The streets of San Cristobal are cobble-stoned, and coloured walls line every two-foot wide sidewalk. The mercado (market) was magical. All the fruits you could imagine: mangos, melons, bananas, apples, peaches, forest green avacados and potatoes with dirt still stuck in their wedges stacked as high as possible in a small dish waiting for sale. The women stand behind their makeshift tables and yell out appealing prices for the deliciously fresh food you see, and their children stand behind them stacking fruit, playing with sticks and smiling shyly at me whenever I glance at them.
At this point in the trip my Spanish was terrible. Still, a 'buenos dias' to any of these women warranted a pleasant acknowledgement in return.
|Plazuela de la Merced and Templo del Cerrito, and Templo|
de Santa Lucia, both in San Cristobal.
|The market: beans, flowers, fruit, vegetables.|
We walked through an arena meat market, where butchers slice and chop the red flesh from the recently butchered cow that hangs on a hook behind them. Row upon row of sausage lays stacked on a shelf, and flies buzz around in a choir-like melody. It stinks, slightly.
|Looking down separate directions of a street: beautiful sky one way, and dark|
ominous storm clouds moving into the city. Rainy season is a treat.
|A woman and child walking through the colonial streets.|
"She should be at home," said Tavniah.
We had been told on several occasions not to hand money to children. It often ends up in the hands of the mother who is waiting around the corner, and who knows where it ends up after that. But as Florenca, five years old, looked up at me flashing her big brown eyes it took all of my might to not hand her a few pesos and make her feel proud. Instead, I bought her a pineapple muffin from inside the cafe. She walked away down the street and took a big bite of her muffin, and all of the other little girls rushed to see what she had received.
|San Cristobal street at night.|