An ironic twist to philanthropy

  I slip off my comfy new pair of shoes and curl up in my chair.  These shoes have a bittersweet ring to them.  I do not feel like they are rightfully mine...  

  To anyone who has ever bought a pair of "TOMS" shoes, you will know their motto printed on the insole of each shoe:  "With every pair you purchase TOMS will give a pair of new shoes to a child in need.  One for One."  The intended charitable donation strategy has taken a slight detour...

  Carmen and I yet again set out to the Grande Marche, this time in search of TOMS shoes.  Learning of the availability of such highly prized footwear, it is Carmen's mission to find and purchase 4 pairs of these sneakers for herself and fellow crew mates at a drastically reduced 'street market' cost.   I marvel in disbelief that such a specific brand of shoes could be found in a sprawling marketplace like the Grande Marche.  But as other Mercy Shippers can attest, they are available, if you have the nose to sniff them out.

  In and out of shops we trudge.  Carmen retrieves one green TOMS shoe from her bag, holds it to the shopkeeper's face and points to the TOMS label with a questioning arch of her eyebrow.  "Est-ce que vous avez le chaussures comme ca?"  I ask.  He takes the shoe in his hand and thoughtfully inspects it.  Carmen once again points to the TOMS label, matter-of-factly.  "Non." He regretfully admits.  He tries his luck by holding out a non-comparable shoe to temp us.  "Non, non.  Où peux-je acheter des chaussures?"  He shrugs his shoulders.  

  We begin to make our way to the next shop, when suddenly the shopkeeper yells at us, signalling  that he may have a lead on the shoes - his buddy apparently knows where they are sold.   This guy who works in the market everyday would know better than we do.  So we follow him, weaving through the tightly packed alley ways, out onto the main drag.  A few streets over, we duck into yet another hopeful-looking shop.  Our guide seems pleased with himself.  Carmen holds up the shoe.  I ask the question.  Same deal.  No match.  Our guides smile fades, as he realises that we did not find what we were after.  We thank him for his help, and move on.

  After half a dozen or so shops, our quest finally begins to look promising.   At the sight of Carmen's green sample shoe, a vendor's eyes perk as he turns on his heel and leads us over to a pristine pair of smoky-blue TOMS shoes.  Unfortunately, he only has the one pair - and not the in Carmen's size.  A near miss.  So close!   As we turn to exit, we spot a display of shoes just across the corridor - with both a pair of grey and red TOMS on display.  Finally we have found them!  But no, Carmen has very specific taste - she wants red and white stripes on her TOMS.  So alas, these TOMS still will not suffice.  
  
  My attention is drawn to a collection of shoes on the floor in the far back corner.  A small pile of petite TOMS in both white and red with black detail wait patiently to be noticed.   The largest pair available are just my size.  The rest of the bunch were obviously made for smaller people.  Like children.  Hmmm, where have I heard about TOMS shoes and children?  GASP!  "With every pair you purchase TOMS will give a pair of new shoes to a child in need."  The child in need!  Could it be?  Could the pallets of TOMS shoes leaving the American distribution centers, destined for children in far-off impoverished nations actually be finishing their journey here, in the street markets of Africa?  I've heard that anything of value can be sold at the market.  I know that there is much corruption in the world when it comes to the distribution of donated goods, so it would not surprize me if this pair of shoes was actually a pair that was meant to be donated to a child in need.  There is no way to know the answer to these questions.  I decide the purchase will at least benefit someone.  

  Carmen's legendary bartering skills are now in demand.  The shop-owner begins his asking price at 40, 000 CFA's - the approximate equivalent of $80.  Huh!  Not a chance!  That price is even questionable back home.  Carmen shows her disagreement with him and examines the shoe for a while, turning it over in her hands.  "Miseur, no 40,000.  Better price?"  He thinks only briefly and comes back "35,000."    "No."   She doesn't speak for what seems like an exaggeratedly long time, as if to make a point.  "It's OK, I know what I'm doing." She assures me.  He pulls out his phone and they begin to barter on the calculator.  She starts at 3000 - a pittance in comparison to his asking price, but Carmen was told by the other Mercy Shippers not to pay more that 4000 for the shoes.  As the shopkeeper continued to lower his price, Carmen raised to 4000.  I began to put on my own shoes and shift uneasily on the bench.   "5000.  Final offer," Carmen stated, brashly and full of determination.   The shopkeeper shook his head but a smile began to appear.  He realised that he was dealing with a very smart Mandelli.  She was not to be played with.  This girl knew a fraud when she saw one.  As we stood up to leave, Carmen stated "right then, 5000 it is."  His head turned away, his head nodded ever so slightly in agreement.  His sales tactics had been out-witted by the crazy white shopper.  He took my money and packaged up my purchase.  Hoping to sell them for more, he had to let them go at 5000 CFA, about $10.  This price would be unheard of in the western market, but as these shoes had likely originated as a donation, he likely had not payed too much at all to add them to his stock. 

The offenders in question

 
  So what about these shoes?  Is it ethical that I should be participating in the wrongly-intended distribution of donations?  When a donation is made, how does that work?   Who ships it?  What quality control do these companies have on the ground in the developing world?  Are they aware of the corruption that goes on?  Do they actually believe that their shoes are making it to the feet of little African children?  Well, somewhere along the way, the donation fell into the hands of the wrong person, and the shoes became a commodity to bring in cash flow.  Whether the shipment was seized by a group of thieves or if African families did receive the shoes but decided to sell them to the market sellers to get money instead, nobody knows.
  I can take solace in that I contributed to the local economy.  I may have only paid $10, but that money helped to feed some family, so I guess in the end, TOMS' goal of helping people less fortunate did become a reality, just not in their intended way.   
  But it does make me stop to think - just where did these shoes come from? 

 

Trois Mendelli dans la Grande Marche

 Carmen, my accomplice in mischief, and myself have planned an intrepid foray into the bowels of the local marketplace.  Hannah, a young dutch dentist, rounds out our trio.  Only having been in Africa for a week, she is eager to experience the market's bombardment of the senses.  Through the sand covered port we trek, and out to the mini-bus stand.

"Grande Marche?" 
"Oui"  

  A nearly-full mini bus eagerly waits to fill it's seats and head in the direction of the mayhem.  We add three to the collection of snuggly packed sardines awaiting takeoff.  Our driver reaches below the floorboards behind the driver's seat and pulls a cord of sorts.  Our aluminum can roars to life and chortles out stale exhaust.   A few hundred meters down the road we slink up to the roadside. 

"Trois mendelli, trois mendelli!" our money-collector's shout carries on the breeze.
  Did he say what I think he said?  The Congolese "Mendelli" is the equivalent of the Guinean "Fote" or "white person."  The passengers continue to pile in.  In the seat behind me, Hannah's eyes grow wide as a "full" bus takes on a new meaning.   19 bodies in total packed into a mini-van.  As we zoom down the road, the driver hollers "trois mendelli, trois mendelli!" to all who will listen.  I come to appreciate that he is proud to be hauling three white women in his bus.  Have we become sort of advertising attraction for him?  "Ride in my bus and share a seat with a white woman"?  I just laughed.  Two can play this game.  I spot an expat couple out of our windshield.  Without missing a beat I pipe up "deux mendelli, deux mendelli!"  Somewhat horrified that I understood what he had been saying, the driver gave me a sheepish grin in the rear-view mirror. 

  Perched on the seat between me and the sliding door, the money collector decides to try his luck with the mendelli.  He casually pulls out his phone and asks for my phone number.  "Non, je n'ai pas de telephone."   The time has come to reveal my new prop.   I flash him the metal band that I have slipped on my ring ringer.  A well-known tactic of single female travelers, the 'wedding band' works wonders to keep unwanted attention away.   Initially rather flattering, the regular marriage proposals in the street loose their charm rather swiftly.   As expected, my neighbour nods his head respectfully, turns away, and doesn't talk to me for the rest of the journey.

The Grande Marche

  The minibus spits us out in the middle of the hustle and bustle.  The market's foundation of cinder block shops barely visible though the patchwork of beach-umbrella covered stalls.  A tarp spread out on the ground marking the portable confines of a shoe shop.  Young men carrying blingy chains and earrings pass by exhibiting their wares.  We turn from the relative openness of the main road onto a closed-in alley of tightly packed shops.  As we begin our shimmy past other shoppers, we latch on to each other to create a human snake.  Streams of bodies collide past one another as they flow in all different directions.  There is no method to the madness.  Him that takes a step forward into the crowd will reach his goal, whereas he that politely stands back and waits for a gap will still be standing in the same spot as the sun sets.  I step out into the mob and push headlong towards my destination.

  Carmen, in search of the 'dead animal' section pulls us deeper into the labyrinth.   A fascinating land of crocodile heads and half antelopes awaits in the belly of the boucherie.  Covered by a patchwork of fabric and tarps, the series of winding earth paths is warm and stifling.   The pungent aroma of unrefrigerated animal flesh wafts past my nose, signalling our approach to the meat stalls.   We pass by neatly piled collections of entrails ready for purchase.  Intestines, kidney, liver, colon.   Browsing past a chopping table, a knife slices through the silence of the air, coming down with a loud crunch, splitting the carcass of a plucked chicken.  Juices spray forth, but my skin does not detect the splatter.    Unable to spot the crocodiles, and unwilling to put up with the threats of a queezy stomach, we continue on to a more colourful, pleasant section of market: the fabric.

  I pour through the multi-coloured, patterned fabric panels hanging on the wall overlapping like rainbow roof tiles.  Overwhelming to the eyes, one's focus must be very intentional in order to search through the massive selection.  Each one of the boldly patterned panels bathed in a vibrant splashes of colour compete for Most Beautiful Fabric award.  The result is a kaleidoscope too gaudy to look at. But I have learned through the experience of past visual frustration that one's search must persist past the craziness in order to see the beauty within.  Each individual panel is so rich in detail and colour.  There truly is beauty to behold.  Today, my goal is clear.  I am in search of a specific fabric that has sentimental meaning.  Because I know exactly which pattern I am looking for, I am able to sift past the hundreds of designs that threaten to drown out each other.   My eyes are ripe for the searching but still I cannot find it.  I decide to enlist the help of the shopkeeper.

 "Je veux une partie avec les poulets.  Le père, la mère et les enfants.  Les couleurs bleu, violet, jaune et blanc."

  His eyebrows raise.  A family of chickens in blue, purple, yellow and white is quite a specific request to be sure, but it's worth a try.  He finds two panels with similar chicken characters, but not the pattern or colours that I had hoped for.   In Impfondo I had spotted a woman robed in this material, and only a week ago one of the patients in the dental chair also wore a blue and pink version of the original design.   This had given me hope that the material might exist in a Congolese market.  
  As is the case with fabric, specific designs can be difficult to spot.   Today I did not find my illusive chicken fabric.  The search has not ended.  If it is in existence, I will sniff it out.   But that is for another day and another adventure.
  

The illusive chicken fabric

  
Photo credits: Mercy Ships crew