Unsure Footing

When I post a blog entry I usually have some sort of story to relate, some overarching theme. Not this time around. I’ve been in Cajamarca for a full month and my experiences here have ranged from mundane to bizarre and in this case the best thing to do is simply to share some of the more memorable strange-but-true moments with you.

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There is a legend here about the origin of Cajamarca’s abundant Balsamic vinegar supply. The ready availability of such an exotic specialty item in this city poses an immediate question because Cajamarca is a town with little diversity in the way of cuisine. If you want to buy a foodstuff that’s not a chicken or a potato or a block of cheese you’ll have to visit the gringo market and pay a hefty premium for that privilege. When I discovered the gringo market I had not eaten anything besides arroz con papas (rice with potatoes) for almost two solid weeks. When I stepped through the doorway of the gringo market and saw the merchandise I almost broke down and wept. I ran through the isles like a kid in a candy store and sang aloud to the soundtrack of Flashdance as it blared over the market loudspeakers.

What a feeling! gg Picked a box of Corn Flakes off the shelf.

Bein’s believin’! gg Grabbed a jar of chunky peanut butter.

I can have it all, now I’m dancing for my life! gg Moonwalked away with and armful of Ramen Noodles.

And you can just forget about dinning out. There is exactly one kebab place, one sushi place and one Mexican place in the whole of the city. Oh and by the way, the Mexican place is named Maregno’s Pizzeria and it sells Italian food:

No Thai food either, nor Indian, and nothing Mediterranean or European on any menu. They do love hamburgers and pizza, but there is always a Peruvian twist to them that takes something away from the food you’re craving, like a hamburger with lots of aji (local hot sauce) and potato slices instead of lettuce and tomatoes.

Back to our story. Some time ago a Cajamarcan entrepreneur was travelling abroad and discovered Balsamic vinegar. He liked the product so much that he decided to import it back to his home town. The only problem was that the ingredients were prohibitively expensive. Like any good entrepreneur, he improvised. He simply filled a bunch of bottles with plain old vinegar, slapped a “Balsamic Vinegar” label on it, and imported them anyway. Well, sales of the “Balsamic” took off. Today you will find bottles of Balsamic stocked on the shelves of the local mercado, right next to regular old vinegar. If you open a bottle of each and take a taste you will not be able to tell the difference. In fact the only difference is that the Balsamic costs about 30% more, because it’s imported.

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One night I had gone out drinking with some friends before eating any dinner. At around 11 o’clock I was starving and needed a bit of fuel before continuing so I stepped out of the bar to grab a bite to eat. I was told that if I turn right and walk a few blocks there should be something open somewhere, but no dice. Everything was shuttered. Then I saw a large crowd milling around outside of an open doorway with a neon sign overhead. There was a young lady with a platter of cheese and crackers. Emboldened by hunger and all the drinks I had just poured down my throat on an empty stomach, I approached her and made an inquiring gesture with my eyebrows towards the snacks. The people outside of the club gave me a queer look, but I brushed these glances off. I was a white man in a fringe neighborhood of a non-touristy Peruvian city in the mountains and I often set curious people staring. The serving woman shrugged slightly and lifted the platter towards me a little. I grabbed three pieces of cheese and a handful of crackers, bobbed my head in thanks and stepped inside to see if there was any food on the menu.

I scanned the room but couldn’t find a bar or food counter right off, so I walked a bit deeper inside. Compared to the scene I had just come from this wasn’t a particularly cheerful place. There were 40 or so people all standing about the main room, many in small knots of 2 or 3 and a dozen or so lone individuals with their backs to the walls. Conversations stopped as I walked past. I was so famished that I had stuffed all the cheese and crackers into my mouth at once and all I could manage by way of a greeting was a puffy-cheeked grin. There was a definite air of exclusivity in the room, as if I wasn’t invited to the party and nobody particularly wanted me there. It felt so damn cliquish that I just wanted to get my bite to eat and get the heck out. Then I realized that nobody was drinking and that there was no music, no laughing, no sounds of typical Friday night revelry. Then I realized that everyone was wearing black, which is normal club attire for NYC but not the mode here in Cajamarca. Then I saw the coffin.

Yup, I had just crashed a wake.

Now I want to point out a few things. First of all, it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t set out to rob food from grieving family members while smelling like a booze-soaked ashtray. The mistake was an honest one. For starters, who holds a wake at 11 o´clock on a Friday night? And who advertises for a mortuary in neon?

I exited quickly with my cheeks blushing, my head down and my eyes on the floor.

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Update: my Spanish language skills are progressing, albeit at a glacial pace. I’ve had a few dates with a local woman here who doesn’t speak a lick of English and managed to hold my own with basic conversation. Granted we’re not discussing string theory, but at least I no longer sound like I belong on the short bus.

I’ve also fallen in with a couple of local guys who go out every night of the week. Not to hang out with me, mind you. To try and bed the girls I am currently working/living with at the Inca Wasi center. With the help of these caballeros I’ve managed to confirm that complete Spanish mastery is located at the very bottom of the 4th glass of beer. Not that I enjoy drinking this much, certainly not. I’m simply looking to improve my listening comprehension and verb conjugation skills.

And now for some Spanish trivia:

Did you know that the verb comprometer means to risk or jeopardize but it also means to become engaged? And that the verb casar means to hunt but it also means to marry? Culture informs the language, and this does help to explain why Peru is run amok with machismo and why most of the men down here - really nice guys by the way - are all commitment phobic playboys looking to hop into bed with white foreigners.

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Overheard in Cajamarca at a business supply store: