When I got selected to spend the month in Ghana I pictured claustrophobic markets supplying constant doses of visual, audial, and olfactory overstimulation. Tanzania and Thailand left memories of my pasty complexion drawing vendors eager to woo me into their shop. The merchants, who rival timeshare salespeople in their pushiness, yell, gesture, and even touch to get a share of your western dollars. It is stressful and exhausting, but thrilling. It is impossible to blend in. Feeling the eyes on you through tight corridors and even tighter shops, shouldering the pressure of shop owners as you try to haggle down their absurd first price. That is the closest to Anthony Bourdain that you will ever feel. The only release valve is that you are not alone. Other tourists dot the market, pulling their own share of attention. Each person carrying the same promise of a quick sale.

Makalo market was different. The size alone was enough to make you feel small. Rows and rows of buildings were stuffed with vendors in shops, corridors, and staircases. Moving between stalls meant squeezing your body between bead displays, stepping over boxes of knockoff shoes, and sidestepping men hand making wigs. Despite the cool, rainy morning, the heat rose in the building. Before long I felt a drop of sweat roll down my back. My body begged to be outside with the breeze, but we were deep in the labyrinth looking for fabric and beads. We followed a fabric seller into her shop where I bought six yards of cloth for $15. The price seemed so good – half what they charged in the Accra Mall – that negotiation was far from my mind. Buying the first thing you see is a stereotypical tourist move, but it felt good to have something. This way the rest of the shopping had no objective. I had what I needed.

 We were given vague directions for where to find more craft materials. The instructions led us up on a Scooby Doo chase through the first building, going up two floors, down two floors, left then right then straight then left, and so on depending on who you asked. Soon we learned that nobody knew and accepted our fate of wandering. A fortunate turn brought us out onto Kojo Thompson Road, the main street of the market, where the chaos began. Vendors packed both sides of the sidewalk, creating a narrow space about two feet wide for shoppers to walk through. Stalls spilled far into the road, which was jammed with pedestrians avoiding the tight corridor created by the merchants. Cars engaged in a constant honking cycle as people swarmed around their vehicles.

There was a loose organization to Kojo Thompson Road. First were the produce vendors. Then, displays of cocoyams gave way to those of raw meat. Flies swarmed buckets of bright red pig, goat, and whatever else piled so high they were one bump away from falling to the muddy concrete. Next came the fish market, which STUNK. It began with colonies of live snails packed into bowls and crawling all over each other, leaving a layer of slime. Crabs tried their best to climb out of the big metal basins that are ubiquitous across Ghana. The walls proved too steep for them. Their little black eyes blinked back at you as they accepted their fate. The pungent fumes from the fish (dried, fresh, and live) were combatted by the spice vendors that came next. Containers of hibiscus, cinnamon, dried pepper, and other Ghanaian spices filled the makeshift tables. Sprinkled throughout were men hawking Zara clothing, tote bags, and net sponges. Whole chunks of the market were dedicated to kitchen wares selling strainers, utensils, and bowls – all comically oversized for catering gigantic weddings and funerals.

A big distinction between Makalo and other markets I have been to is that nobody else was non-Ghanaian – at least not visibly. And by visibly I mean that nobody else there was white. Even more so, they didn’t care at all that we were so obviously foreign. The pushiness from other markets was not there, except in the women’s shoe building where they shouted and grabbed my arm to try to get me to buy their size 7W kitten heels. In fairness, they would have made my legs look longer than a summer day. Outside of that inhospitable corner, the vendors were reasonable. They made a pitch but took no, either verbal or a wave of the hand, for an answer and turned their attention to the next.

 We wandered through the maze of buildings with almost no success at finding anything until it became time to leave. On a map, we had hardly scratched the surface, but the experience felt authentic. Those around us were running their Saturday errands. Vendors worked for every sale, directing attention only to customers they deemed worth the energy. It was busy and chaotic. We left satisfied and a little thankful to be out of the storm.