I keep strolling through the narrow market streets, past the leopard skin belts, Bob Marley T shirts and even more genuine antiques. Genuine antiques are everywhere.
I’m feeling hungry. I should try some of the street food. Even though I am an experienced traveler, I’m not sure about the food here. Hygiene? Not the best. Not sure about the ingredients either. I am pretty adventurous, but don’t know if I can handle what I see in front of me.
I am at the door of the “Don’t Mind Your Wife” chop bar; next door to the “Dr No Regrets” watch repairers. The Chop bar menu tells me they have the best Banku and Tilapia. It entices me in with the promise of “Madam Moko’s” special Fufu and light soup. Chicken, beef and goat all on the menu. Head, feet, beaks and innards all included.
I should really try something different. “Come on, be Continue reading
So many things look familiar here.
The main road, pockmarked with potholes. Reddish brown sores on black skin. The sandy gravel sidewalk that constantly, irritatingly surrenders its upper layers. A fine film of dust insinuates itself into the folds of my pants, covers my exposed toes, sticks onto the velcro straps of my expensive sandals, subverting the trappings of another more affluent world. Not a good place for video cameras, recording devices or jogging with headphones.
Even the people look familiar here. I feel like I know them. Sure, they look different. But I recognise the types. I know their life. I know who they are. At least I think I do. But they don’t know me.
The vibrant atmosphere on the streets is irresistible. I am drawn to it. An assault on the senses.
Little boys in rags, playing and fighting on the street. Some of them working. Shoeshine boys, same brush for black or brown shoes, haggling over the special price for the foreigner. Kids who should be learning in school, learning on the street. Ten year olds kicking in to support the family. One of them wants to polish my sandals.