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I recently went down to the Owino Market to purchase a shirt or two. Friends warned me to bring a knowledgeable local to help navigate and barter as I was not ready for what I was about to encounter but I haughtily brushed them off. After all I countered, I am a seasoned veteran of the international market scene, from the abrasive Arab souks of Marrakesh where you are accosted to buy a rug or hashish roughly every 30 seconds, to the Indian bazaars in the mystic city of Varanasi, where one must delicately avoid the assault of the gigantic sacred cows grazing on rubbish and defecating in the middle of the street. There was no hawker too pushy and no haggler I could not disarm with finesse and even a mysterious Zen-like calm. I was not, however, ready for Owino.

It must be noted that I am a white person. I am used to being called ‘mzungu’ by strangers on the street, boda boda drivers looking for a sucker willing to pay Shs 8,000 to go on a one kilometer hop in Kampala city and young children who point, giggle and sometimes want to shake hands with a real, live oddity.

At the Owino Market, when walking down a narrow corridor inhabited entirely by women on sewing kits, trying to bypass a young boy precariously balancing hundreds of eggs, and getting the occasional jab from a vendor saying “hey mzungu, check out my wares”, well it gets intense. I have heard that it can be an odd sight for some Ugandans to see a Westerner frequent the markets here, on the lookout for old jeans and used jumpers.

I can imagine that seeing a mzungu barter for dingy bright-green and red Christmas sweaters at a market, must be rather bewildering. Why is this Western person trying to buy a cheap used shirt, a shirt which he could easily buy new in his own country, where it most likely originated? For many young men and women living in places like New York, London and Copenhagen, hip fashion now incorporates many of the same styles of dress as can be found in your typical Ugandan used-clothing market. Authentic and obscure vintage threads are coveted for many people who wish to wear unique outfits that no one else could possibly find. For me, it was the delights of ironic t-shirts and ‘so ugly they’re strangely beautiful’ sweaters that brought me to Owino Market, but I could not have imagined what I’d have to go through to find them.

There were hundreds upon hundreds of stalls selling it all. The sheer scope and magnitude of the sprawling complex was like nothing I had ever seen.  After wading our way through the endless counters of matooke (green banana) sellers, nearly vomiting trying to get away from vendors of sun-dried raw mukene, a daggaa silver sardine-like fish sold by the hundreds, and navigating my way around the sea of stalls selling random electronic spare parts, my friends and I made it to the garment section.

Sarongs abounded as did stores selling wildly garish dresses for young girls. Like I said, I’m no amateur in a crowded market but the late afternoon day was beginning to darken and time was of the essence. My intrepid group and I kept moving, even as it began to seem like we were walking in circles and the lone female in our team kept hearing hisses of “hey cutie” and “you girl”.

As it got darker, we started getting skittish. The hands kept flying, the sun kept going down and with no Christmas sweaters in sight; a stall that appeared to specialise in Canada-themed apparel ended up being as close as we got to our goal. We realized it was time to give up the search.

We take lefts, we take rights, we end up back at the mukene vendors, we move on, ask directions, get spun around, try and smoke a cigarette and almost get stoned by an angry group of women brandishing sewing machines, and finally, just when we’re about give up and set up camp for the night, we see the light at the end of the tunnel: an exit. I do not think I have ever been so relieved. 

We make it outside and all take deep breaths; I, shocked that I managed to stave off a near-certain anxiety attack. 

However, it only takes about a minute to register that even though we are outside the “market”, we are still in “Owino”. In other words, a feeling of soul-crushing fatalism like out of a bad horror film hits: there is no escaping this place.  Owino is less a market than an organism unto itself; a living, breathing creature that puts you at the mercy of its labyrinthine madness. With countless entrances and exits, the hustle and bustle of Owino seems to mirror the manic energy of Kampala itself. The perverse logic of its pathways and corridors reminiscent of the potholed roads upon which boda bodas, mutatus, buses, bicycles, trucks and street vendors jostle for space and seem to miraculously avoid certain death.

We walk down a dirt-road, feet drenched in still-wet mud from the day’s rain and search desperately for a reputable-looking boda boda driver. The dusk sky is now a dark orange and many people begin to pack their wares and close up shop. We spot a stage and immediately the jockeying for our patronage begins. This can be intense all over Kampala, but the spirit of Owino gives it an added edge.  At least four drivers demand  a cigarette, all want to charge us Shs 15,000, and one young man keeps coming up to me and growling, “Why don’t you give me 500 shillings? Huh, why not?” There’s a distinct moment where things feel like they’re about to explode, but it passes, and we cruise on out of there, sans clothes but relieved.

In most of Uganda, as in Owino, there is a profound sense of tension underlying everything from the traffic to politics; and every now and then tension comes to a head. Generally though, things remain under the surface and for most, it is business as usual. That same tension that can be so enervating can equally be just as intoxicating. I quite like it here and think I will stay for some time. I will, however, probably steer clear of Owino. 

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