ABSTRACT
I can remember the day as if it were yesterday. … Ma Vic, with whom I stayed during my time in the village, was not only my dear friend, but my guide in the maze of the market. She had her favorite sellers: the woman from whom she bought baskets of plump red tomatoes; another woman her plantain, another yam; still another, her spices and food staples. And as a regular customer, her loyalty was rewarded with the expected “dash” of a few extra onions or an additional handful of rice. As Vic very confidently maneuvered her way through the market, I warily negotiated the open sewers, the sharp corners of the metal roofs, and the young market women who, without a stall, carried their store—big trays of fish or mango or other goods—on their heads. So my eyes faced downward most of the time, tenuously watching every step. My observations of the market were primarily at the places where we stopped to make a purchase, the places where my eyes could focus on what was around me and not on my feet.
