Market Day (Volume 3)

The cold cobblestone of Poland's Rynek Glowny greets you with a gust of balmy Krakow wind filled with sweet doughy scent of Paczki. The Rynek is Europe's largest squares and one of its most impressive. Make-up clad women pass by, braving short skirts in the cold air. You zero in on the souvenir stalls and find a world of fine crafted woodwork; chess boards and folk art that you feel guilty buying just to put in a drawer. But you buy nonetheless and with a full bag of polish crafts, cross the colossal square and for steaming 'Szarlotka'. A Szarlotka is pastry of the god of heartiness...an apple tart so rich and warming to the soul that you must pause and take it all in. Reserved hope gleans for the faces of the Polish. You imagine a family sitting around a table sixty years ago, as Poland was bound in ashes and despair, sharing the same pastry you eat now. Nearby new construction replaces the remnant ghettos from the Nazi invasion. 50 miles away live the ghosts at Auschwitz. You imagine for that moment what any of the heroes who died there would have done then for just a bite. With a full stomach and a heavy heart, you push on.

The European cobblestone beneath your feet changes to that of Incan make. You raise your eyes and brilliant colors and sounds explode before you! You are in Cuzco, in the land of the vibrant Incan. The mountain air is thin and filled with sounds of Andean life. Ancient ruins border churches that border stalls selling all manor of Peruvian fare. Fiery reds, verdant greens and deep blues stripe satchels holding babies on young mothers' backs. They sell piping papas and roasted maize. The air is smoke, manure, fresh cut onions. A man leads a burro past; the wrinkles of his face, his boots, his poncho read like paragraphs of a great story. Among the drum roll of sensation, a stall catches your glimpse. A woman there paints her history on the Retablo, a small painted box filled with miniatures depicting Andean life. To a Peruvian, the family's Retablo occupies the most sacred space. Your favorite is in the shop's window, a room of women weaving the color's of the Incan in tiny form. The box itself is adorned in warm rust and yellow, inside its doors the weavers work, each painted with the detail only a master could craft. Box in tow, you pass vendors grilling Cuy, the Peruvian delicacy of Guinea Pig. Rodent is not on your palate today, so off you go to search out some rural markets for a taste of something new. As you step onto the dirt roads surrounding Lake Bunyoni, a light mist coats your face...

The mountains of Uganda hold you breathless. You are a speck in a sea of green. The crunch of gravel under your feet is the only noise not made from a bird in the canopy above, or perhaps a monkey who nervously watches in the distance. A small market is bustling on this mountain lake ahead. Nearby the stoic Mountain Gorilla's forage and Pygmies still live in the old ways. This small market is one of thousands throughout central Africa--they sell what they can pull off the tree's or grow on their terraced slopes. Imported goods are out of the question...and seem unnecessary at the glance of the bounty surrounding you. Bananas everywhere! Root vegetables, exotic fruits, cucumbers and soft ball sized avocado's. A slaughtered goat hangs by its haunches, villagers feeling and smelling the carcass for freshness. Dugout canoes come and go, filled with today's wares for tomorrow's meals. Nothing here resembles a souvenir, only the necessities of life as they are traded between nearby villages. A woman sits on her knee's; in one arm her baby feeds and the other a stack of banana leaves as she hawks passersby. Her face is friendly and inviting-her huge teeth shine inside her smile. Uganda is a country of smiling people, a shining light next to the heart of darkness. Ugandans may be the most cheerful of all people and their warmth today is the most precious memory you can take.

Indeed, you needed this warmth most of all. As you step out from the African equator and into the famous Namche Bazaar, the frosted air of the high Himalaya numbs you from finger to toe...