It was Monday, the day of the week the traveling market stops in Miahuatlán. Night had fallen over an hour before, and the vendors were packing up to leave town.
Rains had not stopped for over 48 hours, and the town was completely saturated. Water dripped or ran freely from the drainpipes of every building, gathering sometimes in potholes or else in the pockets offered by the tarps that hung over the stands. Muddy rivulets trickled here and there on the sidewalks, in and around feet, under the stands that would remain, seeking the main arteries that surged along the curbs and freely into the street to keep the main sloped surfaces awash in a shallow, filthy stream.
Groups of dogs hung cautiously just outside the areas where the vendors packed up—outsiders at a stranger’s campfire—occasionally slinking or limping forward to lick at the piles of soggy refuse produced by a day of market activity. The dogs would keep their wet, matted bodies close to the ground and their wide eyes up; alert, on the defensive. Bicycles passing slowly, slowly, two or three at a time carrying poncho-clad riders. Children under the eaves watching the puddles or the dogs reverently. A blind woman with umbrella and pole gingerly yet steadily navigating the sidewalk.
There was a small taquería with an open-air grill on the sidewalk and brightly colored walls inside. The light from inside filtered through the smoke and steam and landed softly on the soggy street; a pale yellow glow against an unwarmed surface. This was the boundary dividing the wet and the dry, dividing those who worked and those who watched. Observers leaned against the outer wall or peered out from inside; their arms were crossed or tucked behind them on the wall, or else held plates of food or small children. Any number of postures which suggested that they were content as they were and were happy to not be working. The foreigners were a part of this group. The only sounds were a murmur of conversation coming from inside the taquería and the hiss of meat and onions on the grill.
A solitary melodic whistle, emitted from the working side of the boundary, was a third sound, and it was this that drew the attention of the foreigners. “Whistle while you work,” they said, and watched the deliberate and unrushed pace of the vendors. Folding tarps; untying and coiling ropes; packing produce in the back of a pickup; stacking what they owned in the same space. The rain fell steadily all the while. Wet and unfazed, the working side of the boundary continued their routine while the slinking dogs advanced, conquering more unwanted territory.
After a short while the vendors had finished packing and saluted one another in the dark with quick whistles, laughs and smiles, and eager waves. The observant camp, bathed in light and warmth, was austere and unsmiling. They watched the workers drive away slowly out of town, on their way to the next market to sell what they carried. Their tail lights glowed pink in the misty, wet air.
