The heat of the day ran down her face; harassed her. She grimaced, her eyes wide, wide open and reddish from the dust. She hollered: "All a' ya dirty skunts!" All the while trudging through the mound of styrofoam boxes, plastic bottles, discarded food and miscellaneous trash that flanked huge empty industrial bins. Her feet bare, her heels cracked, her skin dry, greyish, spoke of hardship. Spoke of hardiness. Spoke of sheer grit. And while she divided her energies between the hawking of abuse and the scooping up of rubbish, her bright yellow T-shirt bellowed: "My God is an awesome God!"
When I turn to pay Ms Welville G$400 for two bunches of ginep, I am quickly apprised: "Don't mind duh 'clean-up' lady, she mad. Plenty, plenty of dem mad in Charity-Amazonia." I smile, thank her, head toward 'duh clean-up lady', lean left, then right to avoid the darts of yuh-modda's-dis and yuh-modda's-dat. Hand her G$500. See a brief gasp of surprise quick-step into raw indignation. "Yuh got anoda G$500? Is duh all yuh gun give me fuh cleaning dis modda skunt dirty market, is duh all?" And while she bends over to scoop up more rubbish, I briskly sidle away. Scuttle off to my waiting boat, find the first blank page in my little black book and start to scribble: "The heat of the day harassed, ran rivulets down her face..."
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