La Paz Street Scene

Mexico takes an easy-going approach to man-made noise.  So life in La Paz sounds much different than in El Norte.

I was jolted awake by a blaring loud speaker on my first morning in La Paz.  It was Trinidad selling newspapers.  Fourteen years later, he still drives by the house at 7:45 every morning.   If his car is old and dented, the speaker attached to his roof is positively ancient.  It crackles and distorts his words.  Although I’ve listened to his carefully, I understand very little but I know enough to realize that he’s trying to tempt potential customers with juicy headlines.  But I never buy his paper.

Shortly after Trinidad passes, the bottled water and propane trucks begin to arrive.    Each company has its own jingle and they play them – loudly.  The trucks seem to pass our house every hour. When we need water we listed for Sergio’s song, rush to our gate with 12 pesos ($1.00 U.S. plus tip). He smiles, carries the heavy bottle of water through the house and places it on the back patio.  We chat for a few minutes.  Meanwhile, his song blares on.

The ice cream truck parks in front of our house and waits. And waits.   Although I never buy an ice cream, his song is magical; it transports me back to my childhood.  My father used to take my hand and lead me toward the music.  I had three choices: Popsicle, Fudgesicle, or a Drumstick.  In those days, happiness could be bought for a nickel. 

Not all entrepreneurs have trucks or loud speakers in La Paz.  Some have bicycles. Others walk.  The donut man balances a huge tray on his head and calls out, “donas, donas” as he passes by.  I love to see this old man all around El Centro selling his donuts. I smile but I don’t buy.

When I hear the eerie tones of a flute I know the knife sharpener is nearing.   He carries his grinder and wooden stool with him.  But Alex sharpens our knives so, although I’m charmed by the lilt of his flute, I don’t give him my business.

During the winter I smell the wood smoke from the camote man’s cart from several blocks away.  Our cockatoo, Howlie, used to start screaming long before we could hear the steam-whistle approach.  Howlie and I would wait.  She’d be rigid with excitement.  She’d swallow large chunks of the smoky sweet potato topped with syrup.  And, if we were lucky, she’d leave a few bites for Alex and me. But Howlie is gone so we simply reminisce when we hear the whistle.

Although her unique sounds enchant me, La Paz also attracts me with her colors and odors.

I only have to walk a short block to the Malecon where the balloon vendor grips big bunches of colorful balloons. A lucky toddler pulls a balloon-doggie down the Malecon.  But children grow and become teenagers.  They fall in love.  Their devotion is tested.  Does the novio love his novia enough to buy her a red rose wrapped in cellophane?  From the look of delight on the girl’s face, I’d say her boyfriend passed the test.

Alex doesn’t buy me roses.  Now it’s ears of corn roasted over wood fires that get my juices flowing.  While I try to ignore this wonderful odor, Alex accepts a sample of Kettle corn. Occasionally, he buys a bag. The next morning I eat stale popcorn for breakfast.

Until recently, I’ve been delighted by Mexican vendors: the newspaper hawker, the water, propane and ice cream truck jingles, the people who sell donuts, roasted corn, sweet potatoes, popcorn, and roses.

 Then I began to notice their tired faces.  How could I be so naïve?  These men and women earn their living by selling these products. Many push heavy carts all day.  They do not exist for my entertainment. I was a voyeur peeking into a Mexican-style Rockwell painting and confusing it with reality.  These hard working people use colors, sounds and odors to attract buyers. What is their profit margin?  How much water does Sergio have to lug to buy a kilo of meat?  My smiles and nods do not put food in the mouths of their children. 

My fairy-tale world has cracked slightly but I have choices.  I can buy that balloon. And give it to a child.  Or the red rose and give it to an old woman.  I can even buy a newspaper.  It can serve as my Spanish lesson for a week.  I can’t afford the calories in donuts, ice cream, roasted corn, or sugary sweet potatoes; however, I can buy them occasionally and offer them to my neighbors.  And, in addition, I can choose to deepen my respect for these vendors who offer their goods at a price that I can’t afford to ignore.