At a nearby supermarket, the fish vendors are out in full
force. Proudly displaying their products on cheap paper plates, they are asking the
passing customers to sample their latest catches. I sidle up to one of them, a
fishmonger named Teddy.
To the foreigner from the west, displays like these might appear
kind of hokey and old fashioned, as outdated as the vacuum cleaner salesman and phonographs. I remember in La Paz, vendors
would go a step further: there you would find scantily clad pretty women
hawking the red wine, fruit juice, or chicken cutlets in their supermarkets. I
was almost embarrassed for these girls.
Here in Tanzania, there are no pretty women or flashy bras beckoning. Here it’s people standing silently in a corner, the labeled plates in a row in front of them.
Fish can be hit or miss in Tanzania, I’ve noticed. Due to the ever increasing popularity of fishing with dynamite, the customer will not know whether that fillet he just bought will taste like tuna or TNT. Trial and error. After a while, you’ll know what company sells what.
I am actually curious and sample a little kingfish from one of the plates. A little squeeze of lime, and the fish is absolutely delicious. More, I am thinking. More! Greed is good.
What follows is the longest conversation ever with a fishmonger. While Teddy is educating me about some of the intricacies of fish off the Tanzanian coast, I decide I will sample from every plate on his table. First, I shovel down all of the kingfish. Oink, oink. With my palate still unsatisfied, I move over to the red snapper. It is absolutely divine.
“You don’t mind me eating all of your fish, do you?” I ask the fishmonger.
“No,” he says, “because then the suppliers will think that the samples were very popular here.”
Teddy himself is a short, stalky guy with a smile that covers most of his face. His skin is the darkest shade you’ll ever see anywhere, which lightens up his pearly whites even more. Although he is not pushing himself on customers, he is very helpful in answering their questions and assisting them with the fish samples. I am almost becoming his assistant, with the subtle difference that I am porking away on the lion share of his fish.
It’s only fish, I’m thinking, right? Can’t get fat from that, can you? Do we know any other famous last words? How about JFK asking to keep the car top down? Houdini daring innocent bystanders to punch him in the gut? Don't worry, the gun is not loaded? The words more fish almost become my undoing.
By the time I’ve helped myself to a couple of plates of tuna and dorado, I am convinced I am growing gills in my stomach somewhere. The hair on my arms is standing up, almost as if I'm expecting to watch scales appear where my skin is. I’d like to shop and get on with my life, but it seems there’s always a fish somewhere tripping me up with either a fin or a slice of lime. That said, I do help Teddy sell a few bags of fish, telling the foreign shoppers just how good the stuff really is. They would actually know for themselves if I wasn’t eating all of the fish myself.
Finally, Teddy rolls out the prawns after they’ve been cooked. Charge! preferably before the customers get there. Oink, oink, slobber, barf. Yum. And yum again. So gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins? Amen, brother. So be it.
Of course, I eventually buy a red snapper fillet and some tuna when I bid farewell to Teddy. He’s made out quite well for the day, in spite of me.
Outside of the market, I am not walking anymore. We are now talking about floating like a balloon after so much fish, and I am begging not to stumble into a cactus on my way home.
So far, I haven’t been crazy about any of the meats for sale here yet. I guess it will be fish, then. I’m sure I can do a lot worse for my health. The only danger here is eating too much of it. The fish could get their due revenge in that, after they’ve been blown up, they can rest in peace knowing that they helped blow up a human stomach from its owner's own zealous, avaricious overeating.
Here in Tanzania, there are no pretty women or flashy bras beckoning. Here it’s people standing silently in a corner, the labeled plates in a row in front of them.
Fish can be hit or miss in Tanzania, I’ve noticed. Due to the ever increasing popularity of fishing with dynamite, the customer will not know whether that fillet he just bought will taste like tuna or TNT. Trial and error. After a while, you’ll know what company sells what.
I am actually curious and sample a little kingfish from one of the plates. A little squeeze of lime, and the fish is absolutely delicious. More, I am thinking. More! Greed is good.
What follows is the longest conversation ever with a fishmonger. While Teddy is educating me about some of the intricacies of fish off the Tanzanian coast, I decide I will sample from every plate on his table. First, I shovel down all of the kingfish. Oink, oink. With my palate still unsatisfied, I move over to the red snapper. It is absolutely divine.
“You don’t mind me eating all of your fish, do you?” I ask the fishmonger.
“No,” he says, “because then the suppliers will think that the samples were very popular here.”
Teddy himself is a short, stalky guy with a smile that covers most of his face. His skin is the darkest shade you’ll ever see anywhere, which lightens up his pearly whites even more. Although he is not pushing himself on customers, he is very helpful in answering their questions and assisting them with the fish samples. I am almost becoming his assistant, with the subtle difference that I am porking away on the lion share of his fish.
It’s only fish, I’m thinking, right? Can’t get fat from that, can you? Do we know any other famous last words? How about JFK asking to keep the car top down? Houdini daring innocent bystanders to punch him in the gut? Don't worry, the gun is not loaded? The words more fish almost become my undoing.
By the time I’ve helped myself to a couple of plates of tuna and dorado, I am convinced I am growing gills in my stomach somewhere. The hair on my arms is standing up, almost as if I'm expecting to watch scales appear where my skin is. I’d like to shop and get on with my life, but it seems there’s always a fish somewhere tripping me up with either a fin or a slice of lime. That said, I do help Teddy sell a few bags of fish, telling the foreign shoppers just how good the stuff really is. They would actually know for themselves if I wasn’t eating all of the fish myself.
Finally, Teddy rolls out the prawns after they’ve been cooked. Charge! preferably before the customers get there. Oink, oink, slobber, barf. Yum. And yum again. So gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins? Amen, brother. So be it.
Of course, I eventually buy a red snapper fillet and some tuna when I bid farewell to Teddy. He’s made out quite well for the day, in spite of me.
Outside of the market, I am not walking anymore. We are now talking about floating like a balloon after so much fish, and I am begging not to stumble into a cactus on my way home.
So far, I haven’t been crazy about any of the meats for sale here yet. I guess it will be fish, then. I’m sure I can do a lot worse for my health. The only danger here is eating too much of it. The fish could get their due revenge in that, after they’ve been blown up, they can rest in peace knowing that they helped blow up a human stomach from its owner's own zealous, avaricious overeating.
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