A Saga of Shrimp Salad

I moved to Mexico on a whim. I was bored and looking for adventure. The next four years were a whirlwind of new experiences, new people, and enough adventure to last a lifetime.

Neto was the first person I met in Mazatlán. It was April, 2005, the same day I bought my house. He was selling seafood on the beach and I was thinking, OMG ~ what have I done?

Neto was friendly and charming. He asked me why I looked so sad. I told him that I had just made a big mistake. I bought a house that needed a lot of work and I didn’t know what to do next.

Neto smiled. “Don’t worry. I can do whatever you need. I can fix your house just the way you want it.”

I returned to Colorado to sell my house, pack up my belongings, and move to my new home.

Christina was the first person I met after I moved. She knocked on my door and asked me if I needed a housekeeper. I hired her on the spot. By this time it was September.

I arrived before the moving van, to a huge house that was run-down and dirty. I bought a bed, a small outdoor table and two chairs at Sam’s Club. The kitchen had a lot of potential but no stove. Christina came on Tuesdays and Fridays to help me clean and sweep up dead cockroaches. It was that bad.

Neto spoke perfect English. Christina’s English was worse than my Spanish. While I knew a few beginning phrases in Spanish, Christina refused to even say, “Good morning.” But we got along by smiling and pointing. In a pinch, I pulled out my Spanish-English dictionary.

In addition to cleaning, Christina told me she could teach me to cook “real Mexican food.” One day I told her that I wanted to make shrimp salad. Mazatlán is famous for its world-class shrimp fleet. I heard from a neighbor that fresh shrimp was available on a street corner next to the downtown market. What I wonderful new experience for me! I thought.

Back then, everything was wonderful and new. I learned that the changeras are a small group of women who sell shrimp out of large, plastic washtubs on a corner of Aquilles Serdan Avenue. They are named for the chango nets that are used on the shrimp boats to measure the amount of shrimp in the water. They sell shrimp fresh from the boats, the rivers, and the estuaries from September until April. In the warm summer months, the shrimp is frozen but just as tasty.

Christina and I set off to buy shrimp. She told me she would take charge. That was fine with me. She bought 1.5 kilos (about three pounds) of medium size shrimp for 200 pesos (about $20.00.) The changera put them in a plastic bag. 

We didn’t go more than a few steps before Christina turned to me and said, “I forgot. You don’t have a stove.” 

“Is that a problem?”

“Yes. We can’t eat these raw. They have to be cooked first.”

Christina had a solution. She said we could take them to one of the restaurants on top of the market and they would cook the shrimp for us.

That’s what we did. That’s when the real adventure began. 

The restaurant was willing to cook the shrimp. Christina didn’t ask what the price would be. Just like she didn’t ask me if I had enough money to buy the shrimp in the first place. She assumed that because I was an American, I was rich. After buying the shrimp, I had 20 pesos (about $2.00) left in my purse. Christina had no money at all. 

The restaurant owner cooked the shrimp, then turned to me and said the charge would be 50 pesos. She, too, assumed that I was rich. Ordinarily she would have charged much less. 

I looked at Christina and said, “I don’t have the much. I only have twenty pesos left.” 

Christina looked at me and the restaurant owner and promptly walked out of the restaurant. She left me standing there!

I was paralyzed. I didn’t know what to do. I showed the owner how much money I had and she just shook her head as she stood there holding the bag of steaming hot shrimp. Neither of us knew what to do. I had no idea where Christina was. I was on my own. 

Luckily there was an American couple eating in the restaurant who stepped in to help. They told the owner in Spanish that I was honest. They assure her that I would return that afternoon with the rest of the money I owed. 

I walked out of the restaurant with my bag of hot, cooked shrimp and saw Christina waiting for me at the end of the row of restaurants, hiding behind a wooden column at the top of the stairs. She took the steaming bag out of my hands and we walked home.

That was the beginning of many lessons in cultural shock. And the importance of learning a new language. It wasn’t the last.