Sunday, June 9, 2024

That market at bridge foot on the river was a thing of beauty, in retrospect. It was a tent-like building, encased in iron-wrought fencing, and without walls. The only walls were the ones separating the meat section from the rest of the market. On the east or northeast side was the river, and where the boats docked, especially the fishing boats, to unload their catch of the day. The fishing stalls were also right there, so the fishes didn’t have far to travel after being unloaded. But dories from inland would also dock there with fruits and vegetables, fresh off the farms. The sounds and the smells could be overwhelming, and yet so soothing to the senses. And the variety of foods was boundless; it was a market and a restaurant and a gathering place for gossiping and politics and intrigue, kinda like the bar in the movie Casablanca, without the Germans.

I remember being sent early in the mornings to buy meat or fish or vegetables. I loved going to the market, wandering through rows and rows of stalls, and I especially loved the smells. Listening to the vendors shouting at customers or at each other. The competition was fierce! You could buy almost anything in that place, except for shoes and clothing, and most importantly, everything was fresh. They had to be—the meat, the fish, the fruits and vegetables; after all, most homes didn’t have refrigerators. Everything was same-day service, and that was a good thing, for that period in time.

I think we were much healthier because of all the fresh produce that was immediately consumed. Fish tasted like fish, and not some rubber imitation; same with counce (conch) and the fresh meat. Beef, venison, peccary, armadillo, chicken, hicatee, turkey, all available. Nothing was banned in those days, on the endangered species list; “nature had blest us with wealth untold,” indeed!

The market was a community unto itself, self-contained and well-administered. Apart from the vendors, there was a large group of people who made the Belize market their second home. They were always there, from mawning till evening; I don’t know what they did for a living, but they were always there. The police would go to the market, looking for information about some crime committed in the city during the night. Like I’ve said, it was a place of rumor and gossip and intrigue.

I don’t know why it was torn down. Modernity, progress I guess; who knows? I do know that the replacement was not up to par with the original. That grittiness, that creoleness, disappeared. For some reason, we don’t treasure and preserve our monumental landmarks. We tear them down and replace them with false replicas of the OGs! What a shame. And what a ting!

Finnegan’s Market serves its purpose, but it is very different from the ole market! In that old market, one was in Belize, in the heart of who brung us here! The new market is more Central America, more alien to me! I’m not trying to romanticize it, but I do miss dat ole maakit!

Glen