Tianguis for Dummies

“Híjole, por qué frenaste?!” It was a rude introduction to our newfound secret in the Distrito Federal: selling at the tianguis market. The excitement was building as we inched closer to the sprawl of stalls with covered with colorful tarps. Then, crunch! We were rear-ended while driving a snail’s speed at which it should be impossible to rear-end anyone. Our heads jolted forward, then back. We dominoed into the VW Beetle taxi in front of us. And behind us loomed a hulking metal box of a bus. 

“Come on, why’d you brake?” Uh, seems like because traffic was slowing was reason enough. There was no sudden slam, no surprise obstacle, no nothing out of the ordinary. The indignant driver tried to blame us, like a kid playing the “stop hitting yourself” game with his little brother. Baloney. We argued over whether or not the door was damaged, then decided to get out of the street to settle this. 

Bad idea. We pulled over. The taxi did, too. But the microbus gunned it and disappeared in a hurry. Se fugó, says the Spanish. Like a fugitive. Except that in Mexico, nobody’s gonna bother to chase him down like he’s Harrison Ford. Two hours of watching the insurance man scribble on clipboards later, we were back on the tianguis mission. 

Now, imagine your local farmer’s market. Multiply that by 100, add the sale of every manmade thing under the sun, plus a healthy dose of chaos. That’s the Mexican tianguis. Surrounded by stacks of sneakers, piles of mattresses, walls of music, and racks of clothing, we snuggled into our puesto (rented for a mere 20 pesos) and splayed out two years’ worth of life’s detritus for sale.

Back home, this would happen at a yard sale. But in the absence of a yard (or a single patch of grass in DF, for that matter), becoming street vendor for a day at the tianguis is the next best thing. It was a slow day, but our sales advantage was in the disorganized nature of our mess. The pristine stands around us had brand-new products displayed with mucho care. Translation in shopper’s mind? Expensive. But they see a heap of dusty clothes in an open suitcase surrounded by an explosion of knick-knacks and trinkets and they just know it’s gonna be cheap. 

Laju and I pocketed about 50 bucks apiece, thanks to the generous patrons of Tianguis San Felipe. Now we only need about a dozen more outings to reach the bottom of our junk. We’ll just steer clear of microbus drivers next time. Who knew that you, too, could be a Mexico City tianguis vendor? They don’t tell you that in the guidebook. Pásale, guero. Qué le vendo? Qué buscaba? Puede preguntar sin compromiso. Le doy precio!

*special thanks to Polo for letting us in on this little gem.