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 Nightfall
comes slowly, as if the scarlet sun were sneaking away from Lima into the
misty orange horizon over the South Pacific. The city’s nighttime
denizens wake up happy, optimistic, and perhaps anxious to begin their
festive pilgrimage to Barranco, a tiny Limeño district with its
face to the sea and an air of nostalgia that drapes venerable mansions.
After the daily disappearance of the sun, Barranco
comes alive, shedding its gentrified somnolence and letting itself be
seduced by psychedelic lights and shrill music. The district fills with
commotion and suffers from insomnia, as the night is extended between
toasts in a dusty little bar never lacking a poet looking for inspiration
in a bottle of beer; and the joyful dancing to Peruvian music in circles
with friends.
We arrive in Barranco after a hair-raising 30-minute
ride in a minibus that the locals have nicknamed “assassin”. Happily, we
arrived safely, ready to start the madness. There was just one problem:
we were starving. Our hunger intensified as we neared the heart of the
district, where suggestive aromas wafted from warm grills.
Guided by our sense of smell, we arrived at a hometown
food fair open every weekend to the nighttime devout.
“Before happy hour, a little food is always a good
idea”, says my companion on this evening of indulgence, as he devours
delicious anticuchos (shish kebabs of beef heart), French fries,
and choclo con ají (barbecued corn on the cob covered in chili
sauce).
Having fortified ourselves for the evening, we left
the fair to have a look at the sea covered in darkness. Steps without
haste, checking out the girls all dressed up, looking with envy upon the
sappy lovers strolling with their sweethearts on the romantic Bridge of
Sighs.
Many couples can be seen coming and going on this
(conveniently) poorly-lit little bridge, which shelters a variety of
restaurants, bars and pubs. These are cozy spaces where it is possible to
drink an ice-cold beer, a glass of good wine or a pisco sour, that
fabulous combination of distinctly Peruvian pisco (pure fire water from a
grape) with beaten egg, cinnamon, lemon and ice.
The
watering holes under the bridge do not figure into our plans for tonight,
however. “We’ll go another day,” says my friend, who has devised our
evening’s itinerary. First to Juanito’s to warm up our motors and enjoy a
bit of socializing. Then to the Tayta, a darkened pub where there is
always a troubadour willing to reminisce about the best in Spanish rock.
And finally to the Candelaria, a small place offering traditional music
and dance.
We
cross the highway to conquer Juanito’s, a noisy, emblematic old bar, with
spirals of smoke and formica tabletops. It smells of beer and
butifarra (a ham sandwich topped with onion-lemon sauce).
“I’ve got the first round,” I say. Then, in my best
Lima slang, I command the waiter: “Bring me a couple of cold kings“. When
the beers arrive we cry “Salud” (health) and bottoms up. The evening
turns to foam.
Drinks
come and go. “Health, health and health.” With beer as our faithful
companion we toast with poets, philosophers, popular artists, and a pair
of green-eyed girls that hardly speak any Spanish. Our stay is necessarily
short, because our schedule is demanding. The Tayta awaits us.
On the street again, crowds of people are manically
looking for fun. Music blares from bars and discotheques, adding to the
volume of the bustling Boulevard, which has prudently been closed to
vehicle traffic.
We climb a long staircase to arrive at the Tayta
(which means “father” in Quechua). A short, bald man with a thin beard
occupies the small stage, abusing a guitar and singing “Somewhere in a
great country, they forgot to build a place where the sun does not burn
and when you are born you must not die”. Everyone in the crowd joins
in the chorus, toasting the musician from afar, while at the bar more
bottles are opened and drinks of a thousand colors are prepared. Next
stop, the Candelaria.
This place is all about the rhythms of Peru, from the
coast to the mountains and the forest. Traditional waltzes, the northern
sailor’s jig, a gallant lover’s dance, stomps from the central mountain
range, celebratory pieces with roots in black culture and the happy
marching rhythms of the sikuris and zampoñeros of the
plateau.
The music grabs you and pulls you along. Ultimate fun.
Men and women lock hands to form a circle, like those created in the
Andean highlands when a village is celebrating the harvest or giving
thanks for the favors of its patron saint or its adored virgin. Sweaty
bodies. Refreshing drink. “Vámonos,” I try to convince my wobbly
friend it’s time to go, but it’s hard to leave a great party. Outside,
daybreak threatens. On our retreat, we witness Barranco transforming once
again into the respectable neighborhood with all the mansions.
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