I just went out for Tomatoes and Eggs...

It occurred to me today that when I say, “I went to the market to buy tomatoes and eggs” Nobody understands exactly what I mean. How can they? The market here is significantly different from anything I could ever have imagined before I arrived, so I am going to attempt to describe the market in the best way possible. It will not do the market experience justice, just to read about it, but it will give you a small glimpse into the daily lives of the Africans and foreigners that live here. Petit marche is the smaller of the two main markets in Niamey. It is shaped in a triangle about the size of a small city block. The road leading to the market is brimming with activity. The market is on the left and you can see each vendor’s wares on the ground, makeshift tables and portable stands that they balance on their heads to carry home. Upon leaving the taxi at the taxi stand, I pay the driver 200 F for the hot, windy, overloaded taxi ride to the market. The road is full of carts, taxis motos and people so I have to wait for an opportunity to cross it. There is really no entrance to the market. Many vendors sell facing the street, and there are many more once you find a small path between vendors. They sell many things. Some vegetables, some fruit, eggs, tomato paste, maggi cubes, many different spices, rice, millet, corn, plastic bowls, cups, cooking utensils, kettles, locally made wood stoves, the small teapots that the men use to make tea every afternoon, chickens, cloth and so much more. It is hard just to take it all in. The market is covered by a makeshift of cloth, plastic sheets and wood. Pretty much, each vendor does what he needs to be protected from the sun and the heat. Never-the-less, it is very hot in the market. I feel the sweat as I try to spot fresh tomatoes on one table. The seller sees me looking at his tomatoes and promises me a good price for his fresh tomatoes. His selection is not very good. The tomatoes are very ripe, and some are even smelly and rotten, so I continue along the row. Each item is sold mostly in the same area so I don’t have to go far to find more tomatoes. The tomatoes here are not even as good as the first one. I start to leave, but the seller offers to make me a good deal. These sellers all speak Hausa or Zerma and French. “Merci, no.” I say, ending the conversation. Finally, about 50 yards away, after crossing muddy paths and sellers all trying to get me to buy there goods, I come across a table with decent looking tomatoes. The vendor shows me the best ones, that are good, and I agree to buy tomatoes from him. I ask the price, and he tells me they cost 900 F per kilo. It is known that the seller never gives the correct price at the beginning, so I make a noise with my mouth that indicates I am not happy with what he said. “Too much,” I said shortly after; and the bargaining began. Bargaining over how much I would pay and how many kilos of tomatoes I would buy took about ten minutes. We went back and forth talking about the worth of the tomatoes and what I was willing to pay for them until we could get to a price that was agreeable. In the end, I walked away with 2 1/2 kilos of tomatoes for 1000 F. I was satisfied with the deal. Then, I spotted eggs at another stand just across the small aisle. The vendor was already there, offering them to me before I could even remember the name in French. Eggs are pretty much a set price within the city, so it took much less time to decide on the price. I bought six eggs at 100F each. Next, I wanted to buy a small can of tomato paste. Deeper into the market I saw a stand that carried dry goods and other small items, so I headed in that direction. This vendor only sold the larger cans of tomato paste, so I thanked him and continued on. Two stands down, there was a large stack of the small cans, and I was excited. I asked the vendor how much they cost and he told me 125F. I know that that is a high price, so I asked him to lower his price. I wanted to pay 50F but he would only lower the price to 100 so I declined the purchase and left. “This is tiring,” I thought, as the young boys were so persistent that I buy one of their bags. I did have three small bags in my hand, so a larger one was what I needed. They were convinced. I was not so convinced. “Ne pas necesairre” It’s not necessary I repeated again and again. I walked to the corner of the market, waiting to cross the street and I saw a pineapple and thought how good that would taste. Again, before I could ask anything, the seller was ready and willing to sell me the pineapple. “This is going to be a challenge” I thought “because I don’t know how much pineapples cost.” The vendor started at 2000F for both the pineapples, so I knew they could not really be worth more than about 400F a piece. After another 10 minutes of bargaining and assuring him that I only needed 1 pineapple, I walked away with my one pineapple paying 500F for it. Now, with four bags, the boys selling the larger bags were sure that I needed to buy one from them. After making my way through the group of four or five boys shouting the 25F price for the bag, I crossed the road and began to walk away. Walking towards the edge of the market, the smell is bearable. Within the market it is hard to breath because the air smells of spices, animals, rotten vegetables and meat, people, cooked food and anything else you can imagine, all in the same place. As Pia, my friend, and I were done in the market, we decided to walk down “Rip-off row” the street where all the vendors of tourist souvenirs have their shops. While we walked down there only to see what there was to see, the shop keepers were sure that we wanted to buy something. I told them that we were only buying vegetables, and we kept going, continually greeted by different vendors. They had souvenirs of all kinds, from swords to beads, from clothes to leather boxes. I ended up having a few conversations with the vendors, finding three who spoke Fulfulde. While in the shops of the Fulani, I couldn’t help but give them preference because I speak their language. I spoke with one for a long while. He was from Mali. In his shop he has some very nice, airy dresses just like the ones that I was thinking of buying. After looking at a few, I spotted one that I liked. He showed it to me, and was not pushy about it. I think he knew more what westerners are used to. The neck of the dress was a little small, so I went to look in his other shop. He showed me a beautiful magenta dress with light blue embroidery that fit me perfectly. The material is thin, airy and very soft. I asked him how much the dress cost and he told me 7500 F. Can you guess what happened? The bargaining began. I started my offer at 4000F. It is a good dress, and I know I could have paid 7500F but in this culture, bargaining is everything. We finally agreed on 5000F and I think the dress is worth it. He gave me his card, and I will definitely come back again if I need anything. Back on the road, Pia and I headed back with our bags of tomatoes, eggs, pineapple and a dress to go catch a taxi. The taxi stand was busy, as it was near the end of the day, so we had to put some effort into finding one to go all the way back to the guest house. The third taxi we asked gave us a reasonable price, so we got in the taxi. I sighed as we rode home, bumping along in the taxi. Going to the market is hard work.