Potatoes

by Patrick McKinnon (Australia)

Making a local connection Peru

As we crested over another jagged hill, civilization began to feel further and further behind me. Now ringed by jagged peaks and windswept fields, the only sign of habitation in sight was a distant mud-brick farmhouse. At the wheel, Juan pointed; ‘I was born there.’ Nodding, I gulped as we brushed along a narrow cliff-face. ‘Juan. When’s the last time you brought a backpacker up here?’ ‘Never. Only farmers and potatoes up here. Not many bars, eh?’ I'd met Juan on a recent hike to Macchu Picchu. Having bonded over a mutual love for Aymaran swear words and Peruvian pop-music, Juan had invited me to his family farm in Pisac, a town in the Peruvian Cordillera beyond Cusco. ‘Maybe we can hang out for the day, cook a meal like the locals do?’ ‘How’s your Dad gonna feel if an unknown Australian turns up at the house? ‘He’s never met one, but he’ll be OK.’ Juan had said. ‘Especially if you bring him a bottle of Pisco.’ I’d nodded and told him I’d catch the first bus to Pisac. As we drove deeper into the valley, I felt myself drift away from the hostel bars and tourist traps that haunted the 'gringo-trail' I'd been on these last few months. An old man emerged from the farmhouse as we approached. Recognising the car, his eyes crinkled into laugh lines. ‘My father Inti. He only speaks Aymara, but I’ll translate.’ Stepping into the thin altiplano air, I introduced myself as Juan mimicked a hopping kangaroo. 'He's Australian and he can ride a kangaroo.' Inti's eyes widened and he spoke rapidly in Aymara. 'He welcomes you to Pisac,' said Juan. The savage beauty of the Peruvian altiplano still leaving me breathless, I followed Inti as he walked along furrowed plough ridges in the field beyond the house. Stooping suddenly, he dragged at the dirt, muddy roots coming loose. Holding them aloft he smiled. “Potato?” I followed his lead, eventually plucking a cluster of potatoes from the soil. Joking, I noted that this was my first day of hard work in six months of backpacking. Inti and Juan laughed; ‘If you want to stay, there’s space in the yard for a tent. They pay isn’t so good though.’ We toiled in the field until a small pile of potatoes sat gathered before us. Dusting them off, Inti smiled; ‘Should we eat?’ I nodded, watching as he now gathered handfuls of clay and began stacking a hollow dome in the field, digging a small trench beneath once he’d finished. We piled the potatoes inside and watched as Inti sparked a cigarette lighter against the clay wall of the pyramid. A satisfied smile broke upon his face as white smoke began to puff from the clay. Juan helped his father stoke a small fire in the dirt, the potatoes now popping in the heat. Inti asked me if I thought they were ready. ‘How will I know?’ ‘Oh I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Poke your head in and find out?’ Pulled from the smoldering earth, the potato smarted in my hands. I watched as Juan and Inti bit into theirs, dirt and all. I did the same, the caked dirt breaking and giving way to a beautiful starchy flavour within. They were unlike anything I'd eaten before and I reached for another. ‘I’ve never eaten potatoes this good before.’ ‘The land absorbs flavour every time we cook in it. Each bite is like eating the ghosts of the potatoes from the year before.’ I nodded. ‘Some of the potatoes could have maggots in them though, which would explain the good flavours today.’ He laughed and winked at Juan. l nervously passed him the Pisco, desperately wondering whether he was joking. Surreptitiously, I searched my remaining potatoes, but found nothing wriggling within by the light of the sun, now slinking over the jagged mountains. The cordillera was bathed a deep purple now and Inti suggested we finish the Pisco in the farmhouse. I watched as father and son as returned to the mud-brick house, half a bottle of Pisco remaining. I'd never felt further from a hostel in my life.