If she was trying to get me to go away, she failed. If her intent was to entice, if she wanted my money, if this was a big elaborate scheme to draw me in with the need to know what secrets awaited the backroom, then she had me right where she wanted me.
I was in Kampala, Uganda, running the usual third world errands with Cathy, a Canadian from the hostel. A sign outside advertised, “Skin Testing Machine Here.” I walked in, wondering what it tested the skin for and looked like.
The boutique was unsurprising: glass counters with mirror behind them stocked with imported skin care products, the expensive kind that women running from wrinkles dump whatever percentage of their disposable income required to take their face on a journey through time.
“Hello,” I said to the Ugandan woman closest to me. She looked up from her cell phone with a yawning stare to acknowledge my greeting and then looked back down.
“Tell me about this skin testing machine,” I said.
“We have a skin testing machine,” she said without looking up.
“Can you tell me about it?”
“No.”
“Can I see it.”
“No.”
“What does it test!?”
“Your skin.”
“For what?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Why?”
“You have to get the test.”
“How much does a skin test cost?”
“20,000 Shillings (about $8).”
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
“Is it here?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
Why was she toying with me like this? This was very strange. Ugandans are so very friendly; they will talk your ear off, they corner you, even if you’re tired, they force a conversation out of you. But this woman and her Skin Testing Machine . . . if only she had given me a basic rundown of what it tested, what it looked like, why it warranted its own neon sign!
I left. I walked a block. The Mormons, perhaps the Scientologists, certainly the Jehovah’s Witnesses must be behind this. Surely the only thing that could save my skin would be accepting Jesus Christ as my personal lord and savior. I turned to Cathy, “I need to go back. I must know.”
The woman nodded as I walked back in. “I’m prepared to give you 5,000 shillings just to see the Skin Testing Machine.”
“The only way to see it is to get the test for 20,000.”
“10,000 shillings just to see it.”
“No.”
“Really, half the price of the test just to take a peak?”
“No.”
$8 is not a lot of money. It’s certainly worth paying it when you suspect that neglecting to will lead to a lifetime of regret. Back in the US, looking out a snow-covered world, I would look east and always wonder, “what did the Skin Testing Machine even look like? What were they hiding in the backroom? Why was no one allowed to see it?”
“Fine,” I surrendered, “I will get the skin test.”
I coughed up the money. Begrudgingly. The second woman, the one who had been silent, led me into the back room. “Can she come?” I pointed to my Canadian companion. No, of course she could not. No one gets to see the Skin Testing Machine for Free!
The Skin Testing Machine was a large metal box with a tent that looked like an old-
photographer tent. “Has anyone ever died in there?” I asked.
No one ever had.
“Look straight into the mirror,” she told me, “Some people are affected by the lights, if they pain you you can close your eyes.”
What was in the mirror? Was this my soul I was looking at? The future? Those who have passed from this world?
No, it turned out just to be my face illuminated by black lights. The skin test took all of five minutes. I went behind the tent and there were a serious of mirrors. Then black lights illuminated the darkness. The woman went to the other side and I could see her eyes studying my face.
Afterwards we sat at the table in the room and she wrote on a piece of official looking paper. “Am I going to die,” I asked.
“No,” she said, making a promise I knew she would never be able to make good on in the long run. “But your skin–you have a sunburn.”
It was true. I was tired of hiding from the fact. Africa why have you done this to me? Why have you condemned me to return to the New York Winter looking tanned and awesome while everyone else looks pale and depressed?
“You also have oily skin,” this was also true. My curse. Oily skin.
“But,” she said, “We can help this.” She then went on to tell me that the only way to cure my sunburn, my oily skin would be to purchase 500,000 in skin care products, about $200, pretty close to the average monthly wage of most Ugandans.
The skin machine turned out to be put out by the Avon people.
