Chichicatenango is a tiny town, nestled in the mountains to the north of Lago de Atitlan. That is, except Wednesdays and Sundays, when it it morphs into the largest market in Central America. It had an especially different feel for us, because we had been a little off beaten track and its such a tourist destination. And with tourists come all sorts of scammers about, which made us a little wary. We woke up early this morning to get a jump on the market. When we started shopping, there were only a few stalls open and we were unimpressed. After a bit, vendors began to arrive from other highland areas. First a trickle, then a flood of people and goods arrived in busses, cars, trucks, handcarts and on backs. As the day went on, we realized exactly how mistaken we had been. The market had grown up around us into an almost impenetrable labyrinth of stalls and street vendors hawking every imaginable household and artesianal item, food and drink. The indigenous and tourists shoppers rubbed shoulders in a mad rush to get the best possible deals. It took us over an hour to get a few city blocks, from one side of the market to the other. Around the edges of the market, the religious cofradias were worshipping, politicians were stumping and borrachos were drinking, adding to the ambience of utter chaos.
I’m not one to haggle. I hate the feeling that I’m being taken advantage of, but I also hate arguing over a couple of dollars with someone far worse off than me. On the other hand, Scott is an expert haggler. I’m sure his parents love knowing that his expensive UPenn econ education is being so well utilized. He would just walk away during negotiations, forcing the vendors to follow him, lowering their prices. Or he would get them to agree on a seemingly low price for a single item, and then ask them to lower it if he bought a second. He would always consult with us in English, to make himself seem unsure. The prices got better and better as they day wore on and the vendors wanted to get home, sans their wares, and I got better and better at haggling.
At the end of the day, we had purchased every imaginable sort of artesania: Some of the brightly colored and exquisitely embroidered textiles that stretched as far as the eye could see. Masks and musical instruments from shelves and shelves of smelly, but cool, carved wood. Jade, coral and silver jewelry from vendors with innumerable necklaces over their arms, tinkling as they walked. And tons of tiny, brightly colored trinkets from little indigenous children that crowded around us like ants wherever we walked. Worn out and with substantially lighter wallets, we set off for Panajactel.
I’m not one to haggle. I hate the feeling that I’m being taken advantage of, but I also hate arguing over a couple of dollars with someone far worse off than me. On the other hand, Scott is an expert haggler. I’m sure his parents love knowing that his expensive UPenn econ education is being so well utilized. He would just walk away during negotiations, forcing the vendors to follow him, lowering their prices. Or he would get them to agree on a seemingly low price for a single item, and then ask them to lower it if he bought a second. He would always consult with us in English, to make himself seem unsure. The prices got better and better as they day wore on and the vendors wanted to get home, sans their wares, and I got better and better at haggling.
At the end of the day, we had purchased every imaginable sort of artesania: Some of the brightly colored and exquisitely embroidered textiles that stretched as far as the eye could see. Masks and musical instruments from shelves and shelves of smelly, but cool, carved wood. Jade, coral and silver jewelry from vendors with innumerable necklaces over their arms, tinkling as they walked. And tons of tiny, brightly colored trinkets from little indigenous children that crowded around us like ants wherever we walked. Worn out and with substantially lighter wallets, we set off for Panajactel.
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