Guatemalan haggling at Chichicastenango Mercado

A two-hour ride roughly north from Lake Atitlan, the town of Chichicastenango sits in a river valley surrounded by mountain peaks oft wreathed in mists and clouds, which it certainly is the Thursday morning we awake for the town-filling weekly market. It had been partly cloudy when we arrived the previous afternoon, and the overcast turned to a noisy thunderstorm and downpour the night before. About 4 blocks square, Chichi, as it’s known locally, is a blend of multi-hued whitewashed walls, rumpled red tiled roofs and cobbled streets. The main plaza—ground zero for the market—contains two churches, a museum and small, slightly decrepit park. Chichicastenango's best known artifact is the manuscript of the Popol Vuh, the sacred book of the Maya-Quiché. The manuscript, written by an unknown Maya author in the 16th century, was discovered by Father Francisco Ximénez when he served as priest in Chichicastenango in 1701 and contains the legends and history of the Maya-Quiché people who inhabit the area around Chichicastenango.

Certainly Chichi’s biggest draw is the twice-weekly market, which is said to be the largest in Central America. Sellers arrive noon Wednesday (and Saturday, for the Sunday market) and commence to erect pole and twine armatures—roofed in plastic against the frequent rain—on which to display their wares: carved and painted masks, woven and embroidered textiles, worked leather goods, clothing of all types, as well as all sorts of household goods, antiques, fresh fruit and vegetables, fish, meats and poultry. By Thursday morning the market spills two blocks or more deep off the plaza, eclipsing and engulfing the town’s shops, restaurants and streets. Busloads of villagers from miles around begin to arrive early, and by 9 am the market is lively and chaotic. The streets are filled with village women in their various colorful skirt and huipile combinations, gnarled and wizened old fellows in scuffed boots and battered straw hats, toddlers and kids of all sizes and ages, and punkish teenagers in baggy trousers and t-shirts with reversed baseball caps. Walking around as an average-height westerner is like being a Norse giant in normal crowds, as we tower over the altitude–challenged locals. Tourists, a few of which like us come in the night before, intersperse with the native crowd, but do not overpower the market—there is very much a feeling of locals buying and selling to locals for daily needs. It is a vibrant and authentic scene.

Incense smolders at the base of the steps of the Iglesia Santo Tomas, on the corner of the plaza, and Mayan religious elders know as chuchkajaves swing censers of acrid copal incense at the top of the steps, chanting magical incantations. Santo Tomas church, built around 1530 on the site of a Mayan temple, is an interesting religious juxtaposition—the front door is always closed, and the front steps (each of the 18 steps stands for one month of the Mayan calendar) serve as a de-facto Mayan temple, while the expansive interior (enter side door) holds daily mass.

Weathered viejitos hunker over baskets of rough blocks of chalk—ground and used with corn in the preparation of masa for tortillas and tamales—hammering odd bits off, and weighing to order in small dented balance scales. Innumerable children—all costumed, clean and mostly adorable—approach any foreigner offering hand-woven eyeglass straps, bracelets and other trinkets with the constant refrain “you buy one—ten quetzals?” They are persistent, but smile and eventually accept a quetzal or two, or a “no”. Tropical fruits of all types tumble colorfully out of straw baskets—huge papayas, tiny miniature pineapples, guavas, spiky lichis and giant green watermelons. Necklaces of chorizo and chains of sausage drape the butchers’ stalls.

As the market begins to wind down we bargain hard for colorful hand-woven fabrics to give back home as Christmas presents. Down a side street on the way back to the hotel is a designated live poultry market area, where rainbow-skirted women carry one, two, three or a basket of chickens, roosters, pullets, a turkey, or a brace of rabbits. Ironically, it is Thanksgiving day back home, and we eye the rather scrawny turkeys with a measure of compassion, as we contemplate a traditional US holiday missed, but an incomparable experience of Latin American traditions gained.