Journal Bits

23 September 1984

On a warm day in Chile [cultural exchange a year earlier] we sat on the bank of the wide Bío-Bío River with our gracious hosts. In a nearby bowery, a family of poor peasants labored over a hot fire preparing our dinner. As we waited, our hosts asked me for a song. I was well-dressed for a country excursion, the visiting dignitary, trained and experienced as a performer. I took my fine instrument from its tweed case and performed. Then they served us, and after a few moments called an old woman out of the smoky bowery. She wiped her rough hands on her skirt and picked up a battered old guitar that I'm sure never saw the inside of a case. She shook back her greying hair, smiled gently, showing that many teeth were gone, strummed a few chords, and standing there in simple elegance, began to sing. I've never heard singing like that. It sounded like a chicken being mechanically de-boned while still alive.