Buying a Rebozo

Shadows were lengthening across the Zócalo as the sun's rays mellowed into a gentler warmth. Mom and I sat on a wall with the baby to watch people while AJ and MM played in the square.

In the golden light, people ambled past. Mothers with babies tied in rebozos talked and gestured as they strolled toward the market. A gentleman sat with his newspaper to have his shoes shined. People sat chatting on benches and on the low stone walls edging the flower beds. A couple sat on a bench, kissing. Customers ate at tables on the sidewalks nearby.

Children ran and squealed, chasing giant cyllindrical balloons as the wind sent them bouncing high into the air to come down near the ornate cathedral heading the square. A cluster of people listened to music from a marimba, while down the street a man with a badly burned arm rattled his tin cup.

Sellers hawked their wares; wooden bookmarks, miniature hammocks, colorful toys. A clown offered balloon animals for sale, while a woman pulled a handful of miniature rubber chickens out of her rebozo to display.

####################


A child held out a tin lid arranged with brightly colored bobble-head birds and turtles. "Una tortuga, Señora? Solamente diez pesos." Her voice was plaintive, her eyes hungry. I smiled and shook my head. "Gracias, no. No necesito. Gracias." How I wished I could buy them all. How many toys would the little girl have to sell in order to eat that night, or to buy a pair of shoes?

A woman approached with a tray of plastic cups filled with various colors of gelatin. "Gelatines?" I tried not to meet her eyes, knowing that if I seemed at all interested it could take 5 minutes of protestations before she was convinced I wasn't going to buy her food.

When a tired man came by selling rebozos, though, I was interested. The 5-yard knit wrap I'd brought with me was comfortable, but hot, heavy and awkward in this warm humidity. Baby E's hair was damp with sweat and DH had winced at the extra weight in the backpack when I wasn't wearing the wrap. Watching the women with their babies and wares in their lightweight rebozos, I wondered if I could cary Baby E comfortably in one.

"Cuanto cuesta?" I inquired. The man's eyes instantly brightened to attention. He allowed a slight hope to dawn in his face. "Cien pesos." He pulled other colors out of the black plastic bag. "Se gusta rosa? Azul?"

"Tiene Ud. uno más grande, por el bebé?" I showed him with my hands what I wanted.

"Si, yo tengo uno más largo. Este es largo. Y este es muy largo." He said something else that I didn't catch (ciento something?), pulling pieces of fringed cloth from his bag. Finally he pressed a white one into my hand, saying that was the longest he had.

I hesitated. White would show stains, but it was 100% cotton and should wash clean. It would be cool and versatile.

"Let me see if my husband has enough money," I finally said. The man sat on the wall near my mother while I went to find DH, who was discussing plans for the evening with some of the men from our group.

DH looked at me a bit askew: "You want to buy ANOTHER wrap? Are you sure? Do we really need this???", but forked over the 100 pesos (equivalent to about $10).

When I handed the man the money, he brightened for a moment, then his face fell. "No," he cried, "No, es ciento cincuenta pesos. The short ones are 100 pesos. The long one is 150." So that's what he was saying that I didn't catch.

I went back to DH, even more sheepishly this time. No go. We only had 50 pesos left, and we needed that for the taxi back to the hotel.

I went back to the vendor and tried to hand him back the rebozo. "I'm sorry," I said, "We don't have $150 pesos to spend. We only have the $100. I'll just have to not buy the rebozo. I'm sorry."

But he wasn't about to hand me back the money now that he had it in his hand. He sighed. "Keep it. Give me the money tomorrow."

"No, I can't do that. I might not see you tomorrow, and I don't want to owe you. Just keep the rebozo and if I see you tomorrow I'll buy it."

"No, keep it. Give me the money later if you can." He walked away.

I had gotten a very good deal on the shawl, but I felt bad. 150 was a fair price for the longer rebozo.

We used to dicker and try to get a bargain when buying things in Oaxaca, but none of the vendors are willing to bargain nowadays. Many things are marked with price tags, and shopkeepers are offended to be offered a lesser price. In other parts of Mexico the bartering and dickering is still part of the culture, but the economy in Oaxaca city has changed.

Besides, they really need the money. In a world where minimum wage is 50 pesos per day (equivalent to $5 for an 8-hour day of work), a Big Mac costs $6.50, drinking water must be expensively purchased by the bottle, and the very cheapest apartments cost $100 a month, many of the people selling wares in the markets won't eat unless they can sell enough to pay for their next meal. By the time they pay for their materials, most are probably making pennies per hour for their labor.

I didn't see him the next day, but the day after that there he was in the market. "Quiero un otro rebozo, Senora?" No, I didn't want another one. But I had the other 50 pesos and, to his surprise and delight, gave it to him.

His family would eat that day.