Walking in a market area, things were, to say the least and to be as polite as humanly possible, uncommon. Centipedes in polystyrene boxes, crawling their crawls on the others that crawl. Scorpions on the chopping block being coaxed into submission by the little hands of a child with little slits for eyes.

The air was thick with the pungency of what could only be described as death-because-dinner. Around me more black heads come and go, unphased by the apparent terrarium butchering happening all around them.

The lizard cook chopped the heads off of the little guys as if he’s been doing it for years. Soups made of whatever could be caught that day fill giant pots heated by fires hotter than the surface of the sun.

Handfuls of chilli are everywhere, supposedly to mask the real taste of what would be eaten.

The floor of the market told the story of who was there, mostly in the form of DNA. Vacating one’s sinuses seems the norm rather than something you would do with only yourself to shame you. I vaguely remember seeing a parent fold a baby in half on the side, against a closed down market shop. Everything here is different from what I’m used to.

As I continued my descent into the next circle of hell, I felt a slither. You need to understand the following. If I have to wear shoes, I will always try to get away with the bare minimum. At that time, at the time of this story, I was wearing slip on sandals. This means that I had nothing protecting my feet from whatever decided to challenge my ego that day.

Getting back to the slither. I was cold, it was wet, it was cold. What happened next is not something I’m proud of, but nevertheless, it happened. As the slither made its way across my foot, I did what any sane person would do. I kicked. What I was not accounting for was the lack of friction between my foot and my shoe. As my leg reached its natural stopping point, Newton compelled my shoe forward. Time had stopped around me. My size 12 shoe was flying across the market. People were moving slower and slower, all following my shoe like a game of tennis.

As one does, I shouted, to avoid anyone getting hurt by the inevitable result of gravity. . My shoe landed in a giant pot of orange coloured soup. At that moment I spoke the language fluently. I’m sorry, I kept saying I'm sorry until the vendor cleaned his grandma’s, who was sitting next to the pot, checking the soup, face. I have never seen an old person hate before, they are usually too wise for all that nonsense, but that day, I witnessed it. Being hated by an old person is not just her hate for you which punches you in the gut, it's the hate of everyone she decided not to hate in the past. A cornucopia of emotions all contained in milky, cataract, slit eyes. I had to get out, but my shoe, my shoe, was still cooking.

In that moment, I was thinking a million things at once, but the main thing was “where will I find another shoe that size, that one is from home.” My embarrassment continued. My shoe started to float, possibly because it was ready to serve, who knows. I grabbed it by the bridge and ran. Ran is maybe a strong word. I hopped-jumped with only one foot protected by a shoe. I have not returned to the market since.