A travel memoir
The woman hunching over the stove turns around. There’s a big smile on her face — it resembles that of an infant’s thanks to the missing teeth. The creases on her face rearrange 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 toward the stove, where dancing flames want her attention.
Then I notice a second pair of attentive eyes peeking at me from near the woman’s feet. A crumb of food lands on the floor, distracting my observer. Emerging from its hideout in 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!”.
Guinea pigs on the kitchen floor
I am in Peru, about to hike the famous Incan trail to the sacred city of Machu Picchu. The trek is supported by a number of porters. The tour company Wayki Trek offers a special option to spend a night in the village where the porters live. We had left Cusco — the ancient capital of the Incas and one of the highest cities in the world at 11,150ft — an hour ago. A windy and picturesque ride brought us to the porters’ village.
After getting off the van, I peeked inside a hut where the mother of a porter is preparing dinner. She’s our host for the night. This is where I saw my first live Guinea pig, or cui, as Andeans call it. I had seen a dead one at a restaurant in Cusco. It was served deep-fried and still had its long front teeth. I ate it starting with the butt-end; that way I could avoid my lunch sneering 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 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 mother to her cooking and go for a stroll. Our four-day hike totals 25 miles and covers 8,000ft in elevation. While we, the tourists, get to grumble about the arduous trek, the porters carry all our belongings, tents, food, and equipment: 40 kilos each. They literally 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 produces these super-humans.
The porters’ village is a small community — about 200 people. A half-completed school building here, a small clinic with a lone nurse there. Things are well past their heyday. Young ones have moved away, chasing bigger dreams. Families who remain live in simple houses made of mud and brick, each with its own little pen with a few chickens and pigs.
A porter’s life isn’t easy. The 4-day trek pays about 100 soles, or $35. Some have no choice: 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, dinner is ready. We sit around a table in the dimly lit kitchen and are served 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.
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 begins to play. 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 the rhythm.
Then the villagers make the tourists join the dance, despite protests. The party in the little kitchen continues for at least an hour. No alcohol is 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 ground 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 drapes. Mosquitoes are everywhere. But by this point, none of us complain. The porters and their families, despite their laborious workday, 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.
My lunch staring at me
Some of our porters, the one 3rd from right was 66 years old
Pen attached to a porter's house
Our home-cooked dinner at the porters'village