Market

On the other side of the town's playing field, behind the District Works Office, is the fruit and veg market. Open air, the wooden stalls shaded by corrugated roofs, it is open everyday from dawn till dusk. At the entrance sit the charcoal sellers. Two women perch on wooden stools, their hands working away at some crocheting while their eyes watch the passers-by. Their children sit next to them on the ground, waving to us. Behind them, a line of huge white sacks, the tops stuffed with leaves to stop the charcoal from falling out.

You enter the market through big, wide metal gates. Stalls run all around the edge of the square, one row in the centre. The pitches by the gates are brimming with food, the pitches at the back end are almost all deserted. On our first visit we walked the full circuit of stalls, interested to see what each one sold. They all sell the same. Our progress was slow as each stall-holder, all of them women, was keen to greet us, wanting to know our names and where we came from. We stopped to talk with a lady called Virginia, her two young children sleeping under the shade of the tin roof while she worked. She told me that they accompany her everyday to the market. This will be their playground until they are old enough to go to school.

Now we are regular customers at Filomena's stall, a few pitches in from the gate. From the roof hang bunches of bananas, bags of carrots and garlics, and piled up under it's shade are mounds of tomatoes, green oranges, mango, papaya and sweet potatoes, bunches of spinach and chard. Standing off the ground on wooden pallets are sacks of grains, rice, millet, kidney beans and tiny dried-up silver fish. She tells me she buys the produce direct from the farmers, who deliver it to the market in their vans. One day we saw one of these vans arriving, and a tug-of-war broke out among the stall-holders at the far end over the bags of grain.

Ossian loves to dig his hands into the grains, letting them spill over onto the floor. Usually one of the market ladies will come over and try to pick him up, making him shout out crossly and forget what he's doing. Filomena chats to us as she serves us, offering Uma a banana and asking her if she will stay and help her with the stall. Uma shakes her head shyly, watching in amazement as Filomena keeps a tally of how much we owe her, scratching the numbers onto the back of her weathered hand with a knife.

The lady next to her is knitting a jumper for her son while she waits for customers, expertly working a Fairisle design onto the front of it. Some of the stall-holders stand chatting to each other, watching the shoppers walking in through the gates. Others are busy talking on their mobile phones. All of them are wearing skirts and long aprons.

We load our shopping into a bag and set off, walking down the path to the playing field and the shortcut home, followed by curious stares and excited laughter.