To Market, To Market.

Mwanza, Tanzania - Looking to pick up some materials for the apartment, Ruben – who is from the Netherlands, and lives with the WHE interns – and I had our senses assaulted when we headed to one of Mwanza’s local markets this afternoon.

The acrid smells of burning garbage were paired with pungent herbs and spices and fresh produce. Though we had our first real rainstorm of the trip this morning, and have enjoyed somewhat cooler temperatures – particularly at night – it was hot and sticky as we wove between the small stalls amid repeated cries of ‘’ and ‘rafiki yangu’ (‘my friend’). Swahili rap music fused aurally into the familiar patter of 50 Cent as a man with a Rastafarian hat danced in the street. A tall man with traditional Maasai sandals made of old car tires hurried back to one of the stalls, where he helped an older mama. Women with babies swaddled in colourful African fabrics on their backs pushed through the crowds, looking to pick something up for dinner. Commotion ruled the moment.

Bargaining sometimes became heated vocally, but everyone was eager to make a deal. Prices dropped radically when you showed you knew a little Swahili and refused entreaties to pay higher prices. We waded through tight wooden stalls hawking bins, cooking ware, produce and a long row of caged, squawking chickens. Men sat in front of tiny shops, ironing clothes with cast irons into which they place hot embers; young boys followed us around, their arms laden with plastic bags for sale (going rate is 1,000 TSH, or a little less than a dollar). Others carry large quantities of produce or timber on their heads or on wheelbarrows, navigating uneasily through the throngs of people. It was impossible to move without pushing past people and without your head and both sides of your body rubbing up against various wares.

Walls, concrete pillars, bus shelters, store signs and banners were all festooned with the colours and familiar wave of Coca Cola.

Another market we ventured into, called Mlango Moja, was laden with t-shirts, sneakers and other clothes that had been sold here from charity clothing bins back in North America. Row upon row of Nike shoes and Tommy Hilfiger shirts hung tightly in rickety stalls and, unlike my experiences in such markets in Malaysia, these weren’t, for the most part, counterfeit. Instead, they were merely second-hand. The irony of buying something and taking it back home would have seemed poetic, but I didn’t.

I have been struck by many of the small shops you pass when you’re going through town; at every turn, there seem to be hair salons with garishly distorted airbrushed faces on the front. A disproportionate number of bed frame manufacturers ply their trade in small workshops along the road, though with the size of families here, I suppose it’s a product that is always in need. Small shops hawk candy and soda and are flanked by one-room shanty hotels. Wood and concrete structures lay side by side, many of which are brightly painted with advertisements and brand logos.