Last weekend, a few friends from El Nahual and I hopped on a chicken bus to head to the famed Guatemalan market in Chichicastenango. On most days of this week, Chichi (as the Guatemalans call it) isn’t that impressive of a site; there’s the colorful cemetery, the quaint and uneven cobble-stone streets, and a decent-enough looking church in town, but definitely nothing to write home about. Every Thursday and Sunday, however, the town transforms into a bustling marketplace as tourists, Guatemalan shoppers, and vendors alike flood into town. The normally passable roads are transformed into aisles with vendors offering carved wooden masks, woven clothing, blankets, and bags. Children – some shining shoes, some selling cheaply sown animals and magnets – circulate the crowds looking for a sympathetic foreigner who will buy their product, and maybe even an ice cream as a tip. In the center of the market, women shout at each other in the throaty Mayan language Mam as they sweat over pots and pans of boiling veggies and fried chicken. It’s hectic. It’s frantic. But before you know it, you’ve got a bag full of souvenirs and gifts (or maybe even a ridiculous cowboy hat on your head), the vendors are packing up their wooden stands, and you’re wedged into place on an overcrowded chicken bus heading away from town.
Persistency Pays
We got to Chichi early on Saturday afternoon, giving ourselves enough time to find a place to spend the night, grab a bite to eat, and wander through the town before it transformed on Sunday. We found the Hotel Salvador, a hostel with a spacious, verdant courtyard, five foot tall doorways, and rooms consisting of four concrete walls, three beds, and a single hanging light bulb. After decompressing from the two-plus hour chicken bus ride, we went out into town for a quick lunch and, afterwards, we gave ourselves a little tour of the city.
In the market center many vendors had already set up shop by mid-afternoon, probably hoping to catch early birds like us and lure us into a little premature purchasing. I got suckered into it and bought a little gift for my great-grandma. I should’ve known better. I didn’t realize that, competing with the vendor, there was a group of girls with their own products – all exactly the same as were on display, of course.
They started pleading with me. “Amigo mio,” my friend, they kept calling me, “why don’t you buy a gift for your mom? Or for you girlfriend?” I told them I had already bought it, but they wouldn’t give up. We walked away from the city center. They walked alongside us. We walked into the cemetery. They followed right along.
Thinking they were sisters, and therefore sharing the profits, I bought a little magnet. Rather than satisfy them, it only seemed to foment the thirst for foreign dollars. It started with two of them; suddenly, there were seven. They swarmed our group with their stuffed animals, but we didn’t give in. I started talking to one. Her name was Lucia. She was eleven years old and she told me her parents sent her by bus for two-hours to sell the crafts they made in their homes. She had all the lines and a quick wit to match it. She knew how to work the guilt buttons, but I had decided I wouldn’t give in that day anymore.
The next day, as our shopping was coming to a close, I heard a little voice say “Hola Tomas.” I looked to my left, and there was little Lucia, with the same olds gifts for sale. Surprised she remembered my name, I started talking to her. Her and her friend starting their same old rap, but this time they started calling me “Tomasa Francisca,” the feminized version of my name in Spanish. They clung to me like those fish that swim alongside sharks, never failing to match my stride. I felt bad. I wanted to give them something, but I really didn’t want to buy one of those damn gifts. I told them I’d buy them a drink. They wanted smoothies. I couldn’t say no. These girls were operators, I tell you. They knew the game, and they knew it well. The woman making the banana-strawberry smoothies, gave me a look of playful pity because she knew exactly what had happened. The two girls seemed genuinely happy with their drinks and they thanked me. It just goes to show, persistency pays.
Shaman in the Cemetery
With not much else to do on Saturday afternoon, we decided to pay a visit to the cemetery in town. The guidebooks said that it was dangerous to enter – even with a large group in the day – but the pastel-colored towering tombs appeared benign enough from the street. I was pleased to see that the graveyard wasn’t stratified like the one in Xela; the plain graves of the poor rested alongside monumental tombs of the rich.
Not too far in, I noticed a pile of what looked like burning garbage. That would’ve been no surprise to me. What was interesting, however, was the placement. It was burning next to an altar in front of a locked tiny chapel. On the stone altar, there were three candles burning with white and orange flower petals scattered about. Next to all of this, there was a man dressed in slacks and a Lacoste polo shirt packing up his bag. He looked very clean-cut and put-together, but not overly so.
Feeling more courageous and curious than me, Rachel made the first move and asked him what he was doing. The man began explaining deliberately, but not slowly, in a calm clear tone that he was performing a spiritual rite. He continued, saying that different colored candles, various types of flowers, and even types of food like chocolate and honey were all used for different types of prayers. Some were used for prayers of thanks, others for forgiveness, and others for requests. He didn’t go into much detail about which was used with what. He was a Mayan shaman, and this cemetery was one of three in the country where they were legally allowed to perform such offerings. Sometimes with these prayers, the people would really feel the moment and become almost entranced.
He gave Rachel a flower petal to smell from the altar and she reacted with a “Que rico!” For a second, I thought she was full of shit, but then I smelled the tiny orange petal and all I can say is “Que rico!” It was so sweet yet potent.
It made me start thinking about rituals and tradition and prayers. To be honest, my gut reaction to it all beforehand would’ve been to say it’s all silly and nonsensical. But smelling that flower made me think about it differently. There’s something powerful about connecting your emotions and thoughts with concrete action – it somehow makes them more real and more focused. For example, you can say that you’re thankful for something, but taking the time to go to the altar with candles and the appropriate candles, flowers, etc and then stimulating the senses with the colors and scents transforms the sentiment into a memorable moment. And I believe that it’s these moments that have the potential to change the way we live, or rather make us realize our potential to change the way we live.
Shoe Shines and Ice Cream
The ice cream shop looked like any shop you’d go to in the states, the various flavors on display and being refrigerated under a shoulder-height glass counter. My salsa buddy Rachel offered to treat me to some cookie-dough ice cream, served in a waffle cone double-dipped in chocolate covered with nuts; I couldn’t say no. As we walked outside, the speakers were pumping some generic American rap song I had never heard before. Standing in the street, cone in hand, speaking in English with friends, it was easy for a moment to forget that I was thousands of miles away from home.
The reality of where I was hit me hard when I was approached by a little boy, shorter than my waist, toting a shoe shine box and brush that was half his size. He looked up at me and made his request directly as he murmured, “Helado.” Ice cream. He couldn’t have been older than five. Where were his parents? Were they watching? I wondered to myself. Usually, I don’t like giving money to kids because their parents are the ones behind their begging, but ice cream wouldn’t hurt… right?
We walked inside the shop, and he was too short to peer over the glass. I gave him a lift and he pointed silently to some vanilla flavor with yellow stripes. The server gave me a pleased smile as she grabbed his cone and filled it. I paid the few Quetzals and gave my little friend his cone. He took it in his dirty little blackened hands, picked up his box as if he were a grown man grabbing his brief case, and strode off down the street alone. No “Gracias,” no parents – just his tiny little frame, disappearing into the crowd as he turned the corner.
The next day, Rachel and I separated from the group on one street. After talking to one vendor, I turned around and I had lost her in the dozens of faces walking by. I walked up a bit, and found her getting her new leather boots shined by another “lustador” (what they call the shoe shiners). If it were anyone else, I probably would’ve thought badly of the situation, but I knew Rachel and knew that she was doing this 1) to help the little guy get some money and 2) to strike up a conversation with him and see what his life was like. I was glad to see our nine-year-old friend smiling as he told us about school, playing football, and his one-year career as a shoe shiner. While he worked diligently, I snuck off and forced my way through the crow to buy him a little orange ice pop. I sat back down next to them, and as soon as I did, we were swarmed with several other kids toting bags of gimmicky gifts and looking to cash in on the generous gringos. Our little friend (I can’t believe I forgot his name) took the ice pop with pride, but it made me realize that no matter how many kids you buy ice cream for, there will always be twice as many left empty-handed.
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