stories, from africa: Market Day

Walking into the marche artisinal was a feast for the senses. Artists were scattered everywhere, working on their craft- shaping the soles of shoes, lacing up djembes, knotting cotten hammocks and, of course, pouring tea.

It was a stark contrast to the CAVA of Abidjan, with it's neat and narrow pathways and solidly constructed storefronts that resembled little village houses. To be certain, artists are always busy at work there ,too, but they have a sense of space and organization that makes it all seem contained.

The Bamako market was spilling over with cords and leather scraps, the sounds of tin hammering and drums playing, the chatter of women and the sing song calls of vendors, scents of churai and the midday meal mingling in the air. While there were neat store fronts, typical Malian architecture almost demands an imposing and artistic design and the arts market offered no less, the stores were arranged in a large square, with the center area being the communal workshop. People- generally men- had laid down tarps and nats or otherwise staked their claim to the ground, and spread out their tools. The air was alive.

We walked around the edges, gazing into stalls, responding to the never ending invitations to come and look, browse my shop, see my wares, buy-buy-buy. We weren't buying. I was looking for some raffia. And maybe some beads or cowrie shells, though usually those things are not found in the artists market but down some narrow side street where you would least be expecting it.

A wall of masks called to me. Not just a wall but a huge mound of masks- dusty, wooden, some broken and deteriorating. It was a bit overwhelming. The sensation that consumes me when faced with such an array is hard to describe. I am not sure if other people feel this way. It is like history has transformed into a living, breathing thing, has manifested into a physical form and arrives on the wind to envelop me. I feel covered and cloaked and infused with peacefulness. I am immediately transported into an other, a place with no name and no location. It is simultaneously today and yesterday and tomorrow. Lobi. All at once.

It's intoxicating. I spent some time staring at masks, chiwara and nimba, long antelope faces that were especially captivating and the Bwa sun masks from Burkina Faso and parts of Mali. I wasn't alone on this trip however, and so I had to curb my inclination to be lost for hours. Instead I asked about the raffia I was hoping to find.

The mask seller told me raffia is not indigenous to Mali. I wouldn't be able to find it here. It comes from Cote d'Ivoire....as so many of the products here seem to. I bought some black cord from a drum maker for a ridiculous price instead. We had an interesting exchange, the seller, his friend and I. We talked about dance and art, Conakry and Congo. We even did a little rumba right there in market place.

Congo has that effect on people. They marvel about the music and gasp at the politics. "There is always some kind of trouble there. Always a conflict." After a million of those start-too-high, end-with-a-grasp-that-holds-on-a-little-too-long handshakes, that honestly, I always thought were just for between men, we finally left the market place. I am perpetually in danger of a reckless purchase of a mask or fabric or some other not completely needed item that just seems to 'call to me,' but today was a day of discipline. No purchases, save for the black cord and some bundles of incense intended for artmaking.

Christine is leaving soon for Abidjan and we had made the market trip to pick up some bazin and get a little henna tattoo. The trip to the arts market was an afterthought. I'd been wanting henna for a while, remembering the delicate beauty it brought to my hands when I experienced it in Kinshasa. It seemed like a fitting way to ring in the new year, a little splurging on ourselves. Feeling beautiful.

We ended up sitting at a street side beauty parlor with a few other women who'd also taken a bit of their day to pamper themselves. While we waited for our turn, I watched the people of the market. I am always amazed at the beauty of humans. There are so many graceful people in the world.

I was especially captivated by women browsing through clothes. The vendor was calling out the price of her wares, singing in Bambara. She went on for so long I wondered how she could keep it up all day. It was both magical and annoying. I imagined her at home at night, gargling to soothe her sore throat.

Several elegant women caught my eye, the shape of their faces accented by headscarves, their outlined eyes and long lashes mesmerizing me. It was hard to tear my gaze away. I stopped trying and merely observed the way they shopped, choosing clothes from the pile, holding them up for an instant before deciding to toss back or drape over their arm for purchase. The clothes, mostly shirts, were 300FCFA, making it convenient to acquire multiple items at once.

One of the women came over and joined her friends, who were sitting with us, either getting henna tattoos or having their nails painted. Some just gazed at themselves in a small mirror, making beauty adjustments. It is such a foreign practice to me, this being with other women, preening. I admired the way a few of them had tied their headscarves, a look I'd attempted to achieve but hadn't really been successful at. I finally leaned over and asked one of them to show me how.

It took awhile to make my request clear and, laughing, she finally relented. Her friend kept insisting she would tie me up if I wanted, and pointed out where I could snatch up a quick headscarf for only 500FCFA. I realized that my only problem in achieving the simple but sophisticated style was the length of my scarf. Surely I could manage this at home.

My inquiry lead to more talking, and touching and general camaraderie among us. It was a nice way to pass a few hours, sitting there on the edge of the busy market road, sellers trying their best to evoke a purchase, watching the people pass by- each in their own story.

I asked the woman if I could take her picture and she immediately struck a pose and flashed a smile. Christine laughed and gently turned her head. "No, of the scarf," she said. Our new friend hung her head in dejection and acquiesced. After getting the picture I wanted, I said, "Ok, now you." And the sun turned back on. Same pose, same bright smile.

Simple, elegant headscarf

Beautiful humans are everywhere

Several times an earring seller passed by- I had to ask him eventually if he wasn't the one who had just passed by a minute ago. They were all selling the same thing and had an eerily similar way of holding them right up in my face so I had to jerk back just to breathe. "Princess, princess, buy a little something." The vendor is smooth and his words flow in a silky, clean rhythm that could rival any rap star. I smiled and shook my head. I refused a million ways before he finally moved on. "Princess, princess...." I heard him whisper to the next lady in line. I laughed at the player in him, an ardent peddler of women's jewelry.

He was not the only romeo on the streets that day. Christine attracts a lot of attention. So many marketers followed her, trying to get her to purchase bazin or shoes or even a pair of men's jeans. I have noticed some people naturally attract the sellers. Ousmane is a bit like that too. Going to the market with him means we can count on the hawkers trying to push their watches and belts and other fancy items on him. I imagine they see his beauty and sense his style and assume he likes nice things.

It can either be exhausting or amusing to watch this display of wasted energy exchange. Luckily, on this day I found it all amusing. My favorite declaration of love occurred when we were looking for a taxi to go home. We'd found a fairly small patch of calm to search amidst the chaos. Motorcycles, taxis and sotramas shared the narrow street with bicyclers, pedestrians and roaming vendors.

The roadway cleared for a second. Everything seemed to go quiet. A man zoomed by on a motorcycle only to stop short. "Vien cherie, je t'accompagnerai," he called out to Christine like a marriage proposal. He seemed to be lost in a romantic daze for a second before zooming off. In a film, a dramatic spotlight would have highlighted his declaration of longing.

"What courage," I laughed. And yet, how else could you really know if a beautiful woman might maybe just consider zooming off with you into paradise if you don't ask? Love takes risks sometimes.

Christine and the henna artist

One of the women shows off her design


My turn- red only please. Later found out this was a good decision. "Black" henna doesn't really exist and is a combination of natural henna and toxic chemicals.