While Scott was working hard to move the justice bar forward in Rwanda, I walked (something a white woman can’t really safely do in Kampala), explored and visited the massive market across town.
As the taxi driver was dropping me off outside the sprawling market building, he asked “Do you want me to come with you?” I assured him that I would be fine. I don’t think he believed me as he asked if he should wait until I was finished. He seemed concerned that I would be the only non-Rwandan in the market. I told him I may be a bit but he assured me he’d wait at no charge. This was very kind.
I ducked into the first door I found. The last market I had visited was the Saturday Market in Charleston, South Carolina in January. I was not in South Carolina anymore.
Stall after stall. Each tended by one vendor. About 2 X 4 meters. Filled with goods. The first stops – my favorite. Fabric. I’ve begun collecting spectacular fabrics here and having things made. Dozens of vendors are clamoring for my business. This is a very local market. Even during peak tourist times, I doubt that many folks have the stomach for the press of sellers. “Madam” “Madam” “Madam” “Look at my things” “Visit me next.”
I always go with a limited amount of cash so I can truly say that I can’t buy any more. But “just looking” is not a believable answer so folks keep pushing in, offering to help and showing me their stall.
Aisles are very narrow. There is no social distancing. I finish with the fabric folks and head toward the basket venders.
On the way, I cross from one section of the market to the next. In the wider walkway, dozens of women sat at their sewing machines creating all kinds of goods. Two women approached me with their catalog - a picture album of things they could make. All kinds of clothing. They assured me that they would finish in less than an hour. A dress I pointed too was amazing, could be custom created to fit me and would be ready in one hour for about $15.
As I was not really in the market for a dress, I moved on to the baskets. Two male vendors each decided that I was “theirs.” I looked at them both and kindly but firmly told them that I was not going with either of them and turned to the next stall. There’s no “window shopping” here. You have to know what you want, what you’ll pay and be firm in your offer.
I purchased a couple of baskets. Scott is convinced that I’ve bought at least 80 since we have arrived which is a HUGE exaggeration. But I do assure him that each $3 basket purchased here is sold for at least $50 in the US so I’m actually saving us money.
Having spent my allotted shopping fund, I attempted to visit the rest of the market. The usual beautiful displays of fruits and vegetables. Entire sections with flour, legumes, coffee, nuts, spices etc. Then the hardware sections with buckets, mops, brooms and jerry cans. Everyone wanted me to sample and buy but my bag was getting heavy and I knew my taxi driver was waiting.
I slipped out a side door to avoid further “shopping” and cut outside. I was very grateful for my waiting cab driver as there didn’t seem to be any nearby taxi stand to find another way back to our hotel. He seemed relieved that I had survived, with purchases in hand and a smile on my face. We had a lovely conversation on the way back.
As fascinating and overwhelming as this market was, I do admit I missed the yummy scones and relaxed pace of the Charleston market.
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