Archive

Tag Archives: Peru

The smell is what draws one to the sprawling epicenter of people and things we call markets. The sounds, the noise, and sometimes a combination of the two, and yes, they too are separate things. The sites, or more accurately, the colors, and of course, the shades. Hues, contrasts, whatever happens to be coming through the fence, the blinds, and at the right moment, shadows. Bright here, mellow there, ambiguous here, starkly sharp there.

As gathering places go, what draws locals to markets also draws passersby. The people. And what spins around the people.

And how funny it is, that locals and passersby alike, how we all glance up the aisles, down the lines, pull up chairs, slurp, chat, negotiate, laugh. Mesmerize. And be mesmerized. Perhaps this is the sole place where you and I are not so different, not so distant. Proximity by physics, but also in mind, is so often taken for granted.

Flies the size of thumbnails, on or around potentially lukewarm poultry, the nagging reminders of pocket thieves, and even the gentleman pissed off at photography-with-no-purchase, it all becomes a welcome banner. In a town flooded with trekkers catching wind before heading off to grander ruins, the mercado perhaps is one place to truly live Cusco.

While travel is generally to experience something out of the norm, as far away from the everyday as possible, the irony is that the best travel often lures you towards the norm and everyday of someone else. Away from one and towards another, and yet, from the contrasts, the sense of familiarity is what strangely lasts in the passerby’s psyche.

The author and passerby Nikos Kazantzakis once said, “I surrender myself to everything. I love, I feel pain, I struggle. The world seems to me wider than the mind, my heart a dark and almighty mystery.”

The fray of the market calls fur such surrendering, almost forcefully widening one’s mind, and the smell, the sounds, the noise, the sites, the colors, and the shades, all sink into one’s heart to form an almighty mystery. For a brief moment, one travels to and from the label of passerby to just another being – loving, feeling, struggling. As a place for trading, the most significant trade turns out to be that of the mind and sentiment, where full immersion allows one to be something completely different and yet the same. The vaguely familiar.

Salad bowls are like vanishing unicorns. Mixing bowls do not exist. To argue or to search for one would be dumping everything from the mercado (goat testicles and all) into a blender and forcing the consequence down one’s throat. Instead, what really happens is more like a dream, or that stage between sleep and consciousness. Passersby become locals, but are still passing by, but are still there, fully there.

It makes no sense, but in the end, travel makes no sense. It does not have to. What remains is one’s self, no longer of the past, a completely new being, back from the dream, now fully awake.

Back from the mercado.

“Let me, though, when again I have all around me the chaos of cities, the tangled skein of commotion, the blare of the traffic, alone, let me, above the most dense confusion, remember this sky and the darkening rim of the valley where the flock appeared, echoing, on its way home.” – Rainer Maria Rilke

Cusco begins and ends with its streets.

Meticulous stonework of the Incas is meshed with Spanish details. Each street and alley winds up and down smooth cobblestones, that which withstood centuries of mules and rubber.

The seemingly natural co-existance of the old and the new is, at the same time, unnatural. Miniature cars race through streets barely wide enough for them, tumbling here and there over flattened stones adjacent to stone walls hand-built by the Incas of centuries past. Women in traditional garb hurry down the street bashfully, while travelers from everywhere wander up the street to maybe nowhere.

Space is tight. Sidewalks are often layered terraces, resembling those that embrace the ancient city of Machu Picchu. Barely wide enough for two pedestrians, one must dart to and from the sidewalk to the cobblestone street, avoiding people and cars, and stray dogs. In some spots, the cobblestones are as unpredictable as the trails that encircle the great Salkantay Mountain, treacherous grounds lurking for weak ankles.

Space is tight and that is beautiful. It forces encounters. The new and the old, the local and the foreign, the there and here – we all meet in the street.

Above the buzzing streets, the deep blue of the clear Andean sky is a blank canvass for the clouds to dance upon. The mood, and the shadows, changes quickly. Clouds form, come, and go, often without much notice. Droplets of rain drizzle sporadically, only to vanish with the clouds, as if they are afraid of the scorching sun.

The color pallet of Cusco is as diverse as the landscape of the Andes. Upon the base of gray cobblestones and reddish brown roof tiles, splashes of red, yellow, blue, green quietly market their existence. Nothing overpowers. This is not unlike the famed Incan tapestry. Colors are celebrated, but not to the detriment of the balance of the whole, always in harmony with the base colors.

The streets of Cusco are works of art. They seem planned yet unplanned, designed yet organic. Then again, history is a designer. Time adds layers and angles not easily perceived my narrow human perception, trapped in the past and in the present. Time is an overlooked creative force. A stone or two in a day or two, a new structure or two in a year or two, a new neighborhood or two in a decade or two. History’s tragedies – the bloodbath of the Spanish invasion of the Incas – never truly heal. And yet its progeny still stands, and ironically exhumes beauty.

Everything changes, and nothing changes.

Colors and stones will add to Cusco. Cars change, streetlights change, people change. But as long as the cobblestones blanket the winding streets and the clouds hover to and fro, Cusco remains.

%d bloggers like this: