Kikuuba Market

On Saturday, our driver George took us shopping in Kampala. I felt like a tourist – in a good way. I know Kampala reasonably well, but since I don’t live here there are still many places I haven’t seen. We went shopping because I needed to get the secret ingredient for our homemade ice cream, which is a special kind of powdered cream that can only be bought in one specific market in Kampala called “Kikuuba.” Every time I asked a Larem staffer where exactly this shop is, they would giggle and say “it’s deep inside there. You won’t find it. Somewhere deep deep in there.” Giggle giggle giggle.

George is a natural born fixer. He always knows a guy who knows a guy. So I asked him to come with me and sure enough he knew the place and led me “deep inside there” to the place with the secret ingredient. I thought I had struck the lottery. I literally shrieked when I saw the shop, which caused several of the thousands of very busy merchants and traders to pause, albeit only for a split second, from their feverishly paced hustle on this bustling market street. Once the pleasure of finding my treasure subsided a bit, I looked around and saw an incredible sight. Thousands of people were wading through slick muddy and winding paths of stall after stall brimming with everything from econo sized packs of my favorite Krishna matches to plastic buckets of every possible shape. It seems that Kikuuba was the place every petty trader from across Uganda comes to stock up.

After finding the cream, we moved on to Africa’s largest market, Owino. I had never been there and was on a special assignment: finding winter clothes for Samson and Babu. George led us through the narrow covered lanes that literally stretch on for miles. I’m sure there are books written about this place, so I won’t dwell on the description. We managed to find some really nice coats and hats for the boys. One of the hats was Abercrombie! For $1.50 no less! Once I finished for them, I had a gander at the ladies clothes. I spotted a great pair of designer jeans for myself. But for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to agree to the merchant’s “last price” of 15,000 shillings (about $8), even though I knew the jeans originally cost about $100. As I meandered further, the sting of letting them go lingered and I thought about going back. But everyone knows that when bargaining if you pull the “walk away” and the merchant doesn’t chase you down, pride cannot allow you to turn back – no matter how bad you want it. Damn it!

We continued for a bit, being harassed at every step. The harassment ranged on the verbal side from friendly shouts of “Mzungu, I have nice t-shirts for you,” to not so friendly shouts of “Hey Mzungu, get out of the way.” Physical contact was also frequent and ranged from hand grabs to shoves aside from merchants carrying heavy loads of used clothing (donated from America and Europe) down rain-drenched crooked and dark paths. Once we had everything on the list, we asked George to lead us back onto the street. He seemed a little surprised and disappointed, because according to George we barely scratched the surface of the place. We emerged from the market a little over an hour after entering, back into the brilliant African sun, temporarily blinded and just narrowly avoiding cars and bodas and bikes and people zooming by. The Owino experience must definitely be included in the Let’s Go Uganda guide, should that ever be written.

My stomached started to growl and so I asked George if he knew of a pork joint in Kampala. George, of course, knew the best pork joint in Kampala and claimed it was even the best pork joint in the country in Wandega, the University section of Kampala. Pork joints are a fun experience. Personally I get a thrill out of entering a “joint” which ranges anywhere from a literal shack on the side of the road to a proper restaurant. I love that you come for one reason and one reason only: pork. It is always barbequed on an open flame and although tough by US standards I have found pork joint pork to be the tastiest and least chewy of all meat in Africa. I’m not a fan of beef here, which is usually so tough that TJM sets in halfway through the meal. (By the way, it works in reverse. I’ve had Ugandan friends visiting the States complain that the meat was too soft…)

After asking some bank guards to guard our vehicle (hey, I had my secret ice cream ingredient to protect), we wandered through the University area. It reminded me of any university area anywhere in the world. Lots of students and lots of fast food joints. The only difference was these joints were all pork joints, whereas in Beirut at AUB it would be Kebab joints and at NYU in NYC it would be pizza joints. We entered the acclaimed joint and each ordered “a plate,” which has a skewer or two of pork, some roasted cassava next to a big pile of spicy salt, and a salad or two. We sat down in the seating area. This particular joint was closer to a shack than a restaurant, although they somehow managed to still get satellite tv piped through it. There were dozens of people crammed into the tiny joint and they were all chewing on pork. George kept pointing out the pork ears, but pragmatically I imagined that the “ear cut” would probably be quite chewy and devoid of delicious pork fat.

I took delight in dipping the juicy pork pieces into the mound of salt with my hands. For some reason at a pork joint it’s totally legal to forget about healthy eating habits and tuck into a plate full of fatty pork, with lots of salt and a soda or beer on the side. And forks are PNG’d. Somehow it just tastes better when you’re shoveling all that pork in with your hands. In fact it’s the preferred option for all patrons. As further encouragement for hands only, the meal is preceded by one of my favorite rituals of meals in Uganda: washing hands at the table. A lady with a pitcher of water and a bowl gently tips the water over your hands as you reach for the soap and take good care to wash them without ever leaving your seat.

Once our bellies were full, George drove us back to the beloved Serena where we unloaded the precious payload from our day on the streets of Kampala.

P.S. For dinner that evening we were invited to our new friend Sarah’s house where she cooked a roast chicken and some amazing vegetable dishes. It was the first time I’ve had dinner at someone’s house in Kampala. It was so nice and cozy. It felt like the perfect cap to a very sociable day in the big city.