Guatemala

After staying in heavy-aired, automobile-thick, structure-packed Guatemala  City that hardly felt like a getaway, I longed for silence, for an easy breath, for a relaxing vacation. The three-hour, endlessly winding, at times harrowing drive from Guatemala City to Chichicastenango—definitely not relaxing. But this unassuming hotel, hidden behind plaster and cement walls and heavy wooden doors, with cool mountain air filling an oasis of a courtyard—definitely perfect. Potted hibiscus, blooming orange heliconia, and garlanding green vine surrounded the stone-paved enclosure. A small, sparsely decorated Christmas tree on the second floor hinted at the season, contrasting the tropical plants. Peace permeated the open-air space. 

However, the peace abruptly ended at the door. Stands leaning against the walls on either side of the street displayed distinctly Mayan, ceramic figurines, rainbow-painted masks, and woven fabric goods—undoubtedly intended to appeal as souvenirs for tourists. Petite Mayan women wearing traditional, calf-length, cotton skirts and multihued, striped belts continued to organize their displays as we strolled past. The market of Chichicastenango, more familiarly known as Chichi, began. 

The crowded center of Chichi was flanked on the east and west sides by twin white-washed churches, Iglesia Santo Tomas and Capilla Calvario. The fluttering flags and garlands strung from the roof of Santo Tomas, contrasting brightly against the columned, stark white-washed façade, evoked Christmas lights. The steep, steel-colored stone steps leading up to the darkened doorway of Santo Tomas were well worn from the faithful’s steps, crumbling in places, barely climb-able in others. We maneuvered around the flower vendors sitting on the steps next to fresh blooms in five-gallon buckets, who, perhaps because we were obviously not shopping, seemed to ignore us. On this overcast Christmas Day, I wondered who their customers would be.

In the uneven valley between the churches, shoppers, vendors, and wares crammed the market-labyrinth. Steam and aromas seeped from covered pots; muddy stray dogs trotted by; women led children by their hands while swaddled babies were wrapped to their backs; a man trudged down the street, bent over from the weight of a fabric-filled wooden box slung on his back supported by only a strap crossing his forehead. A knit-capped man with a small wooden board hanging from his neck held a walking stick in one hand and a plastic bowl in the other, shifted from one foot to another, and held out his bowl to passersby, waiting for someone's charity. As in any other city, people passed on, engrossed in their lives.

 

In the market, every corner turned revealed something new; yet, every corner also manifested a varicolored textiles stand. Like magic carpets, the rainbow of fabrics hung in the air, at least 8 feet above the ground. Layer on layer, colors on colors, they draped over each other heavily. Some embroidered, cross-stitched llamas and parrots in neon pinks and greens and cerulean blue over woven black, royal purple, or bright neon green. Some dyed, half saturated yellows, browns, blues, and purples—the fabrics we were told to avoid—clothes-pinned up for display. Some folded, stacked, semi-lost under each other on tables. As soon as one was touched with vague interest, vendors began reaching for two-prong-tipped poles to bring down the hanging fabrics and spreading out the stacked ones—large and small, square and rectangular, striped and patterned—and chattering with lilted, basic English on how beautiful and pretty and ok to wash each was and how great of a deal one for 70 quetzals or two for 130 was. Bargaining may be accepted—even encouraged, according to our guide—but bargaining for its own sake somehow seemed crude. The shopper's proposal of a lower price; the vendor's firm refusal; the fake turning away; the vendor's sudden turnaround that the price was now acceptable—the game played in every market around the world—made me feel like a robber here, where the locals ply their wares even on Christmas Day. 

After winding through the dizzying aisles of stalls, Julio led us to a nondescript building, hidden behind the fluttering tarps and heavy-hanging fabrics. After passing through littered, cement hallways, up a flight of stairs, to the second-floor balcony handrail, we could survey the produce market spread out below us. The size of a basketball court (in fact, used for community basketball games), the market was just as colorful and crowded as the one outside. Farmers stood behind piles of beautifully orange-red tomatoes, bright green avocadoes, dark green cucumbers, baby’s-arm-sized giant carrots, darkened plantains and other unfamiliar greens laid on tables, stacked in crates, spread on tarps on the floor, stretched from wall to wall. Shoppers pointed, chatted, paid, and then carried their bagged groceries away. This seemed to be daily life in Chici, unchanged by the holiday.