Kitenge shopping

On Friday, Mary Jane and I went on a hunt for kitenge (chi TEN gee), African fabric.  Actually, the plural is bitenge (bee TEN gee), but that’s neither here nor there.  One can occasionally find kitenge at a vendor in the market, but if you want variety, you have to go to town (Kampala).

Mary Jane was going to be in town anyhow since she took the kids to school, so I got a driver and met her at the school.  I knew that we would be doing some running around since we were also looking for a remote for a DVD player, and while Mary Jane knows Kampala quite well, driving downtown is incredibly stressful, and there’s no parking (think DC on steroids with no lines, signs, or apparent and/or enforced rules), so it’s much better to have a driver circle the block while you conquer your mission.

Fortunately, Mary Jane knew where we were going, so she led the charge down a side street that was so pockmarked, I’d never take a vehicle down it.  When we found where we thought the bitenge would be, we learned that they had shifted.  So a kind gentleman, most likely a broker, took us to where they were.

Our brokers; the one on the right is the one who brought us to the stall; the one on the left did most of the talking.  The woman in the shadow brought and brought and brought...

They were inside a building, down a flight of steps, in a crowded stall of a shop.  Of course, the power was off, so we really couldn’t see.  So the vendors started bringing the bitenge out to where we could see.

Bring they did!  At one point, we must have had 20 or 25 bitenge out.  I was dividing them into piles, yes, no, maybe, on a young woman’s sewing machine.  I felt badly that I was disrupting her work, but since power was off, she may not have been able to sew anyhow.  

A sewing machine is buried under all the bitenge.  I promise.

We did see this old Singer like my grandmother had; they are quite handy in a country where you can’t assume that you’ll have electricity, and they’re much easier to repair!

The Singer like my grandmother had; they work beautifully here.

So, I found what I wanted, and the negotiations began.  They asked a price that I expected.  I wanted to get them down 10,000 shillings ($4), though if I’d had a Ugandan with me, I may have been able to get them down 20,000 ($8). 

The bitenge kept coming.  I think I was just a bit overwhelmed at this point.

"Nedda (no), nedda, maybe, nedda, yaa (yes), nedda..."

When negotiating, I have no problem mentioning that I am a musumba (shepherd, interpreted as priest) to encourage merchants to not cheat me.  Later on I bought a chair for my desk at home, and the guy wouldn’t budge on the price.  I told him that I am a musumba, and he refused to make eye contact after, only looking at my driver!  He knew he was cheating me.  We found a middle ground as the rain began, but he got me for 5,000 ($2) than I wanted to pay.

So, the bitenge merchants laughed about my being a musumba, and then Mary Jane chipped in with her Luganda phrases.  I counted the bitenge in Luganda, and I think they somewhat took us as people who live here, not just tourists.  I did get them down the 10,000 I wanted, though it always takes some back and forth.  Bartering is part of building the relationship.  I don't love it, but when in Rome...

We then met some other missionaries that Mary Jane knows for lunch, and I took one of them part way home, and we all got caught in a delightful rainstorm, and it took a little over 3 hours to get home, but all in all, a good and successful day of making memories.

And I have the bitenge and the chair to help me remember.