Thrift Shopping
A
middle-aged, paunchy African man flailing both arms over his head, is at the
gate and directs her to one or two meters further ahead. A stream of exiting
vehicles warrants another stop before she drives through the main entrance of
the fenced compound.
"Early
morning shoppers," she says.
A bit flustered, she realizes that to the
curious onlooker it would appear that she did not know where she was going, and
she remembers to take heed from her more perceptive younger kin.
“You
are venturing solo into unfamiliar territory. Thieves and other criminals are
on the prowl scoping visitors. Dress in more commonly worn garb, and after
parking adopt their swagger to merge unobtrusively with the crowd.”
She
sees a vacant park in front of the first building, a large shed-like painted
concrete structure, greater in length than in width, with a gable zinc sheeted
roof blackened with age.
Two
buildings aligned longitudinally, of like design and construction comprise the
market, with limited space reserved on both sides of the buildings for one-way
vehicular traffic.
She
hears a loud, grating voice and turns her gaze in the direction of a
self-proclaimed guardian of the entrance.
"You cannot park here."
She
observes a dark, shrivelled up woman of advanced age, raggedly dressed, seated
huddled on a box in front of the entrance, her etched face betraying her continuing
penury existence.
Her
vocals are unexpectedly strong and authoritative, which contrast sharply to the
bent frail frame. Twig-like arms, waving excitedly front and back over her
head, point to an empty park closer to building.
"Park
over there," the old woman says to her. "In front reserve for maxi
taxis.”
She
observes one such vehicle driving up to this designated turning point allowing
passengers to disembark, reverses, then exits the compound.
"Another
wave of shoppers," she says.
She
parks and steps up through the doorway and finds herself standing in an open
space with arranged tables and customer seating. She sees enclosed vending
booths set up along the walls, six to eight on opposite sides and at the centre
of the room. Earlier shoppers enticed by the tempting aromas are partaking of a
variety of the local breakfast fare on sale: fried bake, fried fish, saltfish
buljol, baigan choka, and corn soup.
She
sees a man manoeuvring his way to the front nearer to her, as though lying-in
wait! He is a thickset, dark-skinned, unshaven overweight East Indian, dressed
in a sleeveless red jersey and short jeans cutting under his knees.
He
raises both hairy muscular arms and beckons to her, practically blocking her
path. Shaking a plastic bag containing six to eight small, green limes with
both hands, he shoves it in her face.
"$5.00,"
he says in a tone which suggests that he is actually doing her a favour, giving
it away.
Caught
by surprise, the uninitiated fumbles in her purse and says,
“Here,” and readily surrenders her cash.
"Deal!" she mutters reassuringly. "I've not been
inveigled."
She
walks through the doorway and sees concrete stalls on either side of the
interior. Chunks of meat on the counters suggest that she is in the butchers’
area; fish vending stalls are to her left and she heads across. Twenty or so
stalls are located against the side wall and on the opposite side of the
passageway. To her dismay, she notices that the fish is heaped on the counters
and exposed to the ambient temperature.
"Fish
fresh from north coast; catch last night. Bring them in this morning," a
stout, African fish monger assures her.
His
paraphernalia she observes, is a slab of wood, his improvised cutting board
jagged and grimy, while his knives and cutlass are near at hand to deliver a
sale. She sees no signs of potable water; a plastic bucket filled with reddish
brownish bloody water substitutes.
"You
don’t have running water! And where is the ice!" She asks disgusted by
this blatant lack of sanitation.
Silence!
"We
takin’ the whole one," order two aged African female customers, standing
next to her and pointing to a kingfish.
She
observes the fish monger as he slices and cleans the kingfish, repeatedly
rinsing his bloody knife in the foul water. She presses her lips together,
horrified at the thought of the increased bacterial load transferred to the
fish. This lack of sanitation is further compounded as he washes a rag in the
bucket and wipes down his “cutting board”. She sees drips from the rag running
under the fish heaps.
"But
this is too gross!!!" she says scrutinizing his messy hands and
blood-splattered vest.
"Not
our fault; it is the authorities," he says wearing a scowl, he, only a
victim and having to endure such deplorable working conditions!
“And
the authorities! Have you complained to the City Corporation?” Silence again!
"Over
here," comes a chorus from two, three other fish mongers.
"$45.00 per lb for kingfish; $40.00 for
carite; $15.00 for cavalli; $10.00 for salmon!"
"We
have shark too, $10.00," shouts a slim young East Indian haggler, bearing
his discoloured teeth, as he strips the skin off a young shark with his sharp
knife for a waiting customer. She notices the same bloody unsightly mess of all
the fish vendors.
"Fish
scarce," she says to them. "I will pass back on my way out."
“That
is provided the fish retains some kind of quality,” she grumbles to herself,
and takes her leave of the fish vendors.
She
comes to an area delineated by a semi-circular concrete lip. On her right she
sees a thin, middle-aged, East Indian woman, with wisps of unruly grey hair
cascading over her forehead. She is sitting on a stool in front of a table with
six or seven ochros tainted and soft to the touch and displayed in heaps.
"$5.00,"
the vendor says pursing her lips together, showing anything but a pleasing
smile.
"Fresh?"
she asks, unconvinced but still swallows the bait. "Another good
buy!"
Another
female East Indian vendor sits close by, obese, her grey hair pulled back into
a knot at the top of her head. Her produce small malformed pimentos. She
stretches out an arm which jiggles dreadfully as she thrusts a bag into the
shopper’s eager hands.
"$5.00!"
Quickly
exchanging cash for produce, the novice mentally calculates,
"How
many dollars have I saved so far!"
Moving
along, she sees small-sized cucumbers; six, seven conveniently piled on a table
in plastic bags.
"Weighed
correctly?" she asks.
The
aged female East Indian vendor barks contemptuously,
"$10.00,"
with no hint of compromise!
Visibly
disconcerted by this unexpected hostility she sighs,
"Beats
the supermarket," adding, "slim chance of sealing a better
deal?"
Almost
delirious with happiness, she exits the first building, and steps out into a
slightly sloping covered passageway. Vendors stout, mature African women with
their heads tied up in colourful scarves are standing next to their goods
arrayed on tables on either side of the passageway: common spices, cinnamon,
bay leaf, nutmeg, parsley etc rolled and secured with rubber bands and twine
and other unidentifiable powdery concoctions in small plastic bags.
She
walks pass and enters the narrow passageway leading into the second building.
It is a beehive of activity. Shoppers dominating in the melee represent the
island’s two major ethnic groups: East Indians and Africans, males, females, of
all ages, mixed with a sprinkle of minorities, Chinese locals, in particular,
and a few, from their looks, newly arrived. Shoppers have cast covid caution to
the wind and are not wearing masks!
“This
is too congested for my liking,” she says hastily pulling her mask over her
mouth and nose.
She
sees shoppers who all are carrying plastic bags: yellow, blue, floral, green,
red, and blue stripes sold at $1.00 apiece and filled with produce.
She
proceeds to an open asphalted area further afield to her right. Makeshift
covered tents with tables are encroaching the edge of the asphalted area. Heaps
of root tubers, “ground provisions” are on sale. These provisions are in the
main, weekly imports for hucksters coming in from the other smaller Caribbean
islands. A wizened white bearded old African man stands behind a stall. He is
balding at the top, and his haggardness speaks to a dint of gruelling work, and
evidence of a commitment to subsistence farming. She quickly assesses his
prices.
"Have
to balance between savings and convenience," she says, “But they need to
be washed and properly scrubbed!"
She
carefully selects her produce, and hands the best of the bad lot, oddly shaped
sweet potatoes to a thin, underage East Indian boy, an equal object of misery
who has suddenly surfaced from somewhere behind the stall; the old man has
mysteriously vanished into thin air!
"Sweet
potatoes TT$6.00; cassava $6.00," he says.
"Nice!
Money saved." Overwhelmed and feeling a bit obligated to him, she
willingly completes the sale.
“Dasheen
scarce! Only two left," bellows a
tall, heavy-set, middle-aged African woman. The adventurer hastily seized them
up and the vendor weighs them; they cost the pricey sum of TT$48.00!
Having
been unprepared to part with that kind of money, she issues a veiled threat to
the vendor,
"I'll
be returning to retrieve my money, if they don't cook properly," she says
woefully considering money ill-spent. And further grumbles.
"
Slippery seller, slim chance of catching sight of her again, if I do
return!"
"Pumpkin,
TT$5.00; green plantains, TT$6.00 per lb," more shouts from a young male
African.
"Unbelievable,"
she says as she piles produce into her basket, jostling through the crowd.
"Sweet
peppers here, $6.00 per lb"
“Incredible!"
She is ecstatic!
She
encounters a very amiable mixed middle-aged couple-husband African and wife,
East Indian in charge of a side stall at the front of the second building.
"Come," they say encouragingly to
her. "The last one. We don't have to weigh it; $10.00."
She
and the couple haggle and our buyer is adamant.
"Weigh
it," she says wishing to ensure that the vendor is not ripping her off.
"That
not necessary," the couple cajoles. She squeezes her eyebrows together as
she looks suspiciously at the wily couple, and again raises her objection,
"I
want it weighed!" then she capitulates and reluctantly relinquishes
$10.00, only to have her fears later confirmed, when the paw paw proves
rottener, than ripened.
She
ventures further into the interior of the second building. Her eyes open wide,
inquisitive, piqued. Ah shucks.... what does she behold, so tantalising and
staring her in the face! A cornucopia of fresh garden produce, a shopper’s
delight: limes large, in heaps, yellow, green; a copious, freshly harvested
spread of pimentos, large, brilliantly red, others of a light green sheen;
ochros, young, fresh; cucumbers; paw paws, bell peppers, fresh bundles of
herbs, melongene, patchoi.
"Limes,
$1.00; pimentos, twenty for $5.00."
"Ochros,
fifteen for $5.00."
Cucumbers,
$5.00."
Fresh goods to challenge those for which she
had already exchanged cash.
She,
not wishing to be undone, stoically repeats her purchases to her heart's
content.
Retracing
her steps she re-enters the first building, and once again approaches the fish
stalls on her right. She sees the north coast fish monger, his “bloody”
pathetic appearance so much more appalling! His eyes light up; as she draws
nearer, his expression once more turns into a scowl.
So
irked is she by this bitter experience, well-honed vending tactics, and more
perspicacious, fish quality now topping her list of priorities, she unsparingly
vents her pent-up chagrin on him.
“I’m
skipping fish today!" she says briskly.
And
hurriedly makes her way to the front door, down the steps, her basket full to
the brim.
Filled
with angst, she sits for one or minutes in her parked car, trying to regain her
composure and counting her losses. Then she departs recounting thrift shopping
at the Port of Spain Central Market, debating whether or not she will ever
return.
Ann Churney Gadentra Jobity
A Fisheries Expert for
over 30 years and co-author of five published scientific papers, columnist, and
feature writer on fisheries-related issues in Trinidad and Tobago three daily
newspapers spanning seven years and currently storyteller. Ann was a participant
in the Yale 2016 Writers’ Conference and has produced three podcasts two of
which explored creative non-fiction and other historical themes. After a hiatus
she is once again committed to bringing to light contemporary issues in
creative non-fiction as author and writer.