Market

As we step into the canopy of tarps, “fish smell”, glassy stares and sweaty bodies, we know that we’re in the market. As we walk by each vendor, we hear the usual “sister sister, carrots? green pepper? tomatoes?” Like every other day, every person is selling the same things as the next person. How do you know who to buy from? Who has the best produce, the best price? We’re given a ridiculous price so we laugh and walk to the next vendor. Through trial and error, a half years learning period has educated us on the appropriate price for each item.

We find that we have to be in the “right mood” to enter the market, to put on our “tough skin” and be unafraid of the pungent smells, the forthright stares, the insecurity that everyone in the market wants to rip you off because you’re white. At the same time, the local markets are beautiful in their own way. The colours are intense. Somehow the body wraps, shawls and head pieces of the women coincide with the shapes, textures and colours of the food they are selling. These people are people of the land; they display the rich diversity in the simple and exotic garments that they wear.

The close quarters packed with every item and every animal these people can afford, the market almost feels like it is on the brink of bursting. This is their life, their survival mechanisms. And somehow through all the random displays, smells and colours crammed tightly together, the market does burst with life, celebrating who these people are.