The Carrot Guy

I intended to get back to writing regularly but I think this last semester was more taxing than I realized. Motivation and coherent thinking has been hard to come by. I am still highly ambivalent about Lagos, mostly because I have been caught up in a very small world. Maybe it's time for a return to the bullet list.

Things I want to write about but haven't yet the storytelling frame of mind:

• The holiday season started off with a fantastical tale of this ballet party dress, which I found to be a bit expensive and not so well made. Mbalia's costume had a piece of trim from the neckline detaching before she'd even had it on. When I made a remark to the woman who was selling them, she looked at me in that rushed but serious way women get when they're dealing with a line of parents, on the day of the show, selling costumes in the foyer and things aren't going so well. "Yes, I am so sorry. You know why they are so expensive? We had to fly the woman in from China and she just got here Friday night and has been working like crazy to get all of the costumes done in time...." She lost me at "fly her in from China..." As if there weren't enough people here in the country to do a shoddy assembly job. Trevor Noah once again feeling my pain by reporting on Nigerians flying in pizza from Britain. Because it's all real. It's happening.  

The fancy light-up costume

                                       
                                                     It all started with the pizza....

• 3D commercials in the stores- rounding a grocery aisle is likely to land you smack in the face of a real live commercial. Around the holiday season, there seem to be more of these product peddlers on hand. They sell everything from insecticide to wine. I think the ones I have run across most often are for powdered milk or chocolate spread. The most interesting one is the Laughing Cow, whom I might have written about previously. Like an animal version of Santa, he can be found in stores across Africa, wearing his red suit and making children laugh (or run screaming in terror.)

• The mall or grocery store is the place to go for holidays. A walk around the mall or snapping photos in front of public Christmas displays is a popular way to pass the holiday. We spent some time doing this (by necessity rather than true desire) and decided to take advantage of the train running through mall. It's there all year round, along with the dressed up animals loitering in the hallways, waiting to snap photos with the kids and hand out publicity for children themed clothing shops and play centers.

The Palms Plaza Shopping Train

Mbalia was super excited

• The carrot guy- there was a new vegetable guy at the small grocery store I like to go to (not in the mall.) He was so young with a beautiful smile and completely over willing to help. All I had to do was look in the direction of a vegetable and he was there with a plastic bag open and ready. He seemed to glide just above the floor, simply appearing next to me with bag in hand. I asked if I could put the onions and limes together- always searching for ways to avoid the plastic- and his smile got even bigger as he just shook his head. No, ma, you don't want to do that, he seemed to be saying. I couldn't be sure if he even heard me or understood. He was just apparently filled with the joy of the season. Overly nice people have a way of making me overly grateful and slightly uncomfortable so I mentally rearranged my normally high in veggies list. Just a few carrots. I picked up one or two limp orange stalks, shook my head and put them down again. In a flash, he was there, reading my mind. "Let me selection for you ma, so you can have the best." And he did. That young boy picked out all the best carrots from both bins. I felt like I was in a musical- that's how bright his smile was and how weird the whole transaction seemed. If someone broke out dancing and singing, I wouldn't have been any more surprised. As we made our way out of the vegetable section he pointed to the Nuli juice refrigerator. "All natural. Nuli is all natural juice." Like he knew me. I smiled and shook my head, although the Nuli juice boasted celery, cucumber, apple flavor or a watermelon, pineapple, honey combo. The carrot guy folded his hands and wished us a merry Christmas. I think it was the most sincere holiday wish I've ever received.  

• Until we got to the frozen foods, which is near the stairs to go up to the second level. Where I've never been. But Mbalia needed a small screwdriver to change the batteries in a light up unicorn and I suspected if they had tools, they'd be upstairs. I asked one of the clerks if they sold screwdrivers and he shook his head no, but then asked what I needed it for. ? Luckily, Mbalia had brought her unicorn friend along and so I was able to show him. He dashed upstairs and retrieved his own screwdriver, making the battery exchange right there in the store. This whole scene naturally attracted two other employees, making jokes about our hero being a toy doctor. A-plus for SPAR's overly helpful, supremely friendly staff on hand, making every shopping trip a success. 

• The light display put on by Zenith bank were truly spectacular. We snapped our own small picture from the keke. I'm not sure how they got a video that seems so devoid of people but the night we were out was filled with pedestrians, cars, motorcycles and lines of people hoping to get a ride on the magical sleigh.

Zenith Bank Display

The magical ride-on sleigh, viewed from the keke

• Nabih's birthday came along just before the holidays and we took a trip to the Lekki Conservation center. We convinced each other that a walk across the canopy would be a good idea. Tours set out from the main center and we joined a group of about 25 other people. It seemed an odd way to walk through the swampy forest, but once we got to the canopy walk the group spread out. Only six people were allowed to walk across each section, with a maximum of 12 at each resting tower. It was quite an experience, with other group members really making a difference. Two women in front of us asked to keep the space, because the more people on the walk, the more it swayed and buoyed up and down. The three or four guys in front of them were especially exuberant. After the first two stretches, they were waiting with high fives and congratulations- and the ever present photo op. By the time we got to the end, we found ourselves walking off to a suddenly unusual quiet emptiness. Just us and the forest. After all that bonding with strangers, it was a little bit of a creepy ending. We walked cautiously back through the swamp, alternating between delight and suspicion at the monkeys crawling along the handrail- which signs cautioned against actually using or leaning against. 

View before we began. It's hard to look around
while walking. I kept my gaze firmly fixed
on Nabih's shirt. No time to enjoy the view.
Once you begin, you can't turn back.

The swaying, bouncing walkway 22.5meters high

Monkeys everywhere

The path ahead, mostly secure, beautiful green

Walkway in repair

Swampy view- no crocodiles in sight but
that doesn't mean they weren't there

Flippery

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.

La poupee

I spent one recent Saturday in search of a good freezer. My neighborhood phone credit seller and all around go it guy suggested I go to Treichville and scour the streets for a good deal. It sounded infinitely easier than the maze of Adjame and so the princess and I set off for adventure.

I took a cab to the "appliance section" of the rue de commerce and got out in front of a random store. I understand and don't understand the concept of what seems to be the typical African "street of commerce." It is organized by topic- all the appliance stores in one section, all the plumbing supplies in another and so on. It makes for easy searching on the customers part, certainly, but I can't quite figure out how it benefits the storekeepers.

I walked up one side of the street and down another, browsing windows, sidewalk merchandise and occasionally going in to check things out further. It was quickly clear I'd landed in the Lebanese section of town. I noticed men and women sitting outside their shops, hovering in their doorways or taking care of business inside.

Some called out to me and invited me in, some watched me warily as I passed and some offered a quiet smile but said nothing. The merchandise was similar and the prices the same. As I walked into one store, I saw a woman who appeared to be sitting on a large throne with her wares arranged all around. The tiles were sparkling white and, in contrast to the other cramped stalls, there was ample space to move around and inspect the appliances. I felt all eyes on me, being the only customer at the moment, and I made my way quickly through the store. I eyed the price tags from a distance and didn't linger long over any one item. By then, I'd already seen what was available. The queen bee called out to me as I headed for the door.

"Those aren't the prices, madame," she said with a smile. I nodded my head. The reason that buying a freezer becomes an adventure is because not only do you have to locate one you think might work for more than a month, you have to negotiate a fair price and figure out how to get it back to your house. Negotiating is not my strong point, no matter how many rules and strategies I have developed. At best, they are mere coping methods for a painful process.

I'd actually come with the intent of not buying. I wanted to see what brands were available, compare sizes and get an idea of beginning prices. The section of the street I was browsing was not long and was nicely tree lined. Small and shady, but I was already tired. Too much of the same with not enough difference in options or prices. None of it really fit my budget.

The shopkeepers were friendly, though their level of interest in me varied. Most of them had seen me going in and out of the other stores and knew I wasn't purchasing. I heard snippets of conversation as I passed, many assuming I was French. One large man, sitting in a plastic chair, called me over.

"Bring the poupee," he said. It took me just a second to realize he was talking about the baby. Mbalia had been the recipient of smiles and goochy-goos all throughout our adventure. Babies have a way of making connections.

'You're not French." I'd only said a few words before he made his accusation. "Give me the doll," he commanded putting his arms out. I laughed to stifle my inital response which was, "you must be nuts if you think I am handing my precious over to a stranger laid up on his lounge chair outside his store eating greasy chicken."  I don't actually know if he was eating greasy chicken but he looked like the type who would eat  greasy chicken and lick his fingers afterward.

"She will cry,' I said simply. Mbalia has gotten to that stage where going with strangers induces confusion and crying. A normal and safe baby response.

"Is she sick?" the man wondered, obviously unable to comprehend why anyone, baby or not, wouldn't be overjoyed to sit on his lap and be greased by freshly licked fingers.

"A little," I smiled and wished him a good day. He politely wished us a good day back and we continued on our journey. But he wasn't the only one to reach out and try to touch or kiss or remark on 'la poupee.' I found it odd and invading and was happy to jump back into a taxi and make my way home- freezerless.

Shopping and Prayer

I have discovered a favorite new fabric store. Well, perhaps favorite is a strong word, but it is definitely a useful new fabric store. I have two now and I always visit them together. Lambada is what I consider a conservative store. It is the tried and true, steadfast friend you can call in the middle of the night if you need something and be certain to be helped. This store has many styles of fabric in a variety of patterns. It is orderly and neat with samples piled up in folded squares layed out across table after table. Prices for 2, 4, or 6 yards are clearly marked on small chalkboard signs. They have one of my favorite sections where the cloth is bundled in pairs. Deux temps. There you can find a bright and vibrant pattern paired with a solid color or you may find the same pattern but with the colors reversed. When checking out, you will first give your cloth (ironically- or perhaps arabically) to the man at the table sitting closest to the exit. From there you will work your way (backwards) to the lady on his right. She will issue you three copies of each receipt for each piece of fabric you have selected. You move on to the cashiers who are (first) next in the row. They will cheerfully take your money, provide change and stamp all three copies of your receipts, keeping one. Finally you  move back to the (end) beginning and show your receipts in order to collect your fabric, which is bagged and handed off. Music plays, providing a pleasant atmosphere and there is rarely a (long) wait.

Bizou Bizou, however, is your wild cousin from out of state who shows up and whisks you off on a spontaneous beachside vacation. I met Bizou Bizou by way of an older but fabulously dressed woman in one of the food stores. I had been noticing a particular style of fabric on many Congolese that I had previously only associated with West Africa. I had not seen this type of waxed and dyed fabric anywhere. She was standing in the checkout line just ahead of me looking beautifully regal in that Guinean way. I surprised her a bit trying to get her attention but when I began the subject of the fabric, she smiled and introduced me to Bizou Bizou.

The shop is actually several storefronts long, with large doorways open to each section. There is a curtain fabric area where you can also find soft cottons with exquistie 'African motif' patterns ( cozy blankets is how I envision these fabrics being used. When I recently bought only 1 meter for a baby blanket, I was met with an odd stare. Only 1 meter? As if...) They are dreamy and beautiful and soooo expensive.

The second entrance to the store is the equivalent of a late night dance club. The music is booming from two enormous speakers posted at the entrance. Just inside, there is a pile of fabric on the floor slightly resembling those late Ocotber NY leaf piles we used to jump into as children. Women are everywhere grabbing and pawing through the cloth. (Apparently, this is the "sale rack.") A 'DJ' stands perched on a box draped in long, flowing samples and holding a microphone. Somehow, he manages to be louder than the music. His partner stands just by the entrance, decked out in an equally comedic fashion, fabric pieces hanging toga  style. To complete the scene, scraps of fabric are being cut and tossed through the air overhead. Its electric.

It is the second 'DJ' (I can't help but to think of them this way...they dance and sing and call out price reductions with talent and energy) who is the one that will bag your purchases upon exit. He has an abrupt style, grabbing  the fabric from your hands and placing it roughly in a bag along with the customary tearing of the receipt.  Although I know this is coming, it always seems to affect me in the jolting way of a carnival ride with its jerky starts and stops.

Browsing Bizou Bizou, one can find a larger variety of fabric styles, sequins, sparkles, waxed, batik, saris, and silks. Prices are not always marked and bargaining is possible. You must first locate someone to measure and cut your fabric (sold by the meter.) Once cut, the fabric may be tossed and held by the guy at the door or  brought up to the counter. The cutter will call out the number of yards and the price per yard. Somehow, it gets written on a scrap of paper.

This day, I was shopping with Ousmane in preparation for his return to Guinea and also celebration of the Eid. In addition, a new baby had entered the world, and I was hoping to find some fabric that would enfold her with African spirit. Bizou Bizou, always packed, was especially busy today. I noticed 5 or 6 women also clearly shopping for the Eid. I found it difficult to choose items for the Soumah women and wanted to rely on Ousmane for that. It became quickly clear that that was probably a mistake. He could not recall what color they liked or generally wore. I tried to remember the few days we had spent together and also photos I'd seen. I was drawn to some deep reds with shimmering flowers. As I contemplated my purchase, Ousmane noticed someone out the back door using a plastic tea kettel filled with water to wash his hands, head and feet in the manner of Muslims before prayer. "You can wait for me? I am going out to pray." I nodded as I watched him join the man outside. While my cloth was being measaured and cut, I continued to watch Ousmane move through the ablution. He washed his hands, his head and balanced precariously on one foot while trying to rinse and wash the other. I saw a hand move in and take the small plastic tea kettle from him and rinse his feet.

This is the image I carried with me up to the overcrowed and highly confusing checkout. No three receipts here. One line, one hope of maintaining your place in  line (it doesn't exactly move in the linear fashion, its more of a squiggly line in which you hope to be pulled to the cashier by sheer momentum) and finally payment to a cashier who has magically managed to receive all of your fabric and slips of paper outlining the price. I noticed very little of this as I was spiritually still back with Ousmane, just outside the door of a fabric shop, in a foreign country while a stranger washed his feet.

Commercial district

Ever in search of clean water, I was on my way to buy more PUR packets for distribution to Vero. I thought that, since she has a tap of running water in her yard and I’ve seen some neighbors come to get water as well as the soda and pop she sells, if I could get her hooked on using the packets, it might benefit the whole neighborhood. (I’ve since come down from my lofty cloud but you know, it never hurts to dream.)

Albert has told me to come to the PSI office anytime and pick up a box. This office sits on a relatively nice, paved street. It is wide enough for two lanes of traffic and a row or so of pedestrians to manage without getting in each other’s way. However, those in the office inform me they are out of boxes and send me to the commerce district to ‘any pharmacy’ that will have some.

Rue de commerce is organized that way. All the pharmacies are in one cluster, then the hardware stores, and the fabric shops, etc. Everything grouped together by product. It turns out that none of the pharmacies had whole boxes available either, but what a series of adventures to discover this.

The streets themselves, adventure one. They quickly turned from fairly smooth and paved to swelling mounds of packed earth more reminiscent of a dirt bike race track than a ‘rue de commerce.’ Aside from the frequent ups and downs, there are people and pushcarts to avoid. Many of the carts are loaded with goods higher than my car. Up to four men might be struggling with one in order to get it to navigate the hills and valleys and avoid the outright ditches.

Second adventure- leaving the car. The streets are swarming with people, mostly men, sitting, watching, waiting. They have been eyeing me from a distance and I know they will be ready to pounce as soon as I step out of the car. I really don’t want to go into the ‘pharmacy’ I’ve happened to stop in front of. It is small and dirty and crowded. Outside a line of older men loiter with nothing to do except gaze in my direction. Inside, behind the counter the clerks are wearing face masks. In a corner a woman sits on the floor counting out pills into a small plastic baggie. On her lap is a basket full of unrecognizable remedies. The entire scene makes me feel like fleeing.
As expected, a young someone has attached himself to my elbow, completely intruding on my business. No pharmacy privacy act in effect here, that is for certain. He listens to my request so he will be ready to provide any small amount of assistance which I could easily perform for myself. Such as finding my way across the street to another pharmacy when this one does not have what I want.

Actually, although I consider it for a moment, I am happy enough to have him accompany me. I can hear the shouts of ‘Mondele! Mondele!” rise above the general din of the busy streets. It is a cry that always generates an initial, somewhat comical urge to run and hide. Everyone should have to feel this way at least once in their lives. Trapped inside your own skin, wanting to get out.

Someone tries to join us and I am satisfied to already be “taken,” having developed a slight preference for my guide. He leads me into another ‘pharmacy,’ this one more open and bright. I am nearly standing outside as I place my request. I appreciate the openness, having felt completely closed in within the dark, blue painted cement of the previous shop. My guide ‘translates’ my order, though we are all speaking French. I understand it to be part of his job, doing things for me that I can do for myself. I collect my purchase and he walks me back to my car, all the while questioning if I’ve been able to buy the quantity I was looking for and assuring me he would be happy to run off in search of more. No, I thank him and tell him I am finished for this day. I give him the obligatory tip- too much but still just about one dollar- and settle back into the car for adventure number three.

How do I get out of here? The commerce area is a veritable maze of shops and people, push carts and animals. Somewhere in here is the Grande Marche and I know several of the roads will lead to that dead end. A small group of men have begun to bang on the window, demanding money and so I choose to drive straight off rather than execute a timely turn. I always believe the people on the street to be much faster than my car could ever go. It is better to just get out rather than wait for them to gain force in numbers.

My desired path is cut off by a huge lake of water. Another man overtakes the window, jogging along, tapping and talking. I make all decisions by instinct (l’aide de Dieu) and crack the window slightly to hear him. He is friendly, encouraging and helpful. He gets me turned around, provides directions de sortie, and wishes me bon journee, with a fairly beautiful smile.