The Market

The air smells like motorcycle exhaust and over ripe fruit as we round the corner and the first vendors become visible. There are piles of color, each tended by their own reigning "mama" and her daughters. Papaya, mangoes, apples, baby bananas, pineapples, and melons are heaped in baskets. Eggplants, potatoes, lettuce, tomatoes, small spicy peppers, onions, carrots, cauliflower, and long rough skinned yams are placed in ordered rows and stacks. The multi-tiered tables are invisible behind this opulent produce so overloaded it seems to be reaching towards potential buyers as they search for the best looking ingredients for dinner tonight. Then there are the meat vendors, women sitting in front of large basins of fresh shrimp, whole dried fish, and some sort of curled and thick brown slab my friend tells me is sea cucumber. This is the place the flies love, where the air is thick with the scent of fish.


I absolutely love going to the market. It is something I do with my friend Olivia at least once a week. I love the market because it makes me remember where I am. Market walks, coming home with heavy bags of fruit and vegetables, connect me to the community and I am just a bit more a part of African life.


Today, we are in search of the biggest papayas we can find (previous market ventures have taught us that these are the best), and ingredients for Olivia's Chinese stir fry. Underneath the patched tin roof, an isle runs between each booth like a maze. By now, we know that the best vendors are towards the back and as we walk in looking at today's quality of cabbage and onions, the women poke their pineapples and bananas at us. It is a mistake to approach a stand if you are not looking to buy. Let me tell you, there is a pursuit involved! These women will show you every single item they are selling if you let them, and walking away with out a mango or an apple just seems rude after all the effort. So we walk exactly in the middle of the rows of mama sellers, not tending towards one side or another discussing which fruits look good and bad without actually pointing to them. When we find a source of beautiful string beans for the stir fry, Olivia, asks for 500 CFA worth (about $1) in French. The lady starts filling up a thin plastic sack, and Olivia kicks in to bargaining mode. 500 for that! Those beans are small! And the woman throws in handful more. I'll give you 400, Olivia says. No, the woman shakes her head, and she starts unloading the beans back into their basket, slowly, bluffing an unwillingness to settle. 400, Olivia says and turns to walk away. I realize we are arguing over twenty cents. The vendor stops us and offers the bag, now full again and we hand her four 100 coins that she quickly tucks away into a dirty piece of cloth tied into the waist of her skirt. Merci mama, we say with a smile, and she smiles back. I put the little plastic bag of beans into my shopping bag, and we walk on to our next purchase.

I think about what it would be like, to sit and sell food, trying to get the best price, often settling for less, but making it back from the non-french speaking yovos who pay way too much. I can tell that the women in charge hold all the power in their families. They are large and matriarchal. They are teaching their ten year old daughters how to manage a business, making sure their toddlers stay close, fanning away the sweat and napping a little when the day is slow. They are the money holders. They are strong, but their sons and the young men carry in the heavy bags of produce for them. They are women respected.

Olivia and I do eventually find the big yellow-ripe papayas and we buy three. I can't wait to split them open for the pink flesh and the population of black fish egg seeds inside. We also grab a dark eggplant, some candied peanuts, and a special kind of white carrot I have never tried before. We can't pass up the ripe mangoes on the way out and soon we are headed back to the ship burdened with black plastic sacks. We will eat well tonight, and it is nice to know that we have contributed to a family's dinner too. We drop a mango off with our security guards as we climb the gangway and I am happy to be here in Benin, in Africa, for this simple experience.