The view from my office in Santa Fe
There are two Mexicos. And there are two United States of
America and two of every other country. But there are certain moments when the
other Mexico stares at you so intensely that you have no idea how the world
seems to ignore it.
Mercados. They are EVERYWHERE in Mexico. My roommate and I
agreed that Mexico is probably the country with the most food sold in the
street because you honestly can’t take more than a few steps without
encountering a stand of tamales or tamarindos or tostadas or palanquetas or
tunas or….the list is endless.
But what shocked me more than the sheer volume of markets was the stark differences between them. My roommate and I went to the Bazar del
Barrio in the hipster Condesa neighborhood where vendors sold artisanal cookies
and boutique apparel and other expensive crafts, protected by a white tent and
illuminated with tiny plastic bauble light bulbs.
Compare that to a cozy park
in Coyoacán where artists sold paintings and sculptors and a DJ played salsa
music while elderly couples dressed in their Sunday best danced the day away to
the clapping and cheering crowd of spectators. There I bought a small book made
by a jovial old man. He shared with us that he started making books when he
started writing music. Naturally we got to talking about music, guitars and
rock and roll. When I asked him what artists he liked to listen to, he abruptly
stopped the flow of conversation, looked me in the eye, and said,
“Escuchas a High Hopes por Pink Floyd. Me puso llorar.”
“Listen to High Hopes by Pink Floyd. It made me cry.”
And then there was another market in Coyoacán, a labyrinth
of stands protected from the sun by sheets and plastic tarps forming narrow
passageways crowded with people. Here they sold everything: piñatas, tacos and
toys; fresh fruit and dried fruit; clothing and curtains; homeopathic remedies
and Cheetos. Navigating the winding maze of stands and goods, you have no idea
what you’ll find when you turn the next corner.
As we returned home via the metro, the market never
completely ended: people even sold things in the subway cars. Every time the
car stopped a new vendor would get on, replacing the one who had just left,
filling the car with their sing-song chanting of prices, goods and deals. Once
again there was a strange combination of goods represented: from candy to electronics
to bubbles.
One bubble vendor in particular caught my attention.
We were two stops away from home, exhausted, and eager to
sit down to dinner and rest our legs after a day spent exploring markets. I was
fading in and out of daydreams to the sing-song voice of each salesperson in
our subway car when suddenly the doors closed and a raspy child’s voice cut through
the car’s silence like a knife.
“¡Buenas tardes, damas
y caballeros!”
A boy no older than ten carrying a large box filled with tiny
containers of bubbles stumbled into the car, fumbling with the box in his
efforts to keep it upright. He took no time starting his chant, delivering it
mechanically, phrase after phrase spewing out into the car, forced and
rehearsed and shouted. He plowed through, determined to get to the end before
the next stop, only taking a second between phrases for a short, gasping breath
before continuing.
“¡Hay burbujas!”
*gasp*
”¡de diferentes
colores!”
*gasp*
“¡Se valen 5 pesos!”
*gasp*
“¡5 pesos se cuestan!”
By the end of the chant his voice was worse off than when he
began, cracking and squeaking in the middle of words, sore from a long day’s
work. His gaze was fixed on a point at the far end of the car as he
mechanically opened one of the containers, took a long, deep breath that made
his small shoulders heave with the effort and blew into the bubble wand. A
stream of soap circles billowed into the car, pressing against the doors and
windows, bouncing off faces and shoes and backpacks, landing in laps and on
heads. One by one the bubbles dispersed, inevitably popping on the hard
surfaces of the subway car. One tiny bubble tapped against a cracked window,
curious as to what lay beyond the cracked glass, before it was sucked out into
the dark abyss.
His chant and demonstration finished, the boy lugged the box
of bubbles through the car, glancing at the people seated around him, waiting
for someone to acknowledge him and indicate their interest in making a purchase.
But no one did.
After his short parade through our car, the boy leaned
against the far door. He rested the box of bubbles on one raised knee for a
moment before the subway car doors opened with a ding and he continued his
mission into the following car.
Having glimpsed a reminder of the other Mexico, I was painfully
aware that the exhaustion I was feeling was the result of a day of leisure and
shopping.
Before I went to sleep that night I decided to take the old
craftsman/musician’s advice and listen to High Hopes. And I cried, too.
Graffiti along the road on my commute from work every day.
High Hopes by Pink Floyd: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jMlFXouPk8
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