A Walk Through Town

A Walk Through Town – Thursday, December 20, 2012

I walk out of my front door and through the small dirt courtyard in front of my house.  To my right I pass the clotheslines that I recently hung, a small mound signifying the grave of a previous occupant of my house, and my neighbors’ garden with a ‘fence’ of cut-down branches.  To my left I pass a small barrier of trees and then the huts of the other family that lives in my compound; mud with thatched roofs.  I walk through a narrow path and then the red door to the street.  I step across the cinder blocks that create a small bridge that crosses the gutter running along the street, about a foot wide and a foot deep. 

I turn right onto my street, which is paved, and pass a number of children who stare at me.  Maybe a couple of them respond when I say hello.  A dirt road leads off to my left, where I see a number of Muslim men praying on a carpet, and a small boutique in front selling an assortment of items, including soaps and shampoos.  To my right is a thatched-roof overhang against a mud-brick wall, where a couple of women sell beans, beignets, and spices in small bags.  A woman asks if I’m sorry.  I ask sorry for what, and she says for not buying beignets from her more often.  I lie, and say I don’t eat a lot of beignets, when the real reason is that another woman around the corner makes them much better. 

I continue walking until I get to a more main road, which I turn left on.  If I go right I will pass another boutique and eventually the house where I buy my flats of fresh eggs- there are a few dozen chickens there, and a small bar.  I keep walking, passing another small boutique on my left selling bags of a small dried fruit (a great snack, tasty and takes a while to eat because of the seeds in the middle and only 25 CFA each) along with an assortment of other items.  On my right is the woman selling the really good beans and beignets that I usually get.  Wooden benches surround the fire-pit she uses with at least half a dozen people sitting there.  She is the main reason I leave my house by 8 every morning – I have to make sure I get there while everything is still hot and fresh.  By 9, beignet-selling women are shutting things down.  She only speaks Fulfulde, so our conversations are limited.  But breakfast is delicious and only costs me 200 CFA – about $0.40 considering the exchange rate is about 500 CFA to $1. 

This is the main road in my quartier of the town, Beberi, so there are motos whizzing past fairly regularly.  Those without passengers honk at me to see if I want a ride.  Most places I go cost about 100 CFA to get there.  I keep walking for about five minutes, saying hello to everyone I pass, usually people sitting around a boutique (which is a charitable way of describing the wooden stands set up), each one selling slight variations on the same things.  Usually powdered milk, tomato paste, magi cubes (a kind of bouillon), cigarettes, eggs, and beignets.  To might right and left are dirt roads running perpendicular to the one I am walking on.  If I’m going to volleyball or the post office, I take the one on the right.  Sometimes I walk along the one on my left to or from the market, to add some variety. 

I turn left on the main road, passing the Nassaroa store (the store that sells things like toothpaste, soaps, and powdered milk and coffe in ‘bulk’) and boulangerie (bakery) on my right.  I usually stop by the boulangerie around 4 PM when the bread is finished baking for the day.  It’s a place where you walk in and pick your baguettes straight from the oven for 100 CFA each. 

I turn right at the main intersection of the town.  If I turn left I will hit the place where I buy my phone credit and the more expensive restaurant.  As I walk, I pass by Credit du Sahel, where my post-mate works, a bar, and a couple of places where you can buy alcohol.  I cross the street to walk through the market.  Market day is on Fridays, so it is fairly small today, but still a good size.  Those selling potatoes and onions are up front.  There are ropes crisscrossing above that I have to duck under.  The ground is well-packed dirt; the path is fairly narrow, passing between stalls.  Motos still drive through here, and honk to get people out of the way. 

I pass by the guy that I buy hot peppers from on my right, and after a few more yards, the woman I buy okra from.  The market becomes a maze here, one that I’m proud I know how to navigate.  The deeper in you get, the more stuff is hanging on the ropes above your head, and it feels like you are moving underground.  I turn right at the next intersection to say hi to Joy, the English-speaking Nigerian woman who is incredibly helpful, telling me where to find things I need and how much I should pay for them.  She walks over with me to buy green peppers and tomatoes from a man close-by, after which I say goodbye to her so I can get a papaya from a guy down another path.  I avoid the meat section of the market.  It has an unappetizing smell and big hunks of beef sitting out, each covered in flies.  I wander around more of the market, saying hi to as many people as I can, especially the ones I usually by things from. 

I try to get my items from the same people.  The more you buy from one person each time, the better prices they will give you, and the more cadeaus (gifts, like 300 CFA worth of okra when you only buy 200 CFA worth).  Each one makes sure to tell you that they are giving you a cadeau.  Everyone I pass stares at me, a lot of them trying out their limited English, quickly slipping back into French, or trying to teach me the Fulfulde words for things.  I stop buy a vendor and by a kilo of rice, then haggle over the price of a broom and squeegee with another.  I constantly hear people hissing at me.  It sounds ominous, but is how you get someone’s attention here; how you call someone over to you.  Each one wants me to buy from them.  I make sure to stop and say hi to the Anglophone bean lady as I walk, then start slowly making my way back home.