Saturday Market

I finished preparing to teach yesterday and so today and tomorrow, Sunday are all mine. Up early, yoga, study in preparation for shopping and off I went. I put up a photo of the market and jeepers creepers, the photo makes it look like one could calmly walk through. Even I develop images in my mind as I look at the photo of the shoppers wandering peacefully through the aisles, gazing contemplatively at the fruits, vegetable, grains and spices.

Well, maybe it's just me, maybe I am just too American uptight, but I was anything but calm. Was it my glasses taking too long to turn back from sunglasses to something that I see out of? Was it the blur of voices that seemed each moment to be screaming something important at me, but were indiscernible? It surely could have been all the foods falling over into the aisles, the hordes of people, the sales people sitting on top of the bins glaring down at me, all those words, all those words in this language they call Swahili. How do they all know what the other ones are saying?

So although I studied for hours I could really understand very little and say only a little bit more. List or no list, I had two lists of words, the nouns for foods and the roots of the verbs that I might use, oh yes and numbers for the money. Still most of what transpired in Kiswahili meant little to me. So pretty much this all added up to an whirlwind, a frenzy of feeble attempts to draw forth a word or two of swahili and buy some *&(*^%*&*&*%% food.

Ok. here is the rest of the story, people, people, people are amazingly helpful. Amazing and wonderful. As I became more relaxed, I just blatantly used my list of words, wrote down the new ones that people taught me along the way. And it seemed like everyone wanted to help. At each of the five stops a small crowd gathered around me, telling me words, repeating them after I said them incorrectly and often giggling in a truly charming manner. One person told me that americans don't know Kiswahili, Well, hell, he didn't have to tell ME THAT!

They all wanted to sell me more than I wanted, but also eagerly walked me to a different stall if I communicated wanting something they did not sell. My last stop was to buy bananas, ndizos or something like that. They had plantains so I bought these as well. They had brown plantains, yellow plaintains and yellow bananas. And so I was supposed to know the difference between the identical yellow plaintains and yellow bananas ? Once again, my hand was held as I was patiently mimed which I wanted to buy.

I was also gently reprimanded for buying my potatoes elsewhere, and I am pretty sure that I was told that next time I had better buy everything at that stall. And I know my response, because I said it in English, the only part of the conversation that I am actually clear on, and who knows what she thought I was saying. But we held hands in a solemn goodbye and I truly hope that I remember which stall is hers and do actually return as I promised.

This was a good interaction and a good bit calmer than the others, but things did get even better. Once I escaped, oh, yes, this is a large covered area that is overflowing with stalls and foods, I began to head to safety of the touristy coffee shop and realized that I should not leave. I should push myself to stay put, to observe, to relax and to maybe even interact. So I stood helplessly in the middle of the tiny, dirt road outside the market. I wondered which of the yelling sales people actually should be the one I should respond to. I did not choose the one selling "stupid plastic stuff." I did go next door where I noticed a plastic table with a young man talking on a cell phone and an older woman ordering a pepsi. She had the sweetest smile and when she caught my eye she jabbered away and pulled out the chair for me to sit in.

Why not, I ordered a coke, yup, in swahili, 'ninatoka coki (well the coke part is silly, but just like in spanish, you just throw a vowel on the end of common words) and sat down. She became shy at that point and I sure as heck had nothing that I could say. I had already used my 'asanti' thank you. I am finally practicing self control and using it only once now. A few sips of coke though and I was ready to go, I look up the sentence, I look over at her, I quickly look away, what am I thinking, if I ask her something then she is sure to answer and then 'I AM *&*^%*&*&^' , well you know the expression.

A few more sips though and all control was lost, 'Unasema kizingera' or something like that, 'Do you speak English?' And then before she could answer, 'Sisema kiswahil!' With great emphasis and a big laugh , "I DO NOT SPEAK SWAHILI.' But we did talk, a bit. I ended up with her phone number, how in the world could i ever use it, and at one point i actually understood her when she said, 'I am teaching you swahili.' It was sweet. It was wonderful.

So it would not be fair to call our interaction a conversation, but we did connect and it was truly sweet. She was beautiful. And of course it was a scene. At one point there were 4 others, just standing by being entertained. Again though, once one relaxes into it, you can see that there is almost always a great kindness in their eyes. Even though at first I thought the new young man, who showed up from nowhere, was there to steal my backpack full of vegies, he wasn't. In time it became clear that he was just curious, what was I doing there? The best part was his smile. His too would win the hearts of many.

I am off to brave the bar and restaurant that is predominately a locals spot. Ahhh,, better go before I chicken out. Ninataka beeri (beeri, remember the vowel at the end....)

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