E. does not take us to market on market day. Later, when Whit and I are madly lost in the maze of a real market day, I am grateful to E. for this tempered introduction. It is midweek, and only the periphery of stands are open, the middle a vast empty grid of wooden lean-tos that suggests a wealth of chaos. E. goes shopping. I’ve never had a good eye for digging, but try anyways, sifting through piles of gauzy skirts, old wedding dresses, and t-shirts in the semi-darkness of her favorite ‘store’. Some articles of clothing still bear price tags from former lives at Walmart or the French Connection. Globalization is a funny, funny thing.
Clara! Come! Look at this! Whit’s voice seeps through a wall of sun-bleached collared shirts. I round the corner, almost tripping on a large bunch of matoke sitting idly in the sun. He is holding a large grey t-shirt on a metal hanger. Printed in the middle is blue box picturing stick-children climbing stairs. The text framing the image says:
A breakthrough program
–by the lovely Clara, who visited Jan ‘08