Para Comprar la Bomba November 26, 2022
When I hear the word Bomba, I immediately think Bomb, as do all English speakers, which is in fact correct. So it is odd to hear firemen referred to as Bomberos, as if we were living in Fahrenheit 451, where firemen are actually arsonists. This is because Bomba has a second definition—water pump. Bomberos, therefore, are people that pump water rather than plant explosions, for which we are all grateful.
All of this is to say that I am in need of a manual water pump, una Bomba. Our 20-liter jugs of potable water are simply too heavy to lift onto the mounted dispenser in our apartment, so we have decided to purchase a plastic hand-pump, which should only cost around 40 pesos. But where do I find one?
“El Mercado,” says Vane, but that is her answer for everything. And she is right—the vast markets of Benito Juarez and 20 de Noviembre do have just about everything imaginable on sale, that is, if one knows where to look and how to ask. Those first two challenges are already too much for me, but, following yet another water spill from the clunky jugs, I grab the end of my wits and a 50-pesos bill and head in a southwesterly direction.
These central streets form one long traffic jam during the day. The sidewalks along Colon, Rayon, Armenta y Lopez, and Bustamante teem with humanity, including shoppers, white-caned crooners, accordion players, legless beggars, and a string of outdoor venders shooing away pests. I see no sign of water pumps. I attempt to ask about them but am promptly shooed off like the others.
Inside El Mercado de Benito Juarez, the situation only grows worse. I enter where the meat market is and am immediately forced to suppress a gag. Quickly I head to the coffee and chocolate markets to clear my nostrils, but this place is a tightly spaced labyrinth, and progress is slow. Finally I catch sight of a water pump—Viva la Bomba!—but it is in use. The lady at the juicing stand merely stares as I point to the device in question.
“I want one of these. But where?” I fumble to ask. She shakes her head and says something like, “No, you can’t have this. I need it to make Aqua del Dia.” I try to clarify my request, but she has customers. Without looking again at me, she points in the direction of the nearest exit. I think she just wants me to leave this market. My fixation on her Bomba is clearly disturbing her.
Outside, on Calle 20 de Noviembre, horns blare at the double-parked car in front of Mayordomo Chocolate, while sidewalk crowds step around homeless sleepers and uncollected piles of garbage. Across the street is the other grand central market, named for the autumn day in 1910 when Madero issued his clarion call-to-arms against the tyrant Porfirio Diaz, thus igniting the Mexican Revolution. In a rare balancing act of competing legacies, Calle 20 de Noviembre morphs into Calle Porfirio Diaz when it crosses Independencia. At least in Oaxaca, where the streets reach Independence, Diaz and the revolutionaries can coexist.
El Mercado de 20 de Noviembre looks like it is burning, which only means that we are approaching lunchtime. This market has the dimensions of Benito Juarez next-door, about the size of one jam-packed city block, and it is covered against the elements. In the case of 20 de Noviembre, which specializes in cooked meats and other hot foods, the corrugated roofing creates a smokehouse effect. Savory black clouds pour out of the market exits, drawing a horde of hungry carnivores. Whereas I do not see the attraction of standing at a metal counter in a noisy smoky aircraft hangar with a plate of greasy chewy meat, I know that other people do, as I see whole families braving the smoke to enter the building. Like Bomberos.
Distracted and exhausted, I stumble upon an empty shop selling all sorts of cheap plastics—storage tubs, cups, plates, utensils, trash cans, etc.—and I duck inside, if only to escape the throng on the streets.
“Bomberos?” I ask absently. The two ladies chatting at the register instantly turn their attention to me, with quizzical looks. I have just asked these cashiers if either of them happens to be a fireman. I quickly correct myself with “Bomba,” but I still have a lot of explaining to do. The older clerk smiles kindly but still does not understand. I resort to pantomime, using my hands to draw a 20-liter water jug, then adding a flourish to simulate water flowing from a hand pump. Her smile fades a bit. To her eyes, I would seem to be indicating the dimensions of a bomb, even down to its serpentine fuse. Only when I pretend to lap the water flowing from my imaginary pump, like a thirsty dog, does the light go on. She reaches below the counter and produces one plastic Bomba, 60 pesos. This price seems inflated, so it may be time for me to bargain, to test the limits of her kind smile. Do not quibble with me over 10 pesos, madam, I may have a bomb.