Friday, May 18, 2007
Market day
Today was market day in Haydom and we went to find a few shuka. These are the traditional wrap of the maasai as well as many other tribesmen of the area. As it is getting cooler in the evening we figured what better and cheaper way to keep warm than these colourful wraps. They are mostly made from a thin wool fiber woven into a plaid pattern with various colours. I had picked one up at the market I went to on our second day in Haydom so we thought we could get a similar price here in town.
We set off after lunch walking as a family up the road to the front gate. We were all in good spirits with our bellies filled with Emma Stella’s beautiful pizza. Abby was skipping along and Nik and I were strolling through the crowds coming and going from the hospital. Abby’s exuberance got the best of her and she took a marvelous tumble landing in a heap on the rocky dirt road. She came up with a bit of crying and many of the passing folks gave a “Pole Sana” as they passed. It took a few steps and Abby was back to good but requiring a lift, so onto my back she went and as we turned onto the recently repaired smooth road we regained our good spirits again.
The road was busy with foot and vehicle traffic and as usual we got a few sideways glances but from friendly faces. We often say hello to many people as we go by and today was no exception. The folks selling their wares from their roadside shops give long stares and gesture to their goods strewn on a tarp in the hope of making some extra money from us as we pass. We made our way to the road that passes the football pitch and could see through the trees lining the road that the elementary students were playing a heated game. Their yells and cheers were a welcome sound over the din coming from the market, still a ways away. We stepped quickly down the newly smoothed surface with the bordering ruts cleanly dug to accommodate next years rain.
We turned the final corner to the market and Abby announced the dryness in her throat that was reminiscent of the fine inch thick layer of dust on this lesser used road. So the first stop had to be a teahouse for a bottle of water. We entered one of the neighbourhoods that is mainly made up of shops but it would be strange to call it a strip mall. The center of the area is a wide and long dirt lot. The ground is hard packed red dirt with both large and small stones cemented to the surface and protruding to make walking a challenge. There seems to be new, sharp loose stones scattered each day by the bicycle wheel repair shops. There is an impromptu bus stop here where a variety of seemingly broken down busses and four-wheel drive Toyota vans that hold more than their fair share of seats for desperate travelers. The drivers sit behind the wheel while large rocks block the tires, as the brakes have been gone for some time. I imagine that they also have similar rocks on board tied securely to the frame to slow them on the roads like an anchor.
The shops are decidedly bustling given the biweekly market open for business in the adjacent field. People are coming and going from the fabric stores, tea houses and grocery stores as the noise of static filled music pours from the lone speaker at the cell phone stand. The stand is a 3-foot square box of old wood, reused and painted bright blue, with a side door and a small window, yet it is filled with all manner of cell phone related nick knack from phone fobs to colourful keypad covers. On the ground in front of this is a small stream of cloudy water that emanated quite a stench, one that quickened our pace in our search of a clean and cold drink of water.
We entered the Moshi grocery store, which doesn’t sell groceries at all; it is a bar nothing more. There is a thin cloth hanging in the doorway, evidently to keep the flies out. The room was small and dusty with a few tables spread haphazardly on its unclean floor and a couple of younger men sucking back sodas. There were also 3 men, mid-twenties or so, ordering beer in front of me. They were not the usual smiley type that we run into all over; they were rather abrasive and not friendly to the woman who was serving them. When they were finished with their order the woman came out from behind the counter to take my order. I asked, in my best Swahili for 3 small bottles of water. She returned shortly with one bottle that she had wiped down to rid it of its dusty film and asked for 350 shillings. I didn’t understand her so she repeated the number. Still I was not getting it so one of the soda-drinking guys piped up with English to help me out. I guess my best Swahili was not good enough and I left with one bottle of water to quench the thirst of the family.
We walked back toward the market, a sea of people and goods spread in various ways across the ground and hanging from the trees. We passed the shoe vendors with their footwear, on one side of us, lined up 4 or 5 rows deep and 30 feet long; on the other side there was a 2 feet deep pile of shoes that again stretched about 30 feet. We passed these dealers and crossed the road to the main shopping area.
As we entered the thick of things, a local man in his mid-twenties who carried an intense look on his face accosted me. With his face no more than 2 feet from mine he said, “hey…” followed by the “n” word. I was dumbfounded, positively speechless as he continued his glare for no more than a few seconds time, for me stood still, my mind scrambled to find meaning in what he had said; I could find none. By the time I was able to fully comprehend his statement he was gone. Was it racism? This was my immediate conclusion. He may have been trying to provoke a response. I still don’t know. I have spoke of this with friends and they are as confused as I am. However, one other theory is that he may have seen an English movie and was simply mimicking what he had seen as cool slang in a gangster film. In my time here I have not known a Tanzanian to be confrontational or rude at all, so my gut says it was benign but I will be on my guard a little bit when I am out and about.
This disturbance did not stop us from enjoying the experience of the Mnada (fleamarket) and we pushed on in search of the Shuka shops. We passed many used clothing areas – I say areas because they are just a large pile of clothing spread out on tarps and on the grass – and were pressured to stop and buy, but we were not interested and moved on. The Shukas were a little further on piled ten high with many piles in each spread. I would say each sales person had 3-400 Shukas for sale. It was hot and we were not going to use the bartering ploy of walking away if we did not get our price even though the salesman was not going for our price. I had paid 6,000 or 6,500 at a previous market and we were hoping to get a similar price but this was not to be as the salesman kept telling us that for that price we could only choose from a small pile of the smallest Shukas he had. We went for the medium sized ones, about the size of a single bed, and the asking price was 9,000 and since we wanted 3 we thought we could get a break. The salesman said, ”ok, 3 is 28,000.” We were a bit taken aback as you would be too if you understood multiplication. The salesman thought we were struggling with understanding his Swahili and took out paper to write down the 28,000 price. We told him, as best we could that we understood but that his math was bad and he did not understand this so I took his pen and paper and wrote 3 X 9 = 27. But, then I wrote that we would pay 24,000. We went back and forth, all in Swahili, and settled on 25,000. This was still too much but not an outrageous price. So the Shukas were rolled up and tied with straw and with our goal accomplished we went on our way.
