Market

As we step into the canopy of tarps, “fish smell”, glassy stares and sweaty bodies, we know that we’re in the market. As we walk by each vendor, we hear the usual “sister sister, carrots? green pepper? tomatoes?” Like every other day, every person is selling the same things as the next person. How do you know who to buy from? Who has the best produce, the best price? We’re given a ridiculous price so we laugh and walk to the next vendor. Through trial and error, a half years learning period has educated us on the appropriate price for each item.

We find that we have to be in the “right mood” to enter the market, to put on our “tough skin” and be unafraid of the pungent smells, the forthright stares, the insecurity that everyone in the market wants to rip you off because you’re white. At the same time, the local markets are beautiful in their own way. The colours are intense. Somehow the body wraps, shawls and head pieces of the women coincide with the shapes, textures and colours of the food they are selling. These people are people of the land; they display the rich diversity in the simple and exotic garments that they wear.

The close quarters packed with every item and every animal these people can afford, the market almost feels like it is on the brink of bursting. This is their life, their survival mechanisms. And somehow through all the random displays, smells and colours crammed tightly together, the market does burst with life, celebrating who these people are.

Blessed by the Last Crumbs

It was George who shared with us that he was stressed. The past week had grown the frustrations that had been planted some months back. A good friend proved to be untrustworthy and was withholding much needed cash and business from George and his family. The day he shared with us his stress is the day that all the money he had was just a few coins in his pocket. He had sent his wife to the market to purchase supper and when we met her on the path near her home, she had no food in her hands. The plastic bag she carried was empty. I asked her why she had not gotten food and she replied that fish was expensive.
Despite the stress, they invited us to sit outside their home. The conversation turned away from the week’s stress and we talked and laughed together as we gathered around, sitting on the homemade wooden chairs. Conversation flowed as we listened as they began to share with us some of the traditional cultural customs. “Education, civilization and salvation” are what have made them turn from certain cultural practices. They are trying to encourage their women to sit on chairs—that they too have rights and are more equal with men then their traditions would dictate.
As we talked, George’s wife brought a table out, indicating that they were going to serve us food. To refuse this meal would be an offense, so we stayed to receive what was offered. When a basin of water was brought out, we washed our hands and anticipated what we would hold in our hands next. African tea and “escorts” were placed before us, a tea made from boiled milk and small cake type delights to accompany the tea.
Just before the day grew dark, three visitors showed up and were instantly given chairs to sit with us around the table. More mugs were brought and soon the tea and escorts were finished. Our host George expressed his joy in having so many visitors to “grace” his evening. The little that they had they shared so graciously. Did the visitors know that they were sharing in the last drops, the last crumbs? The event was far from being gloomy; the last of the day was shared as if it was the beginning of something great.
As George and his wife walked us home that night, his wife was surprised by receiving free minutes on her cell phone. She simply points up to the sky to declare that “it is God!” A free minute on her phone is a miracle. God, who rewards the faithful, who rewards those who give joyfully when it is their last.