We get up today and go early to spend some time simply soaking up the atmosphere of the markets of Cochabamba.
They are, by a long way, the image, or to be more precise, the sights, sounds, smells and bustling, that I will take home with me, closely associated with my memories and impressions of Bolivia.
Women, in the pleated, knee length skirts which are the every day wear for indigenous people here, bend over stalls, tables, cooking pots and grinding stones. They are, themselves, a bright splash of colour, the skirts made of velvet or heavy fabrics, sometimes with white lace petticoats, and always in a strong, distinctive colour. As Diana had indeed remarked on the Salt Flats, the general shape here is round in the middle but legs are always toned and slim, used to walking, carrying wares and babies, and there seems to be a general pride in the wearing of dainty, colourful shoes. On their backs they carry the items they sell, or their babies, wrapped tightly in heavy, brightly patterned fabric and tied expertly around their shoulders. These bundles seem to share the same fabric and I look for it, constantly, in the stores, hoping to bring some home with me, so distinctive is it and so ubiquitous. I can find it nowhere. Perhaps it is a secret of Bolivian women. Perhaps they weave it themselves. Perhaps it is passed down through generations. It seems to me to be a special token of indigenous Bolivian womanhood, a thing only for those who were born into this culture, who bear the burdens of baby and market stall, not for pampered tourists or those Bolivian women who are more European descended, and who wear black bomber jackets and jeans and shop in the supermarkets at the other end of town.
Probably I simply haven't found the right market stall.
And the markets themselves are sprawling, delicious in their colour, in their random design, which, apparently, is based on logic, but which allows for a stall selling dried baby alpacas to sit next to a guitar vendor, who is next to a phone store, beside some raw meat.
We duck and side step our way past the vendors, still setting up, hard at work, their heads with their long black, weighted plaits bent hard over their offerings. One woman pounds tiny, marble coloured potatoes using a grinding stone, to mash them. When we pass again she is pounding chilli, and when we pass for the fourth time (it's both very easy and quite fun to get lost), she is pounding tomatoes. Others bend over pots of steaming liquid, boiling potatoes or rice over little gas stoves. Someone else beats slabs of meat against a table to soften it to prepare what is known as 'fake rabbit', (actually softened pork). A lady chats to another while they both, expertly peel an enormous pule of potatoes, an equally large pile of newly balded versions either side of them. A lady in one of the traditional little bowler hats, which sit right on top of the head, above the plaits and about the size of a larger wedding fascinator in the UK, is washing the floor around her meat restaurant stall, sending bloodied water neatly into the drain in the middle of the walkway.
It's heady and beautiful. We see cats slyly weaving their way under tables to steal scraps, ignoring the pigeons, too fat to fly far from them, for other, newly tenderised fare. We walk through corridors hung with artificial fruits and flowers, so colourful it makes your eyes hurt. We spend an hour absorbed in the artisinal section, the part designed to captivate tourists, poring over painted guitars, bright fabrics, ceramics and mobiles. A woman pushes past us carrying a basket full of roasted potatoes of different kinds, making our mouths water so much we want to call her back and buy some, but she has gone, absorbed into the clamour and colour. We search for her in vain.
Finally, though perhaps not sated (I am unsure I will ever tire of Bolivian markets), we male our way to a tiny market restaurant which advertises 'comida vegetariano'. As soon as we sit down the lady who owns the, very popular, store, arrives and beams at us.
"Almuerzo completo?" (Complete lunch), she asks.
We nod and are presented with, in order; a bright raw salad featuring onion, grated radish, tomato, 'mote blanco' (a kind of very large corn, tasting similar to a large pearl of barley), and cucumber; a huge bowl of brorh like soup with potatoes, beans, herbs, rice and countless vegetables in it and; rice with potatoes and a beautifully seasoned lentil stew.
We roll out, our purses barely any lighter, and our tummies certainly not light at all.
I love the markets for their chaos and four, and their human touches. It's nice to buy tomatoes and pears from one vendor, bread from another, and dried baby alpacas from a third (we don't buy the baby alpacas, only joking). But it's nice to have three different interactions, whether they are a simply grunt and a nod, a smiling but basic transaction, or a friendly chat. It's nice to buy tomatoes, picking them out from the one tomato tray on the stall. Nice not to spend ages peering at bar codes and price labels, and refreshing that, with all of this, you still don't have to get involved in the dreaded 'barter'.
We have been to the other end of town, where the flats are posh and come with elevators and concierge, and the shops are buildings with tills and price stickers. Where the restaurants are Italian and the bars are expensive, and feature those stalls you always feel like you're falling from.
The markets, and our flat, are in the poorer end of town. Where the clothes are traditional and the living is simple. I'm not going to glamorise poverty, but to tell the truth, I haven't seen any more than I would on the homeless streets in Southampton or London. The majority of people look perfectly happy, well fed and well clothed. They man a market stall rather than work in an office. They wear colour and chose to identify with their heritage. Probably it's a tough life, they work hard for their living. But they seem, somehow, to imbue the place with more life.
I am a romantic. And I know nothing of the daily reality for this community.
But I like it so much more than the other side of town.
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