When I was little I used to tag along on my parents’ weekend market trips. One entered the market through a sort of unfurnished lobby, which divided the main building into two: the fish stalls to the right, the meat stalls to the left. The meat stalls were dry and seldom crowded, and I liked them better because of that; unfortunately, my parents used to spend more time in the fish section, which was dark, dingy, hot, and muddy. People pushed and shoved and screamed at each other. My feet used to get muddy all the time, which I didn’t like, and which was why my dad used to carry me all the time while he and my mom looked for fish worth buying.
The market looks much better now, the stalls in less of a disarray than I remember. Still, some things never change: the kids in the oversized shirts offering plastic bags for you to put your goods in, the man with lipstick, a lisp, a butcher’s knife and a slab of lumber for a chopping board, and the fruit stand from where we bought the apples and guavas that I so enjoyed as a boy.