Where I live right now there are no supermarkets. There are real markets with chickens flapping around. There are women squatting on their ankles, waving a stick to keep flies away from the seven dead fish that just got pulled out of the ocean and are now laying on a piece of cardboard on the side of the road, waiting for someone to buy them. There are bowls of spice on the floor, right next to the dirt and strings of plastic packaged spices hanging from a bamboo pole.
Buying in bulk isn’t a thing. For many people, the concept of bulk simply doesn’t compute. They see the small package is less expensive than the big box. They buy the cheaper small package. Despite efforts to explain, they won’t be convinced that they actually save money by spending more up front. Doesn’t make sense to them. So the thousands of small plastic saches of spice dangle in most shop windows and market stalls.
Moving on…there’s a pile of mini square fried grass baskets that will hold the hundreds of thousands of offerings that will be made to the gods today…and everyday. There are piles of fresh colorful fruit you couldn’t name and full hands of bananas turning brown. There are clusters of women shuffling around each other reach and shoving things bags.
The market opens at 3am. All this commotion takes place before the sunrise. There are no tourists here, no trinkets or souvenirs. It’s not a night market full of tasty street food. This is the farmers market selling to the local restaurants and cafes. There’s a pipelines of trading through the villages. Merchants go shopping at the larger market before they open their local shops. Small markets collect from bigger markets. Still…. I see no supermarkets; no deliver trucks unloading at 3am. No florescent light shining on rotting imported fruit, just moonlight shining on freshly picked fruit…often picked by the very hands that will take your money.
Love & Rainbows,
Cha Wilde
