Pitayas

-PITAYAAAAS!! – Yelled that familiar voice of a seasonal stranger. A voice that sounded rough, rehearsed, tired and thirsty. The tool that the man wearing old style leather huarache shoes and a hat made out of old palm straws uses to announce the arrival of the most ephemerae fruit of my childhood.

–PITAYAAAS!! – sounded again, this time closer, this time clearer. The air smelled humid, warmer as the heat of the afternoon started to peak down. This was the middle of May; when it gets warm enough to get everyone in a bad mood and also not far enough into the year for having a tempestuous monsoonal storm to cool things down in those late afternoons of my childhood. And then again –PITAYAAAS!!

The noises inside the house seemed to have suddenly diminished with the announcement of the Pitayero. The man dressed in white manta pants and shirt with a red paliacate or ribbon tied to his waist. Like in a well-known performance, el Pitayero carries all of the pitayas on a huge straw basket skillfully well balance on the top of his head. Inside the house we all knew that in a matter of seconds, he would sit in the same corner that year after year, he used to sell his precious fruit, and neighbors would avalanche towards the humble, yet most sought after person in the block.

 -PITAYAAAS!! – sounded again, clear and settled, and in an instant, the children inside the house would have to start a well rehearsed performance of their own; to beg their mother for money to be able to afford the delicious treats. The truth is that the mother enjoyed Pitayas as much as the children did, but they were also expensive. As she heard the noises in the house after having heard the announcement of the pitayero, she knew she would need to skillfully negotiate for a way to break even on this seasonal nuisance. –PITAYAAAS!! And as sounds of heavy metal doors started making sounds of opening and closing in the outside as neighbors rushed out to greet the seller, the children left their geography book, notepads and pencils down and rushed over to the master bedroom, where the mother was taking her afternoon siesta, now prepared.

They knew that pitayas were only available for very little time, and that this was a battle they wouldn’t have to fight for at least another year, so they screamed as strongly as the pitayero himself: PITAYAAAS!! Mother agreed to go out and be the sole trader for this precious loot. She was good at bargaining. I felt guilty for having unleashed this beast. This is probably why nowadays I do not like bargaining at all.

Mother came back with a blue plastic bucket filled with these enormous bright scarlet fruits as we looked with astonishment. How she had managed to get so many I prefer not know, I thought to myself. The pitayas were then triumphantly displayed in the while ceramic fruit basket that typically sat filled with wax fruit in the middle of the main table.

And as I took my pitaya and placed it in my plate and was ready to take the first bite of this rare treat I heard –PITAYAAAS!! Once and twice, and even more; each time further away, each time dimmer than before. And this is how I would bid farewell to the pitayero wishing him well until next year.

These are the shades of the memories that my beautiful land of coconuts, limes and palm trees left tattooed in my soul; for Colima, my childhood memories and our pitayas.