The long mournful wail of the conch shell would startle us awake on certain cold mornings, as the “Fish Man,” the first of the village peddlers arrived. Leisurely blowing through the carapace and cycling past tightly shuttered houses on a rusty, creaking bike while dodging sloshy pot holes, he would shout out his best offer and catch of the day surrounded by far too pungent piles of sweet sea bob shrimp stacked in the carrier.
Most days, my mother would make her usual trip to the nearby La Penitence market to pick up just harvested fruits, vegetables and sea food but occasionally when it rained, she would resort to the itinerant vendor, poking his olfactory offerings to check for sagging signs of age and haggling with him in feigned horror
