Market Day

Thursday is market day in San Isidro de El General. A wide variety of produce is grown in the surrounding valley. We’re told that the weekly farmers’ market here in the center of this agricultural valley is the largest in the country. The market is an open, roofed structure about the size of two gymnasiums. Vendors line their crates and tables tightly end to end, forming long, narrow aisles for shoppers. They hawk their goods loudly and enthusiastically. One end of the market is dedicated to organic produce.

Mountains of pineapples, mangos, guavas, watermelons, oranges, acidos and papaya are heaped everywhere. Table-height wood bins hold two-foot high piles of lettuces, cilantro, ginger root, garlic bulbs, parsley, green onions, sorrel, spinach and other greens, several types of dried or fresh beans (shelled or not), blackberries, plums, star fruit and other fruits. Cabbages, peppers, tomatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, and root crops such as potatoes, beets, onions, carrots, sweet potatoes, yucca and yampi in various colors, textures and shapes fill large wood crates that are stacked high. Tall stalks of sugarcane are bunched together and piled on the floor or leaned against tables. Bunches of bananas and plantains, each stem holding dozens of fruits, are heaped high on tarps on the floor.

Prices are noted on torn pieces of cardboard that are placed on top of the piles of produce. Everything is dirt cheap, pun intended. I am in mother-of-all-markets heaven.

Besides the seemingly-endless offerings of fruits and vegetables, there is homemade yogurt and cheeses – also meats, baked goods, wines, jellies and fruit drinks. Brown eggs are sold by each and then are placed in a plastic bag; sellers blow into the bag before sealing to make an air cushion to avoid breakage. Herbs are sold in little bunches tied with string, or as leafy syrups or tinctures aged in old glass soft drink bottles that are plugged with strips of cloth.

The market opens on Wednesday evening and runs all day on Thursday. The amount of produce and goods is staggering and even at the close of the market there are literally tons of produce that the farmers must carry away. The leftover fruits and vegetables are then sold to the many fruit and vegetable stands in the city and along the highway.

I buy a dozen avocados, equivalent of 15-cents each. As I select which ones I want, the farmer takes them and places them in a bowl which is then placed on a tabletop scale. I nod my head, yes, that is fine, and the avocados are put in a plastic bag, tied tight. I look at the green beans – about 35-cents per pound - and the farmer hands me the plastic bowl. I place a few handfuls in it and it too is weighed. This process is repeated several times. Tomatoes cost 250 colones per kilo, less than 25-cents per pound. Potatoes, 100 colones per kilo. Yucca roots, even less.

I buy assorted greens (not sure what they all are, but assume they are edible) in an amount equal in size to two gallons, hand the producer a 1,000 colones note (less than $2) and receive 600 back. The prices seem so ridiculously low that I give up trying to calculate costs and just hold out notes of colones each time, receiving more and more change. Each time I insist that my selections don’t need to be bagged as I have my own canvas market bag – to no avail.

Pecos has been staying busy, hanging around the confites and baked goods areas, sampling the many sweets he doesn’t get at home. Besides homemade candies, cookies and pastries, there are thick berry cobblers, granola bars and sweet custards.

At another stand I buy tomatoes, cucumbers, broccoli, a few handfuls of blackberries, two mangos, a pineapple, a bundle of fresh chamomile, and two bunches of green onions. The seller weighs everything, counts the amount, shakes his head, and then re-weighs again. He turns over the signs and weighs a few things once more, setting my bags in a row this time, but remains confused. I try to help but am unsure as to how much my items have weighed – and which were sold by the piece – and struggle trying to calculate conversions of colones, cents, metrics, poundage and produce.

I hold out a fan of colones but the farmer simply shrugs and rubs his chin while re-checking the cardboard price signs once more. A friendly Tica shopper steps in. She sets her own bags down and quickly weighs everything for us, then takes money from my hand and gives it to the farmer, explaining the transaction to both of us at high-speed Espanol. He flips open his taped-together cigar box of money and she pulls out my change, which seems close to the amount she took from me in the first place. She smiles and shakes hands with both of us and moves on.

Clean public restrooms are located in a cement building adjacent to the market’s huge parking lot. Fee for use: 25 cents. Men and women wait in line to enter their respective sides. The attendant at the entrance to the building accepts the payment and inquires politely as to how much toilet paper will be needed, depending on one’s anticipated activity inside. I mumble that a few sheets would be fine. Que?, she asks loudly, cuanto papeles del servicio sanitario, senora? Everyone leans forward as I gesture to the desired amount. As at most restrooms here, the sinks were located outside with plenty of soap but no towels for drying.

San Isidro de El General seems more crowded than ever on market day. The park benches are full and the restaurants and sodas are packed. Resident gringos and gringas and many touristos seem to gather at the open-air sidewalk restaurant of Hotel Chirripo on the busiest street right across from the park and cathedral. Many talk to us and we quickly realize that the ex-pat community in this part of Costa Rica is not all that large. Everyone seems to know everyone, and when they learn that we are related to The Kid we are immediately accepted.

Over fresh fruit drinks served by kindly Tico waiters, these former and part-time U.S. residents share stories of isolation in Costa Rica ‘among the Ticos’ and the importance of ‘we Americans [!] hanging together’. The Kid has warned us to be careful, saying that Costa Rica is sometimes considered the country “where people who don’t fit in other countries come to live.” We are friendly but cautious, grateful that our own Costa Rican experience doesn’t depend on being with other gringos. We feel comfortable and welcome in this country and appreciate the many kindnesses shown us. The authenticity of our little village is most special. As more tourists and future residents come here from distant places we hope it will not change. 