I learned a new word in Peruvian Spanish last night–picanteria. My only regret is that it took so long for me to stumble across it.
I was strolling through a series of narrow, cobblestoned streets in this ancient Incan capital when I heard the faint sound of a melancholic Andean song coming from a dark, covered passage (this sentence as published has been corrected in this text). At the end of the passage was the picanteria, an eating and drinking spot for locals overflowing with music, friendship and chicha, a frothy beverage made of corn that looks like a cream soda but delivers a decidedly more potent punch.
Had I not gone inside, I never would have met Manuel Bedoya, a blind, 58-year-old musician who had his daughter and granddaughters along, doing their usual nightly performance to earn enough money for food.
Bedoya, a short man, no more than 5-foot-3, with almond-tanned skin and a toothless grin, wore dark sunglasses as he played. His battered guitar and rusty harmonica filled the evening air with a thousand stories.
This nightly ritual of carefree socializing is common among the working-class people in Cuzco, who come to the picanteria to eat the traditional foods they love, to dance and to sing awhile.
Here, young and old gather. A grandmother wrapped in a thick, gray wool shawl sipped a huge glass of chicha, a group of women in one corner celebrated a teacher’s birthday and tall beer bottles lined the tables.
Stray dogs shuffled across the dusty floor and then sprawled beneath the crude, long wooden dining chairs. A mural depicting the brutal, Spanish conquistador suppression of the Incas covered one wall.
Every few minutes a new song started. At several points, someone grabbed my hand, and I was whirled onto the floor trying in vain to keep up with the intricate footwork that characterizes Andean dancing.
It didn’t take long to realize that in this gathering place of the poor, I was welcome to share in the fun.
But for the Bedoyas, the music means survival.
Like many of their region’s impoverished, the Bedoyas make ends meet any way they can. On the streets of Cuzco, hordes of pint-size children scan the streets all day for tourists hoping to sell a postcard, a colorful handbag, or bags of herbs said to provide a cure for ailments from a common cold to altitude sickness.
When Manuel Bedoya lost his sight at age 23, he ended his career as a carpenter and switched to the guitar. Now, the man with 10 children and little formal education plays most nights with his daughter and granddaughters, who stood barely 3 feet tall.
What he earns, though, is barely enough for food.
I understood his plight when during a break one of the girls noticed my half-eaten meal of thick broth and a mountain of beef. Invited to share my food, the girl and her cousin ate ravenously, barely taking a breath between bites.
When they had their fill, the girls found an old plastic bag and filled it with the dripping soup. Their feeble effort at creating their own doggy bag indicated there were mouths still to be fed at home.
Minutes later, the girls were up again, animated, singing about subjects that seemed a bit too adult for such small children. “Mothers to the houses. Singles to the streets. I have every right to ask you to dance, single men …” went one tune.
The oldest, Yurika, 8, picked up a tambourine and shook it. Her cousin, Patricia, 7, squealed with delight. The two girls swayed from side to side as if life couldn’t be better.
I gave the tiny dancers a big tip, and both girls hugged me around the knees, their deep brown eyes showing no fear of the future. I thought, let your hearts keep singing, girls. No matter what, please don’t let this world break you too soon.
