On the Market

Peru is cheap, and yet...I have to admit that I feel a little bit like Mr. Potter from It's a Wonderful Life here. Yesterday, while trying to sit in a little sun on the steps of the Cathedral, we were approached by about 16 people trying to sell everything from finger puppets to cigarettes to shoe shines. I tried to be polite at first ("No, Gracias" or "No lo necesito, pero gracias"), but this eventually evolved into me growling "No!" to miniscule little girls trying to sell tiny paintings of llamas. At one point a do-gooding couple of white NGOers came up to me to ask if I wanted to participate in a charity benefit for poor Peruvian children that night. Upon hearing my obvious answer, they bleated "Don't you care about the children?" I was pretty fed up by this point, so I told them that actually we had just been talking about this, and that I couldn't care less. "But he does," I said, pointing to Josh, who had to dispense with them using more conventional means.

The truth is, I do care about children. It sucks that their parents or elders or whoever is pushing them out on the streets. After we were done sitting, I mumbled something or other to Josh about how I cannot support an inefficient economy where people throw themselves at tourists with funny hats in the hope of extracting a few measly soles. Why don't they get jobs, for heaven's sake. I think my rant eventually started trailing into the Ebenezer Scrooge School of Economics ("are there no prisons? are there no workhouses?"), which is I think the moment where Josh changed the subject. Since then, I've taken a deep breath and have realized that, like it or not, my money is a big part of people's livlihoods, and people want my business. Economically speaking, this country simply doesn't have a big enough domestic consumption market yet to fully provide for its population, which explains why its people like tourists and free trade agreements. There's nothing personal about it, and like other unwanted business, the best I can do is try to be polite and move on my merry way.

That said, Josh and I made our way into the belly of the beast today. Fed up by a recent glance at one of my bank statements, I demanded that we go in search of cheap food, and so we made our way to the Cusco Mercado Central. A glance inside the dark interior revealed very little except a few panchos hanging and a guy eating a bowl of chicken. Unfamiliar smells and muffled sounds made their way onto the street, and I think we both secretly considered ditching the idea in favor of a windowed cafe with a Menu del Dia. In the end, however, our empty stomachs and curiosity got the better of us, and we dodged our way inside.

We found ourselves on a small path, weaving through tapestries, scarves, and wooly hats within an uncertain amount of internal, musty space. It wasn't until 50 meters or more that we reached a point where we could see beyond what was right in front of us, and we realized that we were in just a small corner of a massive grid of walkways and indoor streets. This was not a laissez faire free-for-all, but a loosely organized city of vendors selling every kind of Andean good imaginable. From the midst of the woven goods section, we looked out onto aisles of fruit, counters of red meat and cheeses, small villages of every kind of spice.

Based on a previous bad experience in a fish market in Santiago, we made an unspoken pact to not stop until we had reached our destination, for fear of provoking an impromptu swarm of solicitations. The fact that our destination (food, preferably prepared) remained nebulous was a side thought as we moved with momentum through the stalls. Luckilly for us, the vendors seemed to be largely indifferent to (or perhaps taken unawares by) our presence, as we had invaded local territory and were therefore shopping amongst Cusquenos looking for a bargain.

Making our way through canyons of local goods (not an exaggeration, as everything reached almost to the ceiling), we passed towers of stacked, unwrapped chocolate sold by happy, round-faced women and medicine shops where traditional remedies were being prescribed to women in business suits. My personal favorites were the tiny old ladies who conducted business from within small mountains of seasonings and spices, so deeply insulated within their bags of product that you could only see them from the arms up. I wanted to ask them how they got in there, and how they got out, and how did people reach them in order to give them money? These questions remain unanswered, as shortly thereafter we discovered what we had been searching for: cheap food that smelled good.

Of course, our problems were not immediately solved. The magnitude and variety that characterized the rest of the market did not end at the food court. To call it a "food court" might be misleading, as there was no courtyard but aisle upon aisle of food, with only narrow passageways between them. In many ways, the place reminded me of a (delicious) battlefield, where armies of food preparers fought a war amidst steam and knives and high gas flames. An officer corps of old crones held court amidst this chaos, simultaneously yelling their famous dish to passers-by and directing an underclass of obedient husbands and younger crones-in-training. To navigate this selling yard, you had to scoot by locals shoveling mounds of mouthwatering chicken, fish, eggs, and vegetables (often all together) into their faces at indecent speeds. Needless to say, Josh and I kept up our nervous walk.

All journeys come to an end, however, and we eventually came to a spot where Josh could sit on one bench within the domain of the hen cooking army, while I could sit right beside him across an invisible frontier within the Ceviche maker's territory. Despite our proximity, our experiences could not have differed any more. I asked for the Ceviche Mixto, and was presented by my lady in green with a plate of delicious, tangy fish and fresh vegetables on a pile of rice and corn-nuts. I made short work of this masterpiece, stopping only to ask for a Coke from the old hubby cutting peppers in front of me. With a clean plate, I declared to this couple that my first Ceviche in Peru was in fact muy rico, a comment that was met with broad smiles. For the first time since the plate had hit the counter, I leaned over to Josh, partly to share my joy with him and partly to get some money.

It was at this point that I realized that he had been trying to get my attention for some time, as he was undergoing a small panic. I had vaguely been aware of his lady pointing frustratedly at pieces of chicken earlier, but I had ignored it in favor of my fish. What I saw was the aftermath of what can only be described as epic (yes, this word is overused in both of our blogs, but this applies) miscommunication. Josh had apparently been given a half-full bowl of broth with a few noodles in it along with a bigger bowl filled with vegetables that hid from view the leg of a hen. The coversation with the hostess had degenerated from a pleasant, confident ordering experience into mass confusion into sour looks exchanged by both parties. By the time my attention had shifted to the matter, Josh had put his bird in the soup and taken it out again, leaving a soggy piece of poultry that had been picked at pitifully. Floating at the top of his soup were a handful of sad looking vegetables that really hadn't deserved the fate handed to them. I looked at him helplessly, and we both agreed that the best thing to do was to pay and skulk away in shame.

There was no question about it: Josh had not had a sufficient lunch. In this spirit, he had a second lunch where the oldest crone we had seen demanded that we not buy the most expensive meal (that one being $2) but instead go for the menu. I sat down with him, and although I did not say a word I was given everything that Josh was given, which ended up being soup, rice, potatoes, a small salad, and a pork chop (all for a dollar).

Two lunches is a lot even for our standards, but if this wasn't enough, Josh also thought we might go for one of these banana milk shake things we've been enjoying. We made our way back to the land of fruit, and I made a fatal error: I stopped to see if I could read the price. Almost immediately, five or six women from different identical stands began screaming at us. From their elevated positions amidst every kind of fruit, and based on the tenor of their voice, I actually felt like we were in some kind of tropical bird sanctuary. We swiftly sat down at the first booth, and were proudly handed heaven in a glass, a combination of fresh fruit and milk that the woman assured would make us strong. With full stomachs we prepared to pay, but she shook her head and refilled our glasses from the pitchers (twice).

We left the market, our heads dazed by the sunlight and our stomachs full to the point of near discomfort. For two lunches and essentially three milkshakes, I had paid a total of 12 soles, or $4. With this lesson in Peruvian capitalism, I have been in a fantastic mood for the rest of the day.