Stories from the Field

October 2004

Stephanie Goes to the Market

By Stephanie Taylor, semester volunteer in Niger, West Africa

Today is a good day. I took my first solo outing since arriving in Niger a week ago! When I told some of the other missionaries my plan to go out to the market alone, they were pretty surprised. The ones who've been here awhile and already know the Zarma language have been going everywhere with me, serving as translators when I’ve needed to buy clothing or groceries or order something at a restaurant. But I was tired of having to always ask others to take me out, and besides, I like to just go do things. It ended up being a great day.

First came the taxi ride to the market. Taxis here are NOTHING like what we have in the U.S. The drivers just pick up whomever, no matter whether there already are people in the car. Mine had eight people in it — and it was a normal-sized car! Here's how it works … when I got out of my compound and onto the road, a taxi was on its way down the street, so I motioned for it, told the guy I was going to the "Petit March" (French for smaller market) and took the last spot left in the backseat of the cab.

Then from across the street a woman with a baby calls to the driver. He decides to take them along, too. People start conversing in Zarma and before I know it, I'm being pushed out of the car so the guy in the middle of the backseat can get out and join the guy in the front passenger seat. So then it’s me squeezed in the middle of the backseat with women with babies on their laps on either side of me, plus two guys sitting on each other’s lap in the front seat. I thought maybe those guys knew each other, but they got out at different destinations, so I guess not. Such is life in Africa.

There were eight people in the car and I had no common language with any of them. It dawned on me that I’d never even been to the Petit March, so I would have no idea when we got there. People were just randomly asking the driver to stop and then getting out. I thought briefly about looking for a sign, but then realized that was a stupid idea, because nothing is labeled around here. I finally had to ask the driver at our next stop, in my best French accent, “Petit March?” He said no and then he and another woman started talking and laughing, at me I’m sure.

Once at the market, it was one adventure after another. I can’t even describe what a market in Niger is like. There's nothing like it in America. Food — produce, meat, live chickens, bowls of grain and seed — is everywhere, on carts, on tables, on blankets on the ground, wherever. I was there to buy fabric to have more skirts made. We have to wear long skirts here to respect the custom, so I’ve had to get a bunch. By now, I know about how much the material should cost me (so they can’t rip me off because I’m a foreigner) and I learned some of the Zarma monetary terms, so I took my language notes with me and hoped for the best. It was successful! I ended up going home with groceries, a few gifts, and two different kinds of material.

As I walked around looking for the fabric stalls, I got the usual “harassment.” Everyone calls out to you, wanting you to buy their goods, but it’s especially bad if you’re a foreigner. They all assume you’re French and you’re rich. I can’t tell you how many times I heard “Bonjour!” or “Madame!” Sometimes I would call back “Je ne pe parle Francais!” I don't know if that’s how you say “I don't know French!” but it sounds something like that, and usually that’ll make them stop. Actually, they don’t stop; they just start trying various other languages, like some of the local tribal ones, and once in a great while, I’ll find someone who knows a smattering of English. Today I made a friend like that.

His name was Abou. (Pronounce it like “Abu,” the monkey in Aladdin). He caught me really off-guard. I was standing on a corner, my bags at my feet, trying to discreetly take some pictures with a digital camera. Up runs Abou, age 24, speaking rapidly in French. I stared at him, shrugged my shoulders in obvious ignorance and said “Ay si ba Fracais saani” which in Zarma means something like “I don't do French language.” Well then, he starts saying a few things in English. Delighted, I spoke back, only to find that the shopkeeper down the street, from whom I’d just purchased fabric by bargaining for a great price, wants me to come back to his store. No way, I thought to myself, that’s just an invitation for trouble … he’ll just want more money. I told Abou no, muttering something about having to take a taxi home right away, but he kept talking, saying the man was his father and he needed me to come back.

Well, Abou finally managed to get through to me, the shopkeeper had accidentally given me four yards of fabric, instead of the two I paid for, and he just wanted the extra two yards returned. When we figured this out, I obliged, and went back. The shopkeeper met me halfway, snatched the fabric out of my hands, and I followed behind him to the shack. He was nice about it, as it was clearly a mistake on his part, but still he tried pretty hard to get me to buy the rest of the material.

By then Abou and I were buddies, so I asked him to help me catch a taxi home, but not before visiting Abou’s own shack, which he had taken over for a family member, and buying a few things. I got him to give me a good price too, “because we're friends!” I exclaimed. As we walked past blocks and blocks of the outdoor market, to the taxi pick-up spot, Abou and I talked about religion. He was Muslim, and I told him I was Christian. He said his idea is that Muslims and Christians should love each other, and I agreed. The best part was when I asked him what he thought about Jesus. Keep in mind, Abou’s English wasn’t great, just manageable. He was telling me he loved God, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying about Jesus. Finally, he blurted out loudly, “Jesus is my lover!!” I laughed, and left the conversation at that. Abou used his French to help me get a taxi home. Who knows but that I may have met a fellow believer who even speaks some English! At the very least my friendship with Abou promises to give me opportunities to witness to a Muslim who already loves Jesus, but who may not yet follow Him.