Simple Pleasures
Delfina's face wore wrinkles of laborious survival, as weathered as the
textured wood surface in front of me. In a sea of tables, tarps, and tin, her
crudely built stand is one of few that could be locked in this open market, a
symbol of her prosperity. Rocking back and forth on the floorboards, uneven and
rough under my stool, I watched as she prepared her specialty. The grain of the
rustic table was sticky under my fingers, not unlike everything else in this
space, probably the reason a colony of bees seemed to linger; brushed away
without a thought, they moved just long enough for sweet juice to flow from
spigot to cup, before returning to their feeding frenzy.
What was this wondrous treat she had placed before me? In a large sundae like
bowl sat a pile of fresh shaved ice with sliced bananas, berry syrup, sweetened
condensed milk and miraculous home-made jelly of pineapple, mango, and apple.
Painfully sweet, yet still so easy to indulge in its entirety; the “granizada”
made hers the most popular juice stand here.
Sitting down she looked towards me wide eyed and smiled, asking why I had come
to Rabinal. As we spoke of my friend marrying a Mayan shaman, I inspected her
traditional garb. Intricately woven with a pattern similar to a dense ikat, her
corte, worn tight like all of the mountain women, used all 8 yards of the
fabric. Wrapped continuously, tied with a band, and folded over at the top, the
skirt is a signature of the Guatemalan people. The delicacy of pattern and
weave on her lower half was contrasted only by the coarsely woven, simply
patterned huipil on top. Impressed with the craftsmanship, I asked if she would
help me find one.
Kicking up dust on the street as we walked beyond the paved area of the main
square, Delfina pointed out a poor family’s home who has no electricity; though
most lack running water. The rugged single story buildings here all felt the
same. Crumbling white plaster and mud-brick walls topped with locally made red
clay tiles visually proclaimed the people’s connection with the earth.
Piles of colorful fabrics made the small shop glisten with iridescence. Sifting
through, it became apparent that Delfina’s mission was to find me the most
beautiful corte ever made. The one she decided on was radiant, a deliberate
culmination of every saturated color of the rainbow.
She grabbed the bag before I could, and we walked back to her stand, this time
through the stalls of the market; past women with baskets full of chickens,
piles of produce, spices, home-made soaps, woven placemats, etc. They all
seemed to notice as she passed, walking head high, shoulders straight, proud of
the purchase she carried.
While Delfina showed off the corte to her daughters, the smell of meat cooking
in the next stall called to my senses. On to the next savory course, I continued
my quest for simple pleasures.
