Let me tell you a little something #2

And now for another installment of my “let me tell you a little something about…”series. This time, I’d like to tell you a little something about grocery shopping in Haiti.

There are a couple of options when it comes to grocery shopping in Haiti. In a bigger city like Port- Au- Prince (and perhaps only Port –Au- Prince because I have yet to see another city with similar options) you can find nice, air conditioned, fully stocked supermarkets.  They contain imported everything you could imagine. I once even found a display dedicated to all the ingredients to make sushi. Clearly, this type of establishment is geared towards us expats looking for a bit of a familiar escape from the mayhem that surrounds us daily. The employees know many of their foreign customers do not speak Creole, so once the total is reached, they just signal to the monitor to show how much is owed, and the transaction is carried out with very little personal interaction. Many times the young men stocking the shelves are eager to try out their English with a polite “May I help you miss?” to which I usually respond, “No, thank you.  Just looking,” which is almost always true for me. There is just so much to look at in such a place. Sure to you all back home, living comfortably with this phenomenon available on a daily basis, it may not seem like much to see potato chips, olive oil, and fly-free meat all in one climate controlled location. But let me tell you, this experience is like stepping into another world.  On several occasions, I have gone in to such a supermarket just to marvel at the rows of shiny and brightly colored packages, with no intention of buying anything. Familiar names of Oreos, Pringles, and A&W call out to me as I walk down the neatly organized aisles. I’m not saying that this shopping experience is the best by any means. I would prefer not to buy my mangoes wrapped in Styrofoam and plastic, imported from the DR, when I could buy fresh, local ones right outside on the street. But this experience does have its pros.  Pretty much everything about this shopping experience is familiar to me, other than the goat heads and various animal feet available at the meat counter.

In rural Haiti, however, this luxurious option is not available. Sure, there a few tiny grocery stores in the nearest town, Mirebalais, but nowhere is air conditioning found, and you certainly can’t accomplish one stop shopping, as these stores are not very well stocked. So, if one wishes to obtain enough provisions to provide a well-balanced diet, I’m afraid to say, we must take to the streets.

The street market is a fascinating thing. I know that some “blan” (Foreigners) who pay locals to do their shopping for them. The reasoning is two-fold. One- local Haitians are very familiar with the market- they know the best vendors, the best quality fruit, and they are given reasonable prices. Two- any blan in their right mind would avoid this curious circus at all costs. I am apparently not in my right mind.

I suppose my desire to go to the markets despite my extreme fear and dread of them, is because I want to live an authentic life. I want to see life as my local friends see it. Smell the smells, taste the tastes, walk the walks. Of course, I will never really see what it’s like. There are certain barriers I cannot break down. I will always be an outsider, my skin color a dead give-away that I am not from here.

Let’s start with a general description of what you will find when you go to the outdoor market. There is a specified area that is called the market- full of little tin roofs supported by wooden poles, sometimes with cement platforms- but on market day all of the surrounding streets also used and flanked with rows of women displaying their wares on tarps and canvases spread out before them. We (and I say we because I will only ever venture into this madness with my good friend, our cook, Nikol) get dropped off by moto taxi as close to the main market area as we can get, and then venture on in. Most people sell from a low to the ground position- either crouching or sitting on a small stool- with their goods in front of them, but some have rickety display tables or platforms to stand behind. There are a plethora of smells and sounds constantly assaulting your nose and ears. Some of the more disturbing examples are the smelling of animal intestines and the sounds of a goat bleating its last bleat as its throat is cut and blood spurts out right in the middle of the isle.  As you walk near a specific booth, the smell of heavy alcohol wafts over from old men drinking bootleg liquor, dancing, drunk as ever, even at 10 o clock in the morning. There is an area where women slave away over huge pots of calalou and kabrit (okra and goat), getting ready for the lunch hour. Another location in the market is designated for the sale of livestock. Rows of peasants line up holding their chickens under their arms or their goats by leash, hoping that someone will take interest in what they have to sell. The parking lot, as I like to call it, is filled with donkeys and burros tied up, their saddle bags empty as their owners try their best to peddle what they’ve carried.

There are some pleasant sights and sounds as well. I won’t go as far to say there are pleasant smells, because to date I can’t recall a moment where I enjoyed what I smelled in the market. One of my favorite sounds is the merchants who walk up and down the aisles selling used glass soda bottles filled up with cooking oil. They often hold 2 or 3 differently shaped bottles between their fingers, and with the other hand, tap the glass with a small, metal rod, creating a whimsical chiming sound alerting nearby people that the sale of oil is on the way. I always enjoy seeing the large, round, woven trays that hold the little brightly colored packages of cooking spices. Each little cube or block has a different wrapper to signify if it is meant to be used with chicken, tomato sauce, or to add a spicy kick to your dish.

Let’s go back to talking about the animals and realize, now, that all the animals that are in the market area have to get there somehow. There is no separate route for livestock to enter and leave, therefore one might be in the midst of conducting a purchase of carrots, when suddenly the cry of “bet!”(animal!) is heard above the crowd, and one finds themselves being pushed over onto the poor carrot vendor by a donkey, heavy laden with bunches of bananas. This cry rings out probably a few times every minute on the main routes, but I prefer to duck into the less popular paths to avoid this unpleasantness. In the same fashion that donkeys, goats, and pigs are led down the people paths, motorcycles also take it upon themselves to offer a hindrance to pedestrians. At some points, a traffic jam, or rather people jam, will occur, and it becomes more or less impossible to move in any which way. This kind of situation terrifies me, and I prefer to find the nearest exit, and to put myself through it, as quickly as possible. People’s tempers can escalate quickly in such a hot, harsh, and intense climate, and I’d rather not stick around to see how the matter gets resolved.

My dear friend Nikol is a trusty guardian, always looking out for me. Once, we got stuck in a people jam near the opening of the market. It was nearing closing time, and most people were leaving, but one teenage boy decided it would be a good time to lead his donkey in. This angered the crowd to no end, and the poor boy continued to try to get through. Naturally, the donkey did not appreciate all the stress escalating around him, and started bucking, unfortunately also knocking over a parked motorcycle loaded with 2 people and several large sacks of rice. The whole time, I heard Nikol’s voice above the crowd “Ah-nee!! Ah-nee!,” until  standing on tippy toes, we made eye contact, smiled (we always try to keep it light even in times of crisis), and motioned our escape plan. As soon as I saw a break in the crowd, I went for it, running out of the chaos making sure Nikol was by my side the whole way. I should also mention, at this point, that on my back was my hiking back pack filled to the brim with oranges, onions, potatoes, grapefruit, and every other heavy piece of produce you can find on God’s green earth. In my arms was a plastic bag of what produce didn’t fit on my back, and a 5 gallon water jug, empty, but nonetheless cumbersome. Nikol’s arms were equally occupied, and amazingly, we didn’t lose a single item throughout the ordeal.

 The prices are generally pretty reasonable, although my skin color and assumed inability to speak Creole invite people to try to swindle me. Once they see I speak decent Creole, and that I am fully aware that a single banana is not worth 2 dollars, we reach a general understanding that bargaining is necessary. It’s almost offensive if you accept the merchant’s first price. The stating of a bizarre or outrageous price is an invitation to play in a game. A conversation starter, if you will. I am happy to say that I am now winning the game more often than not, and I can get as good a price on most items as any Haitian. The key is just to be informed at what the real prices are, and you can’t accept anything more. When the merchants sense that you’re unsure of what a decent price is, they will capitalize on that to their advantage.

Overall, I accept going to the market as a necessary part of life here. As I said, I could opt out of it for the money it would take to pay someone to do it for me (certainly worth the cost), but I am trying to live life as my friends and neighbors. I know they all get a kick out of it, especially when they see me at the market (many of my woman neighbors and church friends are vendors). I like to surprise people, and my very presence alone does so, and my ability to speak decent Creole is the cherry on the cake. So I carry on. And shoot, if I didn’t put myself in these kinds of situations, what on earth would I write about?

So. That is the little something I have to tell you about grocery shopping in Haiti. I hope you enjoyed reading, and thank you for doing so. Christmas is coming. If any of you feel so inclined, send an email greeting or facebook message. Even little notes from home can mean a lot to a person so far from home. 

Peace for the holidays!