Last Sunday morning Javier and I took a casual stroll in the December sunshine, heading to a market, me with the good intention of seeking out unique treasures and once-in-a-lifetime finds that would make the perfect Christmas presents for my family.
When we arrived after walking for twenty minutes or so, it seemed as though we’d stumbled through some crazy time-space continuum that took us to rural Kyrzygstan cerca 1985. What a mad, mad place this market was! People had laid old blankets on the floor and populated them with shit from bins (remember an earlier blog where I told you that gypsies find things from bins to sell on? Well, this is where they bring those very things!). There were used, naked dolls with scribbles on their faces. There were broken children’s shoes. There were dirty, scratched frying pans. There was the rusted base of a shower cubicle. There were pop-up barber shops. Next to the blankets were the charred remains of burned rubbish and offal…although you had to look closely to see where the blankets ended and the burnt out pits began.
It was a crazy place. So much poverty, such a different way of life to what you see half an hour away in the city centre, where pijo families parade around the city centre on Sunday afternoons, with their kids identically dressed in their Sunday Best with ribbons in their hair.
Still, blooming good opportunity to take photos to paint later. And we also bought some totally genuine Casio watches, which were well worth the price tag of 5€ for two.*
This picture is of a chap who looked like he’d come from the wild west, flogging, among other things, cerveza, tabaco (sic) and coke.
* Totally genuine Casio watches: