An Evening in Peru with Guinea-Pigs and a Harp

The woman hunching over the stove turns around and looks up at me. On her face a big smile — resembling that of an infant’s thanks to the few remaining teeth. The creases on her face rearranging to welcome the foreigner who just barged into her kitchen. She gives me a little nod, while pulling up her worn out blue sweater to cover her neck — a lady after all — and turns back towards the stove where dancing flames are yearning for her attention.

Then I notice the second pair of attentive eyes, peeking at me from near the woman’s feet. A crumb of food that flies off the pot lands on the floor, distracting my observer. Emerging from its hideout at the extremity of the woman’s robes, the furry little rodent-like creature hurries to claim the prize. I smile, “So that’s what a guinea-pig looks like, a lot like a rat!”.

I am in Peru, about to hike the ancient Inca trail to the sacred city of Machu-Pichu. The trek is supported by a number of porters. The tour company Wayki Trek offers a special option to spend a night at the village where the porters live. We had left Cusco — the ancient capital of the Inca’s and one of the highest cities in the world at 11,150ft elevation — an hour ago. A windy and picturesque rode brought us to the so called porter’s village.

After getting off the van, I had just peaked inside a hut where the mother of a porter is preparing dinner. She’s our host for the night. I also had my first encounter with a live Guinea pig, or cui, as Andeans call it. I had seen a dead one before, at a restaurant in Cusco. It was served deep-fried and still had it’s long front teeth intact, sneering at me. I ate it starting with the butt-end; that way I could avoid my lunch staring at me, judgingly.

The human-cui relationship among the Andeans is fascinating. These little creatures with busy feet and brown fur, grow up inside Andean households. They survive off of any food scraps from cooking or dining. They are loved by the children, as pets. Then when it’s festive season, the fatter and older cui end up as a delicious dish.

I leave the woman to her cooking and go for a stroll. Our four-day hike is a total of 25 miles and covers 8,000ft elevation. While us, the tourists, get to grumble about the arduous trek, the porters carry all our belongings, tents, food, and equipment: 40 kilos each. They literarily run up the trail lugging that weight, set up camp, prepare meals, and await the tour group. I’m keen to see the village that produce these super-humans.

The porter’s village is a small community of about 200 people. A half completed school building here, a small clinic with a lone nurse there. Things are well past heyday. Young-ones have moved out, chasing bigger dreams.  Families who remain live in basic houses, made of mud and brick. Each with its own little den with a few chicken and pigs.

A porters life isn’t easy. The 4-day trek pays about 100 soles, or $35. It’s still worth it; one of our porters was 66 years old and had nine mouths to feed. When they can’t find work — there’s a 300 porters per-day limit on the trail — they farm. Wheat, peas, beans, and quinoa are popular choices.   

When I return the dinner is ready. We sit around a table in the dimly lit kitchen and are served with porridge, boiled potato, baked inca-corn, and chicken soup. We are hungry, and the food is delicious. The guinea pigs, who live in the kitchen, are hidden away for dinner time.

After dinner is a surprise; a jolly middle-aged fellow fumbles into the hut carrying a harp taller than he is. Five or six other villagers follow him. After setting up the harp in the middle of the now crowded kitchen space, our harpist sets off to exhibit his craft. A male villager invites a female villager to dance. Minutes later three couples are dancing in the hut with everyone else laughing, clapping, and tapping their feet to rhythm.   

Then they make the tourists join the dance, despite protests. The party in the little kitchen continues for at least an hour. No alcohol served, but there’s plenty of coca tea — brewed with leaves from the same plant that produces cocaine — to energize us.

Now it’s bedtime. The yard floor, where the tents are set up, is hard. The toilet is of squatting style — a hole in the ground, at a muddy corner thinly covered by drape. Mosquitos are aplenty. But by this point, none of us complain. The porters and their families, despite their laborious lives, have shown us a great night of fun and hospitality. We are content.  

We say good-night and head to our tents. While falling asleep, I imagine the old lady in the blue sweater unleashing an army of little scavengers — the guinea-pigs — to clean up the kitchen floor made dirty by the party.