Corn-on-the-cob

Wade and I went to a local market in Dili. I call it the “Hali Lara” market, because that’s what I was told it was called. But no one else seems to know what I’m talking about when I say that name. I’ve double-checked it with the person who originally told me the name. She confirmed that it was correct. I wonder if she’s playing a joke.

The Hali Lara market (if that is its real name), is set at the foot of the Dili mountains, and is instantly recognisable by the presence of several gigantic banyan fig trees out the front, with their foreboding, veiny trunks that could house a small family, their aerial roots hanging down from the branches like giant windchimes. The market has a lively array of items available, including colourful spices; vegetables arranged in little pyramids of tomatoes, mounds of ginger, baskets of rice; cheap Chinese kitchen gadgets and, surprisingly, second hand clothing.

The first thing that struck me as we began weaving our way through the stalls was just how many people didn’t seem to care that we were there. No one was yelling at us to try to get us to buy something, no one was holding things up in our faces saying, “Yes? You want to buy?”, no one was coaxing us into their shop, saying, “Please come in!”. We were just free to browse wherever we liked and everyone just went about their own business.

It was as if we were invisible!

I said to myself, “This has got to be the most relaxing market experience I’ve ever had”.

We slowly wandered towards the food stalls. We bought a packet of peanuts. We didn’t even have to bargain. It was all so relaxed.

We came across a man selling barbequed corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick. Since I hadn’t had lunch, I thought, “Yeah, I’ll have one of those”.

I chose the one I wanted, gave the man his money and started walking again. I looked down at my corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick and took a bite. Suddenly I felt like my invisibility cloak had just been yanked from my person. Eyes were staring at me. People were pointing. When I smiled at them, they smiled back, even bigger. When I smiled back at them bigger, they started cracking up laughing and exclaiming things in a language I couldn’t understand.

We kept walking. Everywhere we went, people were looking, pointing, laughing, nudging their neighbours. Busy people walking past would look up as they passed me, and then do a double-take, looking at the corn, and then back at me, then at the corn again, and then break into a smile. Before too long, news of the “malae” (foreigner) with the corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick was spreading like wildfire, proceeding my every turn, where the locals around the corner were waiting for me with anticipation.

I started to get paranoid, wondering if I was doing something wrong. Maybe it wasn’t actually corn, but some strange animal poo. But then why would a man be barbecuing it and putting it on a stick and then smearing butter all over it?

Although it was a little different to the corn-on-the-cob I’ve had before (ie it was excessively crunchy – not a lot of moisture in the kernels), I still maintained that it was, indeed, edible.

Perhaps I had something in my teeth?

No, Wade confirmed that this wasn’t the problem.

It was a mystery.

For the rest of our market experience we were met with curious, yet friendly, pointing and laughing gestures.

I surmised that they were gestures of approval, rather than ridicule.

I took out the trusty Tetum phrasebook. I looked up “tasty” and found, “kapas los” (this food tastes good). I tried out the phrase on a few people. It was returned with vigorous head-nodding and more smiling.

By the time I’d eaten half of it, my jaws were beginning to ache. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw it in the bin, especially with everyone watching. We walked out to the street and hailed a taxi. The driver gave me and my corn a friendly smile as we got in, and we went home.