Pret a Porter

My goal is to one day own at least one dress from every country on the African continent. That is, if I don't catch a fatal beatdown during a fierce marketplace bargaining session. Sometimes, I even question my own lack of scruples for haggling over that last shilling, or franc, or pazooza, or whatever the currency du jour might be during my shopping excursions. Like I've said before, the difference between 5 dollars and 4 dollars doesn't really mean much to me, but it could buy a couple days' meals for families in many countries.

Anyway, this shot was taken at a market stall on Goree, after I'd finished my tour of the slave house. Once the women stopped gaping and running their fingers through my hair, they fell on me like flies on a red velvet cake. "Madame, Madame, I give good price," they pleaded. "Sees-tah, Sees-tah, you buy me."

After all these years, I've perfected the art of playing deaf in loud, crowded markets. I can sidestep with the best of them, and learn the proper term for, "No thanks," in many languages. But these Goree Gals wore me down. I fully intended to just finger a few items and head back to the ferry, but they weren't havin' it.

Now, don't ask me why I chose this particular dress, which makes me look like a walking purple TV test pattern, but by that point, I just wanted to get away. I'd been told that the best shopping was at Market HLM in Dakar, and besides, I needed to find the lewd fabric swatches like the one my friend Roberta gave me on Halloween. Still, I'll always remember Goree's Market Mafia, and how persistent salesmanship can erode even the most savvy shopper's resolve.