Friday, May 21, 2010

Kejatia Market

We weaved through the crack in the mud wall like ants. The narrow walkway of churned up rail roads, conglomerates of cement, and rust colored mud caked our dry sandals, following each other in a straight lines like ducks. To the left, a baby girl pissed in the open sewer gutter. A toothless vender selling second hand socks. A man grabs my wrist, touches my hair. I am real. I found a grocery store. Approached the cashier.

"Do you have an ATM."

Then a silent stare. Uncomprehendable chattering between the workers. Now I am the idiot in the store. Completely handicap to all social etiquette. I left. Who needs water. The sun so hot. My blood flowing like hot tar.

Then I got back. Asked Maggie for the phone, and stared at it for an hour or so. Calling. Hanging up. I left something back there. I'm not sure what. But I think I lost my voice. I don't know how I feel about Kejatia market.


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