A Reason to Believe_ Lessons From an Improbable Life - Deval Patrick [26]
Our first destination was El Fasher, but getting there—a distance about the same as that from Boston to Cleveland—was not simple. The town had a small airstrip built during the Second World War, but it was not fenced, and aircraft had no place to refuel. Sudan Airways flew old prop planes with enough range to get from Khartoum to El Fasher and back, but only if the pilot made one approach for taking off and landing and had no trouble en route. Any mistakes would leave the aircraft running on vapors. Meanwhile, goat and camel herders regularly crossed the strip to water their animals. One small plane, while landing, had recently crashed into a camel, which temporarily closed the airstrip. There was no train either. So most people traveled on the lorries that rumbled through the countryside loaded with supplies. Kamal and I asked around the Omdurman souk for a lorry that was going to El Fasher. This too required understanding of method and custom. The souk was immense, a maze of narrow, mile-long, intersecting lanes lined with shops. No space was wasted. Goods were crammed into every crevice, with produce and spices stacked in neat pyramids. Every category had its own precinct: one area for the vegetable sellers, another for the rug dealers, another for men selling olives in large, briny barrels. One shop or stand would be squeezed right next to another selling the same items, not more than six feet away. Through these passages snaked thousands of people, each yelling at and across one another, engaging or ignoring the insistent offers of rice or typewriters or brightly colored fabric from Belgium.
No one paid the asking price. Haggling was expected, shopping its own art form. You look, you admire, you handle. You ask with amusement, “How much?” and then scoff at the reply, whatever it is. The merchant crisply recites the merits of his product, why his rug weaving is tighter or softer, why her tomatoes are sweeter. You make a counteroffer and wait for a reaction. If the merchant turns away, which is rare, there is nothing more to discuss. If he reacts with almost anything more, you are duty bound to try to agree on a price. Insults are traded. You say the product is garbage. The merchant says the offer is demeaning. If the item is significant (almost anything more than basic food) and the exchanges become heated (which they often do), someone, usually a little boy in rags, is sent for hot tea with sugar and mint so that you can visit awhile, exchange pleasantries, and cool off. Eventually the conversation returns to the item for sale, and there is more haggling. By the time you agree on a price, everyone is laughing. The merchant almost invariably throws in something else as baksheesh, a little gift for being a good sport.
The Omdurman souk, like every other market I have visited in Africa, had its own transportation hub as well. It was in the center, at the end of what paved road there was. Scores of lorries loaded and unloaded there, refueled or got repairs, the parts often taken and adapted from other vehicles or machines. The drivers were generally the “big men”—literally—of the souk, strong and athletic, as they moved cargo and climbed quickly over and across their lorries. They were also men of significance, perhaps because owning one of these trucks was itself a sign of status, and they employed a younger man or two to help with the loading and unloading and the general management of the business.
Each lorry sold passage on top of its cargo. The trick was finding the right destination and the preferred cargo. In our case, we relied on word of mouth to find a lorry going where we needed to go and in good repair with a reputable driver. Once found, we made our own quick inspection of the vehicle, though neither of us really knew what to look for. Finding the right cargo was another matter. Sacks of dried dates, for example, were better than cartons of pots and pans because the dates would provide some cushion for