Pablo, Papa, and Grandpapa get an early start for the city market in Cuernavaca because it takes four hours to get there on foot. Of course it takes only forty-five minutes by bus. ''But it costs more centavos than we have,'' says Papa. Everyone is very happy. Market day means fun and laughter, gossip and news. After awhile they overtake some of their neighbors.
''Now here we go along,'' they give the traditional greeting.
''Yes, here we go along,'' the others answer and tramp along together.
Buses pass crowded with people: cloth merchants from Mexico City and vendors from the seven villages around Tepoztlan. But many are walking, as Pablo and his family are. Each village is noted for some special thing. The people of San Juanico bring medicinal plants, which grow only high up on the mountain near their village. The villagers from another hamlet built on a limestone cliff have burned the limestone in special ovens to make the lime that the women in the valley use in preparing the cornmeal mush from which tortillas are made. Santiago, farther down the valley where there is plenty of water and warmth, grows tomatoes and sugar cane. The men of Santa Catarina, where it is dry, bring acacia pods.
''All these people used to sell in the Tepoztlan market,'' says Grandpapa. ''Sometimes there were fifty or even a hundred vendors in the central plaza. Those were the days. The merchants from Santiago set up business in one part of the market and those from Santa Catarina in another. They paid a floor tax for their space and on market day, week after week, squatted on their heels behind their wares. When they grew old their sons took their places. Times have changed since then,'' he sighs.
Some of the merchants still come to Tepoztlan, but it is mostly day-to-day trading in stores that is carried on there these days. Mama or Maria do a little shopping every day: a few chili peppers, some spices, or a bit of salt or sugar put up in a screw of paper and costing only a few centavos. They never buy very much, just a little every day, because they love the bargaining and the gossip. The men go to market only to sell their rope. It is the women who enjoy shopping.
''We must hurry,'' says Papa. They pass the vendors from Santa Catarina who are taking their time.
''We go so as to get there,'' says Grandpapa politely.
''We go ahead little by little,'' say the others.
There are wonderful things in the market: vegetables and fruit grown on the little farms and sold by their owners, pottery jars and bowls made at home, shiny stiff shoes, huaraches or sandals, and yards and yards of cloth that Mama and Maria would love. There are flowers and cold drinks made of sweetened water colored red and green. Boys stand by the stalls ready to carry home purchases for anyone who will hire them. There is noise and bargaining and laughter and strange delicious smells. The market is a wonderful place, Pablo thinks to himself. I would like to go every week.
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