10/17/2004

Mai Lao market is like nothing I've ever seen before. If you've traveled in sub-Saharan Africa you may have been to an open air market before, but otherwise it is an experience few Americans will ever have. It's about 10 bumpy kilometers past Darda, on the dirt track which is theoretically the highway, a little more than an hour south of N'Djamena were you to drive straight through.

Approaching the market the first thing I see are the dozens of old Toyota and Peugeot minibuses lining the side of the road; most have large spidery cracks in the windshields, and all look like they could desperately use a good washing- these are the taxi-brousse (bush taxi) the unofficial and only method of public transportation in Chad. The drivers wait by the side of the road until their vans fill up, usually 9-12 people per car and then set out; the most common destination is N'Djamena, but it's certainly possible to go other places, if you're willing to wait long enough.

The market is located under a grove of trees, the better to keep out the scorching sun, which would be almost impossible to stay in for more than a few minutes. Some vendors do have stalls directly on the side of the road, mostly selling produce, but they each have large umbrellas they use like parasols- either way it's still incredibly hot.

Walking into the market I have a plan to buy three things: a small mirror so that I can actually see what I'm doing when I shave, a combination fan/flyswatter known as a ventaille in French, and one of my favorite words in Arabic, hajaja. I'm also looking to buy a bolt of fabric known as a pagne, which can be tailored into a shirt, pants, skirt, or virtually any other piece of clothing for both men and women.

Outside of hajaja and a few basic greetings, my Chadian Arabic is more or less nonexistent, which makes the market a little challenging, since most merchants speak little or no French. I'm fortunate to have a French-speaking guide though, a small boy named Ahmat Daoud. He lives just a few minutes from the training center, and has agreed to come with us today to help negotiate and translate.

Daoud, as he's known, is a little unusual- he looks like a little boy, but he supposedly 22 years old. The rumor is that he's descended from Pygmies, which would explain the height, but nobody can seem to remember exactly when he was born- volunteers from the early 1990's have talked of him though. Although Ahmat Daoud is short, he has a charisma about him that I've rarely seen- the entire market seems to know him; people shout "Daoud! Daoud!" as we pass. Our group is also lucky to have Dokati and François, two of our French teachers and native Arabic speakers, who can help us avoid the nasarra (foreigner) markup.

As we enter the market, the first thing I smell is something like rotting fish, and I have to work hard to avoid becoming nauseous. The odor permeates the air but seems to intensify in the aisles- I suppose more of it is forced through as people walk by. It turns out that the fish isn't rotten, but merely dried, caught earlier in the nearby Chari River, and baked in the sun until it's completely dry. Women will buy the dried fish and rehydrate them to use in sauces, which I had plenty of during my time staying with Mourangue. Combine the fish smell with the raw body odor of hundreds of Chadians, many of who bathe infrequently at best, and the smell is almost overpowering.

I make my way through the market, trying to weave my way through. No matter what I do, I am forever going to stick out in Chad, and people approach me constantly thrusting cigarettes, candy, produce and more in my face- the assumption is that every white person is rich, and people seem to think that I'll buy whatever they shove at me.

I find the first item on my list, the mirror, under a tent where the merchant is lying on a mat selling soap, razors, toothpaste and knives. I'd been expecting to pay 250 CFA, about 50¢, so I'm pleasantly surprised when I ask (via Dokati) how much it will cost me, and I'm told 125 CFA. I hand over the money and collect the mirror, which is no bigger than a large pack of cards, with a wooden frame.

My next stop is to buy a pagne, since I'm running out of clothes, and we only have the opportunity to do laundry once per week. It'll be some time between buying the pagne and having the clothing ready, as the fabric is only half of the process. I still need to find a tailor, be measured, and pay them to create the clothing, which generally takes at least a day or two- I probably won't have the chance to have it done until I get to N'Djamena.

I follow Dokati past the dry goods stalls where I bought the mirror, and head off down another aisle- I have no idea if he's ever been to Mai Lao before, but he seems to know the market as well as anyone here- perhaps it's simply a Chadian thing, or maybe he's just a good shopper. Coming around the corner I see a different set of stalls full of used clothing (which is supposedly the castoffs that even the Salvation Army and Goodwill didn't want), and long stretches of fabric. I see a piece that I like, a simple khaki color that would work well as a pair of pants, and show it to Dokati; instantly the merchant is on top of us, grabs the fabric, pulls out a giant pair of scissors, and expertly cuts a strip exactly two meters long. I pay 2000 CFA, about $4, and we're off.

As we're leaving the stall I see a row of brightly colored pagnes hanging nearby, and I motion to Dokati that I'm going to head over in to try to find one. I browse through the pagnes myself, with the merchant surprisingly keeping a respectful distance. I manage to find one I really like, a dark and shiny fabric that is almost a royal blue, with large golden fleur de lis designs on it. When I'm ready, Dokati joins me, talks with the merchant on my behalf, and I pay 3500 CFA for a total of 11 meters, which I'm told will be enough to make two shirts and a pair of pants, or four shirts if I choose.

The last thing on my list is the hajaja, which is great at keeping at least some circulating air in a hot room, and has the extra benefit of being an excellent (and really satisfying) way to swat the giant bumblebees that like to swarm around. Ahmat Daoud joins me, and we cross to the other side of the road, where there are a handful stalls in front of a group of houses. As we cross the road I see women selling what look to be little bell peppers, bowlfuls of tiny limes, as well as various roots and tubers that I couldn't begin to identify. Daoud comes along with me, and together we find the merchant selling baskets and fans, who seems to know Daoud well. I buy a hajaja made of woven reeds for 100 CFA, surprisingly cheap, and we're off, mission accomplished. I don't know how I would've done it without Daoud and Dokati- I suppose it could've happened, but I would've paid three times as much for half the product, I presume.

The last thing we decide to do is to find something to eat. François, our teacher/market guide suggests we head to the butcher, where we can buy pre-grilled meat on a baguette, a local favorite. We cross the road again and make our way over to the butcher shop, which is like no meat seller I've ever seen. Raw slabs of beef, mutton and goat sit out in the sun, with the hides drying behind them. Hundreds of flies swarm around the raw meat- if someone were to try to run a shop like this in the States they'd be shut down, and possibly arrested; here, it's simply the way things are done.

The only way to safely serve meat after it's been sitting out uncovered is to grill it practically beyond recognition- the concept of medium rare hasn't quite made it to Chad. The 'grill' is simply a rusted-out old barrel with a wire frame stretched across the top, and charcoal glowing inside. Several slabs of partially grilled meat lie on a brown paper back which has turned transparent with molten grease; François talks to the butcher, and we buy 2000 CFA worth of what we presume to be beef, which he then slaps onto the grill. A few minutes later he pulls the slab off the grill, slices it into small strips, and puts it into a plastic-wrapped paper bag. We buy three baguettes from the merchant next to him and find a stand of shady trees near the Land Cruiser. The meat is tough, gristly, but surprisingly good, and makes for an excellent lunch.

We sit and chat for a little while, but the heat of the day is getting to us, and the salty meat doesn't do anything to solve the problem. We pile into the Land Cruiser and set off with our mirrors, pagnes, hajajas, soap, knives and more, and head back to the training center. Mai Lao is nothing like a market you've ever seen most likely- it's way more fun...

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