Laid back, the early risers rest in wheelbarrows. Woven baskets with tubers piled high. Mountains of breadfruit, starch is staple, the perfect ride for exotic spices. Green leaves and bundles of onions, towers of eggs and flower stalls. Birds of paradise fenced us all inside, I felt drained of colour.
Noise and heat of the city zooms. Some guy with a fake ‘Ask me’ badge stops to see if I’ll fall for his scam. Flip a mental bird, my eyes say I ain’t no newbie wanderer, hassles the next in line, an elderly couple gazing in circles, pointing to the sky. Across the street a slower pace begins.
Fish markets wrap the periphery. Small catches displayed like Renaissance, backed by wood, stones and rifles. I have trouble eating blue, the parrot fish belongs to the coral. Big and bulging iridescence, to be admired not swallowed.
Kids swished away flies from scales, keeping them cool. Water sprays kept them glistening and alive-ish. Flimsy white tarps shade the heat of the day, away from the flesh and the sun out of tired eyes.
One was a fisherman. His grouper all big spots and pink gills. Told me he caught it on a line in his fibre glass boat but prefers to use his spear. I walked away from the ocean with a simpler life in mind.