market trip
Some photos from the trip between Douala and Yaounde:
I’m using these as a mini-illustration for a description of the market I visited Saturday in Lagos. I don’t have any photos of the market itself, because I felt extremely self-conscious, even without pulling out a camera. Some people must have a knack for snapping shots of strangers; I don’t. At least, not on my own with my highly unprofessional looking little Canon Elf. So, I’ll try for a vivid written portrayal:
The market is located alongside and surrounding the Yaba motor park. So, there are battered yellow minibuses (“maulers,” locally) bruising their way through the main thoroughfares. It’s a mass of goods and people, all sweating under the midday sun. Much of the market is wedged along an old set of railway tracks, clearly unused for years. Hundreds of vendors crowd into the semi-claustrophobic space. There are a few “stalls,” at the edges, consisting of wood frames and some tarps. Most people have a table, underneath a faded beach umbrella. Others just spread their wares on a tarp on the ground. Clothing makes up the majority of the merchandise. It looks like used clothes, carefully repaired and laundered, much of which was probably donated to thrift stores in the US or Western Europe, then shipped to Africa.
There are people selling cheap jewelry, a small section with some fruit, vegetables, and the ubiquitous smoked fish (which I’m starting to think is the “unpleasant” taste I find in most of the food). A few people are selling used books. At one end of the market, spread across the tracks, are a couple dozen fabric stores and tailors. The tailors sit between the stalls, at tiny sewing tables, under umbrellas. Their machines are antiques: the black versions with small painted flowers you would usually see in a museum display of early twentieth century home appliances. But, these are hooked up to small generators for their power supply. It’s crowded, chaotic, noisy. Men and women come and go, with their machines (or whatever else they’re selling) balanced on their heads.
Everyone wants me to come look, come buy. “Oyibo! Oyibo!” (trans. “white person!”) Which is fine, I expected that; I’m used to it from other countries and pretty good at letting it roll of me as I go about my business. But, unlike in the Middle East, here, some people would reach out and grab my wrist to try to pull me in. That’s where I firmly draw the line. I don’t care if they would also do it to a local; you’re a stranger, DON’T touch me! Delivered with a withering glare.
Still, that was a rarity. And the women in the market—who probably run 1/3 of the stalls—were very nice. At one point, trying to find my way back to a main road, I inadvertently stumbled into an open air beauty salon. It was basically right in the middle of a bunch of other stalls, and looked about the same, so it wasn’t until someone asked “you want to get your hair done?” that I took a good look around and saw that I was surrounded by women having their hair braided, or cut, or their fingernails painted. I was tempted to stick around, but not sure if I could handle the half hour of staring that would come along with a manicure.
One major difference I’ve noticed between West Africa and the Middle East is the very different attitudes towards public and private space. In the Middle East, family life—especially women’s—occurs behind closed doors. In Nigeria, yes, there are compounds where the rich hide from the rest of the country. But, most people don’t have that “luxury.” Life occurs out doors, in front of everyone. Hair gets cut, people sell things, sit in bars, wait for friends, hold celebrations, pee (well, the men do)…it all occurs out in the open. Which makes moving around that much more interesting, but also very, very intense.
I’m using these as a mini-illustration for a description of the market I visited Saturday in Lagos. I don’t have any photos of the market itself, because I felt extremely self-conscious, even without pulling out a camera. Some people must have a knack for snapping shots of strangers; I don’t. At least, not on my own with my highly unprofessional looking little Canon Elf. So, I’ll try for a vivid written portrayal:
The market is located alongside and surrounding the Yaba motor park. So, there are battered yellow minibuses (“maulers,” locally) bruising their way through the main thoroughfares. It’s a mass of goods and people, all sweating under the midday sun. Much of the market is wedged along an old set of railway tracks, clearly unused for years. Hundreds of vendors crowd into the semi-claustrophobic space. There are a few “stalls,” at the edges, consisting of wood frames and some tarps. Most people have a table, underneath a faded beach umbrella. Others just spread their wares on a tarp on the ground. Clothing makes up the majority of the merchandise. It looks like used clothes, carefully repaired and laundered, much of which was probably donated to thrift stores in the US or Western Europe, then shipped to Africa.
There are people selling cheap jewelry, a small section with some fruit, vegetables, and the ubiquitous smoked fish (which I’m starting to think is the “unpleasant” taste I find in most of the food). A few people are selling used books. At one end of the market, spread across the tracks, are a couple dozen fabric stores and tailors. The tailors sit between the stalls, at tiny sewing tables, under umbrellas. Their machines are antiques: the black versions with small painted flowers you would usually see in a museum display of early twentieth century home appliances. But, these are hooked up to small generators for their power supply. It’s crowded, chaotic, noisy. Men and women come and go, with their machines (or whatever else they’re selling) balanced on their heads.
Everyone wants me to come look, come buy. “Oyibo! Oyibo!” (trans. “white person!”) Which is fine, I expected that; I’m used to it from other countries and pretty good at letting it roll of me as I go about my business. But, unlike in the Middle East, here, some people would reach out and grab my wrist to try to pull me in. That’s where I firmly draw the line. I don’t care if they would also do it to a local; you’re a stranger, DON’T touch me! Delivered with a withering glare.
Still, that was a rarity. And the women in the market—who probably run 1/3 of the stalls—were very nice. At one point, trying to find my way back to a main road, I inadvertently stumbled into an open air beauty salon. It was basically right in the middle of a bunch of other stalls, and looked about the same, so it wasn’t until someone asked “you want to get your hair done?” that I took a good look around and saw that I was surrounded by women having their hair braided, or cut, or their fingernails painted. I was tempted to stick around, but not sure if I could handle the half hour of staring that would come along with a manicure.
One major difference I’ve noticed between West Africa and the Middle East is the very different attitudes towards public and private space. In the Middle East, family life—especially women’s—occurs behind closed doors. In Nigeria, yes, there are compounds where the rich hide from the rest of the country. But, most people don’t have that “luxury.” Life occurs out doors, in front of everyone. Hair gets cut, people sell things, sit in bars, wait for friends, hold celebrations, pee (well, the men do)…it all occurs out in the open. Which makes moving around that much more interesting, but also very, very intense.
posted by Emily at 4:31 PM
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