Locro

The town seemed divided into two distinct parts. One was for the locals – the covered market place, the outdoors market straggling along long abandoned railway track, the little food places, concrete boxes or vast strip-lit dining halls, which were crammed at lunchtime. The other was for tourists – rows of shops selling piles of llama socks, hats, blankets, ponchos and rugs, musical instruments – pan pipes and toe nail shakers - and ugly ceramics as well as several restaurants with attractive lighting and stripy woven tablecloths, indigenous music on the stereo and wood-burning stoves smoking away. I was the only gringa in town and I spent my first night alone in a posh tourist joint, eating delicious locro – a local dish, stew made from large white corn kernels, chorizo, meat and squash – and a proper salad. A hippy couple wandered in, long hair, long clothes and guitars and began to sing ethereal wailing folk music – nature was mentioned a lot along with the sun, moon and stars. I was at least grateful for the warmth of the room and the salad and the orange glowing light and the escape from my little cell.