My Experience of Visiting a Street Market

A man limped into the stall selling chicken. His ribs were visible, and his, what some would call scraps, had definitely seen better days; they were like paper after it had been rubbed with charcoal, stepped on and tossed in mud. He reached his bony, long fingers, trying to pinch a piece of the Michelin star chicken. If you were going to steal food, you might as well go big. He touched a piece, but his hand was slapped away by one of the customers, and he was pushed back, stumbling onto the wet streets below.

He strayed back to his small perch, resuming his begging endeavor, but to little avail. People were about as likely to give him money as the average limpet is to let go of its rock.

This was not a place for the faint hearted.

The bright and colorful stalls sold a variety of goods, ranging from small rubber ducks to fried squid. It was a haven for the average shopper, cheap goods of all sorts: fresh fish, grilled chicken, umbrellas, slippers.

Coruscating lights flashed from the stalls like a disco, changing color from blue to green to red. It was a hard life for the sellers. Some broke even, others made a small fortune each day, hundreds coming to their stalls. A small family strolled into the market. The children skipped happily, and the parents were smiling. The weather was beautiful, and the sun shone brightly. It was one of the few days where it was warm, but not sweltering.

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They sauntered into a stall. Like a landmine, the smell of the succulent chicken blew them away, and left them breathless. They purchased a piece of fried chicken; the sour and spicy taste was intoxicating, like a grenade of lime juice had exploded inside their mouths. They proceeded to walk down the street, looking carefully where they were stepping – lest they trod in dog droppings or step on the tail of a cat, looking to snack on bits of fish that fell from the stalls. Sellers all around were haggling, trying to get the best price for their product, while the customers looked around for the best price, and inspected the products carefully; it was an ecosystem – everyone was profiting. Everyone, except maybe the beggar and some of the thieves who were not able to pull a fast one on any of the sellers.

Smelling a street market for the first time is an experience to say the least. The smell of a street market cannot be compared to anything, but if it could there would be nothing closer to the smell than the fumes of fresh fish combined with ignited charcoal and grilled chicken, with a hint sewage water. A slight whiff of raw fish could also have been smelled by the more advanced. Thin, oily smoke rose into the air from the grills, like the smoke that would soon rise from the buildings overhead…

A pick-up truck was seen driving into the market. Its paint was chipped, and every time the driver revved the engine, it howled. The engine was dilapidated from the huge load it had to bear daily. Hundreds of kilos of ice and fish delivered every day to sellers at markets all over the city. People moved aside, as it sped across the street, the puddles splashing everywhere. The truck clattered to a halt, and the driver stepped out. He was about 5 foot 7 and walked awkwardly, with a slight limp. He had a small cut on his shin. His oily black hair shone, and his eyes were red. Grabbing a bucket, he shoveled fish into one of the stalls. The ice rattled and quite a lot fell on the floor. It slowly melted.