I love the
market. It appeals to all sides of me,
it’s adventurous, it’s a bit dirty, you get to practice your bargaining skills
in all sorts of languages and when you wear the dress around town that you
bought you can say “I got this from the market” and look casually away as your
inquirer is left marveling at your street smarts and prowess.
Kampala has a great
market called Owino. The entrance is a
narrow corridor hidden by an impressive amount of clutter. One must count 9 and ½ backpacks to the
right, wave your Boda helmet next to an old UNICEF jersey, and then duck
in. The ground is muddy—even if it hasn’t
rained in a week. Men and women sit at
their booths, 2 feet deep and 3 feet wide, and grab at you to stop at their
stall, to pick their pair of used converse.
When you stop at their stall, the woman who was sprawled out sleeping on
some shirts a second ago is now up and animated. She’s showing you her florescent pink,
sequined shirt with Tweety Bird on it.
Or how about a nice Wells Fargo baseball cap? A DARE shirt?
Owino is wear all your donated promotional clothing has its second,
third, and fourth life.
I have my camera out
which is risky, but its Sunday and quieter than normal. And if I can’t take pictures, what’s the
point of having a camera? It makes a
scene as everyone wants me to take their picture rocked back, arms crossed,
kissing their fingertips and looking at the sky. Jesus is just beyond the tarped ceiling.
After every fifth
row there are two women bending over, cooking something in a pot over some
coals. They’ll supply the entire market
with ground peanut sauce, mashed bananas and rice.
I love the
market. It’s claustrophobic in a way that
is comforting. Foggy with sweat, loud
with the vendor who swears he has the
best price and the cutest babies sleeping on beds of skinny jeans.
I bought a bright
green dress bargained down from 45,000 to 20,000 shillings ($15 to $6). I got on the back of a Boda and drove
home. When I showered, mud circled round
and round my drain.
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| Entrance into Owino |
