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