Market Excitement

It is the theory of some that all bus drivers in Belem are aspiring Nascar drivers, retired Nascar drivers, or failed Nascar drivers. These guys jockey for positions, tailgate, and defend their places vigorously. The paces they put their buses through are unbelievable, and all this while crammed full of human cargo.

The driver of the bus we got on a couple of Saturdays ago made all other Belem bus drivers look good. He laid on the horn, charged pedestrians (more than usual), and took corners at full speed. The bus was so full that I was standing in the entry, facing the driver. There I stood, hip to hip with other passengers, feeling like we might all vomit out of the door when it opened next. A kind citizen gave George their seat. The approximately seven-mile trip took one hour to accomplish, and by the time we arrived at the market, I was more than a little queasy. Quadruple strength Dramamine couldn't have touched this one.

Typically when we go to the Ver o Peso market, we try to arrive early. In such a hot climate, it is always the earlier the better. On this trip we slept in a bit, and didn't leave the house until 7.45 am, so by the time we arrived at the market the sun was already shining down like seven suns, and the aroma was in full bloom.

I breathed through my mouth and tried to overcome the nausea. We walked past the fruit section (sickly sweet), then the meat section (sickly savory), the salt fish section (bang!), and then the fresh fish building (BANG!). The sidewalk was swaying a little, lapping at my feet like a small river, but I kept walking.

That's when I saw him. A shirtless man stumbling across the street, holding his stomach. Bright red blood running through his fingers and spattering the road. He careened over to a couple of policeman and started pointing and yelling. His hot blood marred the pavement, flowing freely from the deep stab wound in his lower abdomen. A crowd began to gather and I ushered George away. Miraculously, George didn't see a thing, even as we stepped over the crimson flow.

I hurried us into the market, trying to process what we had just seen, but no rest for the nauseous. Fish monger upon fish monger yelled at us to check out their stuff, trying to sell us everything from a five-foot-long catfish to a mess of piranhas, from a small shark to a large stingray, from a bag of shrimp to a bag of gills.

We escaped the fish market, but there was no peace to be found in the open market. We squeezed our way past hundreds of booths and were offered more wares: some regional cologne, a large goat, a model boat. We wander for a while, and I 'chat' with a few people in fragmentary Portuguese, then my cultural tank is full, and it is time for a break.

I am not the kind of person who throws the idiom hustle and bustle around very often, but in this case it fits the bill. The hustle and bustle of the market was almost too much. Beware, I could toss out a part and parcel and maybe a rack and ruin at any moment.

We turn our noses toward The Estacao das Docas, a fancy tourist spot located in some refurbished warehouses--just the place to regain composure. Here one can enjoy air conditioning, cheese-flavored ice cream, and a cappuccino, as well as clean bathrooms and a little peace and quiet. Although it is right next door to the market, it is continents away in atmosphere.

As we stroll through the gates and are about to head inside, I stop to get my camera out of the backpack. It is then that I realize my wallet is gone.

On the bus ride home, I thank the Lord that we had just enough loose change for the bus fare, that I didn't lose very much money, and that the pickpocket didn't get my camera. George responded well to the whole event , "That wallet was old anyway, you needed a new one, and we can make some ice cream when we get home". But what about my coffee?!