"Come and Buy!"

Every 3rd day, Nalerigu begins to buzz with extra activity. Trotros and lorries ferry people and goods from surrounding villages to the centre of town starting as early as 8am. Street food sellers, and shops on the main drag or close to the marketplace itself have already been preparing for the influx--people from rural villages for miles around travel here as Nalerigu becomes the economic centre of the district. Market day draws out almost every housewife and most husbands for errands and social interaction--even the American doctors at the BMC make the trip in their green pickup trucks. And for good reason: in Ghana here, market day is certainly an experience.

My walk from my house to the market takes me past my office, the Coca Cola distribution point, and the best Wagashi seller in town. Chronically incapable of resisting, I spend 20 pesewas--roughly 20 cents-- on the deep-fried local cheese and munch happily through the path as it narrows conspicuously past the threshold of market stalls. There are many avenues into an open-air market; I start at the right-hand side, partially because of a lack of human congestion, but mostly because it brings me straight to the African traditional medicine stalls.

I greet the young man operating the stall, and begin asking the questions I never had the nerve to ask until now.

"What's that?" I ask, pointing to a bag of beige grass and dirt.

"Elephant shit", he tells me.

I'm told the half-skinned crocodile skulls, elephant skin, ocelot pelts and various other endangered animal parts come from Nigeria--the popular answer for the origins of other things equally illegal. The row of traditional medicine supply stalls all have different mystery suppliers--the bird heads and tortoise shells come from "the big man", or "a special place", or simply "Guinea". They are supposed to treat any number of problems, both physiological and social--it is just as likely to receive a potion or treatment for jealous neighbours as it is for a nasty headache. The young man running the stall begs me for my telephone number, so he can follow me to "my place". I tell him he better learn a new trade first; there are few ocelots in Canada.

The traditional medicine booths segue in three directions into hardware materials and dated electronics, cheap Chinese-imported sandals, and bowls upon bowls of Ghanaian rice and maize for sale. The market sprawls in a complex maze of stalls, shelters and sellers, with food and ingredient sellers roughly linked by a winding path, fabric and cloth sellers dotted throughout, and electronics, kola, beauty supplies, pots and utensils, and ready-made clothing and shoes on the perimeter. The noise is impressive and joyous; the colours are intense. I squeeze through teenage girls with baskets, children selling local frozen sugar concoctions, and women with babies on their backs and grain sacks on their heads. When I reach the food and ingredients, the women erupt into a chorus of "Suliminga, come and buy!" I'm offered local okra and bananas from Techiman, hundreds of kilometres to the south. I pass up both, but buy tomatoes and garlic--I plan on making pasta for my host family.

The Fulani man who owns the first fabric stall I ever entered greets me in lispy French, takes my hand and leads me under the shelter for his wares. When he asks to know what I'm buying from him today, I have to disappoint him--I'll bankrupt myself if I buy any more gorgeous Ghana cloth.

Finished with my purchases, I saunter home under the sun--stopping, out of utter weakness, for more delicious, heart-attack-inducing wagashi, and to greet a shopkeeper friend with beautiful facial tattoos. Two children selling bean flour donuts from containers on their heads follow me home, skipping, giggling and demanding I buy 50 pesewas worth of their food.

I wait til they draw close, spin around and chase them away, as they shriek with laughter.