Warrior Women of the Isthmus

Sweet fruit ladies

For the first week in Tehuantepec we create a simple daily routine to cope with the oppressive heat and humidity of the Isthmus. We wake early to catch the activity around the market, and then treat ourselves to a generous Mexican breakfast of huevos rancheros (fried eggs, sour cream, tomato salsa, re-fried beans and tortillas). We then return to our hotel for a short siesta that usually turns into a long siesta, before heading out again later in the afternoon.

One evening, while strolling around the plaza I see an old lady selling sweet fruit in sugar syrup, who reminds us of someone we met on our first visit to Tehuantepec. Her name was Rosario, and she used to sit in exactly the same spot, selling the same sweet fruit as this new old lady today. I notice a hint of sadness in Katerina's eyes as we watch her bag up some crab apples for a romantic couple, which I remember you have to finger out awkwardly getting very sticky in the process.

Katerina saw Rosario as a truly emancipated Tehuana with all the eccentric characteristics the early travellers had described: handsome, proud, and immaculately presented in traditional attire. Back then, though, she was seventy-nine, so today would be eighty-five if she were still alive.

Here is the conversation we had with Rosario back then:

"I've sold sweet fruit since I was twenty years old, just here, this spot," she says dramatically, picking up her stool with some effort and placing it back down again meaningfully.

"Before, a marimba played over there," she points to an old bandstand, now caked in bird droppings.

"I always liked to dance. I used to attend all the fiestas, but I never wanted to get married," she stresses, hoicking a sweet plum out of the bowl for us to eat with our fingers.

"I lived with my parents, and brothers and sisters. But they all married or died, so I was left the house."

Although Rosario never had children, she brought up a nephew called Jorge as her own, paid for his schooling and did everything a normal mother would do.

"He became a civil engineer and now lives in Mexico City. He has two children, and two houses," she says proudly.

"I go to visit them sometimes, but Mexico City is too far away."

Rosario had boyfriends and lovers, but never wanted to commit to looking after one man.

"They're all borrachos (drunkards)! This is how I've kept my looks. Never having to put up with a man," she says with a cheeky grin, and gracefully runs her hand through her long fine grey hair.

I take a deep breath and approach this new old lady, and politely ask if she knew Rosario.

"Oh, yes... Rosario, yes!" she says in doddery granny Spanish, and then studies us for a moment.

"You took that photo of her before, didn't you?"

"Yes, yes," Katerina says excitedly.

"Rosario is usually here, but at the moment her fruit is not yet ready to sell," the old lady explains carefully.

"Rosario is still alive!" Katerina jumps with joy, nearly frightening the poor lady off her stool.

This new old lady is called Beatriz, herself eighty-four years old. She has known Rosario for sixty years and tells us that they were always rivals selling here in the plaza. Beatriz gives us a slice of sticky mango for free and says we can visit Rosario if we want.

"She lives near St Jerónimo Church, in the old quarter of town."