I’m a little bit nervous. I decided not to go yesterday, put it off yet again. I don’t want to not go. But I’m still nervous. Communication is going to be a huge hurdle. I could choose to stay home again.
I think of the words of St. Francis Assisi, “Preach the Gospel to the whole world. And if necessary, use words.” And I think of my nightly ritual whenever I go to see my niece and nephew. I kiss them both good night as I leave and Joshua immediately falls asleep grinning. I turn and look Paisley in the eyes and ask, “And what must we always choose?” She solemnly replies, “Always choose for love.” “Good girl. Always choose to love.” I take a deep breath. I can love without words.
And anyway, I need apples.
So I head out. I wave goodbye to the guard at the gate as I stroll past him and on to the street teaming with pedestrians who immediately greet and wave, giving me courage to do this – to walk to the market by myself. It’s over 100 degrees outside and the Sahara sun seems to have singled me out as a tasty rotisserie. It’s taking a bit longer than I had anticipated to get to the market because you’ll never meet an African who won’t greet. The ‘road’ is very wide and completely dirt, except for the thin pavement of trash and broken glass. I dodge bicycles, motos, and donkeys and wander up and down tiny Grand Canyons and Mt. Everests disguised as potholes and dirt piles. I pass the most fascinating shops – there must be hundreds of them – all dilapidated shacks of tin, dirt, and concrete crammed together and hiding behind beaming shop owners who wave and shout hello to me. I pause to wait while an ancient car passes me, filled with grinning Africans who perch precariously on the broken seats of the vehicle that appears to have nothing more than good luck holding it together.
Finally I see the entrance to the market. I dodge more donkeys and follow a much narrower dirt path as it snakes between two shack shops held erect by termites and possibly some duct tape. Behind the shops the path widens to reveal a busy scene of color and life. I stop and look around with huge eyes, completely enchanted. Every kind of fruit, vegetable, herb, and spice you could imagine is piled, hung, and draped along vendor stands almost as far as I can see. Large colorful pieces of fabric, cheap jewelry, and traditional clothing are also laid out for purchase. Hundreds and hundreds of men, women, and sometimes-naked children weave in and out of the stands, all laughing and grinning, chattering away in what sounds like a zillion native languages. I walk slowly through the scene. A white woman in Western clothes and a pair of sunglasses is definitely out of place here, but no one seems to mind. Soon my arm is tired from waving back and my face hurts from returning grins and replying, “Ca va bien, como ca va?” My hands have got to be filthy from rubbing the soft heads of the kiddos who hurry to walk near me, often pushing a younger brother or sister towards me to shake hands first and make sure I’m not deadly.
It smells like the fair, only better. Every few steps a new aroma excites my senses. Something fried, something raw and ready to be fried, fresh fish, strange green spices that I must never have sampled, newly sliced fraises, bright red mystery meat, yellow-orange fruit juice and deep blue berries. I walk on and on, entranced in the magic. Finally I turn a corner and, to my delight, see the exact same scene. I could get lost in here, but I don’t care. This new dirt path is much narrower and more crowded. Everyone is coming from every direction and trying to go every direction, but not a soul is unkind – no one pushes. In fact, one lady’s moto sputters to a stop and a dozen hands immediately reach out to help her lift it to a safer parking spot. Bumping in to someone means an opportunity to have a conversation and, of course, to laugh. I stop to watch and turn at a stroke on my arm. A smiling lady is selling a strange exotic fruit that can’t decide if it wants to be vibrant green or lucid orange or a beautiful mixture of both. A few sentences are all it takes to prove that I speak very little French, so all the surrounding ladies jump in to help, but none of them speak English, so it gets loud and confusing and strikes us all as hilarious, and we succumb to the kind of friendship that is born of laughter. My skin stings with slaps on the back and affectionate arm-rubbing from my new friends. I buy a bag of the fruit, tangelos they seem to be, thank the lady and wish her the blessings of God, which she wishes back.
I walk on, each turn bringing only a slight variation of the same beautiful scene. I’ve learned quite a few new French phrases by the time I decide that I need to get my translucent skin out of the sun. I find the edge of the market and emerge back on to the huge dirt/trash road carrying a bag full of tangelos and no apples. I turn towards home, flanked by two beautiful children who have taken it upon themselves to accompany me all the way back to my gate, giggling every time I make eye contact. But before I start walking, I turn and gaze back at the market. I smile and close my eyes. “If this isn’t the greatest place on Earth, then the greatest place on Earth does not exist.” But I’m not quite sure if I mean the market or Africa herself. Love can happen without words. Love can happen across language barriers and culture boundaries and country borders. In fact, it just did.
