Chichicastenango’s Sunday Market

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Finally, anxious market-goers on board demanded the bus stop and let them off. They’d rather walk through the bustling town than wait out the slow ride to the bus station.

Guidebook in hand, Michelle and I jumped out the back of the bus. We anticipated a tough time finding a hotel room and so made that our first task in town but luck was on our side and we found one at the first place we tried. We took at room at the “Hospedaje Salvador,” a truly budget hotel just two blocks from the central square. A double room with a shared bath cost us a little more than seven dollars.

We laughed at our room. The door frame was so small that I had to duck to enter the room. Once inside, my head touched the ceiling as I stood flat-footed in the room. We were on the second and a half floor—our door was in the middle of a flight of stairs. Other rooms with equally tiny doors lined the rest of the hallways and stairs. We weren’t about to complain, however. A pile of thick, wool blankets waited at the foot of each bed. We were sure to be dry and warm when the chilly mountain air rolled in for the night.

Sunday morning started cold, damp and early. Market days begin at the crack of dawn and we set our alarm clocks accordingly. Stumbling out into the cobbled streets, Michelle and I first set our sights on something warm to drink. Searching out a restaurant, we walked past banks with open doors.

Banks, we discovered, were open for business on Sundays, a signal that Chichi’s market was big business. We found hot chocolate and tea at a little restaurant off the main square and ordered large plates of pancakes. With cash in our pockets and a warm breakfast in our stomachs, we were ready. We hit the market.

Color, everywhere, there was color—intense, vibrant, superb and riotous colors. There was color in the loom-woven textiles strung from the tip-tops of booths and in the wooden toys laid out on the ground. Bags and bunches and armloads of flowers crowded the steps of the Iglesia de Santo Tomás.

The women selling and buying the flowers wore traditional Maya “hupiles” in every imaginable shade. Their buckets full of gladiolas and mums competed for attention. Behind these women were sturdy little men dressed in white and red. They were decked out as “cofradías,” religious men of the city.

While market day surged on at the bottom of the church’s steps, the “cofradías” participated in an ancient religious celebration that takes place every Sunday morning. Not catholic, or pagan, they celebrated somewhere in between. They wove smoking lanterns of incense across the steps and doors to the church. The men were so dedicated to their incense waving that soon the smell took over the entire city. The thick, stinging smoke attacked my eyes like chlorine and sent me scrambling for eye drops.

The wafting incense choked and blurred the market into a dizzy mess. To escape the smell, Michelle and I moved away from the church and deep into the market’s heart. At the very center of Chichi’s main square were the food stalls. Women slapped corn dough between their hands, clapping over and over to form perfectly round tortillas which they browned on enormous drums. Chili peppers, onions and meats of every kind fried and crackled in thick skillets. Patrons mingled and laughed while waiting for meals straight from the pot.

At other stalls, men with machetes stood ready to chop through a nearby papaya or pineapple. Hungry shoppers bought slices and gobbled the sweet fruit happily, sticky juice streaming from their chins and fingers.

Michelle and I eyed the food greedily but did not touch any of it. As a general rule, we were wary of street food. There was no way to know where the products had come from, or if they had been properly cleaned. Though everything smelled delicious, we passed.

Leaving the food stalls, we found ourselves in the thin alleys of the market. Tables stretched before us and behind us displaying blankets, clothes, shoes, shampoo, combs, beads and wooden carvings. Shoppers milled at each booth, fingering goods and bargaining hard.

Bargaining hard is what is expected. Nothing is marked with a price and no quoted price is reasonable. I spied a glass bead I wanted and it took me fifteen minutes to buy it. The vendor tried to sell me a jade replica of a temple at Tikal instead, then a doll, then a scarf, then a bookmark. But I stood firm for the glass bead and in the end, I got it. The vendor, for his part, got 30 quetzals, or roughly four dollars.

As I walked off with my bead, I was almost run over by a human workhorse. Occasionally, stooped men barreled through the market paths with monstrous loads strapped to their heads. On their backs they carried tables, piles of chairs, firewood and cages of chickens. Bent forward and looking down, these men expected others to pay attention and step out of their way. Michelle pulled me out of the path of one just in time. As I watched him stumble past me, I didn’t know whether to be amazed by his strength or concerned for his bones.

On the outer rings of the market, butchers kept up a steady stream of work. Customers crowded these stalls pointing to hunks of meat and chunks of bone. Some even waited with live chickens in hand. I shuttered to think of the chickens’ fate and turned away. As I did, I spotted lanky, stray dogs. The dogs had already scouted the butchers’ stalls. They sulked beneath tables and behind corners watching for scraps.

It was the butchers that helped me realize the best thing about Chichi’s market: it wasn’t a gimmick. Real Guatemalans sold their wares and bought their supplies in the stalls of Chichicastenango. Yes, there were booths that sold items geared to souvenir-shopping tourists, but overall, Chichi was not a theme park. It was an authentic experience worth a stop should you ever travel to Guatemala.

Kelly Westhoff is a freelance writer and teacher in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area. She writes for many local publications and is in the process of completing her first book, a travel memoir.

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