Stepping out onto the street in search of breakfast, bicycles weave in all directions through the traffic; women stride purposefully by me with baskets of colorful produce; thick, choking smoke bellows from the grill of the nearby taco stands and a young man pushing a sack barrow, precariously loaded with fresh papayas, does his best to knock me off my feet on his way to the market.
“Passerle amigo, passerle.”
Barely able to hear my self think over the mechanical clanking and squeaking of a tortilla machine that has just been fired up in the tortelleria behind me I decide to head for the market myself. “Follow that sack barrow!”
My man with the papayas quickely vanishes into the mass of people filling past the various stalls in the never ending maze of dark alley ways that make up the “Mercado municipal”. Apparently the only person who has no idea where he is going I am shunted and barged, totally overwhelmed by sights smells and sounds that surround me.
Steam rises from vast cooking pots bubbling away on the make-shift charcoal stoves, live turkeys and ducks lie trussed up on the floor around my feet, a butcher hacks carelessly away at the skinned head of a cow and a persistent old lady does here best to convince me to buy bag fried crickets.
“Chapolinas, chapolians señor”
Finally I find what I am looking for, and doing my best to be polite, take a seat between two large ladies slurping loudly out of the plastic bowls in front of them. Perched on the wobbly metal bench I grab the attention of the large lady who is clearly in charge of the small Luncheria and place my order.
“Tres gorditas e una jugo de pina, por favor.”
With the speed and efficiency of an arm wrestling champion, the “boss” immediately goes to work forcefully extracting the juice out of a pineapple while her young daughter, who should probably be in school, delicately prepares three maize tartlets, piled high with shredded beef, refried beans, local cheese and fresh green salsa. The “gorditas” are sublime and I am unable to resist another small order before I loudly suck up the chunks of pineapple that have collected at the bottom of my glass.
As well as some images from this typical market here is a gallery from my time cycle touring in Mexico.
Following the quiet coastal road close to the calm waters of Baya Magdalena it seemed like a perfect spot to make camp. The high ground ensured we would be safe if the tide came in and a rundown pair of pangas, typical clinker-built Mexican fishing boats, provided a good rest for our bikes and shelter from the sandy breeze that blew in from the sea. We had lit a small driftwood fire and begun to prepare supper when the rumble of a truck, just audible above the roar of the ocean, grabbed our attention. What followed was a day of fishing with a Mexican fishing crew. Here are the photos.