Los Manos

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January 26th 2018

Published: January 26th 2018

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cunningdennis

Hands in peppers

Market day Antigua, Guatemala

Los Manos

Green capers fall through his calloused fingers landing bouncing dancing atop thousands of the self same berries catching morning sunlight glistening precious smooth as polished dark jade and she her hands black carbon covered pack dull black charcoal into plastic bags stacking them in neat piles and over there he chops the brown husk covered yucca revealing the bright white moist flesh within his fingers encircling the knife mamita mamita medias medias una por dos their hands dive into the stew of socks some tiny some long some white some red camarones camarones libra por vente and they are beautiful translucent dried salmon colored shrimp he scoops them into the rough tray of his balancing scale that he levels above the wide straw basket his hands dusted in shrimp bits she picks the kernels from the husk her old fingers like dark crooked sticks he is trimming the the stems off a bunch of emerald green herb that he grasps in his fist so carefully shaving them and they fall gently showering the black ground walk down this aisle can you even call it an aisle everyone huiplied below you as you hover tall above them

Old hands and corn

Maya woman market day

sitting legs tucked under wild frizzled aprons hair braided tight the old one her face furrowed so deep scooping black beans white beans pepitas into a metal bowl to weigh them then a palm full back into the burlap to make her scale swing level media libra her palm almost pink next to the back of the other hand so coffee dark mamita ajo ajo he has the garlic braids slung over his shoulders and hanging through his fingers swinging as he walks here and there between red strawberries shouting deep voiced those endless mamitas and the radishes and the thick leeks and the delicately thin green scallions bunched with their fine threaded roots glowing impossibly white and she splashes water over the bucket of guisquil the water cascading through her young hands fingers spread wide and carmel colored and the droplets separate in the air almost in slow motion the sun setting them alight one after the next falling opalescent her mother peeling open a tamale her nails black the steam rising white the atole poured from the battered dented metal kettles steams senoras y senores his basket is filled to overflowing with tiny white dried fish none bigger

Dried shrimp early morning

Vendor's hand about to weigh shrimp

than an inch millions of eyes staring up into the brightening morning sky his hands dive down deep into the once schooling pile come away dusted with salt etched against his almost maroon skin his scale tray full but he adds seven more bring it to balance while behind him a forest of flowers and she chops the thick stalks with her machete her hand gripped around the taped handle and the green seeping bits scatter over her dirty sandaled and tortured feet as the sun now spills into the dark parts of this frenzied market flooding hot and bright catching blackberries in its grasp as she layers plum tomatoes into cone shaped piles that mimic the dark volcanoes surrounding us if only they were wildly red.

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