A touch of the bazaar

Crowded long corridors, dirt stained tarpaulin stretched tightly over long steel poles, the smoky air filled with meat and butter and corn; this outdoor week long market takes place annually in the lesser known Larissa of Greece, reputed birth place of Achilles and final resting place of Hippocrates.

The transients haul into Larissa setting up tents and caravans and boarded stalls right next to endless rows of fire-engine red plastic chairs in readiness for the hungry market goers.




Tables groan under the weight of bags. Leather bags, plastic bags that look like leather bags, black and tan long strap filigree, holds the kitchen sink bags; right next to an erupting volcano of socks, spewing coloured cloth down their sides and encroaching mercilessly onto the jewellery that washes over and clashes at the boarder.




Lost sellers can hardly be spotted amongst their goods, their bored faces barely recognisable in the din of plastic wrappers and bold colourful logos that keep them isolated from the world.




Now onto the menagerie, a wild escape into a world of green scales, yellow feathers, short puffed hair and long whiskers. Fish of every colour idle by giving the terrapins a prudent look, while young children scream delight and stare and point and threaten the last pillar of cleanliness and order in their parents’ homes.




Out of the jumbled up, claustrophobic corners and towards the spinning light of the Ferris wheel whirring and blurring the edges of vision. A chance to breath in some fresh air before diving back into the hum drum and clash boom bash of the market.




Finally, a hard earned morsel to be gotten from those who spend their lives on the road; setting up in a new town, this, their place of work under a dim flickering bulb that casts long shadows onto the grooves of their weary faces.









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