Shuffling through this little crowded marketplace I can feel everyone around me breathing, hot little short breaths they manage to push out from their chests after the person next to them stops pushing past. I inhale through my nose and swear I can almost taste that disgustingly thick musk of the sweat of a hundred different people.
My eyes scan over the tops of everyone’s heads, the humidity has caused the normally thick long dark hair of the region to mat to their foreheads, the locals copper skin is gleaming with perspiration, which really makes me question the safeness of the meat I can smell roasting in the air. Subconsciously I grasp the strap of my bag a little tighter, feeling the rough material dig into the inside of my fingers I try my best to push through the people and their indigenous chatter of a language I don’t understand, mixed in with the screeching distant howls of either a bird or some kind of monkey, in this place I’ve lost the ability to tell the difference.
And now as I squeeze my way past another small cluster of people I feel my stomach gnawing at itself looking for something to digest, anything at all. I go up to one of the few stalls without a line and look for anything identifiable amongst the buckets and barrels of local vegetation.
I point to something closely resembling the lovechild of a kiwi and a banana, but the size of a cherry. The tiny little woman’s wrinkled mouth curls up into a wry smile as she giggles to herself, passing me a small bundle of the fruit (?) and taking the few coins I drop into her hand. I nod and try to offer a warm smile to breakdown the language barrier. She bursts out in a loud chuckle as I jump back when the little furry looking balls prick into my flesh and I drop then all over the ground. My eyes snap back to her and she’s grinning with all three of her teeth.
“No refund.’’ She says still laughing whole heartedly, having spoken the only English she does understand,
Getting out of this boiling herd of people I find myself walking the dirt path back to the closest thing to be considered civilization, better known as a motel with a convenience store attached and a train station that should’ve been condemned before I was born by the looks of the rusted over tracks.
As the sun is sinking into the horizon I return to my shack of a room and the bed squeaks under the weight of me. I can hear the flies, at least I hope it’s just flies, buzzing around the only source of light in the room, I smell the overwhelming stench of death emanating from the outside so I’ve made the decision to stay in for the night.
