One Picture is Worth a Thousand Pig Heads

**This blog is not endorsed by the U.S. Department of State or COMEXUS.**

They say a picture is worth a thousand words-- a piece of advice that has been proven true by photojournalists throughout the ages. "They" also say a lot of other useful things, like "look both ways before you cross the street" and "don't eat food that you find on the floor" and "don't trust a man with a second head on the back of his real head." 

In my last post on the local market,  I wrote approximately a thousand words attempting to describe the "ragtag majesty" of a place which effortlessly became one of my two favorite spots in Toluca (the other being a park which I will hopefully write about soon). But the post was woefully short on photos, and so it was a bit hard to picture the colorful things I wrote about.

To remedy that, I took a ton of photos while I was in the market buying supplies to make lentil soup (Fart Alert), which I will use to illustrate the "simultaneously beautiful and frightening patchwork of colors, shapes, and health code violations" that makes up the local market.

Let's start with a (literal) overview:

I made this picture really big so we could do a little game of "I Spy."

In the above picture, can you find:

• Several dolphins leaping gracefully out of the water?
• A pilgrim?
• Two beer bottles?
• Cow stomach?
• Waldo?

Believe it or not, all of the above can be found in the photo. LOOK CLOSELY.

Now we will move into the particulars of the market.

This is the vendor where I buy my lentils (Fart Alert) and oats.

Upon closer inspection, the colored circles reveal some foods that are not typically sold in the U.S. (at least in bulk):

Red circle: Whole sticks of cinnamon

Orange circle: Dried shrimp

Pink circle: Tamarind (a fruit used to make homemade juices)

Blue circle: Dried hibiscus flower, boiled in water to make tea

Green circle x 4: Dried chile peppers. SO MANY CHILE PEPPERS

This is where I buy my onions, potatoes, and carrots (and nothing else, because I know what I like and I buy ONLY THAT). Today I bought two onions, six carrots, and a potato to make lentil soup (Fart Alert) which cost me about one dollar total.

This is where I buy my fruit.

$70 FOR A KILOGRAM OF KIWIS?? What has this world come to? Never mind that it's 50 bucks for freakin' APPLES!!

^ That is probably what you were thinking when you looked at this picture. What you forgot to take into account was that the U.S. dollar and the Mexican peso both use the same symbol ($), so you are actually looking at red apples that cost $2.50 USD per kilo and kiwi fruit that's a whopping $3.50 USD per kilo (which is pretty expensive for Mexico).

This is a flower stall.

This is a booth that sells (among other things) semi-ligitimate mystical cures for semi-legitimate sicknesses (e.g. hair loss). Also sells candles and dried herbs for making teas.

This is a basket shop. 

Just look at all those baskets.

This is a plumbing stall. Not much more to say here.

I have, of course, saved the JUCIEST parts of the market for last. Perhaps you have noticed that my photos so far have been suspiciously absent of MEAT. This is because the meat department of the market is the most drastically different from anything we have in the United States, and so is the most shocking. 

We'll start off nice and slow:

 Based on the size, I think those must be cow feet. And, by extension, cow brains.

On the right side of the styrofoam tray: bull testicles.

On the left side: Props for Left 4 Dead live action version, set to release in Fall 2017. Pre-order now to reserve your copy

Chicky feets

When I asked this man if I could take a picture of his chickens he asked, "Do you want the chicken with or without a helmet on?" Then he put a motorcycle helmet on the dead upside-down chicken, and I was too slow to get a picture. #WillRegretForAllMyLife

"Darnit Irma, I said just a bit off the top"

And I'm sure you'll all waiting for the pig heads, which I enticingly put in the title of this post to entice you. Well, I was unable to find any raw pig heads today.

So you'll just have to do with these boiled ones:

This little piggy had roast beef

This little piggy had none

This little piggy went to market

AND NEVER CAME BACK HOME

So, that's about it. What are your thoughts about the type of markets found in much of Latin America? Would you like to shop here?

P.S. Waldo was not in the picture

Local Market

February 4, 2017

"Today I entered the market through the shoe section-- the dark, quiet part of the market where even the vendors don't try to talk to you because they know you're just passing through. I mean, who goes to the market to buy SHOES??

There is no slow fade from "depressingly empty shoe section" to "overstimulation and chicken heads." It's an unspoken (and visibly unmarked) rule that similar shops be cordoned into sections, with seemingly little logic (and, again, no signs to tell you where stuff is). To the northeast of Shoes is Piñatas and Balls of String-- to the northwest is Clothing. The the south, along the farthest wall of the market, is Eggs and Cheese. North of Eggs and further east of Piñatas is Incense, Candles, and Herbal Teas (which in turn is next to Flowers). But where I, and probably most other people, spend the majority of my time is in the massive Edible Goods section.

The market is hard to describe because we don't have anything like it in the U.S.-- "farmers' market" is the closest equivalent, but even that falls woefully short. How do you describe Mercado 16 de Septiembre to someone who has never been there? How do you make them understand its ragtag majesty, the simultaneously beautiful and frightening patchwork of colors, shapes, and health code violations? How can I explain that this is one of the most special places in Toluca to me? I still have dreams about the local market in Costa Rica, and I only went there two times, seven years ago-- what kind of mark, then, will this lively mercado have on me?

No matter what I say, words will be totally inadequate. But I want to remember.

The market is a sprawling building, not square or at all orderly, but with protrusions and confusing staircases and countless entrances that always look gapingly dark from outside. But inside it's not dark-- natural light filters in from the roof high above, which is made of plastic windows that are tinted yellow from age and ringed with grime. The roof is three or four stories up, allowing for an expansive view from the second-floor balcony. The second floor, in addition to housing Baskets and all the Plumbing equipment you could ever desire, boasts a number of tiny, family-owned restaurants. Here you can squeeze onto a wobbly bench and order a filling meal of tripe soup (a whopping $2 with all the side dishes) while watching a woman hand-press blue corn tortillas in the next stall over.

All the while you look down over the tarps and haphazard sheet-metal roofs of the vegetable and meat vendors. It's a patchwork of shades of dirty gray, but every here and there you catch the red of a tomato, or a floral arrangement bobbing along as its new owner carries it off to celebrate who-knows-what, who-knows-where. Though the layer of corrugated metal roofs blocks from view much of the bustle below, you can tell by the noise that there is life on the first floor.

It is never quiet in the market. Ancient women shucking the spines off cacti-- plastic bags rustling as vendors deftly wrap up your produce-- the click-clattering of plastic scoops in bins of wholesale M 'n' M's. I could go on, because there is just so MUCH happening here that sometimes I get overwhelmed by the beauty and wonder of it.

The pattering of footsteps on tile. The quiet, solid "thud" of potatoes being stacked in a pyramid. The louder and sharper sound of tenderizing hammers beating raw chicken breasts to a desirable thinness.

And, of course, "Pásale güerita"-- the invitation offered to all shoppers regardless of skin color (though I am one of the few genuine güeras in the city). In the market, everyone is called "güerita" because it is flattering to be considered light-skinned. Every time I go in the market to join in the daily life of my Mexican friends and neighbors, a vendor shouts "What can I getcha, white girl?" and I am reminded of U.S. colonialism and the problematic position I have as an English teacher in a country that is already at the U.S.'s beck and call.

But... at the same time... that's why I'm here. In Mexico. In bustling 16 de Septiembre market, making grammatical mistakes as I buy half a kilo of lentils and a jicama. I am probably the only U.S. American most of these people have ever met. The least I can do is show them that I value their language and way of life.

Maybe that's why I like the market so much-- it represents a culture much different than mine. It is casual and colorful, noisy, dirty, and real. Here, food is not neatly prepackaged or sanitized. It is handed to you by someone who ordered it, washed it, cut it, and stacked it themselves. And also who maybe didn't wash their hands. But here that doesn't matter. Things are different. Less regulation, more laid-back. Life is different here. Lively but relaxed.

In short, I love the market."

On "Home"

This blog is not an official publication of COMEXUS or the US Department of State.

Journal Entry
Wednesday February 1

"Today I miss my home.

I miss the average things, the mundane things, the things I have done dozens of times before and never considered special. I miss shopping at D & W. I miss winter twilights just before we are called to family dinner. I miss the crunch of snow under my feet and the hollow quietness on the hill when the blanket of white absorbs all sound. I miss Grandpa. I miss the smell of Dad's cooking hitting me full-force when I walk in the front door.

I realize that all the things I miss were at home, with my family, before my life as an "independent adult." I don't miss my pink sheets on the mattress in my basement bedroom at the Dayton House. I don't miss the backyard there. I don't miss the living room couch or the dining room table.

I miss the place I'm not supposed to go back to because I'm a "grownup" now. Maybe I miss it because I KNOW I can't stay there forever, or because I miss the closeness of my family around me.

Everyone says "Home is where the heart is." Well then, "home" is a medium-sized gray house on top of a hill with a big oak tree in the front yard and a black dog in the back. "Home" has wild raspberries to the south and bike trails to the north. It has abandoned forts and clubhouses dotted through the woods, it has a tire swing and a hammock and a gnarled mulberry tree and an ancient yellow chair covered in moss that has occupied the same place in the forest for as long as I can remember. Home has two cats and a dog buried in the backyard. Every inch of Home is covered with memories.

Someday I am supposed to make my own home. I can't imagine that. I don't want to imagine a life that doesn't include all the traditions of mine growing up... I don't want my own home, I want our home, our family just like it was when everyone lived in the gray house on top of the hill and we saw each other every day.

This is the dilemma of adulthood. Wanting the New but also wanting the Old, wanting to travel but wanting to be with your parents, loving independence but always feeling slightly lonely. I think everybody has to go through this when they first leave home.

It seems different in Mexico, where even in young adulthood you are NEVER without a home. You live with your parents until you marry, then you move in with your spouse and start a life with them. It's a seamless transition between one home and another. In the United States we move out at 18 or 20 or 21 but don't settle down and start a family until almost 30 (usually)... that's about ten years of wandering. What do you consider "home base" when you've lived in Chicago and two different houses in Grand Rapids and now in Mexico, all in less than two years? 

What about when you have NO desire to "settle down" and it's impossible to imagine living in the same house (or even the same country) for more than a couple years, and you don't know if you'll ever get married and have kids...? What do you call "home" then, when the place where your heart is and always has been is the one place that society tells you you can't go back to...?"

The Meaning of the Piñata

**Although they may wish it, this blog is not an official publication of COMEXUS or the U.S. Department of Education.**


Hi!

Uh, do you remember me? In case you forgot during my excessive absence, I'm Bethany, and if I had to describe myself in one word it would be "absurdly, embarrassingly, and consistently tardy."

Anyway!

The piñata! It's every sociopathic child's dream-- hitting something so hard with a stick that candy comes out of it.

Although it's nearly incontheivable that anyone would be unaware of what a piñata is, let me briefly explain. A piñata is a hollow sphere (usually made with papier maché) that is decorated, filled with candy, and then beaten to a pulp. Sounds like fun to me! Uh oh, I'm a sociopathic child

Piñatas are not very common in the United States. If they are deployed as Instruments of Sadistic Fun, then it is usually at children's birthday parties. For that reason I was surprised to find that here in Mexico, piñatas are actually a traditional symbol of Christmas. Deck the Halls with WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK

The traditional piñata has seven points, each of them representing-- get this-- the Seven Deadly Sins.

Sorry, I'm on a GIF-making kick

There is therefore a deep symbolism embedded in the destruction of the piñata-- you are crushing your sins. When you smash the piñata open and candy comes out, you are reaping the reward of fighting your sinful nature. 

Anyway, although it's short, that's the meaning of the piñata. There is also a traditional piñata-beating song that everyone sings when you're taking furious whacks at the papier maché treasure trove. It goes like this:

"Dale dale dale, no pierdas el tino,
Porque si lo pierdes, pierdes el camino
Ya le diste uno, ya le diste dos,
Ya le diste tres y tu tiempo se acabó!"

The translation is something like this:

"Go go go, don't lose your aim!
Because if you lose the stick you lose your way!
You hit it once! You hit it twice!
You hit it three times, and now your turn is over!"

(Sounds better in Spanish.)