Makola Market

This market was made familiar to fans of The Amazing Race, where contestants had to sell sunglasses to local shoppers. The "market" is really a neighbourhood, devoted entirely to selling, and selling anything, that spans six square blocks or so, but seems much larger, because at every turn is another lane, another stall, another square foot of pavement with a whole new array of delights and puzzlements.

The market is:

• vibrantly primary,
• dangerously smelly,
• a cacophony of people yelling (frequently "Obruni, obruni" — literally, descriptively, and not pejoratively, 'white person'), cajoling, preaching, and of horns, sirens, music,
• replete with tasty delights, and
• slippery, slimy, irregular pavement, and abuzz with things to paw over and juggle.

 

The good news is I spot a number of first: great mounds of garlic and spices at the top of the list. None of the spices are labeled but most are probably identifiable by smell. I'm here with Veena and Mr Larteh, and he is able to name some of the spices and, better, some of the odd looking plants that are stacked in clusters on small tables. We also encounter piles of plant fibre that looks like packing material, but is chewed to clean teeth.

I'm not sure I would go here to really shop — there are logistical problems of parking, a confusing overload of choices, and most things can probably be had at a variety of smaller, local markets in Legon. I am on the prowl for a fridge, and we do encounter a real appliance store, in the middle of all the outdoor, street-side activity. It is run by a family of Sikhs from India, and the prices are good (especially with Veena making national appeals). But they don't deliver, and the thought of attempting to hire a cab (their suggestion), or more likely a truck, and getting it through the market to the shop, takes much away from the price they offer. 

But Makola is fun. Most of these photos were shot from my hip without looking in an effort to avoid people posing or chasing me down the street.

Veena and I have commandeered Mr Lartey to take us around town on a few errands. Since we arrived at Makola from an earlier stop where Veena was looking for kente and batik cloth, we first sought out an alleyway filled with shops selling cloth. "Shops" overstates it, when piles of cloth are neatly stacked in an area smaller than most bathrooms. 

That is a stack of toilet paper on the head of the man in the photo on the right. From dry goods to foodstuff, sometimes at the same table. Of the dried pigs feet on the left, I asked Mr Lartey where the rest of the pigs were and he quipped back, "In Canada. You only leave the feet for Ghanaians to eat."

Among these cast aluminum cook pots are stoves cleverly made out of car tire rims, visible just on the extreme right. In addition to an array of pots, which themselves look like they are cast from rims, these shops — this is several in a row selling identical wares — sell cast spoons, ladles, baskets, and forks. All of them have a wonderful, pebbly texture.

All kinds of people looking for all kinds of goods are here. Most, but not all, of the goods seem to be what you would buy at your local market, but I'm not sure this is anyone's local. Block after block seems to be devoted entirely to shops, without any sign of a residence. The market is bordered by a major tro tro depot (serving the Volta region in the east of the country), a railway station and tracks, and Accra's major police station. On the other hand, though the streets should be closed to traffic, cars and trucks weave in and out of buyers and sellers, or occasionally force either out of their way. This includes having to suddenly and quickly drag a table of goods out of a quick moving and persistent lorry. One truck quickly backs up a street, horning beeping at regular intervals, but the driver is not looking behind him; he just assumes everyone and everything will move.

One street in the market is largely devoted to watches, and Veena is suddenly keen on buying watches for Ghanaian friends who have helped her with her work and travels during her stay. We weave in and out of stores (now, in real buildings with doors and windows that lock) and between street kiosks and traveling salemen (with, presumably, the lowest overhead). This guy has a towel pinned to his shirt, and his goods pinned to the towel. Watches are purchased at extremely low prices. I have learned in the past weeks that Veena is a shrewd negotiator and I have sat at her feet and learned much.

On one street corner, under this bright yellow building, a young man is screeching into a microphone, with a distorted blast emitting from speakers behind him, facing in several directions. His sound bellows down two streets. He is not speaking English, and I'm sure I wouldn't understand him if he were. But I ask Mr Lartey if he can make out what the young man is saying. A pause. And then a simultaneous translation for twenty seconds or so as we pass through the stalls on our route down the street, the broken, distorted voice following us and still shuttering out the market sounds around us.

"He is saying: For God to forgive you, you have to have sinned. God cannot forgive what is not there to be forgiven. If you want God to forgive you, you must have something to be forgiven for. If you do not act, you cannot sin, and God cannot forgive a person who has done nothing that needs forgiving. If God is going to forgive you, remember, that forgiveness is for sin. Forgiveness is what God does to those who have sinned and who accept God and his forgiveness..." Aside from the repetitiveness, and without directly saying it, our friend is advocating sinning (as a prerequisite for forgiveness). 

This is the standard way for Ghanaian babies to travel, lashed onto their mother's backs with a cleverly folded square of cloth.

I marvel at the Ghanaian ability to walk with pans, toilet paper, and wooden boxes on their heads. But running with same is just showing off.

After two hours wandering through the market we have not seen it all, and we are tired. Otto, on his visit to the market, and on getting thirsty, approached a drink seller with a cooler and a sign advertising "Coke, Fanta, Sprite". The exchange:

"I'll have a coke."

"I'm out of coke."

"Ok, I'll have a sprite."

"I'm out of sprite."

"What do you have?"

"Nothing. I'm sold out of everything."

"But you're still open?"

"Yes."