June 13th, 2011
A trip to the market in the "developing" world is always the signal of my acclimation. I adore the market. I get lost in the hustle and linger in the diversity. The colors. The smells. The chatter. The booths filled with worthless luxuries employ salesmen coaxing customers. The stands bursting with necessities are surrounded by negotiators. Everything is eye candy supported by local economy.
Sellers sorting money sit on stools behind fruit stacked in perfect pyramids. Grains in round bins shipped in burlap sacks rest under shiny silver scales. Stray dogs snack on scraps from food vendors. Fabric shops display perfectly aligned patterns. Teak wood furniture is spread out on asphalt while blue tarps stand by for rain. Crunchy snacks and sweets fill plastic canisters like candy shops. Cheap bags hang in layers too high to reach. An ungodly abundance of women's clothing, raincoats and shoes. Shop 19 is a hardware store, they don't have what I am looking for.
When the downpour begins I slip under an awning in one of many market caverns. Everything stops momentarily, as if there is a pause button. Then the engine begins again, sheltered under rainbow umbrellas.
Mapusa Market, Goa, India
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