Do you see what I see?

There is a large pile of rubbish directly opposite the front door to my flat. Plastic bags, fag packets, rotting organics, squelchy brown stuff that doesn’t encourage closer examination. The word “seething” springs to mind.

It’s useful for giving directions to first-time visitors – “I live in the building opposite the big pile of rubbish” – but I barely notice it myself any more.

A few steps from my building, and I’m on Suleiman Gohar street, one of liveliest local produce markets in the area. Stalls and carts spread with brightly coloured fruit and veg. Nature’s bounty, gnarly and twisted, lumpy and pitted – unlike the food in England, where the carrots look like they’ve been moulded in a factory. This food has grown. But I barely notice any more.

Black clad women squat on the street, child on hip, whilst they trim the leaves from artichokes. A large man in a suit is arguing prices with a stick-thin old farmer in a pale blue galabaya. Right on cue, a teenager on a rickety bike wobbles through the crowd, balancing a crate of bread on his head. But I barely notice these things any more.

Raggedy cats root through the plastic bags discarded at the side of the street; two kids hitch a lift on the back of a van. The driver is oblivious, and I barely notice it myself.

The fish, huddled close together in their quilt of crushed ice, are starting to smell a little. It’s not an enticing smell. Pink and white striped carcasses hang from butchers’ hooks in the sun. They look like pigs, but they aren’t. I barely glance in their direction.

And then a large black guy walks past me. Definite tourist: mirrored shades, blood red singlet and baggy shorts to match. White iPod earphones. A CamelBak to defend against the desert-dangers of dehydration.

My head snaps round. I stop still, and watch him stride through the market. Striding – another sign this guy is a tourist. We shuffle.

And yet, when did “I” become “We”? To what extent have my perceptions of normality attuned themselves to the environment in which I now live? Why am I staring at this man? No judgement, just mild curiosity.

Most of the market is still staring at him, as he recedes into the distance. As I turn to leave, I notice one local man standing outside the pharmacy – twenty-something, jeans and trainers, gelled black hair – looking at me.

I know he saw me stop and stare. He knows I know he was watching me. He smiles. I wonder what he sees.

Note: Since I wrote (rather than published) this piece, that big pile of rubbish has been taken away. I kind of miss it. And it’s much harder to explain where my house is now.