The Market

This morning I walked to the market with Iain. There's no
way I could possibly describe the scene. Stalls of fresh
fruit and vegetables lined the street, spilling out onto the
road. More traditional shops stood back, along the
pathway. Hawkers scrubbed their produce until it glowed,
others busily hung bright garments, bags, or plastic toys that
hung from self-made structures of bamboo poles tied
together in a framework with anything that could possibly
be used to tie a knot; string, plastic bags, long grass,
or bright yarn. And everywhere I walked people stared
at Iain and me. It's so hard to enjoy the atmosphere when
every move you make is being watched by others. I
far prefer anonymity.

I stopped by a stall to buy some fruit, succeeding in
purchasing everything I needed. The fruit seller offered
me a small, round, orange fruit. All traveling books tell
the tourist to never eat anything you can't peel without
first soaking in a solution to kill water-born bacteria.
So I thanked him and told him that I would perhaps try
the fruit another time. The man insisted, several times I
politely refused, repeatedly he offered it to me. So
there I stood, in a busy market where everyone stared at
the only white person around as a kind fruit seller
offered me a taste of his fine fruit. Do I risk the bout of
stomach cramps and nausea for the sake of avoiding offense?
Or do I possibly offend the man and refuse?

What would you have done?