Advertisement
The market.
Cars, buses and bikes buzz by as we cross the street. Music is thumping from various stalls, pots and pans waiting to be bought and used. Cats roam the streets in hopes of some good luck. Animal parts that we would consider scraps are not found on the ground, but on tables. They are waiting to be weighed and sold, with eyes expertly and eagerly surveying them. Carts with the classic plastic woven bag follow their owners, stronger than they appear. Somehow there's always room to get through. Somehow the kids no higher than mom's hips never get trampled on. Everyone is everywhere, yet everyone is aware. The man with the scale knows every new face in the place. Greetings are offered with a rushed, firm voice, never with a smile. There is a feeling that all will be helped. Plastic sacks will be filled with colors fresh from the fields far from Lima. In rushes the young boy, the old man, ready to drop off, ready to stock, ready to carry bags larger than they. The women behind me are talking about the gringa. I let them. The man with the scale greets the new faces. Limes are added to the already full supply, not a single one falls to the ground. The color isn't nearly as tart as the flavor will be, but they are desired all the same. A bloody apron with a man attached rushes in for a snack from the lady with the dead fish. He's given something that isn't from the sea. Where did she get that? Just as quickly he rushes out. Voices behind me begin to talk about the gringa again. An apple is offered for a tasting. Salsa de ají también. This time I speak. My words are greeted with a toothless smile, a hearty laugh. The man with the scale speaks of me, not to me. "Don't give her a hard time or you won't get a tip." A toddler begins to cry, her mom pulls firmly on her shirt. Surely I am soaking up all the smells. They make me alert and confused all at the same time. Fresh and fowl. A young girl stands silently with her mom. She sees me, stares, with her soft eyes. The man with the scale yells at someone outside. How will he ever be heard? Surely there to learn the process from her mom, the girl with the soft eyes stares at me instead. The man with the scale is heard. I offer a soft smile to the girl with the soft eyes. "Los peruanos son locos," I am told by one of the women behind me. "Peruvians are crazy," I am told. I offer that so are some gringos. The toothless smile returns, the hearty laugh filled with doubt. "Maybe," I am told, "but they are all rich." I turn as red as the peppers in front of the man with the scale. Does he know that he is surrounded by a different type of rich? The richness of the market is overwhelming. Strong women all around. I wonder which woman I might have been. The woman with the dead fish? The woman with the toothless smile and hearty laugh? Perhaps I'd have soft eyes. I might even have strong hands. The man with the scale asks about me, not to me. My pride causes me to answer. The man with the scale is not impressed by my Spanish. The sacks are filled full of food. I am filled with respect. It's time to get the meat. We leave our plastic sacks of food to cross the street. We can. The man with the scale is a Christian, I am told. Soft eyes do not follow me as I leave. Vegetables need to be surveyed, collected, and weighed. The man with the scale greets a new face in the place. The girl with the soft eyes will probably come again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.
This is the market.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.051s; Tpl: 0.013s; cc: 7; qc: 24; dbt: 0.0299s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1016.9kb
CJ
non-member comment
Love reading the details. I feel like I am there with you!