The Exploitation and Contradiction of South America: Volume 1, Episode 1: When Culture Attacks

Episode 1: When Culture Attacks

It must first be said that powerful forces from deep within the earth have worked for millions of years to create the steep narrow valley in the middle of the Andes the Incans called El Valle Sagrado (The Sacred Valley). Midway up El Valle Sagrado, which runs from the capital of the department, Cusco, Peru to Machu Picchu, the former ancient Incan capital, lies Urubamba, the peaceful, completely untouristed, self-sufficient, seemingly carefree town of 18,000. Towering glacial peaks cascade rivers which dye the lightly forested hillsides “…the most shades of green that exist anywhere in the world.” The rivers join elegantly into the Rio Urubamba just below town, which slices its way between the overhanging cliffs. Every day the campesinos bring their products to trade or vend in the small market near the plaza. Whether its bags of dried choclo (maize), fresh water trout, or the local delicacy cuy (South American Guinea Pig), everybody has something to buy or sell…

“Boooooring,” you might quip. “That sounds like any other day in any other Third World town I’ve ever seen or read about.” And you might add, “Peruv-it. I don’t Bolivia.” Well I say “Uruguay” in response because I was just trying to set the tone. Have some patience please.

My friend Sam and I, we both have privilege: He for having the opportunity to live and work with the outstanding people in the community of Urubamba; myself for being wealthy enough to visit and have him as a guide; and us both because we have a mutual friendship and understanding that has been cultivated throughout our childhood and beyond. Today’s understanding between us came when I met him in front of the door of his non-governmental organization for a non-organized non-governmental rendezvous. It was possible that we both smelled the excessive amount of chicha in the air. Chicha is the product of the copious fall choclo harvest which, by way of fermentation, becomes thick (cheap), chunder-inducing brew—at least for foreigners. Third World moonshine, the not-so-covert symbol for a community chicheria, or “place to get hammered on corn beer for pennies”, is a long branch protruding from a doorway up at a 45 degree angle toward the street with a red plastic bag full of plants hanging off it. Although my travels in the Andes have been short, I can’t imagine an area with a per-capita higher chicheria concentration. There is at least one per block in Urubamba.

But I digress. For if it wasn’t the thickness of the chicha fog that hung in the air from the night’s past festival, it was definitely the excitability of the hungover chicha addicts as they marched one by one back into their favorite chicheria at the early hour of 2pm that cued me and Sam off. Not to say that there was any indication that the festival of the Patron Saint of Urubamba had any possibility of cessation. It began simply, harmlessly on Friday night with fireworks, multiple bands marching through the street and general electricity in the air. This, you could of course expect at the onset of a weekend anywhere in the world. But even by Saturday early it was apparent that the people of Urubamba had something not to work for. The weekend continued but the bands from Friday night had never stopped marching the streets all night. By 2pm Saturday they led hundreds of spectators, with their varying but repetitive songs, into the local stadium for an intimate display of dancing put on by several local groups in ornate, insane costumes. The dances and costumes were obviously inspired by folklore, imagination and ritual and must have been a major investment of time and money for the locals. After hours of dancing, the bands and dance groups took to the street together. A small carnival was set up with food, impossible to win yet impossible to refuse games, and a flood of people in the streets. Again the bands marched through the night as the less inspired were aroused from their beds at 4am with a pounding bass drum and several dissonant brass in repetitive anthem every half hour as the bands covered on foot the 8 by 8 block grid which is Urubamba.

It had been the understanding of Sam and myself that the festivities would definitely wrap up by Sunday morning as we saw full-bodied costumes, which apparently had a human inside, dragging their tired, colorfully-booted feet home after the 36-hour dancing marathon. But when we noticed the flow of foot traffic in the street this Sunday afternoon now accompanied by newly-drunken chicheria patrons pouring out into the parade, we knew something was going on hoy dia. So we asked a kind, stumbling fellow, “Doesn’t the festival end on Sunday?” With a hearty chuckle he answered, “Yes, next Sunday.” And we had our first laugh of many for the day.