This little piggy went to market…..

In the heat and humidity, I’ve lost 8 lbs in my first four days here (211-203). Guess I had a little more spare tissue than I thought. Paul has lost a little over 20 pounds during his 6 week tour here, I think I may exceed that. There is a peculiar syndrome that hits you after a few days here (no it is not Marburg, thanks to whoever voted for that!) It is an insatiable craving for something particular to eat. Paul and I discussed it and thought it may be a combination of fructose (high and regular) corn syrup, salt, trans-fat, and other preservatives found in the food in the states. Whatever it is, you want to eat like 3 or 4 helpings of the meals, but it is futile. And stranger, as much as I eat, I’m still dropping a lot of weight. I know, all you fitness geniuses are saying water weight, which I’d partially agree, but I’m tossing down water like a camel at an oasis.
So about a gallon lighter than when I arrived, I spent part of yesterday securing our fuel. This involves finding the guy who sells gas (there is only one), taking all 11 of the 25L gas cans to him (via motorcycle), inspecting the gas (lots of dirty gas here) and negotiating a price. After that was done we watched him fill the cans (if you don’t you may get a can of water) and proceeded to drive them back to the hospital. During one of the trips, a bungee cord snapped and hit one of the guys in the hand; I jumped up and said “You OK?” The 10 or so little kids behind me thought that was hilarious and began running around saying “OK! OK!” and as we took off from the compound, they ran behind the bike screaming “OK!” When I returned, I was greeting with what I assume is now my name…”OK!” I tried, unsuccessfully, to tell them that Ok was like sa va…no luck. As I kneeled down and tied the last can of petrol to the bike, I could a detect a little ruckus behind me. Despite my inept understanding of the French language, it was unmistakable what was happening. The assembly of pint sized petrol dealers were goading one of their brethren into doing something. It got quiet, and I felt one of the kids run up and rub my hair. With that, they all screamed and ran off. As we departed for the final haul, they all materialized along side the road and waved and screamed “OK!” as we rode by.
Four hours into the day, I was soaked with sweat, caked with dirt, reeked of gas, and having a great time. The guy I was with, who assisted in brokering the petrol, suggested we go to the market and check it out. I agreed and we headed out to the open air bazaar. We stopped at what I swear was an exact replica of the set from Sanford and Son. There were hovels selling every bit and bobble you can imagine. From random bicycle parts, soap (there was lots of it), salt piled on tables, foods of all kinds, and miscellaneous electrical parts to name just a few. The food section was fascinating. They had assortments of fish, some so alien in appearance I questioned their origin. There were live animals for sale, recently departed animals, and…well…roadkill. Truthfully, nothing got to me, that is, until I ran across the indiscriminate monkey parts table. Some portions were unidentifiable (not that it was that important in the grand scheme) others were immediately known. I looked down, agape at an outstretched monkey paw which was disembodied, charred at the end, and had fingers which were protracted as though they were attempting to grasp at something. The aroma of charred flesh and hair coupled with the sight of the bits of mandrill scattered about the stand bought my trip to the market to an end.

I went home, showered, relaxed, and contemplated about what I had seen. Who knows, maybe it tastes like chicken, only one way to find out.....