Mbare Market – located on the outskirts of Harare’s CBD, is the local One-Stop Shop where anything and everything can be bought, sold or exchanged. I have come with my money safely thrust into the pocket of my jeans. Although I have dressed down, I am decidedly out of my element here – absurdly suburban. No one seems to care or notice, except me, so I take a deep breath and push into the cacophony of chaos.

First are the piles of second hand clothes – donated for the needy, sold by the greedy. Next is the aptly named Jack Sparrow’s DVDs – on sale before the movie has even been released in the First World. I stop, astonished, in time to see that Jack Sparrow has a website and Facebook address too. For two dollars a DVD, I can purchase a fuzzy Brad Pitt.

Moving deeper into the heaving mass , I am engulfed by brand names like Nokie and Samtung, Guchi and Prado. I stumble upon exotic fish in tanks, perfectly incongruous next to car parts and plumbing wares. I imagine fish in porcelain toilet bowls, and move on before I lose myself in the sublimely ridiculous.

Next, I find superbly crafted Shona sculpture, intricate African beadwork, rich hues of polished wood, rustic pots and woven baskets, piles of bright batiks and toys made from empty coke tins and bits of wire – every piece has been lovingly crafted by hand. It is a recycling haven – discarded bottle tops are handbags, bits of old wire, toys.
Sadly, however, the crush of potential customers lingers around Jack Sparrow and the likes, and the craft market is deserted. The locals have no need of unnecessary trinkets, and the tourists are notable by their absence.

I wander through, followed by anxious artists who are clearly desperate to engage this sole customer of the day. “Let’s talk, Madam. I can give you a good deal, Madam. Buy two or three, Madam, and we can talk…” I wish I could buy something from all of them, but in the end, I buy nothing – confused by my own guilt.

I make my way slowly out through the final section – the food market. Here, small children wash vegetables in dirty puddles. Grain is sold by the tiny cupful out of large clay pots. I am embarrassed by the woman who smiles at me, gracefully balancing the small cup of grain on her head, as she rearranges the baby on her back and tugs at the hands of the other two toddlers at her side. No doubt this is dinner. Suddenly my deliberately dressed-down clothes feel too tight and I feel like a fish in a porcelain toilet bowl.