San Fransisco - 9.22.2006
The first thing I see as I step off the bus is a flock of turkeys resting quietly, almost comfortably, under the weight of a cargo net.
One block up the hill the market begins and from this distance it is difficult to distinguish individual objects. I´m not going to be flowery here. It simply looks like a bag of Skittles blew up.
At first, Noah and I stick with the guerrilla, but soon he loses us in the crowd and we are alone. We walk uphill.
There are handwoven textiles everywhere we look. The colors are almost too much for the fabric - 15, 20 different shades on a single cut. I find myself drawn to the simpler patterns. I ask a man how much he wants for a 20x5 foot section of thick dark green cloth. He tells me 200 Q ($32.) That´s the pre-bargaining price for gringos. My guess is that I could get it for half of that.
It is difficult to walk. There are too many people. (Some say this is the biggest market in all of Central America.) A Mayan woman and her child brush past us. With one hand, they steady the baskets on their heads. With the other they nudge their way through the crowd. In the mother´s basket a chicken rests quietly under a net. My guess is that the child is 10 years old. In her basket she carries a bushel or so of vegetables. She has a hard time keeping up with her mom because she keeps turning around to stare at me.
Just behind them, a women drags a disgruntled pig on the end of a stout rope.
At the top of the hill we find a collection of butchers. In each shop hang hind quarters of cows. The hide has been removed and the meat is now purple. On a small table in front of one shop the lower portions of a cows legs lie side by side. The hooves have not been removed. Neither has the hide, and it is a creamy yellow, like unripe corn.
At the top of the hill we reach a collection of vegetable sellers. Over the next 30 yards or so are piles of potatoes, beans bananas, plantains, small onions, and, and, and.
We turn from the vegetables, and immediately encounter rows of fake American jeans and shirts. And there are piles of fake gold chains with fake gold crosses.
And then there is a weathered old man selling hats. His skin is a deep coffee color, but somehow it has a silver sheen to it. Like a lot of older Guatemalans, several of his front teeth are capped in gold. He grins when I approach his booth. I ask him for a tiny hat to fit my tiny head. He laughs and picks one out of his pile. It fits perfectly. I look like an idiot. He protests as I walk away, and I try to tell him that it´s not the hat´s fault. It doesn´t make him any happier.
We make our way back to the bus.
In one alley, we spot a barber carefully trimming a man´s sideburns with a straight razor.
One block up the hill the market begins and from this distance it is difficult to distinguish individual objects. I´m not going to be flowery here. It simply looks like a bag of Skittles blew up.
At first, Noah and I stick with the guerrilla, but soon he loses us in the crowd and we are alone. We walk uphill.
There are handwoven textiles everywhere we look. The colors are almost too much for the fabric - 15, 20 different shades on a single cut. I find myself drawn to the simpler patterns. I ask a man how much he wants for a 20x5 foot section of thick dark green cloth. He tells me 200 Q ($32.) That´s the pre-bargaining price for gringos. My guess is that I could get it for half of that.
It is difficult to walk. There are too many people. (Some say this is the biggest market in all of Central America.) A Mayan woman and her child brush past us. With one hand, they steady the baskets on their heads. With the other they nudge their way through the crowd. In the mother´s basket a chicken rests quietly under a net. My guess is that the child is 10 years old. In her basket she carries a bushel or so of vegetables. She has a hard time keeping up with her mom because she keeps turning around to stare at me.
Just behind them, a women drags a disgruntled pig on the end of a stout rope.
At the top of the hill we find a collection of butchers. In each shop hang hind quarters of cows. The hide has been removed and the meat is now purple. On a small table in front of one shop the lower portions of a cows legs lie side by side. The hooves have not been removed. Neither has the hide, and it is a creamy yellow, like unripe corn.
At the top of the hill we reach a collection of vegetable sellers. Over the next 30 yards or so are piles of potatoes, beans bananas, plantains, small onions, and, and, and.
We turn from the vegetables, and immediately encounter rows of fake American jeans and shirts. And there are piles of fake gold chains with fake gold crosses.
And then there is a weathered old man selling hats. His skin is a deep coffee color, but somehow it has a silver sheen to it. Like a lot of older Guatemalans, several of his front teeth are capped in gold. He grins when I approach his booth. I ask him for a tiny hat to fit my tiny head. He laughs and picks one out of his pile. It fits perfectly. I look like an idiot. He protests as I walk away, and I try to tell him that it´s not the hat´s fault. It doesn´t make him any happier.
We make our way back to the bus.
In one alley, we spot a barber carefully trimming a man´s sideburns with a straight razor.
No comments:
Post a Comment