Virunga Market

The smell of drying fish and spices sting my nostrils as I weave through the maze of people. Colourful fabrics, half a cow, and tables full of fresh produce make up the mosaic of Virunga market.

The constant slur of French and Swahili drowns the sound of twenty or so sewing machines plinking away behind a barrier of fabric. Mounds of sugar, corn flour and maize are stacked tall in front of women trying to manage their table and manage their children.

Virunga market has levels. At table height the bartering, arguing and laughing takes place. Money is exchanged for flip-flops, limes, chili peppers, and pots and pans. The second, lower, level is a mess of discarded veggies and sleeping children.

Several young boys try to grab my camera and wallet by bumping into me accidentally on purpose. When I tell them I know what they are doing they just shrug and laugh.

Virunga market is a beautiful organized chaos. It is everyday life. The butchers wear graduation gowns to avoid getting their clothes bloody. Who knows how long the chunks of meat having been dangling from the rafters?

Going to the market is not a just one errand out of the day; it’s the event of the day. You get lost in the bartering and mélange of goods and produce. When you find the exit it is as if you are coming up for air after a long dive. The only issue is once you exit you are met with the outer market crowds and roads of Goma. The chaos is never ending.