Tanji Fish Market

Well, it finally happened. I got sick. I suppose it had to, because everyone told me it had to, even though I did my best to pretend like I was invincible. However, I’m feeling much better now, and even felt well enough to do an aquaculture rack construction training in Kartung on Tuesday.
The drive down to Kartung took me from my office right in the middle of the country all the way to the very southern border of Gambia, almost to Senegal. On the way we drove by the Atlantic coast and past huge areas of undeveloped forest and swamp. Arriving in Kartung we helped the women construct a rack. The photos here are not actually from that training, but from one last week. All the racks look the same though, so you get the picture. The other photo was taken at one of the landing sites, showing one of the women shucking oysters for sale along the Brikama Highway.
On the way back from the training we stopped at the Tanji fish market. Some of the guys I work with, Bouba, Babanding, Aleu, and Lamin, wanted to buy some fish there to take back to their compounds. In order to get to the market I had to follow them over this cement driveway and around the corner of a building. As we came around the building, the market and the sea became visible. I stopped and stared and took in the whole scene until Lamin grabbed my arm to pull me out of the way of a wheelbarrow full of fish about to mow me down from behind. The market was huge. It was hundred of vendors selling untold amounts of fish to thousands of customers all out on the open beach. People were shouting and carrying buckets of fish on their heads. They wore old ski masks soaked with sea water and stuffed with cloth to give their head a little padding. The vendors that weren’t lucky enough to have a spot at one of the tables to display their fish had to carry huge fish around by the tail and elbow or shout at people to try to get them to buy. I saw fish you could eat in one bite and some that were half the size of me. I saw squid and ray. There were bottom feeders like catfish, and pelagic fish like sardinella. I even saw one person selling shark. Out at sea the boats were coming in with the sun setting behind them. The boats are these painted wooden motor-boats with benches around the edges. About fifty young men fit in one boat and there were probably thirty of these boats coming in to anchor at once. All of the men hopped out and started carting the fish away in buckets to throw into wheelbarrows lined up at the sea edge. The men holding the wheelbarrows were shouting. They were fighting for the fishermen’s attention. I got slapped with more than one fish while at the market. All of that commotion and bargaining was happening in Mandinka, but I don’t think it was the language that made the market feel so incomprehensible. It was not chaos. It was just a lot of noise and movement that I did not have the experience to decipher, but it was perfectly reasonable to everyone else at the market. I think it was that disconnect- the fact that no one else was awed or laughing that made me recognize most how out of place I was. The men I was with each bought a grocery bag full of fish. I walked away with a couple of mangoes.