Latacunga, Ecuador April 5, 1979
The Saqisili market is mostly a market for the locals. There were very few gringos there. Sally, Rachel and I decided to split up so we wouldn’t look like, and be, a ‘gang of gringos’ waltzing through the market. Although I sometimes keep my camera in my bag, the sights at this market were too irresistible. Tables heaped with big skeins of day-glo synthetic yarns and equally colourful, smaller spools of embroidery thread. Lots of nylon and rayon clothing (from China?), plastic shoes, plastic dishes, pots and pans, and cheap jewelry with lots of coloured glass. There are some local crafts. I watched as several old women pulled large glazed red and green pots out of stacks of hay. The pots are very beautiful, and tempting to buy, but impossible to carry with us, and decidedly risky to ship back home.
As well as being colourful, the market’s a very noisy affair: vendors singing and shouting out what they’re selling, how great it is, and how much they want for it: “muy buenas papas, papas muy sabrosas, solo diez pesos el libro!” “Comprame mis ollas! Tengo ollas muy bonitas, muy barata!” And of course: “Gringa, comprame! Ginga, comprame!” (Gringo, buy from me, gingo, buy from me!)
Almost everyone at the market was wearing dark coloured ponchos and hats. The hats here are mostly black, with a hollowed out crown, and a slightly turned up rim. They all have a headband, sometimes with a feather sticking up out of it. Many people are carrying heavy loads on their backs – ponchos and sacks filled with babies, children, produce or wares for sale, and produce or wares just purchased. A man walks through the market, bent over almost double under the awkward weight of a load of big baskets – secured to his back with a rope pulled tight around his shoulders.
The food ‘section’ of the market is huge. Great sacks of grains, rice, dried corn, potatoes and flour. Mounds of spices and soaps. Bales of wool, sheepskins. Rows of yellow and red banana stands, and trucks full of more yellow and red bananas. Piles of corn on the cob, greens I don’t recognize – perhaps mustard?
Lots of flowers – gladioli, a flower that looks like baby’s breath, with small white flowers and another that looks like a big poppy or rose, very red, but no smell.
There’s meat everywhere. Great chunks and slabs of it sitting out on rickety tables; the vendors wave a hand or rag occasionally, and without much conviction, in a vain attempt to dissuade the more ambitious and persistent flies. On most tables pig and cow heads are arranged facing down, their gaping, bloody necks open to the sky (and the flies); their bright red blood drips on the ground underneath the table where dogs sniff hopefully. At one stall I see a dog’s head, its nose pointing up to the sky, advertising what’s being cooked by a woman stirring a meaty-looking stew in great pot over a brazier. At another stall two women ladle entrails and brains into plastic bags, chop kidneys and livers, pull hearts apart, and deliver them into the hands of eager customers.
And there are dogs everywhere – under tables, underfoot – looking for scraps, snuffling around the bloody ground. And gaggles of children too, either safe and snug tucked into a parent or sibling’s poncho, or sitting on the ground, covered in dirt, their sun-reddened cheeks and snotty noses blackened by wiping hands. And through all this lively, colourful chaos, a man with a stick chases – or drives – a wandering donkey.
On the edge of the food market there’s a man selling big woven baskets; he is weaving more as he tends his stall, calling out the whole time about his beautiful baskets (which they are). Beside him a woman is selling metal pots and pans as well as herbs, spices and dried beans in small, beautifully woven basket-sacks – I see cinnamon bark in one, but am not sure what the others contain – medicinal herbs?
Not far from her are a couple of men with old treadle sewing machines. It looks like they are repairing pants, and maybe sewing sacks. They have customers waiting in loose circles around them, some sitting on sacks of goods, some smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, or mixing up some coca leaves to chew.
I continue up the road lined with knick-knack stalls, weaving in and out among women heavy-laden with sacks of grain or shawls full of babies and produce, old men with boxes of wares strapped on their backs, and donkeys carrying loads of goods for sale. A man drags a calf back from the market, the calf, stiff-legged and resistant, being prodded on by healthy whacks on the rump by a boy of 8 to 10 years old. I wonder if this calf is destined for meat or milking.
The tourist section of the market is much smaller. Most of the venders and goods are from Otovalo – beautiful tapices (tapestries, weavings), sweaters, embroidered blouses and ponchos. The tapices are mostly of traditional motifs – llamas and other animals, birds, and geometric designs symbolizing mountains, forests and rivers. The Otovalans are certainly entrepreneurial, coming to markets well outside their home territory. Good craftsmen and great salesmen.
Wandering around the town a bit before leaving I came across the local coffin shop, advertising itself with a large painted wooden cross topped with a good likeness of Jesus.
And an interesting stained glass window in a nearby church. The eye at the top is reminiscent of eyes I've seen in many parts of the world, sometimes known as the 'evil eye', but maybe not here...?
Walking back to Latacunga we passed another cross, this one on the road, presumably at the site of an accident. Fatal accidents are all too common here. I think of that every time I board a bus or truck. There but for fortune...
The landscape here is reminiscent of Esperanza but without the closed-in feeling of nearby mountains; a much more open landscape with lots of century plants (agaves), rushes, cactus and eucalyptus trees and different grasses in many shades of green. Birds singing; butterflies winging.
We sat for a while by a chocolate-coloured river, next to a giant century plant, just drinking it all in. And, as usual, talking about where to next....
Comments
Post a Comment