Brekker for me is two pieces of chicken with some well-spiced well-fired coconut shavings sprinkled on top, bought from a woman set up in her little cart at the side of the main road that runs through Kamala.

Elle and her Oz friend, Kerrie, choose at a roadside bar they like for their brekker.

I leave them to clink teacups of white wine (day two of Big Buddha Holiday) and set off on foot to see what I can find.

The market is buzzing

A walkabout in the village and down a side street brings me to a food market. It’s hot. Humid. The market is buzzing.

Veggies, fish, meat, cakes. People frying stuff. Grilling stuff. “Why is that chicken yellow?” I ask. Very strange it looks, took, naked and yellow as a banana. “Spicing,” I think is what the man says when he finally understands I don’t want to buy it, but just want to know about its jaundiced hue.

Markets are always places to be trigger-finger happy with a camera, aren’t they?

And to eat.

I buy some — unidentifiable-by-me — deep fried leaves, from a woman wearing pink flounces and a mask and swirling bundles of them in a milky floury mixture and tossing them into sizzling oil. They come out crunchy, spicy and eat-them-all tasty.

When I gestured “hmm — delicious” she takes off the mask, comes out from her informal station behind the table, puts an arm around me, and asks her granddaughter to take a photo of us using her cellphone.

So then I give the kid my camera to take a picture for me, too. At which point the cook retrieves her phone and takes a selfie of us while we’re being photographed for me.

Chicken man roasting chooks

Love the larger-than-life chicken man roasting chooks at one of the counters. And that there are things I can’t identify. And the hot buzzy buzz of this busy outdoor place set up in mess and mud but with good, honest, real food.

And how pleasant and easy it is communicate in smiles and gestures. Although, wouldn’t I love to be able to ask a lot of questions. But doesn’t matter. Their culture. My enjoyment.

There is a second Popeye almost next door to Elle’s house. Last night’s was a restaurant. This one offers massage and beauty treatments. Small. Casual. Informal. Not where Elle goes. She has someone come in. But where I go because she says she knows they are pretty good.

© Wanda Hennig 2016, story and photos.

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