The Congo
I can’t say that wind the smell of burning trash is exciting or exotic. I can’t say that seeing garbage everywhere is picturesque. I can’t say that hearing car horns repeated for no real reason has the same reaction the Sirens had on Ulysses. I can’t say that body odor in a hot climate is sweet to the nose. What I can say is interesting is this place and the people from which these sights, sounds and smells come from: West Africa, The Republic of Congo, Pointe Noire.
Interesting to see the reaction to my shin tattoos. Some people look directly at them. Others take side-ways glances. A few others take more discreet peeks. Many of the street hawkers have called out to me as if I were a Russian. They yell, “Hey Russki!” I am not sure why they see me as a Russian. Could it be that I walk like a strong Russian? Maybe because I look them in the eye as I approach? The truth is, I have a nasty knot in my back and I can’t move my head to look over my left shoulder. It’s killing me.
I walked the beach today. About one mile off shore, a huge crane rested; the gang way had been partially washed away by crashing waves. I wanted to surf. I had hopes of finding an ex-Pat surfing so I could use his board but no avail. As I continued to walk, I noticed various young women holding mirrors in their hands. Strange, really. They never looked up at me.
Approaching a large outside market, the nasty smell of cut, pounded and dried fish sent me back to my time on lobster boats in the Gulf of Maine. I held back the wretch, as I made my way down the packed narrow allies. The market area was about 6 blocks long by 6 blocks wide, covered like a child’s living room fort with corrugated tin instead of blankets. In the dim light, my eyes scanned the local wares. What spice section isn’t complete without monkey paws, yellow powered something-or-other, bird skulls in various sizes and what looked like dried scrotums? I made my way through the market with open eyes and kind words asking to take pictures of the interesting people and their wares. I returned the favor by offering a biscuit (cracker) which they would smile and say ‘thank you” in French.
Lastly, I will note that most women in the street wear a bra. I have always thought differently. Only a couple of the street vendors did not. But the overall population of women does, in fact, wear bras. The reason I mention this is because my brain has been trained to believe that African women do not wear them – a belief anchored in youthful perusing of National Geographic. The boy grows up.