The Market

To call it a fish market would somehow seem inaccurate, like calling an oozing, ruined banana a fruit. The bargaining and abuse had risen to deafening heights, it was impossible to hold a normal conversation over the din. Sellers had gathered under the shade of the trees, hundreds of them with tubs full of crabs, fish and prawns. They were primarily fishermen or their spouses, not famous for their sense of hygiene. Crow-shit from above splattered down with surprising uniformity. If some fell on a dead fish, it was immediately thrown into a bucket of murky water, rinsed and placed back on a damp slab with its deceased companions. Mongrels lingered close by, looking for the chance to grab a meal. Puddles of mud had gathered from the previous night’s shower. With crow and human shit strewn around casually, with hundreds of dead (some rotting) prawns and fish up for sale, with mud and garbage everywhere else, it was hard to determine which the main source of the overpowering stench was. It was the sort of stench that, if one was in its presence for more then a few minutes, would stick to one’s clothes and skin for weeks. Millions of flies buzzed around, like black raindrops in a downpour.