The first time I went to the marché central, or city-centre market, was more than a year ago, with my new Central African neighbour. I’d just arrived in Bangui, and was still dazed with jetlag, but needed to buy food. The market was next to the riverside port, a dark concrete space, like a large bunker, with strip lights and crowded rows of stalls. There were vegetables and fruit at one end, fresh and smoked meat and fish at the other. All the vendors were women and girls.
As we wandered, they shouted to us, loudly competing to sell mangoes, papayas, bananas, pineapples and plantain. The smell was sweet rotting fruit, smoke and a waft of coffee. Candide, my neighbour, shielded me from them, negotiating on my behalf in the local Sango language, and I came out with kilos of fresh food.
