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This morning we showed her around our little motorhome and explained how things worked. She was most amazed when I insisted that the toilet paper must go in “la taza”, the toilet bowl, which is contrary to the custom in Central America where the plumbing is so bad. She seemed to fit in immediately and was never in the way in our tight quarters. Quetzaltenengo, Guatemala Once on the Pan-American Highway we began to climb the hills and could see the tiny patches of farmland surrounded by houses. There would be a house, a second and perhaps a third added to create an L or open E when the family grew. All over the countryside there were small clusters of homes with tiny plots of land. At this time of year, February, there was hardly anything growing, but you could see the large calabaza (squash) still sitting on the dry earth. This is the dry season and nothing is going to be planted until the rains come. Some of the roofs were covered with corn on the cob in shades of gold. When it was dry it would be stored under the eves to be used later. The people of the Quetzaltenengo Valley are an independent lot. They once declared themselves an independent nation. Two volcanoes look down on the valley, Santa Maria is the highest, and you can also see the still active Santiaguito volcano shadowing the city and emitting the occasional plume of smoke. It took about an hour to drive from Cuatro Caminos to the turnoff for Chichicastenango at Los Encuentros. Once off the Pan-American Highway, the traffic was much lighter and the road surface smoother, although the climbing became more pronounced. Eventually, after some hefty uphill hairpin bends we arrived in Chichi. We took the first parking place we could find: the Shell Gas Station. The management was agreeable and for a small fee we could park there overnight. What is more, because we filled up with gas, we would get our little 21 foot motorhome washed for free. That was a treat! We could also hook up to their power and refill our depleted fresh water tank. We often had an audience when we set up camp. This family parked their truck next to us. Like us they had come early for a parking spot and to attend the market. Eventually we were completely closed in by various trucks. Although this was Saturday and the
market was not meant to be open until the next day, there was plenty of
action. We grabbed some quick food for lunch. You have to make an effort
to find the market stalls where the locals purchase their every day items
like vegetables and plastic bowls. It is there that inexpensive food stands
serve the locals.
The visitors’ part of the market is held in the plaza between two churches. The three of us went for a stroll through town to see where the market was and how the town was laid out. Our dog, Brindle, tagged along as usual. She came with us throughout Central America and was good at keeping mischievous children and zealous inspectors at bay. The Santo Thomas church was built by the Spanish in the 1540’s on the site of an ancient Mayan religious site. The current residents use the steps outside as much as they do the interior. The Mayans of this area are Cakchiquel, and can trace their lineage back for centuries. Ancestors are buried below the church so candles and maize offerings are lined up on the pine strewn floor in remembrance. Originally, only high priests used the main steps and entrance so it is polite for visitors to enter through the side door. As offerings were left on temple steps a thousand years ago, so little fires burned incense on these church steps. The smoke of copal resin drifted in all directions. At the other end of the market square was the little white El Cavario church where a man on the steps was swinging a censer. His eyes were closed and he was fully absorbed in his ceremony. We started the serious business of looking at the merchandise. Although this was the day before the market was meant to be open, many of the stalls were overflowing with color and eager merchants. Grandma Julia was interested in everything. Glorious bed spreads and table clothes were made from three hand woven blue or green or purple strips of cloth sewn together. We had interrupted the sales lady in her embroidery but she was happy to show us what she had been doing while waiting for customers. The colors everywhere were unbelievable.
Each stall was predominately one product but you were just as likely to
see bananas stacked up together with skirt fabric. The local vendors have
worked out that the gringos don’t buy many huipils. Like me, they can’t
find a way to use the traditional heavily embroidered blouse. Here the
craftsmen and women have taken old and new huipils cut them up and made
patchwork bed spreads, pillow covers, and every kind of bag. They have
taken scraps of everything and made trim for clothes. They have made woven
items that are useable. There were patchwork shirts and dresses made from
blends of blues or browns created from fabric lengths that might otherwise
be hard to sell.
In the morning we found ourselves completely blocked in by every kind of truck. It didn’t matter as we had no intention of leaving until later in the day. We walked down the main street with little shops on either side overflowing with merchandise. Additional enterprising vendors covered every inch of the sidewalk. They were packed so closely together it was hard to tell who was selling which items. Women and children in colorful outfits, some carrying merchandise on their heads and babies on their backs, came up to us to offer their products. Little children held out beads and woven belts and masks, whereas the women had the more valuable fabrics stacked high on their heads like multicolored sandwiches. Between it all here were ice-cream carts and wagons full of oranges. This was fun, but we were glad that we had done our serious shopping the day before. So which was our favorite market town; Chichicastenango of San Francisco el Alto? I still haven’t made up my mind. We are going to return next February so I can decide. If you
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