It is the rainy season, malaria is endemic, on the border between Thailand and Burma, where uncountable thousands of refugees, migrants, and undocumented displaced people are condemned to foreign food rations, crowded camps, slavery sweatshop wages, abuse by authorities, and sifting through garbage to survive. This little market is busy because it is situated outside the Mawker Thei malaria clinic run by SMRU (Shokalo Malaria Research) on the Moi River, where Burmese, mostly Karen, people cross because of the free malaria treatment. I came here on a project entitled: Malaria and Human Rights on the Thai/Burma border. When people get sick they want to go home. These people have no home to go to.
Nizwa Camel Market, Oman My passion for markets began when I was a small-town boy from Alberta, visiting Mexico with my parents. I vividly remember the strange-smelling food cooked and sold from tiny sidewalk stalls. I tasted my first fresh corn tortilla, fried and rolled around chopped oily onions, chicken and chiles, passed to me on a newspaper by a man with blackened leathery hands. I was fascinated with how quickly he stirred and flipped the sizzling morsels with one hand before scooping them up, all while fanning his coals with the other hand. Back in Canada, TV dinners were just becoming popular.