The bulletin board in the rec. room of the campground had a notice about a regional market place. It was the next day in Tonala, a village about 15 miles from Guadalajara.
“You really ought to go” our neighbors, the cheerful gray-haired couple from across the way told us. “Once a month all the adjoining villages gather together, it’s like a big farmer’s market. It's a holiday and a festival all in one. We go a couple of times while we’re down here.” They’d been coming to Mexico for the last five years in their 37-foot Winnebago Chief to get away from the northern winters. They were almost natives.
In the morning we grabbed our shopping bags and the seven of us piled into a dusty red taxi for the ride to Tonala. I sat up front with the driver with Paul and Gil on my lap. Bill, Randy and both Johns squeezed into the back seat. The ride took about an hour. First through the suburbs of the city then farmland sprinkled with small villages. It was noon when we arrived at the market square.
The taxi stopped at the plaza in front of an old adobe church. From the bell tower came the sudden pealing of the bells calling the devout to midday Mass. The blazing, tropical sun shining on the bell tower transformed the whitewashed walls to gold against the unclouded blue sky. It was a picture postcard view.
The market place lively with people, sound and color was across the cobblestone street.
We were the only Gringos I could see.
Entire families tended to the items they had for sale. Wares were spread out on multicolored blankets or hung from makeshift stands made of bamboo and canvas. There a mother sat cross-legged, her blue and white shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders and covering the sleeping baby in her arms. Next to her playing with some gourds sat her toddler, naked except for a white undershirt. A boy of about ten dressed in long navy blue pants and white shirt talked to passers-by, showing them baskets his grandmother made. The baskets were woven with designs and colors that had been passed from generation to generation. Where ever we looked there was something unusual. We strolled among the rows of goods. Gil picked up a black ceramic piggy bank that he just HAD to buy. I still felt a little guilty about the bloody nose so I let him buy it.
The sound of flute music drew us to a small stall where drums and flutes were sold. We stopped and listened to a teenaged boy leaning against a palm tree playing one of the handmade flutes. Eyes closed, his body moving to the music as his fingers caressed his instrument. The music is haunting and beautiful. Paul wanted one. Bill bought two, one for himself and one for Paul.
“Mom look.” Gil held his hand up. The black paint from the pig was coming off as he carried it. His hands and arms were sticky with black paint. We picked up some paper wiped at his arms and wrapped the pig.
I stopped to marvel at some exquisite hand embroidered dresses, blouses and shawls. One set, a white skirt and blouse, was just beautiful. It had a peasant blouse and a full flounced skirt embroidered in shades of red, blue, green and yellow. I held it up to me but knew I couldn't buy it. As the lady smiled and came towards me I carefully laid it back down, sadly shaking my head NO.
“Do you want it?” Bill asked coming up behind me. “How much is it?”
“No, I was just looking at it.” I replied knowing full well that we couldn't afford to spend any extra money.
John Mc and Randy were off by themselves. Probably watching the beautiful young women with their dark brown eyes, long black hair and dresses that revealed their bronze shoulders and tiny waists. Some were working, carrying cartons of eggs or trays of water glasses on their heads. They walk like ballet dancers. Others held hands with their boyfriends. They were closely followed by their older, fatter chaperones
I could hear the squawking of chickens from somewhere near. “Come on Mom, come see this.” Paul and Gil took my hand and pulled me to a stall that sold poultry. On the ground were chickens and turkeys. Their legs trussed together with twine. When we stopped to look the girl behind the counter, who appeared to be about 15, asked if we wanted to buy a pollo. (Anyway I think that is what she was saying.) An older woman with a gray braid reaching down her back stepped up to the wooden counter. She pointed with her gnarled cane to a plump brown hen. The senorita from the stall nodded, picked the hen up, snapped its neck, held it upside down to slit it's throat. After it had bled dry she began to pluck it. My stomach lurched. Paul and Gil watched. Their mouths open and eyes wide. As soon as I could speak I suggested we leave and drug them away. I caught laughter and comments about the Gringa as we beat a hasty retreat. Some things are going to take a lot of getting used to.
The fresh fruits and vegetables were emitting such wonderful smells we had to go to the produce stands. The colors were vibrant: big crisp green and red peppers, glorious red tomatoes, maroon chiles and yellow corn on the cob still in the husk. I wanted to pick everything up and bring it to my nose to enjoy the appetizing scents. Not like the odorless tasteless super market produce I was used to. Little boys, about five or six years old stood in front of the fruits and vegetables waving palm fronds over the bins to keep the flies away. It was hard work as the fronds are twice the size of the boys. Their black hair was wet with sweat that ran down their faces and necks leaving streaks through the dust on their bare backs. Behind the counters in the shade old women wearing the inevitable black dresses, stockings and shoes sat on boxes and gossiped with each other. We bought jicama (for John), red peppers, new white potatoes, garlic and oranges. We put them in our mesh bags.
Bill, John and Paul kept walking, farther into the market heading towards the mouth-watering smells of food cooking.
There were chills, tacos, fruits and ices for sale. From a boiling kettle we bought fresh cooked corn on the cob and slathered it with home churned butter. Everyone had a churro.
We had to leave soon so we started walking back towards the church.
In the middle of the market place was a big, white gazebo. An old man, dressed in too big tattered clothes,sat on the steps singing and playing a violin. He appeared to be 100 or more; his chestnut face was as wrinkled as a mountain range. A loud and lively tune came from his toothless mouth. In his hands he held a beautiful violin. Instead of playing it with a bow he plucked the strings with his twisted fingers as if it were a ukulele. The song he was singing was probably passed down from his ancestors. We stood quietly and listened. This life is so different from what we were used to, so refreshing and vivid.
We couldn't find a taxi so John Mc suggested we take a bus. Why not? This would be our first bus ride in Mexico. As we stood debating the issue a bus pulled up to the curb. It looked like an old school bus except that it was painted in an assortment of bright colors. Red, yellow and green being the most prominent ones. We climbed in and found places on the hard metal seats. Gil and I sat behind a lady who had a cage of live chickens on her lap. Bill, Paul and John sat right behind us. Randy and John Mc went to the very back. The driver pulled the chain for his air horn and we roared away from the curb. In a matter of seconds we went from dead stop to top speed. We were pushed back in our seats from the force of the take off. Then we were thrown forward into the seat in front of us as the bus screeched to a stop to pick up another rider. Before the unsuspecting man was even seated we were moving again. Wham - slammed back into the seats again. We careened through the narrow dirt and cobblestone streets; the mirrors on the sides of the bus just missed the buildings that hugged the streets. The floor of the bus was made of old wood planking; there were gaps big enough to see the road where some of the boards sagged with age. So much dust poured up through the floorboards we could hardly see. That was probably a blessing. Gil and I hung on to each other and the seats, to keep from ending up on the floor. Bill held Paul and John who had death grips on the back of my seat. John and Randy didn't have anything to hold on to so they slid and bounced all over the back seat of the bus. As near as I could tell the owner of the chickens was fast asleep. Her head nodded this way and that. She leaned towards the aisle then towards the window. Her charges were squawking their outrage. Brown and white feathers fluttered into the air with every jounce of the bus. The ride that earlier took 50 minutes in a taxi, took 30 fear-inspiring minutes by bus. We were a white faced, weak-kneed group as we once again encountered solid land. I had been clutching the piggy bank so hard it had left a perfect black imprint in the middle of my dress.
“You really ought to go” our neighbors, the cheerful gray-haired couple from across the way told us. “Once a month all the adjoining villages gather together, it’s like a big farmer’s market. It's a holiday and a festival all in one. We go a couple of times while we’re down here.” They’d been coming to Mexico for the last five years in their 37-foot Winnebago Chief to get away from the northern winters. They were almost natives.
In the morning we grabbed our shopping bags and the seven of us piled into a dusty red taxi for the ride to Tonala. I sat up front with the driver with Paul and Gil on my lap. Bill, Randy and both Johns squeezed into the back seat. The ride took about an hour. First through the suburbs of the city then farmland sprinkled with small villages. It was noon when we arrived at the market square.
The taxi stopped at the plaza in front of an old adobe church. From the bell tower came the sudden pealing of the bells calling the devout to midday Mass. The blazing, tropical sun shining on the bell tower transformed the whitewashed walls to gold against the unclouded blue sky. It was a picture postcard view.
The market place lively with people, sound and color was across the cobblestone street.
We were the only Gringos I could see.
Entire families tended to the items they had for sale. Wares were spread out on multicolored blankets or hung from makeshift stands made of bamboo and canvas. There a mother sat cross-legged, her blue and white shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders and covering the sleeping baby in her arms. Next to her playing with some gourds sat her toddler, naked except for a white undershirt. A boy of about ten dressed in long navy blue pants and white shirt talked to passers-by, showing them baskets his grandmother made. The baskets were woven with designs and colors that had been passed from generation to generation. Where ever we looked there was something unusual. We strolled among the rows of goods. Gil picked up a black ceramic piggy bank that he just HAD to buy. I still felt a little guilty about the bloody nose so I let him buy it.
The sound of flute music drew us to a small stall where drums and flutes were sold. We stopped and listened to a teenaged boy leaning against a palm tree playing one of the handmade flutes. Eyes closed, his body moving to the music as his fingers caressed his instrument. The music is haunting and beautiful. Paul wanted one. Bill bought two, one for himself and one for Paul.
“Mom look.” Gil held his hand up. The black paint from the pig was coming off as he carried it. His hands and arms were sticky with black paint. We picked up some paper wiped at his arms and wrapped the pig.
I stopped to marvel at some exquisite hand embroidered dresses, blouses and shawls. One set, a white skirt and blouse, was just beautiful. It had a peasant blouse and a full flounced skirt embroidered in shades of red, blue, green and yellow. I held it up to me but knew I couldn't buy it. As the lady smiled and came towards me I carefully laid it back down, sadly shaking my head NO.
“Do you want it?” Bill asked coming up behind me. “How much is it?”
“No, I was just looking at it.” I replied knowing full well that we couldn't afford to spend any extra money.
John Mc and Randy were off by themselves. Probably watching the beautiful young women with their dark brown eyes, long black hair and dresses that revealed their bronze shoulders and tiny waists. Some were working, carrying cartons of eggs or trays of water glasses on their heads. They walk like ballet dancers. Others held hands with their boyfriends. They were closely followed by their older, fatter chaperones
I could hear the squawking of chickens from somewhere near. “Come on Mom, come see this.” Paul and Gil took my hand and pulled me to a stall that sold poultry. On the ground were chickens and turkeys. Their legs trussed together with twine. When we stopped to look the girl behind the counter, who appeared to be about 15, asked if we wanted to buy a pollo. (Anyway I think that is what she was saying.) An older woman with a gray braid reaching down her back stepped up to the wooden counter. She pointed with her gnarled cane to a plump brown hen. The senorita from the stall nodded, picked the hen up, snapped its neck, held it upside down to slit it's throat. After it had bled dry she began to pluck it. My stomach lurched. Paul and Gil watched. Their mouths open and eyes wide. As soon as I could speak I suggested we leave and drug them away. I caught laughter and comments about the Gringa as we beat a hasty retreat. Some things are going to take a lot of getting used to.
The fresh fruits and vegetables were emitting such wonderful smells we had to go to the produce stands. The colors were vibrant: big crisp green and red peppers, glorious red tomatoes, maroon chiles and yellow corn on the cob still in the husk. I wanted to pick everything up and bring it to my nose to enjoy the appetizing scents. Not like the odorless tasteless super market produce I was used to. Little boys, about five or six years old stood in front of the fruits and vegetables waving palm fronds over the bins to keep the flies away. It was hard work as the fronds are twice the size of the boys. Their black hair was wet with sweat that ran down their faces and necks leaving streaks through the dust on their bare backs. Behind the counters in the shade old women wearing the inevitable black dresses, stockings and shoes sat on boxes and gossiped with each other. We bought jicama (for John), red peppers, new white potatoes, garlic and oranges. We put them in our mesh bags.
Bill, John and Paul kept walking, farther into the market heading towards the mouth-watering smells of food cooking.
There were chills, tacos, fruits and ices for sale. From a boiling kettle we bought fresh cooked corn on the cob and slathered it with home churned butter. Everyone had a churro.
We had to leave soon so we started walking back towards the church.
In the middle of the market place was a big, white gazebo. An old man, dressed in too big tattered clothes,sat on the steps singing and playing a violin. He appeared to be 100 or more; his chestnut face was as wrinkled as a mountain range. A loud and lively tune came from his toothless mouth. In his hands he held a beautiful violin. Instead of playing it with a bow he plucked the strings with his twisted fingers as if it were a ukulele. The song he was singing was probably passed down from his ancestors. We stood quietly and listened. This life is so different from what we were used to, so refreshing and vivid.
We couldn't find a taxi so John Mc suggested we take a bus. Why not? This would be our first bus ride in Mexico. As we stood debating the issue a bus pulled up to the curb. It looked like an old school bus except that it was painted in an assortment of bright colors. Red, yellow and green being the most prominent ones. We climbed in and found places on the hard metal seats. Gil and I sat behind a lady who had a cage of live chickens on her lap. Bill, Paul and John sat right behind us. Randy and John Mc went to the very back. The driver pulled the chain for his air horn and we roared away from the curb. In a matter of seconds we went from dead stop to top speed. We were pushed back in our seats from the force of the take off. Then we were thrown forward into the seat in front of us as the bus screeched to a stop to pick up another rider. Before the unsuspecting man was even seated we were moving again. Wham - slammed back into the seats again. We careened through the narrow dirt and cobblestone streets; the mirrors on the sides of the bus just missed the buildings that hugged the streets. The floor of the bus was made of old wood planking; there were gaps big enough to see the road where some of the boards sagged with age. So much dust poured up through the floorboards we could hardly see. That was probably a blessing. Gil and I hung on to each other and the seats, to keep from ending up on the floor. Bill held Paul and John who had death grips on the back of my seat. John and Randy didn't have anything to hold on to so they slid and bounced all over the back seat of the bus. As near as I could tell the owner of the chickens was fast asleep. Her head nodded this way and that. She leaned towards the aisle then towards the window. Her charges were squawking their outrage. Brown and white feathers fluttered into the air with every jounce of the bus. The ride that earlier took 50 minutes in a taxi, took 30 fear-inspiring minutes by bus. We were a white faced, weak-kneed group as we once again encountered solid land. I had been clutching the piggy bank so hard it had left a perfect black imprint in the middle of my dress.
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