San Marcos Mercado

The view of the livestock area of the San Marcos Mercado

This story starts in Huamachuco, Peru. After unloading a few things into the room, we rode the bikes to the other side of the plaza to the secure parking lot the hostal shared with a restaurant. There were already four little bikes in the motos area, so we parked mine and left Josh's bike next to a truck, with a promise to return later in the evening to swap it once the little bikes were gone. As the afternoon wore on, we decided we would just go eat dinner at the restaurant, so we'd already be there when it needed to happen. Great idea, right?

Bad idea. Such a bad idea.

We spent the entire rest of the day in bed with food poisoning, trying to rest and feel a bit better. This was my second time being sick on the trip, and Josh's third--all of which happened in Peru, from nicer restaurants. Screw it, we said, we are going back to eating street food and in tiny restaurants that also sell various, random things.

The next morning, Josh was feeling considerably better, but I was still feeling iffy. As we had no plans we had to follow, I decided I'd stay in bed another day. Somewhere around 8, a stall set up across the road in the plaza, complete with giant speakers, and they began blasting music. And not only were they blasting music, but they started with the Incan flute versions of Simon and Garfunkel songs. I am not kidding.And then it got worse.

Abba.

Not Incan flute Abba, but Abba cover mashups.

I lie in bed, desperately trying to block it out and fall asleep, until I could take it no more.
Josh got back from getting himself coffee and checking on the bikes, and I asked if we could get them out. When he said yes, I told him to pack his crap. We were out of there. The only thing that was going to make my food poisoning feel worse was to suffer through it while listening to that music.
So we rode on, about seventy miles to the town of San Marcos. I don't remember much of the ride, except it started with crappy pavement, dirt, and mud, then between Cajabamba and San Marcos, the last thirty-six miles very wide easy pavement. Though the riding had become easy at that point, I couldn't ride any farther.
Feeling unwell, and extremely weak and dehydrated, we stopped at the one hostal in the area mentioned on iOverlander. I guess there was no one else staying, because we were given a huge, sparkling clean room with an enormous jacuzzi tub. Later that evening I would fill the tub and find that the jets don't work, but I so didn't care. A bath is not a luxury I've had on this trip with the exception of a few hot springs here and there. I was in heaven and spent easily forty-five minutes just sitting in the hot tub, reading my book.
The following morning we woke to a lot of noise in the town. I was surprised a town that small could be so noisy! I finally felt like eating something, so around 8, we headed to the plaza for a cup of coffee. While walking there, I looked further down the street and saw it was market day. We had only coffee, and decided we would grab something to eat within the street market.

If only I knit...

All the ladies hats and all the shiny pots!

We began slowly wandering through the market, taking in the stalls filled with produce, clothing, brightly designed synthetic blankets, and all the beans, peas, and grains you could imagine. As we turned onto other streets, I realized why the town was so noisy that morning. This is THE market for all the neighboring towns on Sunday. Thousands of people had descended upon San Marcos to sell what they grew, find what they need for the week, and of course, the most important thing--socialize.

In Peru they make baskets out of old tires!

We finally came to one end of the market, and as we looked through the stalls where all the señoras were making and selling breakfast, we saw the livestock portion of the market. It was vast, with hundreds of people and more animals. That portion of the market sat down below the street above, and people were lined up along the rail, watching, pointing, deciding, and waving to others they knew down below.

In the yard, cows, calves, burros, horses, pigs, sheep, and goats all waited--sometimes patiently, sometimes not--for where they would be going next. I was fascinated as I watched the movement and listened to the sounds below. I loved the movement, noise, and smells, wandering through the animals giving them discreet little pats or giving a horse a good scratch beneath its itchy halter.

But, I hated seeing the condition some of the animals were in, and the way some of the people treated them. There was a beautiful grey horse, who was acting like a butthole. I stood watching him from above for at least half an hour. He was spirited, and unhappy about having been tied in one spot all day. After watching all the horses for the better part of an hour, he is the one I would have bought. Despite his attitude, as I watched his male owner handle him, it was clear what had turned him into a butthole.
Hie owner untied him at the end of the day, readying him and the other three horses not sold to make the journey home. For the most part, the grey was calm, but would occasionally kick or bite at one of the other horses, make some noise, or stamp hooves. His owner, who had tightly wrapped his lead a third time over the sensitive area just above his nostrils would yank on the lead line when he did that, essentially telling him he was bad. But then, at one point when the grey was standing calmly, his owner swung the end of the lead and hit the grey in the face. This of course made the horse yank his head up and behave badly.
So, the horse had basically just been told that when he acted out, he would be punished, and when he behaved well he would be punished. You know what, I'd be a butthole too if I was treated that way.

This is how they loaded all the animals into the large livestock trucks. They don't believe in ramps, and it was often a big step for the animals into the truck.

This wasn't an isolated incident. It killed me to watch, but I also had to remember that this is not my home and not my culture. I don't have to approve, but I certainly won't be listened to here, either, if I voice my disgust. I am the outsider.

These two kept going at each other in a rather comical way. At any time, either of them could have walked away, but they didn't.

There were naked-necked chickens and frizzles!

We spent almost the whole day--until about three in the afternoon--wandering, eating, catching escaped young chickens and returning them to their pens with a grateful "Gracias" from the owners who were working hard to sell them. At one point, as we were standing above, looking down on the cows, one cow directly below us slipped free, and he began wandering the lot. I scanned the crowd, expecting to see his owner come running to grab him and re-tie him, as there were no fences to keep him there. He wandered for a while and I looked at Josh and asked if he thought I should go grab the cow and take him back. He looked at me like I was insane, then said we should probably move so no one would think the gringos had caused the problem.

This is the escapee cow. He wandered for a good fifteen minutes before someone grabbed him and tied him back up.

This little girl with her bull! He started to walk away at one point, and the girl's mom dragged him back. Then, the little girl promptly demanded his lead be returned to her. This is her cow!

And we were the ONLY gringos there. And with Josh being over six feet tall, and me towering over all the women and a large number of the men, too, we were obvious. People stared. A lot. But, a quick smile and greeting in Spanish usually made them smile right back. We had a great conversation with three young girls and their mom, while Josh ate a bowl of chicharron and choclo--the girls practiced English, Josh practiced Spanish, and I helped them all out.

Chicken soup for breakfast. We shared a bowl and after it was nearly done, the señora came over and re-filled it for us. It was delicious! And cost about $1.33US

This is how they make the BEST soup! She built a fire on the ground and set her pots on bricks.

The day wound up being great! This is not the Chichicastenango market--it isn't in every guide book around, deemed a must see in a foreign place that is now a tourist attraction. This was every Sunday in the small city of San Marcos, in the heart of the Peruvian Andes. It was a beautiful glimpse into the lives of the locals, and a culinary experience! I am so glad Huamachuco played that horrid music and forced me out of their city!

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