I watched with a mixture of disbelief, disgust, and awe as he took a large swig of lighter fluid and walked into the intersection, two identical balls of fire hanging by his side, his hands fiercely gripping the chains that led to the spitting fire. The traffic light was red and Hugo, the performer, conducted his dance with the fire until the light changed. Swinging the enflamed balls of fire up over his head and around, again and again, exhaling at last and letting out a breath of fire, the finale of his performance, he nonchalantly bowed and walked between the cars, graciously accepting applause but looking for monetary handouts.

Trying to appear inconspicuous, I stood half behind a tree and looked on with anticipation as car windows opened and admiring observers dropped change into his palm. When no one was generous, when no one stopped him, I averted my gaze, glanced across at the other intersection, where another young Argentine was doing a performance of sorts. His attempts at earning, however, were not magical, I noticed as he wiped down the windshields on vehicles of obliging drivers.

“No saca fotos,” Hugo said, passing me as he returned to the corner to drink more of the viscous, dangerous fluid and relight the balls, and, ashamed, I dropped my camera in my bag, inwardly berating myself for acting so foolishly. They were the only harsh words he’d ever spoken to me, and even now, I wish he’d never had to utter them.

I continued to watch him perform for the people of San Juan until the lighter fluid was gone and his coughing grew more persistent. After the first few times seeing him drink the same thing he used to keep the balls on fire, I had to stop looking. My stomach was turning for him.

Later, when he wanted to know what I thought of his performance–although we’d been traveling together for about a week and had, despite the language barrier, gotten to know each other well, I’d heard of his street work but never witnessed it firsthand–I was at a loss for words. I asked about the taste of the fluid, for despite his shower, the smell lingered heavily. “No es muy rico,” he said as though it was no big deal at all. And, for him, it probably wasn’t. How long, I wondered had he been performing, hoping to make just enough money for food and drink as he made his way around parts of Peru and all of Bolivia?

Once we’d parted, the performance barely providing Hugo with enough money to travel to Valle Fertil, near San Juan in Mendoza, let alone Tucuman, my next destination, I wondered about practical matters: the ingestion of the lighter fluid, the inhalation of so much smoke, the blisters on his hands from such tight gripping– all for a few pesos.

I’d never seen anything like it before, I admitted to myself, and tried to conjure up memories of all the crazy stuff I’d seen people do for money in New York City. Nothing came close.

This was the kind of thing my guidebook didn’t mention.

About a week earlier, I’d tried to express my delight at not traveling like a tourist to Hugo and his friend, Nelson, as they set up a fire by the river (sans coals), pulled out a huge plastic bag full of carne, salted it, and created an asado (bbq) for the three of us, and I watched the tourists giddily white-water raft past us.

They had only laughed and said that what we were doing was “normal” for them, but I don’t know that they understood how grateful I was for their “tipica” experience. If only they knew how far off the beaten backpacker path they’d taken me, maybe they’d have been pleased with themselves.

Later, when I found myself couchsurfing in Tucuman with Cintia–una buena persona– and her family, and having some much-needed girl time, I explained that I felt lucky to be experiencing life as she experienced it: drinking mate in the park, sharing an enormous Saturday almuerzo with her family, going to a regional fiesta with live music, getting in the siesta groove mid-afternoon each day, enjoying tea time with cookies and cafe con leche following siesta, and eating dinner at 11 PM at night during the week. I was “fortunada” in so many ways that it was becoming increasingly difficult to feel–and express– sufficient gratitude.

I learned months ago to trust my guidebook for tips on bus travel, weather patterns, and border crossing information, but mostly, its advice is useless. Why consult it for the best place to find pastel de choclo (a Chilean specialty) when I can ask Pam and Aaron, the truly cool couple I stayed with in Santiago? Why bother reading about the best place to watch tango in Tucuman when I can accompany Cintia and her girlfriends? Why try the listed heladerias when I can ask a local–and a friend– where he or she goes when the ice-cream craving hits? Why go on every tour the book suggests is “not worth missing” when I can live as though I belong among the people who do belong and not as though I am merely passing through until I arrive at the next destination, where another over-priced, only halfway decent tour awaits me?

No, my guidebook cannot lead me to a rich, authentic, typical experience; that, I need to find on my own.

Fortunately, I’ve got more than five months to continue seeking my “tipica” experiences.