I kept Prossi in my sights as we traipsed through aisle after aisle of vendors. We were in some kind of shady structure, surrounded [and trapped] completely by swarms of people, stalls of clothes and shoes, warmth, every kind of smell imaginable, and vendors desperate for our attention. Stall after stall men grabbed our arms, attempting to pull us to their goods. Stall after stall vendors shouted, “Mzungu, you are welcome. Mzungu, please buy from me!” Aisle after aisle men called out, “Hey beautiful! Hey sister! Gorgeous! Sweetheart!” Twice I felt a hand on my behind; the first time I initially thought it was just an accident, until I realized that it was a flat palm firmly on my derriere. The second time, the person actually groped me!
It was an assault on the senses. Countless colors, mounds of clothes and shoes, and eager eyes swirled around me and filled every inch of my periphery. Smoke, body odor, dirt, rotting produce, and mildew filled my nose and occasionally made me gasp. Hands grabbed and slid down my arms, uneven terrain fell underfoot, and warmth blanketed me. “Beautiful! Mzungu! Sister! Sweetheart! Buy from me! You are welcome!” and Lugandan chants filled my ears. Luckily, I didn’t taste anything but the bottle of water we purchased halfway through our shopping experience!
I stopped at a stall early on to look at some linen pants. The man had an entire grain sack full of them, and I selected a couple to look at closely. The sizes were all either European or written in centimeters, and I had no idea what size would fit me. I commented that I was not sure of my size, and before I knew it the man had whipped out a measuring tape and had that sucker wrapped around my waist. Ummm…hello?!? I negotiated poorly, and paid 12,000 UGX (about $5) for some linen pants.
Later, a woman was sitting on the aisle with her baby in her lap. As I walked by and smiled at she and her child, she began speaking to me. All I could discern was “mzungu” and then she was pointing at the child and pointing at me. I asked Prossi what the woman had said, and Prossi said, “She’s asking if you could take her baby.” WHAT?!? That was heartbreaking…she didn’t know me, she just knew that I was white and that my circumstances were probably better than hers. Her baby, though, her own flesh and blood!!
Prossi wanted to buy some skinny jeans, so she stopped at a stall where there were countless jeans hanging. She needed to try them on, however, so the owner of the stall grabbed a blanket, held it up across the stall door, and Prossi stripped down to try on the jeans. No privacy in East Africa!
Later, on the sidewalk a young, blind woman sat on the ground with a small child attached to her breast. As I walked by and looked down at her, I noticed that the woman’s breast was virtually nonexistant. She did not have enough nutrition and water to even offer her child.
As we headed back toward the taxi park to leave, I saw two giant, blue-black men walking toward me. I knew instantly that they were Sudanese, but I didn’t know which tribe until I got closer to them. Six, horizontal scars etched from ear to ear across their foreheads identified them as Nuer. Excited, I shouted, “Maale!” They both broke into HUGE grins and said back to me, “Maale magua!” I responded, and then had to hustle to catch up with Kerrie and Prossi. I’m sure they were shocked that this random white girl in the middle of Kampala could greet them in their own tribal language. It totally made my day!
The entire experience was dizzying, exhausting, and highly entertaining! There is really NOTHING like Oweno Market in America…flea markets would be the closest comparison, but even that is a far-off comparison! It is uniquely Africa.
The following photograph was taken by Kerrie (PNS cameras are much easier than my huge DSLR) from where we sat drinking our water. This photo only depicts a fraction of a slice of the market…
