D'accord

Downtown Dakar is a wild place. The streets are narrow, crowded, and downright dangerous. Overly friendly Senegalese start up conversations, follow you around, and beg you to look at their shops. They’ll walk with you for blocks trying to get you to buy something. It’s a damn good thing I didn’t go to Senegal first, or I would probably have been robbed through sheer ignorance of how to deal with overly friendly locals.

Third world markets tend to be pretty chaotic. The downtown market in Dakar fit the mold, with stalls that took up the entire sidewalk of the main arteries, and smaller side streets utterly swallowed in merchandise so that only a narrow passage remained open. Most of the things sold in markets like this are for locals, a lot of it is produce, meat or cheap household goods, everything from clothes to cookware to fabric. Sometimes you find neat things though, homemade knives, carvings, drawings, though it seems like everyone in Senegal is an “artiste” of some kind.

Most of the time I wander through markets because I like them, not because I actually want to buy anything. I love the feel of commerce around me, the bargaining, the haggling, and the down to earthiness. I like to wander down the narrower and narrower lanes looking at all the things people find valuable. Sometimes, if I see something I really like I buy it, but that is a pretty rare occurrence. My pack is tiny, and already overflowing with crap. I need souvenirs like I need a hole in the head. This time I’m looking for something though. 

After shaking off what seems like a hundred guys looking to “help” me out, or wanting to show me their “art” I find what I’m looking for.

Senegal is an ostensibly Muslim country, and a by-product of this is that many of the women dress reasonably modestly. But unlike Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, or really anywhere else, the Muslim women in Senegal have taken their traditional African dress styles and fabrics and incorporated them into their modest dress. Senegalese women are swathed in beautiful fabrics with geometric designs and bright colors, making even the most modest women stand out in a crowd. It is these fabrics I’m looking for. My mother is a quilter, and it seems unlikely that she will ever come to Africa, so it’s up to me to bring a little bit of Africa to her.

I stop at a small recessed stall just of one of the main highways through the market. An older woman and what appears to be her daughter sit behind a glass case. The walls of the stall were covered in fabric, and several stacks sat inside the case. They eye me suspiciously as I walk up. I guess they don’t get many male Toubobs (a dubious phrase that means white person, tourist, or a combination of both, depending on who you ask) interested in their fabrics.

“Cest va?”

“Cest va bien.” The old woman grins at me with a mouth full of crooked teeth.

“English?”

“No.” She shakes her head regretfully. Okay then.

I point to a fabric on the wall and the younger woman pulls it down for me. It is a beautiful green and black combination, with spiraling shield designs. Using sign language and the most basic of French, I ask how much for one meter.

“No oon (one) meter. Twa(three) meter.” I was afraid of this. Because these fabrics are used to make dresses, they’re sold in three meter swatches. Demanding the old woman cut it would basically be demanding that she make one of the swatches worthless, as very few locals would be interested in buying less than three meters.

I point to fabrics and then the ground and use my questioning voice “Senegal?”

The old woman shakes her head. “Benin.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Benin?” Benin is a country to the South and East; it’s not far away, but still a reasonable distance. I’m surprised, and interested.

“Benin.” She nods, points to the fabric, then herself. “I, Benin.”

I nod sagely and try to make my interest known.

I mix and match fabrics, using my rudimentary skills acquired through ten years of exposure to quilts and quilting. In the space of about twenty minutes I’ve got it narrowed down to six fabrics. I look up at the old woman, she grins. It’s about to begin.

“How much?” Even if they don’t know English, every market seller everywhere knows those words.

She pulls out a calculator and punches in some numbers. When she turns it around, I’m already reacting.

Laughing like she’s suggested the sun is blue, I punch in twenty five percent of her number and flip the calculator around. She glances at her daughter, who rolls her eyes. The negotiation begins.

For literally half an hour we pass the calculator back and forth, both protesting utter poverty and great scandal at being so ripped off. She makes great protestations of cutting me a deal, and then proceeds to knock off the equivalent of fifty cents. I begin to walk away twice, called back a the last minute. Finally, we are arguing the difference of 500 CFA.

About twenty five cents.

I’m leaning over the glass case, she’s right there with me. We push the calculator back and forth, back and forth, protesting, claiming great offense, and finally, for one last time, our eyes lock.

And we both lose it. My façade cracks first, and I break into a grin, hers cracks a second later and five seconds after that the both of us are hooting with laughter, looking like total and utter madmen. She pats me on the shoulder like a favored son, and I laugh more freely than I have all day.

“All right.” I say. I know most of the words won’t get through, but the gist will. “I’ll give you the 500 CFA.” I hold up a 500 CFA coin and the rest of the money. “If…” I hold up a 2,000 CFA note, “You change this into four 500 CFA coins.” I make dividing motions with my hands to get my point across.

“D’accord.”

-Doug