As the sun's intense rays beat down upon my head and shoulders, I step delicately around the big puddles (boules) of water, but misplace my right foot, and my toes end up covered with cool squishy mud. La Marché Centrale, the premier market (one of three) sits near the big mosque in town. Wide-screen televisions, metal casseroles decorated with flowers, towering piles of black and brown leather shoes…these items and more can be found at La Marché. But don’t be surprised to see Nake instead of Nike. It’s called SuperSony, not just Sony. A few young boys approach me, and push plastic bags towards me. “No, merci.”
At the Marché Millet (literally, Millet Market), we visit the fabric section. Vendors have their goods laid out upon tables or piled high in their small magasin (usually 5’x5’x10’-that would be my best guess) enclosed within metal walls (almost like a shed). I look among the smaller scarves so I can cover my head in the camps. I randomly pick up a sheer off-white scarf from the piles sitting on plastic sheeting on the ground. After I make a purchase with the help of my coworker who bargains for me in Arabic, neighboring vendors crowd up to show me the exact same scarf among their selection. One after another. “Non merci. J’en ai déjà.” (No thank you. I have it already). In many cases, my French is pretty useless out here, and some look at me curiously.
I ask one vendor who sits like royalty among his wares where the fabric comes from…China, India. The beautiful foulards (scarfs), les voiles (fabric that veils females’ faces and their entire body), the long shirts worn by men…all the clothing that seems classic Middle East….from China or India. That reminded me of the time when I visited Kakuma—I saw a box of condoms that were manufactured in China of all places.
The sections of the markets are well organized. One section of vendors sell fabric, one may sell fruits and butchered meat covered with flies, another has a whole host of men’s clothing and underwear that includes a brand featuring 50 Cent. I don’t see a vendor that has any bare shelves. Everything is squeezed into the very small space. Even at the supermarket, Dove soap, President’s Brie cheese, Bic pens, Nivea lotion and biscuits from France line the shelves. There doesn’t seem to be a shortage of anything anywhere.
In the office, it’s quiet. The national staff is very polite and proper with me. But we’re building relationships slowly. A pity I’m leaving tomorrow. I ask my driver Moussa to drive me to the pharmacy. He asks me why I’m not married yet. Don’t I have a boyfriend? It’s necessary to have children soon! (Oh brother). I inquire if school is mandatory to find out about the laws. He tells me about his children. Three under the age of fourteen.
In les autres nouvelles, I was able to meet up with a friend in N’djamena…I know, who meets up with a friend in N’djamena? It was fantastic to see him, to process our initial impressions about Chad, and to talk about life abroad and back in the big apple.
so, it's time to go back to packing my bags. In a few hours I will head to the airport to go to Abeche, then onto Iriba.
A bientot, mes amis! Je vous embrasse!
At the Marché Millet (literally, Millet Market), we visit the fabric section. Vendors have their goods laid out upon tables or piled high in their small magasin (usually 5’x5’x10’-that would be my best guess) enclosed within metal walls (almost like a shed). I look among the smaller scarves so I can cover my head in the camps. I randomly pick up a sheer off-white scarf from the piles sitting on plastic sheeting on the ground. After I make a purchase with the help of my coworker who bargains for me in Arabic, neighboring vendors crowd up to show me the exact same scarf among their selection. One after another. “Non merci. J’en ai déjà.” (No thank you. I have it already). In many cases, my French is pretty useless out here, and some look at me curiously.
I ask one vendor who sits like royalty among his wares where the fabric comes from…China, India. The beautiful foulards (scarfs), les voiles (fabric that veils females’ faces and their entire body), the long shirts worn by men…all the clothing that seems classic Middle East….from China or India. That reminded me of the time when I visited Kakuma—I saw a box of condoms that were manufactured in China of all places.
The sections of the markets are well organized. One section of vendors sell fabric, one may sell fruits and butchered meat covered with flies, another has a whole host of men’s clothing and underwear that includes a brand featuring 50 Cent. I don’t see a vendor that has any bare shelves. Everything is squeezed into the very small space. Even at the supermarket, Dove soap, President’s Brie cheese, Bic pens, Nivea lotion and biscuits from France line the shelves. There doesn’t seem to be a shortage of anything anywhere.
In the office, it’s quiet. The national staff is very polite and proper with me. But we’re building relationships slowly. A pity I’m leaving tomorrow. I ask my driver Moussa to drive me to the pharmacy. He asks me why I’m not married yet. Don’t I have a boyfriend? It’s necessary to have children soon! (Oh brother). I inquire if school is mandatory to find out about the laws. He tells me about his children. Three under the age of fourteen.
In les autres nouvelles, I was able to meet up with a friend in N’djamena…I know, who meets up with a friend in N’djamena? It was fantastic to see him, to process our initial impressions about Chad, and to talk about life abroad and back in the big apple.
so, it's time to go back to packing my bags. In a few hours I will head to the airport to go to Abeche, then onto Iriba.
A bientot, mes amis! Je vous embrasse!
posted by elizabeth at 2:42 PM
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