In preparation for the start of yet another school year, I went in search of new duds. Though I'd spent more time in Adjame than the beach this past vacation, I hadn't really found the market I was searching for. I'd spent a day wading through Forum, the "mall" of Adjame. Forum is mall-like in that there are several floors, it's inside, and there is a central hallway/walkway type of area (or truck drive through area, as the case was on the particular day I was there.) Yes, there was a truck driving through the central market area, home to fruit and vegetable sellers. In that way, Forum is kind of like a department store too. You can get food, clothes, and shoes all in one place.
It's unlike a mall in ways I can't really name. The stores are smaller, dressing rooms are hidden closet-ways behind curtains (oh, but the level of fancy! One store owner slid the curtain open to reveal a ceiling fan, light and mirror all tucked in to a 2m x 1m space!) The selection was less interesting than the dressing space, however, and the prices belonged to Macy's.
What I really wanted was the second hand store. The place where all the cotton, American hand-me- downs come in, get sewn up and sold again. Apparently this is called the "flippery." I tried to get a little history on the origin of the word, but no luck really. My American mind was left to associate it with "flipping"- buying something and then reselling it. Maybe that is the origin. No one I asked seemed to know what language the word came from or it's exact meaning, but they did steer me in the right direction.
A few clothing closets lined a wall in the back of this area. There were a lot of table top and even ground sellers. A lot of piles too. Flippery prices are perfect- 250-1000 FCFA (one vendor was calling out the incredible bargain of 2 for 500!- essentially 2 for $1.00) But it's only a bargain if you can find something you like. Shopping here requires sifting through a pile of clothes in search of something in your size, style and color. Every so often, the shopkeeper (who just might be standing on the tabletop shouting out deals to draw in other customers) reaches down and grabs the whole pile and overturns it. You need to hold tight to anything you may have been saving on the side or anything you are currently trying to view as the clothes are retracted with the force of the ocean and then come crashing back down in a wave of color and fabric. Sometimes a shopkeeper will toss things your way if he (predominately I noticed the shopkeepers of these kind of places as men) notices you selecting a certain palette or style. Occasionally it's helpful.
Throughout this entire space there sit the sewers. In the shops lucky enough to have actual wall space, the sewers sit in a back room. For the vendors selling from the ground, the sewers sit amidst the piles of clothes. Creativity abounds here as people have found ways to display their best items on makeshift wire walls and other fabrications. The sewers are busy repairing seams, tears and hems undone. Their work is sometimes apparent in uneven zigzags or unexpected folds. Ousmane admonished their work as hasty or less than skillful. I figured they were doing the best with what they had.
The best part of this area was cotton. Soft cotton shirts in simple styles for all ages. The worst part, especially for a non-shopper like me, was the necessary investment of time to sort and find. It's also hard to know what will fit. Some women were trying clothes on right there in the crowds. One woman even had the help of the vendor to shimmy into a pair of jeans. It was awfully reminiscent of my shoe shopping experience and I wondered if the seller planned on accompanying the woman home to provide such perfect assistance whenever she wanted to wear those jeans. I am a firm believer in the idea if I can't put it on myself, then it doesn't belong in my closet. Unfortunately the tailors here seem to assume everyone has a houseful of ready helpers when it comes to zipping, tucking and stuffing yourself into your clothing.
I have found one tailor who seems to understand my needs. I went in search of fabric for her to turn into a new wardrobe to spice up this next school year as the elementary art teacher. The fabric I was searching for could not be found in my usual haunts. I remembered vaguely browsing through a street lined with this kind of fabric when I visited Abidjan a few years ago. The search to find this exact spot again was, in the end, fruitless, but did lead me up and down interesting secret market pathways.
I ran across beautiful tied dyed batiks still drying in the sun. Walking further revealed all the steps of batik making from the huge vats of dyes to the pounding and rubbing on of wax. It was a fascinating tour and I hope to go back to ask questions and take photos. On the day I was there, the journey had already been long and wasn't yet finished.
These back streets were calmer, less crowded and had a small town, community air. Kids were playing here and there on the street, older children were doing chores and women were walking in small groups chatting, selling, or running errands. It was a good feeling. Until the motorcycles came.
The revving of engines served as a warning, though barely. The first time it happened I watched women and children scramble to get out of the roadway. The bikes spun around corners and tore through the calm streets like something from a Mad Max film. Some of the boys had splotches of mud covering their faces and torsos like war paint. They were loud and fast and terrifying. They made one or two more appearances during our market trip. As we roamed, they were roaming too.
The last time it happened was completely unexpected. The revving came too late and was much too close to be a real warning. Ousmane and I were walking in the middle of a nearly empty street. We'd just come from viewing the rows of batik makers and were heading back towards the grand mosque of Adjame- the center around which all market life is built.
The first rider came skidding around the corner. He had his foot on the ground and was surely burning through his plastic sandals. Ousmane froze on the spot and I behind him, tugging at his shirt, thinking maybe we should get out of the street. There really wasn't time to go anywhere because milliseconds later another bike came crashing around the corner. He wobbled a bit upon seeing us and his friend. He went first one way, then another, making Ousmane's decision to remain put a sound one. All my senses were crying out to flee (no fight to be had in man against moto) but it was easy to see how disastrous that could turn out- me trying to avoid the bike, the bike trying to avoid me and neither of us sure which way the other was going.
This second guy zig-zagged his way past us and then we did move. We crossed the road and went down a slight hill into the maze of pathways leading around the mosque. My heart was beating wildly and my stomach was churning. By this time, the rest of the gang had shown up and gathered around the first biker- the one who had come skidding around the corner with his foot on the ground. I thought maybe he'd burned his leg on the exhaust pipe. It wasn't clear what, but something had clearly happened. There exclamations and a small crowd of onlookers began to form. We didn't stay to find out what the injuries were. Feeling more than blessed that I was able to walk away from the experience on two good feet, we headed back into the crazy crowded streets of the busy market. Too busy for boys on motorcycles. Just perfect for flippery.
