The market

African time is not American time. I had heard this before coming here, but it's no joke. We had to weigh one thing at the lab in Banjul, and the man who said he would be there in fifteen minutes showed up an hour and a half later. Binta, my sponsor Kawsu's wife, told me to meet her at West Field at 4, and showed up at 5. This will take some getting used to. I still get butterflies in my stomach if I don't think I will be to a place five minutes early. I've been here a week, but my clock is still set to America.
When Binta did finally show up in West Field, though, we had a great time. She took me to the market at Serrekunda. The market in Serrekunda is street after street of stalls with wooden sides and tin roofs. Women sit inside the stalls selling fabric or mangoes and waving themselves with fans. Many of the men walk around draped in their products- phone cards slung over their shoulders or sunglasses on racks in their hands. There is so much movement and so many people. Everything is dusty from all those feet and cars kicking up the dirt road.
It seems that there is no need for so many shops. Every fourth one sells the same shoes and purses, or the same tiny bananas. We were looking to buy some fabric and we passed fabric shop after fabric shop. Finally we came into the center of the market and found the fabric shop Binta was looking for, that seemed to me to have the same fabric as all of the others, but was apparently special. I picked out a color and we took it to the tailor for him to sew me a dress for the naming ceremony for Binta's kids tomorrow. I hope nobody minds when I show up in this beautiful dress and for my feet I only have Chacos.