I want to see Tamale. There is a National Cultural Museum, for example. I want to see the market and buy some of this beautiful fabric. The variety here is greater than in Cape Coast, I think.
I have seen a lot of Tamale. Especially this week, I drove around on the motorbike with Manan very often. I never know where we are and what we are seeing, however. I have seen the football stadium, schools, and the orphanage here that Manan was eager to show to me. I could never find these places on my own, and couldn’t even tell where the doctor’s house is on a map. The guys at EPA were always surprised to hear that I don’t go out and ramble through Tamale. Unclo Robert promised to take me to town and show me around. Every time, something comes up that doesn’t allow him to keep his promise. Every time, I am put off until the next weekend. ‘I won’t be here the next weekend.’ - ‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’ I reduce my plans. At least I want to see the market. Fadila volunteers to take me. The first afternoon, she forgets. Now it is too late. ‘We will go Saturday morning.’ We don’t. ‘Sunday morning, we will go.’ After lunch, we go to the store. I don’t know what we are waiting for. The plan is for me to return to Cape Coast on Monday, there is no time left. I understand that we are waiting for a motorbike. Manan has to take me to a station to get a ticket for the bus on Monday first. Early afternoon, Fadila and I finally set off. I left money with Manan and he will get the ticket for me. The waiting was worth it. The market is big and bustling with life. Here they sell vegetables. Here are spices, biscuits, trousers, grain. I am shy with taking pictures. Some people don’t like it and shout at me when I lift the camera, so I try to be fast. At the area where they sell goats, chicken and sheep alive, a man stops me from snapping the scene from the distance. Fadila keeps saying that I can take pictures, but I don’t feel comfortable. We walk through the place where they unload sacks with different grains. Men work here. Almost everywhere else, it is women who sell. Men sit in the shadow and chat. Some call me and want me to take pictures of them. Fadila has to translate. They want me to ‘wash the picture’ and give it to them. I explain that I can’t print it. They have to be satisfied with seeing the picture on the screen. Other people don’t want me to take pictures. A woman who sells spices and biscuits allows me to snap the spot, but leaves her position before I take the picture so that she is not in it. The same happens with a woman who fries something on the roadside. I am disgusted by the meat. Here it is men again, who cut the meat that just lies on the wooden tables, surrounded by flies. I have to take a picture of that and ask one of the young man whether I am allowed to. He refuses. A man sitting at a corner calls me and starts a conversation. He is also selling meat. I ask him whether I can take a picture of him and take a picture of him with the meat instead. Fadila doesn’t like talking to the people who call me. Maybe she is embarrassed or impatient. I like to talk to them and learn about their work, and also show that not every white person is unfriendly. Unfortunately, many don’t speak much English. ‘You should learn Dagbani.’ The smells are impressive. Spices here, fruit there. Fresh oranges, pepper. The stench at the meat section is abominable. I want to leave as fast as possible. Colors, smells, faces, sounds. I like the market. It is impressive. I wish my skin was black and I could walk around unnoticed and watch people without arousing attention.
