Last weekend I took a friend to the arts markets around town. She is getting ready for her departure from Congo and wanted to stock up on some final artwork and crafts. She has adopted a child here and so was also buying for some families she knows with adopted children from Congo. Searching for mementos from home.
We went first to the 'marche de valeur' or thieves market as often translated into English with a play on 'valeur'- cultural, artistic or of value- and voleur- thief- as in the prices are often so ridiculously high you feel as if you've been stolen from. I do love certain parts of the market- the stalls in back where a fabulous collection of old masks and statues can be found. It's truly hit or miss when visiting. On some days, vendors are reasonable and easy to bargain with. On others, prices are prohibitive. On everyday vendors call out as you pass, imploring you to stop and visit their stand, insisting it is somehow different than the billion others next to or directly across from them.
I like to view the market as a museum, a place to go and fill my eyes with artwork, rather than to buy. Occasionally I have a true mission and on this day it was to do the bargaining for my friend and help her cross off items on her list. Despite it being one of those "miss days" where the prices seem to be laughably outrageous ( $20 for that cup? I bought the same thing here last month for just $5) we managed to secure some reasonable purchases.
My friend wanted to go to "the beach" next, a place I'd never been, preferring to get my fabric on the rue de commerce at these wonderful stores. The beach is not actually a beach but the harbor where you can grab the ferry to Brazzaville. The place where the women sell their fabric is virtually hidden from view. Upon first glance, it appears to be just a few women sitting on the street with their wares. Closer inspection reveals a narrow, camouflaged alley. The alley way contains stall after stall of fabric, all appearing slightly similar and hanging so close to each other that individual patterns are hard to discern. Both my friend and I relied on the "if there's something good here, it will jump out at you" method of choosing fabric.
The women were impossibly aggressive (even more so than at the Marche de Valeur) and called out, reached out and followed us down the skinny, muddy path. We stopped occasionally to browse and purchase, all the while my friend was informing me that she rarely got to the end. The pressure to purchase was just too much to support for any continued length of time. We reached our limit and turned around to begin snaking our way back to the entrance.
A woman came over to me and draped a piece of cloth over my shoulder. As I turned to hand it back to her, she began walking away. I started to lay the fabric on a wooden table when she picked it up and put it back on my shoulder saying "No, don't put it there." I agreed it wasn't the cleanest place to lay the cloth but I had no intention of buying it and told her so. She began talking about "cadeau" and I told her yes, it will be a gift to me if you don't take it back because I am not buying it. Reluctantly she pulled the piece back in.
But as I took a step forward another woman came down from her stall and blocked my path. It wasn't that she was physically imposing, it was more a problem of space. The pathway was so small and crowded it was impossible to get around her. She began shouting- or so it seemed from my perspective- and trying to push more fabric on me. I found this to be an incredibly ineffective marketing technique as it only evoked impatience and anger. At the same time, an older woman sitting at her stall behind me began tapping my derriere to get my attention and possibly draw me over to her stand. Another incredibly ineffective technique. After two taps, which really felt more like lingering caresses, I was incensed. I felt completely violated. Her hand placement invaded all my boundaries of personal space and privacy. I ended up yelling at the woman in front of me to "Arrêtez!" though I seriously intended that for the woman behind me. As the tapping continued, I managed to push past her and make my exit.
But I was left with a feeling of dirt and scum. I wasn't happy with the emotions I'd felt or the way I handled them. After processing with my friend a bit, I realized the problem. I'd been molested by a woman. I felt sure if it had been a man, I would have turned and responded without doubt. A strong word, a finger in the face. But the fact that this was coming from a woman left me confused and uncertain. I couldn't figure out what was happening at first and was caught up in an uncomfortable feeling which led almost to panic. I left feeling deeply disturbed, not only by what had happened but by my inability to manage it.
Which in turn led to reflection about the irony. Why is it that I feel more prepared to deal with a man who oversteps his bounds? Because, as a woman, I have experienced and come to expect it from a man? Or because, as a woman, I have come to expect fellow women to have an understanding and respect for personal privacy? I am not sure what let me down more- this woman and her actions- or the thought that it would have been more bearable from a man.
Touching someone who does not want to be touched is not acceptable in any sense. When explaining to a male friend later that evening, he said, "No, it is just their way." After more discussion, and several examples of women who use hand holding or arm touching in much more acceptable- and effective- ways he acquiesced into seeing it is not "just their way" but it is wrong.
I was never drawn to the beach before, disliking their display of fabric and the choices available. And now it seems certain I will probably not return, preferring instead to buy my cloth in the happy chaos of music and DJ's at Bizou Bizou or any number of stores on the rue de commerce. I'm still left to contemplate the women of the beach- struggling with being a foreigner, a mondele, displaying an image of wealth and privilege that elicits such aggression and hostility. While it rarely occurs in my world, the one I've created these 5 years in Congo, I guess the possibility never truly goes away. I can't escape being a stranger, one of the others.
