Sydney Produce Markets. Saturday. Free entry. A huge echoing iron warehouse of mystery, fascination, noise, people and vegetables. Or, maybe, a place of fascinating people and mysterious noisy vegetables. Shouts of “dolla, dolla, dolla” ring out from one seller sparking competing refrains from alternate stalls. The shouting match builds to a crescendo and dies quickly as customers gather.
“What’s that” I say, pointing to something that looks like a bag of flower stems without the nice flower bit and smelling vaguely of garlic.
“Garlic stems” the seller replies.
It’s early in the day and I don’t have any dollas so I proffer five bucks. Taking my garlic stems and my two dolla change, I slip into a aisle between stalls of oranges and cabbage.