I have to wonder if it was the chicha that made me sick. Boiled for a whole day on logs hewn from the algarrobo tree, chicha is a sort of homemade corn beer, appearing a wan yellow with flecks of char; smelling like faintly curdled soda; tasting like wood smoke, pie cherries and grits.
The chicha tasted good as I swallowed it, but in my throat I felt a sapping, a strange and foreboding prickle, as if I had swallowed water with a little sand mixed in, or alum. By that night my insides had begun to mash and twist; of course, I have no proof at all that the chicha was the culprit, and it’s not like I was all that sick anyway. Yet the thought persists, accompanied by visions of happy Peruvians drinking the stuff by the barrel, to no ill effect.
There’s a whole host of things like this, that my Pacific Northwestern body and mind are simply unprepared for, from insect bites that swell alarmingly to the brutal, wheezing exhaustion that sets in at high altitudes. However, these are temporary and private hurdles for the most part.
The more accomplished Spanish-speakers with me have mentioned a frequent and frustrating phenomenon, similar to those described above, but worse, in that it takes place exclusively in the presence of those who’ve learned Spanish natively, and speak it fluently. Though on average, in my observation, Americans are almost always more precise than other foreign travelers in attempting to pronounce Spanish correctly, the fact remains that, simply, we don’t talk right. This we knew already, and could have guessed without having to experience it firsthand. It’s damning corollary, though, is that we can never know how we sound to the people we’re speaking to—our own accent is invisible to us.
Wishing to speak like a natural-born Peruvian is a somewhat selfish and inessential desire, of course. Nevertheless it would greatly reduce the barrier, partially self-constructed and partially not, between “us” and “them.” For now though, and probably forever, it remains like calling out into a dark cave, hearing no echo in return, and finally knowing that the cave, the depth, the distance, is unfathomable.
In Trujillo, we ate at a Chinese restaurant. In the corner sat a man accompanied by two or three instrument cases, who was the spitting image of Captain Hook, with long waved hair, a tightly-cropped mustache, even vaguely pirate-like clothing; no eye-patch, however. As we were getting up to leave, he approached us, telling us he played the flute and insisting, to our dismay, that we stay and listen.
He began with a snippet of “El Cóndor Pasa,” a Peruvian standard based on Andean folk music yet recognized worldwide thanks to a 1960s cover by Simon & Garfunkel. It’s a beautiful song, and he played well, but we decided we’d better leave before we became entrapped permanently. As we approached the door, he called out to us, “For you, amigos!” launching enthusiastically into a rendition of “Oh! Susanna” that followed us until we rounded the next corner outside.
Of course, though we might wish, we won’t ever know exactly what “El Cóndor Pasa” means to Hook, or to the many other street musicians who’ve played it for us; thus it was somewhat comforting to realize that he’ll never know what “Oh! Susanna” means to us either.
