Introduction to “African time”

So I went to the main market downtown today with a group of VSO ex-pats. The moment you walk in you’re assaulted by a thick wall of varied smells, not all of them pleasant, and a litany of “Mzungu! Mzungu!” There are sections of the market devoted to different things. About six of us, all timid mzungus new to the country, slowly snaked our way through the never-ending maze of narrow hallways flanked by stalls. The market is outdoors, although part of it is covered. We walked past the groundnut section with aluminium pots, the meat section (no fridges!), the fruit and vegetable section and finally a massive clothing section. People yelled “Madam, this is your size!” while pointing at matronly size 16 skirts. People grabbed us as we walked by. The atmosphere got increasingly claustrophobic and after an hour or so we started to make our way out.

I stopped on the way to bargain for a cutlery set. I ended up paying about $CDN 2.50 for them. When I got home that night, I tried to make a peanut butter sandwich. The peanut butter bent one of my flimsily new knives almost to the point of breaking. I guess I got my money’s worth.

Later in the day we went swimming at one of the hotels, got some Indian food and went to the last day of the Kampala International Film Festival. The festival showed a mishmash of unlikely films, ranging from the somewhat understandable Ugandan films from the 1960s to the completely inexplicable Motorcycle Diaries. On this particular day they were showing the latter. We sat at the restaurant, killing time, texting our friend to find out when we should arrive at the theatre. The movie was scheduled for 9:30. At 8:00 we were told they were running an hour and a half behind schedule. A few minutes later, 2 hours. A while after that we received a call urging us to hurry up, as the movie was “preponed” and was due to started imminently. Five minutes later, it was back to 9:30.

We showed up about then, then waited half an hour to 45 minutes for the previous movie to end. So, the 9:30 movie started shortly after 10, which I’m learning, in this part of the world, is pretty good.

I enjoyed the Motorcycle Diaries. Felt like a good time to be watching it, although instead of freeing the people through revolution I seem to be tinkering around my office, doing legal research, with only the vaguest inkling about what I’m actually going to do. I have no illusions about freeing anyone.

Anyway, after the film we all clambered to the car, piled in and got set to be driven home. The key turns in the ignition. Nothing. The car won’t start. Dead battery. It was around 1 in the morning. Normally I’d be aggravated, but this kind of thing happens all the time here. Even though I was absolutely exhausted I couldn’t even muster up annoyance. Apparently I’m adjusting to African life. Hakuna matata!

We approached a special hire taxi driver and asked him for a boost. He told us he’d do it for 10,000 shillings. After about 15 minutes of haggling we knocked him down to 5,000. The booster cables were a couple of thin wires. After many false starts, including a close call with Dominik, a Canadian VSO volunteer, stopping the taxi driver from crossing the wires in the nick of time. All of this was supervised by one of the ever-present rifle-toting security guards. Finally, the car started and we got home to bed, but not before Rebecca (yes, another VSO) and I strung up a mosquito net using two of the world’s most useful items: dental floss and carabiners.