Brightly coloured material brushed against my face as we wound our way through the central market. I squeezed myself up against a stall as a guy on an overloaded motorbike made his way through the bustling alleyways and paths though the stalls.
I love the noise and chaos of the market place, the shouts from stall owners and the animated bartering going on at every little wooden shack.
Men tried to sell us boxer shorts, cooking pots and washing basins. Women tried to convince us to buy material in bright prints from their stall, pleading plaintively with us if we looked for too long at material on someone else’s stall. We were handed dubious bottles of homemade perfume to smell and scarves to place around our necks. There were even expired unlabelled tablets sitting out in the sun at one woman’s stall. I daren’t think what they will be used for.
Covered in dust and exhausted from the heat and the intense energy of the market we emerged out on to a dusty side road where our taxi driver soon appeared and drove us back to the house, leaving the vibrant, colourful market behind.