Come. Step away for a moment. Pick your feet up to avoid brief puddles of mud and charcoal and orange peel but don’t be afraid of the dust that will collect between your toes and fill the gaps in your fingernails. You will feel strange at first, notice the blanched color of your skin, then the smooth dark glow of the people around you. But let that go. Yes, you are different. And when you smile, your teeth will line up in straight rows like the life you left behind; Here, people will smile with all their teeth and you will remark at the gaps, the pink gums, the dark holes. If this makes you uncomfortable, simply let their voices roll around you like a torn, dusty quilt, welcoming you in and holding you softly. While you are here, you will sew your own patchwork and none of the pieces will be the same size or shape. You will not know the pattern until you have finished, and perhaps, you will never finish.
BonJour! ça va! Here you will hear a greeting every five steps you take. And you may notice that the language wraps around words with a slight southern twang. Mouths curl around the vowels to leave each phrase in a smile. You try saying it back “ Bon Jour, Ca va bien! “ and realize before you know it that you are smiling too.
You arrive at the market whose entrance is signaled by nothing but a greater concentration of buyers and sellers. You pause for an instant, a white woman, a white purse, sunglasses, and a friends warning ringing in your head. “ I heard you get ripped off there; someone told me you get hassled a lot if you go by yourself; most whites don’t shop there” But the street unloads before you, a tight dirt patch lined crookedly with rugs and blankets and tomatoes and lettuce and fish and fly strewn meat, and small bags of spice and salt. Here, every vendor greets you. “Bon Jour!” offering up a tomato or maybe even just a smile. One woman finishes her lunch and offers you the last bite of rice. You shake your head and tell her she should finish it, so she scoops it up in her right hand, lining the edge of the metal bowl with her fingers before licking them. The greetings are warm and constant so you take your time to step past the blankets and booths, making eye contact, returning each “Bon jour, ca va!” with your own smile, and “ca va, merci, et vous?” this simple constant gesture makes you feel at home, welcome, and friendly with each person you pass. Often it feels as if you are sharing some secret joke, you nod your head, your cheeks scrunch up in smile, and you realize that the secret joke is the simple, honest fact of your greeting.
In the slow course of your meanderings, you are greeted by a fabric seller. He gestures for you so come inside. Again, you hesitate. You don’t want to buy anything; you are alone; you don’t know this person; you don’t want to show too much interest. But the fabrics that line the entry ruffle in the wind: bright colors, stiff cottons, light flowered tulles. You duck in after him. In the dim light the patterns and colors line each other, rows and rows, each wall covered with different bolts of fabric, neatly folded. The light soaks in through corrugated tin roof and leaks through the elusive entryway. You feel as if you have entered another world, a harem. He leads you into tight, dim rooms, and you become lost in a labyrinth of color and pattern. The roof provides welcomed shade. you duck in and out of “rooms” lifting the light tissue, gently pushing aside the stiff cottons. He offers you tea and you sit down. He is smooth but you relent. You take a small sip of the white drink he offers. It has a light taste of chalk and some sweet herb that could perhaps be allspice. After you wander slowly through each flowing space and meet the young boys who are in the far back corner where an ally separates you from the next stall, you move back towards to front. A piece of dark blue fabric like the middle of an ocean catches your eye. It has dark red jungle green patterns printed on it, and you decide it is worth the dollar he is offering to sell it to you for.
Outside, the street is still hot and dusty. You pass crates packed full of black and white chickens, you pass old men crouched and eating lunch, tires and a mishmash of shiny and rusted bikes. Finally, you are ready to go home. You still have not found the hat you were searching for, so you ask someone where you might find one. This sets off an unexpected chain reaction. He calls “David… David…. DAVID” it comes out sounding Daaahvveeed and from across the way David appears, short and smooth skinned. You explain to him what you would like, and he guides you to a shady bench to wait, then disappears into the market. After a few minutes he returns, carrying a wide brimmed straw hat, just what you had asked for. You haggle the price with him, then start joking with the others who are around. Finally you begin to move away, having forgotten entirely to pay. He gently reminds you, and you laugh together about how easy it is to forget the money when the personal exchange is so full. You hand him the money, knowing you paid too much. But then again you realize how nice it was to sit in the shade while he went searching, how friendly the neighboring vendors were, and suddenly this price comes nowhere close to value of the interaction you have just shared. You pick your way over and though the vendors. They smile at you and you smile back, still white, still a bit of a stranger, but something in you has changed; you feel comfortable here, at home, welcome.
