We leave the gate and head to the market, opting to walk the few blocks to see the town. I’m quite accustomed to being stared at, but here we are a genuine novelty. I tower above even the tallest men, and furthermore, I’m “old” and out walking with young people.
The side street where we are living is lined with multi-family wooden houses set on lots, most surrounded with fences and gates. We look through the fences to yards where women wash dishes, men squat to talk, and children are running everywhere, calling out to each other. Chickens scuttle under banana plants at the side of the road but glossy roosters are tethered by one foot to a bush or pole. These are treasured fighting cocks and don’t get free roaming privileges. They are also the raucous voices we hear day and night, not only at dawn.
Little sari-sari stores are positioned every few houses – a mere front room on the street with open bars selling tiny amounts of food and toiletries. Neighbors gather in front of the sari-sari stores, and we are the topic of conversations as we pass. I lift my eyebrows in greeting and get quick smiles and lifted brows in return.
At the corner there is a series of furniture makers selling rattan chairs, tables, beds, and cribs. Across the way is Chooks Roasted Chicken. We turn the corner and the market begins with the informal outside vendors selling a wide variety of vegetables and fruit. My companions ask about things they don’t recognize: tiny purple fingers of eggplant, wrinkled bitter melon, bright orange kalabasa squash, papayas, mangoes, durian fruit, and more. The smells of this part of the market are a delightful mix of onion and garlic and fresh vegetables. Each vendor has their own stash, often identical to the vendor squatting beside them.
Pushing into the formal market, we are surrounded with hundreds of stalls divided by narrow paths. Big bins of rice and dry beans are beside dishes and clothes and shampoo. There’s a loose organization, but it’s very loose. Claustrophobics wouldn’t do well in this market, especially since we are again the novelty of the day and comments about us are all around. There’s a lively fun to it all, and the comments are lighthearted but I’m a little glad my young companions can’t understand it all.
Deeper into the market we hit the “wet” stalls of chicken, beef, and fish on white ceramic tile counters with hoses keeping things fresh and flies at bay. The floor is slippery and wet as the water moves toward drains. The smell, amazingly, isn’t bad – or maybe I just have learned to breathe lightly. It beats the stalls of dried fish!
Our host stops at his chicken “suki” and she cuts whole chickens into pieces for him, tossing the necks and wings into trays for purchase by those with fewer pesos in hand. His chicken legs and breasts are tossed into a clear plastic bag, weighed on a hanging scale overhead and handed to him. He’s also picked up papaya, pineapple and mangoes on this trip.
We’ve reached the deepest stalls and turn to go back out, winding our way through row after row of family owned stalls. The amount of goods seems limitless. At five in the afternoon I ponder what and how all this is kept overnight.
At the end of the market, we wander back through the open vendors, smiling, greeting, and enjoying the slightly cooler breeze of late afternoon. We pass Chooks and the furniture makers. We walk the dusty street back to the house and let ourselves in the squeaking gate.
Entering the living room, clean and very western in the midst of this neighborhood, we leave our shoes at the door. The noise of the street follows us through the open windows, but we are off the street. A cooler of water stands on the sink in the dining room and we get cold drinks.
Tomorrow we’ll hit the streets again but for now, it feels good to be out of the bustle.
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