BouBous

Sometimes when a few weeks go by and I haven't had a chance to write, I continue to stall and stall because there are just too many things to share.

So pardon my lack of chronology over the next couple of weeks as I attempt to catch up, as there are fashion shows and taxi dramas and detours in the middle of nowhere to describe. But for now, I will introduce you briefly to the glorious world of the African BouBou (pronounced Boo-Boo, yes, laugh, we did!).

Aunt Pat is visiting us right now. The poor thing arrived in Africa for the first time sans her suitcase. This isn't exactly a place you want to arrive while your luggage is stuck in Paris. There are no malls. No stores. I honestly still don't know where one would go to buy underwear (thank God she had that in her carry-on at least!). The director of my school, an American woman who's lived here for years and years, could only direct me to what the locals call the "Dead White People's Market," a place where tons of used clothing shows up and gets sold outdoors.

It's not actually filled with clothes from Dead White People, it's just that locals can't imagine why we'd all give away perfectly good clothing to strangers unless we'd died.

Imagine that.

Needless to say, Aunt Pat didn't want to go shopping there.

So we headed into the Grande Marche instead, the only other alternative, where African robes and Western clothing alike hang from lines strung between old tree branches that serve as store posts.

We were in search of BouBous.

The name itself provided some much needed comic relief to the experience as we wove through the packed, muddy streets of downtown Lome. Joe and I had walked through the Grande Marche before. But only as tourists. Never in search of something specific, which makes for a striking difference.

After avoiding all of the stalls of things we didn't want - drums, masks, fruit, beads, mobile phone cards, toasters, soccer cleats, crocodile bags, woven baskets and bedazzled Obama T-shirts - we finally spotted some BouBous: long, loose dresses made of African prints or batik materials. They said the one we wanted was 10,000CFA ($20) and Joey responded with the generous offer of 2,000CFA ($4). Thus began our first 10-minute-long negotiation in a mixture of French and Ewe.

The women all stood around awkwardly grinning at each other while our men haggled it out. One of the many gendered roles here I gladly abide by when I can. But that's for another day.

We eventually landed on 5,000CFA ($10) and the Togolese man who begrudgingly agreed on the end price smiled brightly as soon as we paid, broke into English to tell us that he'd studied briefly in Michigan, and started calling Joey a Togolese name (Kokou, meaning Tuesday - the day of the week Joey was born) as he took us in search of more BooBoos.

By the end of the day we had three BouBous for our efforst. Two for Trish to survive until her suitcase came, and one that I promised to wear with her in public. Which I amazingly got her to do. Once. Otherwise her two shirts from her carry-on ended up seeing a lot of Togo in the first week!

Trish was certainly glad to see her suitcase (7 days after she arrived) and will likely never travel without an overstuffed carry-on bag again. She might even some day forgive Air France. But one pleasant surprise did come out of the whole fiasco: we discovered that the African BouBou is about the most comfortable thing in the world to wear, and will likely be seen from time to time wandering around our homes in ancient tribal wear.

Who knew.

It's telling me that it will take approximately 12 hours for a picture to upload. You'll have to use your imagination for now and I'll try to update with an image on a faster internet speed day.