POST by JED: The Miraculous Mercado

In the past week we have visited the Mercado Oriental on several occasions. More recently, we visited three times. In the first instance we had raised enough money to buy all of the children in our small community a toy for Christmas. There are just over 100 children in our barrio, though the figures do tend to change as people from the local community get to know us and our agenda. (Matthew 25: 34-36) 

For our second visit we had raised enough money to buy each family in the neighbourhood an egg laying chicken. There are approximately 80 families in the area, though we still haven´t visited EVERY house, and so we remain a little uncertain (the tiniest “house” may contain up to 3 families). On this occasion we went to find the blessed little animals, however there was an insufficient quantity of chickens for our needs.

On our THIRD and final visit, at some ungodly hour, we purchased our prized chooks (Australian slang for “chickens”). The alarm clock collided with my World of Dreams before the sun had even contemplated upon a visit. We had been burning the candle at both ends and I was finding it difficult, at that festive time of year, to claw my way out of bed. Anyway, claw I did, and out I went.

The Mercado Oriental is like any market in the third world. People are busy hustling and bustling from well-before-dawn, and the element of danger only increases with every minute the day devours. I have Nicaraguan friends who talk of people being stabbed in the afternoon and their money being taken, rather than being “held up” and the victim being offered a choice (hand it over or face the consequences).

The predominant difference between the Mercado Oriental, as opposed to other markets, is the size of the market. The Mercado Oriental is 5 kms long, making it one of the largest markets in the World, and because it is a cash market it is not possible to get exact statistics on trade - though government bodies estimate gross daily sales to be around 3 million US dollars.

The Mercado is informally broken up into zones, much like a supermarket. “In the first 100 aisles we have carburetors, then in the next 100 aisles we have pigs´ feet”, and so-forth. To date, I know where to buy a radiator, a car tire, kids´ bikes, live chickens and t-shirts (yes, I can help any Christmas shopper with a wide selection of gift options).

Though shopping is usually a fun activity (always for the ladies, sometimes for the gents), at the Mercado Oriental it is a business, even for the consumer. Liz LOVES to barter. However, we are finding out in true Brien style (via the hard way), and sometimes with much embarrassment to-boot, that Nicaraguans just DO NOT barter. (as red faced Liz will have a man twice her size, pressed up against a wall, hand around throat, trying to get 10 cordobas off the price of a baby doll and pram… The children and I instantly become “interested” in an actual pig´s head in the next “aisle”. “Oh, and please do tell, how much for this delightful pig´s head you have hanging at the front of your stall?”) Consequently we get a bargain on the baby/pram set, and pay quadruple the price for a pig´s head.

The Nicas have a price for poor the poor, a price for the rich, and a price for Gringos (every foreigner). We always barter, we have to, but the Nicas hate it. Unless you can turn it into a moment of hilarity (my favourite line is “No es Cancun”, screamed at the top of my lungs, with much fake laughter to follow, whilst clutching the item I WILL NOT walk away from), they usually just say “no” and begin another task. Sometimes, they relent. I tell them over and over again that I´m too slim to be American, to ugly to be rich, and to underdressed to be European (ha ha, I know – NOT POSSIBLE!), but my poor Spanish and great big white car tell otherwise.

At least I don´t dress as well as the Nicas do. They take an enormous amount of pride in their personal presentation and it shows. Though I must say, the fashion police would have a field day with their mismatched combos (my good friend Jen and I were just talking about this phenomenon).  Because, although their clothes are always new, and although they always smell great, they have problems in selecting clothes that “work together”. An average woman may, for example, choose to wear a pink and purple poker dotted pair of pants (that are 2 sizes too small), with a horizontally striped blue and green blouse. (that are 3 sizes too small. The result? The midriff instantly becomes quite the feature show piece, and generally 4 sizes too big, might I just add!)

But the Mercado is not a festive place. It was a chore for me to think of Christmas presents when surrounded by the strange sights, sounds and smells. Personal space evaporates from the moment you take a step inside the market “zone”. The market is a type of warfare, people battling for their very existence, and you can sense the desperation.

There are many problematic social issues within the market. Though I have read up on many of these different issues, the evils I have personally encountered include gambling, prostitution and child labour.

It is not uncommon to find “pokies” (Aussie slang for slot machines) around the place. They are not used by people with excess amounts of money and suffering from boredom. They are used by the poor who really do view them as an opportunity to make some quick extra cash. They are not used solely by men, but also by women and children. I have seen with my very own eyes, and on several occasions, small children putting money into pokies in order to win a buck.

There are approximately thirty brothels in the market. I have walked by a couple. Several brothels in the market specialise in children. Though I have not personally witnessed child prostitution, I have read about them via several different medias and do believe that they exist, due to the poverty and the desperation that masses of Nicaragua´s population suffer from.

Something that I have witnessed, in large quantities, is child labour. Generally I believe that child labour is one of the steps needed in order for this country to climb out of poverty. I view the children as being in a sort of apprenticeship. I do not agree with child labour, but understand that economically these children will be at a disadvantage if they go to school, as they will lack the valuable skills and working experience they will need for adult life and may, due to their socio-economic status, be unemployable. However, it does make me sad every time I see a child carrying something too heavy, working with dangerous equipment, taking their rest in a place so unrestful, and so-forth.

But enough of this ho hum talk… You want to know about my chicken buying day! I arrived at the Mercado as the day was breaking and stepped out of the car. The warm smell of raw meat instantly met my senses. I started breathing through my mouth and looked around. Live chickens were pecking at the rubbish which was everywhere. “Homeless people” were sleeping on every flat surface available. Although early, many, many people were already cramming the streets. Loads of vendors were pushing their carts, shoppers were fussing around within their daily routine, young boys moved quickly carrying goods for buyers, mangy dogs were milling around smelly mounds of smelliness, and the market “police” continued to look on – taking everything in.

We start to move through the crowded corridors of the market. I was instantly referred to as chele (not sure of the spelling, but it sounds like chel-leh, “white man”. I have NEVER experienced this before, due to my dark hair/eyes and gorgeously sculpted Latin looking face). But it doesn´t happen just once, it´s “chele” this and “chele” that.

I´m exhausted after only a few small moments. It´s not the heat, the stench, or the continual pressing of bodies against my own - it´s the inability to think whilst all of this is going on. As a mere tourist, I´m fine. But having hundreds of dollars on my person, and a camera in hand, knowing that I have to achieve the task of buying at least 100 egg-laying-chickens, well it´s too much for me to handle…

But still, I push on, valiant market shopper that I am. (Liz would be skipping at this point, totally in her element!) I am in a weird section that has home-made vegetable products and raw meat/animal body parts. I am continuously passed by push-carts with carcasses in them. People are throwing meat between carts and stalls. A sweaty man, with hardly any clothes on, pushes me from behind, “oh sorry” I turn and say (I can´t think in Spanish at this hour, nor location) as I walk straight into a bloody cow´s head. Yukko!

I wipe myself clean with my t-shirt, wishing that I could be the naked one now (in a shower would be great!). I march forward again, but straight into a puddle the size of Lake Managua, with equal water quality. Yukko el numero dos!

With a bloody head, t-shirt and soupy shoes I round the bend. I look to my left. Chickens with their heads cut off, trapped in a massive flat bucket of sorts, are furiously trying to run. They are simultaneously being crushed by a massive bucket from above. A boy sits within the bucket laughing on his “ride”. I´m sweating now and my stomach, which only has freshly ground/brewed Nicaraguan Arabica hot, delicious , thick coffee inside,  churns.

I am now being pushed along by other people. I look around for Juan Pablo, he turns left and although my feet are turning left, my body is turning right. The train of people drags me along. “Help” I say, “help, HELP!” It´s no use. The ding dang market is now louder than the roar at a Metallica concert. I´m lost in the platano “aisle”.

Platanos are a staple in Nicaragua. They look like bananas, but taste more like potatoes. More semi-naked people are here, sorting through the good and the bad items and as I look on, I wish I was with them. The products are scattered along the floor and there are few people amongst them. The air is cool from where they are situated. I, however, am still on the runaway human train!

The crush becomes intense… “Ummm, could you please move your hand? I´m trying to walk and having your hand in my armpit isn´t helping…” I burst through a crack in the wall and find that, miraculously, I am standing beside our car. T-shirt back-to-front, hat on upside down, shoes on opposite feet and undies around my neck. (well, you get the idea…) I dare not try and find my way through the crowd again, to a destination I have not been to. I decide to wait at the car for help to arrive.

I see Juan Pablo. He is not happy. “Where did you go?” he asks in Spanish. “Um, I don´t know” is my response. Juan Pablo is from our Church, just a couple of years younger than I, but don´t tell him, I think he looks twenty years older than me. He wants me to go back with him to pay for and collect the chickens. Although horrified by the thought, I picture my boys standing next to me. It´s the right thing to do, I have to beat this thing!

I follow Juan Pablo and this time, the camera is away and I am nearly treading on his heels I´m so close. Oh… Sorry… Brother… A little too close! We arrive at the chickens in minutes. They are beautiful, with their heads still on! (unlike the rest of the animals in the market…) We pay the fee and have the chickens brought to the car.

Success! Thanks to Capital Edge Community Church in Canberra, Australia, and some incredibly generous people in Australia, Hong Kong, the UK, the USA, and Canada, this will be quite the Christmas for some quite endearing Nicaraguans. Thanks for sharing your Christmas with Nicaragua and thanks for reading my story! Happy New Year, I pray that it´ll be TOPs for you!!! 

Day 1 in the Mercado Oriental

Days 2 and 3 in the Mercado

Handing out the Presents and Chickens