Tuesday, February 17, 2015


The cries of street vendors are constant in our neighbourhood. There's the stall which assembles itself on a corner from which one I buy a fresh orange juice every weekday morning on my way to the office. There's the motley assortment of vendors who gather outside the supermarket selling the same stuff you can get inside but cheaper. And there are the legion of snack-sellers everywhere, who seem do a good business. 
But the ones I find fascinating are those who peddle their wares by cart or bicycle. The guy with a knife-sharpening machine strapped behind his saddle; the one who sells tamales (a spicy dish of chopped meat wrapped in cornmeal dough) balanced on his handlebars; and the camote (sweet potato) seller who pushes a cart, within which is a pressure cooker lit by a small, in-built fire. Every now and again he lets off an ear-piercing whistle which you can hear several blocks away.

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