The first day I arrived in Iquitos, I was dazzled by the city, the speeding motos, the makeup-melting heat. I met up with two volunteer vets, Barbara and Judith, who graciously invited me to accompany them to the Belen open-air market. It was a a full-immersion introduction to Iquitos!
Belen Market is one of the largest open-air market in the world, covering 20+ square 
blocks. In the rainy season, many of the stalls are floating; in late October, the very tail end of the dry season, we were able to reach the vendors on foot.
There were different sections of the market, with areas selling 
beautiful hand-woven fabrics mixed among the trashiest of lingerie and tackiest of t-shirts. There was a toy section which looked as though a dollar store from Ohio had been mysteriously transported to this tropical port. There were incredible, unfamiliar fruits and vegetables, and vendors selling food ready to eat, including skewers of what I thought was chicken (but apparently was not), roasted brown and crackling hot.
The shaman area of the market was fascinating. For a city which is bursting to the seams with children, and where many families seem to be struggling to get by, it is ironic how its denizens appear obsessed with fertility. Everywhere there were tributes to male anatomy, including one candle that was a giant phallus with crouching male and female figures worshiping on either side - a decent summation of what appeared to be a devotio
nal attitude towards all things macho. There were potions and unguents and spices and oils devoted to curing any physical ailment (back pain, cancer, heart problems) to addressing more prosaic problems: attracting a mate, procuring money, and, of course, ensuring that one's equipment (ahem) is always in the locked and upright position. This area of 
the market also had some more breathtakingly horrible wares for sale, including monkey skulls, sloth heads, necklaces made of python vertebrae, and, truly disturbing, dried and stretched jaguar skins.
The part of the market I had most problems navigating was the meat area. The smell her
e was rich and primal, with warring aromas - one moment you would smell something delicious, like the roasting unnamed meat, then you'd catch a whiff of pure fly-blown rancidity. There were chicken innards in small piles with 
their sad, primitive feet crossed on the top as a grim garnish; there were tortoises, front and back ends, with their cracked and blood-crusted shells abandoned in a careless heap; there were giant rolls of pig fat, and pig faces inside-out like dreadful rubber Halloween masks. As a carnivore apologist, I prefer not to know where my food comes from; in this market, such hypocrisy is impossible. I kept my hands over my face, gratefully inhaling Jergens hand lotion, Gain fabric softener, even my own acrid sweat, to avoid the offal stink.
blocks. In the rainy season, many of the stalls are floating; in late October, the very tail end of the dry season, we were able to reach the vendors on foot.
As you approach the area, you are struck by the smell: the intoxicating aroma of overripe tropical fruits and pungent exotic spices at war with more earthy odors - namely, rotten meat, blood, and animal waste. The smell settles like a live thing in your throat; it can be tasted and swallowed, a discrete sensory experience from that of your nose. Apart from the odor, the market's vendors and wares added to the otherworldliness of the experience: everywhere there are shocks of color and noise, with sellers hawking their merchandise, the laughter and general chaos.
There were different sections of the market, with areas selling 
beautiful hand-woven fabrics mixed among the trashiest of lingerie and tackiest of t-shirts. There was a toy section which looked as though a dollar store from Ohio had been mysteriously transported to this tropical port. There were incredible, unfamiliar fruits and vegetables, and vendors selling food ready to eat, including skewers of what I thought was chicken (but apparently was not), roasted brown and crackling hot.The shaman area of the market was fascinating. For a city which is bursting to the seams with children, and where many families seem to be struggling to get by, it is ironic how its denizens appear obsessed with fertility. Everywhere there were tributes to male anatomy, including one candle that was a giant phallus with crouching male and female figures worshiping on either side - a decent summation of what appeared to be a devotional attitude towards all things macho. There were potions and unguents and spices and oils devoted to curing any physical ailment (back pain, cancer, heart problems) to addressing more prosaic problems: attracting a mate, procuring money, and, of course, ensuring that one's equipment (ahem) is always in the locked and upright position. This area of 
the market also had some more breathtakingly horrible wares for sale, including monkey skulls, sloth heads, necklaces made of python vertebrae, and, truly disturbing, dried and stretched jaguar skins. The part of the market I had most problems navigating was the meat area. The smell her
e was rich and primal, with warring aromas - one moment you would smell something delicious, like the roasting unnamed meat, then you'd catch a whiff of pure fly-blown rancidity. There were chicken innards in small piles with their sad, primitive feet crossed on the top as a grim garnish; there were tortoises, front and back ends, with their cracked and blood-crusted shells abandoned in a careless heap; there were giant rolls of pig fat, and pig faces inside-out like dreadful rubber Halloween masks. As a carnivore apologist, I prefer not to know where my food comes from; in this market, such hypocrisy is impossible. I kept my hands over my face, gratefully inhaling Jergens hand lotion, Gain fabric softener, even my own acrid sweat, to avoid the offal stink.
Here was life with a capitol L: produce ripens and is awash with fruit flies right next
to a sleeping baby. A dog digs through the all-pervasive trash, while the clouds of buzzards circle high overhead, with dozens more watching from their perches in the stalls. A smartly dressed young woman barters for a glistening mess of chicken entrails, while holding the hand of her toddler son. He pees onto the stall's table legs while his mother waits for her purchase to be wrapped up; she touches the bag and her fingers are at once shiny with grease and drippings. Her red lacquered fingernails gleam in the dim light as she helps her young son pull up his pants, then she touches his pretty plump cheek, leaving a viscous pink smear on his dusky brown skin. It was at once vibrant, tantalizing and appalling.
Throughout the market, I was warned by the vendors and shoppers "Cuidado," pantomiming holding my camera tightly. I didn't take their warnings seriously until it was too late: I felt a violent tug at my throat. A middle aged man had hold of my camera and dragged me for several yards by the strap wrapped around my neck. Canon quality won the day, however, and he abandoned the target and ran. When he got about 20 feet away, he turned, shrugged and grinned at me. You win some, you lose some.
I left the market shaken, not only from the theft attempt, but also from the market itself. While a visit to Belen Market helps to give one the true flavor of Iquitos and its people, it is not a destination that is without its perils. I offer the following advice for any would-be tourists: 1) Watch out for pickpockets and grab-and-dash thieves; 2) bring lots of S./ 1, 2 and 5 coins, as vendors are not keen to make change from fresh-from-the-ATM S./100 bills; and 3) don't eat before you go.
to a sleeping baby. A dog digs through the all-pervasive trash, while the clouds of buzzards circle high overhead, with dozens more watching from their perches in the stalls. A smartly dressed young woman barters for a glistening mess of chicken entrails, while holding the hand of her toddler son. He pees onto the stall's table legs while his mother waits for her purchase to be wrapped up; she touches the bag and her fingers are at once shiny with grease and drippings. Her red lacquered fingernails gleam in the dim light as she helps her young son pull up his pants, then she touches his pretty plump cheek, leaving a viscous pink smear on his dusky brown skin. It was at once vibrant, tantalizing and appalling.Throughout the market, I was warned by the vendors and shoppers "Cuidado," pantomiming holding my camera tightly. I didn't take their warnings seriously until it was too late: I felt a violent tug at my throat. A middle aged man had hold of my camera and dragged me for several yards by the strap wrapped around my neck. Canon quality won the day, however, and he abandoned the target and ran. When he got about 20 feet away, he turned, shrugged and grinned at me. You win some, you lose some.
I left the market shaken, not only from the theft attempt, but also from the market itself. While a visit to Belen Market helps to give one the true flavor of Iquitos and its people, it is not a destination that is without its perils. I offer the following advice for any would-be tourists: 1) Watch out for pickpockets and grab-and-dash thieves; 2) bring lots of S./ 1, 2 and 5 coins, as vendors are not keen to make change from fresh-from-the-ATM S./100 bills; and 3) don't eat before you go.
Photographs by veterinarians Catherine Davidson and Judith Bechtum
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