Sri Lanka: saved by the bell

Lynda Gill

In Jaffna, you don't go to the supermarket. Vendors cycle to you, and they all have their own ring tones

Stop me and buy one ... a Sri Lankan fruit vendor sells king coconuts from his bicycle

In a world of internet shopping, shopping in Jaffna comes as a pleasant surprise; they do things a little differently here. The first tinkle of a bicycle bell can be heard at about 5.30am – the milkman on his bike, dispensing milk from an old metal churn into housewives' recycled bottles and jars. This discreet little tinkle is followed by the very much less discreet, irritating tune of the bread van. Dah da dah, dah da dah, dah da da dah. And again. And again. You wonder how much bread can possibly be needed on one small street.

A bit later, when you have just shaken off the tune of the bread van, a different, louder and even more persistent jingle: the ice-cream van. Competing with the bread van, the vendor has cranked up the volume and added bass. It's the Tom Jones of the van vendors: the funky beat promising sexy, irresistible ice-cream.

After all this aural stimulation, the apologetic tinkle of the fishmonger on his wiry old bike is a relief. The housewives swarm around, elbowing their neighbours out of the way to secure the best fish at the best price. The scales are brought out and the process of weighing and bargaining, adjusting and re-negotiating, begins. The fishmonger is followed by his friend the veg vendor, with his old wooden cart, selling fresh vegetables to accompany the fish, and papaya for dessert.

Throughout the day, a straggle of old men on old bikes pass by, offering services and goods – bicycle repairs, newspapers, soft drinks – each with a subtly different ring. My bell identification skills are elementary, but my neighbours are experts, scurrying out of the house only for specific rings. Then it's time to pick up the pace for the evening round. Bread, ice cream (again?), fish, vegetables, lottery tickets. Usually the vans stagger their visits, but sometimes they converge, resulting in competing tunes and frantic housewives.

In the brief lulls between musical retail activity the local temple starts up. There's always a festival: there are so many gods and all of them seem to demand noise. My sister phoned. What's all that noise, she said. Which one, I asked, the bread van, ice-cream van, fish man, temple, crows?

It's noisy, the tunes are irritating, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Internet shopping? No thanks, where's the fun in that?