Carlington Wilmot/ Freelance Photographer
By Mel Cooke,
Freelance Writer
WESTERN BUREAU:
C' wasn't feeling well about two weeks ago, so on that fateful Saturday morning I got the wake-up grunt and shove and was packed off to the Charles Gordon Market, Montego Bay, list in hand and sleep in my eyes.
Montegonians will know that it is a tradition in the second city to go to market on a Saturday morning. He, she and the old lady go - but mostly she.
Now, my concept of going to the market is beautifully simple. I stop at the first person who has what I want, get all that I can from them, then move on to the closest person who has what the first person doesn't have, and so on down the line.
That's on a day when I feel like walking. Other times the sub-contracting system works wonderfully. Grab the first youth you find, give him the list and some money and eat some cane until he comes back. That's his work. He won't run off and he'll always look out for you.
But would 'N', who was my fellow shopper and chaperone on that Saturday morning consider either of my systems? No way. I became a beast of burden as she walked through the whole blooming market choosing items for both households. Trust me, all I did was hold the bags, walk, sweat, pay money and grumble sotto voce.
For the life of me I cannot fathom how women shop at the market. They have special people they get certain items from. So it is potatoes here, red peas way over the other side and oranges clear over yonder. In between the stops there is plenty of what we are walking a couple miles to get but no: "Miss Caroline have nice, dry yam." And even when we get to Miss Caroline, it is still a matter of muttering over the 'nice, dry yam'. I mean, isn't this what you dragged me through an obstacle course of stalls, cart men, market baskets and stout shoppers to buy? Then buy the darn thing and let's go!
The price is another matter. A seller's price is a seller's price and you just pay it and boogie. But no. "You mustn't shop too close to the front. Things too expensive up front. The good prices are around the back." How much is less? Ten dollars per pound. How many pounds are we buying? Two. So we are going to do the equivalent of the Olympic steeplechase for twenty measly dollars? Come on! And what's the difference between the produce, anyway? As long as its not rotten or badly bruised, what's this inspection like a you're buying a deportee for. Take up the cabbage and let's go!
Sheesh.
So after heading out from CC at about 6:30 a.m. I am leaving out of the market at 8:00 a.m. - and I hear that this is a short trip. At least the last thing I buy is my kind of thing - sugar cane.
The market trip was great compared to the inspection and reaction back at home. As 'C' digs deeper the lines start and deepen in her forehead and the nostrils flare wider and wider. "A wha dis yu buy? I said local onion - is who yu carry foreign onion come give? Yu no see di cabbage no good? How de potato bruise up so? Yu no se...."
My standard response to everything: "I neva buy nutten boss. I jus carry de bag. Is 'N' dweet." So 'N' gets a telephone call. The conversation is civilly contentious. It starts: "Hey gal, a whe yu buy a market?" and ends with "eh eh, she hang up pon me."
Then I hear the magic words, complete with heave chest and sigh: "Hmm. Mi naa sen you back again."
Oh, I'm so distressed. I feel as if I'm not trusted, as if I am not competent. Look at my long face.
Heh heh. Saturday morning sleep sweet!
For most men, going to the market is simple: they get in and get out as quickly as possible.
