Within the first few hours of my arrival in the city of Cusco for a three week language immersion stay, I was taken to see the warehouse which was home to the two business ventures of my host family. On the ground floor were stacks of crates containing the city's drink of choice, Cusqueña beer. A fleet of trucks stood at the ready to fan the golden ale out to corner stores and restaurants throughout the city.

The rooftop of the warehouse housed a completely separate sideline business. The various alcoves contained row upon row of the most colorful collection of roosters I had even seen in my life. Beer distribution may be the bread and butter industry of my host family, but it didn't take long to realize that my host father Mario's true passion in life is the sport of cockfighting.

For Easter Saturday afternoon, I had received an invitation from Mario to join he and his co-workers for a barbecue. I trustingly got into the taxi that had been procured by the family to take me to the barbecue site. Up until this time, I had no indication of where the barbecue was taking place. I eventually clued in when the taxi pulled up beside the non-descript building that I finally recognized as the beer warehouse shown to me on my first day in the city. As with many of the walled and gated buildings in Peru, it is hard to get a sense of what takes place inside.

I climbed up to the rooftop where I received warm greetings from Mario and about seven of his employees, including a set of three brothers who, if my Spanish was accurate, were all Mario's godsons. The wife of one of the godsons and their two year daughter were also present for the festivities.

From there, I entered into a Homer Simpson fantasy. I was passed a plate from an all-meat barbecue featuring steak and sausages. The group also beckoned me to join them around a circle formation filled with dirt in the middle of the rooftop. Once sitting down, I was passed first a large, one litre open bottle of beer by the person sitting on my left. In his hand was a shot glass he had topped up with beer from this same bottle seconds earlier. I quickly figured out that the shot glass was coming to me once he finished and I was to fill it up, drink from it and pass both bottle and glass to the next participant.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a case filled with six of these one litre bottles. When one bottle ran out, a new one was quickly opened to keep that lone shot glass full at all times in the hands of one of us in the drinking circle. As the sixth and seemingly last of the one litre bottles was passed around, I was starting to become relieved due to the onset of inebriation. A chance to sober up was at hand. Or so I thought.

Within minutes a new crate appeared on the rooftop containing a dozen bottles of 670 ml each. It was then that I had to take the extremely unfriendly stance of sitting out a few rounds. What they must have been thinking of the wimpy Canadians, one can only guess. In my attempts to sober up, I strained to pick out more of their conversations. Inevitably, the subject matter would always return to outside perceptions of Peru, both its government and economic systems. In a sense I felt right at home, reflecting on the Canadian obsession of wondering what Americans think of their northern neighbors.

Mario asked me at one point whether I had ever seen a cockfight. In my semi-drunken state I said "no" without thinking of the implications. Within minutes, two colorful roosters had been liberated from their cages and placed in the round circle where we were sitting. The purpose of that circle formation suddenly became all too clear. The roosters were let loose on each other, but just as my animal sensitivity senses kicked in, they were quickly separated. Mario had no intention of sacrificing the life of two perfectly good birds on the "gringo" from Canada. I was also told it was off-season and Mario probably wanted to maintain a full complement prior to the beginning of the cockfighting season in a few weeks.

As it turned out, Mario's wife was conveniently away this Easter weekend visiting a daughter in Arequipa. As the sun started to set, there was a spontaneous decision to move the drinking circle to Mario's home. A case containing six more of the one litre bottles was thrown into the back of the truck and off we set for Mario's house. Mario drove effortlessly through the hilly, cobblestone streets even though he had been a full participant in the Cusqueña drinking circle.

By the time we were back on "home turf", I rejoined the drinking circle. In the back of my mind, I was conscious of a 6:00 a.m. start the next day to see Inca ruins with my Canadian travelling friend Linda, who was staying with another host family nearby. On the other hand, my bed at this point was a mere set of stairsteps away. What little I can remember about this conversation is that it featured questions on the cold Canadian winters. I think there was a reference on my part to an "oso blanco" (polar bear) at one point.

Before consuming the bottles of beer we had brought with us from the warehouse, the drinking circle fizzled out at about 8:00 p.m. I guess the others must have had to return to their families. In any case, I once again seized on the opportunity to sober up again in order to make that early start the next morning.