truth for sale

Let’s you and me go shopping trip for truth. I have a feeling we might just find some in the market. It’s a vibrant, lively and stinky place, with the sort of muggy air that tends to stifle pretensions. In the market if something itches, you scratch.

Since it’s Saturday, we can forgo a moto-taxi and catch a ride with Aunt Becky, who will pick us up in the truck at nine o’clock dull. I say dull, because times are never sharp in Pucallpa. And by the way, don’t worry about the whole “Aunt” thing, I grew up calling her that. Since you and I are such good friends, I’m sure she won’t mind.

It’s a bit tricky getting to the market. The town’s full of one way streets and choked with traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian, so you can be glad Aunt Becky’s driving. People tend to watch out for themselves, but there ain’t no accounting for stupidity, as the saying goes.

Over there on the left you can see the cathedral they’re building. Check out the beautiful painted and carved wooden doors. I only mention it because it is now the largest building in town, beating out the newly-constructed municipal building. Yup, that’s it right there – the pastel-blue behemoth.

See those shops right there side-by-each – the wooden rectangles about the size of phone booths? Every single one is a watch repair shop. Crazy, isn’t it? Especially when you consider that you can buy a black market watch for just a couple of bucks. They’re skilled craftsmen, and they just barely eke out a living. You see a lot of that here.

That little alcove on the left has a whole bunch of little tiendas where they sell bootleg movies. You can some that aren’t even out on dvd yet in North America, but usually for those you’ve got to put up with silhouettes of people getting up to go to the bathroom. They sell them for about eighty cents, but most have been dubbed into Spanish and you never really know what you’ve got until you get home. Last weekend we ended up watching Batman Begins in Russian with Spanish subtitles.

OK, here we are on the left – Mercado Dos. That just means market two. Those moto-taxis all lined up outside there are waiting for customers who are finishing they’re shopping. They’re supposed to go in order, front one first. I don’t know if there’s some sort of moto-taxi mafia to bring down holy retribution on defilers of the line, or if they just exercise judicious use of peer pressure. Anyways, we just need to find a place on the other side of the road to squeak in. Ah, right there, Aunt Becky, in front of that broken-down push-cart.

Hola, Willie. This is Willie. He’s pretty much always here covering this side of the street. He’ll watch the truck while we’re in the market and give it a good rubbing with that dusty rag he’s got. There’s a lot of thievery here. I like Willie cause he keeps that cute smile plastered on his face all the time. He probably does this all day, all week. There is public education here, but a lot of families can’t afford uniforms, notebooks or pens.

This covered strip along the outside sells mostly clothes – we have to go inside for food. I don’t really know how the whole system works. I mean, somebody had to have put this roof up. It’s not much – just tin on wood – but they must have some sort of system where they pay a yearly or monthly fee. We should ask. In the middle on those long tables you can see all the meat lying out. Not exactly FDA approved, but it was probably cut up just this morning, and we’ll make sure to cook it well. Smell that E Coli – just don’t breathe in a fly. Most of the fresh goods – the fruit and vegetables and everything – are all out in the open air. You can get most anything you could want here – even seafood trucked out over the Andes from Lima. Crazy, hey, quasi-fresh squid in the middle of the Amazon? It is easy to get swept up in the spirit of the place. All the people weaving in and out, shouting. Tired middle-aged women cooing in low, almost seductive tones about the freshness of their pig intestines. Little boys bumping against your legs, feeling for an easy wallet. It’s no Safeway, and of that I’m glad.

These walled-off booths along the outside and in the middle sell all sorts of random oddments, but we’ll probably just get our dry goods here. I need a big flat of TP. Twenty rolls for two dollars. What’s he say? Oh, he asked what country we’re from. I’m a dual, so I started out saying Americ… and then thought better of it and said Canadian. He responded with “Oh, yeah – that country up above the States.” He continued by saying “Americans are very… warlike… and… bloodthirsty. Canadians, on the other hand… are more…………………….” and then he couldn’t think of a word, so I threw out “tranquilo”, which produced a big smile. “Yeah, that’s it – tranquilo”.

Tranquility is a big thing here. It’s not just a word for placid lakes and cottages, it’s a way of life. “TRANQUILO!” is something you shout at someone who’s getting too worked up and starts making mistakes in a futbol game. It’s something you say out of the side of your mouth about someone who runs around like mad, never satisfied and never able to sit back and chat for a few minutes or hours over drinks, a meal, or a particularly cantankerous motorcycle engine.

It’s funny. I spent my life growing up as an American with this slightly odd Canadian aura hovering about my head. There were only two Canadian families where I lived, so I wasn’t prepared for the move to Canada for University after high school and the serious U.S.A. bashing that went on there. Canadians derive most of their identity (beware, I’m about to hit you with a gross generalization here) from three things: Canadian hockey, Canadian beer, and not being American. It’s hard not to be a bit embarrassed of being a part of a country that invented a song with the words “my country right or wrong” as a chorus and elevated it to near-anthem status. Maybe it is just jealousy, but I’m too American to be jealous of myself.

Whatever the case, I love this market and this feeling of a ragged, frantic calm. If the TP dude was right and Canada does have the spirit of “tranquilo”, then I’m glad that when I have to leave this land of my sojourn it will be to tarry a while in the Great White North. Let’s go home.