Mexico

I lived and worked in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, for 3 months in 2016. At the time, I was also completing an online feature journalism course. Below is one of my first assignments, a descriptive piece inspired by the local fish market where we would source fresh seafood for our clients.

Ceviche

 He slams down the knife, separating flesh from bone with complete accuracy and purpose. His is no doubt a practiced hand. The smell is immediate and overpowering, yet people seem to enter the area without a moment’s hesitation. Don’t step on the cracks of the white tiled floor unless you dare to enter the blood rivers that run between. Every so often comes the squelching sound of a flip flop as it swims through the puddles of fishy residue that surround the islands of each monger. The shoes catch with each step and flick a brown liquid up onto exposed legs. The flip flops’ inhabitant is quick to realise their poor choice in footwear. It is 8am and the fish market has already been open for a few hours.

A barefoot local grins at passers by. His piano toothed smile expands across a tanned face as he offers a strange canteen of milky looking liquid with debris afloat within. “Amiga! You wan’ try some?” “No, gracias” comes the polite reply, although a gentle intrigue is definitely present. Attention is quickly shifted to the plastic box of strange sea creatures resting on a mountain of brown ice. If you’ve never seen a sea snail, let’s put your mind at ease, it looks exactly as one would imagine. Somewhere between an oyster and a snot rocket. Deceptively delicious, I am told by our Mexican escort. In a place like this, buzzing with locals, it is good to have a guide. The hum of voices moves in a constant stream between stalls. Spanish in these parts is fast paced and although the odd word is discernable, the tourist daren’t try their hand at any form of communication other than common niceties and obvious hand gestures.

More than one bead of sweat is threatening to make an escape down the brow of a sleeping fisherman. He rests on a wooden bench by the marina, head tilted back at an impossible angle and mouth wide open. The risk of drinking in his own salty sweat is perhaps less frightful than the thought of a lingering fly taking an interest in the scent of his throat and zooming down the hatch into oblivion.

Tied to a post in the far right corner, a lone Chihuahua stretches at the cord of her makeshift lead. The tired cord springs apart in an instant and she wastes no time in making a quick getaway, only to be promptly launched upon by another of her determined dog friends. No one takes any mind of the miniature dog’s distress. There are sales to be made and large icy coffins to be filled and emptied as the morning draws on.

As the heat of the day rapidly intensifies, the odours become stronger. It is time to make a decision. Using the widely accepted point-and-purchase mechanism, a ‘huachinango’ is speedily selected. Again come the practiced hands and the sharp blade, slicing the flesh from the bone. Both locals and tourists head home with thin blue plastic bags, each fishy drip adding to the pools on the floor.