After a short hiatus over the Christmas holidays, we're back to walking on Wednesday mornings. Zoe's got a cold which she graciously shared with me, so we're both slightly miserable, but nothing was going to stop me from getting off the ship for the first time in a couple weeks. My shopping list was short: avocados, limes, and a small garbage can for our bedroom if we happened to be in the part of the market that sold plastic things.
Image may be NSFW.
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The produce was no problem. Three avocados from one stand for 10,000 francs (a little less than a dollar and a half) and six limes from another for 5,000 meant that the HoJ and I can satisfy our craving for chips and guacamole in the very near future. And, conveniently, when I turned around from the avocado lady, I saw a little yellow trash can sitting amongst a pile of plastic bowls and baskets. Tracey hung back while I went to ask for a price, because one white girl in the market is bad enough; throw another one in the mix and it's a surefire recipe for getting yourself ripped off.
I pointed to the little yellow trash bin and asked a man standing near, Combien? How much? When he told me it was over 100,000, I just started laughing and turned to walk away. In a flash, another man was at my side, holding out a different type in varying soft shades of pink and purple. A third quickly entered the fray, carrying the fanciest model yet, a small, white number with a foot pedal and a red cross painted on the side. It's medical, he told me, reverently caressing the cross before placing his offering on the ground and demonstrating the pedal.
One by one I asked prices, bartered a little, and rejected the ridiculous sums they were demanding (Seriously, sir? Twenty-five dollars for a red cross and a foot pedal? I think not!) Garbage cans were coming out of the woodwork, carried by earnest sellers with wildly varying degrees of English proficiency. I eventually settled on a plain little navy blue number, the perfect size to fit under the stool that serves as our bedside table.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
By this time my bartering muscles were getting slightly fatigued, so I only managed to knock off a third of the seller's initial price, but less than three dollars was more than acceptable to me. Zoe slept through the entire thing in the wrap, the dear girl, and it was only after I walked away, triumphant with my new purchase, that I noticed the look of pure glee on Tracey's face.
Eleven, she crowed as I rejoined her on the crowded street. There were eleven men holding garbage cans surrounding you just then!
I hadn't even noticed.
I'm a month shy of the day that will mark five years since I first walked through a West African market. I still remember that day vividly, the way my eyes and ears and nose were completely overwhelmed. The way I hung back, following my roommate's lead, unsure of my place in all that bright cacophony and hoping desperately that I'd find it some day.
Today I stood my ground while being mobbed by men eagerly trying to sell me garbage cans. I bartered in another language and came out victorious with smiles all around and a sleeping baby on my chest.
It's been a good five years.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
The produce was no problem. Three avocados from one stand for 10,000 francs (a little less than a dollar and a half) and six limes from another for 5,000 meant that the HoJ and I can satisfy our craving for chips and guacamole in the very near future. And, conveniently, when I turned around from the avocado lady, I saw a little yellow trash can sitting amongst a pile of plastic bowls and baskets. Tracey hung back while I went to ask for a price, because one white girl in the market is bad enough; throw another one in the mix and it's a surefire recipe for getting yourself ripped off.
I pointed to the little yellow trash bin and asked a man standing near, Combien? How much? When he told me it was over 100,000, I just started laughing and turned to walk away. In a flash, another man was at my side, holding out a different type in varying soft shades of pink and purple. A third quickly entered the fray, carrying the fanciest model yet, a small, white number with a foot pedal and a red cross painted on the side. It's medical, he told me, reverently caressing the cross before placing his offering on the ground and demonstrating the pedal.
One by one I asked prices, bartered a little, and rejected the ridiculous sums they were demanding (Seriously, sir? Twenty-five dollars for a red cross and a foot pedal? I think not!) Garbage cans were coming out of the woodwork, carried by earnest sellers with wildly varying degrees of English proficiency. I eventually settled on a plain little navy blue number, the perfect size to fit under the stool that serves as our bedside table.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
By this time my bartering muscles were getting slightly fatigued, so I only managed to knock off a third of the seller's initial price, but less than three dollars was more than acceptable to me. Zoe slept through the entire thing in the wrap, the dear girl, and it was only after I walked away, triumphant with my new purchase, that I noticed the look of pure glee on Tracey's face.
Eleven, she crowed as I rejoined her on the crowded street. There were eleven men holding garbage cans surrounding you just then!
I hadn't even noticed.
I'm a month shy of the day that will mark five years since I first walked through a West African market. I still remember that day vividly, the way my eyes and ears and nose were completely overwhelmed. The way I hung back, following my roommate's lead, unsure of my place in all that bright cacophony and hoping desperately that I'd find it some day.
Today I stood my ground while being mobbed by men eagerly trying to sell me garbage cans. I bartered in another language and came out victorious with smiles all around and a sleeping baby on my chest.
It's been a good five years.
