Marti, Market, Mama Africa, and Moto-Moto

This entry is dedicated to my little sister, because it’s all her fault.

Marti:

Marti just got engaged, and will be getting married next year (congrats!). She is also the most Type-B personality in our family. (It’s a close toss-up between her and my dad, but he is married to my mom, so that neutralizes him.) I am, as many of you know, not so Type-B. Well, my darling sister gave me a task, and she had my mom ask for her, which meant it had to be done. What a task it turned out to be.

See, normally type-A’s assign tasks to “B’s” and it really screws with the system when that gets reversed. “A’s” give very detailed, time-oriented tasks to “B’s”. And sure, we may be rather impatient, but we’ve gotten very good at understanding the delay that is inevitable with the “B’s”. (I mean, after all, if you’d wanted it done on time, you should have assigned it to an “A”.) But when the poles reverse and “B’s” give “A’s” assignments, it is virtually crisis provoking. Where are the details? The time-tables? The diagramed decision-making trees? We don’t handle ambiguity well, and “B’s” love it.

So the assignment seemed innocent enough at first: could I please look for a piece of cloth in the market that she wanted to use in her wedding. Both she and her fiancé have spent time in Malawi and wanted to use a piece of fabric that he had brought home from there in their wedding, but didn’t have enough. Find an exact match to your fabric which was purchased on the other side of the continent, in a market that has thousands of fabrics? Sure, no problem.

An “A” always knows when they are looking an impossible task in the face, but that, in and of itself, rarely daunts them. After all, if they succeed, there will be no end of lauding and thanks. It is the decisions that must be made after failing that “A’s” find daunting. This is why an “A” will always assign a Plan B and Plan C. For example, “If you can’t find that (Plan A), then I want you to look for such and such (Plan B). And if you can’t find that, then I guess we’ll just have to go for the other (Plan C).” Plan B from Marti? “If you can’t find it just look for something close.” Close in what way? In color? In design? In texture? Gloss? Quality? Did you need that exact floral pattern? I mean, I can barely match a dress shirt with a suitable tie, but even I know that the phrase “close” just doesn’t cut it.

So armed with my task, and with a picture of her fabric, I set out for the market in Bobo.

Market:

The market is an inescapable reality of every city, town, and sizeable village in Africa. I suspect, if given the choice, an African would choose the market over a Walmart any day. (Once the newness wears off…) On the other hand, Americans are wired to distrust markets altogether. 10 brief reasons.

1. There is a complete lack of plastic. Anything worth eating should be sealed behind so many layers of plastic that a majority of the product’s cost should be packaging. Everything is out in the open in the market.

2. No aisle markers. Where do you pick up flour? Second aisle, third shelf on the left, eye level. You have to hunt for everything you want in the market.

3. Markets are outside. We shop inside because we feel safer. There are just so many uncontrollable things outside. Like flies. The very sighting of a fly at dinner time ruins a meal, let alone seeing 50 covering your future steak.

4. How many times have you heard a mother say to her kid, “Junior, quit touching them all and just take one.” In the market, touching, examining, and smelling are all encouraged.

5. We like background music and store announcements over the speakers. The market is full of noise of every kind, and it is an unnerving cacophony to Americans. And store announcements are made in the market, but they are usually made directly to the person, as in: “Monsieur, you want necklace? I have very beautiful necklace for you. Good price.”

6. We prefer bright lighting and wide aisles. Markets have tiny pathways, and either direct sunlight or haphazardly constructed, dimly-lit shops and tunnels. We are by nature claustrophobic.

7. Markets have too many people. Americans don’t even enjoy seeing their neighbors at the store. We prefer to shop in complete anonymity. And people just crowd the aisles (see above). Markets are all about people. A person selling every product. A person on every side of you. Americans would buy everything from an unstaffed vending machine if possible (internet shopping?), whereas Africans love the human interaction provided by markets.

8. Much related to shopping in complete anonymity, Americans prefer to peruse the choices without any help and without pushy salesmen. The shop owner in African markets feels it a mark of his salesman ship to constantly find something new to say. They have no concept of the American mentality. This explains why the shop owners in Bobo had learned the phrase, “Just looking, no problem. Just looking.” He will then proceed to list all of his products without ceasing.

9. Haggling. You will find the rare American who actually enjoys haggling prices, but that is usually related to them being cheap and their thinking they have a chance to get a deal. Most Americans like to have prices stated clearly. Africans consider haggling something of a fun little game that bonds buyer and seller.

10. Because of everything written above, you just cannot get through a market quickly. A trip to the market will take a few hours. There is no such thing as “picking up something on my way home.”

Now every market seems to take on its own personality. Some markets have really pushy sales people, and others are very laid back. The market here is very laid back, but doesn’t have a whole lot of tourist-stuff. Bobo was a little bit more tourist-oriented, but still laid back compared to other places I’ve been. The one interesting thing is the presence of a group of guys that hang around and seem to have nothing better to do than help you buy stuff. I assume they must get some kind of kick-back if they sell something from someone’s shop.

Three of these guys attached themselves to our group. Although I did ask the one guy his name, I have long since forgotten, so I’ll give them names. The first, I’ll call “Boss-man” since he seemed to be the ring-leader and would direct our path through the market. The other was “Yellow,” since he wore a bright yellow shirt both days we saw him. He was a lot more laid back then the others, but always seemed to show up in every shop. And the third guy, I’ll call “Big.” Big looked like he should have been a UFC fighter. He was probably 6’1”-6’2”, lean but built, with an angular face that made him look mean and a confident swagger to match.

Mama Africa:

This could be a profile in medicine on its own, but I’ll include it here. Terry, or Mama Africa as she became known, is the director of nursing here. She grew up in Africa and has been working as a nurse in Africa for years now. I met Terry in Gabon four years ago during my first trip to Africa. She was just getting ready to leave Gabon for good, to get married to Barry, and to move to another African country (which turned out to be M). Terry was very close friends with Karen, the nurse who supervised my trip to Gabon in 2005.

A few weeks after Terry left, I went with Karen to pick up some furniture she had taken to a repair shop in town. She told me that it was especially at times like this that she missed Terry. She admitted that she wasn’t very good at haggling prices and usually caved at too high of a price because she either didn’t know the acceptable price or just felt mean trying to get the price lower. Terry, on the other hand, was an excellent negotiator. She could make herself emotionless and wasn’t afraid to just tell someone that the price was outrageous. Then Karen said, “And most importantly, Terry isn’t afraid to walk away. If she isn’t getting the price she wants, she just turns around and walks out, and they come chasing after her.”

I watched with great joy as this played out in front of my eyes all weekend in Bobo. The rest of our little crew quickly turned over our haggling to Terry, who was definitely better at it than us. She’d ask how much, they’d respond with an outrageous price, she’d counter with an outrageously low price. Quite a few times, she elicited chuckles and “ouches” from the shop owners. But most of them really enjoyed playing the game with her. And then would come her signature move. When the prices weren’t budging, she would just turn around and walk out. It got so the rest of us could see it coming. We’d stand at the entrance of the shop and say, “wait for it, wait for it…and go.” Then, we’d turn around and walk out with her. Usually, we made it 5 yards out of the shop and they were calling us back.

It was this tough bargaining and her ability to speak the local language (in addition to her excellent French) that won her many nicknames. Our favorite was “Mama Africa.” We were in one shop and the owner started speaking to her in French, and Yellow burst in, “Oh no, Mama Africa here speaks Dioula.” From that point on, Boss-man, Yellow, and Big called her Mama Africa, as did many shopkeepers. At one point, a guy selling postcards told me, “These are a great price, just ask my sister,” pointing to Terry. And one time, during one of our walk-outs, Boss-man cried out in desperation, “Madame-chaude please come back.” Madame-chaude meaning Mrs. Hot or more accurately, Mrs. Fiery.

Meeting Miss Moto-Moto:

For those of you unversed in Disney films, Moto-Moto is the hippo that Gloria (also a hippo) falls in love with in Madagascar 2. “Moto-Moto, he’s so big you have to say it twice.” (Don’t worry, I didn’t get it at first either.) A few in our group had seen this movie before coming, and it became a running joke, especially while seeing the hippos. Well, we met Miss Moto-Moto in the Bobo market.

We first entered the market on Saturday afternoon, close to the time it was shutting. Boss-man picked up on us right away, but we largely tried to ignore him. He didn’t seem to care, he just keep going with us. We began to look through the myriad of fabric shops, each containing slight variations from the last. Bobo has one of the largest cloth markets in West Africa, so there was a lot to look through. Boss-man encouraged us to buy fast because the shops were closing. I saw a fabric that I really liked (for me personally) but the shop-owner would only sell it in a bigger piece than I needed. Boss-man insisted he knew where I could get what I wanted. We eventually let him lead us through the winding paths back to another shop.

We were, however, still trying to be independent and ignore these guys. Eventually, however, Yellow and Big joined our group and seemed to show up in every shop we entered. I walked into one and Big began pointing out fabrics that I wasn’t even remotely interested in. He kept asking me questions about what I was looking for. I finally said, “Do you own this shop?” To which, a man in the corner quickly replied, “No, I do.” And so I said to Big, “So you are what? My personal friend for the day?” He smiled and laughed. When we walked out of the shop, he put his arm on my shoulders, pulled me close and while blowing the remnants of his last cigarette in my face, said, “Anything you want in this market, I can get for you. It’s all mine.” I didn't know whether to laugh or to be scared.

Boss-man was growing increasingly impatient that we weren’t buying and that shops were closing. Terry did eventually work out a deal on the fabric that I liked, though I bought more fabric than I needed. We started heading back to the entrance. So far, I hadn’t seen anything close to what my little sister was looking for. We stopped in one last shop on the way out, and I saw a several pieces of fabric that were “close” to what she was after, but no exact match. I told Terry in English, we can come back here tomorrow if we don’t find anything else. We left, and I was feeling a bit discouraged, but had hopes that the next day would bring more success. Exiting the market, we began to look for Terry’s husband, who had wondered out on his own. Boss-man assured us he was coming up the road just then. We couldn’t seem him, but in less than 30 seconds, there he was, heading right towards us.

The next morning, we entered the market, only to be greeted by Boss-man, Yellow, and Big right away, as if they were waiting for us. We had warmed up to them a little bit, and Terry began just telling Boss-man what we wanted to see next, and he would lead us through the little tunnels to a series of shops that had what we were looking for. If we took too long in a shop, Boss-man would get impatient and tell us he knew where we could find something better. Often, Yellow and Big would stand right outside a shop and comment on how nice something we were holding looked and how high the quality was. In a few smaller shops, I would enter and the shop owner would leave and let Yellow or Big take over negotiations. They always explained, “That’s my dad,” or “That’s my uncle.” If we wandered to a shop that they hadn’t taken us to, often our three guides would stay outside. I guess they didn’t have contracts with every shop owner. Boss-man stayed faithfully with Terry, always ready to take us to our next destination. He seemed always aware of what we wanted to look for next, even though we only spoke in English to one another.

I went into countless shops and didn’t see anything close to what I was looking for. Others in our group did buy some fabric, and I bought some bezin fabric as well. (That is a traditional fabric here that has so much wax pounded into it that it shines, as if you were wearing a plastic bag. It’s impressive, but stifling to wear.) Big had gotten on a new kick. Apparently he liked the sandals I had worn the day before, and he really wanted me to trade him the sandals for something else in the market. I explained that I didn’t have them with me, but that did not deter him. Everywhere we went in the market, he would pick things up and say, “Will you trade me for this?” At one point, he picked up a pair of leather sandals and said, “A pair for you and for your wife.” (Someone later suggested that I should have countered, “A pair for me and my three wives.”)

Then I made the mistake of telling Yellow that what I was looking for had flowers on it. Within minutes, every shop-owner I passed was telling me that he had flower fabric inside. Big and Yellow came up with countless floral patterns. We finally tired of the endless rat-race and I told Terry that we should just go to the shop from the other day. Boss-man picked up on this instantly (and I really don’t think he spoke English because he never said an English word to us), and said, “Follow me, I’ll take you back to the shop you liked yesterday.”

He led us right to the shop, and Terry, I, and Yellow walked in. There were two little girls behind the counter (one of the few shops that had anything like a counter), but when we approached, we saw her sitting there on the floor behind the counter: Moto-Moto. She rose to her feet. She hadn’t been there the day before. Terry whispered to me, “Oh man, I hate negotiating with women. They are the hardest.”

Moto-Moto was, as her name suggests, large, though more in bone structure than in weight. She had something of a commanding presence. Dressed in bright green with a head scarf to match, she had a lighter complexion, highlighted with dark but well placed make-up. Having risen to her feet, she rested her frame on her elbows, placed squarely on the counter, and with something of a sigh looked at us. She moved a hand to adjust the stick she was chewing on. Such sticks are often used to clean teeth, but she was chomping on hers in a way that was far too vigorous, and in sharp contrast to the otherwise lady-like nature of her appearance. “Attitude” was written all over her face.

We pointed out the pieces of fabric we wanted to see, and she barked at the girls behind the counter with her to grab them. She unfolded each with her heavy hands. I quickly narrowed the choice down to the one fabric that I really liked, and Terry asked Yellow, “How much?” Yellow shot off an over-the-top price, “17,500.” Before Terry could counter, Moto-Moto, snapped back in the local language (not knowing Terry could understand), “No, it’s not. Tell her it’s 12,500. No higher, no lower.” Terry picked up right away and said, “7,500.” Moto-Moto snapped her head towards Terry and glared. She took the stick out of her mouth and moved it to the other side. This was intense and almost funny. “12,500 is the price. This is high quality,” she said, as her heavy hands began to refold the cloth. Every other attempt was cut off, and she began to act offended by our very presence in her shop. I could see it was time to walk out. Terry and I turned to walk out, but completely unfazed, Moto-Moto continued to fold her fabric. Once outside, I glanced back in to see her placing the fabric back on the shelf.

It was definitely more than I wanted to pay, but she didn’t seem likely to budge. Terry said, “If you want it, you’re going to have to pay that price.” I decided it was worth it, and I didn’t want to lose this fabric. It was the only piece of its kind in the whole market. I turned around and walked back into the shop. Moto-Moto just glared, still chomping on her stick. She pulled at her dress top which hung loosely on her broad shoulders, as if she were preparing to free her arms to take a swing. “I’ll take it for 12,500,” I said weakly. She glared at me for a moment, as if pondering whether or not she should refuse. She moved the stick around in her mouth again. Then she barked something, and the girls behind her scrambled to pull it off the shelf. Not another word was uttered as she took my money, placed the cloth in the bag, and handed it to me. “Have a nice day,” I said, without receiving a response.

Yellow congratulated me on the high quality of my fabric as I left the shop. Big pulled me by the shoulders, sensing his time with me was ending, and pitched one more trade offer for my sandals. “You know my friend,” I said, “I’m really just not interested.” With that, he smiled, shook my hand, holding it for a little while in the African sign of friendship, and said, “Ok.” Boss-man bid us farewell, and we thanked him for his help.

Gotta love the market.