Ever since I arrived in Cusco, Palmyra - the poor unfortunate who has to put up with me as her house guest - has been eager for me to try chicha, the corn beer that put the oomph into the Incas. On Friday night, I finally got my chance and it was "girls' night" as I went with Palmyra and Carmen, the woman who cleans for her.Now this was a girls' night out with a difference. For a start, it began at 4.30 in the afternoon. I know I'm getting old, but this put me in mind of those early bird specials for seniors in America.
I'd never have found the chicheria if I had gone on my own as there was no sign outside to advertise its existence. We entered and found ourselves in a series of narrow and rather dingy rooms, furnished only with tables and benches, but the place was practically deserted. We stopped in the second of the three rooms as we were accosted by a beaming round-faced old lady nursing what looked like a great big vase of a rather cloudy liquid. She turned out to be Palmyra's mother-in-law, so we joined her and I was soon nursing my very own vase of chicha and staring at the room's only decoration - a vaguely pornographic and rather dated pin-up girl with a Farah Fawcett haircut who looked as though chicha had never passed her collagen-implanted lips.
The taste is hard to describe, but it brought back memories of the time my student housemates tried out a home brew kit with somewhat limited success. Still, the chicha was not the main attraction. As the place filled up, I realized I had come to the Cusco equivalent of the Black Horse as Palmyra and I were the only people under 55 in the place. The rather lugubrious menfolk trooped in, shook hands with each other then settled themselves side-by-side on benches to get down to the serious business of marking the end of the working week. A few played cards as the barmaid ran around with a plastic jug, topping up people's glasses then scribbling figures on the table to keep track of people's tabs.
The men were, however, outnumbered by the women, who were much livelier. Some sported long plaits, traditional hats and wide skirts, while others adopted the universal pensioner uniform of trousers with elasticated waists and headache-inducing patterned knitwear. I really wish my Spanish was better as I am sure I only picked up on 20 per cent of the rather ribald humour flying around my table. For some reason, they all decided that I was Swiss - presumably mistaking my bemused incomprehension for an expression of determined neutrality. After a while, I felt it would be unfair to correct the error so I regaled them with stories of my clock-making grandfather... (hopefully none of them will ever try to track him down in Switzerland).
Anyway, somehow I found I had consumed three great big glasses of chicha and I didn't really feel much the worse for wear, but later my stomach seemed to swell to an incredible size and it made some deeply disturbing noises which hastened my return to the flat and a rather more salubrious toilet than the one I braved in the chicheria itself (which rather embarassingly earned me a round of applause from those assembled when I emerged from it earlier in the evening - Voronezh flashback time, I'm afraid!)
I feel that I can excuse this one instance of falling off the wagon in Peru on the grounds of cultural research, but I have to say that I am in no hurry to move on to more advanced studies...
