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The more I learn about El Alto, the more it fascinates me. The Aymara capital of the world was incorporated in 1986 and instantly became Bolivia’s fourth-largest and fastest-growing city. It’s the biggest city in the world built and inhabited by Native Americans. And it’s the world’s most active “rebel” city, the scene of frequent protest and crippling strikes.

Truthfully, El Alto is more a suburb than a city in the traditional sense. Set in the mountains toward the west of La Paz, the residents of El Alto look down upon the capital city like malevolent gods. Alteños are known to deprecatingly refer to La Paz as the “pit”. And with control over the only road that leads into La Paz, they effectively are gods, able to shut down the capital whenever they choose. I doubt that any city its size in the world is so hostage to a suburb as La Paz is to El Alto.

We went up for the Lucha Libre, and returned to experience the gigantic market which takes place every Thursday and Sunday. Anything you can imagine is on sale here. It might be easier to list the things you can’t buy in El Alto’s market: javelins, circus elephants, wine bottles filled with rat heads, and midget fetish porn. That’s it, and actually, I’m not so sure on that last one.

I dropped a ton of cash at the market. Almost seven bucks! Things are hilariously cheap. Ten audiobooks for a dollar, a hand-carved flute for $1.50, eight DVDs for $3.50, and a weaving for about $3. I have a feeling I was often getting the tourist price; after snatching away the coins, the flute woman said something in Aymara to her giggly blanket friend, probably along the lines of “I just totally ripped off this stupid foreigner!” Yeah, fine, you sure got me. Of course, maybe she said that she gave me a discount because I was so cute. I don’t know Aymara.

The dusty, unpaved streets of El Alto, and the incredible ever-present view over La Paz, give the market a wild-west atmosphere. Sellers shout out the benefits of their wares from every stand, kids play soccer with whatever kickable thing they can find, women haggle over prices while breastfeeding, and there are very few faces that aren’t Aymara.

The market is not without its dangers. We didn’t encounter any problems, but stories of pickpockets abound, and everyone who discovered our plans to visit El Alto gave us stern warnings about safety. As long as you’re not alone, keep your wallet in your front pocket and your backpack around your chest, you’ll probably be fine.

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Tell you what. If you ever decide to go for the Guinness record of World’s Biggest Fruit Salad, do your shopping at Sucre’s Mercado Central. You’ll find hundreds of thousands of women selling billions of fruits. I mean, even if every person in this city ate a dozen bananas, six apples and eighteen pounds of grapes each day, there’d still be a surplus. Never heard of supply and demand, people?

Of course, fruit isn’t the only thing on sale in the magnificent, slap-dash Mercado Central. Stands spill out from the massive market hall onto the surrounding streets, selling clothing, household items, and every kind of food imaginable. Within blood-spattered rows of small white cubicles, butchers busily hack away at cow chunks. A column of women sell gigantic wheels of cheese. Another group has dedicated themselves to the ancient Andean art of jello-making. As you might imagine, the prices are incredible. I bought ingredients for a big salad — lettuce, carrot, onion, cucumber and an avocado — for about seventy cents.

The great majority of vendors are friendly and generous with samples, but shy about pictures. We chatted with a couple ladies selling sauces. The bolder one didn’t mind a portrait, and even asked Jürgen if he was single.

You had me at ‘hello’

The top floor of the market is a cafeteria, where stands serve hearty fare such as chorizos and rice, soups and grilled chicken. If you’re hung up on hygiene, you might want to pass, but the chorizo I ate for lunch was amazing. In the market’s courtyard, vendors offer fresh-pressed juices. Choose whatever kind of fruit you want, pineapple, banana, papaya, and before your eyes, it will be peeled and pressed into a huge and agonizingly cheap juice. My favorite is the sweet tumbo, which is related to the Passion Fruit.

We enjoyed ourselves on every one of our many trips to the Mercado Central. Well, except for once. Jürgen stands at 6’6″, and in a country of shorter people, that can present problems. Spinning around after taking a picture, his head and face smashed against a metal support beam. The dull thud resounded throughout the hall, much to the cruel amusement of the Bolivians around us. Photography is a dangerous profession. Please remember his brave sacrifice while checking these pictures out!

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