OZUMBA

Ozumba is a small municipality in the southern portion of the Valley of Mexico. Subject to emergency evacuations due to its proximity to the Popocatepetl volcano, one of its main tourist attractions is a Dominican monastery. A plaque at the monastery’s entrance celebrates the alleged on site baptism of Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz. The majority of the land is used for agriculture. Major food staples include: Barbacoa, moronga, tejocote, chapulines, cerezo criollo, aguacate, papaya, durazno, albaricoque and borraja. I joined Alonso Madrigal and his team on their weekly pilgrimage to the Ozumba market. Alonso is the chef/owner of Malix, a restaurant in Mexico City that celebrates mestizo culinary traditions. The word Malix derives from Mayan, it is commonly used to name street dogs. I wanted to visit Ozumba to further my understanding of street market culture. But immediately, I realized that this intellectual pursuit falls short of the unpretentious richness of experience. My memory of this visit is a puzzle of scattered pieces; the journey of a street dog searching for scraps of insight, following the lingering smells of a fascinating environment.

I met Alonso at 6:00am, we rode together, he stopped for coffee at a gas station and told me stories of his frequent trips to Tepoztlán, of his upcoming food tour through Europe, of camping for several weeks at a remote beach to cook with Hugo Durán. We talked about meditation, culinary identity, his time at Baldío (a zero waste restaurant in the city with a prolific fermentation program). Alonso listened intently and punctuated the conversation with meticulously crafted statements. The mist veiled the mountains, the sunrise lifted slowly, as if placing light rays, one by one, on the surface of every cactus leaf, a morning of open palms. Jodorowsky and psychomagic came up in conversation, along with the hard service days at Malix, of not sleeping, of uncertainty, of social unrest and the futility of academic rigor. I asked him as much as I could about the chinampas of Xochimilco. We talked about death and P&L spreadsheets.

We drove next to caravans of semi-trucks carrying pigs, horses, chickens, large PVC pipes and old cars crushed into garish metal squares. When the mist cleared enough to see the perimeter of the highway, I was reminded of the cultural quilt of a road trip in México—baroque collages of gringo pop culture and mestizo folklore. Handmade signs that would make Ed Ruscha envious, with slogans à la André Breton: “Se regalan muchos gatos” (Free cats, a lot of them). Perfectly composed road frames imbued with the ghosts of Buñuel and Leonora Carrington: blank tombstones, cherub-topped fountains, human size stuffed animals, tarot readings, cell phone data recharges, empty rocking chairs waving back with their spectral swing. “Lápidas, cremaciones y funerales, rebajas y descuentos”. “Pitufos de a litro y medio litro”. “Conoce tu futuro”. “Recargas Telcel” (Tombstones, cremations and funerals, heavy discounts), (One liter and half a liter smurfs), (Know your future).

In just 15 minutes, I counted nine roadside stalls advertising pitufos (smurfs). I strained my memory and found the first time I drank this malevolence, I was sixteen, the hangover lasted two days, I threw up blue vile. A pitufo is a cocktail prepared with vodka, blue curaçao, Red Bull, liquid chamoy, sparkling water and blueberry Miguelito (a powdered candy made out of salt, sugar and chiles). At the edge of the town we passed the animal market, a large plot of land with parked trucks selling livestock, with the ambiance of a county fair.

The Ozumba market is a vast landscape, weaved together by food stalls, intricate alley ways, sculptural heaps of fruits, vegetables, grains, cooking utensils and falluca. Market sellers arrive at 2:00am, some lay their produce on bare tarp, others make sumptuous tablescapes with herbal arrangements. The preferred snack purchase are colossal chicharrones—children and grownups walk through the compacted crowd, faces hidden behind amorphous masses of pork rinds dripping hot sauce and lime juice, echoes of René Magritte.

At Ozumba there aren’t many scales, the preferred unit of measurement is the bucket. Buy a bucket of apricot, or half a bucket of guavas, grab a bunch of borage, a small bag of squash, a bundle of kindling, two burlap sacks of charcoal. No prices are listed, values are set by each seller and change as the day advances and availability dwindles. If the shopping extends beyond a couple of hours, there is an abundance of food stalls: sopes, tlayudas, tlacoyos, tortas, tacos dorados, fruta picada. Men with reclaimed soda bottles and other large containers, dispense homemade pulque. Live jumiles are sold along with dried and seasoned chapulines. Men with portable speakers blasting cumbia, bachata, reggaeton and latin trap weave in and out of congested alleys offering bootlegged CD’s like baseball cards—hands twisted in unbelievable shapes to hold their bounties. They also sell USB sticks loaded with thousands of songs and remixes: “Musica para bailongos, peluquerías, bodas, quince años, pachangas, para lavar la ropa” (Music for dance parties, barbershops, weddings, ragers, to do laundry).

If you don’t walk with the stream of shoppers, if you linger or hesitate, somebody with a full hand truck will force you out of their way without touching you—their quick spells chanted from afar like a falcon herald. “¡Quítate que ahí viene el diablo!” (Move, the devil is coming!). If you need rest, you exit the market or you find a friendly seller in the mood for conversation. In fact, most of the market offerings are from small family productions, a few pounds of produce, a few bundles of herbs and flowers harvested from back patios or small parcels. Older couples sell what they can carry themselves in bags–a different way of passing time for them.

After four hours of shopping, we returned to Mexico City. Traffic built up, in some stretches we drove bumper to bumper. The highway’s offerings had changed. Men and women walked between the stalled traffic selling bolis (frozen fruit juice, large ice pops vacuum sealed in plastic wrappers). Alonso and I debated about how they kept them frozen despite the 90 degrees heat. Alonso shared a list of new restaurants to visit during my stay. While dozing off I imagined street vendors transforming into gargoyles, watching over the highway, ushering us to the market, guarding the farmlands. I fell asleep for a couple of minutes. Heavy honking woke me up, we had entered the city. We went back to the topic of spirituality. I asked Alonso how he managed to keep a consistent meditation practice with a demanding schedule—What is the motivation?

Alonso took a minute to respond: “Por mi y por todas mis relaciones” (For me and for all of my relationships).