A Sign That Said “Beltana”

The Merkato had a bad reputation.  Apparently Africa’s largest market had its share of pick pockets and stray faeces and other compromises.  My wife didn’t care.  “I want to see the local spices.”  The driver we had, whom we’d gotten to know fairly well suggested we just drive through.  ”No.” Insisted my wife.  “We want to walk around.” 

In my mind I was thinking of the great market in Bamako Mali.  I visited that market in 1992.  Certainly that market must have been smaller as the population was only a fraction of Ethiopia’s.  But the memory of that market was of something epic that went on in every direction for ever.  I wandered around in that market (without a wife and two daughters in-tow) for hours.  Deep inside I remember wondering how in the world did anyone relieve themselves in this corrugated tin warren.  Clearly they simply did what they had to do, wherever it was they were.  I recall looking for vinyl, my idea of jewels.  I asked one man to find me a copy of Fela’s "Gentleman."  "If you can find that I'll get it."  He ran off.  Later, much later, when I was leaving, he returned, with a tattered, scratched up copy I certainly considered taking it but in the end I passed on the frayed baboon cover and gritty disc inside.

Merkato is clearly huge but the feeling was less daunting perhaps because it was broken up by roads, which we were slowly driving our way through.  Many of these blocks, like this section here, devoted, we were told, to the procurement of scrap, steel was much like my Bamako memory.  But on other side we entered blocks with six story buildings have been constructed to move the little shops into.  All the better, one presumes, for regulation.  Manhattan once had warren-like markets and cart sellers on the streets of the Lower East Side.  They were all moved, into the Essex Street Market. 

Our driver pointed out a sign that said “Beltana.” This he suggested meant spices or vendors of spices.  We were now in the Beltana zone and my wife was in her element. Ahh, but stopping: there were many, many place once could not park a car.  Eventually we were directed down an alley way and into an underground garage.  Upstairs and inside we found a dozen stalls with piles and piles of colorful spice bags.   My wife proceeded to the first stall she saw and began asking questions, which could not be answered.  “. . . and what is this?”  “This.  This is fuffugo”  “Fuffugo – what does this mean in English?” “Um.” The driver didn’t know  No one knew how to transfer any of the spice names  This, did not deter my wife from asking, every time.  Eventually our shop owner began to ask things in Amharic that you did not need a translator to help you with.  They are familiar to anyone who takes too long to buy things on Orchard Street:  “You gonna buy or not?”  I wondered aloud if it was OK to brings pounds of powdery bags marked in Amharic script into back home to the U.S. past customs, but everyone pooh-poohed by concern. We got the spices and snapping some photos as we left, and began the slow drive out from Africa’s largest market.

Saturday, 06/24/17