The Market

We just got back from the market. Bishop Paride and Neesha and I had gone to look for a spare part for the Bishops car while George and Ed worked furiously to fix the broken computer and thus get out of the dog house with Hans. We piled into the Bishops big white Land Rover and headed off towards one of the main markets. On the way there, a huge herd of cows walked into the middle of one of the only paved road, and started wandering down the middle of the road while guys on motercycles swerved and tried to avoid them. (They are the cows that we learned about in Anthropology of Development though i cant remember what they are called but they have a hump on their back to store water.)
We turned down a side street entirely made of dirt and on either side of us were mud and grass huts crowded together, some behind fences and others right up against the road. We had to be careful what pictures we took because the army was in the same neighborhood and if they catch you taking pictures anywhere near them they take your camera away and destroy it. Computer too if you have it. I inadvertantly got a picture of two army guys relaxing outside a house (oops) but I dont think they saw.
Everywhere we went there were huts with mountains behind them (apparently Torit, where we are headed is “the motherland of mountains”) There was a dried out stream bed with women walking down the middle carrying things on their heads with babies strapped around to their backs. Dust was everywhere, dust and mud. We got towards where the market was, and the cars picked up. They were everywhere, and along either side of the roads were lean-tos with tin roofs and motercycles outside and the road was miles wide because of the potholes. We went to a couple of different places but no one had the part, so then we went to the pharmacy to try and get Ed some meflaquin pills (he decided he didnt need them consecutively and also slept without his mosquito net so he should be getting malaria any day now). The markets smelled like roasting meat and diesal fuel, and the air was smoky and thick.
After we got the pills we went to another market where we parked the car and got out to look around. We wandered in and out of the stalls (Bishop Paride spent about twenty minutes trying to decide if he wanted to buy a portable DVD player for a friend of his) and then we went down a side street into the actual market. Parts of it were tented overhead with tarps and pieces of cloth, while other stretches of it had no covering at all. It was crowded and meandering and the paths inside curved every which way. There was mud on the ground where the openings had let water in and trash and ruts so that you had to be careful where you stepped. (I almost fell in a ditch) Suits and bolts of cloth and posters and kettles were hanging from the stalls, and they waved in and out in front of the path with the breath of wind from people walking back and forth. It smelled like sweat and earth and leather and the sweet tang of spices and things being cooked in the back of the stalls, and the acrid smell of sodering iron, and sometimes the sticky sweet smell of rotting garbage. Neesha was taking photos everywhere and people were staring at us and some said hi while others just looked at us like we had lost our minds. One man shouted “Hey Khawaja!” and then something in Arabic. If it hadnt been for Bishop Paride I would have been lost and never gotten out. I bought some water bottles because it was muggy and hot, and the air was clinging to me like a wet towel. The Bishop bought something called Hawala which is a cracker made of seasme seeds but had the consistancy of...like a cross between toffee and crackers. He also bought some dates, and then he gave us a piece of cinnamon bark to chew on and it was delicious. The market was filled with people; young girls dressed in billowy dresses, bachelors sitting around in rough pants and unbuttoned shirts, women as tall as the ceiling in colorfully printed dresses, little boys in nothing but shorts, and old women with wrinkles so deep they looked like scars sitting in the shade and drinking mango juice. And every time you thought the path was clear, another diversion would pop up; a wheelbarrow filled with soaps, sandbag steps, miles of couregated metal sheeting propped up against black ribbed water jugs and long sticks of wood, boxes and boxes of television sets and movies no one has ever heard of with people no one has ever heard of starring in them. (Lots of action movies featuring Jackie Chan, and one of the terminator, however). Of course after all that, when we finally got out of the tangle of the market, we had no idea where our car was. We had to walk down the other side of the street, taking care not to get run over by VW Vans, while across the street, sitting under rows of tables and colorful umbrellas (sponsered by beers like Corona), men made hissing noises out of their mouths to get a wave and a smile from us.
It took forever to get out of the market once we found the car, but when we finally did, Bishop Paride drove us through the army stronghold and we saw where John Garang was buried (I think Bishop Paride might have been the first person Garang's body was released to). You couldnt take pictures anywhere though, because trucks with mounted guns on the back and soliders dressed with tilted berrets on their heads and socks pulled up over their army fatigues, were driving past patrolling the area. Small children were at school up against mud walls or under mango trees.
Bishop Paride is one of the best drivers at getting through the potholes. He has dark skin, so dark it looks more like a cutout against the sky than an outline. He has white hair and a white beard, which look like soap suds dappling his face. He wears small thin glasses and a jewled cross over brightly patterned shirts, and he always has something new and interesting for us to nibble on. He wakes up every morning at five and does an hour of exercises (which we all want to try) and then takes a cold shower. He is the most vigorously yet gentle man I have ever met.