The Real Deal

On the day before Mexico’s Independence Day, I was in search of water.

Drinkable water. 19 liters of it, to be exact. A giant jug that I could place in my home, a giant jug that would put an end to my constant purchase of bottled water.

It was the third time I had made this type of trip, wandering my neighborhood in search of something specific. As luck has it, every 4th or 5th house in Miahuatlán contains a variety corner store (“Miscellanies,” literally translated from Spanish). If I were to walk into one and not find what I was looking for, I could walk another block and likely find it on my next stop. But on this search for water, I wanted to find it as soon as possible.

For one thing, I was thirsty. But the wind was also whipping, and three days without rain meant that I couldn’t keep my eyes open with getting dust in them. I walked into the first “Miscellany” that I found, a weary wind-blown traveler from the road, and thought I had walked into a closed shop. The shelves, 5 or 6 reaching up to the ceiling, were well-organized and fully stocked, but looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. A thick coating of dust covered everything in the shop. What’s more, the light was off and nobody was behind the counter. But I saw 4 19-liter jugs tucked away on the floor to my left, so I offered a tentative hello.

Behind the counter and to the left, through a narrow doorway leading to another room, an old man leaned back and, catching sight of me, smiled and invited me up to the counter. As I got closer I saw that the other room was in fact a bar. I asked if I could buy one of the jugs of water. I hadn’t finished the question when another peeked around the partition, this time from the other side of the bar. A man in his thirties, a round, flushed face. “Where are you from?” he asked me excitedly. The old man put up a silencing hand.
“He’s an American, obviously! Can’t you tell by his accent?” He smiled warmly at me, almost apologetically.
“Aaaah,” the younger man mused. His eyes were glued to me as he breathed laboriously through his nose. He was very drunk.

I asked the old man again if I could buy the jug of water, only to be interrupted. “We’re celebrating 200 years of independence tomorrow!” he said to me, beer raised. A triumphant grin on his face. “Do you want to have a beer with me?”
“Well-”
“Come over here! I’ll buy you one!”
“I’m just going to buy some water-”
“After! You can buy some after!”
The old man chuckled silently and waved me over. “On the street, next door over.”

I don’t know how I could have missed the entrance the first time I walked by: a giant set of swinging doors! Saloon style! I pushed them open and approached the bar. The old man was already opening a Corona and placing it on the old polished wood of the bar. A handful of flies droned lazily overhead, taking refuge from the wind. A truck drove past the double doors, blasting mariachi music. This, I thought, was Mexico. The younger man raised his beer to me and said again, “We’re celebrating 200 years of independence tomorrow!” I touched my bottle to his. We certainly are.