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."
