I don't always eat at vegetarian restaurants; but when I do, I prefer El Vegetariano

It's funny being a vegetarian in a foreign country, and all countries are foreign countries because being a vegetarian is a weird thing.There's a certain level of intimacy to explaining the details of what you will and won't allow to enter your body. And at the same time there's a risk because many people feel that dietary restrictions are a matter of attention-grabbing or some other behavioral failure. As my experience with the cuy and pato show, it's not a failure. There are just limitations to what one can shove in their mouth, chew, and swallow.

I've had some time to mull this issue over because I haven't had a good crossing of Internet access and time lately. I've recently returned home from Peru where, for the last few weeks of my trip, I had limited access to the Internet. I have a theory about that. I think that the Internet in Peru cycles every 90 seconds. It's as if Peru has DC electricity and AC Internet. I hypothesize that the AC Internet allows new users an opportunity to 'tap into the stream' of bandwidth. It also means that continuous connections, like those required for talking to you wife on Skype for more than 89 seconds, get cut off and your call is automatically dropped. But, this is 'folk-science' if you will. I really don't know and there are experts out there who could set me straight. For me, this theory, however, works fine in planning my communications in Peru. I can no longer rely on Skype for calls out to the US. All cultural logics are functional logics and all logics are cultural logics.

Which raises the question: what is the logic of vegetarian cuisine in Peru? At El Vegetariano, my favorite vegetarian restaurant in Peru, the logic is something apart from our logic here in the States. Here, I live not far from one of the most famous veggie joints in the US, The Chicago Diner. Since the early 80s the Chicago Diner has been making greasy, heavy diner food fit for vegans. It's so famous I remember a band from Arizona (called North), after we played a show together in Rhode Island, calculate that they could drive from Providence to Chicago for a meal at the Diner and then return before their next East Coast date. I think they were wrong, but their heart was in the right place. In fact, a lot of tattooed alternative-types find their heart bringing them to the Chicago Diner.

But in Peru, it's not just the punks going vegetarian. It's a lot of older people. In fact, it's more older people than punks. As an illustration, I visited a curandero some years ago during a noche de shamanes behind the Sechin Museum. The curandero was actually a pair of middle-class curanderas with fashionable jackets, not the beponchoed leathery tio I had expected. But they did their job marvelously. They prepared a convincing mesa of swords and chonta-wood staffs, inhaled and sprayed floral water all over, and banged us with swords. I elected not to have my future told. But an older fellow in the group of us clients was told 'you need to eat a more vegetarian diet.' 

As odd as it seems for Latin America, Peru is on a long-term health kick that promotes a lower-fat, higher-vegetable diet. As a result, there are more vegetarian restaurants than ever. And they're filled with older adults who are probably trying to control their cholesterol. As I've always said, Peruvian food is full of vegetables and non-meat items. Usually the meat is a chop or leg or filet piled on top of non-meat stuff (well, besides the lard flavoring the beans). So at good vegetarian restaurants, like El Vegetariano, they've done the logical thing; they make traditional Peruvian dishes - mostly from the coastal criollo genre - with various kinds of soy and wheat meat alternatives.

Ceviche Vegetariano as part of the first course in a typical lunch spread

Carapulcra with rice and sarsa criolla

Take for example this lovely meal. The first course is a ceviche - Peru's most exported dish - made essentially with tofu. Like much Peruvian food, this ceviche demonstrates that there is no limit to how much lime juice you may apply to a dish. However, note the unusual dish of red aji at 11 o'clock. Normally aji is a milled fresh pepper mixture that also includes a good dose of salt. For Peruvian vegetarians, salt might be against doctor's orders. So here, the aji is a bit sub-par, but fitting the wider interest in vegetarianism - health reasons (reasons not much respected at The Chicago Diner, what with the use of fats, sugars, and salts to enhance the 'diner-style' rich foods). Notice the camote, or sweet potato, and large chunk of choclo or Andean corn on the cob that accompanies the ceviche. Glasses of white yogurt, brown refresco de cebada (barley drink), and a tub of masamora (a sweet corn goopy dessert) make their way from course one to course two. Course two consists of carapulcra, which is a highland dish usually made of dried and smashed potatoes (chuño) mixed with spices and pork bits. In this case the pork was some kind of soy product. On the side is sarsa criolla, a spicy and limy red onion salad so common in coastal food. Finally, a molded pile of brown rice rounds out the meal.

Sometimes gringos express confusion over the use of rice in Peru. Shouldn't it all be potatoes? But remember, Peru has been the home of immigrants from all over the world since the 16th century. Huge numbers of Africans and then Chinese came over to work in cane fields and later on railroads. Rice and sugar (neither of which are native) have been fully integrated parts of the Peruvian diet - especially the coastal comida criolla - for centuries. Rice is an everyday part of Peruvian life that fits nicely within the harsh and volatile environment.

I must admit that I miss meals like this one of ceviche, carapulcra, and sarsa criolla. I also miss the obligatory huge bowls of restorative soups that they serve in Peru, which can be very cold and unforgiving in the austral winter. Notice the fresh cut green beans garnishing this pasta and kale soup.

Vegetable soup at El Vegetariano, Miraflores, Lima, Peru

So when I get home, I usually go through a period of culture shock. Or is it cultural amnesia? What is it that I usually eat here in the States? People in Peru ask me that all the time. They usually first ask about our traditional foods, as that is a critical cultural category in Peru. Every village, region, and department (like a state) has its dish or genre. What do we have in the US? We must eat a lot of comida rapida (fast food), they usually suggest.

I usually dodge this embarrassing truth by offering barbecue as a uniquely American (as in estadounidense) cuisine. And indeed it is. I try to explain barbecue, and it usually works. In fact, they have something like barbecue in Peru. There's pachamanca, which is meat and potatoes slow cooked in an underground hearth while covered with earth. There's also caja china (the Chinese box), where a pig is roasted in a metal box full of coals.

So when I come home and don't know what to eat, I just figure 'we must eat a lot of comida rapida.' Then I go eat fast food. There's a limited but consistent range of vegetarian fast food. That is, after all, the goal of fast food: consistency (and speed, though that's changing to meet cultural values of 'carefully prepared food'). Taco Bell has bean burritos that are actually vegan if you don't get the cheese. Every touring punk or hardcore band knows this because that's one of the go-to places for your vegan band mates. Burger King also has veggie burgers that are, admittedly, quite a delicious indulgence. But - like all fast foods - you gotta eat them fast. They're meant to taste extremely good for about 5 minutes while they're piping hot. After that the magic wears off and you have a lot of trouble appreciating the flavor.

I went to Burger King today and ordered a few veggie burgers, some fries, and a drink. Apparently they have new fries now that are meant to satisfy you. They're called 'satisfries.' I went with the old un-satisfries. They were fine because I ate them quickly. The burgers were fine, too, but you need to ask for a lot of pickles and onions and hope that the 'kitchen' actually remembers to supply them.

The thing that confused me most was the cup. I was thirsty and figured I could go for a large drink. It's also been very hot lately and I had walked to Burger King (a pre-emptive flagellation for the planned transgression). I was a bit embarrassed to accept such a large bucket as part of my meal. Honestly, I thought to myself, 'what am I supposed to put in here!' Then I remembered a very American cultural beverage preference: ice. In Peru you get relatively small soft drink bottles served with small glasses and no ice. Ask for ice and - like in Europe - you'll get a few cubes. (I've never had a problem drinking beverages with a couple ice cubes in Peru and the attitude on drinking the water seems to be changing along with Peru's global economic reputation). When handed a truly immense cup in the US at a fast food restaurant, a yawning tub of plastic receptacle, what do you do? Fill it with ice!

I recognize that - as was reported in Fast Food Nation - soft drinks got bigger in order to increase marginal profits for restaurants and beverage providers. But, speaking as an archaeologist now, the enormity of fast food drinking vessels must in part be influenced by the cultural practice of consuming beverages that are as cold as possible because they're completely filled with ice.

In any case, I filled my giant tumbler - a true kero for use in a very-American consumerist ritual - with as much ice as it would hold. I filled the interstices with diet Dr. Pepper (the only thing to drink at Burger King). And then I sat down for my shameful feast as a NASCAR race spun out of control on the dining room TV.

A few hours later, I'm hungry again.

Don't forget extra pickles and onions

Not 'whether' but 'when' is it extortion...?

They blew the doors off of Pollos Roky ('Roky Chicken,' just in case). I don't mean that Roky's had a bang-up night at the cash register. Actually, the problem was that the cash register was too tight, stayed closed, didn't open up when it shoulda.

See, I was having an afternoon rest in my hotel room when a BOOM so loud almost shook me off the bed. I'm used to BOOMs and BANGs all the time in Casma. They're shooting off fireworks (cuetes 'full golpe') all the time here. They wake you up in the morning and they keep you up at night. Sometimes it's clear why they're blowing off the fireworks. For example, at 12:01AM on the feast of the Virgin del Carmen, you blow off some fireworks to let people know it's time to celebrate, venerate, and party.

But that one boom. That really was odd. And the next day I found out why. They blew the doors off Pollos Roky. That's to say, they threw dynamite at the doors and blew them right off. It was after hours and, by morning, the scene didn't look so bad. There just weren't any doors anymore. Roky's was a big gaping garage of a chicken shack.

Pollos Roky, ex post facto

Roky's is one of the lesser chicken chains here in Peru; but even so, I was surprised to see one in Casma. Casma is a provincial city known for it's continual sunshine, it's many schools, and its 'authenticity' as an agricultural province. It's not backwards by any means, if that's what you're thinking. It's just that country kitchens, where they stew poultry over the candela (a wood and cane-fueled open fire), are local favorites. Chains from Lima don't seem like they'd get much business.

Apparently, the local extortionists aren't getting much business either. Roky's refused to pay up on their protection money, and so they found out what they woulda been protected from.

Extortion is an interesting thing. On the surface, it's wrong. On the books, it's illegal. But as a close and brilliant friend once told me, the question isn't whether it's illegal, it's when is it illegal? In other words, there are no hard and fast lines of legality/illegality or right/wrong. These values get adjusted locally and regularly. For example, on the highway between district towns.

The highway police here are colloquially called tragamonedas. Literally, that means 'coin swallower.' Technically, tragamonedas means 'slot machine.' The highway police are always stationed somewhere or other on the roads into or out of Casma. While I have been stopped several times without incident, the same isn't so for the colectivo drivers who provide intra-district transportation up and down the coastal river valleys. Colectivo drivers regularly have their licenses, insurance, and identity cards checked. It's customary to put a 2 or 5 nuevo sol (PEN) coin under the documents when handing them to the police. 

And why not? Usually the colectivos carry more people than they're supposed to. Standard passage is 6 soles. If you fit four passengers in the vehicle, like you're supposed to, that's 24 soles in gross income. If you fit five passengers in the vehicle, then the fare is only 5 soles, but the gross is 25 soles. Everyone wins. They're just not supposed to.

Occasionally, the highway police will run a multi-day operativo, where they really crack down on transport informalities (and profit). By the time you show up to ride the colectivo, though, everyone already knows about the operativo. So the colectivos go the dusty, garbage-piled back roads that parallel the highway to avoid the police. But since everybody knows, the police are already there collecting documents and coins. Like many processes in Peru, it's a low-stakes cat and mouse game that ends up benefiting everyone a little bit in an informal economy where even the unbridled profiteering is pretty small-scale.

A similar sort of 'coin swallowing' takes on quasi-formal appearances at the entrances to several districts. Neighborhood associations and 'rondas campesinas' often set up light barricades in front of some of the rural valleys. Upon entry, vehicles pay a toll of one or two soles. In some cases you get a receipt. You might argue that you're always supposed to get a receipt. But no one always gets a receipt for anything. Anywhere. Sometimes the peajes (or tolls) are staffed by people wearing uniform vests, which are the universal sign of authority in provincial Peru.

Ostensibly tolls support the rondas, which are basically neighborhood watch 'rounds.' Alternatively, some people believe that the tolls might be used to maintain country roads beyond state support (which is extremely limited). However, you only hear that the peaje might go to road maintenance in the context of complaints that they are not at all being used for road maintenance.

Peajes are an archetypal phenomenon of Peruvian informalism. I knew one such peaje well, as I paid it every day while conducting archaeological fieldwork for my doctoral dissertation. I paid one sol each day as I entered the middle Casma Valley on the dirt road that crosses Pampa Allegre. I got a little 3cm x 3cm receipt each time. On the way out, no toll. The explanation was that there had been livestock russlin' in the area and that the toll helped monitor who went into and out of the valley.

However, what was really going - as far as I could tell - was that a fella decided to put a little shack and a gate on the entrance to the valley. He made himself a home and a job, all at the same time. The service appeared necessary enough, the rate seemed reasonable enough, and there were occasional public discussions about his work, so as to keep up appearances. All told, an informal consensus was met to let the guy live there and charge the toll. And you had to hand it to him; he rigged up the gate so he could operate it without getting out of bed.

Four years later his shack is bigger. He has some animal pens, and the toll has doubled. But he can still operate it from bed.

Extortion for protection money is a crime under the conditions that some alternative has been proposed and that people believe the alternative is superior. The alternative might be seen as more effective, more ethical, or morally proper. In a civil society, they say, the police should protect businesses. But in reality, a guy who can blow the doors off of your chicken shack is also someone who might legitimately be able to protect you against other kinds of dangers (and extortionists). Similarly, a phalanx of cops who can beat the teeth out of your head with their nightsticks during a protest are also exceptionally capable of parting the crowd when your ambulance needs to get to the ER.

It sucks that Roky's had its doors blown off. It's sort of annoying to pay peajes when you're not at all sure why you're paying. It's maddening when the police commit violence against the very people they're sworn to protect.

But in all these cases, there's some kind of tacit agreement being made somewhere. And that's the common thread that runs from mafia extortion to involuntary 'donations' for rondas campesinas to giving police officers the authority to plug you full of bullets under certain conditions. They're all interactions that have been subject to interpersonal agreements, though of varying natures and inclusivity. They all follow certain logics, even though some of those logics are believed to be valid and others are labeled as chaos. But the mafiosos will always point out that there is a logic behind organized crime, even when it's only loosely organized. On the other hand, 'legitimate' politicians across the globe will argue that - outside of civil society - there are no rules and that irrationality reigns. I'm not saying that I do or would prefer uncivil society. Not at all. Nor am I suggesting that blowing doors up is OK. I fear violence. But I also recognize that most societies are composed of multiple forms of logic and negotiation that are vying for recognition. Maybe I'm suggesting it would be better if we acknowledged those competing logics and handled them accordingly. 

In any case, for Pollos Roky (which, I might add, is located directly across from a cockfight pit), one wonders if the extortion and retribution wasn't also part of an inverted cargo system. In cargo systems, when you start getting real rich, it becomes your turn to be mayordomo of the village feast. That's your big chance to build social capital by diminishing your financial capital; it's the potlatch. Maybe Roky's was in bringing britches from Lima that were just too big for Casma. So they got blown right off.

However, in an ironic twist perfectly representative of Peruvian informality, the local Pollos Roky's is a fraud. It's not a real franchise of Roky's. They've just stolen the image, name, and theme in order to draw people away from the other myriad broasters in town. Apparently they also drew dynamite to their door.

Receipt for peaje to enter Comandante Noel district, Casma

"Noelino neighbor, friendly visitor help out with your donation for better security from the District Neighborhood Associations and national Police working together against insecurity [sic]."

Round 2: Dave vs. Duck (Part 2 of 3)

[This is a sequel to 'Cavia porcellus vs. Ursa pacificus.' Read that post first]

Just after my encounter with the cuy in Huaraz, my friend Harold invited me to his house to celebrate his birthday with him and his family. I lived with Harold, his brother, and his mom in 2007. Their taking me in is a testament to the incredible generosity of Peruvians. I recognize that everyone says that about every culture; but it is really hard to imagine inviting someone you've known for three weeks to come live in your house, to cook meals and provide a bed for them, and to take care of them when they (along with everyone else in the household) are quite sick. To do so without asking for anything in return is amazing beyond words. I would like to say that I have the generosity, trust, and would to do the same, but I'm not sure. 

Harold has also known since 2007 that I'm a vegetarian. It's become a running joke that I love tacu tacu, the exquisite Peruvian version of rice and beans. His wife, however, planned to make ceviche de pato. Ceviche de pato is a spicy duck stew. Although it bears the name of the sweet and spicy ceviche made with uncooked fish, ceviche de pato is cooked quite thoroughly. In this case, the ceviche is a reference to the addition of aji peppers in the stew, the very same ones used in fish ceviches. It's also one of the iconic dishes of this area. Like regions of the Southern US with their local barbecue recipes, regions, cities, and even villages in Peru have their own local specialties. People will drive far outside the city to taste local specialties, often served at restaurantes campestres, country restaurants.

Harold had told his wife ahead of time that I don't eat meat, but I had also mentioned that perhaps I would try the pato. Like cuyes, ducks are also typically grown and fed right in someone's yard. The domestic ducks in this part of Peru are usually Muscovy ducks (Cairina moschata), which are native to the region. Harold and his wife Susana raised a bunch of them in their backyard and killed the two largest to feed his friends and family.

I watched happily as Susana cooked the duck, boiling rapidly, over a moderate fire in their backyard candela. Candelas are country stoves made of a pair of adobes, poured concrete, or a metal frame into which long logs and canes are progressively fed. 

When it came time to eat, it was just the three of us, as Harold's suegros (in-laws) would be late. Susana was a most gracious and amazing host (and cook). In addition to ceviche de pato, she prepared zarandejas (a light-colored bean), yucca sancochada (steam/boiled), rice, sarsa criolla, and bought a lovely orange package of aji. In Peru, aji comes in clear tubular bags of varying lengths. It can be various colors and always smells incredibly delicious and fragrant when you approach the aji lady in the market.

Dutifully, Susana piled us each a huge plate of pato, rice, and beans. She cut me some sarsa, flooded it with lime juice (key lime, remember), and anointed it with a roughly cut ring of fiery aji.

"He's not gonna eat it," said Harold.

"I'm gonna try it. I told you I would," I said.

Susana's lovely plating and place-settings for Harold's birthday meal

It was a lot easier to eat the duck. I had a lovely and large breast portion, stewed to obvious perfection with sweet onions in spicy red juices. Susana had done an excellent job and, while Harold was both amused and concerned that I might challenge my philosophy, I was determined at least to do all parties dignity by cutting off as much as I could, placing it in my mouth, chewing thoughtfully, and swallowing. That is a form of eating that I probably never do. Now was the time.

I ate a few bites indeed. A good cubic centimeter or two, which is exponentially more food than the centimeters squared of cuy I had eaten earlier in the week. Yet, I could not eat very much. There's something in the juices and fats, the flavors and textures of meat that doesn't yet agree with me. I can chew and swallow it, but then my body - or mind or both - begins to tell me that something isn't right. 

I explained to Susana and Harold that I was grateful for the delicious duck that they had raised, killed, and cooked not 10 meters away in their yard, next to the cuyes, in the shade of the quincha cane walls, and in the shadow of their recently-planted garden of maracuya (Passiflora edulis or "passion fruit") vines, banana (Musa sp.) and guayaba trees (Psidium sp.).  

I had eaten all I physically could. I didn't think I would 'get sick' so to speak, but I also didn't want to risk it. Which is worse? Eating just a little of a cut - enough so that it can be salvaged and saved - or eating a lot more and then potentially vomiting in front of your guest, not because the food is bad, but because my body is bad?

Susana and Harold took it in stride. Harold already knew I wouldn't eat any of it, and I suppose that I did more than expected of me from his perspective. Susana may have remained somewhat unsure of the whole event; but she nevertheless smiled a big, honest, and kind smile, "I don't mind at all, it's barely touched, I'll save it for later."

No matter how far I am willing to push myself outside my boundaries of comfort, it turns out that there are deeper structures in me that set certain limits. There are probably lots of ways of explaining this with respect to brain areas, psychological structures, and biological reflexes. I'm not much interested in those explanations. For me and the duck, it's enough to know that I simply cannot eat very much meat, even if I were to want to do so.

And I wanted to eat that entire duck breast, not because I like or desire meat, but because I believe(d) there was something valuable to be experienced there between me, Harold and Susana, and the duck.

[Continue to Part 3 of 3 - Round 3: La Gringa]

Travelogue 19 July 2014, Part 2 of 2

As a kid I always wanted to go on adventures. I lived in a suburb, then an exerb, then another – more remote and older – exurb. We’d play in the woods and explore them, though we knew that on the other side of the woods was another development just like ours. Knowing that your adventures are limited to the area in-between doesn’t diminish the sense of adventure, not even in hindsight. There was something legitimately revelatory in finding the plywood shacks that older kids used for chewing tobacco and looking at dirty magazines. Even more exciting was finding the remains of old buildings that had fallen out of use when the farmland (it’s always farmland) was converted into a development.

Yet, the legitimacy of those childhood adventures doesn’t diminish the experience of finding archaeological sites at the edges of Peru’s rural valleys.

Today I took a trip up to Yaután. I’d always wanted to go there, as it seems my years of experience in this part of Peru are pretty concentrated in the provincial city of Casma itself. The trip to Yaután and, ultimately, the sites of Palka and its neighbors highlighted for me all the wonderful things about Peru, Peruvians, and Peruvian exploration in search of archaeological sites.

Last night as I did a turn around Casma, I checked in with the ‘colectivos’ that run to Yaután. Colectivos are semi-private autos that do fixed runs between small towns. They usually hold 4 passengers, plus the driver, and can range in quality from later-model Toyota wagons to very early Mopar vehicles. When they’re full, they go. The fare (pasaje) is cheap and – increasingly – posted in the windshield. The colectivos (which also refers to the vehicle, not just the service) get filled up by callers barking out the destination. They’ll identify people, point at them and call out – inquisitively – “YAUTÁN!”

As a gringo, this technique always tips me off as to where people think I fit in. Callers often look at me and holler, “Huaráz!,”because Huaráz is the mountain sports capital of this area (and maybe all of Peru).

Last night I conversed with the colectivo caller and he explained they run from 4am to about 9pm back and forth to Yaután. I said I wasn’t going that night, but would the next day. Well, today he remembered me. I walked up and he said “Ya vez? Yaután!”… “See! Yaután,” ‘cuz he knew I’d return. However, I needed some AA batteries and asked when we’d be leaving “ahorita!” he said. I always understand ahorita to mean, ‘in a couple minutes.’ It’s the Peruvian version of the proper usage of ‘presently’ in English.

I said I needed some AA batteries, would get them, and then return. But another caller resting on a bench in the colectivo garage corrected me. “En Yaután también hay!” It’s hard to explain the charm of this phrasing. To me it translates pretty directly as “They got’em in Yaután, too!” But the light sarcasm floating over the totally factual – and helpful – statement defies easy appreciation. The resting caller was right, they have AA batteries in Yaután. I wanted to get there and so did the 3 other guys waiting in the wagon to hit the road to Yaután.

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The road to Yaután cuts in between the two branches of the Casma River. The south branch is properly called the Casma River and the north branch is the Sechin River. They meet about at the town of Casma and then flow past the Port of Casma into the Pacific Ocean.

The road between these branches cuts between a series of large, rocky, and almost completely barren mountains. The landscape is lunar or Martian in appearance: authentically extraterrestrial. Of course, this is because it really is an extra terrestrial landscape. It was formed under the ancient shoreline by volcanic activity and gradually elevated by tectonic uplift. These geologically recent origins also explain the distinctive pointy peaks of these Andean foothills, and probably why there are so many large rocks on top of granitic bedrock. All the sand was washed away by the ancient ocean or blown away by more recent winds. Indeed, there are some ancient fossils of bivalves in the hills, but very few plants in between Casma and Yautan, which is to say cutting between two sets of these mountains.

Eastward view of the mountains between the Sechin and Casma Rivers,
between Casma and Yautan

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Peru might be a small country, but Peruvian downs are definitely small towns. After only a little discussion about what I, a gringo, might be doing in Yautan, it turned out that the director of public relations was in the front seat of the colectivo. He was eager to help me find my way to the archaeological sites in the area, especially Palka. He explained that from the Plaza de Armas - the obligatory central square in every Peruvian town - I could take a mototaxi to the dirt path down the valley that would take me to Palka. He helped me find the taxi and off we went.

Yautan's Plaza de Armas

Now, I wasn't particularly interested in Palka. I know it's a very old site (i.e. Formative or Pre-Ceramic, ca. 2000BC or older). I also knew that the university in Huaraz had been doing projects there and found a Middle Horizon (ca. AD 500) settlement there, too. However, I reasoned that if there were an archaeological site in easy reach, there would be a path, too. Usually the sites are perched on the border between the cerros and the agricultural land and linked by worn footpaths. I could go check out Palka and then continue on looking for the archaeological sites that I'm interested in, which date to about AD 1000-1500. 

I found Palka and a pathway that I followed westward for a while. There were indeed some other archaeological sites, but I won't comment on them here. Instead, I want to comment on some unexpected finds.

Main temple terraces and mound at Palka (middle ground).
Notice that it mimics the mountains in the background

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On my way down from the walk through Palka's trails, I noticed a series of aluminum cans filled with charred corn fiber. At first, I thought these cans were used to create smoke for harvesting honey from any one of the many beehives that are found around these sandy, rocky cerros. However, many - if not all - of these cans were arranged along the trail, as if to illuminate it. 

Why would someone be illuminating a trail to an 'unimproved' archaeological site? My guess is that there are rituals of some sort that take place here at night. Archaeological sites remain important places for modern rituals ranging from the occult to overt nationalist purposes (e.g., Evo Morales being sworn in at Tiwanaku, Bolivia and Alejandro Toledo and his wife holding important political events in Cusco's sacred sites).

I wish I could have done more investigating of this mystery. On the one hand, I fully recognize and appreciate non-academic uses of archaeological sites. I think it's essential that archaeologists not monopolize the use and interpretation of sites. On the other hand, if I knew who was doing what out there, I might be able to provide some pointers on safe and sustainable practices for preserving the site for continued and future use by academics and non-academics alike.

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Archaeology, like any job, can lose its joy rather quickly. The most romantic notions of archaeology are pretty well wrecked as soon as you start that umpteenth day sifting sand for the same small scraps of broken ceramic vessels. The first time you run a project, you get a crash-course in endless acid reflux. Archaeology becomes a series of frustrations with broken equipment, bureaucratic barriers, and bundles of paperwork - much of it of your own making.

Yet exploration of millennial archaeological sites reminds me of the thrill of adventure. It feels like real exploration, real adventure. It really does.

Looking north over the Palka River/Rio Grande, 19 July 2014

Travelogue 19 July 2014, Part 1 of 2

Arrived in Casma last night after a long trip to Peru. I flew a budget airline, which was mostly fine; but it prolonged what is already a moderately long voyage that always feels very long. No matter what, it takes all day to get from the US to Lima, Peru and then it takes all day to get from Lima to Casma. I gave myself a day in-between to visit some of my favorite sites in Lima before boarding another metal tube full of humans for another long voyage.

When I arrived in Casma, the first thing I did was check in to my hotel. As is often the case, they weren’t quite certain that I had a reservation because all the rooms were booked up during the middle of my supposed stay: for Fiestas Patrias/Peruvian Independence Day. However, once I showed the attendant my email correspondence substantiating my claim. I got a room that maybe had been forgotten for a while. There was no shower curtain and the floor was not swept. Peruvians always keep floors clean, I think as both a matter of pride and as a sign of respect to others who might visit.

As a matter of self-care, I took a spin on foot all around Casma to get my bearings. Then I ate at one of my favorite restaurants, El Tio Sam (Uncle Sam), Casma’s best-known restaurante turistica. I've been going to Tio Sam for a long time. I’d stopped here during my first trip to Peru in 2001, have run into countless archaeologists there just by accident in subsequent years, and I spent a lot of time eating there eating alone during my stay whilst completing my dissertation field research. Now, as was the case in 2011, it seems that Tio Sam is doing bangup business contracting a pension with the OHL road construction crew. 

Last night, men in yellow fluorescent uniforms were lined up out the door to sign the register and receive their dinner. The menu appeared to be roast chicken and puree de verduras, served over a pile of rice. Naturally the puree nearly slid off the plate: a Peruvian serving technique that says, ‘I’ve given you all this plate can handle, engordate!’

I ordered my classic favorite dish here, a dish done so well here that there’s almost no point in asking for it elsewhere: tacu tacu solo con sarsa criolla. Tacu tacu is exemplary as a Peruvian coastal dish. It includes a combination of indigenous, European, and Asian ingredients prepared in a stick-to-your-ribs recipe that nourishes people who begin work during cold, foggy mornings and end in hot, dry afternoons. Tacu tacu must have been hacienda food that was made cheaply and in bulk to feed to farmhands and corvée laborers.

In its foundation, tacu tacu is Peruvian rice and beans. I've been told that the rice must be leftover from yesterday and the beans are typically canarias, which are like Mexican pinto beans. The rice and beans are mixed with piquant spices that almost certainly include one of the innumerable Peruvian chilis, collectively called aji, salt, and citrus. Some cooks use breadcrumbs on top and make a yellower version. However, Tio Sam does it much much better. They use cebolla china (green onions) and no breadcrumbs. The tacu tacu always has a reddish-pink color to it. The sarsa criolla served on the side is mild red onions mixed with lots of lime juice (exclusively a variety like the key lime), and hot pepper rings. They marinate together to create a refreshing and satisfying dish that is somewhere between a condiment and a salad.

The key here is that the sarsa’s tart and sweet juices flood around the rice and bean pancake and then mingle with its base. I could eat tons of this, and I have. I sometimes have asked for a double order of doubly hot sarsa. Some young (American) archaeologists from these parts have been known to collect the extras from their colleagues and save them for late-night snacking. Such a good dish.

Having stuffed myself full of the savory and sour tacu tacu con sarsa criolla, I made my way back to the hotel. On the way back I ate some picarones: Peruvian fried dough rings made with pumpkin flour and anise, topped with clove-infused molasses 'miel' (honey). I also ran into my old friend and colleague Felix, who - when not expertly excavating with an American archaeological project - serves as the de facto harbor master for the mototaxis that serve the Sechin branch of the Casma River.

Finally, I returned to the hotel, crawled into bed, and failed completely in reading any of Don Quixote (who is perhaps the archetype for all archaeologists). I slept for a solid 9 hours.

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I think that it’s important to attend to various kinds of self-care when travelling, especially when traveling alone. In this case, getting my bearings by doing a pass around Casma – a city I knew pretty well 3 years ago – is a good way to feel at home again in what is, admittedly, quite a strange place for a gringo. Eating familiar and favorite foods really helps one to acclimate to a new place, too. In this case, the tacu tacu was not only one of my favorite foods, but a food that I've eaten together with friends and my wife; it's become a bit famous among us, and so it is doubly familiar. It's familiar to me, but also the food I've shared with my familiars.

Tacu Tacu with Sarsa Criolla from El Tio Sam