It was a wrench to leave Cusco.
Five hours later Cindy pulled up in a place that probably hasn’t changed that much since the Spanish arrived in 1532.
The people of Raqchi carved their niche a long time ago – as artesans, making pottery and wares with techniques that definitely remain unchanged since Inca times.
Homestay is a label that is often attached to this type of accommodation. Usually, the stay is in a purpose built unit, away from the home. It’s bed and breakfast without the Wifi.
We were allocated to Lydia, a stout lady of indeterminate age - somewhere between thirty and sixty. The full Andean skirt makes it very hard to judge as by western standards it is unflattering, sacrificing warmth for figure hugging allure and creating the impression that all Andean women are Russian Dolls just waiting to be unpacked.
The rain started its first salvo when the engine stopped and the earthen square and paths quickly started to ricochet the rain drops with added mud. The plastic ponchos salvaged from the Inca trail did a workman-like job of protecting us from the downdraught but were powerless in the face of what Raqchi threw back up.
We scurried after Lydia, through her doorway and into our bedroom. Nine year old Nellie had been evicted and as a mark of thanks, we dripped water and smeared mud across her bedroom floor. Matt and Tina, who had also be allocated to Lydia’s care, took the double bed, on account of this being their honeymoon.
Hanging up the ponchos to drip more water into Nellie’s bedroom, we trudged across the muddy courtyard and joined Lydia in the kitchen. Most of Peru is built of mud bricks, plastered with mud and straw. Lydia’s kitchen was no exception. As we sat on the mud seats, leaning against the mud wall, she busied herself at the mud oven.
She shoved handfuls of eucalyptus leafs into the growing fire and was rewarded with a flame to cook on and gouts of acrid smoke that rose to the ceiling and then billowed down the walls onto us, like a fire safety advert. Only then did we notice that the roof and walls above waist height were blackened with the routine smoke-out that meal times routinely entailed.
Thirty million people die annually of respiratory disease caused by cooking on open fires. Lydia seemed unconcerned as we dived for the exit, coughing and holding our sleeves to our faces.
When the smoke was gone, we returned to watch her construct a meal from the rawest of materials.
The maize was roasted and then ground to flour, by hand. The chicken stopped clucking in the yard, forty-five minutes before the dish came to the table. The potatoes came fresh from the field outside.
Dinner was ready when Lydia’s husband Bonifacio, came home from work.
We chatted happily over dinner with the family despite no one speaking the other's language and went to bed warm under llama blankets despite the absence of glass in the windows.
The cockerel crowed on the hour through the night.
I think we ate his girl.
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