out of the gate and to the marche

Pedal pedal pedal, out of the school gate, down the little rocky hill, mini mountains in the distance rolling and beautiful covered in green grass and little trees.

Pedal pedal, past the tall fields, around the little bend, up the small but steep incline onto the goudron (which is how one refers to the paved road, literally “tar” en Francais). Whew. It’s hot, but it’s not a bad hot.

Pedal some more down the road, rockin’ every Moore greeting I know as I pass the benga maize and gateaux vendors, the dolo drinkers, and the causer-ers who scatter the route. Most people wave back with a smile, some engage me in a bit of a prolonged greeting test of my skills, some call me over – “waka!” – to chat more in-depth. Sometimes I stop to talk. At this point it’s usually the same thing…I should stay and drink dolo, I should buy everyone dolo, why do I pass every day and not stay, I should teach them English, I should put this baby on my back and take him with me, ha ha ha. I usually click my helmet back on (that’s right mom) and say goodbye when I’ve backed myself into some sort of conversational corner…such as accidentally agreeing to take the baby.

Pedal pedal pedal my way down the goudron and into town. Get to the round point (roundabout…rotary…everywhere I’ve lived there’s a different word for these things!) and follow it to the other side, keeping a strategic eye ahead of me to view the bike/moto/pedestrian/animal/sometimes bus or car situation since the stop signs in place are strictly ornamental.

I park my bike on the side of the street and descend down a small incline past women grilling corn and into the first phase of the Kongoussi marché. Enter past the boutiques on the perimeter, a hello to my friend who sells bread and Nescafe, past the young guy always lounging on his tall chair in front of a table full of pills and bottles that I’ve never stopped to examine too closely for fear of picking up and examining something that will provoke an unwarranted reaction. Here there are mostly women vendors, seated on the ground behind pagnes that are covered in whatever fruits or vegetables or herbs or other edible products they are vending. Each product occupies its own section on the fabric spread out in front of them, and within that section the particular fruits and such are arranged in neat little groups – one something stacked upon a triangle of three other somethings, perhaps, to be neatly exchanged for a single coin.

I enjoy walking through this section of the market. There’s a bit of a path created by rope tied to the shade-giving trees as well as the way the women have spread their things out, and I wander around slowly, testing out my language skills encore. I get lots of laughter and encouragement from the vendors who marvel at the white girl who “speaks” Moore – “Nasara gombd Moore!” they laugh to their friends – even though every day that I stop to chat with them I use the same greetings, phrases and four or five verbs.

Past the food vendors to enter phase two of the marché, booths and shops lined up all along the edges and all throughout the middle, creating aisles to walk through. Step into this shop to scope out plastic things you might need for your house – buckets and baskets and cups, oh my. …or step right up over here if you’re looking for t-shirts of various styles and designs. You a Bob Marley fan? You’re in luck! Gaudy jewelry, nail polish, Barack Obama key chains, soap, lotion, lollipops, glasses, flashlights? All can be found in this shop over here. There’s no shortage of plastic woven mats and pagnes. Fresh meat cut off of this newly slaughtered goat that you see hanging by its feet through the prison bar type window right here? Sure thing!

I haven’t purchased meat yet. I’m a little a-scared.

…but I do enjoy walking through the inside of the marché, too. It’s mostly men that run the boutiques and stores in here, though there are women too. There are a couple of corners where I can go to be assured friendly conversation…conversation that means well, at the very least. I wonder if I’ll ever get sick of being asked if I have a husband.

So. The Kongoussi market. It’s a very nice market indeed. Whenever I head into town I head into the market, even if I don’t really need anything. It’s full of lots of things, lots of people, and not a whole lot of pressuring to buy. Also not a whole lot of bartering necessary, I’ve found. Perhaps I settle for prices that are a bit inflated but really I don’t think that can be avoided and I’m not going to make a routine out of dueling to the death over 50 cfa. Often the food women will slip an extra tomato or onion into my bag with a smile. I’m sure karma comes into play somehow!

…but now it’s time to leave. I’ve got my purchases in my bag, which is slung over my shoulder, and I head up to my bike and if I have nothing else to do while in town I turn it towards my home on the hill and pedal pedal pedal away.