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It might well sound like it’s fruit and veg market stuck in the middle of a London suburb but Banjal’s Albert Market is as far away from the grey mist of Blighty as you could possibly imagine. A sweaty swirling cavalcade of African urban society the locals flock here in there droves to purchase the days essentials the row after row stalls that appear to be on the brink of spilling there load onto the hard floor. If there are laws against noise pollution they are not being enforced as the dizzying cacophony struggles to reach an unattainable crescendo. Bells tinkle, drums, pound, people sing and money drawers clickety click as vendors compete for every spare decibel with eerie commercial mantras. As the day goes by and the temperature rises the pungent air only adds to the disorientation the smell of spices, incense, citrus, fresh seafood, smoked fish, matured wood, leather, body odour, animals and perfumes mingling with the hot dust and perspiration to become all pervading. The colour scheme has been stolen directly from a madman’s paint palate. Striking hues bleed into one another and clothing and produce become indistinguishable to the naked eye. It is addictive, it is insane, it is wonderful, it is Africa.
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