The Man at the Market

Someone suggested that I visit the open-air market held every Sunday morning in the parking lot of the big stadium not far from where I'm staying. A local market (pasar) in this part of the world offers a vast assortment of goods, from fruit and hanging slabs of raw beef to padlocks and men's underwear (yes, I'll post photos sometime). I picked up a few pieces of Malaysian weaving and wandered happily among the stalls, examining knock-off Nike backpacks and sampling crunchy snack crackers when vendors offered them.

In the last row, farthest from the stadium, a crowd had gathered under an awning. I went to see what had drawn their attention. The people stood so close together, I had to go round to the back to get a look.

A man sat on a low camp stool, speaking in Bahasa with a great deal of drama. For a moment I thought he was the focus of everyone's attention, and then I saw the snake. A cobra, its hood spread wide, stared eye-to-eye with the man. Before I managed to get my camera out, he had stuffed the snake into a white canvas sack and dropped it at his feet.

Then he slid the lid back from a wooden box and held up another snake, possibly a python, at least six feet long. All the while he talked up a storm. I got a few pictures, but I was standing behind him and couldn't really see his face.

He put the long snake away and reached back to a crate to grab several scrapbooks filled with newspaper clippings. Apparently many newspapers in many locations have run stories about this guy, complete with colorful pictures of him and his snakes. He flipped through the books and often jabbed his index finger at a headline, talking nonstop. He went on long enough that I thought he might be finished with the snakes, but that was not so.

When I saw him start to open another box, I ran across the performance area and squatted down in front of the people he faced squarely. He switched to perfect English and said, "You want to take a picture?" I said, "Yes, is it okay?" He said, "Sure, no problem."

He proceeded to show off with two of his snakes (I don't know how many he had altogether), and I happily took a lot of photos. Unfortunately, none of them are very good. There was a light problem (bright outside the awning, shady underneath it), and in all the shots where the guy looks fantastic, the snake's had is just out of the frame! (It really gives me a deep appreciation for photojournalism.)

I started to get curious about his angle, his goal. Looking all around, I saw no sign of a donation receptacle -- no upturned hat, no bowl. How is he going to make this pay off? I wondered. Other than the snake boxes, the canvas bag and the scrapbooks, he had only a gym bag and a plastic tub that I thought might contain a snake he hadn't shown.

His talk became even more animated as he showed everyone the snake's fangs or venom sacs or something that caused him to stick his finger into the snake's mouth. He banged on his heart with the flat of his hand a couple of times. Then he put the snake away and made a gesture showing soreness, reaching behind him to rub his lower back. Finally he indicated aching legs, sticking out one foot and massaging his calf as you would if you had a cramp. Clearly asking the crowd to identify with these aches and pains, he was leading up to something.

After a few more thumps on the chest and some vigorous pointing at the snakes (out of sight in their boxes) and his own head, during which I had the impression he was saying something about his ability to control or subdue the snakes, the man pulled out a small glass bottle filled with a green liquid.

I know about that stuff. It's an oil that smells intensely of wintergreen. Chinese people and some others attribute various health benefits to it. I know one Vietnamese American who swears by the stuff when he has a cold or flu. The snake handler uncapped a bottle and released that penetrating scent.

This is what he was selling. He dabbed a little on the back of his neck, then reached inside his shirt to touch near his heart. He walked among the spectators, letting them smell and touch the oil.

By this time I had stood up and moved outside the crowd. Hardly anyone else walked away; they waited to sample the green oil.

Finally I understood his hustle, his pitch.

I had just seen a bona fide snake-oil salesman.