AZOVE MARCHE DAY

One rule to follow at any given point during a marché day: Don't tell anyone anything about whatever it is you are doing or why you are buying the things you are buying. It leads to a series of follow-up questions that may ultimately lead to “give it to me.” It might be a joke, best not to take a joke too lightly, but even if so, it takes a while to learn to laugh at this joke so just avoid it altogether if possible.

It's not a particularly hot day which is why I left my house at the early hour of 16:00 (4pm). The sky is clouded, but I know it won't rain: the people here are innately meteorologists and they still have all their goods out in the elements – the miraculously-appearing tarps are safely tucked into the shopkeeper's secret holes. I leave my house with my formerly-full of cement sack and walk slowly so as to avoid, if at all possible, sweating through my dress.

First I stop by my tailor's shop. It's off the main road behind a wooden “gas station.” The tailer is sitting out at his sewing machine with a pile of fabric on the table next to him underneath a crudely constructed reed lean-to outside his concrete, unlit, one-room studio shop. He is the president of the tailor's association in Aplahoué and this is his workshop. My bathroom is about the same size and with the same number of windows, one, but I would argue has quite a lot more charm than his studio. I drop off the the pair of shorts I would like for him to copy for me. I am obsessed with shorts now – they are funky, cool, board short length and easier to wear when I'm not working or giving a formation. Play clothes you can sweat in without embarrassment.

I leave his shop and walk past the butchers. They have killed a cow today. When I rode by earlier to my English club I saw a live one waiting outside the shop, tied up, unknowingly waiting the axe. I knew it was going to be a lucky day for me! If I want, I can buy a kilo of raw meat for 2.200francs and take it down to Hotel Plateau where they will grind it up for me in their kitchen for a small fee. I don't have the energy for that so I just watch as one guy squeezes and cleans the intestines and another one hacks at the skull with the bulging black orbs hanging as eyes to get at the meaty brain behind the bone. The hide is sprawled out on the ground as their work area. The feet are still attached in all four corners like a sick twist of the already-sick “bear skin rug” found in much fancier parlors. This butcher is only butcher by name because he kills and cuts up the meat, but he doesn't know what a porterhouse or t-bone is and couldn't make a sausage to save his life, or mine. I thought I would teach him the differences what is a better cut until I realized that, even looking at the graph I downloaded from the internet, I still can't figure out how the pretty dotted lines correspond to the white sinewy-coated red muscle hanging from the hooks in the wall. The guy squeezing out the intestines on the ground has finally gotten to me and I make to go.

With flies around me, I leave the butcher's for the walk to the marché. On the way I end up walking cautiously behind the skeletal form of the guardian of Djakotomy's museum. He's clad in an unbuttoned blue silky-type fabric shirt and torn plum-smuggling jean shorts. He is wielding a long, wide blade, dancing the African funky chicken with eyes closed, arms flapping and knees bent, his head bobbing up and down. I slowly, carefully, tactfully choose my moment to escape from his wake; expecting that at any moment he will do a spin move, a bob and weave to the side or step backwards with a flourish and stab me. I see my moment of freedom and lurch forward with terror in the huge whites of my eyes as the crowd of spectators on either side of the street laugh hysterically and I motion with my arm the terrible knifing fate I was evading. Safe from an untimely demise, I proceed to search out the plastic egg caddy I so desire.

I reach the heart of the marché; to the right is the grain and more food-type goods; just past the alley where the majority of the tissue vendors set up shop. To the left can be found the peanuts, the plastic goods and the miscellaneous knicks and knacks like viagra box-backed mirrors, soft porn posters and “strong fist” afro picks as well as piles upon piles of second-hand clothes, shampooers and soap sellers, more fabric vendors, nail stations and shoes and the food court. In between is the highway to Aplahoué and throngs of people traversing back and forth to the annoyance of the cars and motos who will proceed in clouds of diesel fury whether the humans and animals get out of the way or not. The latter of the two sides is where I head; women and men and children sitting atop cement floors with their wares out on display under reed ceilings that are empty of human life three days of every week. I step over piles of garbage, through women getting their hair washed, past goods piled high in impossible stacks worthy of the awe of any fan of tower building in a desperately hopeless search for a plastic egg caddy that will make my egg's safe return home to my table so much more feasible. Mobile vendors clog the narrow pathways through the stalls as they set their goods down from off their heads and discuss prices and exchanges for the items she's toting; the exact same items her counterpart in the stall is selling.

I give up looking for the egg caddy and begin a search in vain; hoping to find for sale some sort of vegetable other than a tomato or okra. My search is frequently stalled, however, as motorcycles and boys pulling metal carts yell and beep through the impossibly small and closed throngs of foot traffic. I have to climb into someone's stall to safeguard my nine long toes from joining the smaller tenth.

All this walking, sweating, talking and avoiding has worked up inside me a thirst and I spy a woman selling something out of a bucket. It is the color of tea, with bags of ice floating in it and a tiny hybrid lemon-lime sitting at its side. The woman currently drinking out of the bowl (we all share here) seems to be enjoying it, but when I ask what it is, the vendor can only say “sweet”, “sweet”. When I ask, “is it tea?” she nods yes, then says “no, sweet”. She gets tired of my continuous questions and dips a little into the bowl for me to taste. I ask how much it is and try a sample, then I think to ask how she treated the water beforehand; did she boil it? Is it from a pump, or *shudder at the thought* a well? She just answers, “sweet” and I down an entire bowl in a thirst-induced delusive craze. I pay the 25f and turn to face my destiny; did I just knowingly give myself amoebas? Did I willingly put myself on the path to a excruciatingly painful intestinal backlash? With a shrug of my shoulders I reconciled that I have survived this far sometimes making decisions without really considering consequences so why should I stop now? Besides, there is still the other half of the marché to see. “I don't understand what you're saying, but thanks for the drink, Toots” I say in English as I take my leave of the group of six or so women and their spawn that had gathered to laugh at the faces I involuntarily made as I drank the concoction then contemplated my fate. “Toots” they reply in fits of laughter. “Toots!!”

Waiting for the right moment I grab onto some lady's baby strapped to her back and hitch a safe passageway to the other side of the highway. I have learned that if you don't know when to go, just latch on to a Beninese lady and you'll do fine. Ones with babies you'd think tend to be more cautious, but this couldn't be further from the truth. I don't know if it appears as a buffer to potential vehicular impact, but they book much more frequently than those women without infants attached to backs and men. I have chosen wisely and am across the street faster than I can say “infanticide.” An extremely tall man (probably Togolese, the Beninese are hard pressed to pass 5'8”) dressed in a shabby blue zemi t-shirt yells “Champagne” as he passes me; a new nickname for me that I thought was due to the fact that I once wore a yellow shirt. I have since realized that champagne is no a popular drink in developing countries, if known at all, and learned that it was a call for a “demoiselle.” I laugh; I have been unknowingly called much, much worse.

Heading downhill I end up trapped behind two fat, fat, fat ladies chewing the cud off their corn cobs as their big butts wibble-wobble down the hill blocking off any chance of access to the freedom of being ahead of their tortuously slow, meandering pace. I am in Piment Place and it is unbearable. Piment, the Beninese spice of choice, is in the air so potently you know you have approached the perimeter because everyone is coughing from the fumes. My eyes water with fear and piment tears as I contemplate being pancaked between the terrible twins should I decide to make a run for it. Thank GOD! One stops to chew a particularly difficult kernel and I leap ahead and out into safety. Piment dust lingers in my eyes and nostrils and I cough up the tickles in my throat, but I have so far evaded the pancake death.

I see the crowd of people bargaining over hundreds of sacks of corn, beans, and rice in the factory courtyard to my right. I narrowly am able to dodge a boy pushing someone's purchases of five huge sacks full of some type of grain in a metal and wood pushcart and head left. The piment is wearing off as second hand clothing sellers are mingled in on the right in front of the cornfields and the piment women stay under the shelter against the buildings on the left and I wind down the corridor to my destination. “Yovo, la blanche” they cry out and I wag my finger in dismay. Women laugh uproariously when I chide one comrade with a single, solidarity finger rigid in the air. My index finger, of course. I don't think the middle would be quite as effective here – the index finger has an air of reproach they can't stomach! Though, in fact, the most heinous insult I have learned thus far is the five-finger palm thrust that signifies, with a special corresponding noise, of course, that your mother was the fifth wife of your father. True hurt.
Fingers and palms forgotten, finally, I am there. I have reached my destination. I out my cement bag in joyful anticipation. Orange Valley: where station wagons with an inconceivable amount of juicy fruit dump out their goods in piles upon piles of sacks and ladies bargain 1 for 25 francs, no, 2, okay, 3, and then throw in 6 extra as a cadeau (“gift”) because you just purchased 50 of the most delicious oranges you've ever tasted for less than one American dollar.

The sun begins to dip below the hill in nearby Aplahouè and I start to think about getting back. First, of course, I have to stop by the tissue stalls. They're on the way back from valley to the main road anyway so I trudge back up the hill, past the piment, past the tomatoes, past the catcalls and the bad drivers and the boys with wagonloads of goods. My path cuts across the return path from the meat market; where one can find dogs, cats, goats, chickens, ducks, pigeons, pigs, turtles? All for sale to eat. Women walk out with giant wicker baskets stuffed with live chickens atop their heads, men have pigs and goats hog-tied and strapped to the backs of their bicycles; bleating furiously and squirming. I remember how I saw one such soul somehow manage to loose himself from the straps holding him to the rack and swinging lose into the bike tire. That was an unpleasant sight and I can only hope the man I see riding away now has a better grasp of knot-tying. A woman passes by with no less than four goats of varying ages and sizes on rope leashes. One stubbornly plants his feet and resists. This won't last long the woman even more stubbornly pulls along on his head as though he were as light as a feather. My favorites, in a morbid way, are the cars with seemingly hundreds of pigs loaded on top like camping gear; squealing and squirming all in unison on top of the car, like a real movable feast. I pass a woman with a crate full of cats on top of turtles, dogs sleeping in piles next to ducks and one poor turtle with a hole in his shell for display tied to the crate and hanging from his back – I imagine a dork getting a wedgie and hung up on a locker by his underpants. Poor nerdy turtle. But, there is tissue to buy.

There are two columns of tissue stalls and I opt for the left-most. It's narrower, but it empties directly into the street and not out to the right and into the car depot; what would happen if I went to the right. Each stall has a plethora of tissue options, bought from Cotonou, Lome, Come, and other hubs of Benin. Haha, “hubs of Benin.” Right. The tissue originates in Holland, England, China, Togo and Nigeria in a multitude of color, thickness, softness and price. Most are bright, electric and brazenly flamboyant in neon yellows, blues, oranges, purples, greens and reds with the most ridiculous patterns. There's “The Championship” with a Stanley-cupesque drawing in the center, surrounded by Kentucky Derby rose garlands. Or perhaps the “finger,” a popular design with a bloody finger repeated ad nausea um. Maybe the flashlight tissue tickles my fancy? No, I tend to avoid the really crazy ones, even the semi-crazy ones of “chicken and eggs” or “cuckoo clock” and settle on the brown and yellow dandelions set against a royal blue. I argue for the price; 1.500f? But the color is off in the printing, I argue. She agrees, cuts the tissue in a 2-meter measure called a “pagne” (pronounced “pawn”) that she doesn't need to verify with a measuring stick. Folded and tucked safely into a black sachet, the omnipresent bane of my environment-loving soul, I pick up my tissue and oranges and leave the tissue alley for the main road back to my house. I consider picking up bananas or pineapples as a final purchase on the way. I guess I'll see what's on offer when I get there. In the meantime, I have to get across this busy, dusty road yet again.

Dusk clouds in then settles over Azovè in a matter of minutes. The strips of red, orange and pink tame the cruel sun and impossibly fill the formerly noxious and dust filled sky with beauty. All along the wooden stalls and on the road below where women sit with their wares out in wicker baskets, petrol lanterns fashioned out of old tin cans are lit. The vendors all disappear and orange floating faces remain, committed to selling as the crowds really start pouring now that it has cooled down enough to shop. I, however, am done with the marché and a thousand tiny flames dotting my horizon from left and right guide me home along the unlit and crowded street.

Maybe I'll stop and have a drink to celebrate surviving.

It's just another day at the marché in Azovè.