Something that strikes me here is the extreme difference between the upper class and lower class, and how few people are in between. I love trying to catch a glimpse inside a half-way open gate or a chink in a fence; every piece of property is enclosed in high walls with broken glass or cacti on top to keep out intruders, so the glimpses are rare. One day, while driving down a dirty street, someone slipped out of a gate; it was open long enough for me to see the courtyard inside for just a moment. The house was pristinely white in the background, but hardly noticed for the lushness of the c0urtyard. Orange trees, avocado trees, banana trees, eucalyptus trees created a miniature forest. Lovely flowering bushes lined little paths; arches were overhung with draping flowering vines. The focal point, however, was the huge carved cougar statue leaping to its height of nine or ten feet. Other, smaller statues of animals hid among the vegetation. The people who lived here probably had the luxury of being educated in a university. They probably rode to work in their own car. The lady probably walked around in black dress outfit and the ever-present high heels of the rich females; perhaps she was a teacher – a very prestigious position in Peru. Her husband worked maybe in the municipal building.
A glimpse inside another gate might give you a different picture – possibly a different culture. You see a small house made of mud adobes, its walls patched where they had begun to fall in. No bathroom exists – only a corner somewhat behind the house. The house is for sleeping, storage and shelter from weather. The kitchen, outside the house, consists of a four-foot by four-foot lean-to covered by a piece of aluminum sheltering a small mud oven. Radio music blares from inside the house – a harsh, nasal swinging accompanied by rock music.
Very likely, this place also has a stick attached to the wall, reaching over the street with a red plastic bag tied on the end. This is the well-known sign that anyone can obtain “chicha” there. Chicha is a fermented corn drink – the beverage of the poor and hopeless. You might pass an old Quechua lady sitting on the side of a road with a 5-gallon bucket of chicha beside her; by the time she goes home that night she will have drunk much of it herself and sold some to passersby. A lady at church saw a little girl yesterday drinking chicha. She went to the mother of the small child and asked her why she would give her chicha; the mother just said, “It’s fine. She is already a little drunk.” You might walk down a street where four or five houses will have the red bag outside their door. If you come back some week-end night, that same street will be wet with urine; occasional dark shadows are passed out in heaps on the narrow sidewalk. Disgusting? Yes. Perhaps though our vices are only less blatant.
