I wandered in the local market, which is set up around the town square and meanders into a white colonial building with graceful arches. The first time I went there, it was early morning, and I watched as the flower sellers put out their wares, illuminating the arches with a profusion of color. The air was suffused with the intense aroma of the corozo palm. Bouquets of primroses and basil sprigs abounded. (The herb is not used in cooking, but is placed on home altars as an offering or used in limpias—spiritual cleansings—to ward off evil spirits.) There were baskets of red flower petals to sprinkle on graves, and strings of fragrant frangipani blossoms in pink, yellow, and waxy white, to be worn like leis, draped around the statues of saints, and used to make a drink called bupu.
  

The market has a surreal quality about it, due at least partially to the fact that it is almost devoid of men. Women do the business here, both the buying and the selling, and the market is their world. Big and lush, they wear their girth proudly, swinging and sauntering at the same time. They are always impeccably groomed and sweet-smelling, despite the heat and humidity. They charm and cajole, knowing what they want and how to get it. ''Don't you watch television?'' one juchiteca said with ironic good humor to a less-than-friendly colleague as I passed. ''Don't you know that the tourist is the friend of the people?''
  

Even the food can have surreal aspects. At one point, I saw something that looked like dented Ping-Pong balls, and was horrified to learn that these were turtle eggs. Although illegal, they are still much in demand as an aphrodisiac. I also saw an iguana seller who wandered through the market looking like a Medusa, with live specimens clinging to her braids. And it was hard to avoid tripping over live armadillos, chickens, turkeys, rabbits, and piglets.
  

Elsewhere, there were mounds of dried pink shrimp, one of the indispensable Isthmus flavorings and the main ingredient in the famous local guetabingui, or oven-baked tamales. At one food stand, I had wonderful chicken stuffed with piquant beef picadillo. At another I tasted guiñado xuba, a soup of toasted cracked corn kernels and fat pieces of pork. I also sampled fat, chewy corn cakes called gordas, and the wafer-thin corn tortillas of the Isthmus called totopos, made in tandoorlike ovens. Bread sellers offered an astonishing assortment of wares, from simple bolillos (rolls) to squares of the pound cake-like marquesote, with its squiggles of white icing. I marveled at the variety of mangoes—manila, petacón, piña, criollo, manzana, melocotón, oro, and plátano—each with a characteristic color, flavor, texture, and aroma. I bought a tiny mango piña, or pineapple mango, dripping with juice, and sucked it like a Jiffy Pop.

Of all the festivals I've attended on the Isthmus, my favorite was the one in honor of Santa Rita de Casia in Ixtaltepec. The first stage of the festivities, the calenda, began at 8 o'clock at night with a procession leaving the house of the mayordomo. At its head was a young man lighting firecrackers, followed by a brass band accompanied by the plaintive strains of the chirimía, an ancient oboelike instrument, and the beat of the teponaztli, a tree-trunk drum. The procession wound through the streets, ending at the neighborhood church, from whose ceiling hung hundreds of plastic pails, prized for their bright primary colors. By now the whole town had turned out for the party. In the plaza outside the church, old women, drinking lukewarm beer, danced with demure young girls in a whirl of color, while the men swigged mezcal from the bottle, and the children lost their pesos at the game stands. Around midnight there was a spectacular fireworks display culminating in elaborate castillos, fireworks mounted on turrets. Circles spun, stars exploded, and, as a climax, a figure of Santa Rita burned brightly.
  

The second stage of the festivities, held late the next afternoon, was an even more elaborate procession that ended with the traditional regada de frutas, or scattering of fruit. Young men dressed in black charro outfits calmed their excited horses, which were decorated with paper flowers and gleaming silver ornaments. Fifty girls in intricate chain-stitched yellow-and-red dresses stood in a row behind their capitana, a tall girl with a proud Zapotec face. Twenty men carried four-foot-high beeswax candles. Women seemingly emulating the dress of Juana Cata Romero fanned themselves in the shade of the almond trees. When the procession reached the church, the marchers threw out favors to the crowd—soap, candy, beans, plastic bowls, pottery mugs. Fruit was nowhere to be seen; maybe it isn't considered precious enough for special occasions these days.
  

For that night's vela, the community hall was gaily decorated, and a lavish spread of food was set out. The women, ignoring the men, again danced with each other, swaying sensuously. The celebrations came to a close two days later, after everyone had rested, with the lavada de olla, or pot-washing. This was another largely female affair, with more music, dancing, and food—a celebration of the independent spirit of women who would have made Juana Cata Romero proud.