Black Market Babe

Sorry for the gap in postings. I’ve been too busy scouring the dark, seedy underbelly of Gulu’s treacherous netherworld, in search of illicit petroleum products.

Yes, I, Rachella, Intrepid Girl Bootlegger, have actually been forced to descend into the hellish maelstrom known as “The Black Market.” The nightmarish violence and unrest in Kenya has had a ripple effect of sorts, leaving neighboring countries short on petrol and diesel. Most of the fuel supplies for Uganda and Rwanda are routed through Kenya, and so last Tuesday at this time, when I went to the local Total station to get some petrol for our generator at home, I learned there wasn’t a drop to be found ANYWHERE in Gulu.

When my friend Pauline, one of the young Total attendants, shared that bit of news, at first I just laughed. I mean, I can’t conceive of a scenario where I can’t have something I really want. I’m not called “Princess” Rachella for nothing; I’m like, “What do you MEAN there’s no petrol?? For ME??”

And then harsh reality sank in….I am no different than the rest of the peasants in this gruesome geopolitical game. When the revolution starts and the supplies are cut off, no amount of money can conjure them up, not even for spoiled American divas.

The mere thought gave me the vapors. I mean, it’s bad enough to be able to SEE the lizards crawling up and down the walls of my cottage in the early evening hours before I fall asleep, but if the power is down and our generator is out of petrol, I’d be facing about 9 full hours of the pitchiest, blackest bowels of the night you could ever imagine….EVERY night for the near future.

It was Xanax time for sure.

But then another Total attendant told me he knew where I could buy some petrol and diesel. It would cost more, but it could be had. It took a few seconds, but then the old light bulb flashed….”The Black Market is ON and crackin’!” I would have to gather my courage and enter a world so alien, so forbidding, so potentially fraught with mortal danger….

Okay, enough with the melodrama, already! Gulu’s “Black Market” consists of one street with more chickens and goats than gangsters, and a bunch of skinny young guys standing around with big plastic jugs of petrol and diesel. It’s not some dark alley or cavernous warehouse where you have to know the secret word to get in. And it’s about as underground as Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

In other words, if you have the money, you CAN always get what you want. And those young guys are making out like fat rats. Twenty liters of petrol usually costs about 60,000 shillings. Last week, I paid 200,000, twice. Diesel runs about 30,000; I paid 80,000.

As an expat Capitalist Running Dog, I’m actually rooting for those skinny young men to make enough money to pay their siblings’ school fees, or buy enough food and clothing for their families. Realistically, there’s a chance they could spend it on alcohol or drugs. Or machetes; how people DO love to chop each other to bits in this part of the world! I just don’t get it. It haunts me.

Oh, well, all I know is that bootleggin’ is hard work. That is, unless it means trying on end-of-season sale boots at Nordstrom’s, which I hope to do when I head to DC next month. Still don’t know if I’m heading back to the US of A for good. I’ll keep you posted.

I PROMISE!!