The Markets

The stench hits me like a backhand to the face.

I’d seen pictures but never considered that this hurricane of colour would have a smell. Incense and sewerage; we weren’t even inside yet.

‘Rained all week, so it smells a bit,’ Henri shrugs. If there was ever an understatement to shame all other understatements, that was it.

Unsure of our destination or purpose for coming here, I follow Henri, a mutual friend and my local guide, inside.

Colour is everywhere.

We weave through endless tables stacked chaotically with produce. Sandals turn brown as feet sink in mud.

Vendors squawk deals and strange fingers grapple with my hair.

Henri signals me to keep walking.

Meats are displayed on open tables. I can’t help but smirk at the complete disregard for food regulation. If this happened in Australia someone would be sued.

People are everywhere.

‘Chanti, chanti!’, women holler at me. I’d been warned my curly, copper hair would draw attention. I wish I could blend in and watch them act naturally instead of being studied myself. I tell Henri this; he laughs and informs me that women are always this brash.

‘You want natural? This is natural!’

We continue on; Henri in the lead; our destination still unclear.

Large eyes stare up at me; small mouths whisper to each other as I pass. I smile at them, but they hide behind their mother’s skirts. The mother laughs; she scolds her children for their timidity.

Henri pulls me along, reprimanding me for taking so long. We must be going somewhere important.

‘It’s just the markets; only food. Hurry up!’

Tucked in between food stalls, I see stands selling brightly-hued lengths of fabric. I stop and look. The vendor immediately drapes a red sarong over my shoulder, grabs my hair and indicates that they match.

‘Chanti, chanti!’

Henri rolls his eyes, not unkindly; ‘You want sarong?’ he asks.

I nod, expecting to have to barter myself. But Henri wastes no time. The deal is settled swiftly; I pay Henri’s bartered-down price and shove the scarlet fabric into my backpack.

‘It’s just the markets; only sarongs! Hurry up!’ Henri insists.

I ask him what the rush is: ‘Where are we going that we need to be in such a hurry?’

Henri looks puzzled. ‘Not going anywhere. We here to see the markets! Hurry up!’

I laugh; Henri doesn't understand why; and we keep trekking through the sea of people and colour.