Food, Power, and

Resistance in the Andes

 Food, Power, and
Resistance in the Andes
Exploring Quechua
Verbal and Visual Narratives

Alison Krögel

Lexington Books
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Lyrics to “Waychawcituy” by Magaly Solier. Used with permission from Magaly

Solier and Wandavisíon.

Lyrics to “Porqué me miras así” by Magaly Solier. Used with permission from
Magaly Solier and Wandavisíon.

“Ch’awiyuyu mama” by Ch’aska Eugenia Anka Ninawama. From the poetry

collection Poesía en Quecha: Chaskaschay. Quito: Abaya Yala, 2004. Used with
permission.

“¡Jatariichik!” by César Guardia Mayorga. From Runa Simi Jarawi: Poesía

quechua. Lima: Imprenta Compo Fast S.R.L., 1975. Used with permission of Sara
Beatriz Guardia.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
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who may quote passages in a review.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Krögel, Alison, 1978–
Food, power, and resistance in the Andes : exploring Quechua verbal and visual
narratives / Alison Krögel.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-7391-4759-7 (cloth : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-7391-4761-0 (electronic)
1. Quechua women—Social conditions. 2. Women cooks—Peru—Social condi-
tions. 3. Quechua Indians—Food—Social aspects. 4. Food—Symbolic aspects—
Peru. 5. Food—Social aspects—Peru. 6. Cooking—Social aspects—Peru. I. Title.
F2230.2.K4K76 2011
641.5985—dc22 2010035234

™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of

American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for
Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992. Printed in the United States
of America
A Gustavo
 Contents

List of Figures ix
Acknowledgments xi
Introduction: F
 ood, Narrative, and Symbolic
Communication in the Andes 1
 1  A Brief Cultural History of Andean Staple Foods 19
 2  The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods in Tahuantinsuyu
and Colonial Perú: Ritual Expression, Discursive Resistance 39
 3  Profits, Prestige, and Power in the Andean Market
and Chichería 75
 4  “Las chicheras se defienden”: Canny, Creative Cooks in
the Visual and Verbal Narratives of José María Arguedas,
Martín Chambi, and Claudia Llosa 105
 5  Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks: Culinary
Witchcraft in Quechua Oral Narratives 141
 6  Conclusion: Globalization, Food Security, and
the Quechua Food-Landscape 175
Appendix 207
Bibliography 213
Index 235
About the Author 241

vii
 Figures

Figure 2.1: Map of Tahuantinsuyu, Incan Expansion by 1532 41

Figure 2.2: Conquista: Gvaina Capac Inca, Candía Español
(Conquest: Huayna Capac, Candía the Spaniard),
Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, 1615 42
Figure 2.3: Indios que mata el carnero (Indians Who Kill
a Ram), Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, 1615 49
Figure 2.4: La última cena (The Last Supper), Marcos
Zapata, mid-eighteenth century 65
Figure 3.1: Juice vendor and her clients inside Cusco’s
Mercado Central 82
Figure 3.2: Paulina Sallo de Sotelo sells a wide variety
of potatoes at her corner stall 84
Figure 3.3: Vendor selling beef products in the Mercado Central 87
Figure 3.4: Market cook serving lunchtime customers a
variety of set meals from her pots 88
Figure 4.1: Runa couple collecting salt near the salineras de
Maras (Maras salt pans), Maras, Urubamba, Cusco 108
Figure 4.2: Señoritas en la chichería, 1927, Martín Chambi 123
Figure 4.3: Mestiza tomando chicha, 1931, Martín Chambi 124
Figure 4.4: Campesinos bebiendo chicha en Ch’oq’o, 1928,
Martín Chambi 126

ix
x Figures

Figure 4.5: Vendedora de chicha de Quiquijana, 1930,

Martín Chambi 127
Figure 4.6: Madeinusa (Magaly Solier) plotting in the kitchen 136
Figure 5.1: Women trade agricultural products and sell textiles at
Chinchero’s Sunday Market 143
Figure 5.2: Map of the Department of Cusco and the District
of Chinchero 144
Figure 5.3: Grimaldo Quillahuamán Cusihuamán preparing
an underground “earthen stove” called a wathiya
(or pachamanca) in a field near his home 145
Figure 5.4: Rosa Quispe Quispe and her sister, Nieves, recording
a narrative during a break from work in the fields 147
Figure 5.5: Rosa performs a version of her “Layq’a wayk’uq”
narrative in November 2005 165
Figure 6.1: Hernán Quillahuamán Quispe carries a handmade,
wooden taqlla plow 189
Figure 6.2: Farmers who belong to a cooperative of maize growers
from the Valle sagrado (Sacred Valley of the Incas) 197
 Acknowledgments

D uring the years that I have researched, written, and revised this
book I have benefited from the intellectual, moral, and economic
support of various individuals and institutions. Over the past decade of
research trips to Cusco, Perú, Raquel Alejo Mango, her brothers Luis and
Dennis, as well as her husband, Hernán Quillahuamán Quispe, and their
three children, Milagros, Josué, and Yeremí, have been my second fam-
ily in Cusco. Their friendship, support, humor, and love for the Cusco
region have enriched every one of my stays in Perú. Years ago, Hernán
Quillahuamán Quispe graciously agreed to introduce me to his family
and neighbors in the community of Ch’akalqocha, Chinchero, and since
then, his help with transcribing hours of taped Quechua narratives has
been invaluable. Hernán’s parents Rosa Quispe Quispe and Grimaldo
Quillahuamán Cusihuamán have kindly opened up their home to me
and shared their food, frutillada, and fascinating Quechua narratives on
each of my trips to Chinchero. The fifth chapter of this book could never
have been written without their generous collaboration and without the
kindness of many of their neighbors and extended family members in
Ch’akalqocha, qankuna yachachiwarankichis, yanapawarankichis, mihuyta
quwarankichis, ñanta rikuchiwarankichis—Tukuy sunquywan, yusulpayki.
For years, Paulina Sallo de Sotelo and her daughter, Agustina Sotelo,
have helped me to negotiate the intricacies of Cusco’s Mercado Central
with their intelligence, humor, and deep knowledge of urban and rural
Andean food-landscapes. Wency Condori Callapiña helped me to tran-
scribe taped Quechua narratives and introduced me to the wonderful
world of radio ñak’aqs presented on the program “Viaje a lo desconocido.”

xi
xii Acknowledgments

My first extended research trip to Cusco in 2001 was enriched by Edith

Zevallos Apaza’s enthusiastic and comprehensive lessons on the linguis-
tic subtleties of Quechua as she patiently helped me to learn more about
the beautiful complexities of her language.
This book has also benefited in innumerable ways from the thoughtful
and detailed readings of my dissertation advisor, Dr. Regina Harrison,
whose keen eye for the details and subtleties of Quechua cultural and
linguistic analyses helped me to get this project off the ground in the first
place, and later, to make key revisions in later stages of its genesis. At the
University of Denver, Rachel Walsh’s swift organization of our Junior
Faculty Collective helped me to quickly refocus my energies back toward
writing and research soon after moving to the sierra of the Rockies.
The Dean’s Faculty Research Fund, Internationalization Grant, Fac-
ulty Research Fund, and a mini-sabbatical at the University of Denver
provided me with time away from teaching to write, funding for permis-
sions fees, as well as support for a much-needed trip to Perú during the
final revision process. Research in Perú during the preliminary stages of
research as a graduate student at the University of Maryland was funded
by a Goldhaber Travel Grant, the Latin American Studies Center Summer
Research Grant, and a Cosmos Club Foundation Research Grant. I am
thankful to each of these institutions for their generous support.
Finally, I must especially thank my family: my parents, Diane and Jerry
Krögel; my sister, Erin; and my husband, Gustavo Fierros. For years, my
parents and sister have helped to keep my spirits up and my research
on track with phone calls, care packages, and visits to Latin America.
Gustavo has provided emotional and intellectual support during the
research and writing of this book in many of the places we have called
home over the years.
 Introduction
Food, Narrative, and Symbolic
Communication in the Andes

An entire “world” is present in and signified in food . . . [it] transforms

itself into situation and performs a social function, it is not just physical
nourishment.
—Roland Barthes, “Toward a Psychosociology
of Contemporary Food Consumption”

T hroughout the centuries and across continents, cooks have trafficked

in the marketplace of taste, empowered by their ability to skillfully
manipulate diners’ senses and inspire their palates. A cook’s artistry in-
volves a medium which is unique in that while food is of course a vital
necessity, it can also be rendered into extravagantly luxurious forms.
Our enjoyment of a meal depends on the complex sensory perception
of the colors, aromas, textures, and flavors of the foods arranged on our
plates, and any good cook knows just how to exploit the ingredients at
her disposal to achieve a desired effect. Even the most powerful of rulers
must eat, and whether dining in a sumptuous banquet hall or around the
kitchen table, diners who consume dishes which they have not prepared
for themselves must trust that their cook has chosen to provide them with
a nutritious and not a dangerous repast.
This book is about the relationship between food, cooks, and power
in the Andes. More precisely, it explores the ways in which indigenous,
female cooks use their roles as food preparers, marketers, or purveyors
to access otherwise elusive socioeconomic (and sometimes political)
power within their households and communities. For indigenous women
in both colonial and contemporary Andean societies, food and cooking

1
2 Introduction

often serve as tools for achieving economic self-reliance and maintaining

sociocultural identities and practices. While chapters 1 and 2 of this book
discuss key aspects of food’s role in pre-conquest and colonial Andean
societies, its remaining chapters focus on twentieth- and twenty-first-cen-
tury narrative representations of Andean cooks and foods. These contem-
porary narratives represent Quechua women whose roles as preparers
and distributors of food provide them with tools for socioeconomic and
cultural self-defense within highland Peruvian society.1
On the surface, food preparation seems like a harmless activity involv-
ing innocuous ingredients. Consequently, most cultures throughout his-
tory have tended to consider cooking as an everyday, mundane chore;
tedious “woman’s work,” and certainly not a practice with the potential
for achieving subversive ends. In the narratives explored in this book,
however, descriptions of cooks and allusions to food not only signal
important narrative moments and encode culturally specific meanings,
they also frequently foreshadow a woman’s participation in an act of re-
sistance against oppressive societal forces. The following chapters explore
the ways in which Quechua women’s culinary knowledge relates to their
adaptation, resistance, and participation in complex social, political, and
economic processes in contemporary Andean Perú.
In the Peruvian highlands, the meals prepared by women cooking in
restaurants, markets, and homes give a certain pattern to daily, weekly,
and yearly cycles. As in many other parts of the world, throughout the
Andes, annual cultural timetables are comprised of a series of high points
marked by festivals that revolve around the preparation of seasonal
delicacies. Many anthropologists, sociologists, and literary critics have
pointed out that in its repetitive presence in daily life, food serves an
important role in ordering the lives of individuals and entire cultures
(Douglas 1971, 54; Gusfield 1987, 72; McGee 2001, 18; Sceats 2001, 126;
Symons 2000, 60; Wood 1995, 52). Consequently, the recurring, ritualistic
aspects of the meal contribute to the creation of a sense of structure in
our lives (McGee 2001, 18). Similarly, the close readings presented in this
book demonstrate the ways in which descriptions and allusions to food
and cooking contribute to the temporal organization and the thematic
and symbolic meanings of many narratives.2 For instance, important mo-
ments in a narrative are often signaled by a departure from structured,
daily meals, or the alteration of the quality or quantity of a frequently
consumed ingredient or dish. When the act of cooking or consuming food
breaks from typical daily rhythms, an important transition or locus of
symbolic expression frequently appears.
In analyzing these culinary representations, I explore the roles played
by Andean cooks and the foods they prepare within a number of visual
and verbal narratives presented in diverse artistic forms including the
 Introduction 3

novel, oral narrative, testimonio, historical chronicle, photography, paint-

ing, and film. In each of these narrative forms the presence, preparation,
or consumption of food serves as an important catalyst for the conveyance
of meaning. The detailed analysis of culinary representations presented in
various art forms also demonstrates how Quechua aesthetic preferences
reveal themselves at the level of both narrative form and content. In order
to better understand the complex meanings conveyed by Quechua verbal
and visual artists, my close readings focus on the particular kinds of lan-
guage, imagery, tone, and symbolism associated with cooks and the foods
they prepare. I also explore the contexts in which a culinary moment arises
within each narrative, while considering the historical, sociopolitical, and
economic contexts in which Andean artists have created their work.
Following Umberto Eco’s argument for extending our understand-
ing of “poetic” meanings to nonsemantic arts such as music or painting
(1989, 196), in this book I posit that the discursive feature of narrativity
extends beyond any generic category and can be implemented usefully in
analyses of both visual and verbal art. While the signifier text inevitably
and inescapably connotes and privileges the printed word, the term nar-
rative provides a useful framework for understanding key, shared char-
acteristics and gestures of artistic expressions which may appear to share
little in common at the surface level of generic form. Quechua visual and
verbal narratives3 serve as mediums for artistic expression by generating
a system of culturally specific codes and by creating a semantic whole-
ness which depends upon interactive and context-rich processes. In the
following chapters I explore several of these artistic expressions and seek
to demonstrate that the implementation of a broad definition of narrative
can provide a useful analytical framework for interpreting Quechua oral
narratives, testimonios, historical chronicles, novels, songs, paintings,
photographs, and films.
In each of the written, oral, and visual works explored in this book, the
representation of the Quechua food-landscape functions as a narrative
device that aids in developing each artist’s argument, moral lesson, or
critique. I use the term food-landscape to refer to the multitude of nuanced
details involved in cultivating, preparing, serving, and consuming dif-
ferent foods. Integral elements of Quechua food-landscapes also include
the cook’s construction of a menu for an everyday or holiday meal, her
resourceful substitution of ingredients, the decision to use either the ev-
eryday set of plates and mugs or the “guest dishes,” the order in which
courses are served, as well as the seating arrangement and table manners
of hungry family members and guests.4 The term also reinforces food’s
integral relationship to the land and emphasizes the importance which
Quechua verbal and visual artists often place on the particularities of the
landscapes which influence the lives and destinies of the human charac-
4 Introduction

ters within their work. Representations of food-landscapes in Quechua

narratives often reveal the complexities of various political, economic,
and cultural contexts, while also reflecting particular family dynamics
and community established social codes. In these contexts, the everyday
practice of cooking becomes a complex act infused with meanings that
extend well beyond the serving platters placed atop the table.
All societies and cultures attach symbolic meaning to the acquisition,
preparation, and consumption of food, so that its function always extends
beyond the purely nutritional. References to food in Quechua verbal and
visual art serve a communicatory and symbolic function and express a
determined message within a complex set of culturally encrypted codes.5
Like Andean diviners (paqukuna) who read the hidden signs of the natural
world in order to open up and disclose important details of events and ex-
periences of the past, present, and future, my close readings of Quechua
narratives seek to uncover the layers of meaning which lie below the
surface of symbolic food instances.
Roland Barthes refers to the ways we choose to serve and prepare foods,
as well as the nuances inflected by certain dishes as a “veritable grammar
of foods” (1997, 22). He equates food with language in an effort to express
the ordered manner in which foods appear in particular situations, carry-
ing certain shades of meaning. This apparent order inspires him to pose
and answer the question: “For what is food? . . . a system of communica-
tion, a body of images, a protocol of usages, situations, and behavior”
(Barthes 1997, 21–22).6 The notion that food serves as a “system of com-
munication” reinforces the importance of looking to representations of
food in verbal and visual narratives as an important symbolic locus for the
transmission of cultural mores and the reinforcement of group identities.
In order to grasp the key communicatory and symbolic functions played
by food in Quechua aesthetic expressions, it is important to note that like
the written and spoken word, the complex meanings associated with food
and cooking remain in constant flux, undergoing manipulation in order to
deliver context-specific messages. Language often serves as a pragmatic
tool; an instrument for expressing opinions and questions, uttering com-
plaints and asking for assistance. Yet it can also be used as a more subtle,
symbolic representation of an emotion, sentiment, or a passion. Similarly,
food can serve a straightforward purpose in providing physical satiation
and caloric energy, but like language, it can also become transformed into
a symbolic expression of, or an allusion to class, gender, regional origin,
latent desire, longings, or even antagonistic resentment.
The aphorism “animals feed, humans eat” suggests the involvement of
some element of choice (and therefore deeper signification) in the act of
human food consumption. Barthes emphasizes the semiological impor-
tance of these decisions:
 Introduction 5

When he buys an item of food, consumes it, or serves it, modern man does
not manipulate a simple object in a purely transitive fashion; this item of
food sums up and transmits a situation; it constitutes an information; it sig-
nifies. . . . Substances, techniques of preparation, habits, all become part of a
system of differences in signification; and as soon as this happens, we have
communication by way of food. (1997, 22)

He concludes that beyond providing physical nourishment, food is capa-

ble of transforming itself into situation, thus performing a social function
(Barthes 1997, 26). As Mary Weismantel points out, Andean food symbol-
ism does not differ from other semiotic systems insofar as meaning is
constructed based on a food sign’s relative position with regards to other
food signs. Thus, the symbolic values which a culture assigns to particu-
lar foods, “normally depend to some extent on context and usage . . . on
position within a specific structure, rather than residing completely in the
foods themselves as an inherent quality” (Weismantel 1988, 15–16). The
examples of Quechua verbal and visual art analyzed in this book are note-
worthy precisely because they utilize Andean food symbolism in striking
forms and very particular “situations” or contexts; as tools for critiquing
oppressive, hegemonic institutions or practices,7 or in order to reinforce
key cultural mores, values, and aesthetic preferences.
In many key instances, narrative representations of food replace the
explicit communication of religious, confrontational, erotic, or nostalgic
sentiment—at times as the result of an artist’s aesthetic preference, and
at times because all other expressive avenues have been blocked. Thus,
analysis of the symbolic meanings associated with artistic representa-
tions of food certainly does not preclude a discussion of its sociopolitical,
economic, and cultural roles within a society. As the philosopher Louis
Marin asserts, “all cookery involves a theological, ideological, political
and economic operation by the means of which a non-signified edible
foodstuff is transformed into a sign/body that is eaten” (1989, 121). Food
plays a very direct social, economic, cultural, and even political role
within communities throughout the Andes, and in order to understand
the symbolic significance of the culinary references in Quechua verbal
and visual narratives, an audience must recognize allusions to the status
and meanings of various foods within a community.

Food Hierarchies and Identity

Construction in the Andes

Throughout history, colonizing nations have often attempted to con-

solidate their power through the control and even the eradication of
the languages of a colonized people. As the Kenyan novelist Ngũgĩ wa
6 Introduction

Thiong’o eloquently puts it: “The domination of a people’s language, by

the languages of the colonising nations was crucial to the domination of
the mental landscape of the colonised” (1986, 16). Colonizers’ attempts to
replace the food-landscape of a colonized people serves as another tool of
domination which is not as frequently acknowledged as linguistic domi-
nation.8 In the Andes, Spanish conquistadores, priests, and administrators
attempted to attain their respective ambitions through projects of linguis-
tic and gastronomical colonization of the indigenous Quechua culture.9
More than 450 years have passed since the Spanish first arrived in
Perú declaring Quechua “delicacies” (“manjares”) to be “so rustic and
crude that there was nothing that wasn’t badly cooked, and even more
poorly roasted, over coals” (Cobo 1890, 4:174).10 Regardless of the con-
quistadores’ low opinion of their cuisine, throughout the centuries,
Quechua cooks have retained countless recipes calling for Andean
ingredients, while also integrating many European (as well as Asian,
Middle Eastern, and Mesoamerican) ingredients into their culinary
repertoires. When the Spaniards arrived in Perú in the sixteenth cen-
tury, they discovered that the inhabitants of the Andes had developed
a stunningly diverse array of agricultural products, many of which
serve today as important food staples throughout the world. These
agricultural innovations include more than twenty varieties of corn, at
least two hundred varieties of potato, as well as numerous varieties of
squash, beans, peppers, peanuts, cassava, avocado, highland tubers, and
grains such as quinoa, kiwicha (amaranth), and cañihua (Cabieses 1995,
78). Pre-conquest Andean agriculturists also carefully tended, selected,
and cultivated a wide variety of both highland and tropical fruits in-
cluding: papaya, pineapple, chirimoya, maracuyá (passion fruit), lúcuma,
avocado, guava, tomato, and tomate de árbol (tree tomato).
Languages and food-landscapes both possess important symbolic and
pragmatic functions which must be defended by a colonized or subju-
gated people in the face of the destructive ambitions or homogenizing
intentions of a hegemonic power. Similar to their attempts to restrict
the use of the Quechua language for purposes not directly linked to the
church, Spaniards also attempted to encourage Andeans to shift their
gastronomical preferences to European fare (Kubler 1946, 355). Yet while
the colonial-era mestizo chronicler Inca Garcilaso de la Vega affirms that
indigenous Andean men and women were initially quite curious to try
new Spanish foodstuffs, he suggests that after the novelty waned, they
were likely to return to the foods they were most accustomed to cultivat-
ing and preparing (Garcilaso 1998, 423–24; Kubler 1946, 355; Super 1988,
88). A similar attitude toward “European,” “urban,” or “white” foods
such as rice, bread, and pasta exists in the Andes today. In the parish of
Zumbagua in highland Ecuador, Weismantel notes:
 Introduction 7

Today, the aggressive presence of “white” foods is met by the stubborn, un-
celebrated existence at the core of indigenous doxa. If children’s longing for
bread and the fetishization of white rice as the sign of superiority represent
pressure to assimilate, barley products stand for cultural resistance. . . . [Bar-
ley] is referred to as “good, substantial food” as being “as filling as meat” as
“food that warms you up.” (1988, 159–60)

Even though white rice enjoys a certain allure as a prestige food eaten
by whites and is purchased in the market, “it is acknowledged to be a
less substantial food than barley, fava beans, or potatoes” (Weismantel
1988, 149).11
Throughout history food (and its preparation and consumption) has
occupied an important role in the construction, negotiation, and interpre-
tation of cultural identities. In many societies, it is assumed that peoples
eating similar foods are somehow “trustworthy, good, familiar,” a charac-
teristic which allows for a culture’s food-landscape to help “give food and
its eaters a place in the world” (Fischler 1988, 276). Such food preferences
and prejudices are intimately tied to questions of individual, community,
and cultural identities and in the Andes as elsewhere, these identities are
flexible, multiple, and under constant revision and reconstruction.12 The
question of identity is never an affirmation of an established descriptive
category. In this way, “identification, identity is never an a priori; nor a
finished product; it is only ever the problematic process of access to an
image of totality” (Bhaba 1994, 51). This concept of identity as process
echoes Stuart Hall’s formulation of cultural identity as “becoming” and
not simply “being”; since it belongs to the future and not only to the past,
it undergoes constant transformation (1996, 112). Instead of conceiving
of identity as “an already accomplished fact,” he suggests that cultural
identity should be thought of as “a ‘production,’ which is never complete,
always in process, and always constituted within, not outside represen-
tation” (Hall 1996a, 110). Since the symbolic and social significances of
foods are as mutable as the identities of those who prepare and consume
them, the meanings attached to a certain dish may change over time or
depend upon the context in which it is served. Invoking Derrida’s con-
cepts of “differ” and “defer,” Hall reminds us that “meaning is never
finished or completed, but keeps on moving to encompass other, addi-
tional, or supplemented meanings, which disturb the classical economy
of language and representation” (Hall 1996a, 115). Consequently, the
relation between food and identity and the meanings associated with
narrative representations of food can only be established in relative, or
temporary terms. Just how, for whom, and in what contexts such identi-
ties are constructed within Quechua verbal and visual narratives will be
explored in the following chapters.
8 Introduction

Interpreting the Inside and

Outside Meanings of Quechua Food-Landscapes

The challenge in providing an insightful interpretation of the multiple

significances attached to a particular artistic representation of food stems
from the fact that both macro (global powerholders) and micro (local)
forces participate in the creation of the meanings attached to a culture’s
food-landscape. Sidney Mintz’s categories of outside and inside meaning
serve as useful analytical tools for understanding the multiple levels
of signification which emanate from symbolic representations of food
within visual and verbal Quechua narratives. Mintz describes two types
of meaning related to food which differ greatly in terms of their relation
to a society’s principal sociopolitical and economic powerbrokers. Out-
side meaning results from the economic, social, and political conditions
established in a society by powerholders who work and legislate beyond
the daily life of local communities. While outside meanings carry great
significance in people’s daily lives, “they originate outside that sphere
and on a wholly different level of social action” (Mintz 1996, 20). Insti-
tutions and groups who establish outside meanings have the power to
determine certain characteristics of a local community, culture, or fam-
ily’s food-landscape by establishing and limiting work schedules, buying
power, child care, mealtimes, and government-mandated food prices and
subsidies (Mintz 1996, 20).
On the other hand, inside meanings arise from “daily life conditions
of consumption” and involve “intimate, immediate, and homely” food
meanings and symbols which are embedded with significance at much
more local levels (Mintz 1996, 20–21). Inside meanings are those created
“inside the rituals and schedules of the group, inside the meal or eating
event, inside the social group itself” (Mintz 1985, 151).13 The categories
of the inside and the outside are also helpful tools for interpreting food
instances within Quechua narratives because allusions to symbolic mean-
ings often lie concomitantly outside (the work’s explicitly expressed con-
tent and the immediate experiences of its characters and addressees) and
inside (the work’s surface meanings and its characters’ and addressees’
lived experiences). Although addressees realize that certain boundaries
exist between fictive and lived worlds, characters and actual humans,
authors and narrators, “uninterrupted exchange goes on between them”
(Bakhtin 1996, 254). By integrating the various levels of meaning con-
tained in the discursive spaces of their verbal and visual narratives,
Andean artists create aesthetically pleasing experiences for a variety of
audiences. Through cleverly crafted representations of food and cooks,
these artists also avoid censure as they critique the excesses of local and
global powerholders and other inequalities of their society.
 Introduction 9

In my analysis of Quechua verbal and visual art, I have sought to in-

terpret the meanings of a particular narrative by considering not only the
importance of outside social, historical, economic, political, and cultural
contexts but also focusing on the artists’ use of visual and verbal tropes
and techniques. While it is neither possible nor desirable to consider in-
side and outside meanings as entirely independent from one another, the
categories are useful for articulating a critical methodology which imbues
the close readings of a work’s formal aesthetics with a careful consider-
ation of the sociocultural, economic, and historical contexts which affect
both its form and content.14
Mintz’s description of outside and inside meanings highlights the con-
stant creation of signification on both broad, macro levels and within lo-
cal and domestic spaces. This critical emphasis on spatial relationships in
the creation of meaning also helps to reinforce the important distinction
regarding the location in which food is acquired, prepared, served, and
consumed within Quechua narratives. For instance, the socioeconomic
tactics of what I will refer to as “outside cooks”—who serve their dishes
outside the domestic space—generally involve the exchange of their culi-
nary aptitude for cash. The income acquired through these exchanges of-
ten results in a woman’s increased independence in terms of choices such
as: with whom and in what neighborhood she will live, where her chil-
dren will attend school, and how she will spend her leisure time. “Inside
cooks”—who serve their food within a private home and often without
cash remuneration—do not often enjoy the same degree of independence
as outside cooks.15 Still, the Quechua narratives explored in the following
chapters demonstrate the ways in which even inside cooks manage to use
their role as food preparers in order to achieve increased agency within
their households and communities. Regardless of where they serve and
prepare food, the cooks represented in these narratives find creative ways
to use their culinary knowledge as a vehicle for increasing their socioeco-
nomic independence, (re)constructing community and individual identi-
ties, and communicating desire, gratitude, or even violence to their cli-
ents, neighbors, or family members. Moreover, the artists who represent
these Quechua cooks use descriptions of food-instances and culinary acts
as a discursive tool for criticizing and resisting the oppressive excesses of
local, national, and global powerholders.

Tactics of Resistance and

Qualities of Openness in Quechua Narratives

The concept of resistance in this book rarely refers to what would gener-
ally be described as “active,” or “open” insurrection and often occurs after
10 Introduction

an indigenous actor has, to some extent, accommodated (or adapted to)

the demands of an oppressor.16 An analysis of creative resistance within
racist, patriarchal societies should consider cases in which the oppressed
need to adapt and accommodate to the demands of their oppressors;
this adaptation and accommodation may serve as both a tactic toward
the path of future, active resistance and as a tool for immediate survival.
Discussing seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Caribbean slavery (an
institution not entirely different from twentieth-century Andean inden-
tured servitude or pongueaje), Mintz insightfully contends, “considerable
resistance involved as its precondition some processes of culture change,
of adaptation, on the part of the slaves themselves” (Mintz 1971, 321). It
is important to recognize, then, “the highly complex relationship between
insight and act under extremely repressive conditions” (Mintz 1971, 321).
In the close readings presented in the following chapters it becomes clear
that representations of resistance and accommodation in contemporary
Andean narratives are interwoven and that oftentimes withstanding the
latter is a precondition for achieving the former.
By couching their criticism of oppressive institutions and practices
within seemingly innocuous accounts of food-landscapes, Andean artists
(and the characters and plots they create) allude to food meanings as a
tactic for evading, manipulating, and mocking the repressive discipline
of powerful hegemonic discourses within their society.17 Michel de Cer-
teau’s concept of the “tactic” helps to explain the central role played by
the Quechua food-landscape (both in everyday life and within the space
of fictional narratives) in alternately resisting and accommodating the
oppressive actions and discourses of hegemonic powerholders. Certeau
explains that in terms of both form and function, the “tactic” differs
importantly from the “strategy” used by a proprietor, city, enterprise,
or institution (1984, 36–37). The tactic does not benefit from any spatial
or institutional location and functions without a base of operations from
which to set out on campaigns and hoard winnings: “[The tactic] must
play on and with a terrain imposed on it and organized by the law of a
foreign power. . . . The space of a tactic is the space of the other” (Certeau
1984, 36–37).18 The tactic is a flexible, mobile, and an opportunistic tool:

Because it does not have a place, a tactic depends on time—it is always on

the watch for opportunities that must be seized “on the wing.” Whatever it
wins, it does not keep. It must constantly manipulate events in order to turn
them into “opportunities.” (Certeau 1984, 36–37)

The narrative analyses in this book demonstrate that, while open insur-
rection or explicit criticism is clearly an extremely risky undertaking for
an oppressed and disenfranchised population, the relatively low-risk ven-
 Introduction 11

ture of cleverly manipulated food instances has for centuries, provided

cooks (both within and outside narrative worlds) with a tempting and
effective alternative.19
If narratives, as Certeau maintains (acknowledging his debt to Jurij
Lotman’s École de Tartu), are a “culturally creative act” with distributive
power and the performative force to delimit, displace, or transcend space,
then they can be used by marginalized individuals and groups as a tactic
for accommodation to and/or resistance against the oppressive influences
of a society’s hegemonic forces (Certeau 1984, 123). In this way, Quechua
narratives (and the food-landscapes they present) describe and create
characters, temporal demarcations, settings, and tones which continu-
ally reinforce and reinvent culturally important spaces and concepts. In
chapters 2–5 I demonstrate how symbolically encoded food-landscapes in
Quechua narratives often serve as a vehicle for the transmission of a com-
munity’s key cultural practices, ethical concepts, and philosophies. Each
expression of Quechua verbal or visual art explored in these chapters can
be understood as an example of what Certeau refers to as “delinquent nar-
ratives” which seek to move from the margins and into the “interstices of
the [hegemonic] codes that it undoes and displaces” (Certeau 1984, 125).
Although the “order” (or form) of these narratives is “firmly established”
and recognizable by culturally competent addressees, it is also flexible
enough to allow for verbal and visual artists to mobilize and adapt their
narratives in response to rapidly changing sociopolitical, historical, and
cultural contexts (Certeau 1984, 125).
While these “delinquent narratives” often resist classification into dis-
crete generic categories, they all exhibit qualities of what the semiologist
Umberto Eco has termed “the open work” (la opera aberta). Artists create
“open” narratives through a collaboration with their audience/public,
transmitting much more than a univocal meaning, while transforming
aesthetic conventions in new and exciting ways (Eco 1989, 195). These
innovations result in the creation of an ambiguous, open-ended narra-
tion that engages addressees and provides them with aesthetic pleasure.
Andean artists create ambiguity and “openness” within their narratives
through a strategic contravention of established generic forms and styles;
in so doing they create fresh, stimulating artistic expressions which en-
courage audiences to interpret creatively and critically. Innovative and
open Quechua narratives often embody complex, real-world situations,
thus it would be unreasonable to force clear, closed, and unambiguous
classifications or interpretations on artistic discourses which represent
the dynamic disorder of colonial and contemporary Andean societies (see
also Eco 1989, 143, 157).
Notwithstanding the importance of open creativity, Eco points out that
unless ambiguity in formal innovation remains within the realm of “con-
12 Introduction

trolled disorder,” an addressee’s response and interpretation might very

likely diverge completely from the artist’s intended purpose and project
(Eco 1989, 23; 1992, 146; also Certeau 1984, 125). Thus, Eco maintains
that artists who express their visions of the world implicitly and openly,
should at least partially satisfy the requisites of the recognized aesthetics
of their addressees’ referent culture(s) (1989, 87).20 Quechua artists also
recognize the importance of not crossing over the border from clever,
open meaning to “mere noise,” as they seek to create formal innovations
which still remain intelligible to their audiences. They also present the
implicit messages of their narratives in a way and a place which allows
addressees to create interpretations according to their own aesthetic and
pragmatic desires and needs; the openness of the stylistic and semantic
nuances of each narrative provides various “use values” for different
audiences (Eco 1989, 23, 94). In societies as fraught with oppression and
unequal access to resources as colonial and contemporary highland Perú,
open Quechua narratives allow audiences to assign meanings according
to their own needs and interests, while also providing artists with a plat-
form for aesthetic expression which fulfills various aesthetic, socioeco-
nomic, and political projects.
Eco’s theory of narrative openness holds that an innovative transforma-
tion of conventions into something new and unexpected enriches address-
ees’ aesthetic experiences and inspires them to stop and contemplate the
values and possible meanings of ambiguous narrative moments. In this
way, an audience returns to an open, ambiguous sign “to enjoy the effec-
tiveness of its message in the way it is formally expressed” (Eco 1989, 104).
By experimenting with innovative narrative forms and clever allusions,
Andean artists engage and challenge their audiences, offer astutely crafted
criticism, and comment on indigenous communities’ and individuals’ un-
stable relationships to power in both colonial and contemporary contexts.
In this way, the openness of culinary characters and allusions in Que-
chua verbal and visual art encourages addressees to consider carefully
the multiplicity of possible interpretations conveyed through both inven-
tive (and at times unconventional) forms and ambiguous signifieds. As
Eco insists, “To this extent, ambiguity is not an accessory to the message:
it is its fundamental feature” (1989, 196). For centuries, Quechua artists
have created open works in order to code the elaboration and presen-
tation of their narratives and as a tactic for avoiding the repressive or
censorial tendencies of powerholders. This book explores food-instances
represented within a variety of these visual and verbal narratives—some
of which use the openness of the artistic spaces they create to contest he-
gemonic assumptions, values, and prejudices. Seeking to understand the
multiple meanings woven into Quechua narratives allows us to appre-
ciate their dense richness by revealing the ways in which artists create
 Introduction 13

innovative forms in order to convey opaque, polyvocal meanings across

visual and verbal canvases.

A Taste of the Chapters That Follow

Although the many forms of Quechua aesthetic expression do not neatly

fit within generic categories, all of the narratives explored in this book
share the common feature of creating food-landscapes which serve as an
important locus for narrative meaning, the identity construction of char-
acters, or the communication of culturally important messages. In many
of these narratives, Quechua cooks utilize their access to food preparation
and distribution as a tactic for evading the attempts of a patriarchal hege-
mony to silence their voices, desires, values, and culture expressions. The
following chapters explore the various ways in which Andean artists im-
plement the grammar of the Quechua food-landscape within their work,
while also considering the effectiveness and possible reasons behind the
deployment of such tactics.
Chapter 1 presents a brief cultural history of the Quechua food-land-
scape and includes descriptions of foodstuffs cultivated, prepared, and
consumed by Andean families both prior to and following the conquest.
Chapter 2 begins by describing the ritual role played by Andean women in
the preparation of sacred meals for Incan rulers in the pre-conquest Andes,
and then analyzes food’s symbolic and sacred role in the Quechua hymns
transcribed by Father Cristóbal de Molina in Relación de las fábulas y mitos
de los Incas (1575) (Chronicle of the Fables and Myths of the Incas). This second
chapter also discusses the juxtaposition of the meanings, values, and de-
scriptions of Andean and European foods within the context of sixteenth-
through eighteenth-century colonial Perú, as evidenced in the canvasses
produced by the indigenous artists of the “Escuela Cusqueña” of painting
(the Cusco School), and in El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega’s exceptional work,
Comentarios reales (1609) (The Royal Commentaries of the Incas).
Chapters 3, 4, and 5 explore representations of Andean foods and cooks
in contemporary (twentieth- and twenty-first-century) Quechua verbal
and visual art. Chapter 3 begins by detailing the nutritional, symbolic,
and ritual values of several key Andean foods and cooking methods.
Next, the chapter explores the intricacies of the power hierarchies among
female vendors and cooks within Cusco’s Central Market (Mercado Cen-
tral) and as expressed in Gregorio Condori Mamani and Asunta Quispe
Huamán’s Quechua-language testimonio, Autobiografía (Andean Lives).
Chapter 4 analyzes narrative representations of Quechua cooks who resist
marginalization in José María Arguedas’s novel Los ríos profundos (Deep
Rivers), Martín Chambi’s photographs, and Claudia Llosa’s film Madein-
14 Introduction

usa. In these visual and verbal narratives, Andean women are represen-
ted as agents who utilize the everyday practice of cooking as a tactic for
resisting marginalization and achieving a degree of socioeconomic inde-
pendence. By analyzing the artistic depictions of Quechua chicheras (corn
beer brewers) and cooks, this chapter demonstrates the ways in which
the everyday practice of cooking serves both pragmatic and symbolic
purposes in contemporary Andean narratives and society. Chapter 5 fo-
cuses on the intersections of food-landscapes and the supernatural in the
Quechua oral tradition. Analyses of these open narratives unpack double,
ambiguous, and coded meanings while also addressing questions such as:
“What symbolic function does food serve in each narrative?” “Where and
by whom is this meal served and what sorts of meanings does this con-
textual information reveal?” and “How, why, and to what extent is food
preparation and consumption linked to the constructions of a particular
character or instrumental in foreshadowing plot twists?”
In the narratives considered in chapters 3–5, culinary skills and knowl-
edge of the Quechua food-landscape help women to earn money to
support themselves and their families, gain independence from abusive
spouses, deceive and enchant arrogant lovers, or exact revenge on family
or community members.21 In addition to discussing some of the unique
aesthetic categories and techniques employed by Quechua oral narrators,
chapter 5 also considers representations of the long-standing fear that a
female cook may actually be a witch, capable of adulterating the meals
of those she serves in order to achieve her own malevolent ends. Finally,
this book’s concluding chapter discusses the food politics of contempo-
rary Perú dating from the 1968 “Agricultural Reform” and reaching into
the twenty-first century, when urban migration and global economic
pressures and possibilities have begun to influence the Quechua food-
landscape in new and powerful ways.

Notes

 1. Today the word Quechua is generally used to describe both the ethnic and
linguistic identity of indigenous Andean peoples; although Quechua speak-
ers who live in cities often do not consider themselves “indigenous” (indígena).
Quechua agropastoralists collectively refer to themselves as runa—the Quechua
word for “human” or “person.” In Quechua, the suffix -kuna marks plural nouns,
so that “Quechua people” is expressed with the word runakuna. In this book I
have opted to mark plural Quechua nouns with -kuna instead of with the English
-s, although I have used the English possessive, as in runa’s. Quechua speakers
call their language runasimi, literally “the tongue of the people.” The leaders of the
Incan Empire also spoke runasimi and required newly conquered subjects to learn
the language, thus facilitating the administration of their empire.
 Introduction 15

 2. My interpretations of Quechua visual and verbal narrative attempt to con-

sider the various registers of what Walter Benjamin classifies as the “artistic sym-
bol.” In this formulation, symbols serve as communicators of meaning because
of their ability to translate the infinitely complex significations, nuances, and
connotations of intangible, “inexpressible” concepts into the “natural forms” of
more comprehensible, finite “earthly vessels” (Benjamin 1977, 164). For example,
in a Quechua oral narrative, the “infinite” and “inexpressible” emotions caused
by a humiliating insult might be symbolized by the black worms which an irate
and insulted cook decides to hide in a meal she offers her husband. I also consider
the symbol to be a tool for opening up and disclosing “a dimension of experience
that, without it, would remain closed and hidden” (Ricouer 1969, 165).
 3. In this book I use the phrase “Quechua verbal and visual narratives” to
refer to a diverse array of artistic expressions. While these narratives present
themes, characters, and struggles that reflect their roots in the Quechua culture,
many of the verbal narratives use both the Spanish and the Quechua languages
in their composition. I use the term Quechua visual art (such as film, photogra-
phy, and paintings) to refer to compositions which focus on indigenous Andean
cultural spaces, people, and events, even if the artists who created them do not
self-identify as indigenous Quechua.
 4. My concept of the food-universe resembles Carol Counihan’s definition
of “foodways”: “behaviors and beliefs surrounding the production, distribution,
and consumption of food” (1999, 6). It also shares similarities with Ellen Messer
category of the “food code”: “foods or components of foods—especially their
manners of preparation or transformation or serving—express other aspects of
social relations, cultural identity, and the sexual division of labor” (1984, 223).
 5. Anthropologists, historians, sociologists, and philosophers have long ex-
plored the complexities of food and its role in human societies. Scholars have
studied food-related taboos, associations between food and sex, preferred tastes
and flavors, and food-inspired pleasure and disgust, as well as the ways in which
food influences the construction of gender, class, and ethnic identities. For impor-
tant philosophical studies of food, taste, and cooking consult Revel’s (1982) and
Brillat-Savarin’s (1986) well-known treatises on cuisine and taste (1826). Barthes
(1972, 1997), Certeau (1984), and Marin (1989) have also published important
studies on the linguistic, ideological, and social roles played by food and cooking.
Interesting monographs concentrating on the intersections between food, culture,
and society have been written by Fischler (1988); Flandrin and Montanari (1999);
Mennell, Murcott, and Van Otterloo (1992); Morales (1995); and Wood (1995).
Studies of the role of food in literature by scholars such as Aoyama (2008), Biasin
(1993), McGee (2001), Roy (2010), and Sceats (2001) reveal that important insights
can be gained from the investigation of the literary intersections of consumption
habits, women, culture, and history.
 6. Barthes’s work on food and communication was of course, influenced by
Claude Lévi-Strauss’s trilogy Mythologies (translated as The Raw and the Cooked, A
History of Table Manners, and From Honey to Ashes) which conceives of a society’s
cooking rituals as “a language through which it unconsciously translates its struc-
ture—or else resigns itself, still unconsciously, to revealing its contradictions”
(Barthes 1997, 35). In this way, cooking becomes “a set of processes permitting the
16 Introduction

establishment, between individuals and groups, of a certain type of communica-

tion” (Lévi-Strauss 1963, 61).
 7. My use of the word “hegemony” in this book follows Antonio Gramsci’s
notion of the process of ideological domination whereby the ruling class controls
both physical and symbolic production in a given society. The control of the ruling
class over ideological institutions of society (culture, religion, education, and the
media) allows for this class to disseminate its own values in an effort to reinforce
its ruling position (Gramsci cited in Forgacs 1989, 76; Hebdige 1996, 16–18). This
ideological hegemony often leads to the subordinate classes’ consent or passive com-
pliance with the values and will of the ruling class. It is this kind of ideological
hegemony that remains most prevalent in the Peruvian Andes, with white, male,
urban, coastal dwellers occupying the most dominant position in the power hier-
archy, while rural, indigenous subsistence farmers (particularly women) are most
vulnerable to political, economic, and cultural oppression. Urban and rural mesti-
zos and mestizas occupy varying positions of domination and subjugation in this
power pyramid. As Martin Lienhard notes, “In Latin America, the sociopolitical
framework of the interactive processes between the culture of the hegemonic sec-
tors and of the indigenous, mestizo and popular subsocieties is characterized to a
greater or lesser extent by an evident asymmetry: the owners of the first, owners
also of global power, establish the rules of the game, while the marginalized sec-
tors, except in moments of general counteroffensive, do not have any other choice,
but to react, more or less creatively, to the imposition of hegemonic values or anti-
values” (Lienhard 1991, 98; my translation).
 8. See Laura Schenone’s A Thousand Years Over a Hot Stove for an extended
discussion of this practice, including the obligatory cooking classes forced upon
African American and Native American girls in the United States during the
nineteenth and twentieth centuries. These gastronomical lessons were part of an
effort to strip the women and girls of their “cultures, religions, tribal educations,
and loyalties” (2003, 253–54).
 9. Spanish colonizers initially encouraged the spread of the Quechua lan-
guage in order to further their project of evangelization and to facilitate the col-
lection of tribute payments and other administrative duties. Instead of translating
catechisms, sermons, prayers, and the Bible into the numerous indigenous lan-
guages spoken throughout the present-day countries of Ecuador, Perú, Bolivia,
and northern Argentina and Chile, they simply continued the Inca practice of
requiring subjugated groups to learn Quechua. After the indigenous insurrec-
tions of the 1780s, however, attempts were made to restrict the dissemination and
performance of Quechua theatre, songs, and narratives in the hopes of preventing
future uprisings (Mannheim 1991, 71). In spite of such efforts to restrict commu-
nication and cultural production in Quechua, the language continues to flourish
in many regions throughout the Andes.
10. “Tan rústicos y groseros, que no había más que mal cocido y peor asado en las
brasas.”
11. In her ethnographic study of a community near Juliaca in the southern
Peruvian department of Puno, Edita Vokral observes a similar attitude toward
rice (and other “city” foods such as cheese and meat) versus potatoes. She notes
that potatoes are esteemed for their superior nutritious quality, while rice is con-
 Introduction 17

sidered a delicious treat: “It is always emphasized that one should consume only
a little rice which should always be complemented by chuño or quinua; in this
way, supposedly, one obtains a balanced meal. Noodles, bread and rice . . . are
considered to be poor in nutrients. Only a few people say that meat and cheese
are nutritious” (Vokral 1991, 301; my translation). In rural communities in the
highland department of Cusco, Perú, the attitude toward “city foods” (“mikhuna
hatun llaqtamanta”) such as rice, pasta, and bread versus locally produced tubers
also parallels those noted by Weismantel and Vokral.
12. See Marisol de la Cadena’s Indigenous Mestizos (2000) for an important study
of the fluid and highly complex identity politics in the Andean city of Cusco.
13. To illustrate the differences between inside and outside meanings, Mintz
uses the example of heightened sugar consumption among the eighteenth-century
British working class who sought to emulate the “respectability,” and consump-
tion of “luxury” goods by upper classes. Yet the macro forces which permitted the
working class’ access to affordably priced sugar relates to the outside meanings of
Imperial Britain’s overseas expansion and colonization in the Caribbean and its
enslavement of Africans on sugar plantations (Mintz 1996, 18–22; 1985, 151–58).
14. Paul Gilroy’s “There Ain´t No Black in the Union Jack”: The Cultural Politics
of Race and Nation and Dick Hebdige’s Subculture: The Meaning of Style provide
excellent models for how this type of inside/outside analysis can be convincingly
constructed in the study of verbal art (song) and visual style (fashion) respectively
(Gilroy 1990, 153–222; Hebdige 1996, 46–70).
15. Although they are almost always paid in cash for their labors, domestic
servants who cook in private homes do not often enjoy the same degree of inde-
pendence and social interaction as outside cooks. Chapters 4 and 5 explore repre-
sentations of inside cooks in a film and Quechua oral narratives, respectively.
16. As Sidney Mintz has eloquently argued, in order for slaves to resist the op-
pression of a master by putting glass into his food, they must first accommodate
his demands and find a way to be hired out of his fields and into his kitchen
(Mintz 1971, 321; 1996, 126).
17. References to discourse in this book follow Michel Foucault’s conception
of the term as a “series of discontinuous segments” which is neither completely
subservient to power nor constantly raised up against it (Foucault 1978, 101).
Discourse then, is discontinuous, unstable and while it “transmits and produces
power” it also “undermines and exposes it, renders it fragile and makes it possible
to thwart it” (Foucault 1978, 101). Following Foucault’s lead, this book pays atten-
tion to the manner in which discourses are organized and constructed and who
is included or excluded in their production. Of course power is not only a central
component of any discourse but also a key contributor to the definition and dis-
semination of knowledge (Foucault 1978, 100).
18. James Scott’s description of the “weapons of the weak” (“foot dragging,
dissimulation, desertion, false compliance, pilfering, feigned ignorance, slander,
arson, sabotage . . .”) resembles Certeau’s “tactic” (Scott 1986, xvi, 35). Like Cer-
teau, Scott notes that due to the institutional invisibility of such activities, most are
accorded little social significance and since there is “no center, no leadership, no
identifiable structure that can be co-opted or neutralized” such forms of resistance
enjoy certain advantages and are often difficult to suppress.
18 Introduction

19. Similarly, in her analysis of the complex meanings expressed by Quechua

textile artists in their bordados (embroidery), Blenda Femenías points out that
because of the “nonthreatening” form used by these fiber artists: “The gendered
and ethnic messages they encode, while threatening in other contexts, may seem
trivial because of the medium” (2005, 15).
20. Eco holds, “A work of art can be open only insofar as it remains a work;
beyond a certain boundary, it becomes mere noise” (1989, 87).
21. While all of the professional cooks and chicheras explored in these narratives
are women, many of their creators are men. As Sara Mills points out, the “paucity
of material produced by colonized subjects, itself symptomatic of colonial rela-
tions, forces us to examine a range of other textual and theoretical options” (2003,
695). In the centuries following European conquest, in the Andes and throughout
(North and South) America, indigenous women’s artistic expressions have only
infrequently been published, viewed, experienced, and supported by the mem-
bers of the largely white, male, and urban power elite.
 1
Q
A Brief Cultural History
of Andean Staple Foods

There is no history of cuisine that is not also a history of prevailing ap-

petite, habits, and taste.
—Jean François Revel, Culture and Cuisine

F ood has always influenced the successes and failures of a society’s

intellectual, bellic, and diplomatic practices and has contributed to the
rise and fall of civilizations throughout history.1 Moreover, food plays an
important role in a culture’s ritual practices and also serves as an indica-
tor of social differentiation and an encoder of meanings. As Fernández-
Armesto points out, “there is now no society which merely eats to live . . .
a change as revolutionary as any in the history of our species happened
when eating stopped being merely practical and became ritual too” (2002,
29). Yet it is also important not to become so intent on discovering the
symbolic meanings associated with a particular food practice, ingredient,
or consumption pattern that one neglects the nutritional and economic
motivations that contribute to the selection or inclusion of certain food-
stuffs in a meal (Beardsworth and Keil 1990, 149). Clearly, the biological
necessity of eating is not solely responsible for determining food prefer-
ences, nor is the symbolic quality of certain foods an arbitrary coincidence.
Instead, it is the interrelationships between human biological needs and
particular cultural values which lead to the emergence and continuation
of food-related practices. By recognizing our biological imperatives “in
their culturally mediated manifestations,” we come to understand food
systems as both dynamic and complex processes (Beardsworth and Keil
1990, 149). The need to eat influences food symbolisms which in turn, af-

19
20 Chapter 1

fect biological imperative. Thus, as Lévi-Strauss (1970) has demonstrated,

the oral traditions of many cultures narrate the mythical discovery of
their nutritional staples, foods which oftentimes play an important role
in the group’s religious rituals.
This chapter introduces several Andean staple foods by focusing on
their historical, economic, cultural, and nutritional importance for cooks
and diners in the Andes and around the world. Some of these foods
were successfully integrated into various world cuisines centuries ago,
while others remain little known outside the Quechua communities
where they have been cultivated and prepared for centuries. The brief
cultural history of each Andean food seeks to strike a balance between
the presentation of its economic, nutritional, and symbolic importance in
Quechua culture.2

The Potato (Papa)

Hans Horkheimer, one of the first scholars to thoroughly study Andean

foods and cooking practices, justly praises pre-conquest Andean agrono-
mists as brilliant observers of all of the possibilities offered by the flora of
their environment:

Taking advantage of wild or cultivated [plants] to eat or drink, for their fibers
or wood, as a stimulant or medicine, as a colorant or auxiliary technology, or
simply as an adornment. Rarely has a people utilized its flora so intensively,
in so many ways and across such an expanse. (1973, 106)

Undoubtedly, the most economically, socially, and nutritionally signifi-

cant of these foodstuffs in the pre-conquest, colonial, and contemporary
Andeans is the potato (called papa in Quechua and Latin American Span-
ish). That the quintessential Andean food has come to lose its original
name by speakers of peninsular Spanish can only be explained as a case
of mistaken identity. Since the first Spaniards to arrive in Perú in 1532 rec-
ognized many Andean foods from their previous colonizing campaigns
in the Caribbean and Mesoamerica, they often referred to South American
foodstuffs using the names that they had learned previously—usually
in a Caribbean or Mesoamerican language. As the Inca Garcilaso de la
Vega explains, “all of the names that the Spaniards give to the fruits and
vegetables of Perú are taken from the language of the Isles of Barlovent
which they have already introduced into their Spanish language, and for
that reason we recognize them” (1998, 348).3 Given that the Spaniards
perceived the Andean papa as similar to a tuber known in the Caribbean
as batata (sweet potato), they began to refer to the food as patata; the word
 A Brief Cultural History of Andean Staple Foods 21

which is still used in Spain and from which the English derived the word
potato (Chara Zereceda 1998, 22).
More than four thousand types of potato are currently cultivated in
the world and Peruvian farmers harvest three thousand of these variet-
ies, making Perú both the original home of the potato and the country
with the most diverse cultivation of the tuber (Centro International de
la Papa, 2009).4 When asked about the potato, most Peruvian highland-
ers will proudly detail the flavors, textures, and uses of their region’s
seemingly endless varieties of potato. The importance of the potato in the
construction of an Andean identity is also evident in the not uncommon
reprimand which friends or relatives from the department of Cusco direct
at mestizo or indigenous runa youth who try to assume a “gringo” or
“coastal/Limeño” persona instead of proudly accepting that they are “as
Cusqueñan as a wayru potato” (“tan Cusqueño como la papa wayru”).
In the Cusco region of the southern Peruvian highlands, Quechua
farmers and cooks typically divide potatoes into categories of sweet,
bitter, and wild—these groups are then often subdivided depending on
the difficulty of preparing each type of potato (Horkheimer 1973, 88).
Regina Harrison points out the uselessness of attempting to categorize
potatoes according to Eurocentric categories. She cites J. G. Hawkes’s
study of indigenous nomenclature for many varieties of potato in which
he attempts to divide the tubers’ names into categories such as nouns
(names of human groups, animal body parts, clothes, plants, tools,
natural phenomena, miscellaneous), as well as adjectives (color, shape
surface taste, miscellaneous) and classes of potatoes (early, late, rapidly
maturing) (Harrison 1989, 181). Such categories, Harrison argues, “only
demonstrate ethnocentric ways of thinking about things, showing us his
value system and our own while he attempts to have us understand the
other categories of Andean peoples” (Harrison 1989, 181).5 In the depart-
ment of Cusco, Quechua cooks and market vendors often talk about
potato varieties in terms of the ways in which each type is customarily
prepared. The floury peruanita, wayru, and q’umpis are grouped together
because they can all be used for making mashed or stuffed potatoes, or
can be boiled and eaten with the spicy uchukutu sauce served at count-
less Cusco chicherías (corn beer taverns). The bitter ruki potato is used
for making freeze-dried ch’uñu, while most cooks agree that the wayru
potato is a very good choice for making ch’iri papa (“frozen” or “cold
potato”). Known in Spanish as “papa helada,” cooks prepare ch’iri papa by
leaving the tubers outside in the frost for one night and then filling them
with cheese, and steaming them the next morning. If one wishes to slice
and fry potatoes or add them to a soup, q’illu, sika, or canchan would be
adequate choices since these varieties hold together well when chopped
and then heated.
22 Chapter 1

The first archeological evidence of potato cultivation and consumption

dates back to at least 4000 BC (Brack Egg 2003, 118).6 More than 30,000
tons of potatoes were produced annually in the pre-Incan Andean city of
Tiahuanaco near Lake Titicaca before it collapsed more than 1,000 years
ago, and by the time the Spaniards arrived in Perú, more than 200 variet-
ies of potato were cultivated—a few at altitudes of 4,500 meters (Brack
Egg 2003, 119; Cabieses 1995, 80; Fernández-Armesto 2002, 100). Cen-
turies before European populations came to depend on the nutritional
richness of the potato, it had served as a vital, daily staple in the Andes
and a key to the success of Incan armies fighting battles and seizing new
territory throughout western South America.
The importance of the potato in the Incan empire of Tahuantinsuyu is
revealed in the Jesuit priest and naturalist Bernabé Cobo’s seventeenth-
century description of how tubers served as a standard for measuring
time throughout the pre-colonial Andes:

The time then, that it takes to cook the potatoes, they use to measure the
duration of the things that are done quickly, responding that they have spent
doing this or that thing the amount of time necessary to cook a pot of pota-
toes. (cited in Murra 1983, 33)7

In his attempt to describe high-altitude crops for a European audience

unfamiliar with such foods, the Inca Garcilaso explains: “When the land is
very cold, it cannot produce maize, [but] much quinua is harvested, which
is like rice, and other seeds and fruits that become fruitful below ground
and among them there is one that they call papa: it is round and very
humid” (1998, 175).8 Indeed, the potato was capable of sustaining large
population centers and extensive armies of soldiers throughout the Andes
thanks to two unique features: its tolerance of extreme temperatures and
altitudes and its nutritional value—it is one of the world’s few foodstuffs
which, if eaten in sufficient quantities, provides all of the nutrients re-
quired by the human body (Fernández-Armesto 2002, 99).9
By the beginning of the seventeenth century, the tuber had become a vi-
tal food source not only for Quechua families but also for Spaniards living
in the Andes (Salaman 1985, 70–71). Moreover, the potato’s resistance to
cold, as well as its nutritional density, eventually made it an indispensable
staple food for millions of Europeans, though not without some serious
initial misgivings. The potato enjoyed almost immediate success in Great
Britain after its introduction in the late sixteenth century, particularly in
the newly established colony of Ireland, whose climate and geography
closely resembled that of the Andes (Fernández-Armesto 2002, 99). In
continental Europe, however, the starchy tuber did not receive such an
enthusiastic welcome. Its entirely subterranean development, its dubious
 A Brief Cultural History of Andean Staple Foods 23

status as a relative of the poisonous nightshade Solanaceae genus, and its

lack of odor all contributed to the wary European public’s initial suspi-
cion and rejection of the potato (Cabieses 1995, 78).10
In France, the potato continued to languish, abandoned until the
eighteenth-century philosopher Antoine-Auguste Parmentier decided
to embark upon a public relations campaign in its favor (Fernández-
Armesto 2002, 79). After having become convinced of the tuber’s value
in a Prussian prison during the Seven Year’s War, Parmentier managed
to convince King Louis XVI that the South American tuber could serve as
an important foodstuff for the masses (Ritchie 1981, 108). He presented
the monarch with a clever scheme for convincing the peasants to accept
the tuber and soon after, the king accepted his plan to plant a large field
of potatoes on the outskirts of Paris (Ritchie 1981, 108). Soldiers were or-
dered to guard the field both day and night and as local peasants passed
by to take a look, word soon spread of a mysterious and incredibly valu-
able crop protected by strict security measures. Once the potatoes were
ready to harvest, the king withdrew his guards and as expected, the ma-
ture tubers soon disappeared from the fields by night (Ritchie 1981b, 108).
Thus the pomme de terre embarked upon its successful passage into French
cuisine, where a side of potatoes is still designated as a la parmentier—an
homage to the tuber’s Gallic patron.11
The widespread cultivation of potatoes in Europe, however, spread
most rapidly with the proliferation of continental wars. Introduced to
Belgium with Louis XIV’s bellic advances in the 1680s, potato cultivation
and consumption moved eastward across Germany and Prussia during
eighteenth-century conflicts and began to supplant rye as a basic staple in
Russia with the onslaught of the Napoleonic Wars (Fernández-Armesto
2002, 179; Cabieses 1995, 78). In the early eighteenth century, the plant
was also introduced to the soils of the eastern North American seaboard.
Those first insecure potato farmers would have been hard pressed to
imagine that only 250 years later, the hyperindustrialized cultivation
of potatoes in the United States would involve a harvest of more than
1,000,000 acres, yielding more than 41 billion tons of potatoes annually
(USDA, 2008 statistics).
Of course the potato is also notorious for its role in the Irish famine of
1845–1849, as well as the food crises that devastated Belgium and Finland
in 1867-68 (Fernández-Armesto 2002, 205). Such disasters resulted from
the overwhelming reliance on a single variety of potato—an elementary
and in some cases, fatal mistake that even the most novice Quechua farm-
ers carefully avoid when planting their fields. In the Andes, centuries-old
agricultural practices avoid the dependence on only a few varieties of
potatoes, so that even if some cultivars succumb to disease, the family
will not go hungry (Harrison 1989, 182). Yet in spite of the Irish famine
24 Chapter 1

and other European agricultural crises, the potato helped to sustain many
of the workers who fueled the industrializing societies of eighteenth- and
nineteenth-century Europe, while the monetary value of potato harvests
obtained in Europe over the past 150 years have been calculated as sur-
passing more than three times over the value of all of the precious metals
extracted from Perú and sent back to the Old World (Horkheimer 1973,
170).12 Thus, the seemingly humble potato can clearly be considered as
one of Perú’s most valuable natural resources and its most significant
agricultural gift to the world.

Maize (Sara)

Harauayo, harauayo Harawiy, harawiy

Ylla sara camauay Infuse me with life, corn animator
Mana tucocta surcoscayqui If you don’t, I will pull you up
Ylla mama, a Coya! Animating mother, Queen!
—Guaman Poma de Ayala (1980, 1:219)13

Even in the most inhospitable of environments, tubers such as the potato

have faithfully provided life-sustaining energy to the Quechua families
who have cultivated them for thousands of years. Yet they are rarely
fermented into alcohol for use during religious celebrations, nor are they
burnt as sacrifices to placate the gods. Quechua speakers in Cusco use the
phrase “ch’uñullata mihuq”—“he who eats only ch’uñu” as a disparaging
insult. The early colonial Huarochirí manuscript (1608) uses a similar
phrase as a derogatory description—“he who eats only roasted potatoes”
(“él que come papas asadas, no más”). Similarly, the seventeenth-century
indigenous chronicler Felip Guaman Poma de Ayala describes the runa
living in Colla Suyos as weak and lazy due to their uncouth diet, “large
bodied and fat, greasy because they eat only chuño and they drink chuño
beer” (Guaman Poma 1980, 1:308; also cited in Murra 1980, 8).14
While these descriptions and insults seem to reflect the potato’s lack of
status within the Quechua food-landscape, evidence from colonial diction-
aries and contemporary interviews reveal that it is not the potato itself that
is disparaged in these phrases, but the status of someone who only has ac-
cess to one type of food.15 For instance, Diego Gonçalez Holguín’s colonial
Quechua dictionary (1608) explains that Quechua speakers consider the
consumption of a variety of foods as a sign of a fine (“misqui”) meal, while
the words “miccurcarini” or “miccurcayani” indicate “to eat many foods
and braises together, or splendidly” (“Comer de muchas comidas y guisados
juntos, o esplendidamente”) (1989, 239). The Quechua phrase “Kapacpas mic-
curcanricuci huac chamkana huc vscayllacta miccu payacmi” reinforces the
 A Brief Cultural History of Andean Staple Foods 25

same idea, affirming “The rich eat a variety of foods, but the poor only a
few things as they have nothing more” (“Los ricos comen de varias comidas
mas el pobre siempre vnas cosas que no tienen mas”) (1952, 239).16
While the potato is astonishingly forgiving with regards to altitude, soil
type, and amounts of precipitation, maize plants are much more exigent
and perhaps as a result, more prized by Andean farmers, cooks, and din-
ers.17 Although maize is unable to withstand the frost of high-altitude
valleys and tablelands and demands levels of humidity which most high-
land regions cannot provide, the Incas fastidiously tended to their maize
fields even though they realized the limited highland yields could never
come close to providing the nutritional value offered by the dependable,
humble potato (Murra 1980, 8–9). Still, the lords of Tahuantinsuyu even
managed the seemingly impossible feat of cultivating small crops of
maize destined for ceremonial purposes on the islands of lake Titicaca at
altitudes of nearly 4,000 meters (Garcilaso 1998, 138). It is unclear whether
maize originated in Mesoamerica or in Perú. Sites dating from the mid-
fourth century BC in central México indicate its presence, while fragmen-
tary evidence of its cultivation has been discovered in both central México
and southern Perú with dates reaching back at least a thousand years
earlier (Bonavía 1989, 35; Fernández-Armesto 2002, 94). Wherever the
location of its original cultivation, maize became a vital nutritional and
ceremonial crop in both regions, playing important roles in the daily and
ritual lives of all three of the major, pre-conquest civilizations in América:
Mayan, Aztec, and Incan.
In the Andes, the sheer number of words that exist in the Quechua lexi-
con to describe the plant’s numerous varieties and preparations indicates
the importance of maize in this culture. Bernabé Cobo notes the Andean
practice of carefully naming each different variety and preparation of
a plant food, “being so curious and intelligent in agriculture and their
knowledge of plants, they have given a name even to the herbs which
seem the smallest and most neglected” (Cobo 1890, 1:330).18 Gonçalez
Holguín’s Quechua dictionary lists nineteen entries for different variet-
ies of maize, dishes made from maize, or useful parts of the plant, while
Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala’s mentions more than ten different variet-
ies of maize in his Primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno (1615) (First New
Chronicle and Good Government). In both of these texts the nature of the
lexicon associated with maize reveals the difficulty of cultivating the crop
in the Andes.
Of Gonçalez Holguín’s fifteen entries associated with the potato, more
than half attest to the efficiency of the staple food (“chaucha,” “the potato
which matures in a short amount of time” “la papa que madura en breve
tiempo”; “pacus,” “uripapa,” “the season’s first, or early potatoes” “las
primerizas papas o tempranas”; “chachao pacus,” “potatoes which are all
26 Chapter 1

ready in three months” “papas que se dan presto en tres meses todas”). The
other entries detail various preparation methods for the potato such as
“papacta cuçani” (“to roast potatoes”) or “chamca,” “el guisado de chuño o
maçamorra” (chuñu stew or pudding) (Gonçalez Holguín 1989, 279). A
quarter of the maize vocabulary presented in this same dictionary relates
to diseased maize (“tullpu,” or “tullpuk çara,” “las granças y defectos del
mayz,” “the dross and defects of the maize”; “hattupan,” “podrirse la ma-
çorca seca de mayz,” “the rotting of the dried maize cob”) or to the various
unusual cob forms that signal death omens (“aryrihua çara, dos granos de
mayz nazidos juntos,” “two kernals of corn born together”; “aya apa cho-
cllo,” “maçorca de dos pegado, abusión de muerte,” “two fused cobs, omen of
death”) (Gonçalez Holguín 1989, 576).19
Guaman Poma’s references to maize reveal a similarly rich vocabu-
lary associated with the difficulties of cultivating the crop: “ch’usu sara,”
“maíz vacío” (“empty maize”); “hut’u sara,” “maíz agusanado” (“wormy
maize”); “ismu sara,” “maíz podrido” (“rotten maize”); “chucllo sua,”
“ladrón de mazorcas” (“cob thief”); “sara q’iwiq,” “que arranca maize” (“he
who pulls up maize”) (1980, 3:1034, 1037, 1040). In visual and verbal
descriptions of the pre-conquest Andean agricultural calendar, Guaman
Poma also expresses the time-consuming nature of maize cultivation as
compared to that of the potato. In his 1,200-page letter to King Felipe III,
it seems likely that the Andean chronicler sought to present this detailed
calendar to the Spanish king as a way of demonstrating the many tasks
which indigenous Andeans struggled to carry out in order to provide
food for not only their families, but also for “God, his royal highness, the
Fathers and the local magistrates” (Guaman Poma 1980, 3:1027).20 Maize
appears in the descriptive title of eight different calendar months (and
seven of the drawings) presented by Guaman Poma, while potatoes ap-
pear only four times (Guaman Poma 1980, 3:1028–64). Potatoes appear
together with maize in the descriptive titles of two different months—for
July’s post-harvest storage “Zara Papa Apaicui Aimoray” and for January’s
work party for hilling “Zara, Papa Hallmai Mita” (Guaman Poma 1980,
3:1028–29, 1046–47) The chronicler glosses the latter phrase as “maize,
season of rains and hilling” (“maíz, tiempo de lluvias y e aporcar”) (1980,
3:1028). The translation’s elision of the word papa seems to emphasize
the tedious work involved in hilling the corn seedlings and allude to
the relatively little maintenance required by a potato crop. For example,
Guaman Poma explains that farmers must protect their maize crop from
birds, foxes, dogs, and humans eager to steal a taste of the ripening
crop during the months of February, March, and April. When it is first
planted in October the maize seedlings must be protected from birds and
small mammals, and runakuna must begin to irrigate the newly planted
seedlings in November. In contrast, after being planted, potato seedlings
 A Brief Cultural History of Andean Staple Foods 27

dutifully mature underground without requiring any further attention

until harvesttime in June.
Although the Quechua language reflects the importance of both po-
tatoes and maize in highland culture, in his essay “Maize, Tubers and
Agricultural Rites” (“Maíz, tubérculos y ritos agrícolas”), Murra notes that
sixteenth-century chroniclers relate very little information regarding
potatoes (or quinua) and that the rituals, calendars, and ceremonies they
describe almost exclusively involve maize (2002, 147–49). Regina Har-
rison also demonstrates the way in which Guaman Poma’s drawings of
Andean ritual and agricultural cycles seem to reflect this ideology; the
chronicler privileges the pictorial representation of maize over the potato,
even if he does describe the potato occasionally in his written text (Har-
rison 1989, 175). Murra insists, however, that we should not assume that
the Incas did not dedicate some ceremonies to their indispensable tuber
crops. Instead, he argues, we should recall that most of the chroniclers’
informants were descendents of the recently vanquished Incan elite and
were thus more focused on presenting impressive state mechanisms (such
as the sophisticated terracing and irrigation required for the cultivation of
corn), but ignored the subsistence farming (of the potato) at the level of
local peasant communities (2002, 148).21
One could also argue that maize was accorded more ritual attention
due to its close association with the sun god Inti. In contrast to the sub-
terranean, earthen colored potato, the maize cob with its golden kernels
and protective blond tassels matures aboveground, clutching on to a stalk
that seems to continually stretch skyward. Since maize cultivation was
an arduous, uncertain undertaking, the fruits of this labor could not be
depended on as a staple food source, yet when the Inca state did harvest
a successful crop, each cob was all the more esteemed. Just as Quechua
hostesses today serve their guests the finest dishes they can offer, in their
ceremonial use of maize, it seems as if the Incas sought to present the gods
with their most prized, luxury foodstuff.
Like the Incan ritual specialists, the Spaniards also preferred maize
over the potato, and referred to the grain in seventeenth-century Spain as
“the wheat of the Indies” (“trigo de las Indias”) (Cobo 1890, 1:340). Bernabé
Cobo compares the Europeans’ preeminent grain to maize since “all of the
lands hospitable to wheat are also hospitable to maize, and those that are
so cold as to preclude the production of wheat, are also not suitable for
maize [cultivation]” (Cobo 1890, 1:341).22 The Inca Garcilaso describes the
laborious process carried out by the native Peruvians in order to prepare
bread for the Spaniards from Andean corn crops. Apparently, the Iberians
required their Quechua cooks to remove the thin outer peel of each kernel
and then carefully sift the grounded meal (1998, 346–47). Garcilaso scoffs
at such finicky tastes, asserting that no one had bothered with such an
28 Chapter 1

unnecessary process before the arrival of the Spaniards, since the Incas
“were not so fastidious so that the maize bran offended them, the bran
isn’t even so rough that it is necessary to remove it, especially that of fresh
corn” (1998, 347).23
Initially, maize’s popularity among Europeans remained limited to
those living in the New World who ate dishes prepared by indigenous
cooks. The plant first arrived in Sevilla in the year 1495 and by 1525 the
peasants of Spain, Portugal, and Italy began consuming the new grain as
if it were wheat, and without supplementing their maize diet with meat,
squash, beans, or any other protein and vitamin-rich foods (Ritchie 1981,
56; Cabieses 1995, 142). As a result, large numbers of European peasants
became ill with pellagra, a disease resulting from a diet deficient in niacin,
and which results in severe physical and mental deterioration (Cabieses
1995, 145). In Perú or Mesoamerica of course, indigenous cooks would
never have served a meal consisting of only maize, much less depend
upon such a diet for weeks and months. Consuming maize along with
beans, squash, and chili peppers in Mesoamerica and squash, potato, chil-
ies, and the legume tarwi in the Andes provided these populations with
the necessary balance of proteins, vitamins, and amino acids (Fernández-
Armesto 2002, 94; Cabieses 1995, 145).24 Although maize was gratefully
welcomed by farmers in parts of Italy by the early eighteenth century,
throughout most of Europe the grain acquired an unjust and rotten repu-
tation. So unloved was the New World’s treasured crop that even when
the Irish were dying of hunger during the Great Famine of 1845–1852 they
refused to eat corn. Referencing its yellow color, they disparaged it as
“Peel’s sulfur,” in (dis)honor of England’s much hated prime minister Sir
Robert Peel (Ritchie 1981b, 56). Eventually of course, Europeans and the
rest of the world came to appreciate the New World’s gift of maize and
it now ranks just behind wheat and rice as the third most consumed food
staple in the world (Fernández-Armesto 2002, 99).

Quinua

Even thirty years ago quinua was still considered to be a food that only
Indians ate. If I asked a gentleman (in Lima we only call high-class men
gentleman) if he ate quinua, he would look at me truly horrified as if I
had offended him.
—José María Arguedas, 1968 (in Rivera-Andía 2004, 214)

While quinua is still considered a low-prestige “Indian food” by some

Peruvians, in the United States and Europe the highland grain is most
often sold in expensive organic food stores, wrapped in fancy packag-
 A Brief Cultural History of Andean Staple Foods 29

ing, and sold alongside other “exotic” grains such as amaranth (kiwicha)
or millet. In Peruvian tourist destinations such as Cusco or the towns of
the nearby Sacred Valley, upscale restaurants advertising their commit-
ment to the preparation of “Cocina Novoandina” (“New Andean Cuisine”)
inevitably offer a variety of elaborate dishes featuring the highland grain.
For the most part, however, quinua’s importance as a food staple remains
largely limited to the kitchens of the Quechua farmers who cultivate it in
the Andean highlands (Padilla Trejo 1999, 1). In Cusco’s Central Market
(Mercado central) in late 2010 quinua sold for s/6.00 Peruvian Nuevo soles
per kilo ($2.14) as compared to the approximately s/1.50 ($0.55) cost of a
kilo of potatoes, therefore subsistence farmers do not produce quinua and
urban migrants often cannot afford to purchase the grain (Ayala 2007).
Yet even cooks who admit that their use of quinua has declined in the
past decade extol the nutritional value of the grain, while also pointing
out that the water used to wash freshly harvested quinua serves as a
remedy for killing lice if used to wash either hair or clothes (Ayala 2007).
Moreover, the ash from burnt quinua stalks can be transformed into llipta,
an indispensable substance for many runakuna who chew it along with
coca leaves in order to release the plant’s mild narcotic effect by liberat-
ing some of its alkaloids. Quinua can also be ground into a fine, soft flour,
while the extremely nutritious leaves of the plant called lliccha are eaten
in soups and stews, providing a much appreciated green vegetable for
rural highland families.
Classified as (Chenopodium quinoa), the cultivation of the quinua plant
appears in the archaeological record around 5800 BC in the department of
Ayacucho (Brack Egg 2003, 102). In pre-Colombian times, the grain was
cultivated on mountain plateaus and in the highland valleys of Perú, Bo-
livia, Ecuador, and Chile, while the Aztecs and Mayas also grew it in Meso-
america (Oekle and Putnum et al. 1992). Quinua grows at altitudes of up to
4,000 meters and as Bernabé Cobo asserts, “of all [the grains] born in these
Indies it is this seed which withstands the most cold, among the native
[grains] from here and those brought from Spain; because it grows in fields
so cold that all other [grains] freeze there, even barley” (1890, 1:350).25
With its high protein content (15 percent), relatively high fat content
(6.3 percent, as compared to 0.4 percent in rice, 1.5 percent in wheat and
3.9 percent in corn), and high levels of essential amino acids (roughly
equivalent to the levels in skim milk), quinua has served as an important
staple food in the Andes for centuries (Cabieses 1995, 135; Fundación
Proinpa n.d., 6; Oekle and Putnam et al. 1992). The Inca Garcilaso main-
tains that in Perú the quinua plant was much esteemed:

The Indians and Spaniards eat the tender leaves in their braises because they
are tasty and healthy; they also eat the grain in their vegetable stews, prepared
30 Chapter 1

in many ways. The Indians prepare a brew from the quinua to drink, like the
one made from maize, but made in lands where there is a shortage of maize.
The Indian herbalists use quinua flour for some sicknesses. (1998, 347)26

In Cusco’s sacred garden of Coricancha a quinua plant fashioned from gold

“grew” alongside the corn stalks, thus revealing the important role the
plant played in Incan society and ritual practices (Garcilaso 1998, 135).

Chili (Uchu)

Imasmari imasmari? Guess what, guess what?

Imaqtaq kanmanri? What could it be?

Puka payacha, Red little old lady,

k’aspi chupacha . . . Puka uchu!! [with] a little wooden
tail . . . Red chili!!
—Quechua riddle shared by chili vendor
in Cusco’s Mercado Central, 2005

Called uchu in Quechua and ají by Spanish speakers (the latter, a loan-
word of Caribbean origin), these hot capsicum peppers continue to play
an integral role in contemporary Quechua cuisine, just as they did during
the reign of the Incas. Garcilaso insists that citizens of Tahuantinsuyu fa-
vored the uchu above all other Andean fruits and he describes it as

the condiment they put on everything they eat—be it a braise, or a stew or

roast, they shant eat without it—, it is called uchu and [for] the Spaniards,
pepper of the Indies, although there [in the New World the Spaniards] call it ají
which is a name from the language of the Isles of Barlovent: those from my
land are such friends of the uchu that they will not eat without it even if it is
just a few raw herbs. Due to the pleasure with which they receive it in what
they eat, they prohibit its consumption during rigorous fasts. . . . Generally
all of the Spaniards who return to Spain from the Indies eat it frequently and
they like it more than the spices of the Oriental India. (1998: 351)27

The chronicler Bernabé Cobo concurs with Garcilaso’s description of

the importance of ají on the tables of both runa and Spanish diners. The
Spaniards carried the plant back to Europe where it began to flourish as
early as the seventeenth century (Cobo 1890, 1:372). Cobo praises both the
Peruvian ají and its larger, less fiery cousin called rocoto affirming, “ají es
such a prized and appetizing salsa for the Indians, that with it anything is
tasty, even if it is only wild and bitter herbs” (1890, 1:373).28
By the beginning of the sixteenth century this ají pepper was already
widely known in Spain, Italy, and the Balkans as a relatively cheaper and
 A Brief Cultural History of Andean Staple Foods 31

effective alternative to the seasoning power of the scarce and expensive

oriental black pepper (Cabieses 1995, 156–57).29 Likewise, contemporary
Quechua cooks and diners hold uchu in great esteem; indeed, even the
humblest of restaurant stalls or street corner food carts offers its custom-
ers a small dish of uchu to accompany their meal or snack. Recipes shared
by Andean cooks carefully specify which uchu should be used in each
dish, and whether or not its seeds or veins should be removed or included
in the sauce.30 Many popular Quechua dishes such as roasted guinea pig
(cuy) and stuffed squash (Achuqcha rellena) are almost always served with
uchukuta (called llatán in Spanish). Cooks prepare this spicy sauce from a
trinity of Andean ingredients: uchu, huacatay (a green, feathery highland
herb used in many sauces and cuy recipes), and peanuts (called inchis
by Quechua elders living in isolated, highland communities, most other
Quechua speakers only understand the seed’s Spanish name of Caribbean
origin, maní). In some chicherías, uchukuta sauce also includes chopped to-
mato, breadcrumbs, parsley, cilantro, onion, and the spicy rocoto pepper.
One of the spiciest variety of uchu is the red puka uchu; a food featured
in the Quechua riddle which appears at the beginning of this section.
Riddles are an important part of the Quechua oral tradition and are told
for entertainment, as didactic tools, and for attracting the attention of
the opposite sex. In her research in the central Peruvian highland de-
partment of Ayacucho, Billie Jean Isbell found that the performance of
riddle games is carried out almost exclusively by single adolescents (in
the context of flirting, seduction, and sexual play).31 In urban and rural
contexts in the department of Cusco, Quechua riddle exchanges occur
between members of diverse age groups and both sexes, and often serve
more as a form of general entertainment and proof of mental quickness
rather than a tool of seduction. In the two food-themed riddles (“puka
uchu” and “cuy”) which I have translated in this chapter, verbal artists
create a sense of balance through metric and rhyme schemes (rather than
through reciprocal action or semantic oppositions as Isbell and Roncalla
Fernandez found in their research).
In many Quechua riddles performed in Cusco, a verbal artist uses a trig-
ger phrase consisting of two brief questions: “Guess what, guess what?/
What could it be?” (“Imasmari imasmari?/Imataq kanmanri?”). The repeti-
tion of the suffix -ri as well as the syllabic rhythm of the words in each
line (four syllables in each word of line 1, three syllables for each word
in line 2) infuses these opening questions with a cadence that attracts lis-
teners’ attention and invites them to participate in the subsequent verbal
challenge. Both “Puka uchu” and “Cuy” use clever, metaphoric imagery
and succinct, unexpected contrasts to present a verbal puzzle. The “Red
Chili” riddle creates a sense of rhythmic balance through the repetition
of the suffix -cha in lines 3 and 4, while also maintaining syllabic rhythm
32 Chapter 1

between these last lines (each contains five syllables). In the “Cuy” riddle
below, assonance links all four lines in rhythmic unity. Both riddles offer
unusual comparisons between two disparate images—a small, red uchu
pepper and a red, little old lady in the first riddle and a tiny cuy and a
huge cow in the second. Both verbal constructions entertain audiences
with humorous and unexpected images. The first image pins a “wooden
tail” on a little old lady so that she might have a stem like the slightly
shriveled, bent over uchu pepper, while the second compares a cuy to
housebound cattle (both domesticated herbivores which provide their
owners with a much appreciated source of protein). Each of these riddles
uses balanced rhyme schemes and cadences, as well as the invocation of
two original and contrasting, but related images to create an aesthetically
pleasing and entertaining verbal performance.

Guinea Pig (Cuy)

Imasmari imasmari? Guess what, guess what?

Imataq kanmanri? What could it be?
Wasi waka, Housebound cattle,
mana inti qhawaq . . . cuy!! have never see the sun . . . cuy!
—Quechua riddle shared by cuy cook and vendor in Tipón, Cusco

Although when eaten in sufficient quantities the Andean grains and tu-
bers described above provide the human body with all of the necessary
protein, vitamins, and minerals it needs, Quechua cooks occasionally
prepare dishes which incorporate various other “luxury foods.”32 While
most runa cooks rely predominantly on vegetables and grains in the
preparation of their dishes, dried, salted mutton, beef, or camelid meat
called charqui is sometimes added to soups in order to provide an added
kick of dense energy (“kallpa”), to create a more complex flavor, and to
balance out the “hotness” or “coldness” of the other ingredients. Yet the
main source of animal protein for most runa families is the cuy, an animal
which is relatively easy to care for and can be raised in the corners of a
kitchen, or outside the house in a simple wire cage. The Spanish name for
the animal, conejiillo de Indias, is just as imprecise as the English guinea pig,
since the cuy is neither a rabbit, nor a pig, and is a native of the Andes,
not India or Guinea. It is said that the origin of the animal’s English name
derives from its cost of one guinea in sixteenth-century London markets.
In the Andes, runakuna explain that the cuy named himself since he scur-
ries around all day long squeaking “cuy, cuy, cuy, cuy.”
Domesticated in the Andes more than one thousand years before the ar-
rival of the Spaniards, cuy is a high-protein food (21 percent compared to
 A Brief Cultural History of Andean Staple Foods 33

beef’s 17 percent and poultry’s 18 percent) that serves as the central dish
for many pan-Andean celebrations such as Corpus Christi, local town
or neighborhood festivals, as well as family events such as a child’s first
haircutting ceremony (chukcha rutuy), or as a special meal to commemo-
rate the arrival of an important guest (Cabieses 1995, 228; Morales 1995,
50).33 In the city of Cusco, cuy is most often roasted; in the surrounding
countryside it is often briefly boiled and then pan-fried, while in Areq-
uipa the traditional dish is cuy chactado—a delicacy requiring a large stone
or other heavy object to press the seasoned flesh into an oiled frying pan.
Regardless of the local recipe, all cooks agree that before cooking, cuy
must be preseasoned or condimentado—a process which usually involves
the liberal application of a mixture of salt, black pepper, cumin, oregano,
and various types of spicy uchu.34

Q
This chapter’s brief introduction to some of the foods cultivated, sold,
prepared, and eaten by Quechua farmers, vendors, cooks, and families
does not attempt to present an exhaustive catalog of every variety of
fruit, vegetable, tuber, legume, and grain consumed in pre-conquest,
colonial, and contemporary Perú. This formidable yet interesting task
shall be left to the cultural and gastronomical historians. Instead, in this
chapter and in chapter 3, I introduce some of the key products within the
Quechua food-landscape as part of the book’s larger goal of exploring
the roles and representations of food and cooks in Quechua verbal and
visual narratives. Within Andean households, markets, and restaurants,
some foods are carefully prepared and enthusiastically consumed while
others are avoided or looked upon with disgust. At times, the same dish
might be esteemed in one household and distained in another, and such
distinctions are important for the construction of runa identity. Moreover,
the particular ways in which Quechua verbal and visual artists represent
food and cooking often serve as a tool for conveying complex, critical, and
multivalenced meanings within their narratives.

Notes

 1. Scholars who have demonstrated the importance of considering food and

cooking in studies of historical, economic, political, and cultural events and inter-
actions include, among others: Armelagos and Farb (1980), Coe (1994), Fernández-
Armesto (2002), Helstosky (2004), Mintz (1985, 1996), Revel (1982), Ritchie (1981a,
1981b), Salaman (1985), Schenone (2003), Symons (2000), and Tannahill (1989).
 2. Most studies of Andean foodways tend to opt for an investigation of either
nutritional and economic values or strictly cultural or symbolic meanings, while
34 Chapter 1

only rarely integrating an exploration of these oftentimes interrelated aspects of

a foodstuff. Arnold and Dios Yapita (1996), Harrison (1989), Morales (1995), and
Weismantel (1988) are notable exceptions since they seek to consider all of these
aspects in their studies of Andean foods and Quechua culture. See also Ossio
(1992) for a discussion of how scholarly studies of Andean foods have tended
to focus exclusively on nutritional and agricultural aspects of Andean products
while failing to explore their symbolic significances.
 3. All translations of Spanish or Quechua citations to the English are my own.
When citing primary sources I include the original Spanish- or Quechua-language
passages in addition to the English translation. “Todos los nombres que los españoles
ponen a las frutas y legumbres del Perú son del lenguaje de las islas de Barlovento, que los
han introducido ya en su lengua española, y por eso damos cuenta de ellos.”
 4. The Peruvian Ministry of Agriculture indicates that the potato is the coun-
try’s principal crop in terms of planted hectares and represents 35 percent of the
agricultural GDP. Between 2000 and 2006 Perú produced about 3.2 million tons
of potatoes each year. The potato remains the staple food for the Andean region
where it is produced on 600,000 small agricultural units and can be successfully
cultivated at altitudes exceeding 9,842 feet (3,000 meters) above sea level (Minis-
terio de Agricultura, “Producción de la papa,” 2010).
 5. See Harrison (1989) for a detailed study of the cultural and literary sig-
nificance of the potato in Quechua society and ethnopoetics. Denise Arnold and
Juan de Dios Yapita (1996) present Aymara verbal art and interviews related to
potato tales of origin, categorization, preparation, medicinal uses, and cultivation
strategies.
 6. Recent genetic analyses of wild species of the potato point to a single point of
origin for the tuber’s cultivation to the north of Lake Titicaca, approximately seven
thousand years ago. The research botanist David Spooner argues that all modern-
day varieties originated from a wild species known as the Solanum brevicaule com-
plex, thus contesting the multiple-origins argument (Spooner et al. 2005, 14698).
 7. “Este tiempo, pues, que se tardan en cocer las papas, toman para medir la duración
de las cosas que se hacen en breve, respondiendo haber gastado en hacer tal o cual cosa
tanto tiempo cuanto basta a cocerse una olla de papas.”
 8. “[Cuando hay] tierra muy fría, no se da el maíz, cógese mucha quinua, que es como
arroz, y otras semillas y legumbres que fructificaban debajo de tierra, y entre ellas hay
una que llaman papa: es redonda y muy húmeda.” In the late sixteenth century when
Garcilaso was writing his Comentarios reales, the Peruvian potato was still a rela-
tively unfamiliar crop on the Iberian peninsula (later, it would become the world’s
fourth most important food staple, after wheat, rice, and maize). He does indicate,
however, that at least one variety of Peruvian corn known as muruchu was already
cultivated in Spain (1998, 346).
 9. A medium-sized potato contains only ninety calories, but it also provides
more vegetable protein and double the calcium of a similar serving of maize. One
potato delivers half of the U.S. Food and Drug Administration’s (USDA) Recom-
mended Daily Allowance (RDA) of vitamin C for an adult, whereas both wheat
and rice lack this vitamin completely. The potato is also rich in vitamin B6, iron,
magnesium, folate, and potassium, and contains a healthy balance of amino acids
(CIP 2007; Nutrient Data Lab 2009; USDA 2004).
 A Brief Cultural History of Andean Staple Foods 35

10. The uncooked fruit, as well as its stems and foliage, do in fact contain
significant amounts of the poisonous alkaloid solanin (Cabieses 1995, 78). Regina
Harrison cites sources indicating that the potato’s status as a root, as well as the
“white or flesh-colored nodules on its underground stems” also provoked sus-
picion among the European masses (1989, 177–78). Moreover, as Jules Michelet
points out, female healers in medieval Europe frequently utilized plants belong-
ing to the potato’s Solanaceas genus for the preparation of numbing poultices
and remedies for patients suffering from painful skin diseases such as leprosy
(1987, 123–24). These female healers were frequently denounced as witches by the
church and sentenced to death.
11. Both Catherine the Great and Marie Antoinette also praised the potato. The
latter, so often portrayed as the callous advocate of cake for the masses, reinforced
her pro-potato campaign by wearing the plant’s flowers on her royal gowns
(Fernández-Armesto 2002, 100).
12. Ironically, in early nineteenth-century Argentina the potato was first intro-
duced to residents of coastal cities such as Buenos Aires as a luxury item, since at
that time potatoes cost as much as meat in this most populous region of the coun-
try (Fernández-Armesto 2002, 127). Yet by 1913, potatoes cost twelve cents per
kilo compared to beef’s fifty-five or sixty cents per kilo; only at this point could
the poor residents of Buenos Aires begin to integrate this nutritious Andean tuber
into their cooking pots (Fernández-Armesto 2002, 127).
13. In this celebratory harawiy transcribed by Guaman Poma and dedicated to
“Ylla sara” and “Ylla mama,” the indigenous chronicler translates these invocations
as “magical maize” (“maíz mágico”) and “magical mother” (“Madre mágica”) re-
spectively. I have chosen to gloss “Ylla sara” as “corn animator” and “Ylla mama”
as “animating Mother” in order to reflect the idea of a life-giving essence which
the Quechua word ylla connotes.
14. “Gran cuerpo y gordo, seboso, para poco porque comen todo chuno y ueuen chicha
de chuno.”
15. Since the potato is the most readily available and economical foodstuff
in the Andes, the diets of the most impoverished Peruvians continue to consist
overwhelmingly of this tuber. The Peruvian Ministry of Agriculture’s latest
data for potato consumption indicates that the national per capita consumption
in 2006 reached 110 pounds per year (Ministerio de Agricultura, “Consumo de
papa,” 2010) In the rural sierra, a typical family consumes approximately 400
pounds (181 kilos) of potatoes per year, which means that the tuber makes up
more than 70 percent of their total food intake (Amat 1990, 59). While the potato
is a nutritionally balanced food, this overwhelming dependence on one foodstuff
obviously reveals the harsh terrain tilled by Andean farmers, as well as their lack
of access to markets and cash to purchase other foodstuffs. This statistic also sug-
gests the need for the implementation of poverty-reduction plans, as well as the
reintroduction of other nutritionally and economically viable highland products.
A discussion of some of the agricultural and nutrition programs implemented
by the Peruvian government and international NGOs in the past several years is
discussed in this book’s conclusion.
16. Unlike the Huarochirí Manuscript, Gonçalez Holguín’s description of the
poor’s humble diet does not mention the potato, but instead the unadorned boiled
36 Chapter 1

corn dish called mote, “I always eat mote because I have nothing more” (“Muttil-
lacta micupayani, Como siempre mote que no tengo mas”) (1989, 239).
17. The words maize and maíz are likely derived from either the Arawak marise
or the mahiz of an Antillean language (or perhaps from a combination of the two)
(Cabieses 1995, 142). Quechua speakers use the word sara to refer to the grain. The
English word corn is actually a general term for any grain and usually denotes
the most important crop of a certain region. For this reason, historically the word
corn has been used to refer to wheat in England, oats in Ireland or Scotland, and
wheat or barley in various English-language translations of the Bible (Gibson and
Berson 2002).
18. “Siendo ellos tan curiosos e inteligentes en la agricultura y conocimiento de
plantas, que no hay yerbecita por pequeña y desechado que parezca, a quien no tengan
puesto nombre.”
19. Domingo de Santo Tomás’s 1560 Quechua vocabulary lists only five dif-
ferent varieties of maize, although this is at least a more detailed treatment than
he gives the potato, defined simply as, “a certain delicacy of the Indians” (“cierto
manjar de indios”) (1951, 249). See Valdizán and Maldonado (1992) for a list of the
varieties of maize cultivated in the Cusco region, together with the many Quechua
words used to describe each different variety and the various types of corn-based
food and beverage preparations which can be made from each one.
20. “A Dios y a su magestad y a los padres, corregidores.”
21. Murra argues quite convincingly that in Incan times, tubers and maize not
only constituted agricultural products of two different climactic zones, but also
required two different agricultural systems (2002, 151). While the potato was a
product of high-altitude, community-based subsistence farming, maize remained
a product suited only for milder climates and was grown primarily for religious
and celebratory uses. Cultivating maize on any sort of large scale in the highlands
only became possible with the rise of a large state apparatus that could organize
the construction and administration of terraces, irrigation, and the long-distance
transport of guano fertilizer necessary for its successful cultivation (Murra 2002,
151). Murra maintains, “In contrast to the subsistence cultivation of tubers by
campesinos, in the times of the Inka maize was a crop of the state” (2002, 151).
22. “Todas las tierras que llevan trigo, llevan también maíz, y las que por ser muy frías
no producen trigo, tampoco se da en ellas maíz.” Cobo does, however, concede that
maize can survive at higher temperatures and humidity than wheat (1890, 1:341).
23. “No eran tan regalados que les ofendiese el afrecho, ni el afrecho es tan áspero,
principalmente el del maíz tierno, que sea menester quitarlo.”
24. Maize contains little protein, few vitamins (it lacks, for example, niacin, a
component in the B vitamin complex), and is low in the vital amino acids lysine and
tryptophan. As it must have occasionally proved impossible to access the “compan-
ion foods” necessary for supplementing a maize-centered diet with key nutrients,
both Mesoamerican and Andean cooks discovered that by boiling ripe corncobs
with either lime or ash, maize bran could be removed, thus releasing more amino
acids and enhancing the grain’s protein value (Fernández-Armesto 2002, 94).
25. “Es esta semilla la que sufre más el frío de cuantas nacen en estas Indias, así de las
naturales de acá como de las traídas de España; porque se da en tierras tan frías donde las
más se yelan, hasta la cebada.” For centuries quinua remained a highland crop, al-
 A Brief Cultural History of Andean Staple Foods 37

though in the past few decades geneticists have developed new varieties capable
of surviving at lower altitudes and even in coastal areas (Oekle and Putnam et
al. 1992). At least for now, quinua’s yield in such regions is significantly lower,
a limitation that has prevented the spread of its cultivation in the United States,
beyond experimental projects in Colorado, Minnesota, and Wisconsin (Oekle and
Putnam et al. 1992).
26. “Las hojas tiernas comen los indios y los españoles en sus guisados, porque son
sabrosas y muy sanas; también comen el grano en sus potajes, hechos de muchas maneras.
De la quinua hacen los indios brebaje para beber, como del maíz, pero es en tierras donde
hay falta del maíz. Los indios herbolarios usan de la harina y de la quinua para algunas
enfermedades.”
27. “El condimento que echan en todo lo que comen—sea guisado, sea cocido o asado,
no lo han de comer sin él—, que llaman uchu y los españoles pimiento de las Indias,
aunque allá le llaman ají que es nombre del lenguaje de las islas de Barlovento: los de mi
tierra son tan amigos del uchu que no comerán sin él aunque no sea sino unas yerbas
crudas. Por el gusto que con él reciben en lo que comen, prohibían el comerlo en su ayuno
riguroso. . . . Generalmente todos los españoles que de Indias vienen a España lo comen de
ordinario, y lo quieren más que las especies de la India Oriental.”
28. “Es el ají tan regalada y apetitosa salsa para los indios, que con él cualquier cosa
comen bien aunque sean yerbas silvestres y amargas.”
29. The origin of ají (or chile as it is called in Mesoamerica) maize, tomato, bean,
and vanilla cultivation still remains polemic among paleobotanists. Whether these
New World foodstuffs first appeared in the Andes or in Mesoamerica seems al-
most impossible to determine; their cultivation began so many centuries ago in
both regions that eventually locating an original wild species of any of these crops
remains highly unlikely (Cabieses 1995, 158, 164, 188).
30. The most commonly used varieties of uchu in Quechua cuisine include:
asnacc-uchu (“pungent uchu” “ají oloroso”), the small and potent mucuru-uchu
(“tiny bird uchu,” “ají de pajarito”), puka-uchu (“red uchu” “ají colorado,” called “ají
panca” in Spanish when dried), q’illu-uchu (“yellow uchu” “ají amarillo,” called “ají
mirasol” in Spanish when dried).
31. Isbell argues that riddles invoke the Quechua aesthetic preference for cre-
ating a sense of balance within works of verbal art, since the riddles she collects
and analyzes include metaphors based on reciprocal action or the opposition of
semantic categories such as “animal to human, inside to outside, male to female,
animate to inanimate, above to below” (Isbell and Roncalla Fernandez 1977, 46).
32. My use of the term “luxury foods” follows Christine Hastorf’s description
of the category, “food that is rare and/or exotic . . . [or] abundant and presented
in a special feasting context” (2003, 546).
33. As Hastorf points out, “meat, not consumed on a regular basis, is important
in feasts. Like beer [chicha], it identifies an event as important, making it luxuri-
ous” (2003, 546).
34. In addition to the studies by Morales (1995) and deFrance (2006), see also
Bolton and Calvin (1981) for a detailed account of the ritual and symbolic impor-
tance of raising, preparing, and consuming cuy within contemporary Quechua
communities of rural southern Perú.
 2
Q
The Symbolic Role of Andean
Foods in Tahuantinsuyu and
Colonial Perú
Ritual Expression, Discursive Resistance

For us humans, then, eating is never a “purely biological” activity. The

foods eaten have histories associated with the pasts of those who eat
them. . . . Nor is the food ever simply eaten; its consumption is always
conditioned by meaning. These meanings are symbolic, and communi-
cated symbolically; they also have histories.
—Sidney Mintz, Tasting Food, Tasting Freedom

F or centuries, food has played a symbolic role in Andean ritual prac-

tices; as a sacrificial offering, a medium of communication, or an
amulet meant to bring future prosperity. Colonial documents suggest
that long before the arrival of Francisco Pizarro in the Andes in 1532, food
had become an indispensable element of religious ceremonies and verses
performed by Incan ritual specialists. Under Incan rule, the planting, har-
vesting, and distribution of food was closely monitored and controlled by
authorities in Cusco (Murra 1980, 3–14). The Incas believed that deities
such as their creator god Wiracocha (or Viraqocha), as well as their sacred
ancestors, controlled the viability of their empire’s crops. Since Andean
deities decided whether to bestow or withhold food from human believ-
ers, the Incan royalty in Cusco devoted an incredible amount of ritual en-
ergy dedicating food-centered incantations, ceremonies, and sacrifices to
these divine powerholders. Later, during the era of the colonial Viceroy-
alty of Perú (1542–1824), indigenous and mestizo visual and verbal artists
often continued to integrate representations of food into their works as a
tool for obliquely critiquing the excesses of an oppressive colonial regime.
References to certain Andean foods allowed colonial-era artists to vener-

39
40 Chapter 2

ate symbolically and ritually significant victuals within a society which

sought actively to repress Andean cultural and religious practices.
The rapid fifteenth-century expansion of Incan domination throughout
western South America is one of the great imperial success stories in the
history of the world. In less than a century, what appears to have been
just one of many bellicose ethnic groups from southern Perú dramatically
extended its territory as well as its political, economic, and cultural influ-
ence. Expanding out from its political center in the city of Cusco, the Incan
empire known as Tahuantinsuyu came to encompass parts of present-day
Ecuador, Bolivia, northern Chile, southern Colombia, and northwest
Argentina. Incan Tahuantinsuyu eventually extended more than 350,000
square miles (906,500 square kilometers) and included such varied ter-
rains as high-altitude grassy plateaus (punas), low-lying jungles, deserts,
coastlines, and fertile river valleys (Murra 1983, 57–82; see figure 2.1).
Colonial chroniclers such as Cristóbal de Molina, Inca Garcilaso de la
Vega, Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, and Juan de Betanzos allow us to
peer into select windows of the Incan world. The chroniclers’ manuscripts
provide detailed accounts of Incan imperial regulations for their subjects,
the organizing principles of Andean agriculture and pastoralism, and de-
tailed descriptions of religious, domestic, and warfare practices.
For a civilization whose strength and well-being depended so heavily
on abundant, reliable harvests and healthy herds, it is not surprising that
many Incan religious practices and beliefs revolved around a constant
preoccupation with the relationship between humans and the forces of
nature which affected Tahuantinsuyu’s food production.1 Felipe Guaman
Poma de Ayala highlights this point in an amusing fashion in a drawing in
which he imagines an encounter between the Incan ruler Huayna Capac
and a Spanish explorer who preceded Pizarro’s arrival. The indigenous
chronicler represents the scene both visually and verbally and highlights
Huayna Capac’s observation of the Spaniards’ insatiable interest in gold.
In Guaman Poma’s representation of the exchange (figure 2.2), the words
of the Incan ruler reveal his assumption that the strange, bearded man’s
voracious appetite for the gleaming metal can only be explained by the
fact that he can, in fact, eat gold. This hypothesis leads the dignified look-
ing Inca to ask the Spaniard kneeling before him, “Do you eat this gold?”
(“Kay quritachu mikhunki?”). The oafishly depicted Spaniard replies with
a vacant expression, “We eat this gold” (“este oro comemos”) (1980, 2:342–
43). Huayna Capac’s logic reflects the fact that in Tahuantinsuyu, food,
not gold, was the most prized commodity.2
The vitality of the empire’s crops and herds directly affected the health
of their human caretakers, and the sun god Inti was chief among the
deities whom the Incas sought to satisfy in their constant endeavor to
maintain favorable relations with their gods. As the son of the Sun on
 Created by Luke Kaim

Figure 2.1.   Map of Tahuantinsuyu, Incan expansion by 1532.

42 Chapter 2

From Guaman Poma de Ayala [1615] 1980, 2:343.

Figure 2.2.   Conquista: Gvaina Capac Inca, Candía Español (Conquest: Huayna Ca-
pac, Candía the Spaniard), Felipe Guaman Porma de Ayala, 1615.

earth, each Incan ruler served as a mediator between the awesome pow-
ers of nature and the needs of his human subjects. Hostile enemies and
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 43

weather, failed crops, sick animals, diseased humans, misplaced or stolen

valuables, and bad luck in general were attributed to angry nature deities
whose generosity had not been fully appreciated and who now sought
retribution for human arrogance and neglect.

Ritual Meals and Food Sacrifices in Tahuantinsuyu

According to the Incan worldview, sickness, death, and food were inextri-
cably linked. The Incas—and indeed many Andean peoples—believed that
their ancestors controlled all resources; therefore respecting, placating, and
feeding the ancestors became a vital aspect of many religious ceremonies.
In this way, special rituals involving food played a key role in maintaining
balance within the Incan spiritual, political, and economic worlds (Hastorf
2003, 546). When the deities felt wronged, they would punish humans by
showering down sickness and disease upon maize and potato seedlings,
llamas, alpacas, and Andean men, women, and children. Ten of the twelve
ritual hymns transcribed by the chronicler Cristóbal de Molina in his Rel-
ación de las fábulas y mitos de los Incas (Chronicle of the Fables and Myths of the
Incas), repeatedly link the Incan preoccupation with increased food crops
and human and animal fertility with their fear of lethal enemies, weather,
disease, and other hazardous dangers (including darkness, loneliness, and
malevolent witchcraft). A closer look at Father Molina’s Relación reveals the
important role played by the creator deity Wiraqocha in protecting the In-
can food-landscape.3 The Relación also underscores the intimate connection
between food and death in Tahuantinsuyu, and the ways in which this link
influenced Incan religious practices and beliefs.
In the year 1564, Cristóbal de Molina (el Cusqueño) accepted the position
of parish priest of the Hospital de los naturales in Cusco, where he became
a noted lenguaraz, or expert in the Quechua language.4 His knowledge of
this Andean language and culture undoubtedly contributed to Viceroy
Francisco de Toledo’s decision to appoint Father Molina as a visitador gen-
eral in the year 1569 (Urbano 1989, 12).5 It seems likely that while carrying
out his duties as visitador, Father Molina collected much of the detailed
information regarding the Incan myths, laws, and rituals which he later in-
cluded in his Relación de las fábulas y mitos de los Incas. He wrote the Relación
in the year 1573 in response to a request by the bishop Sebastián de Lar-
taún. According to Father Molina’s dedication of the text to Lartaún in the
opening pages of the Relación, the bishop had requested the compilation of
the manuscript in order to better understand “the origin, life and customs
of the Incas . . . the ceremonies, cults and idolatries that these Indians had”
([el] origen, vida y costumbres de los Ingas . . . las ceremonias, cultos y ydolatrías
que estos indios tuvieron) (Molina 1989, 49; Urbano 1989, 15).6
44 Chapter 2

The majority of the Relación consists of a description of Incan religious

rituals and ceremonies, organized in accordance with Tahuantinsuyu’s
pre-conquest calendar, beginning in the month of May with the solar fes-
tival of Inti Raymi. One of the most interesting sections of the manuscript
describes the month of August, or Coyaraymi (Festival of the Queens),
when the Incas celebrated Çitua (Molina 1989, 73).7 Father Molina de-
scribes the festival in the following manner:

The reason that they carried out this celebration called Çitua in this month
is because it was then that the waters began, and with the first waters there
tend to be many diseases, in order to beg the Creator that in that year in
Cusco, as in all that the Ynca had conquested, that he might find it conve-
nient that there would not be [diseases], for that reason they did the follow-
ing: on the day of the lunar conjunction, at midday the Ynca went with all of
his advisors [and] . . . the principal priest told all of the gathered people . . .
to cast out the sicknesses and ills of the land.
La razón porque acían esta fiesta llamada Çitua en este mes, es porque entonces
començauan las aguas y con las primeras aguas suele aver muchas enfermedades,
para rogar al Hacedor que en aquel año en el Cusco como en todo lo conquistado
del Ynca, tuviese por bien no las ubiese, para lo qual hacían lo siguiente: el día de la
conjunción de la Luna, a mediodía yba el Ynca con todas las personas de su consejo
[y] . . . el sacerdote mayor decía a las jentes que estavan juntos . . . que se hechasen
todas las enfermedades y males de la tierra. (Molina 1989, 73–74)

Father Molina transcribes the Quechua-language hymns performed by

Inca ritual specialists during the Çitua ceremony and describes the elabo-
rate consumption rites associated with the sacred food of Çitua called
Yawarçanco. Molina only briefly describes the sacred Yawarçanco food as
a “a porridge [or pudding] made from coarsely ground corn” (“una ma-
çamora de maíz mal mulida”) which the Çitua ceremony’s “priest of the Sun
[god]” (“sacerdote del Sol”) sprinkled with the blood (“yawar”) of carefully
selected, pure white camelids (“carneros”) that had never been shorn and
which he sacrificed before the Incan royalty and the inhabitants of Cusco
(Molina 1989, 76, 79).
The Quechua verb used to designate the offering of a sacrifice to a
deity is “mikhuchiy” or “to feed,” and indeed, the Incas considered it
a sin to let even the smallest morsel of Yawarçanco fall to the ground
(Molina 1989, 80). According to Father Molina, Incan ritualists explicitly
warned the people to carefully consider their acceptance of the sacred
food, cautioning:

Watch how ye eat this çanco, because he who eats it in sin and impiously, of
two wills and hearts, the Sun, our father, will see it and punish it and this
will be the cause of great difficulties for you.
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 45

Mira como coméis este çanco, porque el que lo comiere en pecado y con dos volun-
tades y coraçones, el Sol, nuestro padre, lo verá y lo castigará y será para grandes
travajos vuestros. (Molina 1989, 80)

Incan ritual leaders assured those with a clear conscience that by eat-
ing çanco, “the Creator and the Sun and the Thunder will gratify you all
and will give you children and happy years that you might have much
food and all else that is necessary for prosperity” (“el Hacedor y el Sol y
el Trueno os lo gratificarán y os darán hijos y felices años y que tengáis mucha
comida y todo lo demás necessario con prosperidad”) (Molina 1989, 80).8 The
consumption of yawarçanco during the Incan festival of Çitua served as a
collective sacrifice to give thanks to the gods and ask for their continual
protection of the crops and inhabitants of Tahuantinsuyu. As Jack Goody
points out, “In all societies the intake of food, the eating itself, has some
collective aspects, especially at festivals where the consumption of larger
quantities and often of special foods takes place in a communal situa-
tion” (1982, 206). The collective aspect of food intake certainly played
an important role in Incan ritual, as men, women, and children partook
of the sacred çanco meal together with their neighbors and even care-
fully tucked away portions for relatives whose illness prevented them
from attending the festival, “because he who did not manage to receive
yawarçanco on that day was considered to be quite disgraced” (“porque se
tenía por muy desdichado él que este día no alcançava a recevir el yahuarçanco”)
(Molina 1989, 80).

Sacred Foods and Cooks in Tahuantinsuyu

Incan rulers considered both women and food to be extremely valuable

tribute items and required that conquered groups send to Cusco their
most precious food (high-quality crops destined for sacrifice to the sun
god Inti) and women (dedicated to Inti as his “wives,” or aqllakuna). Oc-
casionally, during celebrations such as the Capacocha festival, women and
food were fatally joined as sacrificial gifts offered to Inti. Vanquished
groups who rebelled against their new Incan overlords were required to
send both food and women to Cusco as reparations for their insubordina-
tion (Silverblatt 1987, 92). In the royal quarters known as aqllawasi which
housed and trained the tribute women in Cusco and throughout Tahuant-
insuyu, the precious “wives of the Sun” would receive annually allotted
portions of the sacred corn grown on the islands of Lake Titicaca. The Inca
Garcilaso relates that the Incas

harvested some cobs in a limited quantity which were taken to the King as
a sacred thing . . . and of these he sent some to the chosen virgins [aqllakuna]
46 Chapter 2

who were in Cusco and he ordered them to be taken to the other convents and
temples which were located throughout the kingdom . . . so that they might
enjoy that grain which was like a thing brought down from the heavens.
Cogían algunas mazorcas en poca cantidad, las cuales llevaban al Rey por cosa sagrada
. . . y de ellas enviaba a las vírgenes escogidas [aqllakuna] que estaban en el Cusco y
mandaba que se llevasen a otros conventos y templos que por el reino había . . . para que
todos gozasen de aquel grano que era como traído del cielo. (1998, 138)

In exchange for having received sacred crops from the Inca ruler for
their own consumption, aqllakuna were expected to prepare sacred food
offerings for various Incan divinities. Often referred to as “the virgins of
the Sun,” aqllakuna were beautiful maidens chosen from a young age to
serve as prized domestic servants for the Incan ruler and to attend to the
ritual needs of Tahuantinsuyu.9 The most beautiful young women were
reserved for the Inca ruler himself, while others were given to his nobles,
or gifted to other important leaders throughout the empire in an effort to
cement cooperative alliances.10 Conquered groups were expected to send
their most beautiful women to the aqllawasi in the capital city of Cusco, or
to one of the many smaller and less prestigious aqllawasi houses located
throughout the provinces.
Within the aqllawasi at Cusco (located adjacent to the Incan ruler’s per-
sonal quarters) the “chosen women” spent their days weaving and pre-
paring special ritual meals for the Inca ruler.11 Guaman Poma describes
the aqllakuna as,

Virgin aqlla of the Yngas. That these [women] were beautiful and served the
Yngas, they were maidens. That they wove clothing and prepared chicha and
prepared food and did not sin.

Uírgenes aclla de los Yngas. Quéstos eran hermosas y le serbían a los Yngas, eran
donzellas. Quéstas texían rropa y hacían chicha y hacían las comidas y no pecauan.
(1980, 1:274)

Father Bernabé Cobo claims that the aqllakuna were responsible for brewing

much fine Chicha for offering to the gods and so that their priests might drink
it, and they cooked each day the delicacies that they offered in sacrifice . . .
saying: “Eat, Sun, this which your women have cooked for you.”

cantidad de Chichas regaladas para ofrecer a los dioses y para que bebiesen sus
sacerdotes, y guisaban cada día los manjares que ofrecían en sacrificio . . . diciendo:
“Come, Sol, esto que te han guisado tus mujeres.” (Cobo 1893, 4:147–48)

In Tahuantinsuyu, the relative “sacredness” of certain foods consumed

during religious rituals was determined by the identity of the elite and
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 47

specially trained cooks who prepared it. Various colonial chroniclers

(Spanish, mestizo, and indigenous) explain that when çanco was needed
for consumption by Inca rulers, or for use in important ritual ceremonies,
only the specially chosen and meticulously trained aqllakuna could prepare
the food offering. The aqllakuna spent the day before the annual Çitua festi-
val carefully preparing the sacred foods used for the most important ritual
ceremonies, while young women throughout Tahuantinsuyu prepared
çanco for domestic consumption and local rituals (Garcilaso 1998, 249).
All inhabitants of Tahuantinsuyu spent the eve of Çitua in a reverent
fast. Each year, while the Inca ruler concentrated his energies on select-
ing the appropriate camelids for the next day’s sacrifice, “the women of
the Sun spent that night making an immense quantity of a maize dough
called zancu” (“las mujeres del Sol entendían aquella noche en hacer grandísima
cantidad de una masa de maíz que llaman zancu”) (Garcilaso 1998, 249). The
Incas also distributed the sacred çanco food to provincial deities and local
leaders (curacas) throughout the Andes (Silverblatt 1987, 105). The annual
rituals surrounding the preparation and distribution of çanco reinforced
the supremacy of an Incan ruler, while concomitantly demonstrating his
benevolence. All citizens of Tahuantinsuyu needed to revitalize their
health in order to ensure the empire’s success, thus all were invited to
the Çitua festival and expected to partake in the sacred nourishment pro-
vided by çanco. In Tahuantinsuyu, the Çitua festival also reinforced Incan
power hierarchies through food; even though all inhabitants of the em-
pire consumed the ritual food, the all-powerful deities received the most
esteemed portions of yawarçanco, while Incan rulers consumed bread of
higher quality than their subjects (Garcilaso 1998, 249).
Although yawarçanco was the most important ritual food consumed at
the Çitua festival, camelids—imprecisely referred to by Father Molina as
either ganado (cattle) or carneros (rams or mutton)—were also sacrificed so
that their innards might be extracted and analyzed by trained diviners, in
hopes of recognizing signs of prosperity for the coming year. In many soci-
eties, reverence for deities is communicated through food sacrifices, since
this is humankind’s most fundamental resource. Meat often serves as the
sacrificial food of choice wherein the devout send their gods a message in-
dicating that although the surrender of protein-laden calories cannot really
be afforded, “their loss will be overcome by the even greater benefits to
be obtained from the supernatural” (Armelagos and Farb 1980, 125). After
dedicating the sacrificed bodies of the llamas or alpacas to the god Inti dur-
ing their Çitua festival, each Incan subject entered the plaza and received a
small portion of the animal’s meat. Guaman Poma affirms that

in order to eat, or for the ceremony, they killed the rams [llamas or alpacas].
They opened its heart which is the law of the idolatrous sorcerers because
48 Chapter 2

the young man said to the old man: “Suncus caynam, yaya. Uanun. Allim,
churi, casun. Yauar zancucta, chaua yauarta micunquichic, churi.” (“Father, they
say that the heart is this way. He already died.” “We are going to be okay,
son. They [the Inca and his subjects] should eat the coagulated blood, the
raw blood.”)
Para comer o para la serimonia matauan a los carneros. Le abrían del corasón que
es la ley de los hicheseros ydúltras porque decía el moso al biejo: “Suncus caynam,
yaya. Uanun. Allim, churi, casun. Yauar zancucta, chaua yauarta micunquichic,
churi.” (“Padre, dicen que el corazón es así. Ya murió. Vamos a estar muy bien, hijo.
Deberán comer la sangre coagulada, la sangre cruda.”) (1980, 2:827)

In this ceremony then, the sacrificed bodies of llamas served both as

food and as a medium of communication between humans and deities.
Trained diviners (known as watuq) read the heart of the sacrificed llama
and then interpreted the message sent by Inti about the future prosperity
of the empire (figure 2.3).12 If the deity’s appetite had been properly sati-
ated, the news would likely be positive, otherwise the angry god would
have to be fed again.

Feeding the Incan Ancestors

Although the Incas revered nature deities and piously requested their
good favor in protecting the health of Tahuantinsuyu’s crops, herds, and
human inhabitants, Incan ancestors were also believed to command a
powerful influence over the empire’s food production. Consequently,
ancestor worship played an important role in the religious ceremonies
organized in Cusco and throughout the Andes. As a result, the impor-
tance of ritual food sacrifice was not limited to feasts organized for the
benefit of nature deities and loyal imperial subjects since Incan rulers also
organized elaborate banquets in honor of their deceased ancestors.13 The
Incas did not content themselves with mere symbolic representations of
the dead, but instead organized ritual exhumations of their mummified
ancestors so that they could take part in ritual feasts together with the
living. Father Molina describes the meals prepared and served to these
deceased guests during the Çitua festival:

And in this way, they brought out the bodies of the dead gentleman and
ladies who were embalmed, and they took out the people from their lineage
who were in their charge and on that night they washed them in the baths
that pertained to each of them when they were alive, and upon returning to
their houses they warmed them with çanco . . . and later they placed them
before [the sorts of] foods which they had eaten with the most pleasure when
they were alive.
 From Guaman Poma de Ayala: [1615] 1980, 2:826.

Figure 2.3.   Indios que mata el carnero (Indians Who Kill a Ram), Felipe Guaman
Poma de Ayala, 1615.
50 Chapter 2

Y asimismo sacavan los cuerpos de los señores y señoras muertos que estavan enbal-
samados, los quales sacavan las personas de su linaje que a cargo los tenían y aquella
noche los lavavan en sus baños que quando estava vivo cada uno tenía, y bueltos a
sus casas los calentavan con çanco . . . y luego les ponían delante las comidas que
quando ellos heran vivos con más gusto comían. (Molina 1989, 7677)

The practice of inviting deceased ancestors to the dinner table strength-

ened the spiritual connection between the living and the dead and reaf-
firmed mutual ties of loyalty.14
Guaman Poma also mentions the importance of this practice of feeding
the dead when he describes the month of November as the “Month of
Carrying the Dead” (“Aya Marcay Quilla, Mes de llevar difuntos”):

In this month they take their dead out of their storehouses which are called
pucullo and they give them food and drink and they dress them in their rich-
est apparel . . . and they sing and dance with them . . . and they walk with
them from house to house and through the streets and the plaza.
En este mes sacan los defuntos de sus bóbedas que llaman pucullo y le dan de comer
y de ueuer y les bisten de sus bestidos rricos . . . y cantan y dansan con ellos . . . y
andan con ellas en casa en casa y por las calles y por la plasa. (1980, 1:231)

This November ceremony clearly focused much energy on honoring

the dead and expressing gratitude for the protection against misfortune
which the mummies offered their living relatives. In his Crónica del Perú
(Chronicle of Perú), the Spanish conquistador and chronicler Pedro Cieza
de León points out that another important element of this yearly rite in-
volved a gathering of the mummies in the central plaza of Cusco where
attendants would ask the deceased rulers to assess the health of Tahuant-
insuyu’s crops and present Inca leader: “And if the Incas did not do this
every year, they went about fearful and uneasy and didn’t hold their
lives safe” (in Classen 1993, 92). While commoners only “fed” their dead
during occasional festivals specified by the ritual calendar, the mummies
of Incan royalty received their own specially prepared meals (including
chicha corn beer brewed by aqllakuna) on a daily basis. A deceased Inca
ruler could enjoy these meals either symbiotically, through an attendant’s
consumption of the food after having respectfully presented it to the
mummy for inspection, or by observing the meal as it burnt in sacrifice
before him (Coe 1994, 220).
As a result of this elaborate ancestor worship, Tahuantinsuyu’s econ-
omy faced a challenging obstacle; how to compensate for the stress on the
storehouses by a constantly increasing population of deceased subjects
who ravenously consumed food, drink, and labor, but who contributed
only symbolic reciprocal assistance to the empire? The Incas would likely
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 51

have explained that in order to ensure healthy food crops and camelid
herds, their ancestors had to remain satiated. Nonetheless, some scholars
have speculated that the drain on the economy caused by the immense
expenditures lavished on the dead may have eventually driven the Inca
state to a breaking point, regardless of the arrival of the conquistadores
(Rostworowski 1988, 284–85; Murra 1980, 40).

Balancing Praise and Petitions

for Food in Incan Hymns

The Incas clearly considered the Çitua festival to be an integral event in

their ritual calendar, during which the Sun god Inti received praise for
providing the previous year’s life-sustaining light and warmth, as well
as supplications for the continued protection of Tahuantinsuyu’s crops,
flocks, and human inhabitants. Father Molina’s sixteenth-century descrip-
tion of Çitua in his Relación de las fábulas y mitos de los Incas is unique in
that it also includes the priest’s transcriptions and Spanish translations of
twelve Quechua “oraciones” (prayers) or “himnos” (hymns).15 Molina pres-
ents these hymns as verses declaimed by Incan ritualists during the Çitua
ceremonies, although the accuracy of Molina’s transcriptions and the
similarity between these verses and pre-conquest versions of Incaic Çitua
hymns will of course never be clear (Molina 1989, 80). These Quechua-
language verses reveal the Incan rulers’ understanding of the fact that
the stability of Tahuantinsuyu depended upon consistent and bountiful
harvests. For instance, only the first and the last of the hymns included
in the Relación concentrate on the creator deity Wiraqocha’s location,
powers, and relationship to man, whereas the other ten hymns focus on
repeated requests for increased food crops, fertility, and conjugal content-
ment. The hymns also implore for protection from hostile enemies and
weather, disease, darkness, loneliness, and malevolent witchcraft. Hymns
4, 5, 8, and 11 ask the powerful Wiraqocha to nurture Andean flora and
fauna in order to satisfy the alimentary needs of Tahuantinsuyu’s human
population (hymns 4, 8, and 11 appear in the appendix, while hymn 5 is
translated and transcribed below).
Like other colonial Quechua hymns and poems, those transcribed by
Molina contain succinct verses, perhaps because as the Inca Garcilaso
explains, in Incaic poetry “The verses were few, so they could be kept
safe by memory” (“Los versos eran pocos, porque la memoria los guardase
. . .”) (Garcilaso 1998, 91). Moreover, similar to other forms of Incaic verse
and contemporary Quechua prayer, the meter and rhyme scheme of the
Molina hymns do not follow any strict patterns (Lara 1947, 70). Since the
Quechua language contains a large number of word-final suffixes and
52 Chapter 2

verbal forms ending with the same sequence of letters, rhyming verses,
while quite common, are not particularly noteworthy or valued (Lara
1947, 70; Garcilaso 1998, 91). Instead of valuing precisely measured rhyme
and meter, both colonial and contemporary Quechua verbal artists tend to
demonstrate an aesthetic preference for semantic and syntactic balance.16
In the Molina hymns, the creation of “semantic balance,” is achieved
through the use of Quechua words which reference the important culture
concepts of reciprocity. Moreover, poetic devices such as the semantic
couplet recur to both the meaning and the syntactic structure of a phrase
in order to convey a sense of poetic symmetry within a hymn or poem.17
In Quechua-language hymns performed by Incan ritualists shortly after
the conquest, moments of openness and verbal inventiveness often reveal
a space of semantic or syntactical balance within the work.
The Incan ritual specialists who likely performed the Molina hymns at
the commencement of Çitua, dedicate these verses to multiple deities. The
hymns also repeatedly seek to reinforce a tacit agreement of reciprocal sup-
port between humans and gods. For example, the very first of these hymns
contains intricate and subtle acknowledgments of reciprocal responsibili-
ties: “To those whom you have given life, to those whom you have created
/ peacefully, freely may they live . . . take me in your arms / take me by
the hand / receive this offering “ (“Kamasqayki, churasqayki / qasilla qespilla
kawsamusaq . . .marqariway / hat’alliway / kay qusqaytarí chaskiway”) (Molina
1989, 81, lines 7–8, 19–21). Nearly all of the twelve hymns included in Mo-
lina’s manuscript remind the powerful, divine addressee that in creating
humans, the deity has implicitly assumed responsibility for humankind’s
well-being and that in return for assuring the material wealth of the Inca
and his people, faithful runakuna will in turn present the god with sacrificial
offerings as tangible expressions of their gratitude and respect.

Otra Oración Another Prayer (Hymn 5)18

O Wiraqochaya Oh, dear Wiraqocha 1
Teqse Wiraqochaya Source of all origins, dear Wiraqocha
Wallparillaq19
Skilled craftsman,
Kamaq,20 Churaq Vitalizer, Creator
Kay hurin pachapi mikhuchun saying, “In this lower world let there be 5
uqyachun nispa eating, drinking.”
Churasqaykiqta, For those whom you have created, for
kamasqaykiqta those whom you have given life,
Mikhuynin yachachun Let their food increase, potatoes, maize
papa sara
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 53

Imaymana mikhunqan kachun Let there be unbounded food, 10

Nisqaykita21
kamachiq mirachiq
Mana muchunqanpaq
Mana muchuspa qanta
ininqanpaq
Ama qasachunchu, ama
chikchichunchu
Qasilla waqaychamuy
So you have said to them,
you possess the power to vitalize, to
multiply.
May they not suffer from want,
May they be relieved from suffering 15
and thus have faith in you.
Let it not frost, let it not hail,
Keeping all in peace

(transcription by Urbano and Duviols 1989, 86; translation by the author)

The first four lines of the fifth hymn transcribed in the Relación follow
the same pattern as the other eleven included in Molina’s manuscript.
The initial lines identify the hymn’s divine addressee and then proceed
to enumerate the praiseworthy exploits of the deity (Wiraqocha in this
case). As in many other genres of Quechua oral expression—particularly
riddles and oral narratives (willakuy)—these hymns mark their beginning
with a formulaic structure (usually a variation of the adulatory appella-
tion “Wiraqochaya”).
Following the adulatory introduction of Wiraqocha, the hymn’s de-
claimer deferentially lists the deity’s positive qualities and then cites a
benevolent promise or action which the god previously presented to the
Incas. An example of this pattern occurs in lines 5 through 9 of this fifth
hymn, which Molina labels, “Otra Oración.”22 Here, line 5 concludes with
the word nispa, thus signaling a direct quote from the deity. The prayer’s
declaimer reminds Wiraqocha that on a previous occasion the deity de-
clared, “let there be eating, drinking” (line 5).
In line 4, the hymn’s performer simply announces Wiraqocha’s su-
pernatural power as that of a “kamaq” (“vitalizer”) and a “churaq” (“cre-
ator”). In line 6, however, the same verbs are repeated in reverse order
“Churasqaykiqta, kamasqaykiqta,” with the intention of explicitly reminding
the deity that “you have created,” “you have given life,” and thus you are
responsible for the well-being of your people. In line 7 the hymn’s per-
former reinforces Wiraqocha’s obligations to the Incan people by citing
the god’s previous promise to increase their food supply (specifically
potatoes and maize), as well as the deity’s generous pronouncement in
line 8, “let there be unbounded food.” Line 9 sternly pronounces, “So you
have said to them,” thus concluding this six-line aide-mêmoire embedded
in the fifth Çitua hymn.
54 Chapter 2

After the almost threatening tone of the reminders contained in lines

5–9, by the end of line 9 the hymn’s declaimer reverts to the obsequious
tone of the first four lines. The prayer extols Wiraqocha, “you possess the
power to vitalize, to multiply,” as if to assure the deity that the Inca ruler
and his people still clearly understand their position as lowly human
subjects. The hymn then smoothly transitions to the humble supplications
communicated in lines 10–12. The hymn’s first direct petition to the deity
takes the form of the very general and all-encompassing, “May they not
suffer from want/may they be relieved from suffering” (lines 10, 11).23 The
hymn then presents to a more specific request related to agricultural suc-
cess, “Let it not frost, let it not hail” (line 12). The hymn closes with a subtle
yet convincing argument which is delivered to the deity at the end of line
11; if the people do not suffer want, their energies can be concentrated
on “[having] faith in you” (“ininqanpaq”). In seeking to establish a divine
barter, the hymn assures the powerful Wiraqocha that if the deity guards
against human suffering, the people shall, “have faith in you” (line 11).
Each of the twelve hymns transcribed by Molina delays the presenta-
tion of the Incas’ requests to Wiraqocha until the second half of the prayer,
thus maintaining a careful balance between praise and petition. In hymn
5, supplications do not appear until lines 10 and 11, through the presenta-
tion of verses created with the adverbial negator “mana.” The word “mana”
indicates privation or lack, so that these two lines actually present broad
requests for a world characterized by the absence of suffering (“May they
not suffer from want,” “Mana muchunqanpaq”). Line 12 conveys a more
specific petition by means of the more direct adverbial negator “ama.”
“Ama” signals a prohibition and often functions as an imperative (“Ama”
followed by a conjugated verb + the suffix -chu), as in line 12’s “Let it not
frost, let it not hail,” (“Ama qasachunchu, ama chikchichunchu”). Moreover,
line 12 (as well as line 6) utilizes the poetic device known as semantic cou-
pling which features prominently in Quechua poetry. Semantic coupling
occurs when “two lines that are otherwise identical morphologically and
syntactically are bound together by the alternation of two semantically
related word-stems” (Mannheim 1991, 133–34).24 In line 12, for instance,
the only difference between the line’s two otherwise identical clauses are
the verb stems, “qasay” (“to frost”) and “chikchiy” (“to hail”). In several
of the hymns transcribed by Molina (hymn 5, line 12; hymn 4, line 11),
semantically coupled lines appear near the very end of the verses, as if
the performer seeks to create a soothing, conciliatory tone at the close of a
series of confrontational and somewhat demanding verses.
Hymn five also includes examples of the bluntest of Quechua’s com-
mand structures (conjugated verb + the suffix -chu[n]; in lines 5–8) to cite
statements supposedly uttered by Wiraqocha in the past (as in lines 9
and 8, “Let their food increase,” “Mikhuynin yachachun” and “Let there be
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 55

unbounded food,” “Imaymana mikhunqan kachun”). By presenting these

commands in the guise of Wiraqocha’s previous statements, the sup-
plicating performer cleverly utilizes the very forthright -chu command
form without showing disrespect toward the powerful creator deity.
Although not implemented in this hymn, Quechua’s intricately nuanced,
agglutinating morphology does offer speakers the option of softening a
brusque demand by adding the enclitic infix -lla- to the direct command
form of -chu. The performer of this hymn, however, reserves the more
deferential construction of the adverbial negator (“mana + the misfortune
to be avoided”) for his most important, sweeping request; an appeal for
protection against hunger, suffering and want (lines 10–11).25
Hymns 4, 5, 8, and 11 specifically request Wiraqocha’s aid in provid-
ing the Incan royalty and their subjects with physical sustenance. In the
fourth hymn such requests remain general, “Let them eat, let them drink”
(“Mikhukuchu, uqyakuchun”). The other three hymns, however, enumerate
their requests more precisely: “Let their food increase, potatoes, corn” (
hymn 5, line 7); “earth, fields, people, llamas, food / wherever they exist,
let them greatly increase” (hymn 8, line 7); “[a life filled] with food, with
field hands, with maize, with llamas / with whatever is necessary, with
however much is necessary” (hymn 11, line 12).
The tone of hymn 8 remains unflinchingly positive, as it requests Wiraqo-
cha to “lead them [those you have infused with life] . . . by the hand” and
“reciprocate, acknowledge, take him [the Inca ruler] by the hand” (hymn 8,
lines 6, 11–12). Hymns 4, 5, and 11 explicitly mention many of the misfor-
tunes which the Incan royalty fears and wishes to avoid. While hymn 5 asks
that Wiraqocha clear the skies of all frost and hail, hymn 4 beseeches “let
them live long” (“Unay wata kawsachun”), and ends with a semantic couplet
of supplication, “let them eat, let them drink” (“Mikhukuchun, uqyakuchun”)
(hymn 4, line 12). Hymns 4 and 5 embed all mention of potential tragedy
between praises of Wiraqocha’s strengths and call for increased crops and
herds, while hymn 11 concludes with a more ominous tone, along with a
fearful enumeration of the dangerous forces believed to exist within Ta-
huantinsuyu. The eleventh hymn ends with a desperate-sounding plea:
“May you not abandon us / Amidst whatever, amidst however many /
Grave dangers, pursued through the night, / cursed and bewitched” (“Ama
kachariwaykuchu / Imaymana, hayk’aymana / Chikimanta hatunmanta, nak’asqa
watusqa umusqamanta”) (hymn 11, lines 14–17).
In each of the three Çitua hymns which mention both the need for
food and for protection against certain dangers (hymns 4, 5, and 11), the
requests appear within close proximity of one another.26 In all twelve
hymns transcribed by Father Molina, the abrupt transitioning between
preoccupations with food and death stimulates the linkage of these two
semantemes in the reader’s mind.27 The repeated association of themes
56 Chapter 2

of death and food in these Çitua hymns illustrates their long-standing

association within the Quechua worldview. Moreover, the manuscripts
of colonial chroniclers reveal how the Incas’ ritual sacrifice of food crops
and prized camelids, the careful preparation of sacred foods by specially
trained aqlla cooks, and the composition of ritual hymns all reinforced the
belief that all-powerful deities controlled the Incas’ access to life sustain-
ing food resources. Within the Quechua food-landscape of Tahuantin-
suyu, food and its preparation and consumption played vital ritual and
symbolic roles in Incan religious, political, economic, and social practices.
Hymns performed for the deities at Cusco’s annual Çitua ceremony reveal
how the Incas used the careful composition of open verses to respectfully
address their gods and remind them to use their power to provide suste-
nance for faithful Incan rulers and their subjects.

The Collision of Andean and European

Food-Landscapes in Comentarios
Reales and the Escuela Cusqueña

The use and application of power frequently enter into changes in a

society’s food consumption habits. Where this power originates; how it
is applied and to what ends; and in what manner people undertake to
deal with it, are all part of what happens when food habits change.
—Sidney Mintz Tasting Food, Tasting Freedom

In the Incan ceremonial practices described by colonial chroniclers and

clergy, as well as in the hymns transcribed by Father Molina, the Quechua
food-landscape serves as a communicatory vehicle between humans and
their deities. Following the conquest, the Andean food-landscape became
one of the many spaces where colonial powerholders sought to exercise
dominance. In both the Inca Garcilaso’s masterwork Comentarios reales
(Royal Commentaries of the Incas) and in the religious scenes painted by
the Cusco School’s (Escuela Cusqueña) indigenous artists, food serves as a
tactic for achieving a degree of adaptive resistance in the face of Spanish
political, economic, and cultural hegemony. In order to avoid censorship,
punishment, or the scorn of Spanish political, cultural, and religious lead-
ers, these artists chose not to overtly challenge Spanish authority. Instead,
they utilized the European genres of the historical chronicle and the Man-
nerist or Baroque-style religious canvas as tactical spaces in which they
subtly embed positive images of Andean society vis-à-vis their presenta-
tions of a Quechua food-landscape.
In Comentarios reales, the Inca Garcilaso de la Vega’s most well-known
manuscript, the author refutes, critiques, and corrects the works of Span-
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 57

ish chroniclers writing during the conquest of Perú and up through the
early colonial era (prior to the arrival of the Viceroy Francisco de Toledo
in 1572) (Miró Quesada 1985, xx).28 Garcilaso is a self-conscious narrator
and repeatedly asserts throughout the Comentarios (particularly in his
“Proemio” or “Proem to the Reader”) that he is uniquely qualified to pro-
vide an accurate description of the plethora of Incan ceremonies, rites, and
customs, “as their own son, I can explain better than another who is not [of
Incan descent]” (“Como propio hijo, podré dezir mejor que otro que no lo sea”).
In a letter written in 1589 to King Felipe II, Garcilaso refers to his Comenta-
rios as an “account” (“relación”) in which he seeks to present and describe

the customs, rites, and ceremonies which the Incan gentry, lords who were
from Perú, practiced in their Kingdoms; so that Your Highness may see them
from their origins and beginnings, written with a bit more certitude and ac-
curacy than what has been written until now.

las costumbres, ritos y ceremonias que la gentilidad de los Incas, señores que fueron
del Perú, se guardaban en sus Reinos; para que V.M. las vea desde su origen y prin-
cipio, escritas con alguna más certidumbre y propiedad de lo que hasta ahora se han
escrito. (Miró Quesada 1985, xx)

Garcilaso’s family tree included maternal branches of Incan royalty,

while his father’s roots lay across the ocean in Extremadura. Though he
spent his formative years in Cusco, after his journey to Spain at the age
of twenty-two, Garcilaso would never return to América. The mestizo
writer did not, however, begin to compose the pages of Comentarios reales
until nearly fifty years after his departure from Perú. Therefore, in writ-
ing his chronicle of Incan history, society, and culture, Garcilaso relies on
his own memory, the observations of a few other contemporaries, and
select passages salvaged from the writings of Father Blas Valera. By the
time Garcilaso began writing his Comentarios reales, it seems likely that
he no longer entertained any real hope of receiving compensation for the
lands wrested from his Incan relatives by the Spanish conquistadores.
He remained intent, however, on clearing the name of his father, Captain
Garcilaso, as well as properly honoring his Incan relatives and ensuring
that they received the respect they deserved in Europe.
In his account of Incan history and society, Garcilaso takes great care
to present the inhabitants of Tahuantinsuyu as intelligent, hardworking,
and benevolent people living in a society more sophisticated in many
aspects than that of Renaissance Europe. In many instances throughout
Comentarios reales, descriptions of the Quechua food-landscape serve as a
narrative device for introducing Garcilaso’s European readers to positive
aspects of Tahuantinsuyu and to unseemly traits of the Spanish. In this
way, the intricately crafted representations of food in Comentarios reales
58 Chapter 2

reflect the complex (and often devastating) sociopolitical, economic, and

cultural aftershocks felt throughout the Andes in the years following the
conquest of the Incas.
Garcilaso is not the only chronicler who uses alimentary descriptions
to critique the excesses of greedy Spanish conquistadores. In many pas-
sages of Guaman Poma’s Nueva corónica y buen gouierno, the indigenous
chronicler praises the stunning variety of Andean crops and describes
the Spaniards’ callous destruction of the Incan alimentary infrastructure.
For instance, he denounces the manner in which the Spaniards abuse the
Incan system of storehouses and enumerates all of the goods and services
nabbed from the runa custodians of these food depositories:

Said Spanish travelers, even if they are priests who pass along the royal roads
and tanbos storehouses, how they arrive angrily at said tanbos storehouses,
seize the Indian custodians of the tanbos . . . and ask for Indians whom they
might force into servitude (mitayos) and much camarico (a coveted product),
and so on with maize and potatoes and llamas and chickens and eggs . . .
and ch’uñu (preserved potato), quinua (highland seed), chiche (small fish) and
chicha (corn beer) and blankets of chuci and pot.

los dichos españoles pasageros, aunque sean saserdotes que pasan por los caminos
rreales y tanbos, como llegan a los dichos tanbos con cólera arreuata a los yndios tan-
beros . . . y piden mitayos y mucho camarico (regalo), ací de maýs y papas y carnero
y gallinas y güebos . . . y chuno (conserva de papas), quinua (semilla de altura), chiche
(pescaditos) y chicha y frazada chuci, y olla. (Guaman Poma 1980, 2:500)29

Preceding each food item seized by the Spaniards with the conjunction
“and” functions as a way for Guaman Poma to create a rhythmic me-
sodiplosis which emphasizes the extent of the exploitation inflicted upon
indigenous Peruvians, while simultaneously demonstrating the rich di-
versity of the Quechua food-landscape.30 As Julio Ortega points out, these
critiques of disorder and abuses propagated by colonial officials serve
as a primary image and symbol of colonial violence and pillaging (1993,
33). In this way, Guaman Poma’s descriptions of food become one of his
primary metaphors and serve as a “powerful version of the violence, and
of the irrationality of colonial practices which destroy other knowledges
and instead, disseminate want” (Ortega 1993, 33). While Garcilaso’s
alimentary metaphors and descriptions do not critique Spanish excess as
forcefully and overtly as in Guaman Poma’s visual and verbal narrative,
the Inca’s Comentarios reales do use the representation of food as a tool for
presenting Incan rulers as capable administrators and benevolent con-
querors, while indirectly presenting the Spanish conquistadores as inept
and irrational in their attempts to disrupt the Incan administration of the
Quechua food-landscape.
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 59

For instance, when chronicling pre-conquest war practices, Garcilaso

relates that Incan soldiers often overtook their poorly equipped adversar-
ies quite easily. In order to spare their wives and children from the threat
of death or starvation, the ill-prepared and vanquished enemy would
often quickly surrender. Always eager to present the Incas as benevolent
colonizers in stark contrast to the brutishness of Spanish conquistadores,
Garcilaso asserts that once enemy soldiers laid down their arms, “the In-
cas . . . gave them gifts and soothed them and fed them” (“los Incas . . . los
regalaban y acariciaban y les daban de comer”) (1998, 237). The oral histories
transcribed by colonial chroniclers repeatedly mention the Incan custom of
allowing defeated societies to retain many of their local gods. On the other
hand, Incan laws did require subjugated groups to replace their mother
tongue with the Quechua language and to cultivate specific quantities and
types of food crops for local consumption and for distribution throughout
Tahuantinsuyu (Garcilaso 1998, 37–38).
In the fifth book of the Comentarios reales, Garcilaso explains that as
soon as a new territory had been conquered, the Incan ruler would send
his engineers from Cusco to the new land in order to begin the construc-
tion of irrigation canals (1998, 169). Census calculators would appear soon
afterward in order to determine the new province’s population. An Incan
ruler and his provincial administrators could then use this demographic
data to make decisions regarding the quantity and type of agricultural
infrastructure required in the region, as well as the number of manual
laborers needed to complete the arduous process of creating arable, moun-
tain terraces (1998, 169–70). While Inca rulers did require subjects to divide
agricultural plots into three sections belonging to Inti, the Inca ruler, and
the local population, Garcilaso insists that this practice was always carried
out with careful attention to the needs of each community,

so that they would have a surplus rather than be in want. And when the
people of the town or province increased in number, they [the rulers] would
take away the Sun’s portion and the Inca’s portion for the [benefit of the] vas-
sals; in this way the King did not take anything for himself, nor for the Sun
except for the lands that would have remained deserted, without an owner.

que antes les sobrase que les faltase. Y cuando la gente del pueblo o provincia crecía
en número, quitaban de la parte del Sol y de la parte del Inca para los vasallos; de
manera que no tomaba el Rey para sí ni para el Sol sino las tierras que habían de
quedar desiertas, sin dueño. (1998, 170)

In addition to the carefully planned and regulated system for the

planting and harvesting of crops, the Incas also created a remarkably
extensive system of roadways which snaked through 9,940 miles (15,997
kilometers) of the treacherous Andean cordillera and provided access to
60 Chapter 2

the many storehouses strategically sprinkled along its spine (see Hyslop
1984). The weatherproofed storage sheds could indefinitely house sur-
plus foodstuffs as insurance against a lean year in a region of the empire,
or serve as a temporary repository for food in transit to another area of
Tahuantinsuyu in need of supplementary sustenance.31 Like Garcilaso,
Guaman Poma also proudly explains the wide variety of foodstuffs held
in and distributed from the Incan storehouses:

How the Inca stocked the depositories of this kingdom which were in every
province. . . ch’uñu (potato dehydrated for preservation), muraya (white
ch’uñu), . . . charque (preserved meat), wool from the Conde Suyus . . . sweet
potato and ají chilis, cotton and maxno (dried vegetable) and coca leaves and
rumo (manioc).
Cómo sustentaua el Ynga los depócitos deste rreyno que auía en toda la prouincia
. . . chuno (papa deshidratada para conservar), muraya (ch’uñu blanco), . . . charque
(carne hecha conserva), lana en los Conde Suyos . . . camote y axí, algodón y maxno
(verdura seca) y coca y rumo (mandioca). (1980, 1:308)

The architecture of the storehouses helped to protect agriculture prod-

ucts from fluctuations in wind, sun, altitude, and humidity and could be
found along Incan highways. As John Murra points out, the system of
tambu storehouses was so effective, that even in 1547 (fifteen years after
Francisco Pizarro captured the Incan ruler Atahualpa) tambus near Jauja
held enough food to feed two thousand Spanish soldiers for a period of
seven weeks (Murra 1980, 123). As is the case for any government, the sta-
bility of the Incas’ reign depended on their ability to maintain stable so-
cioeconomic and political conditions and to assure their subjects’ reliable
access to food. By creating a meticulously regulated system of cultivation,
production, and distribution of agricultural and textile products, the Incas
succeeded in expanding and sustaining their vast empire.
In Comentarios reales, Garcilaso dedicates chapters 9–16 of book 8 to a
description of the varieties of fruits, vegetables, grains, and livestock na-
tive to Perú. He carefully describes each foodstuff, notes any medicinal
value it may possess, and details the necessary steps for preparing each
item. Garcilaso scoffs at the careless manner in which the Spanish have
desecrated the original names of various foods—“nothing remains but a
corruption of all the other names they have given them” (“no queda sino
la corrupción que a todos los nombres les dan”) (1998, 350). He also chastises
himself when he cannot recall the names of certain fruits, “because of the
distance of the place and the absence of my people I will not be able to find
out the answer very easily” (“por la distancia del lugar y ausencia de los míos
no podré averiguar tan aína el engaño”) (1998, 349). Garcilaso also enthusias-
tically praises such Andean foodstuffs as the uchu pepper and llama meat
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 61

as superior to any in Europe and asserts that the Spanish also appreciate
these and other high-quality Andean products (1998, 351, 357).
During the early years of the Spanish colonization of Perú, colonial
administrators sought to impose the Crown’s policy of the forced resettle-
ment of indigenous Andeans in reducciones de indios (aimed at facilitating
their assimilation, indoctrination, and taxation), as well as the introduc-
tion of European crops which could be grown as tribute items. Although
it appears as if most indigenous Andeans preferred their own diet to the
new European foodstuffs, the pressure of tribute requirements led to a de-
cline in the production of Andean crops for indigenous families’ own con-
sumption (Kubler 1946, 355; Wachtel 1977, 142–44; Garcilaso 1998, 416).
Garcilaso’s description of the competition between Andean foods and
those brought from Europe continues in chapters 17–30 of book 9, when
the chronicler describes the arrival of unfamiliar European foodstuffs
to Perú. In chapter 22 of book 9, Garcilaso also sardonically relates the
“anxiety” which plagued the Spaniards until they were able to cultivate
their own Iberian fruits, vegetables, and grains (1998, 416). So important
was their desire to achieve large-scale agricultural and gastronomical
transformation in the Andes that Garcilaso cites a royal decree in which
Carlos V offered two silver bars of three hundred ducats each to the first
Spaniard who could successfully harvest an appreciable crop of olives,
wheat, grapes, or barley (1998, 417).
While the Inca Garcilaso admits that the new Spanish crops initially im-
pressed the indigenous Peruvians, he emphasizes the Europeans’ amaze-
ment at the astonishing abundance and high quality of the crops which
they found they could harvest in Perú. The introduction of Spanish seeds
into Andean soils, however, could also wreak havoc on native species.
Garcilaso laments that many Spanish flowers and herbs proliferated to
such an extent that

now there is such abundance that many of them are now very damaging . . .
they have spread so much in some valleys that they have defeated human
force and diligence, everything possible has been done to pull them out, and
they have prevailed to such an extent that they have erased the name of the
valleys and forcing them to be called by their name, such as the Valley of
Mint on the seacoast which used to be called Rucma, and other [valleys are]
the same.

hay ahora tanta abundancia que muchas de ellas son ya muy dañosas . . . que han
cundido tanto en algunos valles que han vencido las fuerzas y la diligencia humana
toda cuanta se ha hecho para arrancarlas, y han prevalecido de tal manera que han
borrado el nombre antiguo de los valles y forzándolos que se llamen de su nombre,
como el Valle de la Yerbabuena, en la costa de la mar que solía llamarse Rucma, y
otros semejantes. (1998, 420)
62 Chapter 2

Following this tale of botanical and appellative assault, in which the

Spaniard’s yerbabuena mint supplants both the valley’s native name and
crop (the fruit called rucma or lúcuma), Garcilaso relates the case of a mu-
tant radish. He describes the root as being “of such strange greatness that
in the shade of its leaves five horses were tied up . . . a monstrous thing”
(“de tan extraña grandeza, que a la sombra de sus hojas estaban atados cinco
caballos . . . cosa tan monstruosa”) (1998, 421). The author corroborates his
report by citing the testimony of a man named Don Martín de Contreras
who apparently swore, “I am an eyewitness to the greatness of this radish
from the valley of Cuzapa” (“yo soy testigo de vista de la grandeza del rábano,
del valle de Cuzapa”) (1998, 421). Garcilaso’s witness even suggests that
such gigantic vegetables are not particularly unusual, affirming that he
once, “ate from a head of lettuce that weighed seven and a half pounds”
(“comí de una lechuga que pesó siete libras y media”) (1998, 421). While one
may argue that Garcilaso’s description of the “greatness” (“grandeza”) of
this mutant radish and lettuce could be interpreted as an example of his
admiration of Spanish foodstuffs, this seems unlikely given that these tes-
timonies of vegetable abundance appear immediately following the au-
thor’s frustrated denunciation of the plagues of Iberian crops destroying
Andean cultivars. Moreover, the juxtaposition of the noun “greatness”
with the adjective “monstrous” in this chapter, creates the clever effect
of linking these two qualities in the reader’s mind and pointing out that
at some point, the enormous size of a vegetable actually becomes “fright-
ening” (“espantable”); suggesting that its very existence should inspire a
careful inquiry into the circumstances of its genesis (1998, 422).
Julio Ortega refers to these same passages as part of Garcilaso’s “dis-
course of abundance,” arguing that descriptions of an “abundance of Span-
ish transplants” (gigantic radishes, lettuces, and Spanish herbs) reflect the
chronicler’s attempts to present “more proof of historic providentialism”
resulting from a fertile mixture of European seeds and Andean soils (Or-
tega 2000, 402). Following this argument, gigantic vegetables and rapidly
spreading herbs signal a new “abundance” which has resulted from a mix-
ture of the “new” (world) and the “old,” and Garcilaso’s descriptions of
vegetable abundance reinforce his argument that mestizaje (of both plants
and humans) leads to very positive results. I would argue that Garcilaso—
keenly aware of the censorial powers of the Inquisition—took advantage
of these pages of seemingly innocuous alimentary descriptions to laud the
virtues of the Quechua food-landscape, and to condemn the monstrous
invasion of foreign seeds (and soldiers) that decimated indigenous Ande-
ans, as well as their flora and fauna. Rather than focusing on advancing
a pro-mestizaje agenda, it seems quite plausible that in these passages of
the Comentarios’s book 9, monstrous radishes and lettuce and the insatiable
spreading of mint plants serve as a metaphor for the greedy appetites of
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 63

Spanish conquistadores and colonists whose plants caused great destruc-

tion to the food-landscape of many regions of the colonial Andes.

Inflecting Colonial Canvases with Flavors

from the Quechua Food-landscape

When the Inca Garcilaso de la Vega was still a young boy, and during the
first thirty years following the Spanish invasion of Tahuantinsuyu, Euro-
pean paintings began to arrive in the new Peruvian viceroyalty en route
to churches, convents, and private collections (Mesa 1988, 13). By the year
1546, the Spanish painters Juan Gutiérrez de Loyola, Juan de Fuentes, and
Juan de Torrez had arrived in Cusco and had begun to receive stipends
for their work on various canvases within the city’s Cathedral (Mesa 1998,
13). By the 1570s, indigenous artists had already begun painting in Cusco,
although art historians generally agree that the particular style known as
the Cusco School (Escuela Cusqueña) did not arise until the first years of
the seventeenth century (Mesa 1988, 15).
Beginning in 1580, Italian painters of the Mannerist school began to ar-
rive in Cusco; the most well-known and influential of these was the Jesuit
master Bernardo Bitti who arrived in Cusco in 1583 (Mesa 1988, 15; Spitta
1995, 78). Bitti’s arrival came in response to a letter written by Cusco’s
Fray Bracamonte to the head Father of La Compañía de Jesús in Rome
requesting that a “first class painter” be sent to Cusco (Cummins 1998,
3). Fray Bracamonte justified his request by arguing that the “spiritual
instruction” of the “Indians” would be greatly facilitated if they could
learn church doctrine through visual means (Cummins 1998, 3). Yet the
distorted proportions, abrupt spatial transitions, and elongated human
bodies which characterize the style of Bitti and other Mannerists aroused
suspicion in Rome and led to the rise of the early Baroque movement in
the late sixteenth century.32
In the viceroyalty of Perú, the transition to the Baroque only began to
surface between the years 1640 and 1660 through the work of the Flemish
Jesuit artist Diego de la Puente and the influence of Spanish and Flemish
paintings that had begun to arrive in Perú (Mesa and Gisbert 1982, 112).
Following the Council of Trent (1545–1563), the Spanish Crown began
to implement its strategy for curbing the influence of the Protestant
Reformation in América. Church leaders decided that visual art should
play a role in this effort and as a result, Flemish printers and workshops
shipped to the Spanish colonies numerous bibles and woodcut series
depicting Catholic themes (Ochoa et al. 1991, 170). Consequently, the
Flemish School of Antwerp became particularly influential for the artists
of the Cusco School (Ochoa et al. 1991, 170). Beginning in the seventeenth
64 Chapter 2

century (and under the tutelage of mostly Jesuit masters), Quechua artists
began to create scores of canvases depicting religious scenes. Once com-
pleted, the paintings were shipped off to the newly constructed Catholic
cathedrals and churches located in what are now the countries of Perú,
Ecuador, Bolivia, Chile, and Argentina.
Although the renowned Quechua artist Diego Quispe Tito initially imi-
tated the Mannerist style of Bitti, he soon rejected its exaggerated approach
and began to produce canvases which more closely resembled the bright
colors, detailed representations of nature, generous use of light, and care-
ful spatial and proportional representations typical of seventeenth-century
Flemish engravings and paintings. Born in 1611 in the indigenous reducción
of San Sebastián near Cusco, Diego Quispe Tito apprenticed in a Manner-
ist workshop in Cusco and continued painting until the age of seventy.
Although the official policy of the ecclesiastical authorities proclaimed
that artistic work should be carried out anonymously “as an act of humil-
ity,” in 1627 at the age of sixteen, Diego Quispe Tito signed his first work,
known as La Inmaculada (Uriel García 1963, 166; Mesa and Gisbert 1982, 18).
Henceforth, the artist signed many of his canvases, although he often par-
tially concealed his signature within the ribbons or foliage of his paintings
(Mesa and Gisbert 1982, 18). By rejecting the Mannerist style and adopting
elements from the Flemish Baroque movement, Quispe Tito began to cre-
ate his own unique compositions. Today, art historians generally credit the
artist with inspiring the school of painting known as Cusco School which
began to appear in the workshops of the former Incan capital around 1680
(Mesa and Gisbert 1982, 23; Spitta 1995, 80).33
The primary motivation behind the establishment of Cusco’s artistic
workshops was to help educate indigenous Andeans in Catholic doctrine.
As Uriel García asserts:
Art was employed so that catechizing might be more effective, it was put at
the service of theology. . . . Since then it came to be a form of rare teaching,
capable of objectively propogating Catholic doctrine expressed by plastic
symbols, by “thoughts through images.” (1963, 166)

With the conclusion of the Council of Trent, the church issued a more
tightly controlled doctrine with regards to what could be considered as
an appropriate image within a Catholic church; interpretations of biblical
scenes and the implementation of religious symbolism were to follow
strict norms issued by the Vatican (Ochoa et al. 1991, 168). Yet regardless
of the church’s concerted efforts to control the form, content, technique,
and style of colonial artists’ images, glimpses of creative, adaptive resis-
tance appear on many of their canvases.
While several well-known paintings pertaining to the Cusco School
depict versions of sacred meals (La última cena, La comida de la Sagrada
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 65

Familia, La Danza de Salomé, El milagro de Santo Domingo en el almuerzo, and

El camino al cielo), the Last Supper (La última cena) is the scene of biblical
repast most frequently represented by the movement’s artists. In at least
three depictions of the Last Supper painted by Cusco School artists,34 the
central platter at this sacred, biblical meal holds a meat course which
strikingly resembles the Andean delicacy of cuy. While nearly all Euro-
pean representations of the Last Supper during the sixteenth and seven-
teenth centuries feature loaves of bread and cups of wine interspersed
around the table, very few depict any other victuals. Although a platter
usually occupies the center of the table, it almost always remains empty.35
In addition to the prominence of the cuy platter in the Cusco School de-
pictions of the Last Supper, the placement of a variety of other foodstuffs
upon the sacred table further distinguishes these Andean canvases from
most European versions of the scene.

Photograph by Luis Vargas.

Figure 2.4.   La última cena (The Last Supper), Marcos Zapata, mid-eighteenth century.
66 Chapter 2

Undoubtedly the most unique of these Last Supper representations is

the mid-eighteenth-century work painted for Cusco’s Cathedral by the
Quechua artist Marcos Zapata.36 Zapata is widely considered to be the
most important painter in eighteenth-century Perú (Mesa 1988, 25). He
was a prolific artist and left more than two hundred canvases dated be-
tween the years 1748 and 1764, and his paintings were requested from as
far away as Santiago de Chile and Huamahuaca, Argentina (Mesa 1988,
25). In 1755 he was hired to paint fifty-five canvases for the Cusco Cathe-
dral, a job which he completed by frequently filling in enormous spaces
with forests, birds, fruit, and flowers instead of strictly reproducing
traditional religious iconography (Mesa and Gisbert 1982, 408). Zapata’s
careful balance of vivid colors and his particular affection for tones of blue
and red were widely adopted by Cusqueñan artists during the second
half of the eighteenth century (Mesa 1988, 25).37
At first glance, Zapata’s depiction of Jesus and his disciples during the
Last Supper seems to mimic the classic European representations of this
solemn and ominous repast.38 A closer look at the canvas, however, sug-
gests that like Garcilaso’s description of monstrous vegetables, Zapata’s
Last Supper also uses the representation of food as a tactical tool which
allows for the communication of an unauthorized, open message without
suffering censure. Unlike well-known European representations of the
Last Supper, in Marcos Zapata’s eighteenth-century version of the biblical
meal he scatters an assortment of fruits across the table and places two bas-
kets of fruit on either side of Jesus’s elbows. While fruits commonly grown
in Europe (such as pomegranates, peaches, and grapes) appear in the
baskets on the sacred table painted by Zapata, delicacies of the Quechua
food-landscape (avocadoes and humitas or corn tamales) also emerge from
the section of the basket lying closest to Jesus’s outstretched hands.
Several passion fruits (tumbu) ring the table, while a few partially
consumed pomegranates surround the platter of cuy.39 Jesus clutches his
bread and blesses the meal, while all of the disciples except Judas fer-
vently clasp their hands together as they gaze imploringly at their mas-
ter. With all of these exotic foodstuffs strewn across the table, each dis-
ciple’s half-moon of bread takes on the appearance of a protective barrier
shielding the pious diners from the temptation of such mysterious fare.40
The insertion of elements pertaining to the Quechua food-landscape
within the context of a sacred Christian feast signals the artist’s decision
to eliminate the central position of Western foodstuffs at the consecrated
table.41 Yet the question remains; are such exchanges simply representa-
tive of the naïve “mistakes” of uncultured and “provincial” Quechua
artists, or do such gastronomical swaps represent a more purposeful
commentary against the aesthetic, religious, and cultural oppression of
the Spanish colonizers?
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 67

Although it is impossible to prove in any definitive way, it appears

that by replacing the representation of European foods with prominent
depictions of Andean victuals (and without completely breaking away
from sanctioned forms and styles), Quechua artists sought to create open
visual narratives as a form of adaptive resistance to the aesthetic restric-
tions implemented by church officials. In this way, “The Cusco School
can be considered as an initiator of popular and even revolutionary art
in América . . . as a weapon for the struggle within the social conditions
of those times, [which] at the same time dissimulated by simulating the
teaching of the catechism” (Uriel García 1963, 170). In contrast, Mesa and
Gisbert have posited that the uniqueness of Zapata’s Last Supper can only
be explained by blaming the canvas’s uncharacteristic “lack of perspective
and the placement of objects and foods on the table” as the artistic errors
of one of his unskilled collaborators (Mesa and Gisbert 1982, 211).42
I would argue that far from being an artistic error, Zapata’s representa-
tions of the Last Supper, as well as the religious canvases of other Cusco
School artists, reveal a conscious choice to incorporate elements of the
Quechua food-landscape into colonial Andean visual art. This subtle
tactic of indigenous visual artists working within the strict confines of
a repressive colonial context echoes the sentiment behind Garcilaso’s
juxtaposed descriptions of Quechua and Iberian food-landscapes which
contain (partially veiled) critiques of Spanish greed and violence. These
artists’ representations of food within the colonial context use “double
meanings and misinterpretations, displacements and alliterations, mul-
tiple uses of the same material” as “tactical ruses” which allow them to
“[put] one over on the adversary on his own turf” (Certeau 1984, 39–40).
By placing a platter of cuy at the center of a canonical biblical scene and by
presenting the hyper-fertility of European cultivars as potentially harmful
agricultural invaders, Garcilaso and painters of the Cusco School such as
Marcos Zapata cleverly critique arrogant Spanish assumptions about the
superiority of an “Old World” food-landscape and religion. If representa-
tions of food in Tahuantinsuyu’s religious rituals and hymns primarily fo-
cused on creating a balance of praise and petitions directed toward Incan
deities, in post-conquest colonial Perú, open representations of food often
served as subtle, “low-risk” tools for disseminating positive depictions
of Quechua culture, history, and traditions, and for celebrating Andean
agricultural bounty and innovation.

Notes

 1. Even before the expansion of the Inca Empire, food played an important role
in the ritual lives of precolonial Andean cultures. In both the north-central and
68 Chapter 2

southern Andean highlands, women presided over the cult of the Corn Mother
(known in these regions as Saramama and Mamayutas, respectively). It was the job
of each community’s women to thank the goddess for her generative powers since
both the Corn Mother and human mothers shared the quality of reproducers of
life (Silverblatt 1987, 33–34). Silverblatt also explains that women were responsible
for organizing and carrying out all ritual duties related to the cult of the creator of
food, Mamaraiguay in the province of Cajatambo (Silverblatt 1987, 37).
 2. The Incas’ appreciation of the spectacular aesthetic effect produced by gold
and silver ornaments is evident in the descriptions of the gold-leaved walls of
Qoricancha (the “Temple of the Sun”), as well as the many sacred objects which
Incan artisans fashioned from the precious metals. Indeed, the Incas honored their
staple foodstuffs by creating golden replicas of each crop within Cusco’s Qorican-
cha temple. As the Inca Garcilaso recalls, “There was a great maize field and the
seed they call quinua and other vegetables and fruit trees with their fruit [made
from] all gold and silver” (“Había un gran maizal y la semilla que llaman quinua y
otras legumbres y árboles frutales, con su fruta toda de oro y plata”) (1998, 135).
 3. According to most versions of the Incan creation myth, the deity Wiraqo-
cha (alternately known as Viraqocha or Tecsi Wiracocha Pachayachachic) created
the first generation of Andean people after having emerged from Lake Titicaca.
Wiraqocha is said to have destroyed these first people (who were giants and lived
without a sun) and then created a second generation of people who became the
Incas’ ancestors (Steele 2004, 18). The god Wiraqocha is also said to have created
the sun, moon, and stars; shaped the world’s landscape; and given life to all ani-
mals (Urton 1999, 35–36; see also Duviols 1993, 109–12).
 4. In his book, Las crónicas de los Molinas, the Peruvian historian Carlos A.
Romero deconstructs the mistaken conflation of Cristóbal de Molina “el Cusqueño”
(the Cusqueñan) with Cristóbal de Molina “el Almagrista” or “el Chileno” (“the
Almagrist” or “the Chilean”). Both men resided in Perú during the same years,
though after much initial confusion and debate, Carlos Romero, Raúl Porras Bar-
renechea, Henrique Urbano, Pierre Duviols, and other scholars have come to agree
that Molina “the Cusqueñan” authored Relación de las fábulas y mitos de los Incas,
while Molina “the Chilean” (Almagrista) wrote Conquista y población del Perú and
served as the church choir director of Santiago de Chile’s Cathedral (Rivera Serna
1949, 590). Porras Barrenechea, however, ruefully tempers his opinion by conced-
ing, “It wouldn’t be strange if, in the future, someone placed them differently so that
it turns out that they are one [person], or perhaps three” (in Romero, Loayza, and
Porras Barrenechea 1943, 88). In Los cronistas del Perú (The Chroniclers of Perú), Porras
Barrenechea affirms that Molina “the Cusqueñan” was the son of Diego de Jaén and
María Gómez de Avila of Andalucía and not a mestizo as many, following the asser-
tions of Romero, had previously assumed (Porras Barrenechea 1986, 350).
 5. A visitador was an informer of sorts, employed by the Spanish Crown to
study indigenous communities in order to better understand their political, eco-
nomic, and social organization, as well as details regarding their religious beliefs.
 6. The master copy of the Relación is housed in the Biblioteca Nacional de
Madrid and is itself only an imperfect copy of the chronicler’s original text, ex-
acted by a scribe whose errors seem to indicate that he had little or perhaps no
knowledge of the Quechua language. As Jesús Lara ruefully explains, “Said work
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 69

passed through who knows how many hands which neither understood Quechua
nor possessed an adequate alphabet with which to write the language” (1947, 73).
Consequently, within the manuscript’s transcription of Quechua hymns, words
that should be separated are frequently strung into long compounds which must
be parsed, while a number of words and phrases remain indecipherable. Lara
pessimistically concludes that within the manuscript, “few are the words whose
integrity has been respected; fractions of the whole of a completely different na-
ture appear together, forming words that are capable of maddening anyone who
dares to decipher their content” (1947, 73). Perhaps this assessment is a bit exag-
gerated, though anyone attempting to translate or even read the Quechua hymns
can easily understand his frustration.
 7. Guaman Poma does not use the word Çitua in his description of the month
of August. He does, however, describe the month as a time when all inhabitants
of Tahuantinsuyu sacrificed cuy, conch shells, chicha, llamas, and the sacred çanco
food to their gods (1980, 1:225). He claims that it was in September when the Incas
began to “cast out the illnesses of the towns and the pestilences of all the kingdom
. . . and in this they sprayed down all of the houses and streets; they irrigate them
with water and they clean them. This was done throughout the kingdom [together
with] many other ceremonies” (“echar las enfermedades de los pueblos y las pistelencias
de todo el rreyno . . . y en esto rrucían todas las casas y calles; lo rriegan con agua y lo
linpian. Esto se hazía en todo el rreyno y otras muchas serimonias . . .”) (Guaman Poma
1980, 1:231). We can assume that this confusion of months was due to the fact
that both Molina and Guaman Poma were striving to describe the Incan ritual
calendar within the perimeters of the calendar used by the Spaniards. To make
matters more confusing, Christian Europe was in the process of transitioning from
the Roman to the Gregorian calendar during the late sixteenth century, just before
these authors composed their works.
 8. Father Molina’s translation of Hacedor, Sol, and Trueño refer to the Quechua
deities Wiraqocha, Inti, and Illapa. See Steele (2004, 17–24) for a description of
these important Andean deities.
 9. Irene Silverblatt (1987, 81–108), Peter Gose (1997, 458–73), and Tom Zuidema
(1990, 55–66, 77–78) provide detailed if somewhat contradictory discussions of this
fascinating Incan institution. In various colonial chronicles, aqllakuna are also referred
to as “mamaconas,” “virginal wives of the sun,” or as “chosen virgins.” In other cases,
the word mamacona is used to designate the older women living within the aqllawasi
who were responsible for providing instruction to the younger women.
10. Although it seems likely that in their prestigious role as royal cooks and
consorts of Incan rulers and nobles, the aqllakuna might have been able to secure
privileged treatment or positions for their family members, colonial chroniclers
do not provide enough information to know for certain. In any case, the aqllakuna
can be considered as “inside cooks” (as described in the introduction), since they
were required to cook food for the Incan ruler and their noblemen and were not
allowed to choose their own clients or market their culinary knowledge outside
the confines of the aqllawasi.
11. It is not clear whether all aqllakuna spent their entire lives living within
an aqllawasi. It seems likely that only the aqllakuna living in the imperial capital
of Cusco were required to dedicate their lives to an Incan ruler and the sun god
70 Chapter 2

Inti, while most provincial aqllakuna only served in the years before contracting
matrimony (Cieza de León 2005, xxvii; Gose 1997, 466; Guaman Poma 1980, 1:274;
Zuidema 1990, 55).
12. Today in the Andes, an ailing person may call for a local healer to sacrifice
a cuy so that its innards may be read and a proper diagnosis discovered.
13. This sort of banquet is by no means unique to the Incas, as many of the
indigenous peoples of pre-Colombian and present-day America carry out annual
rituals of memoriam by preparing the favorite foods of deceased loved ones each
November during the celebration of the “Day of the Dead.”
14. In the Andean highlands it is still a common practice to share food sym-
bolically with absent loved ones. For instance, in Perú, when a woman’s child is
absent from her home she will often blow across the plate of served food in the
assumed direction of the absent family member saying, “May this flavor, may this
vital energy reach you” (“saborllanpas samanllanpas chayanman”) (Valderrama and
Escalante 1997, 165).
15. Although Jesús Lara’s study of Quechua poetry claims that one of the
most commonly composed forms of Inca verse was the haylli or “sacred hymn”
(Lara 1947, 70), Father Molina does not use the category of haylli to describe the
verses which he transcribes. Since the word “hymn” can be used to describe any
religious verse accompanied by music and performed during worship, in the
following pages I will use this more general descriptor in reference to the verses
transcribed by Molina.
16. For example, in her analysis of instances of symmetry in colonial Quechua
hymns, Regina Harrison discusses the semantic categories of yanantin and pacta
(“perfectly matched objects”) and chacu and chuullu (“deviance from the ideal of
a matched pair”), in addition to the different types of Andean reciprocal relation-
ships known as ayni, mita, and mink’a (1989, 49–53).
17. Isbell has analyzed the creation of semantic balance and structural opposi-
tion in Quechua riddles (1977, 39, 46–47). Studies on the concept of camay also
reveal the importance of symmetry and balance in Quechua culture, whereby
all humans and animals on earth possess a “cosmic double” which animates and
infuses them with life (Harrison 1989, 76–79; Taylor 2000, 3–9; Urton 1981, 169). In
some instances these “primordial” doubles are visually apparent, as in the case of
the llama constellation in the sky which serves as the cosmic double and animator
of all earthly llamas (Urton 1981, 7–8, 109–10).
18. My English translations of Father Molina’s hymns are based on the Quechua
transcriptions of Henrique Urbano and Pierre Duviols’s 1989 edition of the Rel-
ación (a version based on their direct consultation of the Madrid manuscript).
Although the English language lacks an equivalent or even a close approximation
for many Quechua words and concepts, I have made an effort to evoke as closely
as possible the meanings, tones, and intentions of the original hymns. The present
translations take into account the rhythms and nuances of English in the choice of
some words, so that while my translations are not as free as Father Molina’s “De-
claraciones,” they are not as literal as the Spanish versions published by Urbano
and Duviols (1989) and John Howland Rowe (1953).
19. Here I have translated line 3’s “wallparillaq” as “skilled craftsman,” follow-
ing Gonçález Holguín’s (1989) definition of the word, “he who makes something
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 71

skillfully with [his] hands” (“el que haze bien algo de manos”). As noted by César
Itier, the verbal root “wallpa” has disappeared from all dialects of contemporary
Quechua. In his reconstruction of the original sense of “wallpa,” Itier point out
that most colonial missionaries translated “wallpa” as the verb “to create” (“crear”)
(Itier 1993, 165). He cites Ludovico Bertonio’s 1612 Aymara dictionary which
defines wallpa as “to prepare that which is necessary for a project, building, trip,
war, etc.” (“apercebir lo que es menester para alguna obra, edificio, viaje, guerra etc”)
(in Itier 1993, 167). In this case then, perhaps the qualifier of wallparillaq refers to
Wiraqocha’s successful transformational campaign which transitioned the world
out of the darkness and into a more civilized era (see also Itier 1993, 169, 171).
20. Here, I have followed Gerald Taylor’s lead in defining the verb kamay—
when used in a religious context—as a designation of “the communication of a
vital force to diverse beings” (in Itier 1993, 138). Drawing on colonial sources
such as the Inca Garcilaso and the colonial Quechua dictionaries compiled by
Gonçález Holguín and Santo Tomás, Taylor defines kamaq (or camac) as “the
force that animates,” while the verb stem kama- denotes the acts of: “organizing,
ordering (putting in order), of transmitting to another the capacity to become
whole” “organizar, de ordenar (poner en orden), de transmitir a otro la capacidad de
realizarse” (2000, 5–8).
21. In this line, Nisqaykita functions much as nispa does in line 5—as a means
of attributing the previous statements (the promises of lines 5 and 8) to a specific
speaker (here, the creator deity Wiraqocha). Nisqaykita, however, does not convey
the same authority as nispa (which essentially signals the verbatim repetition of a
past speech act). For this reason, I have chosen not to enclose line 9 in quotation
marks, reserving this punctuation solely for cases in which a phrase is marked by
nispa. For an analysis of the nuances of nispa in the hymns transcribed by Father
Molina see also Harrison (1989, 75–77).
22. Father Molina refers to hymns 4, 5, 8, and 9 as “Otra Oración.”
23. My translation of line 10’s “mana muchunqanpaq” as “may they not suffer
from want” is based on Gonçalez Holguín’s definition of “muchuy” as “to suffer,
lack, or need something, to be overwhelmed with work” (“padecer, tener falta, o
necessidad de algo, y sufrir trabajos”) (1989, 247).
24. Several Andean scholars have also described the aesthetic importance of
the semantic couplet in Quechua verse (Harrison 1989, 159–60; Hornberger 1999,
90–91; Mannheim 1991, 133–34; and Salomon and Urioste 1991, 35).
25. My translation of Molina’s fifth Çitua hymn attempts to register the subtle
distinction between these three manners of formulating a petition. I use the
English “let” as a gloss for Quechua’s very direct command form of -chu and the
prohibitive adverbial negator “ama.” The more politely restrained “may” stands
in for Quechua’s “mana.”
26. In the case of hymn 4, these requests are presented intermittently, as lines
9–12 alternate between requests for protection against lethal forces and for the
supply of life-sustaining nourishment. In hymn 5, however, the orator first men-
tions the Incas’ food needs (lines 5, 7–8) and then lists the potential tragedies (lines
10–12) which faithful runakuna could face if their petitions remain unanswered.
Hymn 11’s presentation of food and mortal dangers follows a similar sequence; an
explanation of the crops and herds necessary for sustaining life (line 12) is juxta-
72 Chapter 2

posed with a detailing of the harbingers of death which would result if Wiraqocha
abandons his runa followers (lines 15–17).
27. I have chosen to use the word semanteme here to describe all of the con-
notations and nuances attached to any particular word. Merriam-Webster’s New
International Dictionary, second edition, defines semanteme as “an image or idea
connected to a word, as opposed to a morpheme which is an element that relates
and connects these images or ideas within a sentence.”
28. Scores of scholarly studies examine the life, work, and intellectual and
historical milieu of the Inca Garcilaso de la Vega. Margarita Zamora (1988) in-
sightfully places Garcilaso’s work within the context of Renaissance humanism,
Roberto González Echeverría (1990) analyzes Garcilaso’s appropriation of six-
teenth-century Spanish notarial rhetoric, and José Antonio Mazzotti (1996) stud-
ies the resonances of Andean oral traditions and symbolisms in the Comentarios.
Franklin Pease (1995) and D. A. Brading (1986) explore the Inca’s written sources
for the Comentarios, as well as his reaction to other historians of Tahuantinsuyu,
while Aurelio Miró Quesada (1994) offers a very complete biography of the Inca
Garcilaso. For an English-language biography of Garcilaso and a description of
his four publications—Diálogos de amor, La Florida del Inca, Comentarios reales, and
Historia general del Perú—see Donald Castanien (1969).
29. This list of both Andean and European products surrendered to the unde-
serving and unappreciative Spaniards closely resembles a similar list detailed in
Guaman Poma’s chapter about the abuses of Catholic priests (1980, 2:534–36) and
the provincial administrators (caciques) (1980, 2:714).
30. As proof that there is “more than enough bread in this kingdom” (“pan de
sobra en este rreyno”), Guaman Poma’s “First Chapter of the Christian Indians”
includes an even longer and more detailed list of foods cultivated and enjoyed
by runakuna throughout the Andes (1980, 2:840–41). Roland Hamilton suggests
that Guaman Poma’s penchant for exhaustive lists such as these may reflect his
familiarity with quipus, the knotted cords used by the Incas for recording Tahuant-
insuyu’s history, as well as its military, political, and agricultural administration
(Hamilton 2009, xix).
31. See Michael Symons for a discussion of the ways in which sophisticated
systems of storehouses allowed for the growth and success of other ancient
civilizations such as Ur (in Mesopotamia), Indus (in present day West Pakistan),
Knossos (Crete), and the T’ang dynasty in their ancient capital of Luoyang, China
(2000, 250–55).
32. Baroque artists sought to amend the excesses of the Mannerists through the
creation of a truer depiction of perspective and by rendering minute details and
textures of human figures, interior spaces, and landscapes. This anti-Mannerist
trend commenced shortly after the conclusion of the Council of Trent (1545–1563),
which called for the use of art to instruct and cultivate piety through simplicity.
See Mercedes López-Baralt (1979) for a detailed discussion of the impact of the
Counter-Reformation and the Council of Trent on the use and control of religious
images in colonial Perú. For information about the church’s policies regarding the
use of images as tools of conversion within temples, see Schroeder (1941, 215–17).
33. Some of Quispe Tito’s innovative techniques adopted by seventeenth-
century artists in Perú and Bolivia include: dissolving brighter colors in liquid
 The Symbolic Role of Andean Foods 73

varnish to create muted background tones; the use of intense blacks, whites, and
reds; and the infrequent use of gray (even in shadows muted reds were preferred
to grays) (Mesa and Gisbert 1982).
34. The three paintings I have in mind are: Altar de la última cena. Serie de la pro-
cesión del Corpus de Santa Ana circa 1680, unsigned, but attributed to the workshop
of Diego Quispe Tito (held in the Museo del Palacio Arzobispal Arquidiócesis de
Cusco); La última cena by Marcos Zapata, mid-eighteenth century (located in the
Cusco Cathedral), and an unsigned representation of the Last Supper located in
the Monasterio de Santa Teresa in Cusco.
35. An exception to this tendency is the series of anonymous seventeenth-
century Flemish woodcuts housed in the Staatliche Museum in Berlin. In these
pieces, a roasted lamb is placed upright on a central platter which serves as the
focal point for the image, while Jesus’s right hand touches the outer rim of the
dish—apparently reaching for a morsel to feed to his distraught disciples.
36. In his study of the various meanings and uses of the cuy throughout the
Andes, Morales erroneously asserts, “There are four such paintings featuring the
cuy as part of the Last Supper and all of them come from the Quito school. Two
paintings are signed by Miguel de Santiago around 1670; one of them is kept in
the Cathedral of Cusco, Peru and one in the Museum of the Convent of San Diego,
Quito, Ecuador” (1995, 100). He goes on to mention an unsigned version of the
Last Supper featuring a cuy in the Convent of Santa Clara in Quito, as well as a
mural version in the Cathedral of Quito painted by Bernardo Rodriguez y Jara-
millo (Morales 1995, 100).
37. In 1773 Zapata was jailed for unknown reasons, at which point he disap-
pears from the historical record (Mesa and Gisbert 1982, 408–9).
38. The most famous European representation of the Last Supper is arguably
Leonardo da Vinci’s 1497 masterpiece painted on the wall of the refectory of the
Monastery of Santa María della Grazie in Milan. Important Renaissance painters
such as Andrea del Sarto (1527), Rafael, and Hans Holbien created other well-
known versions of the biblical scene. It is likely, however, that artists working in
America based their representations of this scene on engravings by Jerónimo Wi-
erix or Cornelio Galle, who had in turn based their work on a canvas painted by
Nicolas de Poussin (Schenone 1998, 168), the seventeenth-century French painter
best known for his baroque renderings of biblical and mythological scenes.
39. The passion fruit (Passiflora ligularis), called tumbu in Quechua, is a slightly
acidic tree fruit native to tropical South American and the Caribbean. When paint-
ing the pomegranate—a rounder, brighter, “Old World” cousin of the granadilla—
did Zapata realize the symbolic inauspiciousness of its seeds which caused Perse-
phone’s downfall and Demeter’s sorrow?
40. While the golden chalice placed in front of Jesus in Zapata’s painting re-
sembles those of most classic versions of the Last Supper, it could be argued that
the bloodred liquid within the glass jars upon the table is chicha morada (a purple
corn beverage) and not wine. Indeed, the jars do not resemble the beaker-like
receptacles of most Renaissance versions of the supper, and the ceramic jugs ly-
ing at the foot of the table bear a striking resemblance to the chicha jugs (mak’as)
represented in colonial murals which depict indigenous Andean festivals, such as
those displayed in the principal cloister of the Beaterio de las Nazarenas in Cusco.
74 Chapter 2

Although the two individual cups visible in the Zapata painting are slightly “V”
shaped, they are made from glass and not wood like the Andean q’iru cups.
41. Other striking examples of the integration of Andean fruits and animals in
the pictorial representation of biblical scenes appear inside the Capilla de la Virgen
de la Concepción in the community of Lahualahua (department of Cusco). In La-
hualahua, the depiction of the saints and the passion of Christ are framed by a
landscape filled with tropical fruits and fauna typical of the Peruvian rainforest—
chirimoyas, granadillas, parrots, and the small Andean mammal called viscacha.
42. Likewise, Morales has suggested that the inclusion of “native cultural ele-
ments” in religious paintings could have been part of a “subtle political strategy
to diffuse the Catholic faith” (Morales 1995, 100–101). Although he does not
explain this hypothesis any further, it appears as if Morales is suggesting that in
the colonial Andes, the ecclesiastic leadership encouraged Quechua painters to
include “native elements” in their canvases as a conversion strategy. This idea
seems highly unlikely given that the Second Council of Lima (Segundo Concilio
Limense) of 1567–1568 ordered priests to adhere closely to the Council of Trent’s
twenty-fifth decree concerning the removal of all “indecent” images from church
walls and altars (López-Baralt 1979, 83–84).
 3
Q
Profits, Prestige, and Power
in the Andean Market and
Chichería

Sinchi wiksayuq, kusi sunquyuq (Full stomach, happy heart).

—Quechua proverb

V erbal and visual artists such as the Inca Garcilaso de la Vega and
the painters of the Escuela Cusqueña used their open representations
of food to celebrate the richness of the Quechua food-landscape and to
resist Spanish attempts to displace Andean products with Iberian culti-
vars. Meanwhile, indigenous Andean women living in the post-conquest
Viceroyalty of Perú soon realized that they would have to accommodate
to some of the rapid changes to their food-landscape in order to have a
chance at resisting full-scale Spanish gastronomical colonization. During
the 1536–1537 siege of Cusco, the conquistadores summarily killed cap-
tured Quechua women after having come to understand their vital role in
procuring, preparing, and delivering food to the Incan army which was
battling Hernando Pizarro’s troops (Hemming 1970, 204). After the Span-
ish had managed to quell the armed Incan resistance, Quechua women
began to learn to negotiate Spanish marketplaces in order to sell enough
food products to cover tribute payments and help support their families
and communities.
Prior to the arrival of the Spaniards on Perú’s northern coast in 1532,
the Andean exchange economy did not distribute foodstuffs within mar-
ket spaces.1 Instead, Andean economies in pre-Incan, Incan, colonial, and
even contemporary times have been organized largely around systems of
reciprocity and redistribution. John Murra’s original description of these
systems in his 1956 doctoral dissertation (“The Economic Organization of

75
76 Chapter 3

the Inca State”) has remained relatively unaltered by subsequent scholars

and ethnographers whose own research has confirmed his thesis (see for
example, Hyslop 1984; Flores Ochoa 1985; and Isbell 1976). Essentially,
this model holds that instead of maintaining a system of marketplaces
similar to European or Mesoamerican models, in the Andes, ethnic groups
gained access to the food products of a variety of ecological niches by es-
tablishing members from their group in different microclimates (Murra
2002, 132–33).2 Murra refers to these ecological niches as part of a “vertical
archipelago”; in order to facilitate the exploitation of diverse resources, a
community must establish a series of permanent colonies at a distance of
one to several days journey from its primary population center.3
The islands of this vertical archipelago remain functionally linked as
part of an integrated system which provides the more densely populated
“nucleus community” with a variety of foodstuffs, building materials,
wool, guano, wooden dishware, and a variety of other necessary prod-
ucts. Murra emphasizes the importance of understanding the perma-
nence of these “island niches”:

These [movements] are not seasonal nor trading, nor pastoral migrations.
The population makes an effort to assure their continual access to “islands”
of resources, colonizing them with their own people, in spite of the distances
which separate them from their principal residential and power nuclei.
(2002, 87)

He hypothesizes that the system of vertical archipelagos existed in the

Andes long before the rise of Tahuantinsuyu, asserting that once con-
quered by the Incas, subjugated ethnic groups largely retained their ac-
cess to pre-Incaic “ecological islands” (Murra 2002, 122–24).

Hierarchies of Power and

Profit in Andean Food Markets

While not able to completely dismantle the Andean vertical archipelagos

that fueled an economy of reciprocity and redistribution, the Spanish
conquistadores delivered a severe blow to the integrity and efficiency of
the centuries-old system. The discovery of silver in Potosí in 1545 (and
to a lesser extent the mercury deposits found in Huancavelica in 1560)
rapidly transformed the southern Andean highlands into an active, in-
ternational marketplace. By the late 1500s more than 100,000 people lived
and worked in Potosí. This population’s demand for both imported and
local goods and services led to the insertion of the southern Andean re-
gion into the global political economy just a few decades after the arrival
of the Spanish (Stern 1995, 73). The Spanish colonial chronicler Pedro de
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 77

Cieza de León describes the Potosí market as “the richest market in the
world,” claiming that “during the time when the mines were prosperous,
each day twenty-five and thirty thousand pesos of gold [worth of goods]
were sold . . . and I think that no other fair in the world equaled the trade
of this market” (2005, 273).4 He describes Potosí’s central plaza as a mar-
ketplace divided into areas for selling coca (deemed “the most important
treasure of these parts”), finely woven cloth, shirts, blankets, and moun-
tains of maize, dried potatoes, and other foods (Cieza de León 2005, 273).
Quechua farmers of the Cusco region produced and transported most of
the food crops and textiles purchased in the Potosí marketplace. These
merchant farmers quickly became adept participants in the interregional
mercantile economy of the early colonial era (Stern 1995, 76).
In order to avoid unfavorable and forced participation in the market
economy, Quechua men and women often became shrewd participants
in colonial markets as sellers of raw materials and finished textiles, trans-
portation providers, and vendors of foodstuffs and prepared meals and
beverages (Stern 1995, 77, 75).5 While some runa living in rural villages
permanently moved to urban centers in the early colonial era in order to
escape family or ayllu tensions (or to seek a more comfortable and eco-
nomically secure existence), participation in the mercantilist market econ-
omy did not necessarily mean that Quechua entrepreneurs abandoned
the organizational and subsistence strategies of their ayllu groups.6 On
the contrary, market participation often served as a tactic which provided
Quechua families with enough currency to satisfy tribute requirements
without having to pay with their own agricultural products (Stern 1995,
90). Ironically, runa participation in the mercantilist economy instituted
by the Spaniards averted further outside interference in the ayllus’ eco-
nomic, political, and cultural practices.7
Today, Cusco’s Mercado Central (Central Market) is one of the largest
markets in the southern Andes and it serves as a useful place to begin our
exploration of the contemporary Quechua food-landscape. While chapter
1 presented several key Andean food staples, this chapter introduces
many other Andean foodstuffs which are bought, sold, prepared, and
consumed within bustling marketplaces throughout the Andean region.8
In order to discuss the representations and roles of Quechua food and
cooks, it is important to first become familiar with some of the ingredi-
ents that appear time and again in family cooking pots and on restaurant
menus throughout the Andes. These Andean foods and the women who
prepare them often play an important role in contemporary Quechua
verbal art. Narrators expect their audiences to understand the nuances as-
sociated with a particular food’s nutritional values, historical importance,
contemporary preparation and cultivation techniques, price points, and
manners of acquisition, as well as its medicinal, ritual, and supernatural
78 Chapter 3

uses. In order to fully appreciate these culinary allusions in Quechua ver-

bal art, it is necessary for an audience to be familiar with the contents and
contexts of the Quechua food-landscape.
This chapter’s description of the Mercado Central and some of the
people who work within it is also intended to serve as an introduction to
some of the nuances, inflections, and subtle meanings associated with the
preparation and marketing of a variety of Andean fruits, vegetables, herbs,
spices, legumes, and grains.9 Even a brief stroll through Cusco’s Mercado
Central illustrates that Andean markets are more than just a nonproduc-
tive space for exchange. Many of the tasks carried out by market women
involve processing and preparing vegetables, grains, and fruits, which
facilitates rapid cooking and consumption within home or commercial
kitchens (Babb 1998, 119–30; Weismantel 2001, 70–71). In addition to prep-
ping and preparing ingredients and meals and offering culinary tips to
customers, these market women organize, regulate, and stabilize the food
supply for a large percentage of Cusco’s population. Accordingly, market
women should also be acknowledged for playing an important, produc-
tive role in the Quechua food-landscape. Scholars who describe market
women’s work as simply an extension of their domestic duties present a
picture of their labor which is both reductive and inaccurate (Bunster and
Chaney 1989, 107). Similarly, to characterize cooking within the market as
a sort of “housewifely work that market women do” is also problematic
(Weismantel 2001, 70). To suggest that the market cook’s profession is syn-
onymous with the housewife’s preparation of family meals fails to credit
the professional cook with the independence and agency she has gained
through her decision to work outside (and in addition to) a domestic
sphere. While the same woman may prepare meals both within her family
home and in the market, these processes are not one and the same.
Although the market cook may know many of her clients’ names, home-
towns, occupations, and personal struggles, it is unlikely that her service
will be as easily taken for granted by her customers as it might be in her
own house. In exchange for the meal that she serves her clients, the mar-
ket cook expects to be remunerated with either service in kind or with a
monetary payment. If her clients fail to provide her with a payment, she is
under no obligation to continue serving them. Market cooks may appear
to be “blurring the line between business and friendship” (Weismantel
2001, 72) in their relationships with clients, yet in the end, the meal is be-
ing served in a public space; a location that involves a series of codes and
behaviors which differ decidedly from those performed within the home.
While it is true that the binary between the private/public sphere has often
been artificially and uncritically constructed, it is also important to avoid
conflating household-type work with a woman’s trade. Unlike the “inside
cook” (as described in the introduction), professional, “outside” cooks sell
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 79

food beyond the confines of the family home, and in exchange for their
efforts they receive cash or equivalent goods or services as a payment.
Moreover, an outside cook’s skills provide her with an opportunity for
improving her socioeconomic status and increasing her independence.

Order in the Mercado Central

In seemingly every corner of Cusco’s Mercado Central, vendors arrange

their tables and shelves with piles of earthen colored legumes, leafy veg-
etables, flowering herbs, ripened fruits, pungent spices, and pockmarked
tubers. Despite the chaotic smells, sounds, and colors that permeate the
atmosphere in and around the market, each food is displayed and sold
within its own designated area. The internal logic of the market forbids a
potato vendor from swapping stalls with a fruit vendor, or for a woman
selling chocolate and coffee to set up shop near the vegetable stalls. Mar-
ket women (only a handful of men manage peripheral dry-goods and
medicine shops and larger market restaurants) claim that while no official
rule dictates which products may be sold where, they assert that custom
(“costumbre”) dictates the specific section in which vendors may sell par-
ticular products. Each sector features aisles of stacked cheeses, mounds of
tubers, lines of chicken, rows of beef, piles of vegetables, buckets of frogs,
trays of fish, bunches of herbs, and bags of spices.
According to more than twenty-five Cusco market women interviewed
between the months of July and November 2005 and November and De-
cember of 2009, the female food vendors who manage the greatest amount
of capital and number of business associates usually enjoy the most clout
within the market hierarchy, control the best locations within the market
(usually on a corner, or at the end of an aisle), and not surprisingly, take
home the most net profits. All of these food purveyors and preparers are
outside cooks who sell their food beyond the boundaries of the private
home.10 The possibility of gaining social prestige and economic benefits
from the occupation of cooking depends largely on the space in which
food is prepared and sold. For example, the owner of a chichería (corn beer
tavern) obviously earns more money and demands more respect than her
employee who prepares spicy snacks (picantes). The picante cook, in turn,
earns higher wages and has gained the right to give orders to her prep
cook or to any of the waitresses—employees who rank just ahead of the
dishwashers in terms of both status and salary. Such hierarchies of profits
and prestige also exist within the tiny market kitchens and (in descending
order), between vendors working in the market, on street corners, and as
ambulatory vendors. The relative rank among vendors working within
the Mercado Central is largely decided according to the standard price
80 Chapter 3

of the foodstuffs she sells and/or prepares and her seniority within the
market space; both of these factors are reflected in terms of the ability to
control coveted locations within a targeted vending zone.
Occupying a position of relative power within these market hierar-
chies translates into increased economic benefits, which in turn allows
a cook or food vendor to achieve an improved level of socioeconomic
independence. Michel de Certeau’s concept of culture is helpful here for
understanding the purpose and effect of the unspoken rules, hierarchical
(re)positionings, and constant negotiations which characterize the culture
of the food-based commerce carried out in Andean markets, restaurants,
and streets. Certeau conceives of culture as an entity that develops in en-
vironments full of tensions and which alternately legitimizes, displaces,
and “provides symbolic balances, contracts of compatibility and com-
promises, all more or less temporary” (Certeau 1984, xvii). For example,
women from rural villages who migrate to Cusco without the support of
a local (often kinship-based) network generally experience great difficulty
ascending the food vendor ladder. Recent arrivals and women without
family contacts are usually forced to confront the multiple disadvan-
tages associated with selling wares in an unstable location: a constantly
fluctuating customer base, vulnerability to police harassment and fines,
extreme weather, physical exhaustion, and thieves. Women who manage
their own chichería or work as the head cook or vendor in a restaurant,
market kitchen, or market stall, benefit from the opportunity to network
with other female entrepreneurs and to establish a stable group of regular
customers (casero/as).
As mentioned in this book’s introduction, Certeau’s concept of the
“tactic” describes a tool deployed by “the other” in order to seize advan-
tageous opportunities, even without the benefit of any spatial or institu-
tional stability. In Cusco, cooks who sell their wares on blankets arranged
on the market floor, or while walking around the city, lack spatial stabil-
ity. Like individuals who deploy tactics in order to survive, the economic
success of these “informal” cooks and vendors depends largely on their
administration of time—a resource which they can control (Certeau 1984,
36–37). Although the typical work schedules of most market cooks and
vendors with permanent stalls might be considered extremely long by
North American and European standards (from about 5:00 am to 6:00 pm,
six days per week), full-time ambulatory vendors must often work seven
days per week in order to earn enough money to cover basic expenses and
family financial obligations.11
The productivity of ambulatory and market vendors and cooks in-
volves the transformation of food into situation (Barthes 1997, 22). In
the moment that they sell food to a client, these women carry out an
economic exchange which in turn performs a “social function” in that
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 81

they supply the city’s residents with food and also help to increase their
own (and their family’s) financial stability. In the case of market cooks
and food vendors, the location of their stall, restaurant, or vending zone;
the position they occupy within the kitchen; and the types of foods they
sell can all be considered as examples of the “syntaxes and styles” of the
urban Quechua food-landscape. The syntax of a sentence creates order
and meaning among its various grammatical components, while its style
infuses the phrase with a particular tone, nuance, or aesthetic flavor. Simi-
larly, the system of hierarchies established by the Mercado Central’s food
entrepreneurs creates a sense of order and meaning, while still allowing
each individual woman to impart her own unique style or flavor in the
foods she prepares, or in the way in which she presents or sells foodstuffs
to her customers.

Entering Cusco’s Mercado Central

By now it is nearly noon on a mid-August Saturday and inside Cusco’s

Mercado Central, shoppers busily stride up and down the aisles that
separate various food and beverage vendors. Entering off of Santa
Clara Street, marketgoers pass dozens of fruit juice vendors perched
upon stools and presiding over their Oster blenders and precarious,
multicolored pyramids of fruit. Waving daily tabloids in front of the
noses of potential customers, women call out the names of a few of their
fruity elixirs in the hopes of tempting at least a few thirsty shoppers—
¡zanahoria con naranja! ¡papaya con plátano! ¡mixto, mixto! ¡fresa con leche!
¡el especial! On weekends, adolescent girls and elderly women spread out
their blankets in the hallway near the boisterous juice vendors and set to
work preparing colorful bouquets of red and yellow carnations, delicate
stems of ilusiones (baby’s breath), and various other fragrant blossoms.
Continuing down the hallway, one encounters the aisles of fruit vendors
who sit in front of stalls stacked high with papayas, apples, mandarins,
grandadillas, chirimoyas, and at least three types of bananas—seda,
isla, para sancochar. It is as if the flower, fruit, and juice vendors have
positioned themselves strategically in order to create the most vibrantly
colored and aromatic section of the market.
In the central aisle of the market, those who cannot afford to rent a
permanent stall (mostly elderly women and recent migrants from the
countryside) arrange their wares on the ground atop blankets in small
one sol ($0.35) or fifty centavo ($0.18) piles.12 These women sell mostly car-
rots, lima beans, ch’uñu (dehydrated potatoes), cilantro, mint, oregano,
or small plastic bags of recado—preshelled green peas, sliced squash,
and chopped carrots which busy home cooks can quickly add to their
82 Chapter 3

Photograph by Alison Krögel.

Figure 3.1.   Juice vendor and her clients inside Cusco’s Mercado Central.

soups and stews. Such products frequently come from the vendors’ own
gardens and can be sold for a bit of extra cash whenever they harvest a
surplus. Food choices and eating habits in Cusco often reveal a person’s
age, cultural background, or economic status. Similarly, the types and
quantities of food offered by market vendors, as well as the locations in
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 83

which they are sold, also announce many of these same distinctions. For
instance, the meticulously organized shelves of permanent market stalls
house the wares of the astute businesswomen who sell coffee, tea, choco-
late, and the highland taproot called maca. These vendors have managed
to develop small commercial enterprises which require considerable capi-
tal outlays in addition to well-cultivated business relationships with vari-
ous producers, truckers, and wholesalers. Many of these luxury beverage
vendors inherited their business from mothers, aunts, or grandmothers
who carefully constructed chains of suppliers near the humid, lowland
town of Quillabamba where rich coffees and cacao are grown.
In the aisle adjacent to the beverage vendors, shoppers encounter
tables arranged with piles of pale, cream-colored disks of the legume
called tarwi or chocho. Acquiring and processing tarwi does not require
the extensive business relationships and cash outlays administered by
the luxury beverage vendors. While tarwi vendors possess more capital
than the informal vegetable and herb vendors, local growers cultivate
this product and vendors can process it in their own homes. Venders also
offer a prepared tarwi product that has already undergone a lengthy cook-
ing and debittering process. While city dwellers often take advantage of
this slightly more costly option, in the surrounding rural communities it
is still common practice to boil the tarwi, pour it into a canvas sack, and
then submerge the sack in a quick-moving river for at least one week, so
that the rushing water will wash away the unpleasant bitterness of this
otherwise tasty and nutritious legume. Younger, urban consumers tend
to prefer purchasing comparably priced white rice, while shoppers with
very limited budgets generally spend their soles on potatoes and other
tubers that cost up to four times less per kilo than tarwi.
Three steps down from the level occupied by vendors of juice, flow-
ers, fruit, coffee, tarwi, cheese, poultry, and beef, shoppers can turn left
to enter the aisle of the potato and tuber vendors, or right toward the
aisles of the dry-goods vendors. Many of the women selling potatoes or
dried goods have worked in the market for twenty-five years or more
and often sell from a stall previously managed by their mothers, aunts,
or grandmothers. The dry-goods vendors don crisp, pocketed aprons and
sell wheat and corn flour, various types of trigo machucado (steel-cut oats),
rolled oats (called “kwa-cker” in reference to the famous North American
brand), raisins, figs, shredded coconut, and dried plums. Their carefully
organized shelves also display lentils, pinto beans, white beans, navy
beans, and the Andean grains quinua and kiwicha (amaranth). The dozen
or so of these stalls are arranged in a similar fashion; beans are bagged
by the kilo and fill the upper wooden shelves, while vendors store grain
products inside forty-five-kilo sacks that line the terraced platforms
placed in front of the stall with their tops folded down to reveal the qual-
84 Chapter 3

ity of their contents. Costly dried fruits lie behind glass or plastic cases,
which keeps them safely removed from stray fingers that are more eager
to sample than to purchase.
Interspersed with the saleswomen dedicated exclusively to dry-goods
sales are the “nearly one-stop-shopping” vendors. Like the potato, lux-
ury beverage, and dry-goods vendors, most of these women have also
been selling in the market for twenty years or more. By now they have
established business relationships with numerous wholesale suppliers
and can offer their clients a wide variety of products: whole grains (qui-
nua, kiwicha, oats, and rice), flours (wheat, quinua, and corn), vegetables,
and fruits (spinach, carrots, onions, eggplant, tomatoes, and cucumbers).
They also sell squash (zapallo ruru, achuqcha, lakawiti, and ancara), le-
gumes (lentils, pinto, brown, and white beans), red and green bell pep-
pers, assorted hot peppers (uchu, chinchi-uchu, ruccutu-uchu, asnacc-uchu,
mucuru-uchu, or q’illu-uchu), salt, herbs, and spices (cinnamon sticks,
whole cloves, ground and whole black pepper, dried oregano, cumin
seeds, fresh mint, camomile, huacatay, muña, and peeled or whole garlic),
as well as prepared bags of sauces, condiments, leaveners, and miscel-
laneous remedies.

Photograph by Gustavo Fierros.

Figure 3.2.   Paulina Sallo de Sotelo sells a wide variety of potatoes at her corner stall.
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 85

One such vendor is Elisa, a sixty-nine-year-old woman who has worked

in the market for the past twenty-nine years. Like other vendors in her
section of the market, in addition to offering her clients an impressive ar-
ray of food products, Elisa also dispenses helpful culinary advice in either
Spanish or Quechua, according to the linguistic preference of each client.
Elisa’s transmission of culinary knowledge in the Mercado Central is an
example of how the richness of the Quechua language and food-centered
oral tradition is communicated daily in Cusco’s public spaces. A customer
requesting a kilo of pinto beans is often asked whether she or one of her
neighbors owns a pressure cooker. If the answer is negative, Elisa usually
steers clients toward the more economical option of lentils. New cooks
and migrants from lowland regions are often unaware of the fact that at
an altitude of over 11,000 feet, cooking even well-soaked beans without a
pressure cooker requires a costly amount of fuel.
When selling quinua to very young cooks, Elisa reminds them that prior
to cooking, the grains must be thoroughly rinsed until the white foam
disappears and the water runs clear. A customer glancing at a stack of
Elisa’s pale green achuqcha squash will often receive an unsolicited recipe
for stuffing the vegetable with cheese, potatoes, and bell pepper before
lightly frying it:
This achuqcha squash is just too delicious . . . you cut the cheese into thick
strips, you chop a suyt’u potato, you dice some vegetables [such as spinach
or zucchini], you chop rocoto pepper and then you fill the achuqcha squash
with all of that and then you fry it.
Nishu sumaq chay achuqcha . . . quisuta q’allanayki, suyt’u papatawan hik’inayki,
q’umerkuna pikanayki, rucututa khallanayki, chaymanta anchaytawan achuqchata
hunt’achinayki, ima thiqtichinayki. (personal communication 2005)

In this brief recipe, the richness of the Quechua lexicon becomes apparent
as Elisa utilizes her language’s precise and evocative culinary adjectives,
verbs, and interjections to describe the dish. For instance, the Quechua
language requires a different verb to express the act of chopping dif-
ferent classes of ingredients—cheese, potatoes, and vegetables in this
case. Speakers describe the chopping or dicing of vegetables, squash, or
olluco tubers with the verb “pikay” (from the Spanish picar), while one
accomplishes the task of chopping peppers, cheese, or fruit with “khal-
lay.” “Hik’iy” designates the act of chopping a peeled potato, while the
verb “q’allay” signifies the cutting of potato or cheese into chunky strips.
Food-related interjections also offer the Quechua speaker with an array of
specific expressive options which can be used to assess the relative suc-
cess of a particular dish: “Haw!” (“Too spicy!”), “Hak! Ak!” (“So sour!”),
“Añakaw!” (“How sweet!”), “Achakáw!” (“It’s too hot!”), “Añañaw! (“How
delicious!”).
86 Chapter 3

While she happily shares her favorite recipes with clients, Elisa does
not cook for herself at home:

No, in my house I never cook, what a hassle! And for what reason? . . . No,
cook just for myself? No. It doesn’t make sense and what’s more, it’s not good
for you. . . . Why should I prepare an entire pot of food for myself? There
would be leftovers for the entire week! Nah—Why should I go around prepar-
ing food all alone in my house if we all know that the flavor is never the same
when one cooks for herself? . . . It’s not good for you to cook like that. . . .”
Mana, wasiypi mana hayk’aq wayk’unipaschu. Uhúy! Uh! Imanaqtin? . . . No,
¿Cocinar para mí no más? No, No tiene sentido eso y es más, hace daño. . . . ¿Por
qué voy a preparar una olla entera de comida para mí? ¡Quedarían sobras para toda
la semana! Nah—¿Qué voy a andar preparando comida solita en casa si todos sabe-
mos que no es igual el sabor cuando uno cocina para si mismo? . . . No te hace bien
cocinar así. . . .13

Instead, for more than ten years, Elisa explains, she has maintained an
arrangement with one of the market cooks who brings her hot soup and
a main dish (segundo) every afternoon in exchange for a pan filled with
chopped carrots, garlic, and chili peppers that Elisa prepares for the cook
each morning. Many vendors establish similar relationships with the mar-
ket cooks; in these reciprocal agreements no money changes hands, yet
both parties routinely receive a necessary service or product in exchange.
Cargadores—men hired to haul large sacks of products into or out of the
market—often engage in similar long-term reciprocal arrangements,
whereby they deliver purchased goods to the cooks’ stalls free of charge
in exchange for their daily, afternoon meal.
On the lowest level of the market, vendors offer customers beef prod-
ucts displayed in a few aisles, while others sell an assortment of hot meals
prepared with many of the delicious ingredients sold in the adjacent
aisles. In fact, prepared-food stalls fill more than half of the market’s
lower level. Smaller, family-run counters fill the central aisles of this space
and larger operations occupy the outer walls and typically employ three
or four women as cooks. In the bigger market restaurants a male owner-
manager generally receives each customer’s order, shouts it to the female
cooks, passes out the meals, and collects the payments.
Prices in market restaurants range from a main dish ordered from the
menu such as trout, tongue in tomato sauce, or chicken cutlet for about
US$3.60 (s/10.00 soles), an organ meat broth for around US$2.50 (s/7.00 soles),
to a set meal for US$1.25 (s/3.50 soles) which includes of small bowl of soup
and a main dish of tarwi or braised chicken, accompanied by two medium-
sized boiled potatoes and a choice of either white rice or spaghetti. Market
restaurants and chicherías in Cusco serve mainly “low-status” foods—organ
meats, broths, and potatoes—and the customers who eat there are almost
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 87

Photograph by Gustavo Fierros.

Figure 3.3.   Vendor selling beef products in the Mercado Central.

exclusively runa or mestizos, with male clients outnumbering women,

particularly in the chicherías. Plastic tablecloths cover the long tables and
diners sit next to each other on long, wooden benches. Small dishes of
chopped chili are placed along the length of the tables, as are rolls of toilet
paper which serve as an economical substitute for individual napkins. The
simplicity of these establishments’ service, recipes, and décor, along with
the communal fashion in which meals are eaten, make these restaurants
unpopular with most tourists and middle-class Cusqueños.
As Florence Babb points out in her discussion of runa kitchen culture,
although men are generally capable of preparing food for themselves if
necessary, in most circumstances women are solely responsible for cook-
ing and serving a family’s meals (1998, 139; see also Symons 2000, 26).
In the city of Cusco, women run the kitchens in nearly all market restau-
rants, chicherías (small bars that serve chicha corn beer and snacks), and
small, family-owned establishments. Men tend to prepare the food in the
kitchens of larger, more profitable and prestigious tourist-oriented restau-
rants. Many of these establishments only hire cooks who have completed
a series of courses in “European,” “international,” or “Novoandina” cui-
sines at a culinary institute.
88 Chapter 3

Photograph by Alison Krögel.

Figure 3.4.   Market cook serving lunchtime customers a variety of set meals from her pots.

Representations of male cooks in Quechua verbal art are rare and, in

this book, chapters 3–5 will focus exclusively on artistic representations
of female inside and outside cooks. In Cusco’s Mercado Central (and in
any of the city’s dozens of chicherías), Quechua women generally work
at least six days per week preparing reasonably priced soups and main
dishes which fuel local workers and students, as well as the scores of
runa who arrive from the countryside in search of work. While many
of these women work sixty hours or more each week and agree that
cooking professionally is hot, tiring work, most of them contend that
cooking is a safe and profitable job which provides them with both a
cash wage to pay for their family’s expenses and enough leftover food
to satisfy an important portion of their family’s weekly caloric needs.
Thus, in their role as the providers of meals (as well as advice, conver-
sation, and gossip), Quechua women who work outside the home as
cooks often increase their personal and economic power, allowing them
to achieve a degree of independence and influence that remains largely
unattainable for women of similar socioeconomic and educational
backgrounds who work in occupations unrelated to food preparation
and distribution.
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 89

The Historical Rise of the Restaurant,

the Chichería, and the Outside Cook

The rise of restaurants and professional cooks in the Andes parallels the
emergence of large concentrations of transient populations in colonial
mining and commercial centers such as Potosí, Huancavelica, and Cusco
in the late sixteenth century.14 The indigenous and Spanish workers living
in these cities were unlikely to have the time or the knowledge to prepare
their own meals, and as Cieza de León disapprovingly remarks, many of
the indigenous men working in Potosí spent their daily wages indulging
their cravings with any number of dishes sold by the Quechua cooks in
the plaza (2005, 273). Although the emerging market economy in colonial
Latin America encouraged the exploitation of indigenous labor, it also
created economic opportunities for indigenous women who worked as
independent sellers, market women, cooks, owners of dry-goods stores,
or even long-distance traders (Socolow 2000, 41). These skillful entre-
preneurs left records indicating their knowledge of Spanish commercial
law, their ownership of property, and their adeptness in managing to
pass these properties onto their chosen heirs, thus taking advantage of
European laws of inheritance and Spanish tolerance of pre-conquest
social structures (Socolow 2000, 41). Ironically, the economic and social
opportunities and relative freedom of movement that often accompanied
an indigenous woman’s employment in colonial chicherías, market food
stalls, and restaurants remained beyond the reach of higher-class women
whose social position precluded them from working in public spaces
(Socolow 2000, 114).15
Throughout colonial Latin America, indigenous women often special-
ized in the sale of locally produced alcoholic beverages: pulque in cen-
tral and southern México, aguardiente in Brasil, and chicha in the Andes
(Socolow 2000, 116; Llosa 1992, 115). It seems clear that women have
been the sole elaborators of chicha in the Andes since the pre-Colombian
era. Guaman Poma suggests as much in his repeated denunciation of
the time-consuming task carried out only by women: “The said Indians
of this kingdom with the chicha that they wring out of the poor Indian
women. . . . With this they submit these poor Indian women to so much
work” (1980, 2:840).16 In contemporary Perú, women still dominate the
business of selling chicha; some women sell their brew from buckets situ-
ated in the aisles of town markets, although the local chichería remains the
most important space for the preparation, sale, and consumption of chicha
throughout Andean cities and towns. Most chicherías offer complimentary
snacks called picantes (usually small portions of vegetable dishes made
from ch’uñu, tarwi, quinua, or potato, and served with the spicy uchukuta
chili sauce) and several daily small plates called “extras” (organ meat
90 Chapter 3

broths, stuffed rocoto pepper, the thick, spicy capchis stew, or papa helada
stuffed with cheese). Yet most chichería patrons are primarily interested in
ordering a caporal (half-liter glass) of freshly brewed chicha.
Although the alcoholic beverage called chicha can be made from fer-
mented maize, quinua, cañihua, ch’uñu, peanuts, carob, or the seeds of
the molle bush, the Incas preferred maize chicha which, when specially
brewed, could be offered to the gods as a deferential sacrifice.17 With the
arrival of the Spaniards, the Quechua word “aqa” was widely replaced
by the Antillean term “chicha” (Horkheimer 1973, 82). Bernabé Cobo’s
description of chicha is worth quoting at length, as it aptly sums up the
Spaniards’ contradictory attitude toward the brew:

This name chicha covers all of the beverages that the natives of this New
World used instead of wine and with which they very frequently become
inebriated; a vice to which they are so inclined that they have not even taken
advantage of having converted to our Sacred Faith . . . nor have their deal-
ings and communication with the Spaniards, nor the punishments meted out
by the priests and justices been able to pull them away from it. . . .
Chicha is made from many things, each nation adapts itself to the most
abundant seeds and fruits produced in their land and they make chicha from
these. Some chichas are made from ocas, yucas and other roots; others, from
quínua and the fruit of the molle [bush] . . . but the finest chicha and which is
the kind one generally drinks in this land which, like precious wine, occupies
the premier place before all of the Indians’ other beverages, is the one that is
made from maize.
Debajo de este nombre de chicha se comprehenden todas las bebidas que usaban los
naturales deste Nuevo Mundo en lugar de vino, y con que muy frecuentemente se
embriagan; al cual vicio son tan inclinados, que ni han aprovechado haberse con-
vertido a nuestra Santa Fe . . . ni el trato y comunicación con los españoles, ni los
castigos que hacen en ellos sus curas y las justicias, para que se aparten dél . . .
Hácese la chicha de muchas cosas, acomodándose cada nación a aquellas semillas
y frutas que más en abundancia produce su tierra, para hacer chicha dellas. Unas
chichas se hacen de ocas, yucas y otras raíces; otras, de quínua y del fruto del molle
. . . pero la chicha de todas y que generalmente se bebe en esta tierra, la cual, como
vino precioso, tiene el primer lugar entre todas las demás bebidas de los indios, es la
que se hace de maíz. (Cobo 1890, 1:347)

While on the one hand, the Spaniards denounced chicha as unchristian

and filthy, they also oversaw the production their own “clean” batches
for special occasions.
This denunciation of chicha as an unclean beverage stems from one of
the techniques sometimes used to accelerate the fermentation process. A
chichera may elaborate her brew following one of two methods: wiñapu
chicha is made from fermented grains that have been soaked and then al-
lowed to germinate for several days, while muqu chicha is produced from
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 91

grains that have been chewed (usually by elderly women or young girls
who do not yet chew coca) and then expectorated, allowing for the saliva
to expedite the fermentation process.18 Many connoisseurs of the brew
attest to muqu chicha’s superior flavor and intensity, while many urban
mestizos claim to prefer the more “hygienic” wiñapu chicha. Colonial
chroniclers like Cobo and Guaman Poma expressed their disapproval of
muqu chicha, although they find less fault with the wiñapu variety made
from germinated corn. Guaman Poma offers advice for colonial authori-
ties to this effect:

That the Indians should not drink chicha chewed with the mouth that they call
moco (chewed maize for chicha) . . . because it is a dirty, filthy thing, instead
they should drink a chicha from sprouted maize which they call sura asua (chi-
cha of germinated maize) so that the Christians drink it and approve.
Que los yndios no an de ueuer chicha mascada con la boca que ellos les llama moco
(maíz mascado para chicha) . . . por ser puerca cosa sucia, cino que ueuan una chicha
de maýs nacida que ellos les llaman sura asua (chicha de maíz germinado) para que
los cristianos la ueua y aproeua. (1980, 2:827)

Cobo also notes the prevalence of the “disgusting” muqu chicha through-
out the Andes, and takes care to explain that the Spaniards only drink a
much cleaner version of the brew:

Most commonly the Indians of Perú drink the sort [of chicha] made from
chewed maize; which is seen not only in their own towns, but in many of
the Spaniards’ [towns] where there is a congregation of Indians, as in Potosí,
Oruro and others. Gathering in small groups in the plazas old Indian women
and young men sit together chewing maize, just seeing this inspires not a
little disgust among the Spaniards. . . . The Spaniards are also accustomed
to making maize chicha for special occasions, but they make it with more
cleanliness and care than the Indians.
La más ordinaria que beben los indios del Perú es la que se hace de maíz mascado;
para lo cual se ven no solo en sus pueblos, sino también en muchos de españoles
donde hay concurso de indios, como en Potosí, Oruro y otros, hechos corrillos en
las plazas de indias viejas y muchachos sentados mascando maíz, que no poco asco
causa a los españoles sólo verlo. . . . Los españoles también suelen hacer chicha de
maíz por regalo, pero hácenla con más limpieza y curiosidad que los indios. (Cobo
1890, 1:348)

Cobo’s description of chicha production in colonial Potosí bears a striking

resemblance to an early twentieth-century description of this city’s central
plaza where the beverage was both produced and sold in small shacks:

A red flag at the entrance signifies hay chicha while a white flag says it is all
gone. . . . Chicha is an alcoholic drink of peanuts or corn, masticated by the
92 Chapter 3

oldest (because they can do nothing else), hence usually toothless, women,
then expectorated into an olla (pot), allowed to ferment, drawn off and is
then ready for use . . . “they say” chicha is also made by presses in an entirely
sanitary way. (Hoeppner Woods 1935, 47)

The red flag (aqa llantu) mentioned here by the North American diarist
Josephine Hoeppner Woods, pokes out from roadside shacks, market
stalls, and corner stores as a signal to thirsty customers that a fresh batch
of chicha is ready and waiting for them inside.
Chicha also served as an important symbol for the Andean indigenismo
movement in the first decades of the twentieth century and it continues
to be enjoyed throughout the Andes at family, community, and national
celebrations, or simply as an afternoon treat.19 In his Memorias, the famous
Cusco indigenista leader Luís Valcárcel praises the food served in local
chicherías: “diverse small plates were prepared predominantly following
indigenous customs, potatoes with crushed garlic, small pieces of meat,
mutton giblets or broad beans with boiled maize” (1981, 30).20 In her
discussion of the indigenista movement, Weismantel points out that in its
role as “an outpost of rural and Indian culture in the city . . . the chichería
was a place where residents of the urban Andes could seek spiritual and
cultural replenishment” (2001, 32). Every chichería is managed by a busi-
nesswoman, brewer, and cook known as a chichera. Since she frequently
works in an urban space and serves clients visiting from rural villages,
chicheras create large social networks of acquaintances and also amass a
good deal of news and information pertaining to relationships and events
occurring in both the city and the countryside.21
In the Quechua-language testimonio known as Gregorio Condori Mamani:
Autobiografía in the original Quechua and Spanish bilingual edition (and
Andean Lives: Gregorio Condori Mamani and Asunta Quispe Huamán in its
English translation), the eponymous narrator presents a clear example
of the importance of the chichera for rural travelers. Gregorio relates that
after leaving jail and arriving in the unfamiliar town of Urcos, he imme-
diately stops in at the local chichería and offers to treat the chichera to a
drink. His primary motive for showing such generosity is his need to ob-
tain information regarding possible travel companions for the dangerous
journey to Cusco (Valderrama and Escalante 1992, 61). Gregorio knows
that more than anyone else in town, the chichera can likely introduce him
to possible traveling companions. This testimonio reveals that chicheras can
potentially gain a good deal of economic independence as a result of their
culinary skill and business acumen. Thus, a woman’s work in a chichería
often allows her more freedom to make choices regarding her own living
conditions, since she no longer remains solely dependent on the support
of male partners or family members.
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 93

Cooking toward Economic Independence:

Gregorio CondorI Mamani: AutobiografÍa,
a Contemporary Quechua Testimonio

In Quechua verbal and visual art, narrators often present themes involv-
ing food preparation and marketing as empowering, everyday rituals. The
cooks represented in the novel, film, testimonio, photographs, and oral nar-
ratives analyzed in this book do not prepare, serve, and sell food to others
because they are servile. Instead, the everyday act of cooking allows these
women to increase their economic, social, and political independence and
well-being. In various Quechua art forms, representations of cooks and the
food they prepare are loaded with symbolic meanings which may obliquely
or directly critique the excesses of local powerholders and institutions. In
each of these narratives, cooks are presented as determined, resourceful
woman who market their culinary knowledge in order to increase their
socioeconomic independence and influence. My analysis of these artistic
representations demonstrates the ways in which women’s cooking becomes
a vital everyday practice which provides them with varying degrees of
economic power and which also functions as an undeclared (and often un-
perceived) resistance against the attempts of a patriarchal and often racist
society to exclude and devalue their voices, skills, and creativity. Andean
artists present many of the obstacles and prejudices which cooks frequently
face, but they also depict these resourceful women as agents who make their
own choices, rather than simply accepting the imposed will of others.
The testimonio Autobiografía, narrated by Asunta Quispe Huamán (a
pseudonym) and her husband Gregorio Condori Mamani, provides a
unique representation of a Quechua woman’s struggle to attain socioeco-
nomic independence by marketing her culinary skills. The genre of the
testimonial narrative or testimonio is a relatively recent addition to the
Quechua oral tradition and often provides unique insight into the beliefs,
practices, challenges, and achievements of runakuna living in contempo-
rary Andean society. The testimonio is generally understood as “a form
of collective autobiographical witnessing that gives voice to oppressed
peoples” (Gelles 1996, 3). It is a multiauthored text in which a speaker (in-
stead of an author) serves as the principal creator who narrates witnessed
or lived events to a listener who transcribes, edits, and publishes a novel-
or novella-length first-person narrative (Beverley 1992, 92; Gelles 1996, 3).
The listener is of course literate, while the speaker is most often illiterate
and impoverished, thus leading to all of the complications and contradic-
tions of “high and low culture, dominant and emergent social formations,
dominant and subaltern languages” (Beverley 1992, 99).22
The analysis of any testimonio must take into account the extensive
processes of interviewing, transcribing, and editing involved in the
94 Chapter 3

creation of the published narrative.23 The mediation and transfer of a

spoken-word performance to the written page inevitably leads to losses
and alterations of its registers of meaning. Like many testimonios, Au-
tobiografía relates the myths, traditions, and life stories of “speakers”
who belong to a primarily oral culture and whose creative traditions are
disseminated not through written texts, but through interactive, oral per-
formances.24 This testimonio (as well as the Quechua oral narratives dis-
cussed in chapter 5) should be considered both as a part of the Quechua
oral tradition and as an example of what Lienhard terms “alternative
written literature” (“literatura escrita alternativa”). These narratives (like
Mesoamerican codices and colonial Andean chronicles such as those
created by the Inca Garcilaso and Guaman Poma) are characterized by a
“double determination” (Lienhard 1991, 127). The first part of each nar-
rative’s double identity corresponds to the “depository of [Quechua] oral
memory,” while the second identity refers to the “owner of writing”—the
scholar or author who transmits the published text and who inevitably
controls its organization, contents, and even its tone (Lienhard 1991, 127).
The postmodern quality of these heterogeneous texts artfully reveals the
semiotic presence of economic, political, and social conflict, as well as the
interpenetration of Andean and European languages, poetic forms, and
cosmologies (Lienhard 1991, 127).
A close reading of the second section of Autobiografía offers a unique
opportunity for understanding the role played by food and cooking
in the life of a Quechua woman. Asunta’s culinary skill provides her
with the necessary tools for creating a relatively secure and orderly oc-
cupational space within her otherwise chaotic and uncertain existence.
While it does not deliver her from poverty, Asunta’s ability to attract
regular clients to her market restaurant stall provides her with a degree
of emotional and economic independence throughout her life. Her culi-
nary career begins with her employment by a cruel schoolteacher after
first arriving in Cusco, then in the home of a kind family in San Blas, a
cook house in Santa Ana, and at the construction sites and mining camps
where her abusive first husband worked. After leaving her husband,
Asunta returns to Cusco and supports herself by cooking, both before
meeting Gregorio, and also after the two begin to live together. Asunta
never mentions how she learned to cook, but like many of the women
who sell meals in Cusco’s Mercado Central, it is likely that she learned
by observing her mother and sisters while they cooked at home and in
the kitchen of their employers.
After having followed her first husband Eusebio to an inhospitable
construction site near Arequipa, Asunta manages to sustain herself as a
professional cook, even though Eusebio remains both economically and
emotionally unsupportive. Asunta explains her first weeks at the camp:
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 95

Once I felt well again after giving birth, I began cooking daily meals for five
workers: lunch and dinner. Now things weren’t like before. With the centavos
I was making, now I had enough for my expenses, so now I no longer had to
always keep an eye on his pockets. So everything was good, we were doing
very well.
Wachakusqay qhepaman qhali kashaspañan, wayk’uyta qallarini pisqa peonman
pensionta qospa: almuerzota cenaytawan. Chayá manaña ñawpaq hinañachu kani.
Centavokuna ganakusqaywan ña gastoypa karanña hinaspan manaña paypa bolsil-
lontañachu qhawallayaq kani. Khaynan allin de lo mejor kasharayku. (Valderrama
and Escalante 1992, 103)

In this passage, Asunta eloquently expresses her sense of relief by subtly

contrasting the couple’s current economic situation with her memory of
their previous struggles. Impossible to adequately translate into the Eng-
lish, the repeated, unobtrusive use of the enclitic suffix -ña in Asunta’s
narration suggests both her sense of exhaustion and her thankfulness for
a respite from financial pressures. Whereas -ña appears seven times in the
Quechua original, the English approximation “now” is used only three
times in my translation because in many cases, English syntax does not
permit the use of a word which in Quechua functions as a subtle, adver-
bial marker.25
When Eusebio’s drunkenness leads to his dismissal at the construction
site, the couple heads toward Juliaca without a clear notion of where life
will lead them next. The importance of her role as a cook is once again
reflected in the fact that the only possessions she chooses to carry on the
journey are her baby and her cooking pots: “carrying my baby and with
my cooking pots all in a pile” (1992, 105).26 A few days later when her
husband announces his intentions to travel to a mining camp in search
of work, Asunta uses her pots as capital in order to buy food for the trip.
Decades later, Asunta still recalls the exact quantities of goods she was
able to purchase with this money:

I also sold three of my four used pots there at the Juliaca market and with
that we bought half an arroba [about twelve pounds] of rice, a gallon of cook-
ing oil, and a gallon of kerosene; all of this we carried on our journey.
Noqapas tawantin mankaykunamanta, kinsata vendepuni chhayna usasqakunata
Juliaca plazapi; chaywantaqmi rantirayku arrozta huk media arrobata, gallon
aceite comerta, hoq gallon kerosenetawan, chay llipinmi q’epiyku karan viajeyku-
paq. (1992, 105)

After the couple moves to some nearby mines in search of work, Eu-
sebio begins to complain about his wife’s cooking. Once again, Asunta’s
memory provides her with a precise recollection of her former husband’s
violent outbursts:
96 Chapter 3

Criticizing me for the food I cooked, he’d throw it out, or even hurl it in my
face:—Dammit Bitch! You cook as if I were your dog. Take this, dammit!
Wolf it down!—. And with that he would hurl it at my face.
Carajeawaq mikhuna wayk’usqatataq wikch’uyukoq, uyayman hich’aywanan­
kama:—Alqo warmi, carajo! Alqoykipaq hina wayk’unki. Toma, carajo! Rakray!—
Khaynatan uyayman hich’awaq. (1992, 105)

At that point in her life, however, Asunta had cooked professionally for
many clients and does not doubt her culinary skills. Instead, she imme-
diately attributes her husband’s abuse and criticisms to his sufferings in
the mines: “Surely his job must have been really difficult for him to act so
angry” (1992, 106).27
When Eusebio’s abuse becomes too much to bear, Asunta realizes her
error in remaining with him for so long, and she decides to leave him:

Saying—“What sort of life is this, if I am unable to separate myself from this

man’s side, if I have hands, feet, my mouth to speak with, my eyes to see with?
What am I, a cripple? These hands also make meals!”28
“Imataq vidari kanman, mana kay qhareq ladonmanta t’aqakapunaypaqri, maki,
chakiyqa kantaq, simiy rimanapaq, ñawiy qhawanapaq? Acaso such’uchu kani? Kay
makikunapas cocinata ruwantaq!”—nispa. (1992, 107)

In this passage, Asunta emphasizes her sense of self-worth as a woman

with hands that do not only cook within a domestic space, but instead as
a professional cook with “hands [that] also make meals!” Here, Asunta
consciously recognizes the value of her culinary knowledge. Her experi-
ence as a professional cook can provide her with enough income to sur-
vive as an independent woman and allow her to escape from the abusive
Eusebio. Foreshadowing the brave decision she is about to make, Asunta
declares that in addition to possessing the attributes of any healthy
woman (hands, feet, and a mouth that work properly), she also has two
experienced, cooking hands.
Thus, Asunta’s faith in her culinary skill gives her the courage to escape
from an abusive first husband, and upon arrival in Cusco she quickly finds
a job in a picantería in the neighborhood of Wanchaq.29 The kitchen in this
picantería30 becomes a lifesaver in more ways than one, since in addition
to sustaining Asunta economically, her workplace provides the neces-
sary warmth to save the life of her daughter Catalina. The infant girl is
born prematurely, only a few months after Asunta escapes from Eusebio.
Born in the kitchen soon after Asunta finishes preparing a batch of chicha,
the tiny baby manages to survive and grow alongside the warm fire of
the picantería stove. Catalina is the only one of Asunta’s seven children
who reaches adulthood, and she remembers this birth as a particularly
traumatic event. Asunta describes her daughter’s birth in the picantería’s
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 97

kitchen with culinary metaphors. She recalls the shocking fragility of her
newborn infant and the tiny girl’s miraculous survival:
And in this way she could still fall apart, like a pile of silk, a hand passed
over could still destroy her. Also, her little head, like an overly ripened
papaya, so very soft . . . again she was served upon death’s plate and again
she escaped.
Llamiyusqa seda monton chhullmiroq hinaman rikch’akoqraq. Umachanpas papaya
poqosqamanta aswan ñapuchallaña . . . wañuypa platon kashaspa, wañuyta desafian.
(1992, 108)

Asunta tenderly relates this maternal memory with precise grammatical

inflections and striking imagery and metaphors which express both her
affection for the vulnerable infant and her pride in the fact that like her
mother, the baby girl also survived against all odds.
In one of the most poignant moments of the testimonio, Asunta chooses
verbs which evoke rich imagery (llamiyuy, “to pass one’s hand over some-
thing”; poqoy, “to ripen, or mature”) and inflects them with affixes that
convey detailed and precise semantic nuances. For instance, on two occa-
sions in the first line of the passage: “Llamiyusqa seda monton chhullmiroq
hinaman rikch’akoqraq,” Asunta uses the continuative suffix -raq (or -roq)
(translated as the adverb “still”). The repeated use of this suffix suggests
that although the hazards of birth have been overcome and the child has
been delivered alive into the world, danger’s shadow still lurks just over
the horizon. In the next line, Asunta describes one of these risks when
she compares the newborn’s “little head” to that of an “overly ripened
papaya,” and laments that it is “so very soft” (ñapuchallaña). Asunta loads
the word “ñapuchallaña” with a string of three affixes which help her to
express the tenderness she feels for her infant. The adjectival construction
ñapu-cha-lla-ña includes the diminutive (and affectionate) infix -cha- (the
equivalent of the Spanish -ito/-ita); the affectionate infix -lla-, and the ad-
verbial suffix -ña (which in this case means “very” since it is preceded by
-lla-). When considered all together, these affixes infuse the word with a
concentrated, yet subtle sentiment that is difficult to express in nonagglu-
tinating languages.
Food and cooking also play significant roles in other major events in
Asunta’s life, such as her early separation from her mother (she leaves
home after accidentally tipping over a canister of the priest’s milk and
subsequently incurring her mother’s wrath), and her courtship with Gre-
gorio (1992, 94–95, 110). Asunta first meets Gregorio while working as
a cook in a Cusco picantería, “making chicha and cooking snack dishes”
(“aqhata ruwaspa extrakunata wayk’uspa”) (1992, 110). Gregorio’s courtship
strategy is clearly food-centered. According to Asunta, he begins by treat-
ing her to chicha at her own workplace and progresses to bringing her
98 Chapter 3

and little Catalina pork rinds and pastries. Yet Asunta wryly notes, “But
since the day we began to live together, there are no more pastries or pork
rinds” (1992, 110).31 Gregorio meets all three of his wives while they are
working as cooks (in Cusco’s markets or chicherías). In recalling his rea-
sons for courting his first wife, Gregorio remembers back to his bachelor
days, “finally I felt like having a woman to cook for me” (1992, 62).32
When he meets his first wife Rosa Puma at the Cascaparo Market, his
pragmatism soon convinces him to court her: “She knew how to cook
well and she served me well and she didn’t have a husband” (1992,62).33
This reasoning sounds strikingly similar to the memories of his brief
courtship with Asunta years later. After the death of his second wife
Josefa, Gregorio once again lives alone, and once again he must cook for
himself (1992, 73). Yet four months later he meets Asunta at the “Ch’uspi
cárcel” (“Fly Trap”) chichería and decides to “seek out her friendship.”
Perhaps because he prefers to keep the details of his romantic history
private, Gregorio recalls his motivations for courting Asunta in the same
straightforward manner in which he remembers his reasons for wooing
his first wife: “since I was without a wife and since she served generous
portions” (1992, 73).34 Gregorio’s wooing of Asunta culminates in an in-
vitation to join him for an outing to the Corpus Christi celebration in the
nearby district of San Sebastián (1992, 110). Although the proposed visit
to San Sebastián never occurs, the pair does end up in another of Cusco’s
picanterías, where Asunta clearly remembers:

We ate two or three dishes. Those dishes weren’t cooked well, not properly sea-
soned, but the pork rinds were good, that’s why I often pester him jokingly:—
“You tricked me, making me eat two dishes that weren’t cooked well.”

Iskay otaq kinsa platotachu sina mikhuyku. Chay platokunataqmi mana allin
wayk’usqa karan, mana puntonpichu aderezasqa pero chicharronkunaqa allin kasqa,
chaymi may chikan turiyaspa ninin:—“Qan engañawaranki, mana allin wayk’usqa
iskay platota mikhuyachiwaspa.” (1992, 109, 110)

Like any professional, Asunta compares her own skills to those of her
competitors and as her reflections and comments reveal, the buying,
selling, preparation, and consumption of food and drink play important
economic, social, and emotional roles in her life story.
The manner in which Asunta describes her various cooking ventures
reveals these entrepreneurial undertakings as a definite source of pride.
She relates in great detail the invitation she receives from other market
cooks (chupi qhatuq) to sell prepared meals at the Cascaparo market in
Cusco.35 Asunta recalls the initial dearth of customers and then relates
her afternoon success on that first day of business when so many people
asked for seconds that she ran out of food (1992, 112). She recounts that
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 99

soon after beginning her work as a market cook, the success of her busi-
ness began to surpass that of her friends, so that after securing a formal
agreement to cook regularly for several clients, she moved to a less envi-
ous corner of the market.
Women who work as vendors and cooks in Andean markets enjoy a de-
gree of independence that jobs such as domestic service (often impossible
to secure for women with children) certainly lack. For instance, cooking
in the market gives women freedom in making many decisions regarding
their business:

They can decide with whom they are going to do business and also how
they are going to fix their prices. At the same time, the arrival at the market
of other vendors, gives them the opportunity to exchange experiences and
communicate with people of other communities, although it has been noted
that there is competition among them to gain a certain steady clientele and to
occupy the best places for the sale of their products. (Yeager 1994, 196)

Asunta narrates her accomplishments as an outside cook with a sense of

satisfaction noting: “But since the day I’ve been working in this business
until today, no longer does Gregorio’s back alone have to support us”
(“Pero negocio ruwasqay p’unchaymanta kunankama mana imaymanapaqña-
chu Gregorio wasallan”) (1992, 113). Yet the economic success achieved by
Asunta in her cooking business does not last for long, and in the para-
graphs following her triumphant recollections, she describes the abusive
and unjust treatment of market vendors and cooks when faced with the
wrath of municipal police.36
As in Gregorio’s narrative, Asunta clearly believes that the economic
situation of Peruvian society in the 1970s (the era during which the couple
relates the story of their lives to Valderrama and Escalante) has become
much bleaker than in decades past. Thus she laments that in comparison
to her previously flourishing food business, “Now it just doesn’t turn a
profit, the prices of all ingredients are sky high, there are no earnings”
(“Kunanqa manañan negocio resultanñachu, lliw recadokunan cielokunapiraq
mana ganancia kanñachu”) (1992, 115–16). Although near the end of her
life Asunta insists that if she felt stronger, she would start a business sell-
ing used clothes at the Baratillo flea market, her profession as an outside
cook clearly fills her with pride throughout much of her life. Indeed, she
even apprentices her daughter Catalina to a former employer in a Cusco
chichería, thus teaching the young girl that with a certain amount of skill
and luck, a Quechua woman can support herself through her cooking.
Although the testimonio narrated by Asunta is filled with depressing
memories of abuse, hunger, poverty, and forced servitude, the manner in
which she represents the role of cooking in her life does not conjure up
memories of subjugation and confinement, but instead reveals a sense of
100 Chapter 3

economic independence and pride in having achieved a degree of self-

sufficiency for herself and her daughter.
Asunta’s verbal eloquence in relating her life story to Valderrama and
Escalante (and indirectly to thousands of readers in the transcribed and
translated versions of the written testimonio) provides an example of the
ways in which culinary knowledge can provide Andean women with a
tactic for carrying out acts of resistance in their daily lives. Faith in her
cooking skills fuels this resistance and helps Asunta to escape from an
abusive husband, to insist on providing for herself after remarriage, to
confront a cruel municipal agent with her characteristic pluck, and to
convince an aloof local priest to hand over the marriage certificate she
needs in order to apply for a market cook’s license. Cooking serves as a
tool for achieving economic power and a sense of pride and self-worth in
the testimonio narrated by Asunta and in the representations of chicheras
analyzed in the next chapter. In Asunta’s testimonio, José María Argue-
das’s novel Los ríos profundos, and in the photographs of Martín Chambi
discussed in chapter 4, Quechua chicheras are portrayed as attaining in-
creased self-respect, domestic and economic stability, and independence
as a result of their culinary prowess and business acumen.

Notes

 1. For a discussion of the few scholars who suggest that pre-Colombian mar-
kets existed in the Andes, see Murra’s essay “¿Existieron el tributo y los mercados
en los Andes antes de la invasión europea?” (2002, 237–47).
 2. Carlos Ochoa describes Perú’s unique microclimates as consisting of eight
different regions beginning at sea level in the coastal region, rising up to the
frigid peaks of the Andes mountains, and dropping back down over the eastern
Andean slopes into the Amazon basin: Coastal, 0–500 meters above sea level;
Yunga, 500–2,300 meters; Queshwa, 2,300–3,500 meters; Suni or Jalca, 3,500–4,100
meters; Puna, 4,100–4,800 meters; Junca, 4,800–6,768 meters; Ceja de selva or rupa-
rupa, 1,500–3,600 meters; Selva (alta)1,000–1,500 meters; Selva (baja), 80–400 meters
(1999, 21–26).
 3. Usually the population center of an ethnic group was located at an altitude
that allowed farmers to travel to tend their higher-altitude tuber fields and return
home the same day. Ideally, the location of a group’s home base would also permit
farmers to descend to their cornfields and return home in the same day (Murra
2002, 90). Murra asserts that all of these ecological niches were maintained without
claiming sovereignty over intermediate zones (2002, 87). He also affirms that the
representatives of an ethnic group who worked in these “periphery communities”
also retained full rights within the “nucleus community” (Murra 2002, 93–94).
 4. “El más rico mercado del mundo . . . se vendía cada día en tiempo que las minas
andaban prósperas veinte y cinco y treinta mil pesos de oro . . . y creo que ninguna feria
del mundo se igualó al trato de este mercado.”
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 101

 5. Assadourian (1982) offers an in-depth discussion of the complexities and

coercive nature of the political economy of the colonial Andes.
 6. In rural villages and communities throughout the provincial department of
Cusco, the word “ayllu” refers to maternal and paternal kin as well as those of a
spouse. “Ayllu” may also denote a residential community, particularly when most
of the inhabitants are related by birth or marriage. Allen provides a detailed ex-
planation of the multiple levels of meaning associated with the term “ayllu” (2002,
75–101). Salomon and Urioste discuss the meanings of “ayllu” within the colonial
Andean context (1991, 21–23).
 7. The socioeconomic roles of colonial and contemporary Quechua market
vendors and cooks are similar to those described by María Odila Silva Dias in
her study of the food businesses run by female slaves, ex-slaves, and poor white
women in colonial Brasil: “By buying basic goods in bulk and reselling them,
these women were guaranteed important social roles, and within this sphere of
their own they acquired independence from men and, if not prestige, certainly
the role of thrifty provider and of organizer of the circulation of foodstuffs” (1995,
99). Likewise, within the domestic sphere of contemporary runa families, women
control the storage and processing of foodstuffs and the decision as to whether or
not surplus foods can be sold, while also carrying out the sale or exchange of these
goods within the marketplace (Harrison 1989, 119).
 8. Of course not all of the key ingredients used in the kitchens of runa cooks
are native to the Peruvian highlands. For instance, many popular dishes include
ingredients such as garlic, eggs, and cheese. The ubiquitous mixture of aromatic
herbs called asnapa—parsley, oregano, peppermint, and huacatay—includes vari-
ous herbs of Old World origin.
 9. See Seligmann (2004) for a book-length study of the political, economic, and
social complexities of Cusco’s food markets.
10. It should be noted, however, that women who work in market stalls, street
corner stalls, or as ambulatory vendors frequently prepare or at least prep their
wares in a domestic, inside space.
11. The fifteen ambulatory food vendors that I interviewed in October 2005
stated that their workdays began by at least 6:00 am and that they often continued
to sell their goods until well after midnight in hopes of capitalizing on the hunger
of bar-hopping tourists. As exhausting as this occupation might sound, many
ambulatory food vendors claim that they would prefer the uncertainties of selling
food in the streets to the isolation and potential abuse associated with working as
a live-in cook or domestic servant.
12. In 2010, the exchange rate for the Peruvian Nuevo sol fluctuated between
S/2.77 and 2.89= 1 USD.
13. In this and other transcriptions of Quechua-language conversations and
verbal art, I have followed the three-vowel Quechua alphabet in spelling Span-
ish loanwords (for example, “queso” becomes “quisu”). The code-switches of
bilingual speakers such as Elisa are also marked by italicizing the Quechua to
distinguish it from the Spanish.
14. While Greek comedies written as early as the fourth century BC (Arito-
phanes’ Aiolosikon for example) feature marketplace cooks as central characters,
the institution of the public restaurant which serves food prepared by professional
102 Chapter 3

cooks does not emerge in Europe until around the time of the French Revolution.
Factors leading to this “restaurant revolution” include the sudden unemployment
of scores of cooks who had previously worked in aristocratic households, as well
as the French desire to improve upon the English custom of taking meals in tav-
erns (Symons 2000, 41, 290).
15. In a similar observation, María Odila Silva Dias asserts that the marginal
position of poor women and slaves working as cooks, bakers, street vendors,
and shop owners in nineteenth-century Brasil actually allowed them to penetrate
complex webs of street trading, bribes, and small-scale speculation which helped
them to achieve solvency in their food businesses. Likewise, in his study of the
cuisine and cooking practices of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Caribbean
slaves, Sidney Mintz concludes that for slaves, “working in the distribution of
food legitimized freedom of movement, commercial maneuver, association, and
accumulation; working in the processing of food legitimized the perfection of
skills that would become more important with freedom” (Mintz 1996, 47).
16. “Los dichos yndios de este rreyno con la chicha que sacan las dichas pobres yndias.
. . . Con esto le mete en tanto trauajo a las pobres yndias.”
17. Santiago Antúnez de Mayolo affirms that in addition to the ritual and social
significance of chicha, consuming the fermented corn beverage also provides vital
calories and nutrients and helps prevent the spread of waterborne illnesses (since
boiling and fermenting the liquid destroys parasites and bacteria) (1992, 40).
For more detailed descriptions of the complex process which the production of
chicha requires, see Cutler and Cárdenas (1981) and Llosa (1992). John Super also
provides bibliographic references of colonial travelers who praise chicha in their
journals as a nutrient-rich, healthy beverage which contributes to the “healthy,
strong, and robust” appearance of Quechua Indians throughout the Andes (1988,
76–77). Morris discusses the economic, political, and religious significance of chi-
cha consumption in the pre-colonial Andes (1979, 21–35).
18. The alcoholic content of most batches of chicha varies between 2 and 12
percent, with the average batch containing between 3 and 5 percent alcohol.
Generally, the stronger the alcohol content, the more esteemed the chicha. Since
fermentation slows at high altitudes with low humidity, most chicheras working
at very high altitudes try to leave their chicha to ferment for at least two weeks
(Vokral 1991, 202; Quispe Quispe 2007, personal communication).
19. Indigenismo refers to the pan–Latin American intellectual movement of the
early twentieth century. This movement espoused the goal of defending indig-
enous populations and agitating for political and cultural reforms (at both the
regional and national levels) based on “indigenous cultural forms” as conceived
by mestizos and urban intellectuals (Poole 1992, 52). The height of this move-
ment in Cusco took place between 1910 and 1930. See also de la Cadena (2000)
and Mendoza (2008) for a detailed discussion of the Indigenismo movement in
the city of Cusco.
20. “Se preparaban diversos platillos, en los que predominaba la costumbre indígena,
papas con ají molido, presas de carne, menudencias de carnero o habas con mote.”
21. This wealth of knowledge often leads the chichera to occupy a position of
local influence, as we will see in chapter 4’s analysis of Martín Chambi’s photo-
graphs and José María Arguedas’s novel Los ríos profundos (Deep Rivers).
 Profits, Prestige, and Power 103

22. The complexities involved in creating, reading, and interpreting testimo-

nios stem from their polyvocalic, collaborative nature; their ambiguous status as
primarily oral narrations subsequently transferred to the written page. Also prob-
lematic is the fact that testimonio “editors” (also sometimes referred to as listeners,
collaborators, transcribers, or coauthors) usually belong to an educated elite who
relates the lives of groups or individuals held subordinate (because of gender,
ethnicity, race, or class) to a hegemonic ruling group. See Phillipe LeJeune (1989),
John Beverely (1992), Doris Sommer (1999), George Yúdice (1991), and Paul Gelles
(1996) for a comprehensive overview of these theoretical discussions. Gelles, in
particular, provides a detailed account of the process which was entailed in the
creation of the original bilingual text which he translates along with Martínez
Escobar as Andean Lives: Gregorio Condori Mamani & Asunta Quispe Huamán. The
English-language title avoids the original’s erasure of Asunta’s participation, and
also the confusion of presenting the testimonio as an autobiography.
23. As Jorge Marcone reminds us, “the faithful repetition of another’s discourse
is an illusion, or better said a convention . . . to the extent that every enunciation
is an event that occurs in time and space; a verbal act is unique in historical terms
and cannot occur again” (1997, 83; see also Davies 1992, 16).
24. The songs, stories, myths, and poems of the Quechua oral tradition lie “la-
tent in the memory of its carriers, the verbal text—which is only one aspect of a
multiple text: verbal, musical, gestural—is actualized orally, generally publicly,
and is memorized in such opportunities by a new ‘generation’ of depositories of
the tradition” (Lienhard 1991, 274–75). Accordingly, these oral texts are constantly
enriched and altered according to the context and audience for which they are
performed. Moreover, many of the stories, myths, life experiences, and songs
shared by Asunta and Gregorio in Andean Lives also pertain to a wider repertoire
of Quechua verbal art performed by narrators and singers throughout the south-
ern Andean region.
25. The repeated use of this Quechua suffix in such a concentrated space also
suggests a meaning close to that expressed by a sighed enunciation of the English
word “finally.”
26. “Waway q’epiyusqa, mankaykuna montoyusqa karani.” When Gregorio’s first
wife Rosa Puma (who, like Asunta, also worked as an outside cook) first goes
to live with him, he recalls that she also arrived at this house carrying only her
bed and her pots and pans—assumedly her only possessions (1992, 62). Indeed, a
Quechua woman’s pots and pans (particularly if she lives in a rural community)
are usually among her most prized (and costly) possessions.
27. “Seguro llank’ananmi sasa kanman karan phiñasqalla kananpaq.”
28. Gelles and Martínez Escobar’s English translation of this passage unneces-
sarily removes this eloquent semantic couplet (in italics in my translation) (1996,
125). Also, they translate Asunta’s final exclamation as “these hands here make all
the meals” (Gelles and Martínez Escobar 1996, 125). This gloss suggests her role
as the sole cook within the couple’s household, as if to say that her hands make
all of “the family’s” meals (1996, 125). This suggestion is absent in the Quechua
version and it seems important to retain the openness of Asunta’s declaration that
her hands “also make meals”—which could suggest work done both inside and
outside the domestic kitchen.
104 Chapter 3

29. For a discussion of the importance of chicherías (and picanterías) as potential

places of employment (and a welcome alternative to the job of a live-in domestic
servant) for Quechua women arriving from the countryside, see de la Cadena
(1995).
30. Asunta refers to her former place of employment as a picantería—perhaps
because she works there primarily as a cook. The terms “picantería” and “chichería”
are fairly interchangeable, although the name “picantería” emphasizes the locale’s
supply of picantes or spicy snacks, while “chichería” of course refers to a specialty
in serving fermented corn beer brews.
31. “Pero tiyaq ripusqayku p’unchaymanta pachan mana pastel ni chicharron
kanchu.”
32. “Ña wayk’upuwaqniy warmi ganasniyoqña.”
33. “Allintataq wayk’uyta yachaq, allintataq atendiwaq y mana qhariyoqtaq pay
kasharan.”
34. “Noqapas mana warmiyoqtaq kasharani paqtaq allinta serveq.”
35. Chupi is a thick soup of potatoes, ch’uñu, vegetables, or shrimp. “Qhatuy”
is the Quechua verb for “to sell”; “qhatu” means a market or vending stall, while
the agentive suffix -q creates the word “qhatuq” which means vendor. Although
a chupi qhatuq does often sell chupi, she may sell any economically priced soup
or broth, and/or main course (usually a bit of rice and boiled potatoes, tarwi, or
steamed moraya, served alongside a small piece of chicken or beef). See also Gelles
and Martínez Escobar’s explanation of the term (1996, 162–63).
36. Asunta, like many of the women working within Cusco’s Central and
Wanchaq markets, lacked official papers and sanitary certificates for much of
her career (Valderrama and Escalante 1992, 113–14). Such papers give a cook “li-
censed vendor” status for which she pays municipal taxes and other fees. These
papers can only be obtained if one possesses official identification such as a birth
certificate or a marriage license. An “informal” food vendor or cook is left vulner-
able to the random patrols of municipal agents seeking to locate undocumented
food workers. Encounters with these agents often result in fines and the confisca-
tion of goods, leading to the financial ruin for many of these women’s economi-
cally precarious businesses.
 4
Q
“Las chicheras se defienden”
Canny, Creative Cooks in the Visual and
Verbal Narratives of José María Arguedas,
Martín Chambi, and Claudia Llosa

Rather than look up to those who demand power, we must accept that,
somehow, cooks—seemingly so meek and enchained—nevertheless
run things.
—Michael Symons, A History of Cooks and Cooking

I n each of the narratives explored in this book, culinary representations

create loci for symbolic meanings and often communicate messages
which subvert or criticize dominant powerholders in Andean society.
The work of these verbal and visual artists represents cooks as deter-
mined, resourceful indigenous and mestiza woman who market their cu-
linary knowledge in order to increase their socioeconomic independence
and influence. In chapter 3, a descriptive analysis of the Cusco Central
Market and the ways in which market women describe their workplace,
reveals how the spatial layout and organization of market stalls, the
types of foods sold and prepared by each vendor, and the manner in
which they display their products, all contribute to the development of
economic relationships and interchanges within the market. These pro-
fessional relationships and spatial positionings affect the construction
of hierarchies of power and prestige among market women, while also
inflecting the foods they sell and prepare with a variety of meanings,
nuances, and social significations. Thus, in their role as the providers
of meals (as well as advice, conversation, and gossip), Andean women
who work as outside cooks and brewers often acquire a degree of in-
dependence and influence within their families and communities that
remains largely unattainable for women of similar socioeconomic and

105
106 Chapter 4

educational backgrounds who work in occupations unrelated to food

preparation and distribution.
Although José María Arguedas does not include many descriptions of
food preparation or consumption in his novel Los ríos profundos (trans-
lated by Francis Horning Barraclough as Deep Rivers), he does present
a fictional example of “food transformed into situation” (Barthes 1997,
21–22). In the case of the chichera uprising (el motín) in chapter 7 of the
novel, the improper management of salt inspires the chicheras to perform
the social function of regaining access to (and equitably distributing) the
community’s supply of the vital mineral. In Los ríos profundos Arguedas
uses detailed character constructions, evocative dialogues, and the in-
timacy of a first-person narrative voice to demonstrate how cooks and
the foods they prepare play an important social function in the Andes.
Descriptions of food-centered conflicts within the novel also remind read-
ers that securing equitable access to foodstuffs in Perú continues to be an
ongoing and as yet, unresolved challenge.
Los ríos profundos addresses many of the economic, cultural, sociopo-
litical, and historical issues presented by Arguedas in his other literary
works and in the monographs he wrote as an ethnographer, folklorist,
and translator of Quechua oral narratives and poems. Within the novel,
the author condemns the feudalistic hacienda system of the Peruvian
Andes and the unjust treatment of runa families forced to serve large
landowners. Arguedas also critiques the excesses and hypocrisy of the
ecclesiastical and civil authorities that reinforce (either passively or ex-
plicitly) the abusive rule of the hacendados.1 During the period in which
Arguedas was writing Los ríos profundos (prior to its 1958 publication), the
military dictatorship of General Manuel Odría (1948–1956) ruled Perú by
simultaneously repressing the left and courting the favor of the landed
oligarchy (Sandoval and Sandoval 1998, xxix). This epoch was also char-
acterized by the escalation of tensions between peasants and hacendados
in the Andes, while the social and economic gap between the rapidly
modernizing coast and the feudal highland society continued to widen
(Sandoval and Sandoval 1998, xxix).
In this historical context of heightened political, economic, social, and
cultural tensions, chapters 7 (“El motín,” “The Uprising”) and 11 (“Los
colonos,” “The Tenant Farmers”) stand out from the rest of the novel.
These chapters present an inversion of the hierarchical highland society in
which wealthy, non-runa men (either mestizo or white, and often coastal)
controlled many aspects of the community’s existence. In this way, the
rebellion of the chicheras in chapter 7 and of the tenant farmers in the final
chapter become instances of a pachacuti; the Quechua messianic notion of
a “reversal of time and space” which signals a return to the time when
runa ruled the Andes, free from the oppression of abusive overlords.2 The
 Canny, Creative Cooks 107

novel’s seventh chapter plays a key role in conveying this potential re-
structuring of Andean society because it demonstrates the power of runa
(and Andean indigenous and mestiza women in particular) to actively
demand a change from the oppressive and unjust status quo. Within this
primarily Spanish-language novel, Arguedas presents chichera cooks and
brewers as purposeful, economically independent women whose bilin-
gual verbal defiance and well-organized protests reveal their sociopo-
litical aspirations and savvy. As Anne Lambright points out, Arguedas’s
portrayal of the chicheras as a strong, capable, and organized force that
overtly confronts the town’s dominant power structure suggests that
women serve not only “as voices for or bridges to the indigenous world
but as active resistors of dominant culture” (2007, 121, 125).

Out of the Kitchen and into the Street:

The Chicheras’ Revolt in Los ríos profundos

If the initial six chapters of this novel focus on the introspective ru-
minations of the first-person adolescent narrator Ernesto, chapter 7
disrupts these personal reflections when action erupts upon a collec-
tive, “real-world” stage on the streets of the town of Abancay. In this
chapter, “the famous chichera” Doña Felipa leads a large group of her
angry colleagues in a march to storm the warehouse, where the town’s
leaders store the local supply of salt. Frustrated with the continual
disappearance of the community’s salt cache, the chicheras become irate
when they learn that Abancay’s wealthy hacendados have absconded
with the people’s salt and used it instead to feed their cows. As they
march toward the warehouse the angry women cry out in Quechua:
“No! Only until this very moment will they rob . . . !” and “This very
moment the thieves will die!” (“¡Mánan! ¡Kunankamallam suark’aku . . . !
and ¡Kunanmi suakuna wañunk’aku!”) (Arguedas 1958, 99–100).3 Argue-
das’s decision to frame this popular uprising around a struggle for con-
trol of the town’s salt supply is not an arbitrary choice. In precolonial
times, carefully regulated systems of reciprocal exchange assured that
certain members of an ayllu would work in salt flats to extract the vital
mineral and then transport it to regions in which it was scarce (Murra
1983, 90–91). Like the prized coca leaves and ají chili, salt deposits were
often located at a distance of several days’ journey from a community’s
home base.4 Nevertheless, Andean communities considered all of these
goods to be essential staples, and they continually worked to assure
themselves a reliable access to the products through the maintenance
of reciprocal agreements with other communities (Murra 1983, 203, 205;
Spalding 1974, 97).
108 Chapter 4

Photograph by Alison Krögel.

Figure 4.1.   Runa couple collecting salt near the salineras de Maras (Maras salt pans),
Maras, Urubamba, Cusco. The Incas also used these salineras as a key salt-extraction site.

Following the conquest and the breakdown of many of these recipro-

cal, “vertical” economies, colonial magistrates (corregidores) capitalized
on the importance of salt in Quechua cooking practices and its scarcity
in many communities by requiring runa subordinates to pay onerous
tribute taxes in salt which could then be sold at a profit to other runa
communities (Spalding 1974, 117). The hacendados’ corrupt manage-
ment of the community salt cache in Los ríos profundos recalls the greedy
salt trafficking of colonial magistrates and suggests that if not for the
town’s chicheras and their demands for justice, many of the same abusive
practices would continue to occur in the rural towns of contemporary
highland Perú. In this chapter of the novel, the struggle to control a
communal food supply (in this case salt) reflects the larger political,
economic, and cultural clashes between wealthy landowners, lower-
middle-class mestizo workers, and impoverished runa farm workers
and indentured servants (colonos). Since runakuna consider the sharing
of food with neighbors, relatives, and strangers to be an important part
of both everyday and ritual practices, hoarding food—especially when it
has been designated as a shared, community resource—is considered a
particularly deplorable transgression.
 Canny, Creative Cooks 109

The chicheras’ revolt in response to this inexcusable offense becomes a

turning point in the novel and stands as one of its most memorable scenes.
Until this chapter, none of the novel’s characters openly question the
abuses committed by the town of Abancay’s unjust landowners, clergy, or
city officials (Cornejo Polar 1973, 134). The revolt of the infuriated chich-
eras against corrupt city officials modifies both the novel’s rhythm and its
thematic focus when “the sad peace of Abancay receives an electric shock”
(Cornejo Polar 1973, 133–34). Organized by a group of women whom the
town leaders had previously considered as economically, politically, and
socially insignificant, this uprising explicitly addresses the hacendados’
excesses. Until the moment of the uprising, the novel’s narrative focus
revolves around the intimate problems of individuals and not the social
struggles of a group (Castro-Klarén 1973, 151). Yet from this point on, the
larger, public conflict between the chicheras/tenant farmers and the town’s
moneyed officials serves as a stage upon which the identity conflict of the
young protagonist Ernesto begins to unfold. Beginning in this chapter,
the narrator/protagonist questions more explicitly whether or not he “be-
longs” to the group of the oppressed, or the oppressors.
In chapter 7, the first triumph secured by the chicheras is the verbal
defeat of the town’s priest, Father (Padre) Linares. As if to emphasize his
calmness and purity in the face of the passionate anger which surrounds
him, the town’s religious leader wears white robes which, the narrator
notes, starkly contrast with the bright, multicolored garments of the infu-
riated chicheras (Arguedas 1958, 100). At first, Ernesto relates that it was
impossible for “us”5 to detect the Father’s voice, then finally the crowd
hears the words that Linares directs “in Quechua” to the chicheras’ leader
Doña Felipa (100). Father Linares fervently pleads (“rogaba”) with Doña
Felipe not to offend God and assures her that the authorities are not
guilty of robbery (100). The lead chichera responds by challenging Father
Linares to answer the question that all of the chicheras would surely like
to ask: “And who has sold the salt to the haciendas for their cows? The
cows come before the people, Padrecito Linares?” (“¿Y quién ha vendido la
sal para las vacas de las haciendas? ¿Las vacas son antes que la gente, Padrecito
Linares?”) (100). Everyone in the town plaza hears both her question and
the Father’s weak and evasive response: “Don’t challenge me, my daugh-
ter. Obey God!” (“¡No me retes hija! ¡Obedece a Dios!”) (100).
To this demand Doña Felipa responds both physically and verbally.
Inclining her body toward Linares she loudly (“a voces”) and astutely
answers him by turning his own religious rhetoric against him: “God
punishes thieves, Padrecito Linares” (“Dios castiga a los ladrones, Padrecito
Linares”) (100). Following this satiric retort, the crowd is unable to hear
the Father’s response (“The priest said something,” “El padre dijo algo”).
In the rules of verbal combat, a muffled reply at such a crucial moment
110 Chapter 4

clearly signals defeat. Doña Felipa’s resounding shout (“y la mujer lanzó
un grito”) proves her victory: “[I am not] damned, Padrecito! Damnation
for the thieves!” (“¡Maldita no, Padrecito! ¡Maldición a los ladrones!”) (100).
As Lambright points out, following this exchange, Doña Felipa clearly
dominates the direction and cadence of the exchange between the priest
and the chicheras (2007, 127). Moreover, in this passage, Doña Felipa’s
repeated use of the Spanish diminutive -ito when addressing Father Lin-
ares functions as a subtle insult. In the context of the heated exchange,
the tenderness suggested by the familiar diminutive becomes ironic and
condescending. Since the Father’s behavior has rendered him undeserv-
ing of the affection which the diminutive suffix usually confers, in this
scene, Felipa’s inflection of Linares’ title with the diminutive suggests that
his actions have demoted him in the eyes of the chicheras to a small, weak
Father—a mere “padrecito.” Thus, by calling Father Linares “padrecito,”
Doña Felipa accuses him of forsaking the poor in favor of the rich and
insinuates that he should be ashamed of himself.
Although the narrator signals that the exchange between Father Linares
and Doña Felipa takes place in Quechua,6 Felipa switches to Spanish in
a shouted command that both ends her conversation with Linares and
signals her return to the group’s intended goal (capturing the storehouse
where the heisted salt is being stored) (100). Her decision to transition to
Spanish serves as a bold rejection of the Father’s patronizing plea, as if to
show him that not only does she dominate his language, but that she wants
him to clearly understand her decision: “Everything’s ready! Forward,
forward march!” (“¡Yastá! ¡Avanzo, avanzo!”) (100). The other chicheras fol-
low Felipa’s code-switch and repeat after her, “Forward, forward march!”
(“¡Avanzo, avanzo!”) (101). In this way, Felipa’s highly charged response to
Father Linares serves as a denunciation of the church’s collusion with the
greedy and abusive local hacendados. As Antonio Cornejo Polar points
out: “transcending its concrete motivation, the uprising is converted into
a symbol of the rupturing of one of domination’s most subtle forms, that
which a town’s religiosity deploys” (1973, 136). In this first uprising of the
novel, the chicheras challenge the leader of the town’s religious institution;
a verbal rebellion which immediately precedes their physical confronta-
tion with the representatives of a despotic provincial government.
The shots fired by the town’s gendarmes can stop neither the women’s
advance nor their shouts of “¡Avanzo, avanzo!” (Arguedas 1958, 101). The
narrator/protagonist Ernesto joins this march toward the salt warehouse
amid shouts and gunshots. The gendarmes’ fire soon ceases, however,
and the women successfully reach the deposit and begin shouting orders
to each other in Quechua. When they encounter even more bags of salt
than they had first imagined, the women yell out in a choppy, imprecise
Spanish directed to an absent Father Linares: “Here’s the salt! Here’s
 Canny, Creative Cooks 111

the salt! This man certainly a thief! This man certainly a damned thief!”
(“¡Ahistá sal! ¡Ahistá sal! ¡Este sí ladrón! ¡Este sí maldecido!”) (102). Doña Fe-
lipa, who so ably defeated Father Linares in the pair’s verbal duel, quickly
establishes order among the group of women.
Until this scene at the salt warehouse, the narrator has only described the
lead chichera in terms of her primary weapon—her voice. Now the reader
is told how she establishes order through her gaze over the women who
dutifully distribute the salt for transport to the homes of the powerless
and impoverished colono tenant farmers. Once it becomes clear that Doña
Felipa commands through both aural and visual signals, the previous de-
scription of the leader’s voice is enhanced by an account of her physical
features. The play of light and shadow that both obscures and accentuates
her facial traits adds to the mystery and authority of the woman:
From the broad face of the chichera, from her small forehead, from her
scarcely visible eyes, emerged a regulating force that enveloped, that de-
tained, and drove away fear. Her gleaming hat shaded her to the eyelids.
There was a contrast between her forehead which remained shaded and her
round jaw, tightly closed mouth, and black, pockmarked eyes which were
exposed to the sunlight.
Del rostro ancho de la chichera, de su frente pequeña, de sus ojos apenas visibles,
brotaba una fuerza reguladora que envolvía, que detenía y ahuyentaba el temor. Su
sombrero reluciente le daba sombra hasta los párpados. Un contraste había entre la
frente que permanecía en la sombra y su mandíbula redonda, su boca cerrada y los
ojos negros de viruela que se exhibían al sol. (103)

Even though her forehead remains hidden beneath the brim of her hat, her
eyes remain “scarcely visible,” and she keeps her mouth tightly shut, Doña
Felipa still exudes a “regulatory force” which “drove away fear” and si-
lently commands her followers to obey. At the close of this scene at the salt
cache, the young narrator Ernesto reinforces both the physical and moral
power of Doña Felipa’s leadership. He notes that although “the violence
of the success” caused the other women to forget the colonos trapped into
service at the hacienda of Patibamba, Doña Felipa made sure that they too
would receive an ample supply of salt (Arguedas 1958, 104). Although, as
Sara Castro-Klarén convincingly argues, Arguedas’s female characters do
overwhelmingly occupy secondary, objectified positions in his narratives
and are always presented from a masculine perspective (1973, 55, 62–65),
in Los ríos profundos the author presents Doña Felipa as a dominant and
indefatigable force who resists and subverts the demands and corrupt
power plays of Abancay’s patriarchal figures (see also Spitta 1995, 160).
Words once again become both weapons and shields as a group of
defiant chicheras makes its way through town toward the Patibamba haci-
enda. From their balconies, Abancay’s white and mestizo residents insult
112 Chapter 4

the chicheras, equating their challenge of hegemonic excesses and their

economic independence with sexual promiscuity: “Thieves! Excommuni-
cates! . . . Prostitutes, filthy cholas!” (“¡Ladronas! ¡Descomulgadas! . . . ¡Pros-
titutas, cholas asquerosas!”) (104). In response to the verbal abuses hurled
at them by the townspeople, the chicheras choose to intone an Andean car-
nival tune (Huamán 2004, 180–81). Their Quechua lyrics extol the hidden
beauty and richness of the Pati tree and the words serve as both a shield
and a victory song capable of drowning out all of the insults and, accord-
ing to Ernesto, also provide “a special rhythm, almost of attack, for those
of us who marched to Patibamba” (“un ritmo especial, casi de ataque, a los
que marchábamos a Patibamba”) (105). This performance—in such a highly
fraught narrative moment—leaves the reader with the impression that
the chicheras’ song smugly scolds the town’s leaders for having underesti-
mated their previously ignored power: “Oh, my little Pati tree! / from my
dear Patibamba / the core of your fruit / it’s made of gold/the core of your
fruit / it’s made of silver” (“Patibamballay / patisachachay / sonk’oruruykik’a /
k’orimantas kask’a / sonk’ruruykik’a / k’ollk’emantas kask’a”) (105). Yet even as
the singing continues, a somber end to the chicheras’ temporary triumph is
foreshadowed when Ernesto observes the thick clouds of dust that begin
to cover the red flowers lining the roads, so that their “glow was extin-
guished” (“[su] resplandor se apagaba”) (105).
The chicheras seem surprised that the colonos do not greet their arrival
in Patibamba with a joyful welcome. The silence and closed doors of the
servants’ shacks seems to anger the chicheras, and one of them exclaims
in Quechua with a “threatening” (“llena de amenaza”) and “masculine”
(“varonil”) voice, “Who makes all you shits afraid?” (“¿Pim manchachinku,
merdas?”) (106). Once the scared and silent women finally emerge from
their homes, the voice of this chichera grows “tender and sweet” (“tierna y
dulce”) as she quickly organizes the distribution of the plundered goods and
emphasizes the women’s right to accept what is being offered: “The people’s
salt, for you little mother!” (“¡Sal del pueblo, para ti, madrecita!”) (106).
Yet what is the relationship between these women’s profession as
chicha brewers and their organization of this act of civil disobedience?
Of course their skills as preparers of fermented corn beer do not directly
prepare them for the organization of a successful protest against corrupt
town leaders. Their trade does, however, provide them with the neces-
sary economic, social, and organizational strength to carry out such a
protest. Additionally, working as the owners and employees of chicherías
means that these women constantly circulate within an important space
for socializing, where both locals and travelers meet to exchange news,
ideas, and gossip. Perhaps more importantly, the chicheras’ economic in-
dependence gives them the necessary power, confidence, and social clout
to organize the uprising described in this chapter. As Luis Jimenéz points
 Canny, Creative Cooks 113

out, “Doña Felipa subversively acts as the spokeswoman of an ideology

that mocks the economic monopoly of Abancay. . . . [She] is conscious
that her behavior and that of her followers represent a threat to Aban-
cay’s society that sees in her the attempt to usurp the cultural, economic,
social, and religious space of the white minority in power” (1998, 226). In
this way, the chicheras use their occupation as a foundation for building
their protest in that their work in the chicherías provides them with the
necessary economic stability, confidence, social ties, and knowledge of lo-
cal politics to organize a subversive uprising within Arguedas’s fictional
world of Abancay.

Creative Dissent through Song:

Verbal Defiance in the Chichería

On their way to distribute salt to the colonos of the Patibamba hacienda,

the chicheras signal their triumph through song. Throughout Los ríos
profundos, Arguedas uses the chicheras’ songs, speeches, and insults as
a narrative tool for establishing their verbal dominance over Abancay’s
gendarmes, ecclesiastics, and even the state’s military regiment. While
the indigenous colono servants of Patibamba suffer in silence for most of
the novel, the chicheras represent a segment of the town’s residents who
refuse to remain quiet in the face of oppression. Ernesto’s schoolmate
Romero expresses a sentiment shared by Father Linares and many of the
townspeople when he asserts, “The chicheras defend themselves or else
they take revenge with their mouths” (“las chicheras se defienden o se vengan
con la boca”) (219).
As Margot Beyersdorff demonstrates in her close reading of passages
from the novels Yawar Fiesta and Los ríos profundos, Arguedas shows a
“predilection for the Waynu [song] as the genre medium for communicat-
ing or expressing affect” (1986, 44). In Los ríos profundos, the chichera char-
acters intone improvised lyrics to the tune of well-known huayno songs as
a vehicle for deploying creative and critical communication in Abancay.
Michel de Certeau’s formulation of language as a “semiotic tactic” helps
to explain the power of the chicheras’ improvised insults and songs:

Whereas grammar watches over the “propriety” of terms, rhetorical altera-

tions (metaphorical drifts, elliptical condensations, metonymic miniaturiza-
tions, etc.) point to the use of language by speakers in particular situations of
ritual or actual linguistic combat. (1984, 39)

In constructing the chicheras’ dialogues, insults, and songs in chapter 7,

Arguedas demonstrates how Quechua speakers often use linguistic inge-
nuity as both a defensive and offensive tactic when confronted with the
114 Chapter 4

aggressions of hegemonic societal sectors. Their creative verbal construc-

tions provide a clear example of what Certeau refers to as the “rhetorical
alterations” of linguistic combat. In chapter 6, the chicheras cleverly allude
to well-known huayno lyrics, pose provocative, rhetorical questions, and
use sarcastic terms of endearment, unexpected scatological imagery, and
sharp semantic couplets to denounce the intrusive presence of the Peru-
vian civil guards.
The genre of the novel provides Arguedas with an aesthetic space in
which he can present tension-filled scenes of action and conflict, develop
complex character interactions, provide lengthy descriptions of nature,
and offer perceptive observations of social practices. Yet the incorporation
of Quechua-language songs into Los ríos profundos also permits the author
to focus his readers’ attention on particularly emotional scenes in which
characters decide to use open lyrical performances to express their feel-
ings. As Ángel Rama convincingly argues in his essay “Los ríos profundos:
ópera de pobres” (“Deep Rivers: Opera of the Poor”), within the novel:

These songs carry out a central function in the story, since they are engaged
within the narrative discourse. . . . They are highly concentrated emotional
and artistic moments, in the form of true “arias,” which, in reduced dimen-
sions and through a musical tessitura, encode the significances which every
narrative is obliged to develop extensively. (Rama 1983, 27)

As intense concentrations of verbal and rhythmic expression, a song

presents emotions, arguments, and critiques in succinct and memorable
ways (see also Huamán 2004, 152–54). The use of Quechua figures of
speech and metrical composition (and their Spanish translations) obliges
readers to participate actively in the interpretation of the songs’ mean-
ings and to pay close attention to both the form and the content of their
composition.
The chicheras are the only townspeople who dare to compose these
songs (with their insulting verses) in the very presence of the well-armed
civil guards whom they refer to as huayrurus.7 Shortly after their upris-
ing, one of the women asks a harpist to play a festive jaylli song which
she then accompanies with celebratory verses of her own composition
(presented by Arguedas in both Quechua and a Spanish translation). The
song begins by insulting the strength of an unnamed “frightened huay-
ruru” (“manchak’ wayruru”), whose incompetence is affirmed first through
repeated attacks on his competence and a subtle denigration of his man-
hood, “he isn’t capable / he isn’t capable” (“mana atinchu / mana atinchu”)
(187). The criticism continues by means of the skeptical, ironic questions
posed by the women, in addition to their derisive exclamations, “In what
way is he capable? / Of what would he be capable?” (“maytak’atinchu /
Imanallautas atinman”), “ha! As if he would be capable” (“¡way! atinman”)
 Canny, Creative Cooks 115

(Arguedas 1958, 187). This prelude of disparaging insults aimed at the

soldier is followed by a direct, concise affirmation of the vast powers of
his adversary, Doña Felipa:

Doña Felipa makinwan with Doña Felipa’s hand

Doña Felipa kallpanwan with Doña Felipa’s strength

This semantic couplet creates a stark contrast to the opening lines of the
jaylli song which present a circus of verbal forms manipulating the verb
“atiy” (to be able; to be capable of).
As the bold chichera intones this song, customers nervously eye a soldier
who begins to stand up and move toward the center of the room. Their fears
of reprisal are dispelled, however, when it turns out that the off-duty official
only wants to dance. The participation of the soldier in the festivities seems
to further embolden the singer. As if she could not feel content simply de-
nying the strength and virility of the huayruru in the initial verses, the final
lines of the chichera’s improvised song shift to a direct attack on the unnamed
soldier’s filthy, vapid nature. She sarcastically coos “My soldier, my soldier”
(“Huayruruy, huayrury”) using the possessive suffix -y and then abruptly de-
mands, “and just what are you made of?” (“imallamantas kaswanki”) (189). Us-
ing carefully constructed semantic couplets, the performer dares to answer
her question in a most insulting fashion, “Ha! You are only made of lead /
Ha! You are only made of cow pies” (“¡Way! titillamantas kask’anki / ¡Way!
karkallamantas kask’anki”) (189). This scene clearly emphasizes the power of
words in the struggle between the chicheras and the oppressive ruling groups
within Abancay and the greater highland Peruvian society.
The improvised songs performed by mestiza cooks in this chapter also
exemplify many of the characteristics described by Walter Ong in his
studies of song performance in predominantly oral cultures. Following
Ong’s formulations, the chicheras’ capacity for improvising lyrics pertain-
ing to local events (Felipa’s escape and the soldiers’ inability to catch her)
is achieved through a “remembrance of songs sung” and through the
interaction between the singer’s and the audience’s memories of Quechua
songs performed in the past (Noriega Burnuy 2010, 99; Ong 1981, 18). The
chichera’s adept creation of pertinent, humorous lyrics (many of which
adhere to the Quechua aesthetic preference and admiration for parallel
structure and semantic couplets) recall Ong’s descriptions of the compo-
sition processes mastered by performers in primarily oral cultures. He
asserts that performers rely on their knowledge of certain cultural themes
and formulas, as well as their own skills: “‘rhapsodizing,’ [involves]
stitching together formulas and themes in various orders triggered by the
specific occasion in which the remember is remembering” (Ong 1981, 21).
In Los ríos profundos, such open songs often appear in emotionally charged
116 Chapter 4

situations. By presenting each huayno or jaylli’s original Quechua lyrics

along with the Spanish translation, Arguedas also creatively resolves the
complex task of expressing Quechua-language dialogue within the context
of a Spanish-language novel (Beyersdorff 1986, 40–45). As evident in the
above-cited song, the chichera expresses her anger and contempt for the
civil guards without having to exchange any words with her antagonist.8
Arguedas’s use of song as a vehicle for the expression of creative dis-
sent also reflects his deep respect for the richness of the Quechua oral
tradition. In interviews and critical essays, he often emphasizes the agglu-
tinating language’s singular capacity for succinctly and subtly conveying
complex emotional sentiments:

It is one of the most beautiful and moving literatures of all time, a testimony
to its vision of mankind and of the land and of the process of domination
and resistance, frequently triumphant in the face of this domination to which
they have been subjected since the Spanish invasion.
Es una de las literaturas más bellas y estremecedoras de todos los tiempos, testimonio
de su visión del hombre y de la tierra y del proceso de dominación y de resistencia,
frecuentemente triunfante a esta dominación, a que estuvieron sometidos desde la
invasión hispánica. (in Larco 1976, 27)

In Los ríos profundos, the huayno songs performed by chichera cooks and
brewers are presented as a genre of the Quechua oral tradition which can
serve as an effective tool for resisting domination, cleverly attacking ad-
versaries, and contesting political, economic, and cultural repression.

Finding Refuge in the Kitchen

While Doña Felipa and the other chicheras are certainly the most memo-
rable and vocal cooks presented in Los ríos profundos, they are not the
only important cooking characters represented in the novel. Ernesto’s ten-
dency to find comfort within the kitchen and among cooks becomes clear
in the opening pages of the novel. When Ernesto’s uncle, the Viejo (Old
Man), decides to insult the adolescent and his father by offering them ac-
commodations within the Quechua servants’ kitchen, Ernesto asserts,

I didn’t feel out of place in that room. It was quite similar to the kitchen
in which they had made me live when I was a small child—the dark room
where I had been cared for and where I had heard the music, the songs, and
the sweet, tender speech of the Indian servants.
Yo no me sentía mal en esa habitación. Era muy parecida a la cocina en la que me ob-
ligaron a vivir en mi infancia; el cuarto oscuro donde recibí los cuidados, la música,
los cantos y el dulcísimo hablar de las sirvientas indias. (10)
 Canny, Creative Cooks 117

This incident is key in establishing Ernesto’s ambiguous position in the

dialectical misti (mestizo) versus runa universe of highland Perú created
within the novel. While his father feels insulted, Ernesto’s personal his-
tory allows him to feel at home in the dingy kitchen. The boy describes
the humble kitchen within the Viejo’s estate in detail:

The room they had given us was a kitchen for Indians. Soot stains reached
up to the ceiling from the corner where there was an Indian tullpa, a stone
hearth. Adobe seats were built against the walls all around the room. A cot
of carved wood with a kind of canopy of red cloth contradicted the lowliness
of the kitchen.

Era una cocina para indios el cuarto que nos dieron. Manchas de hollín subían al
techo desde la esquina donde había una tullpa indígena, un fogón de piedras. Poyos
de adobe rodeaban la habitación. Un catre de madera tallada, con una especie de
techo, de tela roja, perturbaba la humildad de la cocina. (10)

This dark but familiar interior constructed of wood, stone, and adobe re-
minds Ernesto of his childhood quarters and also resembles the dimly lit
boarding-school kitchen in Abancay with its “soot blackened walls” covered
with stains left by flies (198). In spite of their gloomy dankness, Ernesto feels
secure in these kitchens and among the women who work in them.9
Given his own much publicized biography, it should not surprise us
that Arguedas creates important roles for cooks in this novel; both as com-
petent political figures in the public space and also as nurturing individu-
als within the private realm. The author’s discussion of his early years
helps us to understand why he feels a special connection with Quechua
cooks. In a 1970 interview with Ariel Dorfman, Arguedas places special
importance on the moment when, as a small boy, his stepmother sent him
to eat and sleep with the Quechua servants in the kitchen. He asserts, “I
will never be able to sufficiently thank my stepmother for that ‘punish-
ment,’ since it was in that kichen where I met the Indians, where I began
to love them” (“Nunca le podré agradecer suficientemente a mi madrastra tal
‘castigo,’ pues fue en esa cocina donde conocí a los indios, donde empecé a ama-
rlos”) (in Larco 1976, 25). Thus, the experiences of the young Arguedas
are echoed by Ernesto’s feelings of solace within kitchens and among the
cooks he encounters throughout the novel.
In the final two chapters, the importance of the boarding-school cook
and her kitchen in Ernesto’s life become evident. In the penultimate
chapter, Ernesto announces what the reader has already assumed, “The
cook was my friend, mine and Palacitos’” (“La cocinera era mi amiga, de
mí y de Palacitos”) (198). The kindhearted cook offers her kitchen as a safe
space in which lonely, vulnerable characters such as Ernesto, Palacitos,
and the mentally ill Marcelina (called “la Opa” from the Quechua word
118 Chapter 4

for deaf-mute) can find refuge and solace. The boarding-school cook of-
fers Ernesto refuge within her kitchen during his stay in Abancay, and
she also accompanies him during one of the most emotionally infused
scenes of the novel—the death of the Opa. When the entire world seems
either to abuse or to cast away the Opa, the cook always allows the
woman a safe space in which to rest within her kitchen. When it becomes
clear that the Opa’s plague-induced death looms near, the kindly cook
prays “Our Father” in Quechua over the body of the pallid woman and
asks God to deliver her from further suffering. Ernesto and the cook
somberly contemplate the body of the dead woman in silence before the
adolescent rushes off to announce her death to Father Linares. Before be-
ing spirited away from the room’s contagions by Linares, Ernesto pleads
with the cook to follow the Quechua custom of washing his clothes if he
dies, instead of burning them; the cook receives this morbid request in
silence (Arguedas 1958, 222).
A few days later—and despite Father Linares’s own initial silence with
regards to the health of the cook—Ernesto guesses the terrible truth:
“‘She’s dead!’ I said, for it seemed to me that his too sudden reply gave
him away” (“‘¡Murió!’—le dije; porque su respuesta, tan rápida, me pareció que
lo delataba”) (234). Ernesto’s strong connection to the cook is further em-
phasized by his ability to surmise the horrid details of her lonely death.
Linares admits that she did die in isolation in the hospital, and, without
asking, Ernesto accurately predicts the conclusion to the tragic story. The
boy asks Linares to confirm his terrible suspicion that the cook was buried
with her head shaved. When the Father questions how he came to know
these details, the adolescent simply replies that he had a presentiment
about the sad, lonely circumstances of his friend’s death—at this point
there is little more that the scarred boy can say (234).
In this scene and throughout the novel, Arguedas presents a richly nu-
anced, multilingual representation of Quechua cooks and chicheras. The
author centers key moments of the protagonist’s character construction
around the evocation of Ernesto’s personal relationship to cooks and
the warm, safety of their kitchens. Moreover, through shifting narrative
points-of-view, detailed character constructions, and the context-driven
presentation of open, bilingual dialogue and song, Arguedas introduces
his readers to political, socioeconomic, and personal conflicts at a number
of levels. Los ríos profundos asks readers to draw meaning from outside
the fictive world of the novel and to recognize the author’s references to
very real instances of political and socioeconomic oppression in the An-
des. The author’s fictional narrative also suggests the possibility that the
verbal and organizational skills of creative, assertive, real-world cooks
place them in a unique position for resisting repression in communities
throughout the Andes.
 Canny, Creative Cooks 119

Representations of Chicheras and Chicherías

in the Photographs of Martín Chambi

While José María Arguedas’s novel Los ríos profundos provides an ele-
gantly complex fictional narrative of the political, economic, creative, and
affective power of Quechua cooks and chicheras, the photographs of Mar-
tín Chambi offer striking and nuanced visual representations of chicheras
and Quechua food-landscapes. Chambi’s images often depict chicheras,
chicherías, and the everyday consumption of food and drink in the city
and outlying countryside of early to mid-twentieth-century Cusco. These
photographs capture many of the meanings, contradictions, and symbols
associated with female cooks and chicheras working on the streets and the
in markets of the Andes.
Like verbal narratives, visual artists carefully craft and manipulate their
photographic images. Yet because photographs often seem to present ex-
act reproductions of a lived world, viewers tend to consider them “not as
statements about the world so much as pieces of it, miniatures of reality
that anyone can make or acquire” (Sontag 1977, 4). Still, as Susan Sontag
asserts in On Photography, her critical study of the art form, “the camera’s
rendering of reality must always hide more than it discloses” (1977, 23).
Thus, as in the case of verbal narratives, photographs always present
multiple, open meanings. Even if photographs often seem capable of “im-
prisoning reality” in their guise of “footprints” or “stencils of the real,” it
is important to read beyond the surface of the image in order to decipher
the multiple levels of meaning which it may convey (Sontag 1977, 154,
163). Of course a photograph’s ability to imprison reality depends on the
skill of the photographer’s eye, her ability to capture a certain “quality of
presence,” or to create surprising juxtapositions or contrasts.
In the context of the early twentieth-century indigenista movement
in Cusco, the Peruvian photographer Martín Chambi Jiménez sought
to implement his art as a tool for representing the everyday lives of
his indigenous subjects. Born in 1891 in the highland village of Cuaza
in the department of Puno, Chambi first saw a camera as a young
boy in the English-owned Santo Domingo Mining Company near his
home (Camp 1978, 223). Immediately enchanted with the instrument,
he became determined to learn the art of photography. At the age of
sixteen he arrived in the city of Arequipa, in hopes of convincing the
renowned commercial photographer Max T. Vargas to accept him as an
apprentice (Huayhuaca 1991, 19). After their first meeting, the master
photographer agreed to assume guardianship of the adolescent and
to teach him his art form (Huayhuaca 1991, 19). For the next decade,
Chambi worked in Estudio Vargas; employed first as an apprentice and
later as an associate, the young Chambi took portraits of Arequipa’s
120 Chapter 4

middle- and upper-class residents (López Mondéjar 1989, 10–20). In

1918 Chambi moved to Sicuani for two years before establishing him-
self in Cusco, where he worked as a successful artist and businessman
for the next thirty years, taking photographs for wealthy Cusqueñan
clients, postcard producers, newspapers, and himself (López Mondéjar
1989, 10–20). After the devastating 1950 earthquake in Cusco, however,
Chambi published very few images.10 Still, his work was exhibited in
an international photography convention in México D.F. in 1964, in the
Museum of Modern Art in New York City in 1979, and in various other
international expositions in Zurich, Paris, London, and Buenos Aires
(López Mondéjar 1989, 10–20).
Beginning with the photograph’s mid-nineteenth-century rise in the
nascent form of the daguerreotype, photographers have always been
fascinated by the idea of capturing images that depict the luxury of so-
cial elites and the misery of the poor. As an extension of the voyeuristic
tendencies of the middle-class flâneur, photographers often gazed upon
the reality of their subjects with more curiosity and detached profes-
sionalism than empathy (Sontag 1977, 55). One renowned photographer
who explicitly announced his intentions of transcending class interests
and prejudices through the practice of his art was the early twentieth-
century German photographer August Sander. The photographic style
of this great artist resembles many aspects of Chambi’s most well-
known and admired images.11 Even if photography encourages the
photographer’s participation in the surrounding world while concomi-
tantly alienating him from it (Sontag 1977, 4), the respectful, empathetic
perspective evident in so many of Chambi’s photographs gives more
of an impression of solidarity than of estrangement (see, for example,
El juicio oral 1929 [The Oral Proceedings, reprinted in Huayhuaca 1991]
and Campesinos bebiendo chicha en ch’oqo (1928) [Campesinos Drinking
Chicha in Ch’oqo]).12
August Sander’s photographic representations of an unusually broad
sweep of social classes also recall the varied subjects of Martín Chambi’s
images. The sense that Sander adjusted his style to the social rank of the
person he was photographing—professionals and the rich tended to be
photographed indoors, with props, while laborers and derelicts were
usually photographed in a more “natural” setting (often outdoors)—also
resembles the stylistic choices of Chambi’s compositions. As José Carlos
Huayhuaca notes, when creating portraits of Cusco’s bourgeois, Chambi
usually opted for carefully composed, “artificial” studio photographs,
while he reserved more spontaneous or “natural” shots for photographs
of the “rural world of the campesino and of the people” (1991, 37). De-
spite their tendencies to adjust artistic style to a particular subject, both
Chambi and Sander became experts in training their gazes to resist and
 Canny, Creative Cooks 121

even to actively subvert stereotypical class, racial, and gender categories

prevalent in the societies in which they lived and worked (see, for ex-
ample, Chambi’s Torera [Female Bullfighter]).
Chambi is best known for the comprehensiveness of his photographic
history of Cusco’s social classes and tensions between the years 1920
and 1950. During these years, the city became an important intellectual
and economic center, and many leaders began to demand decentraliza-
tion and regional autonomy, while president Augusto Leguía sought to
expand his project for national economic modernization known as La
patria nueva (The New Homeland) (Poole 1992, 53). In the mid-1920s,
violent peasant uprisings swept through many of Cusco’s provinces,
while in the city, indigenista leaders José Uriel García and Luís Valcárcel
espoused their contrasting opinions regarding the correct path for the
contemporary Indian. In his Tempestad en los Andes (1927) (Tempest in the
Andes), Valcárcel argues for a return to the values of a pre-conquest Inca
society. In contrast, Uriel García’s El nuevo indio (1930) (The New Indian)
maintains that the colonial era actually encouraged racial improvement,
so that instead of focusing on a revival of Incaic traditions (as suggested
by Valcárcel), Uriel García argues that the indigenistas should promote
the emergence of a vibrant mestizo culture. Chambi preferred Valcárcel’s
version of indigenismo and believed that photography should be con-
ceived of as a medium for providing a historical documentation of the
rapidly disappearing “authentic Andean Indian” (Poole 1992, 62). This
modus operandi, as well as Chambi’s description of his photographs as
a “collection” of ethnic “types,” correspond with Valcárcel’s positivistic
methodologies calling for the scientific and ethnological study of the Inca
past (Poole 1991, 63).
While Chambi created carefully composed photographs in his Cusco
studio and in the opulent homes of his wealthy clients, some of his most
memorable images depict his subjects in the surroundings of their every-
day lives. His photographs portray settings such as

the haciendas of the all-powerful lords with their serfs and concubines,
in the colonial processions of contrite and enebriated crowds and in those
blackened chicherías that another illustrious Cusqueñan of those years, Uriel
García, called “the caverns of nationality.” (Vargas Llosa, cited in López
Mondejár 1989, 5)

Chambi’s decision to take his camera outside the studio and to direct
his lens toward indigenous subjects and spaces resulted in a number of
memorable early twentieth-century photographs of Cusco’s chicheras and
chicherías. These images suggest that many Quechua women used their
culinary skill and business acumen to attain a level of relative economic
success during the first decades of the twentieth century. If we view
122 Chapter 4

Chambi’s photographs as visual narratives, then the cooks and chicheras

he represents appear as strong, independent, and economically successful
Quechua women who seem proud of their occupation and culture.

Contexts and Contrasts in Four of Chambi’s

Photographs: Señoritas en la chichería, Mestiza to-
mando chicha, Campesinos bebiendo chicha en ch’oqo,
and Vendedora de Chicha en Quiquijana

In a 1927 photograph entitled Señoritas en la chichería (Young Ladies in

the Chichería), Chambi depicts a chichería patronized by several unex-
pected clients. The photograph features four well-dressed young women
perched upon the rustic chairs of an Andean chichería. The ladies’ elegant
hats and bright white stockings contrast starkly with the dingy floor and
walls of the humble establishment. In her discussion of this photograph
Mary Weismantel points out, “The objects around them only heighten
the sense of awkwardness: a ceramic jug and a chicken seem perfectly at
home on the dirt floor, but the women’s silk hats, which they have placed
beside them, perch incongruously on the adobe bench” (2001, 30). The ap-
parent discomfort evident in the women’s body language, as well as their
own physical contrast with that of their setting, exacerbates our sense that
they do not belong in the chichería. The three pairs of legs most visible
to the camera are carefully positioned so that only the tips of the ladies’
shoes touch the dirty floor. Signaling their feelings of awkwardness, the
two women clutching chicha glasses hold the large receptacles away from
their dresses—one glass remains completely full and only a sip has been
taken from the other.
The table sitting in the center of the frame is scattered with what ap-
pear to be crumbs, and the two sardine cans lying on the table open
their mouths wide for the camera. While one of the ladies pierces her
fork into the can, her mouth remains firmly closed. Only one of the
would-be merrymakers grins slightly at the camera and gingerly holds
an Andean instrument, the charango, in her lap. The young boy at her
side is dressed jauntily in a striped sailor top and matching knickers, a
beanie in his hand. He looks confusedly at the camera, though it remains
unclear whether he feels apprehensive about the rustic scene which sur-
rounds him, or the strangeness of the camera pointed toward him. A
consideration of the political and social context in which the photograph
was “taken” (or “made,” as Ansel Adams would have it) helps to ex-
plain the ladies’ presence in the chichería. As Weismantel points out, in
the Peruvian highlands of the 1920s, “when a party of damas from Areq-
uipa elected to visit a Cusco chichería, they were engaged in more than
 Canny, Creative Cooks 123

Photograph by Martín Chambi. Reprinted courtesy of the Martín

Chambi Photographic Archives.
Figure 4.2.   Señoritas en la chichería, 1927.

a bold escapade outside their usual class milieu . . . these young women
announced their allegiance to the indigenismo movement sweeping the
Andes” (Weismantel 2001, 31). Thus, during the indigenismo movement,
the space of the chichería became synonymous with an “authentic” in-
digenous identity, so that for many middle- and upper-class Andean
intellectuals, choosing to eat and imbibe within these humble restaurants
served as a political statement.
If the previous photo presents a scene of women who find themselves
in new or unfamiliar surroundings, the 1931 photograph entitled Mestiza
tomando chicha (Mestiza Drinking Chicha) depicts a woman who is de-
cidedly comfortable with her seat, her surroundings, and her beverage.
Unlike the women depicted in Señoritas en la chichería, this mestiza subject
holds her chicha glass close to her body; almost resting the tumbler upon
her enormous skirt and slightly bulging money pouch. The tailored, im-
ported finery of the ladies’ clothing in the previous photograph contrasts
sharply with the flowing abundance of the mestiza’s lliqlla shawl and
skirts. These garments are made of cloth spun from textured animal fi-
bers, as opposed to the smooth glossiness of the señoritas’ dropped-waist
dresses, a cut which was in vogue in European and U.S. cities at the time
Chambi made the Señoritas photograph.
The corners of the mestiza’s mouth are ever so slightly turned upward
as she stares into the camera. As in the verbal description of Doña Fe-
Figure 4.3.   Mestiza tomando chicha, 1931.
Photograph by Martín Chambi. Reprinted courtesy of the Martín Chambi Photographic Archives.
 Canny, Creative Cooks 125

lipa presented by Arguedas, the eyes of this mestiza also remain almost
imperceptible—only a slice of the whites of her eyes emerges from be-
hind the creases. Indeed, the eyes of Chambi’s mestiza subject and those
of the señoritas contrast decidedly. The señoritas’ eyes open widely as
they look straight into the camera; both their eyes and bodies (perched
precariously upon stone or adobe benches) remain nervously alert. On
the other hand, the mestiza does not appear ready to move at all, while
the form, color, and texture of her own clothing coordinate with her sur-
roundings. The roundness of her skirt (with its horizontal stripe at the
base) echoes the form, shading, and width of the stripe which crosses the
wooden barrel at her side and the round, woven basket that lies propped
up behind her. Chambi’s image of this mestiza gives the impression of a
woman who enjoys a break during the day and who seems comfortable
and content both with herself and her surroundings. The titles of both
of these photographs also suggest the sort of subjects depicted in the
images. While the “mestiza” is defined by the act of “drinking chicha,”
the señoritas are introduced by a reference to the incongruity of their
location, “in the chichería.” Whether or not the señoritas will actually
drink the chicha they carefully hold in their hands is not addressed in the
photograph’s title and, indeed, remains uncertain.
In Campesinos bebiendo chicha en Ch’oq’o, Cusco, 1928 (Campesinos
Drinking Chicha in Ch’oq’o), a row of six runakuna crouch in front of
their adobe-and-thatch house, sharing chicha served in two tin cups by
a woman who reveals only her back to the camera. Of the three women
who make their faces visible, two of them laugh together and share
a tumbler of chicha, while an older woman holds on to a toddler who
looks ready to flee. Viewers also perceive the faces of two men with se-
rious countenances and stiff, upright postures—their shoulders remain
pushed back and their eyes look directly into the camera. The women
assume a more hunched posture and seem much more interested in
their own conversation than in paying attention to the photographer.
The woman distributing the chicha from a large earthenware jar sits in
front of the row of campesinos, actively carrying out her task of serving
refreshments to her friends and/or family. Chambi photographed this
group in front of a house located in a rural, indigenous ayllu, and even
the camera-conscious men seem much more relaxed than any of the se-
ñoritas in the chichería.
This image also illustrates the communal aspect of the chicha break,
since the runakuna imbibe the brew from shared cups and chat with each
other while waiting their turn for a sip. Like the depiction of the “Mestiza
tomando chicha”—whose own body and clothing seem to reflect (and tran-
sition into) the forms and textures of the photograph’s background—the
campesinos in this image sit upon the ground and against the house, as if
126 Chapter 4

Photograph by Martín Chambi. Reprinted courtesy of the Martín

Chambi Photographic Archives.
Figure 4.4.   Campesinos bebiendo chicha en Ch’oq’o, 1928.

physically indicating their comfortable relationship with their surround-

ings. In fact, Chambi’s depictions of runa mealtimes or chicha breaks
almost always reveal the communal, relaxed atmosphere of the repasts.
In these photographs, men and women sit on the ground, smiling and
chatting as they share their food.13
As discussed in this book’s introduction, food can often be equated
with language, since both pertain to systems of communication in which
protocols of usage in particular contexts combine to create multivalenced
nuances and meanings (Barthes 1997, 21–22). For instance, in Martín
Chambi’s visual images of runa meals, aspects of the Quechua food-
landscape serve as a system of open, semiotic communication. Most
runa viewers of Campesinos bebiendo chicha would infer that the woman
serving chicha in the photograph must be the owner of the house. In all
likelihood, they would also interpret the identity of the men and women
who respectfully sip the proffered beverage as neighbors who have just
finished working on an agricultural plot or construction project belong-
ing to the chicha server’s family. In exchange for their efforts (and accord-
ing to Quechua cultural codes), the ayllu members have stopped by her
house to enjoy a bit of conversation and refreshing chicha. In this visual
representation of a Quechua food-landscape, Chambi communicates a
wealth of information regarding the relationships, activities, and inter-
ests of his subjects.
Figure 4.5.   Vendedora de chicha de Quiquijana, 1930.
Photograph by Martín Chambi. Reprinted courtesy of the Martín Chambi Photographic Archives.
128 Chapter 4

Taken in the year 1930, Chambi’s Vendedora de Chicha en Quiquijana

(Chicha Vendor in Quiquijana) portrays a young brewer who has be-
come a successful and independent businesswoman. This chichera’s facial
expression certainly reveals less contentment and confidence than that
of the woman portrayed in Mestiza tomando chicha. Nevertheless, the
composition of the shot and its ability to focus the eyes of the viewer on
luxurious garments and adornments implicitly celebrates this woman’s
occupational success. The chichera stands erectly alongside her wares
(an earthenware chicha jug and jars), and her montera hat lies propped
up against her mak’as chicha jug. Her success as a businesswoman is
revealed by the double layers of her lliqlla shawl (pinned closed with
a large, expensive silver tupu clasp) and the finely woven detail of her
vest and blouse cuffs. As in the case of the Mestiza tomando chicha, the
patterns of this chichera’s clothing correspond to the lines and shading of
her surroundings. In this photograph, the intricate patterns of the young
woman’s lliqlla draw our eyes down to the similar play of dark/light con-
trasts of the woven ropes tied around her chicha jug. The geometric shapes
of her hat echo the angled edges of the rocks and their shadows that lie
behind and alongside her. The river, bridge, and houses that fill the back-
ground of the photograph remain out of focus, thus forcing the viewer’s
eye to concentrate on the chichera who stands perfectly centered within
the frame. She stands upright and crisply focused, surrounded by finely
crafted examples of the vessels and garments associated with her trade.
In contrast to the representation of the Señoritas in the chichería, the image
of this chicha vendor depicts a successful women adept at negotiating the
milieu where she lives and works.
If Chambi’s posed, studio photographs of urban, bourgeois clients of-
ten revealed a sense of rigid, insincere posturing,14 his visual representa-
tions of runakuna (either posed or spontaneous) reveal proud, successful
subjects who feel comfortable and confident in their surroundings. As
José Carlos Huayhuaca asserts, Chambi’s portraits of runa “portrayed
individually in those circumstances, served to confer upon them a dignity
and unusual relevance, it was to go against the ideological current that
tended to diminish them” (1991, 50). Chambi’s visual representations
of chicheras and runa agropastoralists depict dignified and self-assured
subjects—both in their everyday lives and on special occasions. Similarly,
Arguedas portrays chicheras as capable and intelligent women whose ver-
bal creativity and organizational cunning demonstrate their unwavering
dedication to a goal of social justice, even in the face of verbal and physi-
cal assaults. Through both the form and the content of their open narra-
tives, Martín Chambi and José María Arguedas memorably and skillfully
represent chicheras who possess an intimate sociopolitical and entrepre-
neurial knowledge of their communities, neighbors, and workplaces.
 Canny, Creative Cooks 129

A Deadly Cook and Bewitching Songstress

in Claudia Llosa’s Madeinusa

More than half a century has passed since the publication of José María Ar-
guedas’s Los ríos profundos (1958) and the filming of Corpus del Cusco (1955)
by Martín Chambi’s son Manuel, a founding member of Cusco’s cinema
production and screening club (known as the Foto cine club del Cusco). The
son of Cusco’s most revered still photographer, Manuel Chambi (sometimes
working with his brother Víctor and with Eulogio Nishiyama) became well
known for his documentaries of runa festivals and celebrations carried out
in remote, rural communities throughout the department of Cusco (Bedoya
1995, 143–53).15 In a decidedly more surrealistic style—yet nevertheless
recalling the work of Manuel Chambi—Claudia Llosa’s feature film Madei-
nusa (2006) also centers on a filmic representation of a Quechua celebration
which takes place in a remote, Andean village. Unlike the ethnographic
documentaries produced by the Cusqueñan directors of the 1950s and
1960s (or by North American filmmakers, such as John Cohen) Llosa’s film
depicts a fictional festival in an imaginary Andean village. An emotionally
charged Spanish- and Quechua-language drama filmed in the highland
Peruvian province of Huaraz, Madeinusa (2006) opened to critical acclaim
in art house theatres and film festivals throughout the United States and
Europe, although it received a less enthusiastic response in Perú.16
The film’s linear plot unfolds in the fictional Andean town of Manayay-
cuna, where the “gringo” Salvador (Carlos de la Torre) finds himself
stranded due to a rock slide which has blocked the region’s only road.
The town’s residents declare that this gringo from Lima must leave, but
since the nearest town lies a three days’ walk away, the mayor, Don Cayo
(Juan Ubaldo Huamán), decides to lock him up as a “guest” in the family
barn. Don Cayo explains that his fellow villagers do not take kindly to the
appearance of visitors during their annual preparations for the festival of
Tiempo santo (“Holy Time”). Held over Easter weekend, this celebration
(and the core of the film’s plot) revolves around the notion that each year,
beginning on Good Friday and extending through the Easter weekend,
God remains blind to the sins of his followers. During these Tiempo santo
hours, the runa villagers of Manayaycuna indulge in all of the excesses
and desires that they cannot gratify during the rest of the year. It is in
this context that the eponymous protagonist of the film, the beautiful
adolescent named Madeinusa (Magaly Solier), must face the tirades of her
jealous sister Chale (Yiliana Chong) and the incestuous advances of her
father Don Cayo. During Tiempo santo, Madeinusa also seeks to use her
female charms to manipulate Salvador into helping her escape to Lima.
With the commencement of the Tiempo santo festival, food becomes asso-
ciated with the violence and conflict unleashed by the villagers of Manayay-
130 Chapter 4

cuna. In the very first moments of the celebration, men, women, and chil-
dren come together to waste painstakingly prepared dishes as they gleefully
toss the food into the air. As Tiempo santo continues, merrymakers’ vomit
and food waste litters the town’s streets and grassy central plaza. In other
memorable scenes, the family of a dead, elderly woman force-feeds her as
she lies in wake, and the beloved pig of a distraught and tearful woman is
torn away from her by neighbors who intend to slaughter the prized ani-
mal as part of their raucous, bacchanal feast. Food also represents the deep
cultural divide which separates the indigenous, “provincial” (provinciana)
Madeinusa and the white, urban Salvador, who fails to understand the
language, customs, and preferences of Manayaycuna’s Quechua villagers.
After she realizes that her father has locked Salvador in his barn, Madeinusa
risks Don Cayo’s wrath and leaves a plate of cuy and boiled potatoes for the
strange visitor. Ravenous, Salvador voraciously digs into his meal, only to
spit out the cuy and declare to himself, “What a disgusting pile of crap!”
(“¡Qué asco esta huevada!”). Yet the film’s most momentous presentation of
food appears in the cooking scenes that bookend the film and which are ac-
companied by the performance of the same, haunting song. In both scenes,
Madeinusa prepares soup in the family kitchen, although it is her second,
adulterated recipe that creates the film’s memorable climax.
The film opens with a black screen and the sound of a vehicle’s wheels
crunching over gravel and past the faint echoes of a rural landscape—
water rushing, dogs barking, birds and insects humming. The delicate,
white cursive lettering of an epigraph then floats into the center of a black
background. Though it appears for only a few seconds, the epigraph’s
accusatory tone (which somehow resonates as both resigned and deter-
mined), serves to introduce the film’s ensuing plot as universal, rather
than as a deviant particularity of rural Andean communities:
You who pass by, look and observe how disgraced you are. Realize that this
town traps us all equally. Mortal, whoever you are, stop and read. Dammit,
I am what you will be and what you are, I have been.
Tú que pasas, mira y observa desgraciado lo que eres. Que este pueblo a todos por
igual nos encierra. Mortal, cualquiera que fueras, détente y lee. Maldita, que yo soy
lo que tú serás y lo que eres, he sido. (Llosa 2006)

The black screen then fades into close-up shots of a rustic, rural kitchen
where the protagonist Madeinusa hums as she works among staple in-
gredients of Andean cuisine, such as zapallo squash and the dark green
broad beans called habas. The cook’s humming soon transitions into the
slow and poignant strains of a haunting song whose lyrics gracefully slip
between Quechua and Spanish.17
The young woman’s melody becomes her incantation, and she intones
the song to herself during the two cooking scenes which frame the film’s
 Canny, Creative Cooks 131

¿Cuántos se dicen que se How many do you say, have gone

han ido?
Día y noche vas cantando
mamay, taytay nillaspayki.
Urqu q’asan phawaspayki.
Waychawcituy de las punas,
tú que cantas y es muy
triste.
Mamaykichu puripurqan.
Ñuqa hina kanaykipa.
Ñuqa hina takichkanki
away?
Day and night you go on singing,
my mother, my father, saying to you
Through the mountain pass, running to
you.
Waychawcituy of the mountain plateaus, 5
you who sing and so very sadly.
Perhaps your mother went away for-
ever.
So you must also be like me.
Like me, you are singing.

Tiempo santo chayamuqtin, When Holy Time comes around, 10

ñuqa uqariy pasapusaq standing up I will go away
urquntapas, qasantapas. through the mountains, or through the
high passes.
Qam hinapas phawasaqchá. Perhaps I will run like you.
Qam hinapas wahasaqchá. Perhaps I will call out like you.
Waychawcituy, Waychawcituy, Waychawcituy, Waychawcituy, 15
qhulla taytay hamuqtinqa, if my dear father were to come,
“Ama wataychu,” nikuwankin. “Don’t tie her up” you would tell him.
“Kutimunqan,” nillaspayki Telling him, “she will be back,”
“Vueltamunqan,” Telling him, “she will return”
nillaspayki. (x2)
(Reprinted with permission from Magaly Solier and Wandavisión)
(Translation by the author)

dramatic action. Both scenes juxtapose images of a steaming, nutritious

broth with the container of deadly rodent poison which Madeinusa and her
sister also store in the kitchen. Extreme close-ups of the kitchen’s contents
132 Chapter 4

and the cook’s hands, arms, and eyes are set to the plaintive words of the
song “Waychawcituy.” The lyrics of the song allude to the young woman’s
feelings of loneliness and isolation, while also suggesting her desire to run
away from a father who seeks to hold her back. When Madeinusa sings
these words to herself in the opening scene, she subtly presents the film’s
central conflicts in a few beautifully delivered verses. Firstly, it becomes
evident that she can confide in no one; she sings of her worries to the
waychaw bird and reveals that her mother has gone away and that she still
feels the pain of this loss. In her song, Madeinusa addresses the bird as
“My dear little waychaw” using both the Spanish diminutive suffix -cito and
the Quechua possessive -y. Called ave solitario or “solitary bird” in Spanish
because it eschews flocking, the waychaw (agriornis montana, black-billed
shrike tyrant) lives alone on the high puna tablelands. Its distinctive high-
pitched call is rarely heard, but is said to portend death or a calamitous
family or ayllu quarrel (Arroyo Aguilar 2004, 132; Guaman Poma 1980,
1:255; Ridgely and Tudor 1994, 595–96; Taylor 1990, 150–51).18
Foreshadowing the fateful discord which the Tiempo santo festivities
will provoke, in the song’s second verse Madeinusa expresses her wish to
escape from the celebration before it commences, “When Holy Time comes
around / Standing up I will go away” (“Tiempo santo chayamuqtin / ñuqa
uqariy pasapusaq”) (lines 10–11). Of course, viewers soon realize that she
will not be able to avoid the festival and as such, the exchange between her
father and the waychaw bird described in the third verse will never come
to pass. Madeinusa’s preparation of a poisoned broth in the film’s final
cooking scene ensures that Don Cayo will never have the opportunity to
attempt to “tie up” his fleeing daughter. Consequently, the waychaw bird
will have no reason to calm her father with a false promise of her return,
“Telling him, ‘she will be back,’ / telling him, ‘she will return’ “ (“‘Kutimu-
nqan,’ nillaspayki / ‘Vueltamunqan,’ nillaspayki”) (lines 18–19).
Soon after the performance of this song, Madeinusa catches her first
glimpse of Salvador, the mysterious visitor from Lima. Salvador serves as a
living incarnation of the outside world which the young woman so desires
to embrace. Although she often feigns innocence and naïveté, Madeinusa
displays a precocious understanding of the power she holds over men.
For instance, she calmly resists her father’s sexual advances on the eve of
Tiempo santo in an apparent attempt to avoid angering him and jeopardiz-
ing her chances at being crowned the “Virgin of Tiempo santo” (a beauty
pageant honor which, as mayor, he bestows each year). After winning the
honor (and further infuriating her jealous sister Chale), Madeinusa care-
fully dons her brightly colored talisman—a pair of beaded chandelier ear-
rings left behind by her mother. This pair of earrings represents more than
just a symbolic connection to an absent mother. Madeinusa’s reverence for
what she considers to be her most beautiful possession also represents her
 Canny, Creative Cooks 133

yearning to reach the faraway place of luxury adornments (Lima) where

her mother is said to have fled.19 It is no coincidence that Madeinusa wears
the earrings—which she cherishes for their transformational power—in the
scenes in which she attempts to coax Salvador into fulfilling her dream of
escaping to Lima. While donning her Virgin of Tiempo santo costume, the
adolescent offers herself to him in a dark alley during one of the festival’s
raucous parades. A few moments later she pleads with Salvador to take her
with him to Lima, as if assuming that she has already paid her passage by
allowing him to possess her body for a few intense moments.
When Salvador refuses to help her escape and sheepishly apologizes
for her assumption that such an understanding had ever existed between
them, Madeinusa follows him outside the village the next day. Wearing her
mother’s earrings while seated beside him in the windy puna grassland,
she divulges her desperate wish to escape from an oppressively isolated
village and start a new life in Lima. In a spurious shift in their conversa-
tion, Madeinusa offers to show Salvador the path that leads away from the
village. “Really?” he asks in a surprised tone. Madeinusa answers not with
the directions she has promised, but with a bewitching song.

¿Por qué me miras así? Why do you look at me that way?

No sabes de dónde soy. (x2) You don’t know where I’m from.
Yo soy una provinciana, I am a provincial girl,
Manayaycuna de corazón (x2) Manayaycuna at heart
Cuando te canto yo así, When I sing to you this way, 5
mírame, mírate cómo estás. look at me, look at you how you are.
Perdido en el horizonte. Lost in the horizon.
Perdido con tu mirar. (x2) Lost with your gaze.
Dime ya pues por favor, Tell me right now please,
¿por qué me miras así? why do you look at me that way? 10
Qaynata ñuqaqa takispaqa Very soon by singing this song
sunquykitam suwasqayki I will steal your heart from you
Qaynata ñuqaqa takispaqa Very soon by singing this song
sunquykitam apakusaq I will carry away your heart
Sunquykitam suwasqayki I will steal your heart from you 15
Sunquykita apakusaq (x3) I will carry away your heart
(Reprinted with permission from Magaly Solier and Wandavisión)
(Translation by the author)
134 Chapter 4

Madeinusa begins her song by demanding an explanation of the stares

directed at her by this stranger (with whom by now she has had sex, but
has still exchanged only a few words). She then declares that he knows
nothing about her or where she is from—“look how lost you are,” she
tells him. During the last lines of the song Madeinusa lowers her voice
and code-switches from Spanish into Quechua. The linguistic move sug-
gests that she has decided to take advantage of Salvador’s preoccupation
with her beauty, as well as his unfamiliarity with all that surrounds him.
Cognizant of the fact that the subject of her lyrics only understands Span-
ish, Madeinusa repeatedly chants her intentions to use her female charms
to convince Salvador to help her escape from Manayaycuna. She repeats
her whispered incantation three times in the final lines of the song, “I will
steal your heart from you / I will carry away your heart” (lines 15–16).

Madeinusa Plots a Meal: Food as

a Tool for Achieving Reprisal and Freedom

Perhaps surprisingly, Madeinusa’s amorous incantations directed at

Salvador do not secure her escape from a dysfunctional home and vil-
lage. Claudia Llosa resists scripting the educated, white, outsider as the
young woman’s savior. As Jon Beasley-Murray points out, Llosa’s film
effectively “turns around the systematic destitution of authority: religious
[the temporarily blinded Christ], lay [the mayor-father], and liberal [the
educated gringo]” (2007, 1). Instead, even after Salvador has agreed to
take her with him to Lima, Madeinusa insists on escaping on her own
terms (while wearing her mother’s earrings). When she returns home one
last time to collect the talismanic earrings and discovers that her abusive
father has destroyed her symbolic bridge to an outside world, Madeinusa
uses her role as the family cook to punish Don Cayo. As day breaks and
the end of Tiempo santo looms near, she sings her way through the prepa-
ration of an adulterated breakfast broth which will secure both her escape
and her revenge. The film’s final cooking scene unfolds in the same small
kitchen where Madeinusa first performed the “Waychawcituy” song. This
time, however, the song’s opening line is preceded not by her soft hum-
ming, but by the coarse snoring of her father.

Waychawcituy de las punas, Waychawcituy of the highlands,

tú que cantas y es muy triste. you who sing and so very sadly.
Mamaykichu puripurqan. Perhaps your mother went away forever.
Ñuqa hina kanaykipa. So you must also be like me.
 Canny, Creative Cooks 135

Ñuqa hina takichkanki. Like me, you are singing. 5

Timpu santu chayamuqtin, When Holy Time comes around,
ñuqa hayway pasapusaq Just managing I will go away
juntata kay qasantapas. to be together, also through the high
passes.
Qam hinapas phawasaqchá. Perhaps I will run like you.
Qam hinapas ripusaqchá. Perhaps I will go away like you. 10
(Reprinted with permission from Magaly Solier and Wandavisión)
(Translation by the author)

Madeinusa’s discovery of the crushed earrings in her father’s vest

pocket directly precedes this performance of an abbreviated version of
the “Waychawcituy” song in the last minutes of the film. While the first
verse repeats verbatim the lines of the film’s opening scene, the second
verse changes slightly. This time, Madeinusa suggests that she is run-
ning away in order “to be together” (“juntata kay”) (line 8) and she makes
no mention of her father’s concern for her escape. The final lines in this
second version suggest more directly the protagonist’s yearning to find
the same escape she imagines her mother having achieved so many years
earlier: “to be together, also through the high passes / Perhaps I will run
like you / Perhaps I will go away like you” (“juntata kay qasantapas / Qam
hinapas phawasaqchá / Qam hinapas ripusaqchá”) (lines 8–10).
Near the end of this performance, the protagonist gives her soup a stir,
lifts a ladle of the steaming broth to her lips for a taste, and then once
again, carefully reaches down the container of white, powdered rat poi-
son. This time, however, she does not take the poison outside to sprinkle it
on the ground and protect the family home from intruding pests. Instead,
during the last line of the song she spoons a bit of the deadly powder into
the soup and then calls out in an authoritative, almost demanding tone,
“Papá? Papito, Your chicken broth” (“¿Papá? Papito. Tu caldo de gallina”).
Without removing the plastic bags which protect her hands from the
caustic poison, Madeinusa carries the soup into the bedroom and urges
her father to eat it. When, despite her pleas, he remains asleep, she begins
to spoon the soup quickly into his mouth, desperate to carry out her par-
ricide before Tiempo santo ends.
A few moments after Salvador enters the crime scene and, still in shock,
removes the incriminating plastic bags from Madeinusa’s hands, Chale
steps through the doorway and discovers her lifeless father lying in bed.
Madeinusa does not hesitate to protect her dream of escape and only
136 Chapter 4

Reprinted courtesy of Magaly Solier and Wandavisión.

Figure 4.6.   Madeinusa (Magaly Solier) plotting in the kitchen.

briefly vacillates before joining her sister in pinning the fatal food poison-
ing on the gringo Salvador. She turns on the man who was willing to help
her escape, even though she undoubtedly realizes that her accusations
will presumably lead to his death at the hands of a xenophobic lynch mob
comprised of her neighbors. All too accustomed to abandonment, deceit,
and violence—and faced with two potential impediments to her escape
(her father’s heartless destruction of her beloved talisman and Chale’s
discovery of their father’s murder)—Madeinusa ruthlessly and vigor-
ously defends the viability of her dream.
As in many of the Quechua oral narratives which will be explored in
the next chapter, the character of the cook in the film Madeinusa decides to
respond to challenges to her independence and agency through a crafty,
culinary tactic “rather than by frontal assault or counter-hegemonic
persuasion” (Beasley-Murray 2007, 1). After becoming frustrated with
the limited powers of manipulation which she can achieve with her
beauty, the young woman turns to her role as the family cook to punish
her father’s cruelty and secure her escape from his household. Wearing
the reconstructed remnants of her mother’s earrings, Madeinusa smiles
faintly to herself in the film’s final scene as she travels alone to Lima as a
passenger in a merchant’s truck. As she gazes off into the horizon (which
remains invisible to the viewer), she seems proud of herself, as if cogni-
zant that she is the primary architect of her road to a new life. Unlike the
 Canny, Creative Cooks 137

independent and economically successful chicheras portrayed in Chambi’s

photographs and Arguedas’s novel Los ríos profundos, Madeinusa lacked
the socioeconomic power needed to escape from the monotony, impov-
erishment, and abuse of her household. Yet like many of the female
characters portrayed in Andean verbal and visual art, Madeinusa does
understand that the space of the kitchen often offers women with a vi-
able if sometimes unexpected path for contesting patriarchal, hegemonic
dominance.

Notes

 1. For a discussion of these problems in the context of nineteenth- and

twentieth-century Peruvian history, see Sandoval and Sandoval (1998, xxv–xxxi).
 2. Critics have noted that the rebellions presented in these two chapters could
actually stand alone as fully developed episodes, arguing that they retain their
integrity as autonomous narratives in terms of their descriptions of complex char-
acters, events, and climaxes (Yurkievich cited in Larco 1976, 249; Castro-Klarén
1973, 149–51; Rama 1987, 261).
 3. English translations of the novel’s Quechua- and Spanish-language pas-
sages are my own. The page numbers which appear after each citation refer to the
1958 edition of the novel.
 4. Colonial chroniclers report that during religious fasts, marriage ceremonies,
baptisms, and certain ritual cleansings, Incan ritual specialists forbade the con-
sumption of salt (Molina 1989, 82, 100). Since the foods prohibited during fasts
(primarily coca leaves, chicha, salt, purple maize, and ají chili) were also the most
esteemed and difficult to obtain, salt’s inclusion in this list of religiously regulated
substances signals its importance within the Quechua food-landscape.
 5. The narrative point of view in this chapter alternates between the first-
person singular and plural, whereas the first-person singular dominates the previ-
ous six chapters. As Cornejo Polar points out, this ambiguity signals Ernesto’s un-
certainty as to whether he belongs outside or (and?) within the group of rebellious
chicheras (1973, 138). Throughout the novel, when Ernesto feels out of place within
a particular social situation, he often finds comfort in his musings about nature. In
the celebratory atmosphere of the chichería following Doña Felipa’s successful up-
rising, the adolescent recalls: “I stayed outside the circle, watching them, like one
who watches the rising waters of those unpredictable Andean rivers—so dry, so
rocky” (“Yo quedé fuera del círculo, mirándolos, como quien contempla pasar la creciente
de esos ríos andinos de régien imprevisible; tan secos, tan pedregosos”) (111).
 6. “Then we heard the priest’s words. He spoke in Quechua” (“Oímos entonces
las palabras del Padre. Habló en quechua”) (100).
 7. In one of the novel’s footnotes Arguedas explains that Peruvian civil guards
have received this nickname because of the color of their uniforms (1958, 153). The
huayruru is a tiny, red and black seed often used in despacho offerings prepared for
Andean mountain gods (or apukuna). Carrying or wearing a huayruru seed as jew-
elry is said to bring a person good luck and protection. In addition to the similar
138 Chapter 4

colors of their outer coverings, the chicheras may compare the civil guards to the
huayruru seed in a move of syneciosis, since the civil guards offer anything but
good luck and protection. Alternately, the description may suggest the fact that
both tend to be associated with a (generally) untouchable power.
 8. Rama (1987, 215) asserts that Arguedas’s use of huaynos in the novel
serves as an example of “narrative transculturation” (transculturación narrativa)—
contemporary Latin American narratives (written by authors such as José María
Arguedas, Augusto Roa Bastos, Juan Rulfo, and João Guimarâes Rosa) whose
most original and innovative characteristics are drawn from the poetic and
ideological traditions of the continent’s marginalized, “vanquished” populations
(primarily rural, poor, and indigenous). Lienhard presents a similar argument in
La voz y su huella (1991, 52–53).
 9. As Symons asserts, “while most novelists keep cooks in the background,
they do tend to deal more than other creative artists with personal feelings, inti-
mate relationships and everyday experiences. In their one-to-one form, novels are
adapted to the private . . . to the extent that they actually do represent women’s
lives, they do not entirely ignore cooks” (2000, 27–28).
10. Huayhuaca postulates that the decline in Chambi’s artistic production be-
ginning in the 1950s could be related to the ever-increasing influx of commercial
photographers intent on imitating his style and who flooded the market with
“pseudo Chambi” images (1991, 48).
11. Sontag describes Sander’s unique “look” as “not unkind; it is permissive,
unjudging . . . [he] was not looking for secrets; he was observing the typical”
(1977, 59). Several critics (including López Mondejar 1989, 11; Huayhuaca 1991,
64–65; and Weismantel 2001, 30) mention the similarities between Sander’s work
and the photographs created by Chambi.
12. Mario Vargas Llosa expresses a similar sentiment in his introductory re-
marks to Publio López Mondejár and Edward Ranney’s collection of Chambi
photographs: “The world of Martín Chambi is always beautiful, a world where
even the most extreme forms of neglect, discrimination and servitude have been
humanized and dignified by the sharpness of the vision and the elegance of the
treatment” (in López Mondéjar and Ranney 1989, 6).
13. See for example: Campesinos en un vivac del camino (undated), Descanso de
Faena agrícola (Sicuani 1919), Merienda en Ocongate y nevado de Ausangate (Cusco
1931), and Campesinos en la fiesta de Santiago (Cusco 1929). The first three of
these photographs are reprinted in Huayhuaca (1991), while the last appears
in Súarez (2003).
14. See for example, the almost gothic gloom of the 1930 photograph La boda de
Gadea (Gadea’s Wedding; reprinted in Huayhuaca).
15. The majority of Manuel Chambi’s films can be described as ethnographic
documentaries which focus on Quechua festivals and celebrations, for example:
Carnaval de Kanas (1956), Lucero de nieve (1956), Corrida de toros y condores (1956),
La fiesta de Santo Tomás (1956), Chumbivilcas (1957), La fiesta de las nieves (1960), and
La fiesta de la Cadelaria en Puno (1965). For a description and list of his films see
Ricardo Bedoya’s 100 años de cine en el Perú (1995, 143–53).
16. For very positive reactions to the film published in the United States and
Europe see, for example, reviews by the “Strictly Film School” (2006), Koehler for
 Canny, Creative Cooks 139

Variety (2006), Shannon for the Seattle Times (2007) and Kovacheva for the Fipresci
Festival Report (2006). In Perú, the film inspired enthusiastic responses from some
critics, while many intellectuals criticized Llosa’s representation of disturbing
community and family dynamics in a rural, indigenous village. The film’s polemic
led to the organization of a roundtable discussion in December 2006 held at the
Universidad del Pacífico. This discussion included the participation of the re-
spected intellectuals, journalists, and community activists Ricardo Bedoya, Father
Gastón Garatea, Rafo León, and María Emma Mannarelli. For examples of largely
negative reviews of Llosa’s film published in leading Peruvian newspapers, mag-
azines and cultural blogs see León (2006) for the magazine Somos, Portocarrero
in his blog (2006), and Vich cited in Paolo de Lima’s blog Zona de noticias (2006).
Lima’s leading newspaper El Comercio published a primarily adulatory interview
with the director (Servat 2006), as well as a very positive review written by the
well-known Peruvian film critic Bedoya (see also Bedoya’s support for the film
published in the blog he edits, Páginas del diario de satan).
17. The actress who plays the role of Madeinusa, Magaly Solier, composed this
song and all of the others she performs in the film. In my transcriptions of this
bilingual song I have italicized the Quechua words to distinguish them from the
Spanish.
18. A short recording of an Argentine waychaw’s call can be accessed through
the online audio archive of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, http://macaulaylibrary
.org/audio/86544.
19. Could the young woman’s carefully hidden wooden box containing fashion
magazines, mirrors, ribbons, and blond plastic dolls also have belonged to her
mother? Don Cayo’s infuriated response to finding the box suggests as much, as
he promptly burns it in a desperate and misguided attempt to cleanse his daugh-
ter’s desire to escape her present reality in search of a future in the outside world.
Moreover, while Madeinusa’s name reminds Latin American viewers of the
moniker stamped on coveted, imported goods, it also seems plausible to surmise
that Madeinusa’s mother gave her youngest daughter this name as a reflection of
her own frustrated desires as a woman living within the suffocating confines of
Manayaycuna.
 5
Q
Maleficent Meals
and Conspiring Cooks
Culinary Witchcraft in Quechua
Oral Narratives

Food—at least as much as language and religion, perhaps more so—is

cultural litmus. It identifies and, therefore, necessarily, differentiates.
Fellow members of cultural communities recognize each other by what
they eat and scan the menu to spot the excluded.
—Felipe Fernández-Armesto, Near a Thousand Tables:
A History of Food

A s we have seen in previous chapters, the Quechua food-landscape

attaches symbolic meaning to the acquisition, preparation, and con-
sumption of food so that while cooks specialize in the preparation of meals,
this is certainly not all that they prepare; their roles and powers extend far
beyond the realm of tastes, aromas, and nutrients. The plate of food that
a cook sets before her client or family contains both caloric and symbolic
energy, and this chapter focuses on the ways in which the latter contributes
to the creation of meaning and the presentation of cultural mores within
Quechua oral narratives. My analysis of these primarily open narratives fo-
cuses not only on the particular kinds of language, imagery, tone, and sym-
bols associated with verbal representations of the Quechua food-landscape
but also considers the contexts in which these oral performances arise.
In the novel, testimonio, photographs, and film discussed in chapters 3
and 4, visual and verbal representations of chicheras and cooks depict An-
dean women whose roles as preparers and distributors of food help them

An earlier version of this chapter was published as “Dangerous Repasts: Food and the
Supernatural in the Quechua Oral Tradition,” Food and Foodways: Explorations in the History
and Culture of Human Nourishment 17, no. 2 (2009).

141
142 Chapter 5

to achieve varying degrees of socioeconomic independence, influence, and

agency within their households and communities. In the testimonio Grego-
rio Condori Mamani: Autobiografía (Andean Lives), Asunta’s narrative reveals
the ways in which her occupation as a market cook provides her with an
element of control in a number of otherwise economically and emotionally
unstable personal situations. Similarly, the role of food preparer or chicha
brewer, for characters such as Llosa’s Madeinusa and Arguedas’s chicheras,
allows them to resist actively the oppressive local power structures within
the patriarchal societies in which they live. In the oral narratives explored
in this chapter, performers represent the character of the cook as runa
women working in domestic (inside) spaces and who use their access to
the meals of family members and acquaintances as a tactic for manipulating
the bodies of unsuspecting diners. These conniving cooks generally possess
supernatural powers and frequently use food to achieve malevolent ends.
Throughout the Peruvian Andes, women cook and serve the vast major-
ity of meals consumed at home, in the market, on street corners, and in res-
taurants. At least since colonial times, they have been considered potentially
dangerous figures given their tendency to use food as a tool for dispensing
supernatural, malevolent confections. This chapter explores the ways in
which Quechua oral narratives foment this long-standing fear through
the construction of characters who prepare and serve adulterated meals
as a means of punishing runakuna for the violation of food-related taboos.
These culturally specific, culinary proscriptions include: failing to provide
an offering to the Pachamama (“Earth Mother”)1 prior to eating or drinking,
pursuing an intimate relationship with someone who has stolen food from
a community field, rejecting a plate of food prepared by a family member,
urinating while cooking, or serving rotten food to a member of one’s family
or community. Through an analysis of four examples of contemporary oral
narratives, I seek to demonstrate the ways in which the integration of food
symbolism in Quechua verbal art serves to instill and reinforce cultural mo-
res. The Peruvian folklorist Jorge Lira collected, transcribed, and published
“Isicha Puytu,” and I collected the remaining three narratives—“The Black
Worm,” “The Newborn Baby and the Condemned Soul,” and “The Witch
Cook”—in the Quechua community of Ch’akalqocha, Chinchero.
Quechua narrators in the southern Peruvian Andes assert that pre-
senting the character of a cook with supernatural powers helps them
to deliver cautionary lessons to their audiences. In these performances,
descriptions of adulterated foods or unusual cooking practices often
foreshadow a significant plot twist and signal the inevitable doom of a
family relationship. These cooks generally work inside a domestic space
and use their role as the family’s meal preparer as a tactic for dispensing
punishment or for attaining varying degrees of influence or control over
the actions and decisions of their kin.
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 143

My analyses of the narratives known as “The Black Worm,” “The

Newborn Baby and the Condemned Soul,” and “The Witch Cook” are
based on versions taped within the context of specific conversations
held in Ch’akalqocha, Chinchero, in 2005 and 2007. Located at 12,434 feet
(3,790 meters) above sea level, the district of Chinchero is well known for
its vibrant Sunday market, where tour buses headed toward the Sacred
Valley briefly stop in order to allow tourists to buy craftwork, watch
Quechua women weave textiles on backstrap looms, and visit the town’s
Incan ruins, small archaeological museum, and intricately decorated
colonial church.
The community of Ch’akalqocha (a division of land called a sector in
Spanish and muyuy by most Quechua speakers; others use the Spanish-
derived sictur) lies across the highway from the town of Chinchero and
can be reached on footpaths in about a twenty-five-minute walk. While
carrying out fieldwork in the community of Ch’akalqocha as part of a
study of the region’s Quechua oral narratives (August–November, 2005;
May–June, 2007; and November–December, 2009), I spent many hours
listening to the performances of Grimaldo Quillahuamán Cusihuamán
and his wife Rosa Quispe Quispe.
As a participant-observer in the community, I also spent time helping
Rosa—a respected narrator, monolingual Quechua speaker, farmer, she-
pherd, accomplished weaver, cook, and chicha brewer—and her sister

Photograph by Alison Krögel.

Figure 5.1.   Women trade agricultural products and sell textiles at Chinchero’s Sunday
Market.
Figure 5.2.   Map of the Department of Cusco and the District of Chinchero.
Created by Luke Kaim with data provided by the Peruvian Insituto Nacional de Estadística e Informática (INEI) (2007) and CloudMade.
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 145

Nieves Quispe with their daily tasks. The duties changed with the seasons,
but generally involved: herding and caring for the family’s sheep, cattle,
guinea pigs, and chickens, as well as harvesting, storing, and preparing
tubers and broad beans, and weaving, cleaning, and spinning wool. Rosa’s
husband Grimaldo Quillahuamán Cusihuamán also participated in tasks
related to the care of the cattle and the planting, tending, and harvesting
of the family’s various food crops. Grimaldo is a monolingual Quechua
speaker and a respected narrator, farmer, and retired traveling merchant.
In 2009 he was elected by his ayllu of Yanacona to serve a coveted, two-
year term as the ecónomo (economist) of the district of Chinchero.2
Children from Ch’akalqocha attend school in the nearby town of Chin-
chero and in the afternoon small groups of them (primarily girls) often
joined Rosa, Nieves, and me in our tasks. During these sunny afternoons
the women would often share one of their open, oral narratives.3 In
these performances, narrators use food symbolism and the character of
a powerful cook to deliver implied moral or cautionary messages which

Photograph by Gustavo Fierros.

Figure 5.3.   Grimaldo Quillahuamán Cusihuamán preparing an underground “earthen

stove” called a wathiya (or pachamanca) in a field near his home. Wathiya are used in
May, June, and July to bake freshly harvested potatoes, as well as haba broad beans and
oca and añu tubers.
146 Chapter 5

usually emphasize the vital importance of adhering to important cultural

conventions. Additionally, culinary references in these and other oral nar-
ratives reinforce group and individual identities by clearly representing
the undesirable consequences which befall those who fail to respect the
Quechua food-landscape.

Some Forms and Functions of Quechua

Oral Narrative (Willakuy)

In the community of Ch’akalqocha, Chinchero, narrators use the noun

willakuy to describe narrative representations performed in specific con-
texts and which recur to not only verbal creativity, but also to the use of
physical gestures, sound effects, and audience participation.4 Formed by
adding the inchoative infix -ri- to the infinitive “willay” (to tell/recount),
the word willariy implies that the action of recounting a narrative is under-
taken with care. In Ch’akalqocha, Quechua speakers use this verb willariy
to describe the act of performing a willakuy. A willakuy resembles what
Hayden White refers to as a “mythic narrative” insofar as it “is under no
obligation to keep the two orders of events, real and imaginary, district
from one another” (1987, 3–4). As such, in the following pages I will avoid
using expressions such as “story,” “tale,” or “folktale,” since they suggest
that the narratives are characterized by a primarily (or even exclusively)
fictional quality which neither the narrators, nor the Quechua audience
of a willakuy would assume. I will, however, use the terms “oral narra-
tive” and “verbal art” to refer to the concept of a willakuy. Likewise, in
my analysis of Quechua verbal art, the use of the word “character” refers
not only to fictional subjects but also to the neighbors, family members,
or other individuals who may appear both in the plots of these narratives
and in the daily lives of audience members.
In Ch’akalqocha, the most well-known narrators tend to be community
elders who have gathered a wealth of life experiences which they weave
into their willakuykuna. Although many narratives do include the narrator
as a protagonist, an unnamed “traveler” (“puriq”) is often identified as
the source for a willakuy. Younger ayllu members also perform narratives,
but rarely do so when an elder narrator is present and willing to relate a
willakuy. In the district of Chinchero, there is a strong tendency to include
detailed descriptions of the local landscapes in which a particular narra-
tive will unfold, and narrators often begin their performance by detailing
the names of each ayllu in which the action will take place. Narrators often
perform their willakuykuna in response to a conversation between family
or ayllu members and which relates to specific sociocultural, political,
or historical contexts.5 Thus, a willakuy may be performed in dozens of
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 147

different versions since narrators craft each performance in response to

context-specific needs and interests.
Narrators in Ch’akalqocha affirm that their willakuykuna serve a didac-
tic function; expressed by the transitive verb, “yuyarichiy” which means
“in order to remind.”6 They assert that these narratives can best achieve
this function through the creation of plots and characters which “sur-
prise” (“manchachiy”) or “frighten” (“q’aqchay”) an audience into a critical
awareness of their surroundings (Quillahuamán Cusihuamán and Quispe
Quispe 2007; 2009, personal communication).7 Narrators also explain
that a “good willakuy” (“allin willakuy”) involving malevolent characters,
should engross the audience (often through a surprising or frightening
plot) and also present new information or critical perspectives which re-
late to the history or future well-being of the community (Quillahuamán
Cusihuamán 2007, 2009; and Quispe Quispe 2007, personal communica-

Photograph by Gustavo Fierros.

Figure 5.4.   Rosa Quispe Quispe and her sister, Nieves, recording a narrative during a
break from work in the fields. A neighbor woman, Elisa, listens intently while enjoying
her frutillada.
148 Chapter 5

tion). Since an existing willakuy can be reshaped or altered to fit a particu-

lar situation, narrators may decide whether or not to emphasize didactic,
critical, or fear-inspiring plot elements (Rosa Quispe Quispe, Grimaldo
Quillahuamán Cusihuamán, Nieves Quispe 2007; 2009, personal com-
munication).8 Narrators in Ch’akalqocha tend to prefer performing open
willakuykuna which require their audiences to actively analyze allusions
and symbolic meanings and to create possible interpretations for their
frequently ambiguous denouements.

Culinary Witchcraft in the Colonial Context

That Quechua narrators perform willakuykuna featuring the character of

the malevolent cook should not surprise us, since the theme of women
who use their role as food preparers to wield pernicious power is not an
exclusively contemporary phenomenon, nor is it limited to the Andean
context. In colonial cities, towns, and indigenous villages, both Spanish
and runa inhabitants realized that women’s control over food preparation
and distribution could be deployed in both nourishing and malevolent
forms. Particularly in colonial América, “Ensorcelling often entailed feed-
ing with adulterated victuals, but withholding food altogether could also
be a sign that a woman was a witch, for it too spoke to her transgression
of the gendered rules of production” (Lewis 2003, 64).
For much of the colonial period, Europe remained enmeshed in the
“witch craze” that gripped the continent from about 1450 to 1700 (Mi-
chelet 1987, 180–85). The fanatical energy fueling this hysteria greatly
increased after 1484 when Pope Innocent VIII issued the papal bull Sum-
mis Desiderantes which urged local authorities to assist inquisitors in their
efforts to identify, apprehend, and prosecute practitioners of witchcraft
(Michelet 1987, 180–85). In 1487 the Dominican inquisitors Jacob Sprenger
and Heinrich Kramer published their book Malleus Maleficarum (The
Witches’ Hammer) which codified church doctrine related to witchcraft,
asserted that women facilitated the devil’s evil schemes on earth, and
served as a guide for a century of Inquisitional tribunals (Silverblatt 1987,
160–63; Symons 2000, 171).
When traveling to América in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,
many European conquistadores, ecclesiastics, and government adminis-
trators carried with them the Malleus Maleficarum’s reactionary, misogy-
nist beliefs. Consequently, during the colonial era it was not uncommon
for women—especially older women and widows—to be accused of prac-
ticing witchcraft (Socolow 2000, 24; Glass-Coffin 1998, 44–46).9 Studies of
witchcraft in colonial Latin America reveal its intimate connection with
food and cooking: “Typically, women made men ‘eat’ their witchcraft, us-
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 149

ing their power over the domain of food preparation for subversive ends,
a practice that was common in pre-Hispanic times as well as in sixteenth-
and seventeenth-century Castile” (Behar 1992, 180). The belief that food
could be used to harm rather than to nurture gave women a very specific
and real power that could serve as an important defense against abusive
male dominance—and as a way for women to penetrate men’s bodies
(Behar 1992, 200; Socolow 2000, 158; Silverblatt 1987, 172).10
As P. G. Maxwell-Stuart points out in Witchcraft in Europe and the New
World: 1400–1800, in an oppressive, hierarchical colonial context, magic
often provided the most marginalized sectors of society with a tool for
redressing inequities and procuring otherwise unattainable desires: “In
the New World, an enormous number of people found magic a comfort
in their distress or a means of taking revenge for the wrongs they suf-
fered or thought they suffered” (2001, 91). On the other hand, Laura
Lewis argues that scholars who consider colonial witchcraft as a “means
of resistance” fall into the trap of opposing witchcraft to colonial power
instead of realizing how ensorcelling emerged as a result of imposed
colonial power structures (2003, 169–71, 233). I would assert, however,
that female, runa cooks in colonial Perú attained a degree of agency in an
incredibly repressive society precisely because they adroitly performed
a subversive role which colonial officials already suspected or accused
them of assuming. Regardless of whether these women believed in
the efficacy of their own culinary magic, by establishing themselves as
knowledgeable practitioners of witchcraft, many women managed to
provide themselves and their families with a degree of socioeconomic
security within the confines of an oppressive colonial society. In this
way, some women gained a degree of power by offering to perform food
magic in exchange for goods or monetary remuneration, while many
others kept potentially harmful community members at bay as a result
of their reputation as witchcraft practitioners.
As a remnant of these colonial beliefs—heavily influenced by European
constructions of the female witch—the fear of food witchcraft carried out
by women remains widespread throughout rural Quechua communi-
ties in southern Perú. Consequently, the texts of colonial chroniclers and
extirpators of idolatry do not contain the only descriptions of “witch
cooks”—numerous versions of contemporary Quechua narratives also
feature characters who use food as a vehicle for dispensing magic. Nar-
ratives such as “The Bear and Her Three Cubs” (“Ukuku kimsa wawayuq-
manta”), “Isicha Puytu,” “The Old Devil Woman” (“Saqra paya”), “The
Witch Cook” (“Layqa wayk’uq”), and “The Black Worm” (“Yana Kuru”)
describe Andean characters with supernatural powers who use culinary
spells to create chaos in the lives of humans. In many narratives, these
frightful characters attempt to wreak havoc on the lives of unsuspecting
150 Chapter 5

humans, and often audiences recognize the supernatural power of a char-

acter through a narrator’s descriptions of monstrous appetites or unusual
victuals and cooking practices. In these willakuykuna, cooks with super-
natural power usually prepare food for domestic consumption and not
for commercial sale, which makes their actions seem even more frightful,
since the poisonous meals are served by familiar, trusted cooks within a
domestic space.

The Food Magic of Witch Cooks

and Other Quechua Characters

The Quechua oral tradition includes a large cast of malevolent beings

whose supernatural powers are often revealed by narrators, through
descriptions of their unusual eating habits or disrespect for the Quechua
food-landscape.11 In the willakuykuna performed in the southern Andes,
the malevolent characters of the layqa, suq’a, and condenado characters
rarely attack indigenous protagonists within the community’s space of
the llaqta (where ayllu members construct their homes), or in their agricul-
tural fields (chacrakuna). Instead, these characters’ attacks tend to materi-
alize in urban areas or within the “uncultivated,” “savage” space of the
sallqa (Isbell 1985, 89–97; Bolin 1998, 102–5; Arnold and Dios Yapita 1996,
10). In this way, cities and the sallqa come to represent portions of the An-
dean landscape in which family and community members can no longer
intervene to protect vulnerable runakuna from the violence committed
against individuals and the ayllu’s values and customs. By representing
the negative consequences suffered by those who stray too far from the
physical and cultural boundaries of the ayllu, narratives involving sinister
uses of food serve as a vehicle for the continuous (re)construction of ayllu
members’ identities in opposition to the perceived dangers emanating
from beyond the community’s borders.
The cunning layqa character frequently appears in contemporary
Quechua narratives where she uses her food magic to manipulate un-
suspecting diners who unwisely consume her meals in the space of the
sallqa. I have chosen to translate layqa as “witch,” a gloss which reflects
the contemporary usage of the word (Lira 1941, 553; Cusihuamán 1976,
77).12 Notably, Gonçaléz Holguín’s colonial Quechua dictionary describes
a separate category of a healing sorcerer (hampiyok) who specializes in
food sorcery (“Hampiyok mikuy, Hechizos en comida”) (Gonçaléz Holguín
1989, 543).13
Unlike the layqa who is a human women with supernatural powers, the
condenado (also known as the kukuchi) is a malevolent character who may
assume a human form and who frequently reveals his supernatural iden-
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 151

tity through alimentary aberrations. Quechua narrators represent the con-

denado as a character who rejects proffered food (often in secret), or who
prefers to ingest unusual victuals which seem repugnant from a human
perspective. José María Arguedas describes condenados as the souls (almas)
of people who have died a tragic, “bad death” (la mala muerte) as a result
of a suicide, assassination, or an accident: “Sinful souls which, judged by
God, have been sentenced to live in the cordilleras. They are spirits that
come out at the hour of dusk or during certain hours of the night and they
walk across the cordillera filling travelers with fear” (Arguedas 1953, 131,
169). The belief in a being similar to the condenado remained widespread
among rural Spanish villagers until well into the twentieth century, so
that it is not surprising that this supernatural figure would have been
carried to the New World along with Spanish conquistadores, merchants,
and travelers (Fourtané 1991, 162).
These souls of the damned often kill nocturnal travelers and solitary
shepherds in the sallqa with an attack of fright. In the Quechua oral tra-
dition, condenados frequently appear in the form of animals: dogs, cats,
lizards, toads, snakes, or birds (particularly owls). They may also roam
the cordillera in human form, although they do not consume human food
(Quispe Quispe 2005, personal communication). While condenados do not
always realize that they have died, when they appear before the living
they sometimes choose to reveal the reason for their condemnation. Dur-
ing interviews conducted during August–November 2005, in the commu-
nity of Ch’akalqocha, Chinchero, Grimaldo Quillahuamán Cusihuamán
repeatedly affirmed that condenados’ unusual food preferences often
reveal their true identity:
Condenados appear human-like as they walk, however, they eat spines—
spines that grow over doorways. That is what they eat for certain, according
to the destiny they walk toward. It is said that they eat only a little, I suppose
this is their destiny of course. They always eat the r’uqata cactus, or some-
times just those spines.
Cundenaduqa runakuna hinas purinku hinaspas kiskatas mihunku, kiskata punku-
kunapi wiñayunku. Chayta mihunku chiqaq, sigun distinumansi purinku. Pisillatas
mihunanku, chay distinunkuchá riki. Ruq’ata mihurunku a vicis chay kiskallata.
(Quillahuamán Cusihuamán 2005, personal communication)14

In many Quechua narratives, condenados also demonstrate a desire to eat

human flesh when they encounter defenseless travelers on lonely moun-
tain paths.
Another malevolent being who can often be recognized by its refusal
to accept or ingest human food is the suq’a—described in Ch’akalqocha
as a type of “atrocious machu” (“millay machu”). In Chinchero and other
regions of the southern Andes, machukuna are described as desiccated
152 Chapter 5

bones (or the shell of a human form) that wander through the sierra in an
attempt to recuperate their flesh (Allen 2002, 45–48; 1981, 162). Although
Gonçalez-Holguín’s Quechua dictionary does not include an entry for
the “suq’a” being, it does include various related words which suggest
the desiccated nature of contemporary suq’a descriptions. For example,
Gonçalez-Holguín defines “sokrascca” as “drawn, withered man without
juice, like uprooted cane” (Gonçalez-Holguín 1989, 328).15
The runakuna of Ch’akalqocha explain that both the suq’akuna and the
machukuna come out at night, although the suq’a prefer to live in acrid
swamps, while the machu live in holes carved into the sides of mountains.
Machukuna are not always malignant; they occasionally accept human
food and mostly focus on working their noctural fields in order to recu-
perate their flesh through physical labor (Hernán Quillahuamán 2007;
2009, personal communication; Nieves Quispe 2007, personal communi-
cation). On the other hand, suq’akuna do not engage in productive labor,
never ingest human food, and walk around at night in search of human
victims.16 Although the suq’a shares this last characteristic with the much-
feared ñak’aq being (also called pishtaco or lik’ichiri), the two differ in that
ñak’aqkuna are live, malevolent humans, while the suq’akuna are deceased
and remain in limbo as a result of unjust or unsavory actions carried out
in life which prevent their bones from disintegrating and returning to the
earth.17 According to narrators in Ch’akalqocha, the suq’akuna’s primary
problem stems from their lack of equilibrium, given that they possess
bones, but not flesh. Since its lifeless body has not been able to disinte-
grate into the earth or pachamama, the suq’a wanders through silent spaces
across the Andes searching for a way to acquire human flesh in order to
walk “fully/completely” (hunt’asqa) and atone for the sins (huchakuna) that
have caused it to fall into a wretched state of limbo.
Sinister and intriguing, the suq’a is one of many characters in the
Quechua oral tradition who transition from entertaining (albeit frighten-
ing) plots into a very real, source of fear in the everyday lives of many
runakuna. In contrast to the fantastic beings which populate other literary
traditions, for the runakuna of the southern Andes, layqa, suq’a, and con-
denado characters can inflict pain and cause deadly chaos within the world
of the imagination, as well as in their daily lives. These characters enliven
contemporary Quechua willakuykuna with their antics and machina-
tions. They engage and delight audiences since narrators tend to initially
describe a layqa, condenado, or suq’a in human terms, so that only clever
listeners accurately interpret references to their supernatural characteris-
tics, mannerisms, and food aberrations. Audience members and narrators
respect particularly adroit listeners who have gained a reputation for
being the first to shout out their discernment of a character’s malevolent
identity. Not surprisingly then, narrators assert that their performances
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 153

of willakuykuna involving the supernatural manipulation of food serve to

both entertain audiences and to deliver cautionary lessons.

“Isicha Puytu”

In the tragic narrative known as “Isicha Puytu,” a mother is forced to use

her supernatural powers against her daughter, while the narrative’s cau-
tionary lesson warns listeners of the dangers associated with forsaking
one’s family and violating food-related etiquette. My analysis of this wil-
lakuy cites a version of the Quechua narrative transcribed and translated
to the Spanish by Father Jorge A. Lira, a folklorist who served as one of
José María Arguedas’s most important collaborators in recording, pre-
serving, and publishing collections of Quechua verbal art.
In “Isicha Puytu,” food represents the warmth, safety, and affection
associated with the family home. Within the context of establishing kin-
ship bonds in the Andes, sharing food within a domestic space signals the
bond between a child and the family’s household heads, whether or not
it is their biological child (Weismantel 1995, 11–12). Thus, “eating cooked
grains raised by a household on its own land and harvested and processed
by family labor results in a body and a self that have been shaped by work
and invested in the farm” (Weismantel 1995, 12). Food also serves as a
marker of ethnicity, so that chicken, beer, and rice signal relative “white-
ness,” while guinea pig (cuy), chicha, and potatoes indicate one’s status as
an indigenous campesino (Weismantel 2001, 190–91; 1988, 87–142).
In this story, a young woman named Isicha Puytu abandons her fam-
ily home and ayllu responsibilities when she succumbs to the material
temptations offered within the home of a curaca-seducer who lives in a
nearby town.18 The grief-stricken mother does not hesitate when in need
of a strategy to convince her wayward daughter to return home—surely
a basketful of homemade goodies will remind Isicha of her family and
old way of life? When the girl’s brothers are sent to fetch her with gifts
of food, Isicha throws the proffered delicacies in their faces, together
with harsh insults: “What is this that you have brought me? As if I were
the sort to eat this class of food!” (“Imatataq kaytari apamuwanki. ¡Kay
mikhuqchukarqani ñuqari!”) (Lira 1990, 74). The audience begins to suspect
the girl’s impending doom when the mother’s carefully prepared meals
cannot lure the young woman away from the clutches of the wealthy lo-
cal landowner.
When Isicha’s brothers report back to their parents with a precise
description of the girl’s behavior, they simply cannot believe what they
hear: “No, it’s not possible that our child could do something like this”
(“Chiqaqtachus wawanchis chhayna kashan”) (Lira 1990, 75).19 After some
154 Chapter 5

time has passed, Isicha’s mother decides to send her husband to inquire
after the girl, and once again she sends a package of delicacies for her
daughter. Yet the spoiled mistress receives her father in the same disre-
spectful fashion. Twice she rebukes him with the insult “old dog” (machu
alqu) and just as before, she rejects the food prepared by her mother:

Saying,20 “I don’t eat this sort of food, old dog,” she didn’t want to accept the
gift. “Get out of here old man! Don’t wait for me to recognize you!” Saying
this she threw her father out.
“Kay rikch’aq mikhuna mikhuqchu karqani, yaw machu alqu,” nispas mana chaski-
kuyta munanchu. “¡Lluqsiy kaymanta machu! ¡Ama ñuqata riqsipakuwaychu!”21
nispa taytantaqa qarkuranpun. (Lira 1990, 75)

When the girl’s father returns home and sadly reports the manner in which his
daughter has treated him, Isicha’s mother still refuses to accept such news.
Instead, the mother decides to make her own trip to the curaca’s home.
On this occasion, the narrator carefully describes how the mother prepares
Isicha’s meal, previously referred to only as a “quqawcha,” or “bundle of
snacks.” Determined to bring her daughter home, Isicha’s mother directs
her nervous energy to the kitchen:

She set about making the snacks: quinua and cañihua cookies, mote, steamed
ch’uñu. Saying, “These were my child’s favorite treats. My child must be dy-
ing to eat these things.” 22
Quqawtas ruwamusqa k’ispiñuta, sara mut’ita, ch’uñu phasita. “Kaykuna
misk’ikuqmi wawayqa karqan. Kaykunamantachá wañukushan wawayqa,” nispas.
(Lira 1990, 76)

When hearing a description of the foods prepared by Isicha’s mother,

runa audiences immediately realize the significance of these delicacies.
They know that recipes for k’ispiñuta cookies require cooks to carry out
the time-consuming process of grinding quinua and cañihua flour. Listen-
ers also know that most rural Quechua families would only purchase the
relatively costly ingredient of refined sugar for a very special occasion.
Similarly, the number of ingredients and time needed to prepare the
steamed ch’uñu dish called ch’uñu phasita explains why Quechua cooks
do not frequently prepare the tasty meal. Narrators invoke the culturally
specific meanings conveyed by these culinary references in order to ex-
press the intensity of the family’s consternation when faced with Isicha’s
inappropriate disappearance and disrespectful actions.
When Isicha’s mother arrives at the curaca’s home, the young mistress
greets her mother with insults. Even when the cruel girl refuses her
mother’s embrace, the determined woman still offers her daughter the
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 155

bundle of delicacies. Unlike the offerings of her brothers and father, Isicha
accepts her mother’s package (“Chaytas chaskirqun Isicha Puytuqa”), filling
both the audience and the mother with a sense of hope; perhaps the girl
will finally come to realize her callousness (Lira 1990, 76). Yet the next line
eliminates any chance that Isicha might change her ways, as she berates
her mother’s food with even more malicious energy than ever before:
Saying, “You all keep bringing me this disgusting food, you all wait for me to
recognize you. I never knew any of you, putrid woman!” Then she dumped
what had been brought for her on her mother’s head.
“Ama sapankaykichis, khaynañiraq millay mikuyta apamuwaspaykichis riqsipaku-
waychischu. Riqsirqaykichischu ¡asna warmi!” nispa nin. Umanmantas mamanta
hich’aykun chay apasqanwan. (Lira 1990, 76–77)23

This exchange resembles the previous encounters between Isicha and

her family members; yet this time, instead of simply declaring that she
is not the type of person who consumes such foods, she explicitly refers
to her mother’s carefully prepared bundle as “disgusting food” (“millay
mikuyta”). The act of wasting and refusing to accept a gift of food violates
a central tenet of Quechua food decorum. Moreover, Isicha’s rejection of
indigenous Andean staples such as ch’uñu, cañihua, and mote is emblem-
atic of her repudiation of a rural, Quechua way of life. By choosing to
remain with a lover whom her parents disapprove of and in casting away
the food her family has painstakingly planted, harvested, processed, pre-
pared, and delivered to her, Isicha symbolically disowns her own family,
disrespects ayllu customs, and seeks to distance herself from her agrarian,
indigenous culture.
Isicha’s infuriated mother does not overlook the implications of her
daughter’s decision to reject the food. The older woman first incredu-
lously and then angrily demands, “You really don’t remember that I am
your mother? And is it really true that you dumped food on your father,
and that you did the very same thing to your brother? Come on, we’re
going!” (“Manachu yuyanki. Mamaykitaq kashani? ¡Chiqachu taytaykitapis
hich’ayamurqanki mikhunawan. Turaykitapis kaqllatataq ruwamusqanki. Haku
ripusun!”) (Lira 1990, 77). The mother’s emotions transform from disbelief
into fury as she verbalizes the nature and depth of her daughter’s rejec-
tion. With this new and painful realization, Isicha’s mother begins to cry
as she cleans up the food that her daughter has let fall to the earth—not as
an offering to the pachamama deity, but as an incredibly disrespectful act
of defiance. The mother then tells Isicha that she will no longer consider
her as a daughter and that from this day forward she can never reclaim
her parents’ love.
When Isicha responds to this declaration with the ultimate insult:
“And who could ever call you ‘my mother’?” (“Pitaq nisunkiman qan-
156 Chapter 5

tari ‘Mamaymi’”), the older woman responds powerfully and without

hesitation: “Saying, ‘With this alone you will find your everlasting
life.’ And she began once again to milk her breast toward the ground”
(“‘Kayllawan wiñay kawsayniykita tarinki,’ nispas ñuñunta ch’awarparikusqa
mamanqa panpaman”) (Lira 1990, 78). The Quechua narrator describes
the nature of the mother’s gesture by using the precisely inflected verb
ch’awarparikusqa. Ch’away is the infinitive form of the verb “to milk,”
to which the narrator adds the infixes: -pa- (indicating the repetition
of an action with the intent of correcting something that has already
occurred), -ri- (marking the initiation of the action indicated by the
verb), and -ku- (the reflexive marker) (Aráoz and Salas 1993, 58, 110,
148). When used together, these infixes inflect the normally transitive
verb ch’away with a powerful and pithy meaning. The mother’s verbal
declaration and physical gesture combine to form a meaning that an
audience/reader familiar with the Quechua culture will understand as
nothing less than Isicha’s certain doom.24
The connotation associated with the repetition of a breast-milking ges-
ture, signaled in this case by the Quechua infix -pa-, provides an impor-
tant signal for the audience. Unable to nourish and protect her estranged
adult daughter, Isicha’s mother gestures that she is milking herself. The
mother repeats a past action that once sustained her child, but which she
now undertakes in vain. The uselessness of her gesture is threefold: she
obviously can no longer draw sustenance from her breasts, she directs the
symbolic stream of milk toward the ground, and her daughter refuses to
accept any proffered nourishment. As the statement, “With this alone you
will find your everlasting life” prefaces the milking gesture, the words
become a curse cast upon the girl by her wounded mother. Understood
in this manner, the words and gestures come to signify both the mother’s
realization that she has nurtured her daughter in vain, and her simultane-
ous warning that Isicha must be punished for forgetting the importance
of kin who have nourished and cared for her since infancy. The young
woman will pay for her heartless actions by forever relinquishing the
chance to encounter “everlasting life.” In rejecting the gift of her mother’s
food, Isicha guarantees her own doom.
Sure enough, that same night the ungrateful girl dies in her sleep. As
a condenada, Isicha realizes the cause of her unhappy fate and explains
the reason to her kinsman (compadre): “Having rejected the food offered
to me by my brother, this is a small offense. But the offense of having
rejected the food offered by my father, my mother—this is a grave of-
fense” (“Turayman mikhuy wikch’uyukusqaypas, pisi hucharaqmi. Taytayman,
mamayman mikhunawan wikch’uykusqaymi hucha—Hatun hucha chay”) (Lira
1990, 80). Yet realizing the gravity of her transgression cannot save Isicha
from the fate that her spurned mother has cast upon her. The confirma-
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 157

tion of Isicha’s new condenada status comes when vicious dogs—who, in

Quechua lore, detect the difference between humans and condenados—
pursue her and the curaca as they hopelessly wander across the coun-
tryside. In this narrative, Isicha’s family attempts to use luxury foods
to entice the wayward girl back to the family home. The young woman
disrespects both sexual and food decorum and rudely refuses her family’s
entreaties to leave the unsuitable curaca partner and return to the ayllu.
Thus, Isicha’s mother has no choice but to reveal her supernatural powers
and transform her ungrateful daughter into a condenada.

Two versions of “The Black Worm” (“Yana Kuru”)

On a warm, November afternoon Grimaldo Quillahuamán Cusihuamán

narrated a willakuy called “The Black Worm.” After having spent several
hours planting potatoes in some of Mr. Quillahuamán’s fields, a group
of ten male and female ayllu members sat on blankets in front of his
house while enjoying a batch of his wife Rosa’s locally renowned frutil-
lada (a fermented corn beverage infused with strawberries). One older
man expressed a hope that the frutillada would cure his stomach pain
and in response, a younger man joked that this discomfort would likely
continue as long as the man’s wife continued to serve him “unhealthy”
(“mana allinta”) foods. Grimaldo responded to this allusion to domestic
witchcraft by reminding the group about the potentially grievous results
of unhappy domestic relationships.
In “The Black Worm,” a woman offers her husband ch’uñu phasi
(steamed ch’uñu) which she infuses with black worms, in response to
his cruel words and actions.25 According to Grimaldo, the woman uses
“magic” (“magiawan kasqan”) to contaminate her partner’s food. In this
version of the willakuy, the narrator explains that a traveling merchant
becomes displeased when he recognizes his wife unexpectedly approach-
ing him during a business journey and he refuses to accept the meal that
she offers him. The woman’s unanticipated arrival at nightfall (“ch’isin”)
and in the dangerous space of the sallqa foreshadows the problems that
ensue. She arrives just as her husband and his business partner are de-
ciding whether or not to attempt a potentially risky nocturnal crossing
of the mountain crevasses that lie ahead. After describing the wife’s un-
timely arrival at this dangerous impasse, Grimaldo calmly yet ominously
explains, “my friend lived unhappily with his wife” (“warminwan mana
allintachu kawsaran”). He then describes how the woman offers her hus-
band a parcel of steamed ch’unu to which he defiantly responds, “I will
not eat this, you eat it” (“Ama mihuymanchu, qan mihuy”) (Quillahuamán
Cusihuamán 2005, personal communication).
158 Chapter 5

When she realizes that her food has been rejected, the woman becomes
irate and slaps her husband. He slaps and kicks her in retaliation and
causes their sleeping baby, which his wife carries on her back, to begin
to scream and cry. The persistent woman responds to this aggression by
demanding, “Doesn’t hitting us in this way also cause you pain? The child
is crying, listen! I have brought you food, now eat!” (“Ch’akchishan mana-
chu kay llaqikunki. Kay wawa waqashan, yaw! Apamushayki mihuy!”). To this
question and demand, the woman’s equally obstinate husband brusquely
replies, “I will not eat, damn you!” (“Mana mihuymanchu, caraju!”) (Quil-
lahuamán Cusihuamán 2005, personal communication). When Quechua
narrators introduce a character who disregards a food-related taboo, au-
dience members often gasp and briefly turn their eyes toward the ground
to signal to a narrator that they have perceived the foreshadowing of an
imprudent character’s downfall. In this case, eight of the ten listeners sig-
naled to Grimaldo in this way.
The narrator concludes his performance by describing the consequences
of the husband’s churlish actions:

But then it wasn’t steamed ch’uñu at all, but a huti huti worm, a black worm
about yea long [four-inch length indicated with hands]. In the old days,
inside old walls and in the earth these worms lived. So it wasn’t steamed
ch’uñu at all.
Hinasqa mana ch’unu phasi kasqachu, chay kuru, huti huti kuru, yana kuru karan
kaynankuna . . . ñawpaq pacha pircakunapi pachanpi karan anchi kasqa. Manan
ch’uñu phasichu karan. (Quillahuamán Cusihuamán 2005, personal commu-
nication)

When I asked Grimaldo to describe the story’s meaning, he asserted that

it urges men to remember that mistreated wives may attempt to exact
revenge through the use of their own food witchcraft, or by acquiring
adulterated meals from local layqa witches. As in the narrative known as
“The Newborn and the Condemned Soul” (described below), this willakuy
also cautions listeners to pay careful attention to the context in which food
is served; meals offered in mysterious or unexpected circumstances may
prove to be potentially harmful or even fatal for a character.
This version of “The Black Worm” also reinforces the importance of
respecting familial and kinship relationships—particularly as related to
food decorum. Quechua wives often prepare and pack lunches (fiambre,
Sp.; quqawu, Q.) for spouses and children who will not be able to return
home for a meal. If family members plan to work in a nearby field, women
often deliver or even prepare lunch at the agricultural plot or herding pas-
ture. Recipients of a quqawu generally incline their heads and shoulders
toward the cook in a gesture of gratitude and also verbally thank her for
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 159

the meal. In “The Black Worm,” the violence of the husband’s words and
gestures in response to the wife’s proffered meal strike Quechua audi-
ences as appallingly disrespectful. Thus, just as in the case of the narrative
“Isicha Puytu,” when food decorum is so blatantly breached by a family
member, audiences are not surprised when cooks choose to punish their
own kin with food witchcraft.
Quechua verbal artists weave plots that show how the preparation
and serving of nourishing foods strengthens kinship ties, while a failure
to respect familial relationships and food etiquette may force a cook to
use witchcraft to punish impudent kin. Since food plays such a key role
in the construction of kinship bonds, the consumption of meals outside
the family household is considered undesirable and perhaps even dan-
gerous. Indeed, parents frequently remind their children: “Food from
one’s own stove is always healthier” (“Aswan sumaqpuni, chay mihunaq
q’unchaykimanta”). The fact that the Quechua lexicon includes a specific
verb for the action of eating outside one’s own house (mihupakuy), also
signals the importance of the concept in Quechua culture. As the food
studies scholar Carole Counihan has pointed out, “Precisely because eat-
ing and intercourse involve intimacy, they can be dangerous or threaten-
ing when carried out under adverse conditions or with untrustworthy
people” (1999, 10).
Narrators in Ch’akalqocha and other nearby communities perform a
variety of narratives which warn listeners of the dangers that frequently
befall solitary, nocturnal travelers in the sallqa who do not carry a quqawu
prepared by a family member. Many of these willakuykuna take place
within rundown, seemingly abandoned adobe houses which are known
in Chinchero as “sallqa wasi” because they are not integrated into the
domesticated space of a town or populated community (llaqta). Travelers
and stranded shepherds occasionally stop at these houses for the night
and inevitably, mysterious hosts materialize and offer the unsuspecting
wanderers an evening meal of hank’a (toasted corn and/or lima beans)
or ch’uñu phasi. In these narratives, a handful of hank’a often turn out to
be human teeth, while narrators eventually reveal that plates of ch’uñu
phasi are really nothing more than cleverly disguised rocks. The preva-
lence of these stories reflects the commonly held belief that abandoned
or dilapidated houses (especially those in the high puna tablelands) are
really sallqa wasi which provide refuge for the condenados and layqas that
frequently attempt to bewitch unsuspecting visitors through the inges-
tion of adulterated foods.26
Quechua narratives which emphasize the importance of avoiding situa-
tions in which one’s family member cannot provide a traveler with a quqawu
sack lunch stress that mihupakuy must be undertaken with great care, and
only after establishing a relationship of trust with any strangers who invite
160 Chapter 5

one to eat in their home. In the version of “The Black Worm” discussed
above, the wife is an intimately familiar cook and has sought to help her
husband avoid the undesirable act of mihupakuy. Yet her partner commits an
egregious offense in failing to respect Quechua food decorum which would
require him to graciously accept the food she has prepared and packed.
Consequently, the woman decides to punish this grave misconduct by using
her supernatural power to contaminate her husband’s meal.
Grimaldo also performs an alternate version of this narrative when he
is not particularly concerned with relaying a didactic lesson about the im-
portance of treating one’s wife with respect. When he wishes to highlight
Chinchero’s reputation as a region populated with a high concentration
of malevolent beings, he performs a version of “The Black Worm” which
contains a more frightful (“q’aqchanapaq”) plot twist. In this second ver-
sion of the narrative, Grimaldo reveals that the woman who offers food
to the businessman is not really his wife, “That woman, she wasn’t his
wife. She definitely was not his wife” (“Chay warmita, mana warminchu
kasqan. Mana warminpaschu”). As a consequence of not paying attention to
the physical characteristics and behavior of the female food purveyor, the
man fails to realize that this woman is not his wife, but a malignant suq’a
spirit who appears at nightfall, in the sallqa, and in the form of his wife.
At the conclusion of this version of the willakuy, Grimaldo reveals that
the livid man (“ph’iña qhari”) does not realize his mistake in time and his
lack of perceptiveness leads to his death shortly after having ingested the
spurious ch’uñu phasi which the suq’a forces him to eat:
This woman [actually] she was not a woman. In the days of long ago, it is
said that these [beings] were called suq’a paya [malignant spirit of a little old
lady]. [This one] approached the man, and then she turned herself into a little
old lady. She approached the man, and then became a little old lady. And
then, [finally], she turned into bones.
Chay warmita, mana warmichu kasqan. Ñawpaq pacha suq’a paya nisqanku nispa.
Qhariman achhuyusqan, hinaspa payaman tukushan. Qhariman achhuyusqan,
hinaspa payayataq. Chaymantaqa tulluyansi. (Quillahuamán Cusihuamán 2005,
personal communication)

In this narrative (as in almost every willakuy performed in Ch’akalqocha),

the narrator opts for an open aesthetic of ambiguity in his denouement. In-
stead of clearly detailing the tragic end of the male protagonist, he creates
a portentous tone—more ominous than explicitly violent. When I asked
Grimaldo to describe the important differences between the two versions
of “The Black Worm” willakuy, he explained that in the first version the
woman who appears in the mountain pass is actually the merchant’s wife,
so that the narrative serves “to remind” (yuyarichiy) audiences about the
importance of respecting family members (and their wives in particular).
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 161

Grimaldo affirms that in the second and more surprising (manchachiy)

version of this willakuy, it is not the man’s wife who appears in the moun-
tain pass, but a malignant suq’a spirit who materializes in the form of his
partner. Both versions of “The Black Worm” emphasize the importance
of paying attention to the context in which food is offered, while also
demonstrating the manner in which Quechua narrators can weave differ-
ent versions of a willakuy in order to convey slightly different messages to
their audiences on any particular occasion.

“The Newborn Baby and the Condemned Soul”

(“Qhulla wawata cundenadutaq”)

Descriptions of food and hunger in Quechua oral narratives also teach

audiences the importance of paying careful attention to the foods which
strangers request, reject, or consume since such actions often provide vital
clues to hidden identities and intentions. In these willakuykuna, strangers’
violations of Quechua food decorum often signal their evil machinations.
In a narrative referred to in Ch’akalqocha as “The Newborn Baby and the
Condemned Soul” (“Qhulla wawata cundenadutaq”), Rosa Quispe Quispe
describes a frightful nocturnal encounter in the sallqa with a condenado who
intends to attack and consume a woman’s newborn child. Although the
condenado initially claims that he is lost and only wishes to continue onward
(“Chinkallakamun, riyta munashani”), the mother’s attention to the traveler’s
unusual food etiquette helps her to detect his supernatural identity.
After complaining of hunger, the traveling stranger rudely refuses to ac-
cept the ch’uñu phasi the woman offers him. This inexplicable action incites
the mother’s suspicion and she begins to suspect the awful truth—that the
stranger is actually a condenado who craves not human food, but infant
flesh. The mother becomes horrified when she realizes that the malevolent
soul intends to make a meal of her defenseless baby. In her version of the
narrative, Rosa confirms the woman’s fears in the closing line:
That condemned soul wanted the newborn baby and if this is the baby’s
destiny, the condenado eats. Just eaten in the night, in the night he eats it
[the baby].
Qhulla wawata munashan chay cundenadu, mihurumanmi si distinusqa chaypaq
kashan chay cundenadu. Mihupunña tutapi, tutapi mihupunña. (Quispe Quispe
2005, personal communication)

As in the willakuy “The Black Worm,” the narrator of “The Newborn

Baby” uses repetition to emphasize the sinister nature of the event. In
this case, the story ends ominously and ambiguously with a closing line
that repeats the dreadful possibility that the baby may be eaten during
162 Chapter 5

the night. This line begins with a warning expressed with an uncommon
Quechua sentence structure in which the verb appears before the noun,
“Mihupunña tutapi” (“Just eaten in the night”). In the repetition of this
warning, the second clause of the sentence acquires a more direct tone
since it follows a typical, verb-final syntax, “tutapi mihupuña” (“in the
night he eats it [the baby]”). The narrative reminds Rosa’s audiences of
the dangers associated with nocturnal travel, especially when undertaken
alone and across the uninhabited, uncultivated space of the sallqa. The
willakuy also explains that while it is extremely important to carefully
observe a stranger’s eating habits, detecting a supernatural appetite may
not always save humans from malevolent intentions.

“The Witch Cook” (“Layqa wayk’uq”)

In “The Newborn Baby,” a stranger’s failure to adhere to culturally ap-

propriate food etiquette signals his malicious intentions, while in “Isicha
Puytu” and “The Black Worm,” familiar cooks use their supernatural
power and access to food to punish a relative’s serious breach of Quechua
food decorum. In a story known as “The Witch Cook” (“Layqa wayk’uq”)
another trusted cook attempts to use food witchcraft as revenge for what
she deems as her son’s stubborn refusal to heed her advice regarding
courtship decisions. When a mother does not approve of her son’s girl-
friend, she decides to use her supernatural powers to lure him home and
away from his lover. In November 2005, I heard Rosa Quispe Quispe
perform a version of this narrative to an audience which consisted of five
other ayllu women seated in front of her house while discussing the dif-
ficulties of maintaining healthy relationships with their adult children.
Rosa’s performance of “The Witch Cook” integrates numerous aural and
visual signals; she changes the inflection of her voice for each different
character and suggests evil intent by leaning forward toward her audi-
ence, hunching her shoulders, and lowering her eyebrows. Instead of
explicitly distinguishing the dialogue of different characters in a “he said,
she said” format, Rosa lowers the register of her voice when the character
of a toad speaks, assumes a singsong tone when the female layqa talks,
and maintains an intermediate vocal register when the layqa’s son ad-
dresses his mother in the story.
Quechua narrators usually take special care to tell their audiences how
and when they originally learned a certain story. In this case, Rosa asserts
that she heard this narrative “in the times of long ago” (“ñawpaqraqcha
karan”) from the mouth of the witch cook herself. Indeed, the last line of
the story reiterates this assertion and reinforces Rosa’s status as a reliable
narrator. The fact that most ayllu members know that Rosa spoke with a
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 163

dangerous layqa when she was still a young girl contributes to her status
as a very respected local source of information (yuyaq mama) regarding
layqa, condenados, and suq’a. In this transcription of the willakuy, examples
of parallel structure appear in italics, while audience commentary ap-
pears in parenthesis; if more than one person interjects, the phrase has
also been marked with two exclamation points.27

Long ago there was a woman, a witch actually, she had raised two toads
inside a new cooking pot—there were two of these toads. There was a short
green woven cord, and there was a short red woven cord. They say that with these
cords the woman made those toads dance in the cooking pot. Holding onto
these little cords she made the toads only dance and dance.28 5
“To whom, where, do you want to go my brother [toads]?”[the woman
asked them]
Then, “It is your child that I want, your child I am wanting” [the toads] said.
(Really?! How awful!) 10
And since the woman’s son had gone away to work, to hasten his return,
she prepared all the best foods for an afternoon meal: she roasted cuy, she
made tortillas, she made olluco tubers with uchu peppers. Then, this layqa, set
aside all of these deliciously cooked dishes. And so they say, then, this witch
quickly spit in the food, three times. This witch spit, right there, there in the
dish where the food was made. 15
[But the son] he had a lover, and by then, this lover, in [the village of]
Marcapata she had hidden the young man—and so they say that [this lover]
he lived in Marcapata. In the afternoon, Zas! [narrator whistles] a breath [of
wind] blew past, and this lover from Marcapata, she had heard what [this layqa]
had said and she told her young lover everything. And so they decided, 20
“Let’s go catch up with this witch.”
So by then the young man already knew that a “deliciously” cooked meal
awaited him.
“My mother, I will not eat. You eat first, eat mother.”
(Ay!! And then what?!!) 25
And so he forced his own mother to eat on and on, they say it was only
his mother [who ate]. That layqa had been forced to eat all of the food which
shortly before what evils hadn’t she done to it? Then, already having arrived
inside the corral and having entered the corral, having urinated little by little
while making the food, in this way that old witch had transformed the
food—that’s how it was with that witch. 30
In that big ayllu over there she lived. Long ago she told me this story, in
the times of long ago.

Ñawpaqraqcha karan huk señora, huk layqa, hinaspas, hamp’atu iskayta

uywasqa musuq mankachapi—chay hamp’atu iskayta karan. Huk q’umer
watuchawan karan, huk puka watuchawan karan. Chaysi chay hamp’atukuna
tusuchisqa mankapi. Chaysi watuchamanta hap’ispa tusullachisqa tusuyta.
“Pita, mayta, riyta munanki turachay,” nispa
164 Chapter 5

Chaysi, “wawaykita munani, wawaykita munashani,” nispa niqtin.

(¡¿Chiqaqchu?! ¡Akakallaw!)
Chay mamitaqa wawanta llank’aq risqa, chaysi kutimunanpaq, mihunata
wayk’usqa allin mirindata: quwita kankan, turtillata ruwan, lisas uchutawan
ruwan. Chayniyuqta, sumaq wayk’uta suyachin mihuchiman karan, chay
layqata. Chaysi, chayman, chay layqata mihunaman thuqaruchisqa, kinsa
kama. Chay layqata thuqaruchisqa, chaymi, chay jarrapi mihuchinanpaq.
Inamurada kasqa, chaymi, chay inamuradan Marcapatapi pakasqa chay
juven—chaysi Marcapatapi tiyasqa. Tardipi, ¡Zas! samaspa haykumusqa,
ima chay inamuradan Marcapatamanta uyllarisqa rimasqanta chay juvenman
willaramusqa. Chaymanta nisharanku,
“Haywarusunchis chay layqata.”
Chayta yacharuqtiña chay chaymi mihuna wayk’usqata platupi sumaqta
suyachin.
“Manan mihuymanchu mantay. Mihuy qan primiruta, mihuy mantayta.”
(¡¡Ay!! ¡¿Chhaynaqachu?!)
Mihurachipusqa mantan, nispa ñataq mamallatantaq. Chay layqata mi-
hurachipusqa chaysi huk ratuman imatachá ruwaranqa. Hinaspas, ña-
manta lluqsirusqa kanchapi ukhuta haykurusqa chay kancha, hisp’asqanta
astallamanta mihuchisqa chay layqa mamaku chaywan kutichikun chaywan
mihusqa—chaynan chay layqa.
Haqay hatun ayllupi anchiypi, tiyaran. Antismantaraq, paymi willawan
ñawpa timpupi karan.

Quechua narrators often signal the beginning of a performance by form-

ing strings of sentences that include both parallel structure and repetition.
Rosa frequently begins her narrations in this way, and in “The Witch
Cook” she also uses repeated phrases and words to highlight particularly
dreadful actions. She begins this performance with a soft and mysterious
voice aimed at drawing in her listeners and capturing the attention of
distracted audience members. The narrative commences with a sinister
description of a woman who, “Holding onto these little cords she made
the toad only dance and dance” (Quispe Quispe, line 5). This “señora lay-
qa’s” power to incite toads to “dance and dance” immediately signals an
impending danger, as it is well known that only a powerful hampiq curer
or layqa witch can motivate a toad to dance. In the farming communities
surrounding Chinchero, the appearance of a toad (hamp’atu) near one’s
house or lurking around one’s potato, barley, lima bean, or oat fields is a
sure sign of bad luck. Although both aquatic (k’ayra) and land-dwelling
(ch’iqlla) frogs are frequently boiled and eaten in broths and used to treat
the symptoms of menopause, rheumatism, and high cholesterol,29 eat-
ing a toad would violate one of the most widespread food taboos in the
southern Andes.30
Numerous colonial sources describe the toad as one of the principal in-
gredients in pre-Colombian culinary “witchcraft” practiced in the Andes.
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 165

Photograph by Gustavo Fierros.

Figure 5.5.   Rosa (right) performs a version of her “Layq’a wayk’uq” narrative in No-
vember 2005. Her sister, Nieves, sits beside her.

The oldest colonial text written in Quechua, the Huarochirí Manuscript

[1608], narrates the case of a two-headed toad who sickens a man. The
narrative reveals that the man’s illness was caused by his wife’s viola-
tion of culinary etiquette: “A grain of muro maize had popped out and
gotten in her private part, and how she, after picking it out, had served it
to a man” (Salomon and Urioste 1991, 57). To cure him, a traveling curer
explains, the man must kill the toad who lives hidden below the mortar
and pestle31 in their home:
A toad, a two-headed one, came out from under it [the grinding stone] and
fled to Anchi Cocha ravine. It exists in a spring there to this day. When peo-
ple come to that spring it either makes them disappear or else drives them
crazy. (translation by Salomon and Urioste 1991, 57)
Chaysi chay hucomantaca huc ampato yscay homayoc llocsimuspa chay anchi cu-
cha huaycomanh pahuarircan chaypis canancama tiacon huc pucyupi chay pucyus
canan chay pi runacuna chayaptinca ña ñispa chincachin ña ñis pa locotapas ruran.
(transcription by Urioste 1991, 165)

Other colonial chronicles also describe the ways in which Andean lay-
qakuna feed, raise, and shelter toad familiars in their kitchens in order to
166 Chapter 5

deploy them against the targets of their witchcraft (Guaman Poma 1980,
1:247–49; Cobo 1893, 4:139; Polo 1916, 3:28; Garcilaso de la Vega 1998, 21).
In the willakuy “The Witch Cook,” the audience immediately realizes the
implications of dancing toads and they signal their perception of imminent
danger by interjecting: “¡¿Chiqaqchu?! ¡¡Akakallaw!!” (Really?! How awful!)
(Quispe Quispe 2005, personal communication, line 9). Quechua narra-
tors expect their audiences to participate in performances, and oftentimes
listeners’ exclamations, questions, or urgings lead narrators to explain a
certain event in greater detail, repeat the description of a particular char-
acter, or continue a narration with even more energy and intensity. Rosa’s
careful balance of pauses and the stress which she places on particular
syllables also help to maintain the cadence and tension in this narrative. In
line 6, the layqa first speaks to her toads. By gradually hunching her shoul-
ders and lowering her voice, the narrator emphasizes the importance of
this moment when the layqa expresses her willingness to listen to the toads′
demands. Rosa moves slightly closer to her audience and pauses briefly
between the first three words of the line, while stressing the initial syllable
of the phrase’s first three words (all marked by the accusative suffix -ta)
“Pita, mayta, rita munanki turachay.” In the following line, one of the toads
emphatically announces his desire to possess the layqa’s son (“wawaykita
munani, wawaykita munashani”). The intensity of the toad’s wish is signaled
through the repetition of the verb munay (“to want”), which in this case,
can be interpreted as the toads’ intention to take control of the son’s soul
(Quispe Quispe 2005, personal communication). In this and other narra-
tives performed in Ch’akalqocha, toad characters articulate a human’s
unspoken desires; in this case, the mother’s determination to control her
son’s destiny and separate him from a girlfriend whom she has deemed
undesirable.
After hearing the toads’ wish, the witch cook does not even verbally
reply, but instead she immediately seeks to hasten her son’s return by pre-
paring plates of Andean delicacies. Many Quechua believe that they can
share food with absent family members through either a symbolic “com-
munion of stomachs,” or by blowing the essence of the prepared food in
the direction of the distant loved one (Allen 2002, 139–40). In Ch’akalqocha,
mothers may attempt to entice wayward children home for a visit by pre-
paring their favorite foods (Rosa Quispe Quispe and Nieves Quispe 2005,
personal communication). “The Witch Cook” and “Isicha Puytu” reflect
this belief, and in both stories the mother character sets about preparing
Andean luxury foods in an attempt to coax a child home.
The excessively manipulative nature of this layqa mother becomes
evident when she adulterates her son’s food by spitting in it three times.
By twice declaring the mother’s iniquitous deed, Rosa emphasizes the
culturally inappropriate nature of such an act: “And so they say, then,
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 167

this witch quickly spit in the food, three times. This witch spit, right there,
there in the dish where the food was made” (“Chaysi, chayman chay layqata
mihunaman thuqaruchisqa kinsa kama. Chay layqata thuqaruchisqa, chaymi
chay jarrapi mihuchinanpaq”) (Quispe Quispe, personal communication,
lines 12–13). Moreover, the fact that the layqa spits three times in the food
reflects both her desire to cast a particularly powerful spell in her quest
to lure her son home. The narrator implies that the layqa cook must call
on the combined powers of the three worlds (hanaq, kay, and hurin pacha)
in order to achieve such an ambitious outcome (Quispe Quispe 2005, per-
sonal communication).
Yet the Wind does not support the witch’s plot and it rushes to whisper
the details of the mother’s machinations to the young man’s girlfriend. By
participating with his girlfriend in the speech act which declares “Let’s
go catch up with this witch,” the son implicitly disowns his mother in
referring to her as a “layqa” (Quispe Quispe, line 19). On the three occa-
sions when I have heard Rosa perform this willakuy, her audiences have
expressed surprise when the son returns home and not only refuses to
eat his mother’s food, but also insists—with the abrasive imperative form
of “mihuy!” (“eat!”)—on using his mother’s own witchcraft to punish her
for her treachery. The narrator reveals, “And so he made his own mother
eat on and on, they say only his mother ate. That witch had been forced
to eat all of the food” (Quispe Quispe, lines 23–25). While clearly the layqa
mother should not have consorted with toads in her attempts to lure her
son home, the act of a child exacting punishment on a parent also shocks
and disturbs listeners. The narrative portrays an extremely unsettling
family dynamic when the son chooses not to avoid his mother’s decep-
tive trap, but instead to appear at the family home and seek retribution
by turning his mother’s culinary magic against her.
The narrator only offers a more detailed account of the layqa’s culinary
spell after having described the acquiescence of the mother in agreeing to
eat her own adulterated food (Quispe Quispe, lines 27–29). In these lines,
toward the conclusion of the narrative, Rosa reveals that the witch not
only spit three times in her son’s food, but also urinated while cooking.
The audience understands the grave implications of this detail since it is
common knowledge that both hampiq curers and layqa witches frequently
use urine as an ingredient in their potions; hampiq use urine for cures, and
layqa to concoct curses.
At the end of her willakuy Rosa mentions that “long ago” the witch cook
previously lived in a neighboring village; she motions with her hand to-
ward the sallqa to indicate the section of the nearby hills where the witch’s
“sallqa wasi” house once stood (lines 33–34). Many of the stories told in
Quechua communities throughout the Andes narrate events which are
said to have unfolded in the surrounding mountains and valleys with
168 Chapter 5

which the listeners are familiar. An audience’s acquaintance with the set-
tings of a story assists the narrator in engaging listeners and infusing a
story with a more intensely nuanced and personal sense of dread.
In spite of the fact that this willakuy clearly demonstrates the disintegra-
tion of a family relationship as a result of scheming and culinary witch-
craft, the narrative’s message still remains ambiguous. While the mother’s
supernatural culinary tactics clearly remain inappropriate, her son also
should not have disregarded his mother’s wishes so aggressively by forc-
ing her to consume her own adulterated victuals. Rosa explained to me
that her choice not to offer a definitive conclusion to this narrative serves
to intensify the sense of terror (q’aqcha) which her willakuy can instill. Her
audiences never know the fate of the witch cook who lived in the sallqa
and whose son forced her to eat her own culinary witchcraft. Still, she
insists, the narrative clearly reminds listeners of certain key implications;
carefully prepared foods should nourish one’s relatives and not be used
to manipulate them.
The narrators of “The Witch Cook,” “The Black Worm,” and “The
Newborn and the Condemned Soul” explain that they perform these
narratives as a form of entertainment that reminds (yuyarichiy) and also
frequently surprises (manchachiy), or frightens (q’aqchay) their audiences
(Quillahuamán Cuishuamán; Quispe Quispe 2007; 2009, personal com-
munication). These willakuykuna teach listeners about the history and
sociocultural practices of their community, while also emphasizing
key aspects of the Quechua culture’s culinary etiquette. Moreover, the
narratives highlight the importance of being a perceptive observer, ca-
pable of recognizing the presence of malevolent beings and potentially
dangerous foods or culinary practices. In this way, Quechua narrators
in the Chinchero region have developed a creative maxim which holds
that “to surprise is to remind.” Although few narratives performed in
Ch’akalqocha detail the violent death of a runa protagonist, ambigu-
ous, open denouements or allusions to violent or tragic ends serve to
emphasize the importance of remembering and respecting certain ayllu
practices and beliefs.
Several of the oral narratives discussed in this chapter, and many oth-
ers performed every day throughout the Andes, emphasize the intimate
connection between food and sexual relationships in Quechua culture.
Food-related aberrations often emerge in a plot as a result of inappropri-
ate or unsanctioned sexual relations. These disallowed relationships, or
a character’s blatant disrespect for food decorum, generally signal the
inevitable disintegration of family and ayllu relationships. The character
of the mother in both “Isicha Puytu” and “The Witch Cook” objects to her
child’s chosen partner and uses food magic to punish the child’s failure
to acquiesce to her wishes. In “The Black Worm” a husband disapproves
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 169

of his wife’s unexpected appearance during a business trip and his dis-
respectful response leads her to attempt a deployment of food magic in
retribution. Although Isicha’s mother and the merchant’s wife use magic
to punish an inappropriate spurning of a proffered meal, the mother in
“The Witch Cook” magically adulterates her son’s food when he ignores
her disapproval of his lover. In the first version of “The Black Worm,”
the husband’s shockingly rude response to his wife’s cooking signals his
rejection of her and the impending disintegration of the family. In all four
of the Quechua willakuykuna analyzed in this chapter, a rejection of food—
whether nutritious or magically adulterated—signals the inevitable disin-
tegration of wholesome family relationships, and perhaps even the death
of a family member.
Narrators’ descriptions of particular aspects of a culture’s food-
landscape often signal important plot twists, establish the tone of a scene,
foreshadow impending doom, or allude to the intentions, personalities,
and beliefs of a character. Descriptions of culinary aberrations capture
an audience’s attention and stimulate active participation in the develop-
ment and trajectory of the performance. In order to engage their audi-
ences and heighten tension and dread, narrators use physical gestures,
sound effects, culinary symbolism, the repetition of key concepts, and the
creation of parallel structure. Quechua narrators also employ food sym-
bolism and culinary references in their willakuykuna in order to impart
cautionary lessons to listeners. Yet by emphasizing the power of destiny
to control the lives of humans, narrators also suggest that even the most
perceptive observer cannot always save herself from a predestined death
at the hands of a layq’a, condenado, or suq’a. Quechua oral narratives of-
ten recount the ruinous consequences which befall those who disrespect
kinship relationships and disregard a community’s beliefs, values, and
customary practices. In this way, artistic representations of culinary prac-
tices teach younger listeners, and remind an entire audience, of food’s
important role in the construction and maintenance of the vital bonds
established with one’s kin, community, and culture.

Notes

 1. See Catherine Allen’s The Hold Life Has for a detailed discussion of this im-
portant Andean deity of pre-Colombian origin (2002, 29–34). As Allen explains,
the Quechua concept of pacha refers to both temporal and spatial realms, thus the
life-giving “mother spirit” infuses both the earth’s space and the world’s time
with productive energy.
 2. I was unable to decipher the reason for the title of ecónomo (“economist”) for
this office, as it does not require the incumbent to carry out monetary-related du-
170 Chapter 5

ties. The position does, however, require the officeholder to be a respected, senior
member of the ayllu who has successfully carried out every other level of ayllu
service sometime during his lifetime and who is well spoken, and can effectively
convey any of the concerns of his community to the district’s mayor and priest.
Upon election, the ecónomo receives the keys to Chinchero’s remarkable colonial
church, and must serve as guardian of the temple’s valuable artifacts each day
from about nine o’clock in the morning until the early evening when younger,
night watchmen from the ayllu arrive to relieve him. During his two-year term,
the ecónomo must also sponsor a very large (and costly) celebration during each
February Carnaval season.
 3. Since I feel that hauling recording equipment around with me on a daily
basis when carrying out fieldwork is both intrusive and cumbersome, I do not in-
terrupt impromptu narrative performances with my audio recorder. Instead, I seek
to watch the ways in which these narratives unfold and to learn from other listen-
ers how I might also offer culturally relevant participatory gestures and interjec-
tions. During research trips to Ch’akalqocha, I take detailed notes each night about
the informal performances which I hear each day and on afternoons when Rosa,
Grimaldo, and Nieves have time to spare, we sit down with the recorder and I ask
the narrators if they would mind repeating a particular story. Inevitably, word of
the “recording session” quickly spreads, and many of the same neighbors who
participated in earlier performances often appear in front of Rosa and Grimaldo’s
house. I use a small lapel microphone and a minidisk recorder which narrators
place on their laps, so that soon listeners seem to forget about the strange recording
contraptions and participate actively in the performances of these popular narra-
tives, much as they had on previous, more impromptu occasions.
 4. César Itier (1999), Crescencio Ramos Mendoza (1992), and Ruth Flores
Pinaya (1991) also use the Quechua word willakuy in reference to Quechua oral
narratives. Howard-Malverde describes how Quechua narrators in the central
Peruvian department of Huánuco use Spanish words to describe their narratives,
so that a kwintu (“stories where the action unfolds within a non-defined space”)
is distinguished from a leyenda (a story whose “place is defined by the use of local
toponyms” (1990, 44–45). Most scholars, however, tend to use descriptors such
as: “(Quechua) oral narrative” (Allen 2002, 76; Howard 2002, 26; Ramos Mendoza
1992, 163), “story” (Bolin 1998, 201; Van Vleet 2008, 2), “cuento (quechua)” (Argue-
das 1986, 88; Hornberger 1999, 81; Lara 1973, 22–28; Lira 1990, 10; Payne 1999, xv,
xxiv), “conversational narrative” (Mannheim 1999, 49; Mannheim and Van Vleet
1998, 326–28; Van Vleet 2008, 20), “relato (quechua)” (Hornberger 1999, 82; Ramos
Mendoza 1992, 170; Payne 1984, xxiii, xxxv), “cuento folklórico” (Ramos Mendoza
1992, 173–76), or “folk tale” (Payne 2000, 1–13).
 5. Various scholars have described this “conversational” aspect of Quechua
narratives (Mannheim 1999, 49; Mannheim and Van Vleet 1998, 326–28; Allen
2002, 76; Howard-Malverde 1990, 8–9; Cáceres Romero 1993, 251). These and
other studies (Ryan 2004, 41; Taylor 2000, 21) also point out that oral narratives
often respond to themes and concerns raised by the narrator’s interlocutors and
may seem fragmented in terms of chronology and plot development.
 6. As Howard explains, for Quechua speakers the concept of “yuyariy is a
culturally vital activity involving not only the telling of narratives, but also the
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 171

performance of rituals and participation in fiestas” (2002, 29–30). Rosa and Nieves
most frequently perform narratives with a primarily didactic (yuyarichiy) function
that tend to convey either moral lessons or Quechua cultural practices related to
courtship, marriage, festivals, or child and household care. On the other hand,
Grimaldo’s narratives generally focus on sociopolitical themes such as his com-
munity’s participation in resisting the abuses of local clergy and hacienda owners,
as well as their cooperation in the 1960s land reform uprisings led by the indig-
enous (“campesino”) rights activist Hugo Blanco Galdos. Grimaldo is also well
known in the community for his entertaining and often “frightening” (“q’aqchay”)
characterizations of malevolent priest and ñak’aq-slaughterer characters (see, for
example, Krögel, 2009b).
 7. This Quechua generic category of yuyarichiy resembles what some scholars
of other oral traditions have referred to as “domestic narratives.” See, for example,
Marvin 1999, 98–101; Davis 2008, 296–98; Harvey 1989, 111–15, 119–21; Leen 1995,
14–15; and Pegg 2001, 39–49, 111–13.
 8. Given the malleable and context-driven nature of Quechua willakuykuna,
“lifting” an oral narrative from its performative context within the ayllu, transfer-
ring it to the written page, and translating it into English inevitably leads to the
loss of various registers of meaning. In order to mitigate some of this diminished
signification, this chapter provides details regarding performative context, as well
as an explanation of many of the sociocultural, semantic, and historical references
which most Quechua audience members would recognize.
 9. Even after many indigenous men had converted to Catholicism and moved
into colonial settlements (reducciones), Quechua women often moved to the inhos-
pitable, high-altitude tablelands (puna) where they could worship their Andean
deities and ancestors more freely (see Silverblatt 1987, 197–210). Also, as in me-
dieval Europe, ecclesiastical authorities in colonial Perú concentrated their witch-
hunting efforts on impoverished, widowed, or spinster indigenous women whom
they considered morally weak and particularly susceptible to the influences of
the devil (Silverblatt 1987, 167; Silverblatt 1993, 127; Michelet 1987, 119–39; Lewis
2003, 111–12).
10. For a book-length study of witchcraft as a potential source of power and
agency see Lewis’s Hall of Mirrors (2003) which considers this question within the
context of colonial México.
11. For important critical studies of the Quechua oral tradition see Arguedas
1953; Arnold and Dios Yapita 1996; Harrison 1989; Lara 1969; and Mannheim and
Van Vleet 1998. For edited collections of Quechua oral narratives see Arguedas
1949, 1960–1961, 1965; Valderrama and Escalante 1992; Lara 1969, 1973; Lira 1990;
and Payne 1999, 2000.
12. Santo Tomás and Gonçaléz Holguín’s colonial Quechua dictionaries do not
include the word “layca,” which is a loan from Aymara. In his 1612 Aymara dic-
tionary, Ludovico Bertonio defines layca as, “sorcerer or sorceress” and “Vtucani
layca” as a “professional sorcerer, professor in the art” (“Hechicero o hecizera. Vtcani
layca, Hechicero de oficio, catedrático en el arte”) (Bertonio 1984, 192). The term umu
can sometimes be used interchangeably with layqa and in a contemporary context,
both words usually carry a malevolent connotation. Gonçalez Holguín, Santo
Tomás, and Guaman Poma define umu as “sorcerer” (“hechizero”) (Gonçaléz Hol-
172 Chapter 5

guín 1989, 355; Santo Tomas 1951, 147; Guaman Poma 1980, 1:251). Lira, inflects
the word with a positive connotation, describing it as a title for a clairvoyant who
is able to “prophesy, foreshadow, augur, predict” (“Umúlliy: Profetizar, vaticinar,
augurar, predecir”) (1941, 1041).
13. During the extirpation of idolatry in colonial Perú, ecclesiastical authorities
made no distinction between malevolent and benevolent witchcraft and indig-
enous Andeans were not only punished for their malicious use of magic (as layqaq
or umuq) but also for working as healers (hampiq or p’aquq) and diviners (watuq)
(Sánchez 1991, 1–23; Silverblatt 1987, 159–210).
14. All translations of the Quechua to English in this chapter are my own.
Hernán Quillahuamán helped me to transcribe taped versions of the Quechua
narratives and quotations which appear in this chapter. In these transcriptions,
as in those included in other chapters, I have followed the three-vowel Quechua
alphabet in spelling Spanish loanwords and have marked these with italics (“des-
tino” as “distinu”).
15. “Hombre chupado marchito sin xugo como caña arrancada.”
16. The notion of “suq’a” as a malignant spirit is also suggested in Quechua’s
gloss for “tuberculosis” as “suq’a illness” (suq’a unquy).
17. The ñak’aq wanders across the sallqa surrounding rural villages and waits
for an encounter with lone, indigenous travelers so that he might attack them
with a magical powder which lulls them to sleep and allows the assailant to suck
out his victims’ life-sustaining fat (wira) (Gose 1986; Krögel 2009b; Mannheim and
Van Vleet 1998; Morote Best 1988; Mostajo 1952; Quijada Jara 1958).
18. The word curaca is likely derived from the Quechua kuraq—the oldest child
or member of a group who commands respect. In the precolonial Andes, a curaca
served as an Incan envoy to rural districts and was charged with overseeing
imperial projects and agricultural administration. During colonial times, curacas
became intermediaries between Spanish administrators and local indigenous
populations and often abused their power by requiring indigenous subjects to pay
onerous tributes in the form of labor (mita), or agricultural goods. Today, Quechua
speakers generally use the word to refer to a greedy local boss (either indigenous
or mestizo) who tries to take advantage of his runa neighbors through shady busi-
ness dealings or unfair work contracts.
19. When the copulative verb “kay” is preceded by the connector “chhayna,” kay
usually means “to act” or “to do” in a certain, often times undesirable, way.
20. As mentioned in chapter 3, the Quechua narrative device “nispa” indicates
a direct quote and can be loosely glossed as “saying.” In my translations to the
English, I have placed utterances marked by nispa in quotations.
21. When Isicha shouts “riqsipakuwaychu” at her father, the Quechua infix
-paku- intensifies the nature of this insult. When attached to the stem of the ac-
tive verb “riqsiy” (“to know,” “to recognize”), -paku- indicates that the verb’s
action is being realized for the benefit of another party who is waiting to receive
retribution (Aráoz and Salas 1993, 112). In this case, one could translate riqsi-
paku-way-chu less literally as, “I do not know you!” Yet given the nature of the
intense verbal exchange between father and daughter, it seems important to
emphasize the cruelty of Isicha’s words with the less succinct “Don’t wait for me
to recognize you!”
 Maleficent Meals and Conspiring Cooks 173

22. Like quinua, cañihua is a high-altitude Andean grains which boasts a high

protein (14 percent) and fat content (4.3 percent) relative to other grains (Fun-
dación Proinpa n.d., 6). Ch’uñu is a freeze-dried potato that can be rehydrated and
steamed, while mote is a boiled corn dish similar to hominy.
23. Here I have chosen to translate “Riqsirqaykichischu” as “I never knew any
of you,” a declaration that is suggested by the past tense marker -rqa-. Also, the
insult “asna warmi” could alternately be rendered as “stinking woman” or “smell-
ing woman,” although the intensity of this situation seems to call for the most
insulting of English’s olfactory adjectives, “putrid.”
24. Harrison and Howard’s careful attention to the multiple meanings associ-
ated with Quechua suffixes, syntax, and word choices in their analyses of Quechua
songs, poems, and oral narratives has informed my analysis of the willakuykuna in
this chapter. Mannheim’s suggestion that scholars combine line-by-line analysis
of Quechua narratives with an examination of performers’ formal verbal tech-
niques and rhetorical organization has also proved helpful (1999, 53–54).
25. As in many cultures, in rural, runa communities throughout the southern
Andes, black is considered a dangerous color often associated with witchcraft
and death. For instance, children who choose to wear all-black clothing outside
mourning are often accused of wishing for their own mother’s death (Nieves
Quispe 2005, personal communication). Likewise, layqakuna who plan to carry
out malevolent spells often use black string to tie around the photograph of an in-
tended victim, or to bind together agricultural products which they bury at night
in the corner of an enemy’s field—an action which is believed to cause the crop to
wither and die before harvest.
26. Gregorio Condori Mamani narrates a similar story in his Autobiografía
(Valderrama and Escalante 1992, 59–61).
27. The transcription’s paragraph and sentence separations correspond to Ro-
sa’s pauses. Character dialogue has been separated from descriptive or narrative
passages, and I use square brackets to mark clarifications of certain phrases which
Rosa elucidated during the performance with gestures or voice inflection.
28. When performing this narrative, Rosa flicks her wrists up and down in
order to visually demonstrate how the malevolent layqa has trained her toads to
dance by hopping up to grab the end of her colored cords.
29. See also Cayón Armelia (1971) for a discussion of the significance of the
hamp’atu in the Quechua cosmovision. Although consumed primarily as a me-
dicinal food in Chinchero, in both Perú and Bolivia, frogs are also sold in markets
and restaurants where customers value them as an excellent source of protein.
In recent years the (Peruvian) National Institute of Natural Resources (Inrena)
among other groups, has reported that the market for frogs as a principal ingredi-
ent in juices sold as stimulants (called “Peruvian Viagra” in Lima) has contributed
to a serious drop in the number of “Giant Lake Titicaca Frogs” (Telmatobius culeus)
(Angulo 2008, 95; Oxford 2003; El Diario 2009; La República 2006).
30. The distinction between the healing power of frogs and the malevolent
power of toads also existed in Renaissance Europe (Monter 1997, 578), and the
association between European witches and toad familiars has been documented
by scholars in the contexts of both Medieval and Renaissance Europe (Campagne
2003, 28; Ewen 1929, 319; Currie 1968, 28; Hutton 2004, 426). The Malleus Malefi-
174 Chapter 5

carum also describes the practice of witches housing toads in their cooking pots
and using the animals to carry out culinary and other types of witchcraft—partic-
ularly when a spell calls for the placement of a stolen Host in the pot together with
her toads (Mackay 2009, 319). Consequently, although evidence pointing toward a
pre-Columbian association between culinary witchcraft and toads certainly exists,
it is probable that this frequent theme in the Quechua oral tradition also reflects
the influence of similar European beliefs and fears.
31. This kitchen implement is called “maran” in Quechua and cooks use it to
process maize kernels and dried chilies.
 6
Q
Conclusion
Globalization, Food Security,
and the Quechua Food-Landscape

Like all symbols, food can be manipulated. It can be exchanged, bar-

tered, sold, or given away; it can serve as a medium of exploitation,
used for or against people to bring them to a point of capitulation. . . .
Food exists as an ingredient of imperialism, and it can be used profit-
ably against a population as if it were a weapon.
—Mary Douglas, Food in the Social Order

T hroughout the Andes, skillful Quechua cooks realize that their

familiarity with Andean agricultural cycles and food markets al-
lows them to acquire the freshest ingredients at the best prices. Their
knowledge of Andean culinary traditions then helps them to transform
these local goods into tasty dishes which can be sold at a profit to hun-
gry customers in markets, chicherías, or restaurants. The income earned
from the marketing of this culinary knowledge provides many cooks
(both in everyday life and in the fictive worlds created by Quechua
verbal and visual artists) with enough cash to attain a certain degree of
socioeconomic independence, as well as personal (and sometimes politi-
cal) influence. The previous chapters of this book have explored artistic
representations of Quechua cooks who use their culinary knowledge
as an empowering and creative strategy for achieving socioeconomic
and even political influence and security within an oftentimes oppres-
sive society. In their portrayals of female cooks as independent, canny
figures, these verbal and visual narratives also express the concerns,
desires, resentments, plans, histories, and fantasies of their creators and
audiences.

175
176 Chapter 6

The cooks represented in these verbal and visual narratives face

personal, economic, or political conflicts and they use their culinary
knowledge (or the social influence that has resulted from their profes-
sional connections) to overcome these challenges. Yet while Quechua
narratives often represent cooks as highly capable negotiators of the trials
of contemporary Andean society, it is important to remember that food-
related struggles continue to permeate the everyday lives of far too many
runakuna. Any study focusing on artistic representations of Andean cooks
and foods risks what Clifford Geertz describes as an analysis “in search of
all-too-deep-lying turtles” which ignores the “hard surfaces” and “strat-
ificatory realities” of everyday life (Geertz 1973, 16). Consequently, the
goal of this conclusion is to supplement the previous chapters’ analyses
of the more symbolic and artistic aspects of Quechua narratives which
feature food and cooks with a presentation of some of the very real, lived
challenges related to food-supply issues in contemporary Perú.
The manner in which an artist presents conflict-laden issues in her nar-
rative often depends on whether it takes the form of a novel, a testimo-
nio, a song, an oral narrative performance (willakuy), a photograph, or a
film. In the narratives presented in this book, conflict often results from
struggles that arise at the level of the household or the community and
which are exacerbated by ethnic or gender inequalities, unequal distribu-
tion of resources, and the lack of economic opportunities which leads to
widespread poverty. Madeinusa’s name and desires perhaps best reflect
another unrelenting challenge which continues to change the terrain of
the Quechua food-landscape—globalization. This concluding chapter
presents some of the abrupt and shocking contrasts—between the local
and the global, the rural and the urban, the very rich and the very poor—
which a globalized world economy leaves in its wake. I also describe
some community-based programs which are attempting to harness An-
dean men and women’s rich knowledge of the Quechua food-landscape
in order to work toward finding viable, sustainable solutions for some of
Perú’s most pressing food-security challenges. This conclusion addresses
Perú’s current food-security crisis by weaving some of the startling find-
ings and policy obstacles raised in food-security studies together with
Quechua songs and poetry which address the human impact of these
complex issues.
Since the 2002 World Food Summit organized in Rome by the United
Nation’s Food and Agricultural Organization (FAO), the attainment of
food security—defined as “the existence of physical and economic ac-
cess to enough safe and nutritious foods to satisfy the requirements of
an entire healthy and active population”—has increasingly come to be
considered as a human rights issue (Jonsson 2002, 55–65; Le Bihan et al.
2003, 27). The forces of economic globalization only complicate the food-
 Conclusion 177

security challenges of developing nations. Like most countries through-

out the world, the twenty-first-century Peruvian economic and cultural
landscape is increasingly characterized by a disintegration of the division
between discrete notions of the “local” versus the “global.” As Néstor
García Canclini has pointed out, life in this postmodern era means an ex-
istence characterized by bricolage, in which diverse epochs and cultures
converge in previously unimaginable spaces and ways (1994, 132). In this
new millennium, the daughters of Quechua chicheras invite their aging
mothers to live with them in Flushing, New York, where they open up
Peruvian restaurants as family ventures. Quechua llama and sheepherd-
ers travel to Wyoming ranches to care for North American ruminants,
and the economic survival of entire Quechua communities depends on
the international market for cuy exports to communities of expatriate An-
deans in Spain, France, and the United States (Krögel 2010; Paerregaard
2008). Global petroleum prices affect the prices of vegetables at Cusco’s
Mercado Central, while weather patterns near southeast Asian rice fields
can determine the food security of millions of Peruvians living in both
coastal and highland cities. Within this new global alimentary landscape,
the food security of families living throughout the Andes has become
increasingly precarious.
This new global order increasingly relies on a deregulated international
market, free trade, uncontrolled investment flows, as well as close ties
to global financial markets, access to (and knowledge of) advanced in-
formation processing, technology, and communication systems, and an
adherence to the demands and decisions of the International Monetary
Fund (IMF) and the World Bank (Eide 1999, 30; Romero 2005). As Sidney
Mintz poignantly underscores, “People in distant lands now often decide
by their actions who will continue living and who will have to die. . . .
The decisions are often collective and procedural, as in legislatures, say,
ruling against foreign aid; or made by large corporations, deciding to
produce their bananas on island A, and to stop producing them on island
B” (Mintz 1996, 11). Of course globalization is not a new concept in Latin
America; since 1492 indigenous groups living in América have been
forced to learn the painful lessons that accompany a civilization’s violent
incorporation into the world economy (Boron 1998, 165). Unfortunately,
this “incorporation” does not solve the sociocultural, political, and eco-
nomic traumas that result from centuries of servitude, impoverishment,
and sociopolitical and economic marginalization suffered by the majority
of the population.
In the willakuykuna explored in chapter 5, the representation of food—
and in particular, the rejection of dishes prepared by a family member—
plays an important role in revealing the central conflict of each narrative
and in the unraveling of its denouement. Just as food is often associated
178 Chapter 6

with conflict in the plots of Quechua verbal and visual narratives, mil-
lions of runakuna living and working throughout the Andes also struggle
to resolve tensions and discord related to food cultivation, acquisition,
distribution, preparation, and consumption. Dilemmas related to food-
supply politics, the exportation of Andean products, and changes in the
preparation and consumption habits in Quechua family homes also affect
the everyday lives of runa. These very real tensions are often reflected in
the contemporary Quechua oral tradition (in testimonios, songs, poems,
and willakuykuna), and politicians, economists, and nongovernmental or-
ganizations working in the Andes would do well to consider the concerns
and challenges presented in these narratives when creating policies and
programs aimed at resolving food-security problems.

Food-Supply Dilemmas in Perú: Past and Present

Perú’s twenty-first-century food-supply struggles have been preceded

by 150 years of highly fraught food policies and crises. By the mid 1860s,
the U.S. Civil War had halted cotton production in North America, lead-
ing to a global demand which far exceeded the decreasing supply of the
fiber (Peloso 1989, 104). Most haciendas on Perú’s coast responded to this
changing market by ceasing to produce foodstuffs and exclusively plant-
ing cotton. Then, in 1899 a series of far-flung events—the failure of the
Indian rice crop, rising prices of lard in the United States, and an increased
Ecuadorian demand for Peruvian foodstuffs—led to soaring food prices
in Perú at the turn of the century (Peloso 1989, 105). In addition to these
international events, increased migration of highland peasants to coastal
cities left agricultural land in the hands of fewer, and increasingly power-
ful owners who tended to plant export crops, thus adding to the severity
of the domestic food-supply crisis (Peloso 1989, 105). These food shortages
led to the government’s prohibition of vegetable exports in 1917 and its
complete control of beef sales and exports in 1918.
In the following decades, the flow of urban migrants continued to in-
crease while the country’s arable land continued to be consolidated under
the ownership of fewer and fewer families. Gerardo Otero sums up one of
the region’s long-standing conflicts:

Latin American government policies have tended to favor [large] landown-

ers and agricultural companies. Given the heavily mechanized character of
their operations, they tend to employ few people and to orient their produc-
tion toward exports, rather than national markets. In contrast, subsistence
farmers who do produce for local and regional markets have received little
or no government support; their main role has been to keep urban food
prices down. (Otero 2008, 39)
 Conclusion 179

The agricultural census of 1961 reported that 1.3 percent of the nation’s
845,000 farms covered a full 84 percent of its agricultural land (Alberts
and Genberg 2002, 362).1 Most runakuna living in the rural highlands dur-
ing this period were forced to work as indentured servants or sharecrop-
pers under the brutal pongueaje system. The crushing poverty, oppression,
and widespread discontent that resulted from this oppressive servitude
and inadequate distribution of arable land led to the agrarian reforms un-
der Fernando Belaúnde Terry in 1964 and Juan Velasco Alvarado in 1968.
Although the Peruvian Agrarian Reform Law of 1964 did divide large
hacienda holdings into smaller units for peasant families (resulting in the
redistribution of 300,000 hectares in the highland regions), it did not af-
fect the distribution of coastal farmlands and left open various loopholes
which highland landowners could manipulate for their benefit (Alberts
and Genberg 2002, 363).
After ousting Belaúnde in a 1968 military coup, Velasco proceeded
to abolish latifundios and to expropriate large coastal estates with the
intention of turning them into collective farms—an idea supported by
both the church and leftists. Although ten million hectares were involved
in this redistribution project, it remained largely unsuccessful; Andean
peasants demanded the return of their lands from the hacendados and
rejected invitations to work on the “collective farms.” Coastal collective
farms also failed as a result of scarce investment capital, infrastructure,
and technology (Alberts and Genberg 2002, 365). Velasco’s plan did,
however, succeed in limiting land ownership to 150 hectares. Neverthe-
less, in the years following Velasco’s reforms, highland peasants orga-
nized massive invasions of so-called cooperative lands and farms, and
when Belaúnde won reelection in 1980, many of these cooperatives were
indeed broken down into smaller family farms (Alberts and Genberg
2002, 365; Hunefeldt 2004, 237–39).
With the election of Alan García in 1985, his populist government insti-
tuted small wage increases, import restrictions, and an emphasis on the
revitalization of small-scale technology in the Andes. García encouraged
peasant farmers to produce basic foodstuffs like maize, potatoes, and
wheat and also called for an increase in the production of Andean crops
such as quinua, cañihua, and kiwicha which had lost both prestige (as
demonstrated in the narrative “Isicha Puytu”) and importance during the
previous decades of heavy food importation (Alberts and Genberg 2002,
366–67). During Fujimori’s presidency (1990–2000), assistance for the
family farmer all but disappeared, and in many regions throughout the
Andes agricultural production dropped drastically, leading rural popula-
tions to become increasingly dependent on the state’s delivery of staples
(Alberts and Genberg 2002, 368; Quiroz 2000). Fujimori’s elimination of
development projects meant that credit for the agricultural sector was
180 Chapter 6

largely eliminated and that farmers interested in improving their crops or

modernizing the production mechanisms of their farms were left without
any state support. Furthermore, small-scale farmers were also affected
by the government’s exchange-rate policy; since their products could no
longer compete with cheap imports, they were effectively priced out of
the local market (Alberts and Genberg 2002, 368).2
Unfortunately, for most of the twentieth century, the food policies
drafted and promulgated in Lima echo many of those carried out in
colonial Perú. John Super asserts that in the sixteenth-century Peruvian
Viceroyalty,

food as nutrients necessary for life and health, was often less important than
food as income and power. The interplay between producers, distributors,
consumers, and political officials, each struggling to further their own inter-
ests, gave life to the politics of food. (Super 1988, 40)

Until politicians, business owners, large landholders, and multinational

corporations desist from viewing food primarily as a source of potential
financial gain and power, it will remain impossible to solve the problems
of malnutrition and the unequal distribution of food and agricultural re-
sources which have plagued Perú for centuries.

Managing Andean Farms from Lima:

Inadequate Reforms and Harmful Subsidies

In 1957, the Peruvian poet and philosopher César Guardia Mayorga pub-
lished his poem “¡Jatariichik!” in the Bolivian literary magazine Revista
de Cultura.3 In this same year he published the La reforma agraria en el
Perú (Agrarian Reform in Perú), a book which focuses on themes such as
the liberation of Peruvians from exploitation and imperialism, and the
fair redistribution of land and resources among the people. By this date,
the author had already been exiled from Perú for six years after general
Manuel Odría’s dictatorial regime added his name to a list of “dangerous,”
communist university professors who were subsequently removed from
their academic posts (Sara Beatriz Mayorga cited in Ramos Salinas 2007).
In spite of his own troubled relationship with the leaders of his country at
that time, the optimistic and almost celebratory tone of the last stanza of
the poem “¡Jatariichik!” can be explained by his hope for future agricultural
reforms in Perú, as well as the historical moment in which the exiled au-
thor composed the piece while living in Cochabamba Bolivia.
In 1957, Bolivian agropastoralists and workers harbored fresh memo-
ries of their recent struggles to achieve sweeping agricultural and labor
 Conclusion 181

reforms.4 Although the 1953 agricultural reform efforts had achieved

many successes, the movement certainly did not manage to improve
the standard of living for all Bolivians. In writing his ambivalent poem
“¡Jatariichik!” which is alternately denunciatory and celebratory, Guar-
dia Mayorga expresses his assessment of the inadequate gains achieved
by Bolivia’s agrarian reform efforts, and encourages Quechua farmers
throughout the Andes to “rise up.”

¡Jatariichik! Rise up!

I.
Ñaupa pachakunapi In those long-ago times
Kusilla kausarqanchik, Happily we lived,
Llaqtanchikta kuyaspa, loving our land,
Chakranchikta tarpuspa, planting our fields,
Runa masinchikta yanapaspa. helping our neighbors. 5
3.
Papa mama, sara mama, Mother potato, Mother maize,
Kusilla llamkasqa, Happily we worked,
Pirwakunata juntaspa, filling the stockpiles,
Wata watan churaráyaq. year in, year out stored away.
7.
Ima muchuy kasqanta, What suffering has been endured, 10
Yarqaypa nanayninta, To continue to feel hunger becomes
painful,
Llullaypa chaninta, To continue to feel consoled by the
truth that
Manan yacharqanchikchu we were not accustomed to this
Tawantinsuyu pachapiqa. in the times of Tawantinsuyu.
II.
8.
Jinamanta, mana piq And so it was, although no one called 15
waqyasqan, them,
Mana piq munasqan, no one wanted them,
Auqa runakuna chayamun, enemies arrive
Wiraqochan kani nispa. saying, “I am Wiraqocha.”
10.
182 Chapter 6

Mana rurasqanta, tuñichin, Without building, he demolishes,

Mana tarpusqanta, mikun, Without sowing, he eats, 20
Uywanchikta tukupun, Our animals, he finishes off
Kuyasqanchikta chiqnin, All that we love, he detests
Jallpanchikta suwan, Our land, he steals
Warminchikta wachun. Our women, he degrades.
18.
Tutayanñam punchaupas, Even the day darkens, 25
Kausaypas manañam kaua- This life is no longer life,
saychu,
Wañuyllam wañuy, Only death is death,
Llakillam llaki, Only sadness is sadness,
Weqellam weqe. Only weeping is weeping.
III.
21.
Kunanqa, ¡Jatariichik!, jallpap And now rise up!, 30
Wawankuna, Children of the earth,
Warakaychik, wajujuychik, Call out, draw back your slingshots,
Pututuykichkta qaparichii- Let your conch shell pututus trumpet
chik, loudly
Tukuy orqukuna kuchumpi, In every corner of the mountains
Qaparisqaykichik uyariku- So that your call is heard by all. 35
nanpaq.
22.
¡Richakariichik! Llamkaq Wake up now! Campesinos
runakuna
Musuq punchaumi illarich- A new day is shining,
kan,
Orqukunam kununuchkan, The mountains are murmuring,
Wayrakunam qapapachkan, The winds are whispering,
23.
Inti Killam chipipichkan, The Sun, the Moon glow brightly, 40
Muyukunam machasqa taki- The rivers sing drunkenly,
kuchkan,
Kusikuspa, kusikuspa. Contentedly, contentedly.
 Conclusion 183

28.
¡Jaylli! ¡Jaylli! indiokuna,
Ama kunanmanta
Qonqorchaki kausasunchu,
Aswan qaparispa nisun:
¡Wañuymi aswan allin,
Qonqorchaki kausaytaqa!
¡Jaylli! ¡Jaylli! indiokuna!
(Reprinted courtesy of Sara Beatriz Mayorga)
(Translation by the author)
Rejoice! Rejoice! Indians for your Vic-
tory,
Never again
Will we live subjugated on our knees 45
Yelling louder we will say:
Death is preferable,
to a life of kneeling down!
Rejoice! Rejoice! Indians for your Vic-
tory!

The succinct, measured directness of the language in Guardia Mayor-

ga’s poem addresses complex and historically problematic food-security
issues in a striking, lyrical form. Mayorga uses parallel structure to de-
scribe a pre-conquest utopia of harmony and happiness where Quechua
communities rarely suffered want: “loving our land / planting our fields
/ helping our neighbors” (“Llaqtanchikta kuyaspa, / Chakranchikta tarpuspa,
/ Runa masinchikta yanapaspa”) (lines 3–5). The respectful invocation of
“Mother potato” and “Mother maize” suggests the cooperative nature of
Quechua agricultural rituals in which the animating essence (mama) of
staple crops receives offerings and in return, runa farmers ask to receive
plentiful harvests. The next instances of parallel structure present a direct
contrast to this harmony: “Without building, he demolishes / Without
sowing, he eats . . . he detests / our land, he steals / our women, he de-
grades” (Mana rurasqanta, tuñichin,/ Mana tarpusqanta, mikun, . . . chiqnin,
/ Jallpanchikta suwan, / Warminchikta wachun” (lines 19–20, 22–24). These
lines denounce the conquistadores’ greedy abuse of Andean land and its
runa inhabitants, as the poet links the abuses of the conquest to contem-
porary inequalities in food and land distribution, and the resultant social
ills of marginalization and violence against indigenous women.
As discussed in chapter 4, José María Arguedas’s novel Los ríos pro-
fundos describes the mismanagement of the salt cache in the town of
Abancay. The chicheras’ impassioned uprising in response to this offense
illustrates how a disruption in the balance of food gifting and receiving
is considered to be a serious transgression in Quechua culture. Guardia
Mayorga’s poem (particularly lines 19–24) declares that the selfish and
disrespectful treatment of runa farmers by Spanish conquistadores pre-
figures the cruel mismanagement of food resources which continues to
184 Chapter 6

plague the everyday lives of runakuna and other poor Andean families.
The poem denounces the abuse of runakuna and their land by lazy, greedy
foreigners and asserts that under the rule of the Incas, no one suffered
hunger.5 Although the poet is aware of the centuries of painful suffering
and exploitation which runakuna have endured throughout the Andes,
Bolivian attempts at socioeconomic and political reforms during the 1950s
infuse this poem of denunciation with a tone of hope. Yet even though
toward the end of the poem section 22 asserts, “A new day is shining,”
and section 28 calls for runakuna to “Rejoice!” (lines 43, 49), the poet also
recalls past grief with determined exclamations of “Never again / will we
live subjugated on our knees” (lines 44–45).
Sadly, decades after the initial publication of “¡Jatariichik!” one would
be hard-pressed to demonstrate many instances in which indigenous
Andeans have been able to “Rejoice” in their victory over the agricultural
and food policies of the Peruvian government—policies that rarely assist,
and more often than not harm Quechua farmers. By the end of the first
decade of the twenty-first century, Perú still remains dangerously close
to the precipice of a food-security crisis. This grave and unjust situation
will not improve so long as the quantity and types of foods available to
impoverished Peruvian families continue to depend on unstable and un-
tenable national food policies (Carrasco 2008; Jonsson 2002, 55–69; Quiroz
2000; Romero 2005). Since the middle of the past century, the Peruvian
government has subsidized certain foodstuffs with the intention of mak-
ing staple foods more accessible to the poorest families. Yet the distribu-
tion of subsidies to the consuming public does not effectively resolve the
critical needs of the most malnourished groups (Amat and Curonisy 1990,
223). Moreover, subsidy-influenced shifts in consumption patterns not
only affect the nutritional health of Quechua families, but also decrease
the profits of local, small-scale farmers.
Many economists, politicians, and intellectuals have suggested that in
order to address Perú’s food-supply problems, the government should
support the production of traditional, high-protein, vitamin-rich staples
such as quinua, cañihua, kiwicha, and tarwi which would support ru-
ral farmers and provide locally sourced, nutrient-dense food to urban
families (Ayala 2007; Carrasco 2008, 46–51; Le Bihan et al. 2003, 36, 44–45;
Mujica 2003). Cusco-based companies such as Molicusco, Perú Inka, Moli-
nos Cusco, Cusco Mara, and Kuski have begun to increase the regional
and nationwide distribution and marketing of Andean products such as
quinua and kiwicha breakfast cereals and energy bars, as well as popped
quinua snacks and quinua, maca, and kiwicha flakes and flours (for use in
pastries, puddings, and flans).6 Unfortunately, these nutritious and easy-
to-prepare foods are still sold at prices which make the products inacces-
sible to the poorest Peruvian families who need them most.
 Conclusion 185

As a result of governmental subsidies, the prices of imported products

such as wheat, cooking oil, and coastal products such as sugar and rice
often remain far lower than unsubsidized Andean products such as qui-
nua, kiwicha, and tarwi, leading to a decrease in the consumption of these
products (Orlove 1987, 497; Gascón 1990, 68).7 Foodstuffs donated by
international organizations or the national government also tend to con-
sist of these same imported or coastal products. Moreover, studies reveal
that after a family has become accustomed to consuming certain donated
products (vegetable oil, canned fish/meat, and wheat bread for example)
they often seek out these products at the local market, thus decreasing
their consumption of the higher-protein, higher-calorie, and vitamin-
rich foods which are produced locally (Prudencio and Velasco 1989,
90). Details related to the nutritional content of imported versus locally
produced foods should not be treated as a trivial aside by policymakers.
Even though, on average, 57 percent of all household income in Perú is
spent on food (Oxfam 2008, 8), a 2002 survey conducted by the Peruvian
National Institute for Stastics and Information (INEI) indicates that 43.7
percent of all inhabitants of the sierra (many of whom, are children under
the age of five) suffer caloric deficiencies (INEI 2002).8
In her book of Quechua poems entitled Chaskaschay, the Peruvian poet
Ch’aska Eugenia Anka Ninawaman includes an entire section of poems
dedicated to what she refers to as “sacred foods”—such as coca leaves, cañi-
hua, and the wild ch’awiyuyu plant. In these odes to beloved Andean plants,
Anka Ninawaman personifies the foodstuffs, lauding their wide-ranging
nutritional benefits and addressing each one as a respected, faithful com-
panion. In the poem “Ch’awiyuyu mama” (“Mother Ch’awiyuyu”), Anka
Ninawaman alludes to the precariousness of a rural Quechua woman’s life
as she seeks to nourish her hungry children even when there are still many
months until harvesttime and when the family storehouses have begun
to run low. Yet the poem also reveals how a woman’s knowledge of the
Quechua food-landscape can guide her to nutritional treasures such as the
ch’awiyuyu plant which grows wild all year long, and can help poor women
to supplement their children’s nutritional needs at no cost.

“Ch’awiyuyu mama” “Mother Ch’awiyuyu”

Mayu patapi Along the river’s edge

q’illu sumbriru t’ikaqcha; a yellow flower hat;
q’umir pullera ch’awicha. a wrinkled green skirt
Inti taytaq k’anchaykusqan under the warmth of father Sun
killa mamaq llanthuykusqan. under the shadow of mother Moon 5
186 Chapter 6
Munay munay wiñaqcha
phuyuq hump’inwan
ch’aqchuykusqa,
hallp’aq sunqunmanta
phuturimuqcha.
Irqichaykuna
t’antacha t’antachata
nispa waqakuqtin.
Sulla samaychaykiwan
pharpa pharpa uyachanta
uphaykuspa much’aykuspa
watan watan mana
tukukuspa,
q’umir alimintuchaykita
yana inqichankuman
hunt’aykachipuwanki.
Kusisqa inqipas t’iqi t’iqicha
wiksapas bombo bombucha
mayu patapi phullakunku.
Ch’awiyuyu mamachay
yanayña urpiyña
wikch’uwaqtinpas,
uyachaykita qhaqwa-qhawayu-
kuspa
inqipas t’iqi t’iqichataraq
wiqsapas bombo bombocharaq
kushkalla kawsakushansunchis.
(Reprinted courtesy of Ch’aska Eugenia Anka Ninawaman)
(Translation by the author)
Beautifully, beautifully you grow
covered with a dewy cloud
gently irrigated,
from the heart of the land
you sprout. 10
My children,
“a bit of bread, a bit of bread”
they cry.
Breathing in the dew
dripping, dripping from your leafy 15
visage
washing, kissing our faces,
year in year out, you never wilt
and disappear
your green leaves nourish
the black emptiness of our bellies,
You fill us completely. 20
Happy bellies, so full, so full
Stomachs round, so round
Along the river’s edge you sprout
Ch’awiyuyu my dear mother
if my darling, my love were ever 25
to leave me
watching, watching out for a sign
of your dear face
bellies still full, so full
stomachs still round, so round
Together we will sustain ourselves
 Conclusion 187

Anka Ninawaman’s poignant and elegant verses celebrate the often

underappreciated food resources which grow wild in the Andean coun-
tryside and which can provide rural Quechua families with sustain-
able, free, and easily accessible greens.9 Yuyu is the generic Quechua
word for a wide variety of wild and edible herbs, plants, and algaes
which are often rich in vitamins, minerals, essential amino acids, and
even protein. As Ana María Fries’s interviews with runa farmers in
Ayacucho underscore, oftentimes younger generations of Quechua
agropastoralists fail to learn how to locate, identify, and prepare these
wild foodstuffs (“sallqa mihuycha”) which they consider low-prestige
foods (Fries 2004, 162–63). Development organizations could play a
role in helping communities to revalue these nutritious foods and to
encourage elders to teach younger generations how to integrate them
into their families’ diets.
The first stanza of “Ch’awiyuyu mama” begins with two semantic cou-
plets which create a soothing, rhythmic description of the plant and art-
fully refer to the plant’s wrinkled (ch’awi) foliage from which it takes its
name: “a yellow flower hat / a wrinkled green skirt / under the warmth
of father Sun / under the shadow of mother Moon” (“q’illu sumbriru
t’ikaqcha / q’umir pullera ch’awicha. / Inti taytaq k’anchaykusqan / killa ma-
maq llanthuykusqan”) (lines 2–5). In the third stanza, Anka Ninawaman’s
poem points out that plants like the ch’awiyuyu flourish on their own
throughout the year, even when the storehouses of last year’s crops run
low, “year in year out, you never wilt and disappear” (“watan watan mana
tukukuspa”) (line 17). Moreover, even if a wage-earning partner no longer
contributes to household income, a mother can still count on wild yuyu
plants to feed her children, “if my darling, my love were ever to leave me
/ watching, watching out for a sign of your dear face / bellies still full, so
full” (“yanayña urpiyña wikch’uwaqtinpas, / uyachaykita qhaqwa-qhawayuku-
spa / inqipas t’iqi t’iqichataraq”) (lines 25–27). The poem uses the repetition
of reassuring adjectives in its upbeat chorus of “Happy bellies, so full, so
full / Stomachs round, so round” (“Kusisqa inqipas t’iqi t’iqicha / wiksapas
bombo bombucha”) (lines 21–22, 27–28). These lines celebrate the mother’s
realization that even in lean times when her crops are not yet ready to be
harvested, her knowledge of the plants that grow along the streams, and
in the lakes and fields of the Andean countryside can help her family to
survive, “Together we will sustain ourselves”(“kushkalla kawsakushansun-
chis”) (line 29). If development and educational programs focused on An-
dean food sovereignty issues were to encourage the revaluation of both
Andean crops and wild plant foods such as the ch’awiyuyu, runa families
could increase both the quality and the quantity of their daily food intake.
Moreover, when Quechua cooks choose locally sourced products, they
decrease their dependence on imported foodstuffs which frequently of-
188 Chapter 6

fer inferior nutritional density and whose price fluctuates in response to

unstable global markets.

Who Benefits from the Export of Andean Foodstuffs?

An estimated 1.3 million hectares of Peruvian land is used for farm-

ing (amounting to only 1 percent of the country’s total land area), and
although the agricultural sector accounts for over 30 percent of total
employment in Perú, it contributes only 12.5 percent of the nation’s GDP
(Quiroz 2000). Agriculture in Perú (and particularly in the sierra) largely
consists of subsistence farming, thus the majority of the nation’s agri-
cultural production comes from coastal plantations and crops raised in
river valleys. For most of the twentieth century, Perú has imported large
quantities of food products, and it continues to import wheat, soy, maize,
dairy products, vegetable oils, and other basic foodstuffs, leading to its
classification by the WTO as a “net food-importing developing country
(NFIDC)” (Carrasco 2008, 46; Quiroz 2000). In 1985–1987, Peru’s agricul-
tural imports averaged an annual US$528 million and its exports US$325
million, resulting in a deficit of US$203  million (Quiroz 2000; Romero
2005). In 2002 Perú achieved its first agricultural product trade surplus
with the United States, even though coffee prices remained low during
this year (coffee generally constitutes 50 percent of all Peruvian food ex-
ports) (Romero 2005).
Beginning in October 2006, Perú’s imports had once again begun to
outpace exports, a trend which would continue through late 2009 (INEI
2009). Although the onset of the 2009 international financial crisis made
it difficult to assess the implications of the Perú-U.S. Free Trade Agree-
ment (Tratado de libre comercio) which went into affect on February 1, 2009,
many economists and policy analysts have pointed out the possibly seri-
ous adverse effects that the agreement could have on small agricultural
operations that do not produce food for export, and whose products will
now have to compete in local and regional markets with heavily subsi-
dized U.S. imports (particularly wheat and corn) (Carrasco 2008, 53–57;
Francke 2004; Tharin 2008).
Perú’s main exports include cotton, sugar, coffee, fishmeal, fish oil,
asparagus, and fruits such as grapes and mangos (Carrasco 2008, 45;
Romero 2005). Even though coastal fruit and vegetable exports have
grown rapidly in recent years, only around 3 percent of all Peruvian ag-
ricultural laborers work in the export sector (Carrasco 2008, 45; Romero
2005).10 In recent years, a few companies (Cusco Mara, Okendo’s Peru
Craft, Peruvian Nature, and Macandean) have begun to export Andean
products such as maca, yacón, ají chili pastes, quinua, tarwi, and kiwicha.
 Conclusion 189

Photograph by Alison Krögel.

Figure 6.1.   Hernán Quillahuamán Quispe carries a handmade, wooden taqlla plow
which he uses to prepare his parents’ barley fields in the district of Chinchero, Cusco.
Agricultural technology in much of the Andes has changed little since Incan times.

These products are marketed to North American, European, and Japanese

consumers as “organic,” “herbal remedies,” or “superfoods” which help
provide more balanced, natural, and stress-free lifestyles. Many Peru-
190 Chapter 6

vian economists, politicians, and intellectuals have argued in favor of an

increased investment in the organic industry, pointing to Perú’s unique
biodiversity as a valuable resource for developing “organic products with
exotic characteristics” which could be marketed at premium prices to
overseas consumers (Amat 1996, 79; Romero 2005). As Javier Llacsa of the
Peruvian National Institute for Agrarian Investigation points out, Andean
farmers (and their advocates) should focus their energies on exporting
food products into these small, highly specialized markets which do not
demand uniformity or consistent, high yields of the same crops year after
year (requirements which the nonindustrialized, organic methods of most
Andean farms are unlikely to provide) (Llacsa 2005).
In recent years, Andean governmental and nongovernmental groups
have turned to quinua as a potentially profitable and sustainable export
product.11 As studies have pointed out, however, although quinua has
been available in U.S. health food stores and supermarkets since 1984, its
current North America market remains quite limited since consumers are
still not familiar with the product (Oelke et al. 1992). Nevertheless, it ap-
pears as if quinua’s high nutritional quality and perceived healthfulness
may contribute to the crop’s growth potential in the United States and
Europe, particularly as an ingredient for processed baked goods, cereals,
and energy bars (Oelke et al. 1992).12 Yet an increased consumption of
quinua in North America and Europe does not necessarily mean greater
profits for Andean farmers, since U.S. agricultural research laboratories
are continually developing new low-altitude, high-yield strains of the
plant for possible cultivation in the United States (Oelke et al. 1992). Yet
at least for now, it seems that quinua and other Andean cultivars remain
safe from U.S. patents which would limit indigenous growers’ ability to
export their crops to international markets.13
As many economists have pointed out, in the emerging global food
order, a limited number of large, transnational companies largely con-
trol access to export markets for products labeled “organic,” “artisanal,”
or “natural,” while the role of the farmer is usually limited to that of a
closely supervised contract grower (Jonsson 2002, 55–69). In Perú, as in
many developing nations, small-scale farmers’ access to institutional
support to search for new market niches, acquire updated agricultural
technologies, and to lobby for beneficial import/export legislation is ei-
ther woefully inadequate or nonexistent (Otero 2008, 39). Consequently,
large export companies continue to enjoy the majority of the benefits re-
sulting from an increased commercialization of Peruvian food products.
Meanwhile, Quechua farmers are often left at the mercy of Lima-based or
transnational companies who possess the technology and knowledge of
global markets necessary to successfully export, process, and market Pe-
ruvian products. As Ulf Jonsson points out, “transnational companies per
 Conclusion 191

se do not constitute a foe to peasants. However, in the absence of strong

institutional support of small farmers, they tend to reinforce the position
of the already strong parties in the local society” (2002, 65). At least in
the near future, it seem that promoting domestic consumption of Andean
food products remains the most effective way to improve the nutrition
and increase the quality of life for both rural agricultural families and
urban consumers in the Peruvian highlands.14
An increased domestic and international interest in Andean cuisine
served in restaurants could also improve earnings for highland farmers.
Since the 1980s when Bernardo Roca Rey, launched the culinary move-
ment called “Cocina novoandina” (“New Andean Cuisine”), both exclu-
sive restaurants and small, family-owned eateries throughout Perú have
increasingly sought to incorporate Andean ingredients into new recipes.
Roland Barthes’ notion of the shared meanings of food helps to explain
the ways in which different segments of the Peruvian population have
reacted to this “New Andean Cuisine.” In his essay “Toward a Psycho-
sociology of Contemporary Food Consumption,” Barthes postulates that
three thematic concepts contribute to the creation of a food’s meaning.
He identifies these as the “historical” (properties of a food that allow
people to maintain daily contact with a perceived cultural past), “feelings
of inferiority/superiority” (certain “superior” foods are sought out, while
“inferior” foods are avoided since they harm the eater’s social status),
and “health” (emphasis is placed on the “traditional” healthfulness of
certain foods) (Barthes 1997, 22–25). In the case of the Cocina novoandina,
the “historical” and “health” values of Andean products such as tarwi,
ch’uñu, quinua, kiwicha, moraya, cochayuyu, maca, coca leaves, uchu, olluco,
and oca are marketed to both coastal Peruvian and international tourist
consumers, while middle- and lower-class urban mestizos and runakuna
(particularly adolescents) struggle to overcome meanings associated with
the “feelings of inferiority/superiority” associated with these ingredients
(Quispe Ricalde 2005).
As Mary Douglas points out in her classic essay, “Deciphering a Meal,”
the various meanings expressed by foods are often both subtle and highly
complex:

If food is treated as a code, the message it encodes will be found in the

pattern of social relations being expressed. The message is about different
degrees of hierarchy, inclusion and exclusion, boundaries and transactions
across boundaries. Like sex, the taking of food has a social component, as
well as a biological one. (1971, 61)

Thus, upper- and upper-middle-class consumers (particularly in an ur-

ban, coastal context) tend to view “traditional” Andean food products
with a lens similar to that of a tourist diner—as “exotic,” “organic” sur-
192 Chapter 6

vivors from a far removed, idyllic, and more tranquil era. Consequently,
maca juices and liquors are marketed as a Peruvian eau de vie which pro-
vides potent, vital energy, while coca ice cream, candies, and liquors are
sold under labels that remind the consumer of the healing powers long
associated with the leaf. While an upper-class Cusco teen might find the
idea of a coca-flavored ice-cream cone intriguing, adolescent runa who
migrate from rural villages to Lima or Cusco with the intention of learn-
ing Spanish and establishing new, urban identities, tend to keep their
distance from coca-leaf products or ch’uñu soups.
Although the basis of the Cocina novandina centers on ingredients that
have been cultivated, prepared, and consumed by Quechua families for
centuries, novandina cooks often integrate imported cooking techniques
and ingredients in order to create a fusion cuisine which they hope
will prove more palatable to their clients. In their kitchens, Novoandina
chefs may mix quinua flour with wheat flour to create hearty and nu-
tritious pastries, and might combine boiled sweet potato, quinua flour,
lliccha greens, and a beaten egg to create a crêpe de quinua. As Brillat-
Savarin would say, the “alimentary geography” of Andean cuisine has
expanded, as new ingredients are combined with the old in an effort
to create new flavors, textures, and dishes. Although in the past few
decades, so-called fusion and international cuisines have enjoyed great
success in urban restaurants throughout the world, obstacles still remain
in the communicability of food between cultures (Fernández-Armesto
2002, 137). This difficulty clearly concerns many Peruvian chefs, and as
the Lima-based chef Claudio Meneses points out, even if we assume that
Peruvian foods and flavors might be acceptable to an international pal-
ate, the products necessary for the production of the Cocina novandina are
not easy to obtain overseas: “Even if Peruvian agriculture can reproduce
almost anything that grows in the any other part of the world, the reverse
is not true” (1994, 81). 15
Meneses also voices concern about the difficulty of exporting a cuisine
that has not yet been accepted domestically (Meneses 1994, 81). For ex-
ample, cuy “has not even managed to become popular in Perú outside
of the Andean regions, let alone internationally. We have a cuisine
which is difficult to reproduce outside of Perú” (Meneses 1994, 81).16
Indeed, the idea that spicy, roasted, or fried cuy might enjoy success
internationally among non-Andean diners does seem highly unlikely,
although one should not assume that widespread domestic success is a
prerequisite for the exportation of a New Andean Cuisine. When served
abroad, dishes elaborated with ch’uñu, cañihua, charqui (beef or camelid
jerky), mote (boiled corn), or even cuy do not necessarily carry a negative
stigma, even if domestically, certain Peruvian diners might feel hesitant
to consume these foods.17 Of course it is always possible that in the com-
 Conclusion 193

plex currents of international trade and trends, Andean products like

quinua and maca which are beginning to find success abroad might soon
discover newfound acceptance at home.18 The fact that in 2006 the elite
French cooking academy Le Cordon Bleu published a cookbook, Cocina
Novoandina: Quinua, herencia de los Incas (The New Cuisine from the Andes:
Quinoa, Heritage of the Incas) which focuses on Andean ingredients and
the Cocina novandina, certainly bodes well for the future of this fusion
cuisine (Cointreau 2006).

Urban Migration and Changing

Food Consumption Patterns in Highland Perú

On a frigid morning in July of 2002, ten-year-old Dominga Quispe be-

gan to intone the slow, plaintive strains of a disquieting song she calls
“Imallachá.” It was only a little after seven o’clock in the morning and
we had already guided her extended family’s herd of more than fifty
alpacas up to a pasture located near the 14,000-foot mountain pass that
looms over her community in the remote Q’eros region of the southern
Peruvian province of Paucartambo (department of Cusco). The fog was
thick that morning, and Dominga worried that a puma her mother had
heard calling the night before might take advantage of our limited field
of vision and steal away one of the smaller, weaker alpacas. As the fog
slowly lifted, our conversation changed to what had become her favorite
topic on this, my second visit to her Quechua ayllu. “Tell me again,” she
asked, “how is it that after leaving school in the afternoons the children
in Ocongate or Cusco can run to a store and buy a bit of sugar if they
wish?” Stories of children who attended school and lived near stores that
sold sugar—these were the images that fascinated Dominga that July as
we pastured the animals of a community whose isolated location put both
sugar and school beyond her reach.
I tried to explain that she would have to wait until she was a bit older
before traveling to see the schoolchildren (and sugar) of Cusco, since at
that time, the trip from her community in Q’eros generally took at least
two days to complete and involved a day’s walk to the nearest road
where travelers hitched a series of rides on petroleum tankers, the occa-
sional truck, and toward the end of the journey, a bus. Upon hearing this
explanation, Dominga tipped her head to one side and squinted her eyes
as she kicked at a tuft of dry ichu grass. Clearly unconvinced that such a
reason should deter her travels, she prodded me, “Could such a journey
really be more difficult than herding alpacas across treacherous passes?”
When she realized that my response would be limited to a contemplative
silence, Dominga provided her own melodic answer.
194 Chapter 6

“Imallachá . . . ?” “What’ll Happen . . . ?”

Imallachá warmi wawacha What’ll happen to the little girl?
Hayk’allachá warmi wawacha How much’ll happen to the little girl
warmi qhipanpi purinallanqa who only walks behind a woman?
Imallachá qhari wawacha What’ll happen to the little boy
warmi qhipanpi purinallanqa who only walks behind a woman? 5
Chankaka hina qhawaypayana One must watch over her like brown
chankaka sugar
Azúcar hina qhawaypayana One must watch over her like white sugar
Imallachá warmi wawacha What’ll happen to the little girl?
Hayk’allachá warmi wawacha How much’ll happen to the little girl
warmi qhipanpi purinallanqa who only walks behind a woman? 10
Imallachá qhari wawacha What’ll happen to the little boy?
Wiksananaypaq santo rimidiu19 For my stomach a sacred remedy
Imallachá warmi wawacha What’ll happen to the little girl?
Hayk’allachá warmi wawacha How much’ll happen to the little girl
warmi qhipanpi purinallanqa who only walks behind a woman? 15
Imallachá qhari wawacha What’ll happen to the little boy
warmi qhipanpi purinallanqa who only walks behind a woman?
Azúcar hina qhawapayana One must watch over her like white
sugar
Chankaka hina qhawapayana One must watch over her like brown
sugar
Imayachá nuqapas kani And what’ll happen to me? 20
Imayachá nuqapas kani And what’ll happen to me?
Imallachá qhari wawacha What’ll happen to the little boy
warmi qhipanpi purinallanqa who only walks behind a woman
Chaynallataq nuqapas kani For I too live like this
Chaynallataq nuqapas kani For I too live like this 25
(Performed by Dominga Quispe)
(Translation by the author)

Dominga’s open song (taki) begins almost like a riddle, by posing a

series of questions which immediately engage listeners by inviting them
to consider possible responses to her melodic queries. Like Incaic hymns
 Conclusion 195

and contemporary Quechua riddles and poems, this song repeatedly

poses difficult questions in the form of semantic couplets, “What’ll hap-
pen to the little girl / How much’ll happen to the little girl” (“Imallachá
warmi wawacha / Hayk’allachá warmi wawacha”). The line “what’ll happen”
refers to the strains placed on the family members left behind when a fa-
ther, husband, or brother must travel to the city in search of wage labor.
Like the girl in the song, Dominga had also spent three years of her youth
walking “only behind a woman,” living with her younger siblings and
mother while her father and older brother spend many months each year
looking for work in the urban center of Cusco.
Although the singer never explicitly answers her uncertain refrain
of “what will happen?” [to children like her], she does follow up these
questions with a warning: “One must watch over her like brown sugar /
One must watch over her like white sugar” (“Chankaka hina qhawaypayana
/ azúcar hina qhawaypayana”) (lines 6–7). This semantic couplet revolves
around the Quechua verb “qhaway” (“to look/to watch”) inflected with
the frequentative infix “paya” which indicates continuity and repetition
(Aráoz and Salas 1993, 120). The significance of this line, which employs
Dominga’s desired sugar as a simile, involves the need to “look at continu-
ally,” “guard,” or “watch over” one’s children. When I asked Dominga
what the song meant, she explained that it was her mother’s “Sugar Song”
(“azúcar taki”), performed as a reminder that parents must watch over
their children just as carefully as they protect the family’s precious stock of
sugar from the hands of sweet-toothed (“hillusapa”) boys and girls.
The “brown sugar” mentioned in the translation of the song is a gloss
for chankaka, the solid, unrefined cane sugar that is relatively cheaper than
the fine-grain, industrially processed, white sugar (called “azúcar” in both
Spanish and Quechua). In Arguedas’s novel Los ríos profundos, the protago-
nist Ernesto explains that all the children of Abancay village enjoy “the
most delicate and powerful delicacy in the world” when they mix the juice
of the Abancay lime with black chankaka, so that their mouths burn with
sweetness: “It inspires happiness. It is as if one were to drink sunlight”
(Arguedas 1958, 204).20 Although refined, white sugar is very rarely seen
or tasted in Q’eros, children in this remote region of the southern Peruvian
highlands do sometimes savor small pieces of chankaka when a family or
community member returns from a trip to a town where the sweet can be
acquired. By focusing on the context in which a food-instance arises within
this open song, one realizes that its first few lines allude to hierarchies
of prestige, aesthetic preferences, socioeconomic struggles, and complex
family dynamics. By the end of the song, however, the performer’s ques-
tions become less abstract and more personal as she reveals that her own
biography parallels that of the little girl mentioned in the song: “And
what’ll happen to me? / For I too live like this” (“Imayachá nuqapas kani
196 Chapter 6

/ Chaynallataq nuqapas kani”) (lines 20–21, 24–25). In the final lines of the
song, Dominga answers the riddle of who the song refers to, but she does
not offer any answer to her own difficult questions regarding the future of
runa children who grow up in single-parent households. As if to empha-
size the gravity of her difficult question and painful recognition, the lines
are repeated verbatim in immediate succession.

Q
Despite all of the pressures and problems associated with urbanization,
globalization, and the negative social stigmas attached to some Andean
foods, Quechua culinary traditions continue to flourish in both rural com-
munities and cities throughout the Andes. The Quechua food-landscape
is cyclical in nature, and in order to understand its rhythms and nuances,
one must also be able to identify the meanings associated with annual fes-
tivities, as well as everyday, context-specific dishes (Menenses 1994, 102;
Ossio 1988, 569–97). In the Andes, this gastronomical cycle still functions
with surprising regularity and the preparation, sale, and consumption
of certain foods signals an entire calendar of special occasions. Carnival
season, Holy Week, and Corpus Christi are all marked by the prepara-
tion and consumption of holiday-specific foods, while November’s Day
of the Dead (Día de todos los Santos) fills Cusco’s Mercado Central with
stacks of sweet breads called bread babies (t’anta wawakuna). Baked in the
shape of dolls, these loaves undergo mock baptisms, solemnly performed
by the girls and boys who receive them as gifts. In Cusco, June’s tourist-
saturated Inti raymi festival also attracts scores of local families who bring
their freshly harvested potatoes, ocas, and broad beans (habas) to the out-
skirts of the Sacsayhuamán ruins in order to bake the tubers and legumes
in underground wathiya ovens. In addition to these annual festivities,
regional and community-based gastronomical celebrations organize
cooking competitions and restaurant fairs.21 In ayllu festivals and rituals,
departmental cooking contests and gastronomical festivals, as well as in
the exclusive restaurants and cafés oriented to tourists, the flavors, ingre-
dients, and techniques of generations of Quechua cooks continue to be
prepared, served, and enjoyed.
The exploration of a diverse array of Quechua narratives presented
in the previous chapters reveals the alternate ways in which the artistic
representation of Andean cooks and foods creatively and insightfully
critique the oppressive treatment of indigenous Andeans, while also
depicting the tactics used by Quechua cooks to achieve socioeconomic
independence and influence. Andean novels, films, willakuy oral narra-
tives, photographs, testimonials, songs, and poems also reflect the pres-
sures and challenges of a rapidly changing global economy in which the
 Conclusion 197

Photograph by Alison Krögel.

Figure 6.2.   Farmers who belong to a cooperative of maize growers from the Valle
sagrado (Sacred Valley of the Incas) promote their crop with a giant papier-mâché
ear of corn in one of Cusco’s many Sunday parades.

status of the Quechua food-landscape still remains uncertain. Even in

rural Quechua communities which continue to practice many of the same
agropastoral activities which have sustained them for centuries, signs of
new challenges and consumption patterns have begun to surface.
Although the narratives discussed in this book should be valued and
analyzed in terms of their artistic qualities, they also serve as important
indicators of the needs, worries, struggles, and triumphs of both their
creators and audiences. The song “Imallachá . . . ?” provides us with
important insight into the struggles of rural Quechua families who
must send one or more of their family members off to the city in search
of wage labor. In rural regions of Perú, women like Dominga’s mother
must assume all of the household and agricultural tasks during the ex-
tended absences of their partners. This increased workload leaves little
time for the processing and preparation of time-consuming ingredients
and dishes (tarwi and quinua require fairly extensive processing, as does
cañihua, which must be toasted and ground into flour). Urban cooks
may have more access to economic resources than their rural counter-
parts, but they often explain that it is impossible to find high-quality
198 Chapter 6

ingredients in the city and that their children are not interested in eating
“campesino food.”
The pressures of global economic forces combined with the social stig-
mas attached to certain products of the Quechua food-landscape have led
to changes in Andean kitchens during the past several decades. Rice has
largely replaced quinua as a staple grain for many runa families living in
urban areas, while the relatively high price of cuy and kiwicha purchased
in the market means that urban cooks rarely prepare these high-protein
foods. Ricardo Valderrama and Carmen Escalante argue that changes in
the contemporary Quechua food-landscape extend into the countryside
as well. They assert:

With the migrations to the cities, the changes in cultivation introduced as a

result of an accelerated orientation toward the markets, and due to certain
individualist tendencies which enter the Communities [ayllus], food in An-
dean society has begun to lose its former significance and the techniques
which were used in its preparation. (Valderrama Fernández and Escalante
Gutiérrez 1984, 4)22

Surveys consistently show that both urban residents (83.5 percent) and
rural populations (72.6 percent) consider Andean products to be the
healthiest food choices for their families (Laurent 2005; Romero 2005).
Nevertheless, runa and mestizo families in the department of Cusco
increasingly choose to replace the consumption of Andean grains with
processed carbohydrates (polished white rice, noodles, and bread), and
to prepare fewer calcium and iron-rich Andean vegetables such as llul-
luchu (fresh water algae), lliccha (quinua leaves), Llutush (leaves of the
olluco tuber), and kanchiyuyu (tarwi leaves). Indeed, Quechua cooks living
both in the city of Cusco and the surrounding countryside cite economic
pressures and the changing tastes of their children as the reasons behind
their decision to abandon or alter many of the dishes prepared by their
mothers and grandmothers.
As we have seen, food often serves as a marker of class, ethnicity,
race, and even gender—a characteristic that has unfortunately contrib-
uted to a devaluation of many Andean foodstuffs historically associated
with “poor,” “ignorant,” and “backwards” runa lifestyles. With Perú’s
continuing food-security uncertainties and staggering rates of chronic
malnutrition and poverty, the need for programs focused on renewing
the cultivation, processing, dissemination, preparation, and consump-
tion of nutritious Andean foods has become vitally urgent. An increased
consumption of foods rich in protein (tarwi, quinua, cañihua, and kiwi-
cha), calcium (the llullucha plant and cañihua grain), iron (lliccha greens
and the chulco herb), and iodine (the qochayuyu algae) would provide
a cost-effective and relatively accessible relief to many of the country’s
 Conclusion 199

nutritional and food importation challenges. Development workers and

government strategists should consider the nutritional and economic
struggles of Andean farmers before turning to “export strategies” as their
primary weapon against poverty and malnutrition. By reintroducing An-
dean foods as a replacement for imported, nutritionally inferior staples
like processed white and wheat breads, noodles, and rice, the levels of
malnutrition and vitamin and mineral deficiencies would decrease, while
profits for local farmers would substantially increase.
Since the national government’s interest in promoting and supporting
Andean agriculture remains inadequate, departmental, regional, and
community governments must seek out creative financial and market-
ing strategies for Andean agricultural projects (Le Bihan et al. 2003,
36). Gastronomical festivals, cooking contests, and recipe publications
organized by regional, municipal, and nongovernmental organizations
have already provided a positive point of departure.23 Likewise, in Cusco
and in surrounding rural communities, “culinary education” programs
disseminated in primary schools, community centers, and on radio pro-
grams seek to provide information about Andean products and to dispel
negative myths and stereotypes associated with highland foods. These
educational programs also help to avoid what Otero describes as the dan-
gers of the “Americanization” of diets which leads rural, Latin American
families to choose what they perceive as “high-value” food products such
as wheat, meat, and milk instead of local grains and cereals, leaving these
consumers more vulnerable to global price shifts and malnutrition (since
“high-value” “prestige” foods generally offer fewer nutrient-rich calories
per dollar (Otero 2008, 46).
As the final declarations from both the 2007 “Forum for the People’s
Right to Food” (“Foro para el Derecho de los Pueblos a la Alimentación,”
Lima) and the 2001 “World Forum on Food Sovereignty” (Cuba) have
underscored, women in rural areas of the developing world play a vital
role in ensuring the food security and promoting the food sovereignty
of their families and communities (in Carrasco 2008, 16, 79–80). Non-
governmental organizations such as the Guaman Poma de Ayala Center
have focused their nutritional campaigns on mobilizing and empower-
ing women’s groups in both rural communities and semi-urban slums.24
Urban and semi-urban kitchen gardens and subsistence farming projects
also have the potential to increase poor families’ access to nutrient-dense
foods; programs such as “The Paradigm Shift Project” and “Urban
Farmer” have already begun successful urban farming programs together
with Andean migrants who live in the slums (pueblos jóvenes) surrounding
Lima.25 The difficult task of resolving the dire nutritional situation in the
Peruvian Andes will require numerous creative plans and strategies in
the coming years, yet the history of this region’s innovative communities
200 Chapter 6

and the people’s deep knowledge of high-altitude food production pro-

vides every indication that such a goal is indeed attainable.26
Across genres and historical periods, Quechua verbal and visual narra-
tives creatively critique the excesses of oppressive groups and individuals
through depictions of the organizational and economic influence, guile,
creativity, and dignity of enterprising Quechua cooks, and the nutrition-
ally and symbolically rich foods they prepare. In the coming years, runa
individuals and their communities will need to use all of the skills and
talents demonstrated by the cooks represented in these narratives in or-
der to advocate for a revaluation of the Quechua food-landscape—a goal
which would go a long way toward solving the food-security crises which
perennially plague Perú.
In many of the Quechua narratives analyzed in the previous chapters—
the novel Los ríos profundos, the testimonio Autobiografía, the film Madeinusa,
and the various willakuykuna performances presented in chapter 5—food-
related behaviors and events are nearly always linked to the issue of trust.
The chicheras’ mistrust of town officials in Los ríos profundos sparks their up-
rising and march to the community salt cache. In Gregorio Condori Mamani:
Autobiografía (Andean Lives), Asunta continually mentions examples of how
food behaviors can make or break trust-based relationships among runa.
In this testimonio, domestic partnerships are broken (by rejecting a home-
cooked meal), or sealed (by extending an invitation to a lavish lunch) with
specific food-related gestures. Moreover, food preparation and distribution
signal when children are nurtured or turned away by their caretakers and
whether regular customers are secured or lost. The potential success of
interpersonal pacts in the Andes can often be understood by analyzing the
complex signals related to the preparation and serving of particular foods.
In the film Madeinusa, after a father’s incestuous abuse destroys the family’s
unity, his daughter uses her role as cook to secure both her revenge for a
traumatic past and her path to a brighter future.
In the willakuykuna oral narratives “Isicha Puytu,” “The Black Worm”
(“Yana kuru”), “The Newborn Baby and the Condemned Soul” (“Qhulla wa-
wata cundenadutaq”), and “The Witch Cook” (“Layqa wayk’uq”), conflict-
laden representations of food and cooks signal the presence of tensions
and the changing nature of interpersonal relationships within runa
communities. When husbands and sons reject the meals of their wives
and mothers for fear of poisoning, when daughters refuse to accept the
treats carefully prepared for them by their mothers, and when ravenous
condenados wander through the fields surrounding a village, something
is definitely amiss. Throughout the Andes, food cultivation, prepara-
tion, and consumption habits are changing; many adult men and their
adolescent children are migrating to urban areas in search of wage labor,
while news, trends, and products from cities arrive to rural villages with
 Conclusion 201

increasing rapidity. The verbal and visual narratives explored in this

book address the increased struggles and stigmas associated with the
Quechua food-landscape. Some portents of the future are suggested in
the closing lines of Autobiografía when Asunta mentions that if she were
younger, she would try to organize an entrepreneurial venture selling
clothing, since the increasing costs of staple Andean foodstuffs continue
to rise, thus reducing the profits for market vendors, cooks, and chicheras.
In the willakuy “Isicha Puytu,” the title character refuses to accept her
mother’s gift of foods made from quinua, mote, ch’uñu, and cañihua be-
cause she associates these foodstuffs with the poverty and social stigmas
from which she is trying to distance herself.
For a culture in which meal sharing has played a role in religious rituals
since Incan times and continues to signal the sealing of familial or com-
munity alliances, the ratifying of business contracts, and the expression of
affection and esteem, the frequency with which one hears Quechua narra-
tives revolving around plots of food-related mistrust, signals the current
tensions felt within many runa families and communities. Yet if these nar-
ratives often depict the conflicts and challenges faced by runa individuals
and their families, Quechua verbal and visual art also describes the ways
in which culinary skills help women earn money to support themselves
and their families, gain independence from abusive homes, and manipu-
late or punish the decisions or perceived ungratefulness of their children
or spouses. In the ever-evolving repertoire of Quechua visual and verbal
narratives, artistic genres constantly change and emerge as new genera-
tions of runa artists seek to understand, critique, interpret, and represent
their society and culture in new and meaningful ways.

Notes

 1. Today, only 5.9 percent of Perú’s territory can be considered arable land,
while only 13.9 percent is suitable for grazing cattle, sheep, and camelids. Small
agricultural operations (with less than 49 acres) farm 66 percent of the nation’s
arable land. In the sierra, most family farms till much smaller areas than this and
indeed, 50 percent of all Peruvian farms are comprised of less than 7.5 acres of
land (Carrasco 2008, 42–43).
 2. Farmers’ memories of these government policies are keen and many have
passionately opposed the U.S.-Perú Free Trade Agreement (Tratado de Libre Com-
ercio) both before, and after the Peruvian Congress ratified the treaty in June of
2006. Many small-scale farmers in the rural areas of the department of Cusco are
worried that their products will not be able to compete with a flood of untaxed
(and heavily subsidized) U.S. agricultural imports and that only the huge coastal
growers (of mangoes, asparagus, artichokes, and sugar) will benefit from the
trade policy.
202 Chapter 6

 3. Slightly altered versions of the 1957 poem were subsequently published

in Jesús Lara’s volume La literatura de los Quechuas (1969, 170) and in Guardia
Mayorga’s 1975 collection of poetry entitled Runa Simi Jarawi: poesía quechua (pub-
lished under his pen name, Kusi Paukar). Although Guardia Mayorga is prima-
rily known as a Peruvian philosopher and poet, he also spent time while in exile
investigating Quechua manuscripts near Cochabamba Bolivia where the Bolivian
Quechua scholar Jesús Lara lived and worked (Itier 2000, 105–6).
 4. After returning from exile, Víctor Paz Estenssoro assumed the presidency
of Bolivia in 1952 with a coup d’etat organized by members of the Movimiento
Nacionalista Revolucionario party (MNR, Revolutionary Nationalist Movement)
(Urioste Fernández de Córdova 2004). By 1953, indigenous groups had begun
to increase their organizational strength, which led to large-scale occupations of
latifundio estates (Urioste Fernández de Córdova 2004). The government also
began to institute economic and educational reforms, the universal vote, and
the nationalization of the mines, and in 1953 it formally initiated an agricultural
reform program (Klein 2003, 213–15). Although this agrarian reform did lead to
the redistribution of some latifundio landholdings to subsistence farmers, the
decreasing price of tin on the world market sparked startling rates of inflation,
while attempts by the government to decrease miners’ salaries were met by na-
tionwide labor protests.
 5. Since the 1928 publication of José Carlos Mariátegui’s famous volume Siete
ensayos de interpretación de la realidad peruana (Seven Interpretive Essays on Peruvian
Reality), the notion of life under the Incas as a sort of socialist utopia has captured
the imaginations of left-leaning Andean and Latin American intellectuals.
 6. The website for the business consortium “CUSCO Alimentos Andinos” de-
scribes some of the Andean products sold locally, nationally, and internationally
by these companies, www.cuscoalimentosandinos.com/kuski.php.
 7. For instance, in his study of the changes in alimentary patterns on the island
of Amantaní in Lake Titicaca, Jorge Gascón points out that rising levels of rice
consumption in Perú correlate with its increasing comercialization as a product
which has enjoyed the support of various Peruvian administrations in the years
following the the Agrarian Reform. In order to meet the increasing demand for
starches in urban areas, rice has often been heavily subsidized, and its production
encouraged through huge governmental irrigation projects (1998, 68).
 8. Statistics measuring rates of anemia in the department of Cusco report even
more staggering deficiencies; 40 percent of women (ages fifteen to fifty-nine),
suffer from anemia (Laurent 2005). The INEI reported in a 2001 study that 53.5
percent of rural children under the age of five and 46.5 percent of urban children
in this age-group suffer from anemia (Carrasco 2008, 48).
 9. Part I of Ugo Facundo Carrillo Cavero’s Quechua-language poetry col-
lection Yaku-unupa yuyaynin also pays respectful and grateful homage to the
diversity and generous productivity of Andean cultivars. This portion of his
book is entitled “Papachanchikpa waytan uqllu waqtachanpi qillqakuna” (“Written
on the Resilient Petals of Our Dear Potato’s Flowers”) and includes thirty-eight
poems, each dedicated to the aesthetic beauty, resiliency, abundance, flavor,
or nutritional richness of a different variety of Andean potato (Carrillo Cavero
2009, 57–92).
 Conclusion 203

10. Most export companies are based in Lima. For example, companies like
T-Interamerican Perú, Perú Agro Partners, Yacuma Light, and Fufesa Péru ex-
port coastal products such as paprika, mango, artichoke, asparagus, papaya, and
olives. Companies such as Bedicomsa, Interamsa, and Andean Crops do export
Andean products—such as dried legumes (“jumbo lima beans”), maize marketed
as “Giant Cusco Maize,” and purple corn from “the Sacred Valley of the Inca”—
but are still based in Lima.
11. For instance, the large Peruvian company Interamsa has increased their
online marketing of quinua and kiwicha, providing potential clients with detailed
recipes, historical and biological background, and nutritional charts which de-
scribe these Andean grains, www.interamsa.com.pe.
12. Historically, the global market for the kiwicha grain has been even more
limited, although its consumption has risen in recent years in Andean cities such
as Cusco, with the marketing of packaged energy bars and instant hot beverage
mixes such as api de kiwicha (Ayala 2007; Romero 2005).
13. When, in 1994, two researchers from Colorado State University (Dr. Sarah
Ward and Dr. Duane Johnson) applied for a patent for a variety of wild Bolivian
quinua (called Apelawa, from which they created a hybrid version), international
human and farmers’ rights groups successfully lobbied for the professors to
withdraw their patent application (RAFI 1998, 2). Representatives of the Bolivian
National Quinua Producers Association (“Asociación Nacional de Productores de
Quinua,” ANAPQUI) traveled to New York in June 1996 to appeal their group’s
case in front of a General Assembly of the United Nations. ANAPQUI farmers
successfully argued that the U.S. quinua patent endangered Bolivian food secu-
rity, thus constituting a violation of human rights (RAFI 1996).
14. The ¡Cómprale a Perú! (Buy Peruvian!) campaign attempts to appeal to na-
tionalistic sentiment in its efforts to promote the increased consumption of Peru-
vian products. The campaign could promote better nutrition and support small,
family farms by including lesser known Andean products (such as kiwicha, cañihua,
and tarwi) in its publicity campaign, www.compralealperu.gob.pe/index.php.
15. Of course many other Limeño chefs (where the majority of Perú’s cooking
academies, culinary publications, and exclusive restaurants are located) do not
really internationalize most elements of the “New Andean Cuisine,” but instead
concentrate on exporting more coastal cooking styles, together with a few fairly
well-known (and “less risky”) Andean ingredients such as quinua and purple fin-
gerling potatoes. For example, this trend is evident in the Peruvian celebrity chef
Gastón Acurio’s international chain of ceviche restaurants called La Mar and in
his less seafood-oriented (and more economical) international chain called T’anta.
At least in the United States, most “Peruvian” or “Andean” restaurants aimed at
serving a primarily North American clientele tend to focus their menus on sea-
food ceviche dishes, roasted chicken, anticuchu “kebabs,” empanadas, and a few
corn, potato, and quinua sides, while introducing diners to very few of the more
unfamiliar Andeans foods.
16. See deFrance (2006) for an analysis of conflicting attitudes toward the con-
sumption of cuy dishes in the southern, inland Peruvian city of Moquegua, where
the food is considered a delicacy, as opposed to the coastal city of Ilo (located
ninety kilometers away) where residents overwhelmingly reject cuy as an ined-
204 Chapter 6

ible rodent associated with the cuisine of uneducated, impoverished campesinos

(deFrance 2006, 5, 26–28).
17. While many Limeño chefs may be focused on introducing Peruvian cuisine
abroad, the owners and chefs of various restaurants in Cusco (such as Sara and El
Encuentro) find that their Novoandina dishes are becoming increasingly popular
right at home. These chefs cite the recent popularity of vegetarian and organic
lifestyle choices as having contributed to the success of their menu items (among
a primarily, though by no means exclusively, international clientele), since An-
dean products include such a wide variety of nutritious vegetables, legumes,
and grains.
18. Indeed, tequila consumption underwent a similar process of “reappropria-
tion” by Mexican consumers in the last century. After suffering decades of de-
creased consumption at home, tequila was “rediscovered” by Mexican consumers
in the 1970s after having achieved widespread success in European and North
American markets.
19. “Santo remedio” is the general name for any number of remedies used in
Quechua households throughout the Andes and may include infusions, plaster
casts, or topical ointments made from herbal mixtures. When one asks the local
healer (hampiq) for a remedy he often replies: “I am giving you this santo reme-
dio, you will soon be cured” (“Qushaykita chaymi santu rimidiu, ratuchalla thani-
ychinki”).
20. “El manjar más delicado y poderoso del mundo.” “Es como si se bebiera la luz del sol.”
21. The bread festival (“T’anta raymi”) in the town of Oropesa, Tipón’s “Cuy
Festival,” Raqchi, Santiago, and Andahuaylillas’ annual cooking contests, and
the monthly “Gastronomical Festival” held in the Cusco neighborhoods of San
Jerónimo and San Sebastián, are a few examples of community-based events
which contribute to the diffusion of Quechua ingredients, recipes, and flavors.
22. Jorge Gascón presents a similar argument with regards to Quechua kitchen
culture in the department of Puno: “Today, a campesino no longer eats what his
father or grandfather ate. Many [food] products and dishes have disappeared, or
their consumption has diminished in favor of new, non-native ones which gener-
ally come from [and must be purchased with cash in] a capitalist market” (1998,
59). A 2001 study of food consumption in the department of Cusco does indeed
show a significant age-related difference in diet. Among Cusqueños age forty and
older, Andean foods comprised a full 28 percent of the group’s diet, while the
diets of young adults between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five consisted of
only 13 percent of Andean products (Laurent 2005).
23. See for example the cookbook edited by Herrera Zegarra (2001) as part of
the Cusco-based Guaman Poma de Ayala Center’s series of regional cooking con-
tests and community-based nutrition education programs.
24. Programs that focus institutional and financial support on a specific area
of nutritional need and which involve community-based educational programs
are likely to achieve the most successful outcomes in rural, runa communities.
For example, a governmental program developed in Thailand has made great
strides in recent years in reducing levels of malnutrition in prenatal women and
children under the age of five. This Thai program focuses on training female,
volunteer “mobilizers” from rural communities to disseminate practical nutri-
 Conclusion 205

tional information to neighboring families, and to identify pregnant women in

their community and offer them prenatal supplements and education (Le Bihan
2003, 52). Programs like this one could also work in the rural Andean sierra,
where women are much more likely to take heed of nutritional advice offered by
a neighbor woman, than by Spanish-speaking strangers who arrive from the city
and then disappear the next day.
25. See www.theparadigmshiftproject.org/peru-food_security.html, and www
.uharvest.org.
26. Advocacy groups for Bolivian farmers such as ANAPQUI have managed
to increase the export (and internal consumption) of quinua, and could serve
as a positive example for Andean producers, www.worldpantry.com/cgi-bin/
ncommerce3/ProductDisplay?prmenbr=688899&prrfnbr=783811#coopcb.
 Appendix

Otra Oración Another Prayer (Hymn four)

O Wiraqochan Oh Wiraqocha
Kusi usapuq hayllipu Joyous, victorious, triumphant,
Wiraqochaya Dear Wiraqocha
Runa khuya maywa Tender compassion for the people’s pain
Kaymi runa yana waqchiyki These people your orphans, servants
Runayki kamasqayki, Your people whom you have infused with 5
churisqayki life, you have brought into the world.
Qasi qespilla kakuchun Let them be peaceful, free
warmaywan, churinwan with adolescents, with children
Ch’in nanta [When] on the solitary path
Ama watequintawan Let them not think deceitful 10
yuyachunchu temptations
Unay wata kawsachun Let them live long.
Mana allqaspa, manana Nothing unfinished, nothing
p’itispa broken
Mikhukuchun, uqyakuchun Let them eat, let them drink
(Quechua transcriptions by Urbano and Duviols 1989, 85)
(Translations by the author)

207
208 Appendix

Otra Oración Another Prayer (Hymn eight)

Wiraqochaya Dear Wiraqocha
Wallpay wana Wiraqochaya
1
Diligent worker, Dear Wiraqocha
Runaqta qasi qespillaqta In peace and safety, the people,
Qhapaq Inka churiyki warmaykipaq The Inka king, your son, your
adolescent child,
Kamasqayki wagaychamuchun Watch over those you have in- 5
fused with life
Hat’allimuchun lead them by the hand.
Pacha, chakana, runa, llana, mikhuy Earth, fields, people, llamas, food2
Pay kaptin yakuchun Wherever they exist, let them
greatly increase.
Qhapaq Inka kamasqaykiqta The Inka ruler whom you have
infused with life
Wiraqochaya Wiraqocha, 10
ayniy, huñiy, reciprocate,3 acknowledge,
marq’ariy, hat’alliy take him in your arms, by the hand
Imay Pachakama Until whatever time or place.
(Transcription Urbano and Duviols 1989, 90)

Otra Oración a todas las huacas Another Prayer for all Huacas
(Hymn eleven)
O Pachaq ch’ulla Wiraqocha Oh Wiraqocha, unmatched in
the world
Ukhu ch’ulla Wiraqochan Wiraqocha, unmatched in the
inner (world)
Waka willka kachun nispa saying, “Let there be huacas and
willka.”4
Kamaq Infuser of life
Hatun apu Great Lord 5
Wallpay wana Diligent worker
Tayna allasto allonto . . . ——5
Wiraqochay
Hurin pacha, hanan pacha kachun “Let there be a lower world, an
nispa niq saying, upper world.”
Ukhupachapi puka umaqta Within the inner world,
 Appendix 209

Churaq hay niway, huniyway Creator, respond, consent 10

Qespi qasi kamusaq Wiraqochaya That I may live freely, peace-
fully, Dear Wiraqocha
Mikhuyniyuk, minkhayuq, sarayuq, [A life filled] with food, with
llamayuq field hands,6 with maize, with
llamas
Imaynayuq, hayk’aynayuq with what ever is necessary,
with however much is neces-
sary.
Ama kachariwaykuchu May you not abandon us
Imaymana, hayk’aymana Amidst whatever, amidst how- 15
ever many
Chikamanta hatunmanta, nak’asqa, Grave dangers, pursued
through the night,
watusqa, umusqamanta cursed and bewitched.7
(Transcription Urbano and Duviols 1989, 92–93)

Notes

 1. As Itier point out, like “wallpay,” “wana” has also completely disappeared
from present-day dialects of Quechua and is even less documented in colonial
sources than the mysterious word wallpay (Itier 1993, 167).
 2. Duviols and Urbano alter Father Molina’s transcription to read as follows:
“Pacha, chakana, runa, llana, mikhuy” and translate it as, “gente, ganado, víveres,”
thus choosing not to attempt a translation of Father Molina’s “chacam” (Molina
1989, 90). Father Molina’s actual transcription (as reprinted in Duviols and Urba-
no’s 1989 edition) reads, “pachachacamrunallama micuy” and in his Declaración desta
oración, Father Molina translates the line as, “la chácaras y las jentes y el ganado”
(Molina 1989, 90). John Howland Rowe (1953) opts for the rendering of chacam as
chacra, or “agricultural plot.” I agree with his decision to assume that Father Mo-
lina’s chacam should really read chacra or “[agricultural] fields” (particularly since
Father Molina includes the word chácaras in his Declaración).
 3. I have translated “Ayniy” as “reciprocate.” The noun form of the Quechua
word, “Ayni,” is an important Andean concept whose complex meaning resists
translation. In her discussion of Andean cultural categories of equilibrium, Har-
rison defines ayni as the concept of “reciprocity among equals, where labor is
not contracted but (theoretically) exchanged as a service to another, who owes a
similar service in return as well. Implicit is an understanding that the same type
of work will be performed” (1989, 52).
210 Appendix

 4. Juan Pérez Bocanegra also transcribes a prayer indicating the influence ex-
ercised by the huacas and villcas over the success of agricultural crops, as well as
the manner in which a reciprocal relationship between humans and deities could
ensure a mutually beneficial outcome for all. Pérez Bocanegra transcribes and
translates the prayer as follows: “Huacas, villcas, that you might have this maize
and these foods, insure that this maize might turn out well, and do not permit it
to spoil” (“A huacacuna, villcacuna, çarayoc, micuiniyoc cai çarallaita yachacuchipuai
amatac huacllipu acachu,” “huacas, villcas, que teneis el maíz, y las comidas, hazed que
este maiz salga bueno, y no permitais que se dañe”) (1935, 132). Itier points out that
since the Spanish were such efficacious extirpators of the Incas’ huacas, mummies,
and other physical representations of their ancestral deities, runakuna were forced
to shift the worship of their ancestors to a more symbolic realm. By replacing the
physical grave or mummy of an ancestor with the more clandestine alternative of
worshipping a mountain apu or river, many runa communities managed to con-
tinue venerating their deities (Itier 1993, 68).
 5. Father Molina does not even attempt to translate this line, and Duviols
and Urbano also indicate the ambiguity of the manuscript here; allasto might
also be read as llasto, and allanto as llanto. If this is the case, then it seems fair to
assume also that Tayna may actually be Qayna, a temporal adjective meaning “in
the past,” or “long ago”—a word which would make sense in the context of this
hymn which begins by recalling Wiraqocha’s creation of the world. While it is
impossible to know just what the hymn’s performer wished to express in this
line, if one renders the line as “Qayna allasta llanto . . . Wiraqochaya” (“Harvesting
crops in the shadows of that long-ago time . . . Wiraqochaya”), the verb “allay”
(“to harvest, especially tubers”) would make sense, given that the previous line
praises Wiraqocha as a “diligent worker” (“Wallpay wana”).
 6. Here I have chosen the English noun “field hands” as a gloss for Quechua’s
much more complex concept of minkha. Gonçalez Holguín defines minccani with
the very straightforward expression “to rent people” (“alquilar personas”). Ayni
generally describes work performed for a neighbor or relative with the expecta-
tion that this work will be returned at some point in the future, while minkha usu-
ally refers to the repayment of one’s previously expended ayni. In a contemporary
context, however, I have heard the word “minkha” used to signify wage labor. For
example, if a mestizo landowner has never lent ayni to his runa neighbor and hires
him to help with the harvest in exchange for a monetary reimbursement, this is
also considered minkha (see also, Mannheim 1991, 90–91; Allen 2002, 93).
 7. The abrupt and very negative tone of these final lines as compared to the
conciliatory, optimistic endings of the other Molina hymns suggest that perhaps
the final lines of the hymn have been lost. The last two lines of the hymn in-
cluded in the Molina manuscript, however, refer to various Quechua categories
of magic-wielding humans or supernatural beings. “Nak’asqa” (“pursued through
the night”) is likely derived from the noun “ñakaq,” a supernatural creature be-
lieved to attack unsuspecting runakuna (usually at night) and then drag them off
to their death by sucking out the victim’s vital energy (wira) (see, for example,
Krögel 2010; Morote Best 1998; Weismantel 2001, xxvi–xxviii). According to Gua-
man Poma and Gonçaléz Holguín, in colonial times, the word “umu” referred to a
runa who practiced malevolent witchcraft (indeed contemporary Quechua speak-
 Appendix 211

ers use the word in this manner as well) (Guaman Poma 1980, 1:274–75, 247–48;
Gonçaléz Holguín 1989, 355). Although Jorge Lira defines the word with a more
positive connotation—“Supreme priest in the Incaic religion. Theocrat. Prophet,
clairvoyant. Astrologer, diviner, haruspex, oracle, dowser” (1941, 1041)—it is
clear that in the context of this hymn, “umu” (used here in its adjectival form -sqa)
denotes malevolent powers (thus I have translated it as “bewitched”). The word
“watuq” also refers to a magic wielding runa diviner who may not always use his
or her powers for evil (Lira 1941, 553). As in the case of the “umu,” however, in the
context of this hymn, “watuq” refers to the potentially dangerous powers of these
Quechua seers who are capable of “cursing” humans.
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 Index
Abancay, in Los ríos profundos, 107,
111–12
agricultural reform: Bolivian, 180–81,
202n4; Peruvian, 14, 179
ají. See uchu
Allen, Catherine, 101n6, 152, 166,
169n1, 170nn4–5
amaranth. See kiwicha
Andean cooks. See cooks
Andean Lives. See Autobiografía
Anka Ninawaman, Ch’aska Eugenia.
See poetry, Quechua language
aqlla, 56, 69n9
aqllawasi, 45, 46
Arequipa, 119, 122
Arguedas, José María, 106, 113–14, 118;
author’s youth, 117; Quechua oral
tradition and, 116, 153
Autobiografía, 13, 92–94, 142, 173n26,
200–201. See also Condori Mamani,
Gregorio; Quispe Huamán, Asunta
ayllu, 77, 107, 125; changes within,
198; Chinchero’s, 145–46, 150; de-
fined, 101n6; responsibilities
and customs within, 153, 155, 168,
169n2
ayni, 209n3. See also testimonio
235
Babb, Florence, 78, 87
Barthes, Roland: on semiological im-
portance of food, 4–5, 126; on social
function of food, 5, 80–81, 106, 191
Beasley-Murray, Jon, 134, 136
Bedoya, Ricardo, 129, 138n15, 139n16
Betanzos, Juan de, 40
Beyersdorff, Margot, 113, 116
Bitti, Bernardo. See Escuela Cusqueña
Brack Egg, Antonio, 22, 29
Cadena, Marisol de la, 17n12, 102n19,
104n29
Campesinos bebiendo chicha en Ch’oq’o
(photograph). See Chambi, Martín
Capac, Huayna, 40, 42
Castro-Klarén, 109, 111, 137n2
Certeau, Michel de: on culture, 80; on
delinquent narratives, 11; on “lin-
guistic combat,” 113–14; on strat-
egy, 10; on tactics, 10–14, 17n18, 80
Ch’akalqocha, 142–48, 151–52, 159–68
Chambi, Manuel, 129, 138n15
Chambi, Martín: biography, 119;
Campesinos bebiendo chicha en Ch’oq’o
(photograph), 125, 126; chicheras,
depiction of, 119, 123–24, 128;
236 Index
chicherías, depiction of, 119, 122;
Cusqueñan social classes, repre-
sentations of, 121; expositions of
photography, 120; Mestiza tomando
chichi (photograph), 123, 124, 125;
runa, depiction of, 125–26, 128; Se-
ñoritas en la chichería (photograph),
122, 123; Vendedora de chicha en
Quiquijana (photograph), 127, 128.
See also indigenismo movement;
Sander, August
chicha, 89; aqlla and, 46, 50; nutritional
value of, 102n17; preparation of, 90,
102n18; Spaniards’ colonial denun-
ciation of, 90–91; varieties of, 90–91.
See also indigenismo movement
chicheras, 14; role in community, 92;
socioeconomic independence and,
14, 100. See also Chambi, Martín;
indigenismo movement
chicherías, 21, 87; food sold in, 89–90.
See also Chambi, Martín; indigenismo
movement
chili. See uchu
Chinchero, Peruvian district of, 143,
144, 145
ch’uñu, 21, 24, 58, 60, 81, 89–90, 154–61
Cieza de León, Pedro de, 77, 89
Çitua, 44, 47, 51
Cobo, Bernabé, 22, 27, 30, 46; chicha,
description and opinion of, 90–91
code-switching, between Quechua and
Spanish, 101n13, 110, 134
colonos, in Los ríos profundos, 108,
112–13
Comentarios reales, 13; alimentary meta-
phors in, 58, 62; proemio (proem) of,
57; representations of food in, 57,
58, 61–62
condenado: defined, 151; Quechua
oral tradition’s representation of,
156–57, 161
Condori Mamani, Gregorio, 97–98
cooks: “inside,” 9, 69n10, 78; market-
place, 78, 86, 99, 104n36; “outside,” 9,
78, 99; Quechua cooks, 2, 14, 18n21,
93, 200; restaurant and chichería, 89;
socioeconomic independence and, 9,
14, 149, 175, 196; supernatural pow-
ers and, 142, 148–53, 157, 160, 164,
167. See also aqlla
corn. See maize
corn beer. See chicha
Cornejo Polar, Antonio, 109, 110, 137n5
Council of Trent, affect on colonial
visual art, 63
Counihan, Carole, 15n4, 159
cultural identity and food. See food
Cusco School. See Escuela Cusqueña
cuy, 31, 130, 163; Last Supper (La última
cena) painting, represented in, 65,
73n36; name, origins of, 32; nutri-
tional value of, 32–33; recipes for, 33
Deep Rivers. See Los ríos profundos
Doña Felipa, character in Los ríos pro-
fundos: physical description of, 111;
song about, 115; subversiveness of,
112–13; uprising (“el motín”), role
in, 107, 109
Douglas, Mary, 175, 191
Duviols, Pierre, 68n4, 70n18, 210n5
Eco, Humberto: 3; on narrative open-
ness, 12; on the open work, 11–12
Ernesto, character in Los ríos profundos:
relationship with cooks, 116–18;
uprising (“el motín”), participation
in, 110
Escuela Cusqueña, 13; Baroque and, 63,
72n32; Bitti, Bernardo and, 63; Last
Supper (La última cena) painting
and, 65–67; Mannerist school and,
63; religious indoctrination and, 64
film: ethnographic documentaries,
Cusqueñan, 129, 138n15. See also
Madeinusa, film
First New Chronicle and Good Govern-
ment. See Primer nueva corónica y
buen gobierno
food: colonial artistic representa-
tions of, 39, 64–67; colonial tribute
requirements and, 61; conquista-
 Index 237
dores’ reaction to Andean varieties
of, 6, 27–30; death in connection
to, 40–48, 55; identity represented
through, 7, 197–98; inside and out-
side meanings of, 8–9; luxury food,
17n13, 27, 32, 37n32, 83–84, 157, 166;
sacredness of, 44–45, 55–56; sexual
relations and, 15n5, 157, 168–69,
191; supernaturally adulterated,
142, 148–51, 158, 162–68; symbolic
and cultural meanings of, 2–5, 7, 14,
93, 191; taboos, culturally specific,
15n5, 142, 158, 165. See also cooks;
food-landscape, Andean; Inca;
novoandina cuisine; Perú; poetry,
Quechua language
Food and Agricultural Organization
(FAO), 176
food-landscape, Andean: changes to,
197–98, 200, 202n7, 204n22; colonial
violence against, 6, 58, 77–78, 108;
colonial visual art, representation
of, 56, 65–67; cyclical nature of, 196;
defined, 3; disrespect for, 108, 150,
155–58, 161, 169; globalization and,
176, 190; Quechua verbal narratives
and, 13, 146, 180–87; resistance and,
2, 7, 10, 14, 56, 67
food security: governmental food
subsidies affect on, 184, 188;
Peruvian, twenty-first century,
176–77; transnational companies
and, 190; women and, 199. See
also Perú
Free Trade Agreement, Perú-U.S. See
Tratado de libre comercio
frutillada, 157
García Canclini, Néstor, 177
Garcilaso de la Vega, Inca, 6, 13, 22, 27,
30; on aqlla, 46; biography of, 57; on
Incan poetry, 51. See also Comen-
tarios reales
Geertz, Clifford, 176
Gisbert, Teresa, 63–64, 66–67
Gonçalez Holguín, Diego, 24–26,
70n19, 71n23, 150, 152
Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe, 24, 26,
40, 42, 49; chicha, description and
opinion of, 91; on Incan ancestor
worship, 50; on the Çitua festival,
47–48. See also Primer nueva corónica
y buen gobierno
Guardia Mayorga, César. See poetry,
Quechua language
guinea pig. See cuy
hacendados, in Los ríos profundos, 106–8
Hall, Stuart, 7
Harrison, Regina, 21, 23, 27, 34n5,
35n10, 70n16, 101n7, 209n3
Howard, Rosaleen, 170n4, 171n6,
173n24
huacatay, 31
Huaraz, Peruvian province of, 129
Huarochirí Manuscript, 24, 35n16, 165
Huayhuaca, José Carlos, 120, 128,
138n10
huayno, 114, 116, 138n8
Inca: agricultural practices, 39–40, 59;
ancestor worship, 48–51; ritualists,
44, 48; ritual use of food, 40–44,
47–48, 49; sacrificial use of camelids,
47, 49; storehouses, 58, 60. See also
Tahuantinsuyu
indigenismo movement: chicha, as
symbol of, 92; chicherías, as symbol
of, 119, 123; proponents of, 121. See
also chichería
Inquisition, “witch craze” and, 148
Inti, 27, 40, 45, 59, 187
Isbell, Billie Jean, 31, 37n31, 70n17
“Isicha Puytu,” narrative, 153–55
Itier, César, 71n19, 170n4, 209n1, 210n4
“¡Jatariichik!” See poetry, Quechua
language
kiwicha (amaranth), 6, 29, 83–84, 179,
184–85
Lambright, Anne, 107, 110
Lara, Jesús, 51, 68n6, 70n15, 202n3
238 Index
Last Supper (La última cena). See Escuela
Cusqueña
layqa: defined, 150–52, 158, 162–69,
171n12
Leguía, Augusto, 121
Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 15n6, 20
Lewis, Laura, 148–49, 171nn9–10
Lienhard, Martín, 16n7, 94, 103n24, 138n8
Lima, 180, 190, 192, 199, 203n10; film
representation of in Madeinusa, 129,
132–36
Lira, Jorge, 142, 153, 172n12, 211n7
Llosa, Claudia, 129–30, 134
maca, 83, 184
machu. See suq’a
Madeinusa, film: Chale, character
of (Yiliana Chong), 129; critical
response to, 129, 138n16; Don Cayo,
character of (Juan Ubaldo Huamán),
129–30, 134, 139n13; food, symbolic
representation of, 129–30, 135–36;
Manayaycuna, fictional town of,
129–30, 134; plot summary of,
129–30; Quechua language song
in, 130–31; Salvador, character of
(Carlos de la Torre), 129–30, 132–36;
Tiempo santo festival, representation
of, 129–30, 132–35; Waychawcituy
bird, symbolic significance of, 131,
135. See also Solier, Magaly
maize: cultivation of, 25–26; names
and varieties of, 25–26, 36n17; nu-
tritional value of, 36n24; ritual uses
for, 27, 67n1
Malleus Maleficarum (The Witches’ Ham-
mer), 148
Mannheim, Bruce, 16, 54, 170nn4–5,
173n24
marketplaces, Andean: colonial
era, 76–77, 91; Mercado Central,
Cusco’s, 13, 77–88
meals. See food
Meneses, Claudio, 192
Mesa, José de, 63–67
Mestiza tomando chicha (photograph).
See Chambi, Martín
Michelet, Jules, 35n10, 148, 171n9
Mintz, Sidney: on globalization, 177;
on inside and outside meanings of
food, 8–9; on resistance and food, 10
Miró Quesada, Aurelio, 57, 72n28
Molina, Cristóbal de, 13, 43–44: Çitua
festival, description of, 48; Quechua
hymns, transcription of, 51
Morales, Edmundo, 15, 37n34, 73n36,
74n42
Morote Best, Efraín, 172n17, 210n7
Murra, John, 27, 36n21, 60; on the ver-
tical archipelago, 75–76, 100n3
ñak’aq, 152, 172n17
Nishiyama, Eulogio 129
novoandina cuisine, 87, 191–93, 203n15
Ong, Walter, 115
oral tradition. See Quechua oral tradi-
tion
Ortega, Julio, 58, 62
pachacuti, 106
pachamama, 142, 152, 169n1
Padre Linares, character in Los Ríos
profundos, 109–11
papa. See potato
pishtaco. See ñak’aq
Pizarro, Francisco, 39
Perú: agricultural sector in, 188–91,
201n1; food, expenditures per
capita, 185; food, importation and
exportation of, 188–90, 199; food-
supply dilemmas, 178–80, 184;
viceroyalty of, 39, 63. See also food
security; novoandina cuisine
photography. See Chambi, Martín
poetry, Quechua language: Anka
Ninawaman, Ch’aska Eugenia,
185–87; food represented in, 181–83,
185–87; Guardia Mayorga, César,
180–84
Poole, Deborah, 102n19, 121
potato: Andean cultivation of, 22, 34n4,
34n6; Andean identity and, 21; An-
dean varieties and categories of, 21;
 Index 239
European acceptance and cultiva-
tion of, 23–24, 35nn10–11; names
for, 20–21; nutritional value of, 22,
34n9; Peruvian per capita consump-
tion of, 35n15. See also ch’uñu
power: colonialism and, 6, 56, 58, 149,
172n18; critique of oppressive, 8–12,
93, 105, 142; chicheras and, 111–13,
115; cooks and, 93, 100, 145, 148–49;
discourse and, 10, 17n17; divine, 39,
51–56; economic, 8–9, 88, 100, 137,
180; food and, 178, 180; hegemonic,
6, 10, 16n7, 56; hierarchies, 13, 16n7,
47, 80; Inquisition and, 62; language
and, 113–14, 156; Madeinusa and,
132–33, 136–37. See also cooks
Primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno,
24; representations of food in, 58.
See also Guaman Poma de Ayala,
Felipe
Q’eros, Peruvian region of, 193
Quechua language, 14n1, 16n9; adver-
bial negators, mana vs. ama, 54–55;
culinary vocabulary, 85; nispa,
importance of, 53, 71n21, 172n20;
suffixes, analysis of, 31, 54, 95–97,
132, 156, 166, 172n21, 173n23, 195
Quechua oral tradition, 14; “alternative
written literature” and, 94; asso-
nance in, 32; audiences for, 146–47,
152–56; narrators/performers of,
142–43, 145–48, 150–54, 157–69, 165;
physical gestures and, 146, 156, 158,
162, 169, 173n27; supernatural in,
14; toad, character of the, 151, 162–
67, 173n29, 174n31; traveler (puriq),
character of, 146, 151, 157, 159, 161,
172n17; willakuy, 146–48, 147, 177.
See also Arguedas, José María; “Isi-
cha Puytu,” narrative; layqa
Quechua visual and verbal narratives.
See visual and verbal narratives,
Quechua
quinua, 28–29, 154, 184, 190, 197,
203n13; cultivation of, 29, 37n25;
nutritional value of, 29
Quispe Huamán, Asunta: cooking,
economic independence and, 94,
96, 100
Quispe Tito, Diego, 64, 72n33
Relación de las fábulas y mitos de los
Incas, 13, 43–44, 68n6; Quechua
hymns in, 52–53, 207–9
resistance, adaptive: cooking and, 93,
100; culinary witchcraft and, 149;
food and, 2, 10, 14, 56, 66; Los ríos
profundos, representation of, 116. See
also food-landscape, Andean; visual
and verbal narratives, Quechua
Los ríos profundos: church, representa-
tion of, 110; historical context of,
106; Patibamba, march to, 111–13
Royal Commentaries of the Incas. See
Comentarios reales
runa: colonial context and, 52, 58, 77,
148–49; defined, 14n1; food culture
of, 29, 30, 32, 86–88, 187, 198–99;
food security of, 176–79, 187, 198;
identity, 33; Madeinusa, characters
represented as, 129; migrants, 192,
195–96, 198, 200; Quechua oral
tradition and, 93, 142, 150, 152,
154, 168; Quechua poetry and,
181–84; Los ríos profundos, characters
represented as, 106–9, 117. See also
Chambi, Martín
sallqa, 150–51, 159–62, 167–68; defined,
150
salt, 108, 137n4; importance of in Los
ríos profundos, 107
Sander, August, 120, 138n11
Santo Tomás, Domingo de, 36n19
Scott, James, 17n18
semantic couplets, 71n24, 103n28, 187,
195; in Molina hymns, 51–52, 54–55;
in Los ríos profundos, 115
Señoritas en la chichería (photograph).
See Chambi, Martín
Silverblatt, Irene, 67n1, 69n9, 148–49,
171n9, 172n13
240 Index
Solier, Magaly: Madeinusa, character of,
129, 134–36, 136; Quechua language
songs by, 131, 133–35. See also
Madeinusa, film
song, Quechua language, 194–96;
subversive use of, 114–16. See also
Madeinusa, film; Los ríos profundos;
Solier, Magaly
Sontag, Susan, 119–20, 138n11
Stern, Steve, 76–77
sun god. See Inti
suq’a, 151–52
tactic. See Certeau, Michel de
Tahuantinsuyu, 22, 181; ancestor wor-
ship in, 50; geographic extension
of, 40, 41; vertical archipelago in,
75–76, 108. See also Çitua; Inca
tarwi, 83, 184–85, 197
Taylor, Gerald, 71n20, 132
testimonio, 103n22; defined, 93–94
Tratado de libre comercio (Perú-U.S. Free
Trade Agreement), 188–90, 201n2
uchu: European cultivation of, 30–31;
recipes which use, 31; riddles fea-
turing, 30–31; use in Tahuantinsuyu,
30; varieties of, 37n30
La última cena (Last Supper). See Es-
cuela Cusqueña
Urbano, Henrique, 43, 53, 68n4, 70n18,
208–9
Uriel García, Luis, 121
Valcárcel, Luis, 92, 121
Vargas, Max T., 119
Vargas Llosa, Mario, 121, 138n12
Vendedora de Chicha en Quiquijana (pho-
tograph). See Chambi, Martín
Viraqocha. See Wiraqocha
visual and verbal narratives, Quechua,
3, 5; ambiguity and, 11–14, 103n22,
148, 161, 168; defined, 15n3; inside
and outside meanings of, 8; open-
ness and, 14, 66, 115–16, 141, 148,
195; parallel structure and, 115,
163–64, 169, 183; repetition as char-
acteristic of, 31, 156, 161–62, 164,
166, 169, 187; resistance and, 10–12,
67, 93. See also Escuela Cusqueña;
Madeinusa, film; poetry, Quechua
language; Quechua oral tradition;
Los ríos profundos; song, Quechua
language
Weismantel, Mary: on Andean food
symbolism, 5, 7, 153; on Chambi
photographs, 122–23
White, Hayden, 146
willakuy. See Quechua oral tradition
Wiraqocha, 39, 68n3, 181; referenced in
Molina hymns, 51, 53, 207–9
witchcraft: food and, 148–149; toads
and, 165–66. See also layqa
women: market vendors, 78–79. See
also cooks; food security
World Trade Organization, 188
yawarçanco, 44, 47
yuyu, 187
Zapata, Marcos, 66, 67
 About the Author

Alison Krögel is an assistant professor of Spanish at the University of

Denver where she teaches courses on contemporary and colonial Latin
American literature and culture and Quechua language, culture, and
oral traditions. Professor Krögel’s research and publications focus on
the contemporary Quechua oral tradition and artistic representations of
resistance by the Quechua people in colonial and contemporary contexts,
as well as the roles played by food and cooks in Andean literature, oral
traditions, visual art, and culture.

241