El Mercado: The order of Chaos

Taxi cabs are yelling. Stray dogs are fighting, napping and barking. Trucks are passing on the wrong side of the road. Tuk tuks are beeping their obnoxiously high pitched horns, and thousands of people are littering the sidewalks and not daring to step into the street for fear of being run over. I am pacing through this maze, bolting between any openings that I can squeeze my lanky self through as I make my way into the market. This scene describes every hour of every day at the market in Pisco.

I managed to get myself to the central location of the market called Cinco Esquinas (five corners). The first street I look down, I see vendors selling only hardware supplies. Each small stand has copious amounts of screws, light bulbs, wire, tools, pipes and switches.

One stand after the next is selling the same, but somehow they all collaborate with each other. The next street is selling children's clothing: pants, shorts, dresses, and socks. Next to the clothing tiendas (shops), their is the random vendor selling toilet paper. I finally venture inside the market, a labyrinth of stands within a huge warehouse-type building.
The stench of raw meat and rotting rubbish hits me like a brick wall. However, the smell no longer repulses me because my nostrils have grown accustomed to it. In addition, if I were to walk 15 more paces in any direction, the scent will rapidly change to the smell of freshly prepared civiche or homemade empanadas.

As I walk through the isle of butchered chickens hanging by their feet, whole upside down gutted pigs, and porn magazines, I notice the women gracefully chopping the remains of a cow. I realize the reality of markets; and how no one here has bought their dinner in a pre-packaged, styrofoam tray to be taken home and microwaved, ready to eat in two minutes.

Im making my way towards Ray, our reliable veggie man who knows the routine of Pisco Sin Fronteras.

“Ok,” he says. “What are you making today?”

He knows that we are on a mission to prepare dinner for at least 60 people and that we are about to buy 12 kilos of veggies from him. He starts writing out a “factura,” a hand written receipt of all the veggies we are going to buy.

The first several times I strayed into a South American market, I was suffocated by the amount of people bustling through the tight spaces, the vendors yelling repeatedly trying to make a sale, the changing stench, and the lack of open space. Now, the experience has almost become comforting to me. Ive learned how to navigate the market as if I were a professional race car driver. Ive seen the culture seething out of every corner, every transaction, and every orifice. I envy markets here and wish I could bring them back home.