There are no supermarkets here. No sterile isles of white. No walls of refrigerators or shiny plastic packaged goods. No shopping trolleys or mall muzak. Here the isles are the orange dust of the roads and local farmers and fishermen line them with fresh goods. Some of the produce still moving.

 

The market is filled with vibrant colours, sounds and smells. Of tropical fruits, blood raw meats and exotic spices. People haggle. Neighbours chatter. Vendors shout their goods on offer. Scooters manoeuvre between pedestrians to pause and purchase. Around the corner, a smoke haze hovers over food being cooked and sold straight from the charcoal.