While attending a local bullfight, Travis becomes well versed in the ritual of drinking Cuzque�a, the official beer of the region.
Episode 2: Living La Corrida Loca
Last episode (“When Culture Attacks”) left Sam and I in the Valle Sagrado where powerful forces from deep within the earth had summoned descendants from a proud native South American nation to celebrate a mixture of their heritage and their religion on a crisp sunny afternoon. We both shrugged our shoulders and joined in the procession as if we had a choice. He joined because he is a functioning member of a well-functioning society. I joined because there couldn’t possibly have been a better thing to do that day than walk aimlessly around town with a smile on my face.
The day’s flow of foot traffic took us through the main plaza and toward the northwest of town where the village meets the campo and the great snowy, towering peak of Chikon rises overhead. Rumors had circulated days before as we had been hiking up the Chikon Valley that a corrida (bullfight) was in the works and we had seen youngsters corralling bulls downhill toward the town as we hiked. But that was probably a daily occurrence.
Today, however, as we rounded a corner in the dirt road, we saw a spectacle unmatched by either of our two pairs of eyes thus far. In a harvested, barren choclo field, trucks formed a ring as they were parked lengthwise in a circle and were covered with standing men, women and children facing inward. It definitely didn’t seem to be a bull ring but as people ran in circles from all angles in order to get a better view, we knew there was something going on inside. We hiked a few meters across the rugged choclo field for a view inside or at least to get between some trucks to watch, but we were even more fortunate.
“Samuel!” beckoned a voice from atop an eight foot wooden structure which stood inside of the ring of trucks. Upon closer inspection, the “bullring” was constructed of six inch diameter timbers, held together by rope at its cross-sections, covered across its top by hand-cut 2x6s, and had a slow decline in height toward the ring forming four rows. Around the outside of this quasi-stadium the trucks had all parked in order to obtain the second best seats and views. But only a few hundred privileged townsfolk would actually view the fight from the wobbly, yet ample bleachers.
Sam shouted back, “Senovio!” Senovio was a local cab driver who had become especially good friends with Sam and his organization. Beaming from above, Senovio motioned that we join him on the nearly full structure.
“Podemos Subir?” (can we climb up)
“Si!”
So we climbed up the back of the bleachers, which were evidently exclusive based on their difficulty to mount. Senovio was still setting up the section reserved for his family and he handed a homemade bench to us and said “Sit, please!” So from the back row of the bleachers we had our first glimpse of the entire crowd. The bleachers were stacked high and wide and easily had the best views. Behind us were the people standing on trucks. The next less-fortunate layer of on-lookers sat on adobe walls and roofs of taller houses across the street, and the most adventurous had climbed into 100 foot trees by the masses to get the aerial view. A dog pile of children was developing underneath the circular bleachers but could only be seen across the ring as silhouettes and identified by the whites in their eyes.
What Sam and I came to realize, as we were handed our first liter of Cuzqueña and a small plastic cup, was that Senovio had given some of the best seats in the packed house, those of his family, to two lanky gringos who occupy more space than your average pack of llamas. But to the family and to others sitting among us, the more the merrier – at least until the stadium begins to sway and creak under the weight. Everyone would simply squeeze together and it would be just that much more difficult to pour the cerveza. Cuzqueña, is the official beer of the department of Cusco and is drank in the following ritual among folks who live there.
- Find one or more friends.
- Purchase a one-liter bottle of warm Cuzqueña and ask the cashier for one small plastic cup (vasito).
- Find the nearest bench, staircase, or table at which to sit.
- Slowly pour the cerveza into the cup at an angle as close to horizontal as possible to avoid high-altitude foam.
- Hand the bottle to the person to your right.
- Say, “Salud!” (cheers)
- Pound the glass of beer at your leisure without infringing on the leisure of your thirsty friends.
- Pass the cup to the person to your right.
- Say “Salud!”
- Repeat until the liter bottle is finished
- The person whose turn it is to buy a new bottle heads to the store, returns the old bottle, and purchases a new one.
- Repeat until there is a damn good reason to stop.
Sound difficult? For such an easy going culture, the Cuzqueñian drinking rituals have, in my short stay, never once been broken by any citizen and are held even more sacred by the elder generation.
Where was I? The seats had filled up beyond capacity in wild anticipation for the last forty-five minutes. Suddenly, far off in the distance, the cry of one of the diehard marching bands could be faintly heard. As proudly as ever, the band approached leading a group of stragglers to the ring of the toros and, much like an American football game, took their seats in the designated bleacher area. Minutes passed, as were the liters of Cuzqueña. The people in the stadium were full of anxiety and chica. Another band comes blaring around the corner and enters into the stadium from the other entrance and takes the final few bleacher seats. Ah, the away band.
Through what would become the “horse entrance” to the ring, a group of important looking gentlemen trot into the ring on well-groomed horses in formation. These may have been the organizers or somebody important in town. They circle the ring to show off their steeds, much to the enjoyment of the audience, and exit. Filling the final space in the wall of the ring, a truck backs in. It is teeming with angry bulls and topped with scores of spectators. Locals work to dig the truck into place. Some sort of referee with a beer in his hand and iconography around his neck enters the ring. Let’s get ready to rumble!