the "gypsies" come to town

5/11/2009

The other day, without any warning, the gypsies arrived. No sound of tambourines from miles away, no provisional musket shots, no smoke signal or even a cloud of dust. We just woke up one day and here they were. Or actually, I guess everyone else in Chalaco knew they were coming, they just forgot to tell me. Apparently this happens up here every year at the end of October, in preparation for the Día de Todos Santos celebration during the first couple days of November. This Peruvian equivalent of Mexico´s Día de los Muertos and our Halloween is celebrated country-wide, but judging by the staggering number of strangers who have set up shop in Chalaco in the last couple days, I have to imagine it´s a bigger deal in here than in other places. What follows is a description of my love-hate (or rather, hate-tolerate) relationship with the gypsies.

Why I hate the gypsies

Maybe “gypsies” isn´t really the right word – let´s just call them vendors. My understanding of a true gypsy is roughly based on the character of Alcibiades in One Hundred Years of Solitude: about 200 years old, shrouded in mystery, and perpetually in the shadows, with a black witch´s hat and flowing, tattered cape. He speaks in codes and metaphors, and knows about a thousand different languages. He´s lived the life of a pirate, a circus performer, and everything in-between. He´s got an obscure pet that is always at his side or perched on his shoulder. He has long, yellow fingernails and rarely eats. He is constantly scheming new earth-shattering inventions including, for example, time machines, cure-all potions, ice and the like.

The people who have invaded the streets of Chalaco are nothing like this. They´re just coastal Peruvians who have shown up in their trucks full of the same old crap. Each one has his or her specialty, none of which seem particularly interesting to me. The main categories, just like in the market in Piura, are: shoe guys, clothing guys, pots-and-pans guys, plastic specialists, ´80s music video junkies, and food vendors. Lately I´ve been really wanting a coffee strainer so I can drink real coffee and ditch the instant Nescafé after a full year, but I think the pot-vendors had about every shiny metal thing in the universe besides what I wanted. And it´s a little depressing when you walk by a group of grown men totally fixated on a Cindy Lauper video. Honestly, I wonder how it can possibly be profitable to lug all this crap up here in their huge trucks, set it all up under tarps and tents, hang around for a couple days, and then pack up and head to the next victim-town. Which brings me to my next complaint: I was once able to walk peacefully through the streets of Chalaco, not a care in the world other than dodging donkey manure and the occasional dog. No longer. The town´s main street is now jam-packed with wanna-be gypsies in a labyrinth of steel poles, tarps, and trip wires. It´s a ridiculous little tent city, built for people about half my height. For the time being, clothesline strangulation and ankle-high booby traps have replaced my former, comparatively bucolic concerns.

Another reason I hate the gypsies is their bathing habits, which happen to conflict directly with my own. Several months ago I discovered the old fountain which forms a natural outdoor shower about a hundred meters up the road from my house, and I´ve been showering there almost every day since. Other people use it too, but as far as I can tell I´m the only daily customer. One time a kid asked me where the water came from, and I decided I´d rather not know. And sometimes this guy they call the matachanchos (“pig-killer”) goes up there and cleans pig guts in the morning, leaving a festering stench all day. But other than that I really have no complaints, and in my mind it definitely beats bucket-bathing at home, even if I have to do it in a bathing suit and in plain sight of anyone walking by. Anyway, I guess all the gypsies know all about this spot, too. So now, rather than casually strolling up to my fountain and showering undisturbed, if I don´t time it right, I have to actually wait in line. What the hell is that all about?! Plus, they leave all their stupid little sample Pantene Pro-V shampoo packets and plastic soap wrappers laying around when they´re done. Yesterday I even found a used disposable razor up there. What kind of gypsy shaves, anyway?? Fake ones, that´s who.

Finally, and maybe most of all, I hate the way they make me feel self-conscious in my own town. I´ve been here almost a year now – I thought I had left the “gringo” comments, shameless gawking, and constant giggling behind several months ago. With the good people of Chalaco, in fact, I did. But when a huge group of new Peruvians shows up, it´s like you just got there all over again. Not a feeling I´m really digging.

Why I love the gypsies

I gotta be honest, there´s really nothing that I love about the “gypsies.” I pretty much hate them. But they do have a few redeeming qualities which make them occasionally tolerable. For example, I ate about a pound of these absolutely delicious, sweet…uh, things, the other day. They were basically hunks of caramelized sugar with a nugget of papaya-fig preserve on the inside. They probably gave me diabetes and cavities at the same time, which was a nice little two-for-one deal, I figured. What else…oh, yeah, I spent three soles (about a dollar) on a killer denim baseball cap advertising the words “USA NBA,” which also has a built-in change pocket with zipper, right on the front! Totally rad. But yeah, other than that, I guess I pretty much hate the “gypsies.” Grow a beard or something. Fakers.