, of green, yellow and red sauces (likely pretty piquante!). And the ever-present mobile jugo and pan and pastry vendors, here much more common than in Ecuador, with their three-wheeled bicycles, bicycle carts, filled with their wares. But here the markets seem quite a bit cleaner. There isn’t the garbage, the piles of rotted vegetables, the muck, that there was in Ecuador. The eating places seem cleaner as well, and serve much better food – jugos, salads and fruit as well as the old standbys of corn and potatoes.
From my journal, an attempt to capture the colour of the mobile market vendors.
Up into the newer section of town, stopping at the Casa de Cultura to ask about instruction in the quena (flute). It seems I just missed a course for this term (it began in April and ends in August), but as I later learned, the quena is more indigenous to the Cuzco-Puno area, so I may have another opportunity. Here they play a small bamboo flute with five or six holes.
I carried on to the museum, which though small has some very interesting pieces. I am especially taken by the ceramics, some reminiscent of the ones in the central bank in Quito – animal jugs, pots with intricate painted designs, others with interesting ‘appendages’. Also some very fine weavings – in wool mostly – of beautiful colours and designs, mostly abstract geometrics, lines and squares. There were some grotesque ‘mummies’, all in foetal position, and most with mouths wide open and hands raised as if to cover their eyes – expressions of fear or terror. Apparently these were found in nearby graves. Outside the museum there was an impressive collection of carved stone totems, reminiscent of the ones in San Augustin (a couple even had the same jaguar teeth) – often in the same general pose – but here with more emphasis on the feet and on male sex organs, especially the balls. Lots of carved-in-relief animals – cats, two-headed monsters, tailed beasties (mostly males, again with prominent balls, and just as prominent teeth) – in big rectangular blocks of stone. Many of the human forms were sitting in a knees-up, legs-crossed, hands clasping calves position; eyes gazing straight ahead, as if meditating…?
Figure painted on ritual urn, circa 1500 AD. Interesting how common cats are
here, as well as in Egypt. Several other similarities between cultures noted.
Figure etched in rock. 0-500 AD.
I came back ‘home’ for tea with the family. Americo suggested we go with him to a ‘spectaculara’ at the local cine in the evening. He said they were going to crown the Queen of Tourism and there would be folkloric music and dancing. It sounded like fun. We got there around 7, found seats, and waited, and waited, and waited. It was almost 8:30 before things got underway. But no one seemed the least concerned about the delay: they all enjoyed the chance to chat, cuddle with their novio, flirt, look at others, or just do nothing. There doesn’t seem to be a concept here of ‘wasted time’; or maybe no concept of time at all as we in North America know it (where time is money). Once the ubiquitous delegation of military representatives had arrived, and everyone was seated, and the show was ready to go, the curtain wouldn’t open! They spent several minutes fooling around with that, pulling on various strings and cords until finally the curtain opened on a stage, rather like a high-school gymnasium stage, on which had been constructed a crude ‘throne’ of several box platforms covered with pieces of white material. And on top a chair, also covered with white, and over which was hung a horseshoe with the words ‘Reyna de la Tourismo’. Over this a rectangular sign on which was printed Jeny I, the Queen’s name being Jeny, the first Queen of Tourism here in the Valley of the Callejon.
A rock band (electric guitars and drums) played some very loud and not very melodic song to usher in the Queen, who came down the aisle, through the audience, wearing a floor-length silver-white gown with a low-cut, tight-fitting bodice, and a full skirt. Trailing behind her were two little Indian girls in colourful ‘typica’ clothes. It was all fairly ‘regal’ until Jeny reached the throne, which she had to mount rather awkwardly, the levels of the two platforms being some two feet high – a substantial step, especially for a gal wearing heels which she had perhaps never worn before… . And then there was the man holding the four ‘spot lights’ which he kept turning off and on at completely inappropriate moments, and which at any rate were only strong enough to light up part of the throne. For whatever reason – deliberate or accidental – it seemed Jeny’s face was mostly in total darkness, while her body – and feet – were highlighted. One of the military men went up on stage to crown our Queen, and someone presented her with a riot flowers in a heavy clay pot – so not a bouquet she could hold.
There was more music, more ranting by the MC, and several moments of confusion when various people wandered onto or up to the stage to chat with the MC (offering advice?). Then a procession of Indians, all in different typica costumes, bringing ‘gifts’ to the Queen – manjar blanco, chicha, various weavings, a llama(!) – climbed the awkward ‘stairway’ to the throne. After the presentation of gifts was over the entertainment began. First up was a group so badly out of tune that it was really quite painful even to listen; then a child poet who had problems using the microphone, and was embarrassed when he couldn’t remember the name of the Queen; and then a pair of red-and-white costumed dancers whose style was more Spanish than Indian, and who danced to a very scratchy recording; then a stand-up comedian that I couldn’t understand, but who the crowd seemed to think was funny, more scratchy-record dancers, and finally a group of three brothers – two guitarists and a quena player – who were really good, but whose music was spoiled by the MC who kept moving the microphone closer to the various instruments – now this one, now that one – and thereby ruined what might otherwise have been quite a nice concert.
The finale, however, was a dance and fashion show, again by the Indians in traditional dress, who came onto the stage in pairs, whirled around a bit to the music of a drum, a flute and a guitar or two, all fairly badly played, then strutted across the stage showing off their costumes as the local administrator described them to the audience, whirled around a few more times, and then stood by as the rest of the couples – around 10 in all – did the same. The grand finale came when the Queen, now dressed in an amazing butterfly-like costume, with huge butterfly sleeves and a headdress of very brightly coloured feathers, came up on stage with two similarly dressed senoritas to perform some sort of ritual dance with the rest of the group. This went on for some time, and despite my interest in the costumes, I couldn’t stop yawning and wondering how they were going to end it all. But finally there was a kind of crescendo in the ‘music’ and the dancers whirled their way off-stage as the audience leapt out of their seats and headed for the door. No hearty rounds of applause and certainly no shouts of ‘encore’ from this crowd.
The next day – our last day in Huaraz – Sue, John and I walked up through the mercado and out of town to the pisicultura (fish culture) station, an impressive series of tanks, man-made lagoons and water-ways, all painted bright colours and broken up by gardens of flowering plants. The lagoons and waterways hold large populations of trout – everything from fingerlings to fairly large adults. From here we walked on up through the outskirts of town towards Mount Huascaran and into a quiet campo of trigo (field of wheat) where we’d heard we might find some ‘ruinas’. There, in amongst the eucalyptus trees and century plants, were the small but quietly impressive ‘ruinas’ – several stone walls, houses and graves. The houses had massive rock ‘rooves’ over very solidly-built (and unaffected by the 1970 earthquake) walls with perfectly squared-up windows – grand places to camp I would imagine.
We had a picnic there, among the ruinas, chatting about everything and nothing as the birds called and sang to one another. We watched as a bank of heavy dark storm clouds began to gather over Huaraz, and decided to head back, hoping to beat the rain. We made it back to the pension just before the clouds burst. Mama insisted we have some almeurzo (lunch) – a broad bean soup with a little rice and fish, and lots of tea. Afterward I sat and chatted with Mama and the old man – her father. They are so open, so genuine, and so warm. This is a place one could easily come to love. But we are leaving tomorrow, heading for Chavin, a small town famous for its ruins.
Sue, picnicking at the Lagunas de Llanganuco
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