I came to Gamarra’s twenty-four square blocks of the hardest of hardcore swap meet for two things for my sensitive stomach. After a failed fling with the pills-and-diet approach of Western medicine, it was time to give folklore and superstition a crack at it. So, I’m off to the Mercado de Los Brujos.
There’s one slight problem. Merlina seems to have forgotten where the Witches’ Market is. Was this her plan all along? Less Brujos means more time idling along in the throng of people, enjoying the lure of deeply-discounted prices and the fever of haggling for your prize. So, Merlina and Auntie M amble into the small city of clothing stalls and tiendas, on guard but chatting happily.
I bring up the rear, a disowned pet, trying to make some semblance of order out of Gamarra’s writhing, undifferentiated mass fading into the clouded haze. We weave through an ever-tightening chessboard of storefronts stuffed with every stripe of garment imaginable, all overflowing beneath garish umbrellas and nylon awnings onto the street.
Passersby glare at me as if I’m suspect. Is this the gringo novelty factor or just me? There’s a sense that the day’s safe pleasantries can change on a dime amidst the crushing chaos. Maybe I picked the wrong day to wear my ‘Be Ready For The Alpacalypse’ T-shirt?
Dipping into a side store, I catch Auntie M patiently waiting as Merlina equivocates for an eternity about which blue blouse to buy from the high stacks of boxes and crates.
Auntie M gives me a withering scowl. “Dougito! Don’t you eh-stray so far or you might get robbed.”
“How? I’m piss broke.”
“¿Que?”
“Well, damn near piss broke.”
“Y then what?”
Oh, boy. Good question.
Merlina whistles as she approaches us, showing off a darling blue ‘No Drama Llama’ T-shirt.
“Chevere.” Auntie M gives her a plucky thumbs-up.
“Ready?” Satisfied, Merlina perks up in front of us, both hands grasping plastic bags full of sartorial gems.
Pointing towards the exit door, I give my most respectful bow. “Après vous, Madame.”
Merlina surges ahead like an icebreaker, wriggling through the fissures in the fresh stream as Auntie M and I tow along like dinghies.

While keeping a carefully-peeled eye out for signs of shamans, I break the silence. “When I was a young lad, I was so sure that one day, I’d grow up to do something amazing. . .”
A look, like I’ve asked her to sew my eyeballs into the palms of my hands.
“. . . or at least competent. Yeah, let’s go with competent, shall we? But now that’s never going to happen.”
“Why not?” Auntie M stops and studies Merlina bobbing around lost until she backtracks, heading off on a different tangent.
Keep going. “Doesn’t matter. I came down here. Nothing goes right. Can’t read the signs. Can’t decipher the language. Y’all need to speak slower, by the way.”
A quiet giggle. “We can work on that. Being fair, English es not an easy piece of postre, either.”
“Point taken. Now I’m stuck. I can’t go back and live out the rest of my days as a guppy in the Estatos Unitos economic shark tank blender. I just can’t do it.”
“Es Estados Unidos, Dougito.”
“Shit.”
A sharp dog whistle trains our eyes ahead. It’s Merlina waving back at us, the trace of an impish smile on her face.
Aha! We’re getting close. I can feel it.
Dynamite choice of words, again.
Laughed aloud at “Maybe I picked the wrong day to wear my ‘Be Ready For The Alpacalypse’ T-shirt?”
Alpaca-lypse!! 🦙🦙🦙
classic. gonzo indeed. cheers!