Vernon Mooers writes

THE WHITE MAN'S GRAVEYARD

chapter 3 (2)

They found the hotel and a handsome and friendly desk clerk led them upstairs to the second floor. "Always water," he'd informed them. They had been told to stay on the ground floor because when the pressure was low the water couldn't get up the pipes. Alex tried the faucet and water spurted out.

"It'll do," he said. The room was spartan with no air-conditioner but it did have a fan and mosquito net. On their budget, they couldn't afford the Independence Hotel and it would be O.K. -- cheap and central in the town. Alex set the small knapsack, which contained only his towel and clothes and a small medical kit, on the bed, took out his camera and put it in Jeannie's shoulder bag while she went to the toilet. She had wanted to see the Central Market this morning, since it was market day.

They walked the few blocks toward the market, taking in the sights and sounds of this incessant buzz of activity as they approached the market. Cars and lorries honked at everything as if the horn was just invented, perhaps Alex thought, because nobody seemed to be following any traffic rules. People moved by sixth sense, anticipating each others' actions, which led to a completely chaotic situation. There were no road signs, no right-of-ways, no courteousness observed. There were no sidewalks so people drove or led their goats anywhere. In the mess of traffic, it was survival of the fittest -- or in most cases, survival of the biggest. Goats and sheep wandered aimlessly along the road sides, foraging for bits of straw. One was even chewing on an old newspaper.

The whole crowded market area meshed into a dusty, loud, disorganized bombardment of Alex's senses. The smell of litter, animal dung and the open drains filled with stagnant water and even the exhaust of the lorries combined in a nauseating aroma. This was all heightened by the dust churned up that was sucked up their nostrils like a vacuum cleaner and stuck to the sweat on their faces.

"Worse in the city," Jeannie remarked, wiping her forehead and looking at the soot on his shirt.

"Everything just goes in the ditch there too, opposite of the villages where it's all decomposable, but this stuff is all bits of plastic and things," Alex complained.

"They can hardly drive down that street." Jeannie pointed to a side street off to the left that was more like an alley, with refuse heaped right across the road so the lorries drove right over the edge of it. "Just throw it all into the street."

Inside the market things were cleaner. A labyrinth of beaten paths wound through the maze of stalls covered for shade with bits of mat or tin. There were cool, narrow passages all lined with tables of vegetables, cloth or goods. Anything one could want was hung on posts or stacked high on the tables so it looked like an endless array of bright consumer goods -- a flourish of lanterns, plastic jugs, clothes and colourfully-designed enamel pots, all advertised with blatant flare.

They walked through the market, acting as friendly as possible, for they still weren't that comfortable walking around. It was hard to ignore the attention they got simply because white people were still a novelty, especially in the markets. Businessmen and diplomats led private lives in secluded compounds in residential areas, driving to work or to department stores or clubs. Generally, the common people had little contact with them and it being market day, lots of farmers, villagers and traders were in the town. Now and again a kiosk trader would call out to them or someone would greet them. It was pretty hard for them to be inconspicuous so they just kept moving to avoid the children who demanded kobos or just wanted to follow them.

The market was huge. They passed rows and rows of stalls of vegetables and the blacksmith area where the forges worked over coals with goatskin bellows just like a Guild system. The market was a place for both trading and socializing.

"It's like stepping back to Biblical times," Alex remarked.

"Those look like rats!" Jeannie motioned to some carcasses hanging by a rope.

"Think they are... imagine they eat just about any type of meat in these parts. Anyway, they eat muskrats in Georgia -- just call it marsh rabbit. All the same."

They pushed on and on through each area of the market, watching the craftsmen and leather workers fashion bridles or ornaments for camels and horses, the slaughtering area where flies swarmed around goat's heads and the entails of cattle.

Nothing was wasted. In the fish market area, fish were laid on mats to dry in the sun or sizzled in vats of groundnut oil. The fishermen's hand nets and calabash floats were placed to dry there when they came up from the river with the mornings fresh catch to sell.

"They dry most everything," Jeannie observed. "It has to be fresh today, except the vegetables."

"Muslims have to slit the throat and bleed any animal killed for meat, so it should be O.K. It's all fresh." Alex had been reading up on the religion since his arrival. "Anyway, there's no refrigeration and nothing will keep in this heat."

"I saw a cooler back there."

"Minerals I hope," Alex answered, "I'm parched too."

There was Coke in one cooler, besides bottles of water and bottles of a milky liquid, what they were told was cereal mixed with water. They paid for the Cokes.

"One thing I can't understand, is all the imports when they said the things were restricted and the money changers right in the open there. After the problems we had at the airport coming in." Jeannie sipped the Coke.

"Smuggling between the borders. Think they turn a blind eye. I was told most of the rules are just on paper. I don't think they worry about the laws except to collect dash or whatever. I guess that's what they wanted at the airport when they gave our group such a hard time at customs."

"Well, things go better with Coke," she laughed, drawing on the cold liquid that bit her dried throat with a snap.

They watched the market women parading by with their decorated calabashes containing a myriad of provisions, balanced ingeniously on their heads. With a child snug in the wrappers on their back, it left their hands free to carry out other tasks. The rhythmic movements of their step seemed to quell any annoyance of a baby, for they never seemed to cry. If so, the mother would give a little dance to rock the child

.

"I'll bet those wrappers are mighty warm and wet by the time they get back to the village," Jeannie commented. "I think I'd stick to pampers myself."

"Well, you won't find them here," Alex answered dryly. "There was that medicine store at the edge of the market. We should check if they have those Mexaform pills in case one of us gets dysentery, we'd have them."

They made their way back to the main street and found the store, whose shelves were sparsely stocked but there was a good array of medicines in cough syrup-like bottles to cure all conceivable ailments. A man came in and bought a few pills from a plastic jar and wrapped them in a small piece of newspaper. "I guess they sell only two or three pills at a time," Alex remarked. He read the labels on a couple of boxes, most of which were long ago expired.

"Think they still use traditional medicine in most of the villages," Jeannie said. They managed to purchase a dozen Mexaform still in a tin foil sheet.

"Should be enough," he said, "just hoping we don't need them." They left the kiosk, walked again for some time.

"Let's go back to the hotel now," Jeannie complained. "Enough of the market for today."

"Starved anyway," he answered. "Time to head back."

Coming back up Ibrahim Road they saw the sign of a baker, "La Bonbonniere" just after the hotel. They walked up to check it out. There was a glass case filled with rolls, French bread and cakes. They went inside and the proprietor greeted them, "Bonjour monsieur et mademoiselle," he said. 

"Bonjour," Alex replied, eyeing the French bread that he could envisage slicing with the cheese that they'd bought. The fresh loaves looked tantalizing.

"Americans?" the shopkeeper queried, astoundingly perceptive of their clothes and accents.

"Canadiennes," Jeannie replied smiling.

"Ah, c'est bon, c'est bon. Je viens de Cameroons. Bienvenue," he beamed.

Alex knew that Crossroads had a project in the Cameroons for a reforestation project. CIDA had also been involved in a scheme to exploit manganese deposits but it had fallen through. They deemed the project unfeasible economically except as an outright aid venture, but he'd been told it was because the young military officers were making overtures to Libya. There was talk of a coup and things were unstable on the political front and investments were, consequently, in limbo.