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The cries of street traders may be going extinct in Western Europe, but in Brazil they are a vibrant feature of everyday life, as Jonathan Fryer reports.
When I am staying at the house at the Praia de Iracema in Fortaleza, trying to write a book well away from distractions, I am woken in the morning by the fruit seller touting his wares.
He parks his bicycle under the kitchen window and belts out through the loudspeaker attached to the back what he has to offer.
Some of the fruit is familiar, like pineapple and papaya. But at times he calls out a name that means nothing to me, such as "saputi, saputi, saputi" and I am driven by curiosity to buy some to find out what it is.
In that case, it turned out to have a hard skin like a kiwi, but the flesh of an over-ripe apple, and it tasted like nothing else on earth.
Loudspeakers and amplifiers on bicycles seem to be this year's "must have" for the more affluent street traders in Fortaleza.
If there are laws about how loud these can broadcast, no-one obeys them.
At intervals during the day, I am shaken by sudden blasts.
Even the small supermarket on the corner has a cyclist-broadcaster who passes, though his message recently has acquired a new twist - "The San Luiz supermarket is supporting the campaign against dengue fever." All that in Portuguese, of course.
News broadcast
Though the international media have taken note of the fact that there is an outbreak of potentially fatal mosquito-borne dengue in Rio de Janeiro, way down south, what happens in the impoverished north-east of Brazil rarely gets a mention.
Even the local people often only hear about things from announcements or gossip in the streets.
Newspapers are far too expensive for ordinary people to buy, and anyway, many cannot read very well.
After the supermarket bicycle passed the other day, the maid came rushing into my office screaming, "Senhor Jonathan. Dengue fever has arrived in Fortaleza."
And off she went to the San Luiz supermarket, to buy more insect repellent.
At least the loudspeaker-bikes keep off the beach, where a motley array of sellers weaves its way between the tables of the palm-shaded barakas or bars, at a rate of about one every two minutes.
"Ostra, ostra, ostra," cries the oyster man, a character straight out of Dickens.
His black football shorts and top look as if they have been washed a million times, and his face is marked by deep lines, though he is probably no more than 40.
Sometimes he has a little boy tagging along silently.
Needless to say, I have never tried his fare, the idea of oysters from a polystyrene box when the temperature is well over 30C strikes me as a sure recipe for stomach cramps.
Or maybe even death.
Beach delicacy
The shellfish man, "lagosta, lagosta, lagosta," similarly gets short shrift.
In fact the only beach trader I have ever bought food from is the smoked cheese vendor.
"Olha o queijo asado," (Look over here, cooked cheese) he intones in a weary voice, as if he had all the cares of the world on his shoulders.
I do not know how many hundreds of people he has to ask before he gets a customer.
When he does succeed, he lowers onto the sand his little brazier, blows the hot charcoal in it and then slowly cooks a piece of cheese on a stick, just like a lollipop. Delicious.
Nutrition problem
As I eat it, trying not to burn my mouth, I wave away two young men with my free hand. "No, I don't want a tattoo, thank you very much."
The smoked cheese man, like almost all the other beach traders, is small and skinny.
Malnutrition is still a big problem in the favelas, or slums, on the outskirts of the city, where most of them live.
They barely scrape an existence from their activities, and their basic diet tends to be rice, flour, pasta and beans.
When I first came to Fortaleza, 25 years ago, people in the nearby countryside were literally dying of starvation, because of a prolonged drought.
This year, in contrast, it has been teeming with rain.
Tens of thousands of people have lost their homes and floods have destroyed their crops.
No wonder so many have poured into the city, in the hope of creating some livelihood.
Within a generation, the population of Fortaleza has swelled from 500,000 to over three million.
Back at the house, I know when five o'clock is approaching, because suddenly I hear a hysterical woman's voice calling for coffee, "meu café, meu café, meu café," followed by raucous laughter.
Being still very British, I had never asked my neighbours about their demented relative, who was obviously confined to the house.
And the other day, I was relieved that I had not.
The woman's voice called out, "Oh my God," and screeched - and I suddenly realised it was a parrot.
From Our Own Correspondent was broadcast on Saturday, 7 June, 2008 at 1130 BST on BBC Radio 4. Please check the programme schedules for World Service transmission times.
(BBC)
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