Went out for a break today from working.....to a chaotic market near the plaza in Plateau neighborhood off of Rue Plateau. Not so busy today, Sunday, a bit more enjoyable. had many conversations...."Bon Jeure", "Ca Va", "My friend". Met Lamine, who has hosted a couple of girls from the Peace Corps. Very brave strong girls he says. Come to see my shop. I am not shopping I say. I find that if you acknowledge people, exchange a few words....the encounter is usually more pleasant. Still, the discourse is taxing. I wonder if the Talibes legacy, the insistent begging from an early age, somehow tinges the adult male commercial culture. I am not a shopper. I dread it. I enter the warren--more entreaties. I cannot find the shop where last time I bought an assortment of Malian and Mauritanian woven textiles. I like this stuff and will look again before I leave. You need to watch the ground here---uneven, dusty, muddy, motorcyles buzzing by amid cabs. Most of what is being sold is of dubious quality and origin...tacky jewelry, watches, used clothing, a myriad of soccer kits, shirts with "Fly Emirates", shoes, belts, limes, coconuts, peanuts, flashy Chinese made wax print fabric. The smells are complex. The languages are staccato interspersed with French. Most fellas want to talk about America. I discuss the attitude towards Mexico--at his behest----and we have a conversation about walls between brothers---then inevitably the bonding insults toward the moron in the White House. Again, "come with me to my shop so that I can give you my card..." Again I decline and the dance to extricate myself from the conversation begins.
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