The time has come, as the walrus said, to move to better things and in this case it is clothes. Always dear to my heart it is strange to have the freedom that not having a mirror gives. My daily “does this look okay?” is greeted with nary a glance and “fine” and I believe him. However, an inspection of my meager wardrobe tells a different story. Articles that were once white tell their story of cold-water washing and the dust impregnated dirt tracks upon which we ride. Skirts, once smart, are nearly transparent and streaked with sun-dried bleach. My hair has the makings of a lions’ mane, if it would refrain from falling out. In summary I look a mess most of the time.
So there it was. The decision made. We donned our power ranger outfits and sped along the tarmac road to Wassu lumo. Traveling through the verdant grasslands, past lakes of water, scattered with white lilies floating randomly like ping pong balls, overtaking donkey carts laden with potential sellers and buyers, Peter, Mulai and I made the half hour journey.
It was bustling. People moved and milled, like my African stomach, between stalls of wares, fabrics, food, hardware, shoes, washing powder. We side stepped large sheets covered with drying tobacco, trays of bananas, iron aged garden tools as we went into the bowels of the market, deeper and darker than we had so far ventured. Wooden framed, palm covered stalls leant like a shantytown. Knock one and they could fall like a stack of dominoes.
Mulai was buying for the bitik, the tiny shop at the end of our compound. A random selection of goods that reflects its stores, miniscule bags of tobacco, (enough for one cigarette), an enormous bag of dried red fiery chilies measured with a tomato paste can, large bags of ‘minti’ for children buy singly, a lock. For the compound garden aubergine, chilli and pepper plants were carefully selected, rooted stems placed into a watered plastic bag with due care. All accompanied, of course, with greetings and banter and bustle and noise and a plethora of colours and smells.
Fabrics and materials were draped over sides, walls, floors, tables. A child in a sweetie shop I looked, felt, mulled and fantasized. Would this give me the trendy, Afracanised European look I required? Clearly and elegant size zero, even tanned, toned and unwrinkled skin would follow. I fell upon my prey - a batik print of purples and blues, still thick and stiff from wax, together with a royal blue water print. Oh the vision!
We are not hard bargainers. How can we, with all our wealth, try to make someone with so little, drop their price when 50p means so little to us but a family meal for them? We play the game, but not too hard and leave with the inevitable black plastic bag.
Journey home, across on the ferry and then to meet with the formidable Ma.
Mulai only has one wife – Ma. Tall, thin and elegant Ma works hard, running the bitik, keeping the compound immaculate, caring for the family, selling bags of water, bananas, mangos, fruit juice at the ferry port, a veritable hive of industry from six till midnight. Friendly and smiling she has long ago given up her shrieks of delight as I try my Mandinka to a resigned patient correction of my mistakes.
Courage in my hand I asked about the tailor. Yes Ma would come with me. We left for the stroll down to the market at a fierce pace with greetings firing from all angles like a repeating rifle. Ma knows everyone. I catch the odd phrase – Hawa is getting some African clothes.
The market is deserted, except for a few men in small cupboards, littered with fabric remnants and threads of all hues. They sit behind their treadle machines whilst there is still light enough for them to see. We march towards a withered, prunish old man, shake hands, greet and I follow Ma’s instructions to sit and stand at appropriate moments. I listen, without comprehension to a babble of dialogue during which she points to my ankles, my arms and gestures from shoulder to hip. I nod, not knowing what else to do. A tape measure appears. One measurement.
Ah, I know this.
“Two hundred dalasi.”
“Two hundred dalasi? Too much. Hawa, give him one hundred dalasi.”
I do.
That’s it. We leave and will return tonight to pick up whatever it is that I have ordered. I have no idea but have my suspicions that it might not be quite the image I anticipated.
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