The Grimm Adventures...

It’s one thing to be able to speak without slurring when you are drunk, its quite another to be quick as a whip and not slur your speech when speaking in a second language. My new friend, I'll call him David, a local vendor of all things used and some new-ish, has quite a grasp of the no slur. I imagine he has had a great deal of practice.

I met David one day a few weeks back in Mushi store, a shop that caters to expats with its Nutela and various pastas and sweets. David was there talking to the shop keeper and her friends when I walked in and broke their mood. I had only been in Tanzania for a few weeks and my Swahili was more lacking than it is now and David started in on me; trying to instigate a reaction. I, not wanting to give him the satisfaction and realizing he was three sheets to the wind at 11AM, played it cool and let him have his fun. My beard was new and he made fun of that saying, “why do you want to look old before you are?” and continuing, “are you an old man already?” then with a lilt in his voice, “Women will not like this.” He carried on for a minute or two, and then he must have realized he had to open his store if he hoped to have a drink the next day and made his exit.

I bumped into him on Thursday or Friday as I was riding into town and, as he was – or at least appeared – sober we had a quiet brief conversation about his shop and he asked that I stop by after my shopping to “share ideas”. I planned to stop by but, as the vegetable market is way on the other side of town and I wanted to take a new route home, I missed him.

On Sunday we all went to town and noticed some handmade rope in the vicinity of Davids shop (to clarify his “shop” is a makeshift fence with about a hundred pairs of dress pants hung along its length). The rope was hung from a tree over a tarp on the ground that had on it everything from piles of peanuts to bars of Tanzanian laundry soap. I asked the friendly young man how much and after some haggling we settled on 2,500 shillings for two lengths (about 12-14 feet each for $2.50). Just as I handed over the money David approached, and he was in fine form, but as Nik and Abby were there he toned it down a bit. As we waited for my change David took the rope and coiled it up in a nice packable form and proceeded to make fun of my beard and my hat and poke a little fun at Nicole as well. It was harmless but loud and soon a crowd had gathered to see what the fuss was about. It took a bit too long for the man to get my change and when he finally had there must have been 30 people standing quite close to us watching the “show”. Nicole asked me if I wanted to take the rope from the spot David had hung it – around my neck – and put it in the backpack. I thought it best to get as far from the epicenter as possible first and we made a hasty exit.

Abby and I hung it up this morning two strands side by side, in the hope that I can score some wood from the garage boys and make a swing. In the meantime Abby found a number of ways to swing on these two ropes without the wooden seat. She made harnesses with them and swung quite high and then I made loops in them and she went back and forth and spun around endlessly. After school, Karina Neema came by and they swung side by side for a long time and look turns swinging with both. I figured if the ropes alone are this much fun I better grab a couple more strands for a swing elsewhere on the tree. With agreement from the girls I set out later this afternoon for a big box of water and some more rope.

I made my way to Frank’s shop for the big box of water and purchased that and synched to the back of my bike with my two ten foot luggage straps (boy am I happy I didn’t cut them down). I then made my way to Mushi store for some Ribena and laundry soap, but they were all out of both.

I decided that before I head up to the top of town I should see if there is any rope left beside David’s store. He must have seen me coming because before I was within 50 yards of the rope I could hear him hollering. I could also smell the alcohol on his breath as he came in with his verbal jabs. I suppose the water on the back of the bike was an easy target and he launched in on that immediately. Why should I be the only one with water? Why can’t he have any water? Because you’ve already had enough gin? I started to say but instead said, “well how about I buy two more lengths of rope and then you’ll be able to afford to buy your own water.” He was silent for a moment as he thought about this and then said quickly without slurring, “same price as last time, right?” “Hamna, Hamna (no, no)” was my reply “elfu mbili (two thousand) this time.” I said. “Fine, fine” he replied and then spoke some light speed Swahili to his worker who grabbed the rope. David thanked me profusely without slurring or drawing a crowd and I was off with my rope and happy with the price.

I am sure I will speak to David again as he is a character and fun to talk to. Practicing Swahili with people who speak good English is easier to me because they can correct me and explain how I screwed up. I just hope David can do this without gathering the rest of the town to help with the lesson.

The "street" beside the veggie market.









Main street, Haydom.

Its strange being in a remote area with limited access to the long list of things that, in Canada, I took for granted. Here there is no clothing store that I have seen, or at least not one that has walls. I did buy a pair of jeans today that were hanging from a clothing rack (a few branches built into a low fence) by the roadside. There is no store that sells kitchen items; knives, bowls, pots and pans, unless you count the teenagers, once again, at the roadside selling their stuff from a tarp. There are shops with food; but these do not hold items that tantalize the taste buds unless you are not allergic to the hazelnuts in Nutella. And, the “restaurants” offer menu items like the french-fry omelet (chipsi mayi), prepared on a hundred year old wok heated by a charcoal fire burning in a recycled car wheel. Sports is a spectacle here, in that the football matches draw a huge bipartisan crowd, but its football (soccer) and I’m not a fan of the game itself.

At home in Canada we would shop for food when hunger struck. This is not the most practical way to buy food and I suppose we ended up paying a bit more too, but it was our way. I miss the ability to go down the hill to Pepper’s grocery store in Cadboro bay in Victoria and pick up fresh basil, parsley, garlic and a bag of pasta. Go next door to Smuggler’s Cove beer and wine or across the street to Mark Anthony’s and pick out a nice but inexpensive bottle of either a Chardonay or Gwertz to go along with our meal. I’d go home and throw the fresh ingredients together with some extra virgin olive oil to make a light pasta dish, perfect for a warm summer evening.

Also on the food front I miss restaurants and the wide variety of menu items that are available. We ate out more in Edmonton than we did in Victoria but I think that is due to the cold weather and no Pepper’s grocery. It’s strange to me now that I don’t really miss the more exotic dishes but that’s just the way it is. I would really love to go to Earl’s and have a bacon cheeseburger with (not fries) a salad, which I don’t think I actually ever had…the salad that is. The other burger that would hit the spot is Red Robin’s Guacamole burger. This huge burger has not only a heaping serving of guac, but a heavy dose of pork fat in its two plus slices of bacon.

It doesn’t help, and I don’t recommend reading this book if you are in a remote area with no access to fresh, plentiful ingredients, reading Under the Tuscan Sun. And, while Frances Mayes is a bit of a flowery writer her descriptive style is great, except when she describes food. Last night I had to skip an entire chapter that consisted of tasty narrative of a pile of recipes that were also included. I may have to read something about a motorbike journey around the world instead. But, I digress…

There is something calming and strangely appealing about going to a store, grabbing a bag of nacho chips and a block of aged cheddar. A quick meeting of the cheese and a grater followed by tossing the cheese over a plate of the crunchy chips and a quick stint in a microwave oven creates bliss. While I don’t miss the microwave itself the ingredients are not available here at all. Even at the huge stores in Arusha, orange cheese in unavailable and the New Zealand cheddar, which is sharp and tasty, is not the same.

If its not obvious to you by now I’ll tell you, I like to cook. Cooking in Tanzania is very dissimilar to cooking in Canada. I have my Joy of Cooking book for rustic recipes but with a gas oven that has large holes in the back and has no temperature gauge its difficult to get things right. Having access to few ingredients to choose from makes it tough to have variety in our diet but we are making due. It is the variety that I miss, I guess, the choice.

Its not quite the same riding a vintage bicycle down a dirt road to town and buying vegetables in a language, not English. The state of the vegetable stand is also odd; wooden slats cut, probably with a machete, by hand and nailed haphazardly together to form a “table” and a “roof”. There is room for one or two clerks who accept meager amounts of money and make change from their float, stored under a small tarp or in their traditional wrap.
I also miss certain things around the house. It may not be what you think. Things like a microwave and TV are not high on my list just now, perhaps later. It is things like my coffee maker. I have a French press that was given to me early on by a new friend. It is great don’t get me wrong but it is small and only makes about 5/8 of a cup. It takes a lot of work to make one cup of coffee; boil water, fill thermos, add coffee to French press, pour in boiled water, stir, press, pour, and then watch out if you get to the bottom because the sediment is there. But, it does taste like heaven. The second cup is more difficult as washing out the press makes an added step. I would like to set the timer in the evening and wake up to the subdued beeps of my coffeemaker and pour liquid gold into my mug…ah the simple pleasures.

My love for cooking also gives me an appreciation for good tools of the trade, knives and…well mostly knives. As a side note I would love a whisk that didn’t come apart at the base of the handle halfway through my awesome Guacamole mixing. Knives must be sharp and of a size that is functional for the task at hand, whatever that may be. We have three knives; one bread knife with the tip snapped off, a paring knife that is in surprisingly good shape and the knife that we bought in Arusha. The new knife is not bad, about 10 inches long and made of sufficient quality steel. Its edge lasts for a couple of tasks and would last longer if I could use a proper tool to sharpen it. As it is now I use, either the back of the bread knife or sharpen both the new knife and the paring knife at the same time by running each edge upon the other. This becomes a somewhat fun challenge though, so I shouldn’t complain about it.

I will complain, however about the lack of baseball here. I did see a baseball bat in a bookstore in Arusha and some people have heard of the game but it is not really here. We have had to resort to using a homemade bat and a tennis ball at the tennis court with me pitching and Abby at bat. The bat is a leftover piece of a branch, the rest of which is Nik’s walking stick. We do have fun with that I can assure you, so while I miss watching baseball, we have come up with a means to overcome this to some extent.

There are many things that I miss that were taken for granted in Canada. I left out friends and family because that is a given. Things, items of convenience, simple pleasures, Mars bars (oops that’s not really parallel to the rest of the list), these don’t make life, they provide a momentary escape, an ooh, an ahh, something to savor and enjoy. Be it food, fun or something that makes life easier, these things are nice to have but not truly a necessity. We still have much more than those around us, and probably more than we need. We are not living the lifestyle we had at home and that’s fine. We are learning a new one and though it will change again when we are finished here, we will have new standards.

It's Saturday morning and I am sitting in the office collecting the days email, always a nice task. But the bee saga continues and as I watch the progress bar telling me that the email is slowly downloading, a bee has entered the office. God knows from where as I thought I had sealed it up pretty good. I think that they send scouts out wherever they find an opening to see if they can make it into a back door to the hive. I am dead set against the office being their back porch and grin as I grab my trusty can of DOOM. The bee, in mid flight careens to the screen with the first burst and a second changes the pitch of its buzzing wings. I wait to see it this will end it, can of DOOM at the ready in case it attacks. It does not. It buzzes a bit and then the wings stop and it clings to the screen for a few seconds before falling dead to the office floor, joining its compatriots who also met the working end of the ominous can of DOOM.

One down 3,000 to go.

As I may have mentioned, we have a bee infestation in the attic of our office. This building is a small L-shaped, cement structure housing, our office, a second (unused) office, 2 wood storage rooms and our laundry room. Each room has its own wooden door secured with a heavy padlock. The office is the only opening with a screen door as well as the heavy wooden one. Our office is at one end of the L and has a double screened and barred window. The roof is corrugated metal and I suspect the attic space is quite roomy but that the office side of the attic is separated from the storage and laundry side by a floor to roof cement wall. The bees have nested in the corner of the roof above the outer corner of the L.

It was six weeks ago that I brought the problem to the attention of the garage, which houses the general maintenance department as well. Yesterday I had to go to the garage to speak to Tore and when I did not find him I thought I would repeat my request to have the bees taken care of. Phillipo, the boss grabbed a couple of guys and we came to the office to investigate the issue and find a solution. We all looked around the nest door and went into the office where, when we were silent we could hear the non-descript sounds the bees made above the ceiling. With a bit of discussion we decided that drilling a hole in the ceiling and spraying DOOM in via a small hose or tube would be the best method. They guys retreated to the garage and I went back to work expecting to be expelled shortly from the office. My wait was long.

After lunch it was Nik’s turn in the office and she worked the afternoon also expecting to be ousted at any moment. Abby and I had time to go to town on the bike, get foot pegs welded to some brackets so Abby can rest her feet when she rides on the back, and played a heated game of football in the front yard. It wasn’t until close to quitting time when Phillipo himself and a second man (probably not a volunteer but rather one who pulled the short straw) appeared at the corner of the office. They were geared up with DOOM, a couple of small tubes and an Awl. I joined them in the office and Nik and Abby retreated to the safety of the house behind the screen door.

The plan came together after short tests of the different tubes. Phillipo had a tube similar to one from a can of WD-40 which, when employed in the test, blew off with a short blast. The other tube looked like a small piece of heat-shrink tubing that was shrunk at one end to fit the hole and its ¼ inch diameter at the other, to fit onto the tiny spray nozzle of the can. The first test of this tube was a bit of a disaster as the tube was not secured to the can and blew off when a shot of DOOM almost hitting Phillipo dead center in the face. The second test, using one hand to hold the tube to the can, showed promise and a hole was punched in the ceiling.

The small end of the tube was inserted in the hole and a short testing burst was pushed into the attic. The success of the short blast was readily apparent, as the activity of the bees was apparent by the amplification of their non-descript sound coupled with the start of audible buzzing from the attic. We three smiled and Phillipo sent a long blast upward. This second shot brought more noise inside and we also noticed that the bees were beginning to swarm outside the nest’s entry point. After a couple more blasts, for some reason, Phillipo withdrew the tube and punched a new hole in the ceiling. He quickly inserted the tube in the new hole and blasted away with the DOOM. This increased all of the signs that we had the right spot but also brought bees in through the first hole.

Phillipo’s colleague was now called to duty spraying with his can of lesser bug killer inside the office. With bees entering one after the other with rapid succession and dangerous chemicals being employed to keep them at bay, I made my retreat to the house as well. Joining Emma Stella and Nicole behind the screen door we all watched the action outside. There was little sound from the office but we knew the guys were continuing the spraying by the spread of the swarm of bees that searched for the culprit that was forcing them from their home. We knew this to be true when an unsuspecting dog began by and quickly accelerated to a blinding speed while nipping at its back as the bees attacked.

With a total stillness from inside the office we became a little nervous as to the safety of the screened in refuge that Phillipo and his colleague were relying on. The stillness was soon broken as the two men burst from the door and began to run away. Phillipo however, turned to see that the man following him had left the door open. He shouted, apparently to him to close the door as the man stopped and turned back and pulled the door closed and locked it – sadly it takes some time to squeakily slide the lock into place – as the bees closed in. The man began to dance and spray his lesser DOOM at and above his head. The door locked, he ran spraying at his head as he sprinted away.

By the time we looked out the back door to find the guys, Emma Stella was calling form the kitchen that they were already at the garage gates 50 meters away. They were in a hurry to escape. From the kitchen window it became obvious that Phillipo’s companion had been stung on his head. This was upsetting but we hoped that his efforts had been successful.

After dinner we found that the attempt at extermination had failed. The bees were still swarming around the entry point as they usually did and the buzzing in the office continued. I went in and plugged two of the holes in the ceiling and stuck a modified straw into the third. I blasted a large portion of a can of DOOM into the straw as Nik watched from the house. As the bees began to extend their swarm toward the office door I retreated to the house to once again see if any good came from my efforts. Again the swarm grew and receded and this morning there were 30 or more dead bees inside the office and the buzzing in the ceiling was unnerving. But I will give them another blast or two this evening when they are mostly at home and hope for the best.

Thanks to Rog and Earl

Today was market day in Haydom and we went to find a few shuka. These are the traditional wrap of the maasai as well as many other tribesmen of the area. As it is getting cooler in the evening we figured what better and cheaper way to keep warm than these colourful wraps. They are mostly made from a thin wool fiber woven into a plaid pattern with various colours. I had picked one up at the market I went to on our second day in Haydom so we thought we could get a similar price here in town.

We set off after lunch walking as a family up the road to the front gate. We were all in good spirits with our bellies filled with Emma Stella’s beautiful pizza. Abby was skipping along and Nik and I were strolling through the crowds coming and going from the hospital. Abby’s exuberance got the best of her and she took a marvelous tumble landing in a heap on the rocky dirt road. She came up with a bit of crying and many of the passing folks gave a “Pole Sana” as they passed. It took a few steps and Abby was back to good but requiring a lift, so onto my back she went and as we turned onto the recently repaired smooth road we regained our good spirits again.

The road was busy with foot and vehicle traffic and as usual we got a few sideways glances but from friendly faces. We often say hello to many people as we go by and today was no exception. The folks selling their wares from their roadside shops give long stares and gesture to their goods strewn on a tarp in the hope of making some extra money from us as we pass. We made our way to the road that passes the football pitch and could see through the trees lining the road that the elementary students were playing a heated game. Their yells and cheers were a welcome sound over the din coming from the market, still a ways away. We stepped quickly down the newly smoothed surface with the bordering ruts cleanly dug to accommodate next years rain.

We turned the final corner to the market and Abby announced the dryness in her throat that was reminiscent of the fine inch thick layer of dust on this lesser used road. So the first stop had to be a teahouse for a bottle of water. We entered one of the neighbourhoods that is mainly made up of shops but it would be strange to call it a strip mall. The center of the area is a wide and long dirt lot. The ground is hard packed red dirt with both large and small stones cemented to the surface and protruding to make walking a challenge. There seems to be new, sharp loose stones scattered each day by the bicycle wheel repair shops. There is an impromptu bus stop here where a variety of seemingly broken down busses and four-wheel drive Toyota vans that hold more than their fair share of seats for desperate travelers. The drivers sit behind the wheel while large rocks block the tires, as the brakes have been gone for some time. I imagine that they also have similar rocks on board tied securely to the frame to slow them on the roads like an anchor.

The shops are decidedly bustling given the biweekly market open for business in the adjacent field. People are coming and going from the fabric stores, tea houses and grocery stores as the noise of static filled music pours from the lone speaker at the cell phone stand. The stand is a 3-foot square box of old wood, reused and painted bright blue, with a side door and a small window, yet it is filled with all manner of cell phone related nick knack from phone fobs to colourful keypad covers. On the ground in front of this is a small stream of cloudy water that emanated quite a stench, one that quickened our pace in our search of a clean and cold drink of water.

We entered the Moshi grocery store, which doesn’t sell groceries at all; it is a bar nothing more. There is a thin cloth hanging in the doorway, evidently to keep the flies out. The room was small and dusty with a few tables spread haphazardly on its unclean floor and a couple of younger men sucking back sodas. There were also 3 men, mid-twenties or so, ordering beer in front of me. They were not the usual smiley type that we run into all over; they were rather abrasive and not friendly to the woman who was serving them. When they were finished with their order the woman came out from behind the counter to take my order. I asked, in my best Swahili for 3 small bottles of water. She returned shortly with one bottle that she had wiped down to rid it of its dusty film and asked for 350 shillings. I didn’t understand her so she repeated the number. Still I was not getting it so one of the soda-drinking guys piped up with English to help me out. I guess my best Swahili was not good enough and I left with one bottle of water to quench the thirst of the family.
We walked back toward the market, a sea of people and goods spread in various ways across the ground and hanging from the trees. We passed the shoe vendors with their footwear, on one side of us, lined up 4 or 5 rows deep and 30 feet long; on the other side there was a 2 feet deep pile of shoes that again stretched about 30 feet. We passed these dealers and crossed the road to the main shopping area.

As we entered the thick of things, a local man in his mid-twenties who carried an intense look on his face accosted me. With his face no more than 2 feet from mine he said, “hey…” followed by the “n” word. I was dumbfounded, positively speechless as he continued his glare for no more than a few seconds time, for me stood still, my mind scrambled to find meaning in what he had said; I could find none. By the time I was able to fully comprehend his statement he was gone. Was it racism? This was my immediate conclusion. He may have been trying to provoke a response. I still don’t know. I have spoke of this with friends and they are as confused as I am. However, one other theory is that he may have seen an English movie and was simply mimicking what he had seen as cool slang in a gangster film. In my time here I have not known a Tanzanian to be confrontational or rude at all, so my gut says it was benign but I will be on my guard a little bit when I am out and about.

This disturbance did not stop us from enjoying the experience of the Mnada (fleamarket) and we pushed on in search of the Shuka shops. We passed many used clothing areas – I say areas because they are just a large pile of clothing spread out on tarps and on the grass – and were pressured to stop and buy, but we were not interested and moved on. The Shukas were a little further on piled ten high with many piles in each spread. I would say each sales person had 3-400 Shukas for sale. It was hot and we were not going to use the bartering ploy of walking away if we did not get our price even though the salesman was not going for our price. I had paid 6,000 or 6,500 at a previous market and we were hoping to get a similar price but this was not to be as the salesman kept telling us that for that price we could only choose from a small pile of the smallest Shukas he had. We went for the medium sized ones, about the size of a single bed, and the asking price was 9,000 and since we wanted 3 we thought we could get a break. The salesman said, ”ok, 3 is 28,000.” We were a bit taken aback as you would be too if you understood multiplication. The salesman thought we were struggling with understanding his Swahili and took out paper to write down the 28,000 price. We told him, as best we could that we understood but that his math was bad and he did not understand this so I took his pen and paper and wrote 3 X 9 = 27. But, then I wrote that we would pay 24,000. We went back and forth, all in Swahili, and settled on 25,000. This was still too much but not an outrageous price. So the Shukas were rolled up and tied with straw and with our goal accomplished we went on our way.

I am teaching Abby how to tell time as part of today’s math class. She is really excited about being able to read a clock. Of course we don’t have a clock and her watch (that she hasn’t used) has a dead battery. We laughed this morning as she learned and we were having a great day. We moved onto recess and played some Soccer (Football here) and Abby kicked the ball very high for the first time. This kick nearly took my head off and I explained to her how pleased I was with her progress but that I also enjoy having a head.

We went back in the house and began the class we have named project. We analyzed our results from our four weather stations around the hospital. On Monday we made a weather vane and have four spots that we check every couple of days. Our predictions said that it would be cold and clear which is fine because cold here is above 20 Celsius. We breezed through some more weather related topics and by 11:30 were finished the day’s work – fifteen minutes early. Coincidentally Nik walked in to say that the cushion covers she ordered the previous Friday should be ready and as we had finished school Abby and I joined her in a walk to town to pick them up.

We walked out to the main gate and found that a grader was finally working on the road. It is about time as the ruts are nearly impassable. The crowd gathered to watch looked like they were watching a slow tennis match as their heads turned this way and that as the grader made a few passes. As it finished the section in front of the gate the crowd migrated along with it to the next section. We turned the other way and went on our way. Entertainment is at a premium here and if we hadn’t had a destination I probably would have stayed and watched with the rest of them.

We found the tailor shop after fighting through a strong wind with a constant blast of dusty grit stripping away a layer of skin from our faces. Abby struggled to walk into the gale and climbed on my back with her face buried beneath the brim of my Tilley hat. The cushions were not ready yet and we would have to return at 3. We went a few doors down and bought a Pepsi (our first one since arriving in Haydom) for about 30 cents, from the woman behind a wrought iron fence guarding the fridge and its contents – beer and soda. These teahouses are scattered about town and don’t seem to sell tea at all. There are usually 3-4 guys crammed into the small space chatting and drinking. Today it was soda but usually the smell of beer and gin wafts through the curtained doorway and into the street. We left to see if we could find the shop where Nik had bought some wool last week.

We bumped into the soda and beer man, Frankie, who was unloading a new shipment from the top of a bus. I introduced him to Nik and Abby and he was very happy to have someone else to speak English to. We left him to his work and weaved our way between houses via the smelly walkways up to the veggie market. It was busy and the stalls were loaded with nice looking produce. We stumbled past thinking we may have gone too far when we turned a corner and saw a familiar landmark in the form of an abandoned minivan. We ducked under a low hanging clothesline, burdened by the weight of a full load and came to a row of shops with pale blue steel doors. The last doorway housed a tailor who also sold wool and ribbon. Nicole found the colour she needed and after much debate (due to the language barrier) we settled on a price for the wool plus a length of brightly coloured ribbon. The very kind and friendly woman waiting on us wrapped our purchases in newspaper from some Arabic country, I assume the UAE, and we were on our way.

Before we left the house I had grabbed enough money to purchase a bicycle, if one could be found for a decent price (90,000 Shillings). I knew we had seen some nearby and with a posse of local children in tow, we walked ‘round the corner up to a wholesale shop with three brand spanking new bicycles out front. I was pretty certain that I could get a bike for 80,000 Shillings and started there after a bit of small talk with the owner. He wouldn’t budge from 95 even when I moved to 85 and then 90. With a pole sana (very sorry) we made our retreat and half way up the street, as quickly as they’d gathered, our posse vanished.

We made our way past the cell tower onto “main-street” and happened upon the Peace and Love Hair Saloon (yes Saloon not Salon) whose sign states, “We are shaving (cuts) hair and also for White People.” Nik and I looked at each other and due to my scruffy appearance decided now was as good a time as any to get a “cut.” I walked up to the door and found the barber in his chair with his head resting on his hand fast asleep. I could not figure out how this was possible with the music blasting away from behind him. After shouting a few hellos, he came around and sprang into action. I sat down and he invited Nik and Abby in as well and showed them to a vacant chair.

The barber set to work to ensure that his electric clippers were up to the task. He first sprayed them repeatedly with alcohol to clean them and wiped this off and sprayed them again, this time using a well-worn shaving brush to get into the hard to reach areas. (The shaving brush was so heavily used that the bristles were only ¾ of an inch long.) He then set to lubrication and with a well-trained eye and steady hand applied just enough oil to the two blades. He wiped the blades dry with a small piece of cotton that was tossed aside and after this 5 minute procedure took a look at my skull. After a brief once over he opened a tiny drawer in the shelf in front of me and produced an assortment of clipper guards. These are just like the ones at home and I suggested he use the no.2 on the sides and back and the no.3 on the top. He was satisfied with this, if a little surprised, and switched on the clipper.

It was my turn to be surprised, by the noise that the clipper made, or the lack of noise. I have had plenty of haircuts, by many different people and I have never in my life heard a clipper purr as quietly as this one did. It was obvious from the pre-cut show that this man took care of his equipment but I thought that Canadian stylists treated their clippers with care as well. They do not. This man could go to work in Canada as a clipper life extender and travel the salons and barber shops of the country teaching folks how to care for their precious tools. Of course in the west, clippers are cheap and available; I imagine that this set of clippers was as old as me and that they were the newest ones within a wide area. Anyhow they purred and the barber clipped away with the same meticulous attention to detail he used with his clippers.

He buzzed the sides short and buzzed the top with the no.3 as the room became dark from the crowd blocking the door. There were a few teenage kids that stayed for the whole show possible enthralled by the sight of a wazungu (white person) getting a cut. There were always about 8 people watching from the revolving crowd and just like the grader they were entertained to no end. One guy even pulled open the shuttered window beside me to see what the fuss was about. He must have seen many wazungu haircuts as he simply gave a smile, closed the shutter and moved on.

With the sculpting of my hair coming to an end with about ten pounds of it on the floor and me, the barber turned to the finishing touches. I have grown a full beard and while it looks like a drought ridden wheat farm, at best, the barber gave it a good trim as well. The scissors came out for a final snip of some stubborn hairs on my mustache and they more pulled than cut, but either way the barber seemed satisfied as he gave me a last scrutinizing glare. He went to the cupboard and returned with the bottle of alcohol, which he proceeded to wipe around the periphery of my hairline. He then dusted some talcum powder on another aging shaving brush and spread it along the hairline as well with a cloud of a most powerful stench. With that I was done and the bright maroon cloth, that had covered me, was removed leaving not one stray hair on my clothing. The price came to 1,000 Shillings, or about a dollar. I tipped him 200 more and with the crowd at the doorway dispersing into the street we headed down the road to see if there were anymore new bicycles for sale along the way.

We walked no more than 20 meters and came upon a trio of shiny new bicycles resting on their double kickstands in the dirt beside the road. These three bikes were part of the bike store that was made up of these three bikes and a bunch of really old ones on the small rise just out of traffic (if there were any traffic). A few paces further away from the road was a cement building with peeling red paint a window with two horizontal bars and no glass. The low doorway opened to a dim room about 10 feet long by 8 deep. The dingy room had a large sagging counter piled high with bike tires and a few unmarked boxes. The back and side walls were covered with shelves that were weighed down to their maximum capacity by all form of bicycle parts, most in boxes marked in foreign languages. This is a typical design and layout for the other stores in town. They all appear to have been designed and built to by the same contractor, but the fact is that this is probably the easiest building to erect given the materials at hand.

I approached the fundi (bike mechanic) and asked about his day and the new bicycles. After a very little small talk I asked, “How much?” He replied, “95,000.” It was obvious that this was a firm price but I was able to take 2,000 off which was more for the principle than the savings. I was happy with this and as the bike was new and had no air in the tires the girls headed for home while I waited for the tires to be inflated. “I’m sure I’ll pass you along the way.” I said to Nik. But that was not to be.

I’ll cut to the chase; if buying a new bike in Haydom, it’s a good idea to set aside the better portion of a day. I was not prepared for this. To begin with it was closing on 1 PM, which has become lunchtime for us and breakfast was made up of a few cinnamon buns at 7:30. Next, my expectation was that I would be about 10 minutes while the tires were inflated and I was handed the complimentary pump. Finally, I had on no sunscreen and as I said it was the middle of the day… ’nough said.

When I returned from paying for the bike the fundi, as everyone called him, was madly examining a bike I assumed was mine. He was tightening bolts here and there, straightening the wheels and adjusting the brakes. I was pleased with his speed until a young man who had been hanging around began to speak to me in English. This was not my bike, mine was beside it and was still to be looked at. “No problem,” said my new friend, “it’ll only be 5 minutes.” This was fine with me, however I thought he meant I would be riding down the street on my way home in that time. After 5 minutes the fundi moved to my bike, set on it’s kickstand on the two worn out pieces of white tarp that were laid on the ground and formed the border of the fundi’s “workshop”. I watched as he passed right over the flat tires and started working with the chain guard which was rubbed a bit by the chain as the pedals turned. He completely disassembled this piece, which meant removing the back wheel all together. I was very astonished that the brand new bike was not ready to go but bit my tongue and got the play by play from my translator who turned out to be a secondary school student who, surprise surprise, was looking for someone to sponsor his studies. He was fine with the fact that I had just spent all my money on the bicycle and we moved on to speaking about Canada and Tanzania while the fundi, who by this time was simply called, “Fundi” had removed the chain and was checking the links. If not for the translator I would have been getting upset. But it was still early and my blood-sugar level was scrambling to stay at a manageable balance.

With the back wheel and chain guard back on the bike, Fundi turned to the pedals and cranks. The pedals are a four-piece affair with two rubber parts between the inner and outer ends together with long bolts. These were loose as a goose and needed a good twist or ten to hold them in place. The cranks are another matter. They have a tapered bolt that holds them to the “axle”. It took a few solid smacks of a homemade hammer to meet Fundi’s approval and then he tightened the nut and moved onto the seat, which he began bashing at his hammer. It was in the midst of this bashing that the “boss” came out to pump up the tires.

The big pump, as my translator called it, was finally making its presence to fill my new tires with Tanzanian air. The boss was a larger man, though still in his mid twenties, and he was leaning hard on this pump filling the front tire. As he did so my translator explained that the tubes would only hold 100 kilos, so I shouldn’t carry anyone with me on the back of the bike. I was fine with that as I only planned to carry myself and a crate of soda or a box of water once a week or so. Our conversation was interrupted with a loud bang as the front tube exploded inside the tire. This was a bit disturbing but everyone was full of smiles and explaining that it would be no problem. Hmm… I figured it would be all right and they would give me a new one. It would only prolong my stay at the bike “shop.” With Fundi working hard tinkering with this and that the boss set in on the rear tire.

He pumped and pumped as I spoke to the translator and a nice older guy who had come to watch. I paused this conversation to try to tell the boss that he had enough air in the tire when a similar loud bang resonated from the rear wheel. The disturbance to my day had just been amplified and as I stood mildly stunned by this turn of events the boss just walked back into his shop as if he had actually filled the tubes with air and all was well. I expected him to return with new tubes but he did not come back straight away, in fact he did not return at all. In the broken translation from my friendly translator it became obvious that I not only needed new tubes but I would have to buy them myself.

Now I’m not really proud of my behavior at this point but here it is anyway. As I understood it, I was going to have to buy new tubes after the owner of the bike “shop” had leaned on the pump so hard and so repeatedly he had burst the two that came with the bike. I entered the shop and asked in my broken Swahili/English for two tubes. The owner seemingly understood and reached back to his dusty shelf and in the dark of the store found two tubes wrapped in thin plastic with black elastic holding them in their folded form. The trouble was that he had the nerve to give me a price for them. “no, hamna,” I said, “you broke ‘em, you buy ‘em.” Of course he spoke no English and after a bit of, “ums and ahhs,” on both sides I asked for the tubes or my money back on the bike. This seemed to teach him some English as he quickly handed over the tubes. I walked out and handed the tubes over to Fundi, but my conscience got the better of me and I turned around and re-entered the store to pay for the tubes. The owner was unmoved by my gesture but I felt better and I rejoined the boys as they worked on my bike. By this point the translator had begun to lend a hand as well.

The man who had purchased the bike beside mine came to pick it up, but it wasn’t ready as Fundi had left it to work on my bike. He returned to the other bicycle leaving the translator to do a bit of work on my bike under some sporadic, barked directions. The translator was fumbling around on my bike and I was getting a little warm due to the error in Abby’s and my prediction of the weather, it must have been 35 degrees. I decided that if I were to get out of the sun at all, I would have to pitch in on my bike and grabbed a “spanner” and dove in. First of all the front tube had to be replaced so I removed the wheel and the translator and I began to pull the tube out. As a crowd began to form, to watch the wazungu fundi, the owner rushed out to lend a hand and snatched the tube from me and with a deft hand put it on the rim. Attention to detail was not his forte and though the tube was on as he started to pump it up, the tube was being pinched between the rim and the tire. I envisioned more popping and arguing about whose fault this would be and made him stop and fix it. He did and soon one tire was ready to ride.

The owner returned to the shop and the translator and I, mostly me with my little friend getting in the way, returned the front wheel to its perch on the front forks. With the extra items that needed to be secured by the wheel nut there were few threads left for the nut to grab onto. First the inner washer, then the thick fender bracket and then the bottom piece of the Springer front suspension and the outer washer. I secured the left side and started on the right with the translator trying to get his fingers in the way while he shouted, “Fundi says wait, he’ll be here in a minute!!” I knew I could get this part done and ease the workload of Fundi, but with the distractions of the translator yelling English, the Fundi yelling in Swahili and the crowd cheering me on, I cross threaded the damn nut. I had cranked like mad with the box end spanner and by the time I noticed it was crooked it was too late. ‘Now how much will this cost,’ I thought.

I went into the shop and tried to ask the, now fearful, owner for a front hub. He didn’t understand as I was speaking English with a low blood sugar accent and he was reaching behind him for fenders, bolts and hub cleaning wire things that were pink and blue. Finally I drew it out and he grabbed the right part. I returned to the workshop tarp and handed it to Fundi who baulked and handed it back telling the translator that I only needed the axle…Duh! I went back in to the shop and sauntered back with the correct part; I began to disassemble the axle while the crowd stood by, slack jawed.

The translator said he could take care of this repair and quickly had the axle out and was starting to put the new one back when I noticed he had no idea that there were bearings in the wheel hub. I pointed this out, though a little too late; there were 16 when there should have been twenty. Fundi yelled at my translator who rushed inside and after a few minutes returned with the bearings. I took over and before long had carefully installed the axle and put the front wheel back on the bike this time being careful to put the wheel nuts on straight.

All this had taken a lot out of me, what with no lunch and the sun approaching its 3:00 position. So I went next door to a grocery store and grabbed 3 cokes, one each for the translator, Fundi and myself. I figured this might put a fire under Fundi and show the translator my appreciation. I was wrong; the translator looked happy, but Fundi just set it aside and kept working, banging and cranking on the other bike while its owner patiently waited.

When Fundi finished with the other bike he went to work on mine again and again he had to remove the back wheel and replace the tube. He realigned the chain guard again and set the spokes to make the wheel somewhat true. He was moving quickly now and I was calm and pleased, if not very hungry. In his haste he kicked the translator’s soda over causing foam to spray all over some of the older bikes nearby through the partially opened cap. He was very sorry but at least the translator got out of the way for a minute to take a long drink while Fundi settled into a good rhythm of bike repair. Next door a welder was busy building bike racks, repairing trowels and scythes and sharpening machetes on a manually powered wheel grinder sending sparks and noise into the street. His shop was another dirt and open aired joint and his safety equipment was made up of a $3.00 pair of mirrored sunglasses.

When Fundi finally finished his work he cracked a slight smile and said simply, “finish,” with a low but deliberate sweeping hand gesture. I said, “Asante Sana” (thanks a lot) and saying goodbye to the translator and Fundi, swung my leg over the bike and got onto my seat. But leaving now was not to be as the owner rushed from the store with a ring of keys. Oh, yes the lock. There is a locking mechanism on the back wheel that when locked prohibits the rear wheel from turning. They had to find the right keys from the two sets on the piece of twine in the owner’s hand. They tried one with no luck and then tried the other, successfully opening the lock. I breathed a sigh of relief and after the owner removed the keys from the twine and handed them to me, I was on my way.

Through stares and the scattered laughter of the pointing locals I rode for home. It was 3:30 and I figured Nik and Abby would either be waiting patiently at home, or be on their way to pick up the cushion covers. When I breezed into the yard Emma Stella informed me that the latter was correct. I decided I should go to the IT office – in the garage – and talk to Tore, who was expecting me at some point in the after noon. I rolled into the garage and set the kickstand and lock and entered Tore’s office. We spoke about what he was working on, a website for the nursing school, and after some discussion of how good it looked and the tool he used to build it, I thought I should go home and get some lunch as it was very close to 4:00.

I went back outside and slid the key into the lock to disengage the lock… there was not pop, clunk or scraping sound as the lock opened, because, it did not! It remained locked no matter how much I jiggled, wiggled or reefed on the key. Cursing under my breath I picked up the rear wheel and rolled for home. I didn’t get far.

As I passed the spot where the garage guys park their motorcycles and bikes my friend Phillipo, the head man at the garage, looking puzzled, asked me what was going on. I told him about the lock and he started to take a look through his tears from laughing heartily. Because it was quitting time all the guys were gathered around within ten seconds and Phillipo was soliciting opinions and getting help from all the guys. The ones who spoke good English were cracking jokes about it and the ones who spoke only Swahili were laughing at the jokes I assumed they were telling at my expense. It was fun and raised my spirits making me feel like one of the boys. They unscrewed the lock and loosened the housing and then one guy jammed a flat head screwdriver in the side and popped the lock. The advice from Phillipo was to not go parking the bike anywhere with it unlocked and, “don’t lock it accidentally because we are all going home for the weekend ha ha.” The crowd laughed as I thanked everyone and we dispersed and I rode off at high speed for town.

When I got back to the bike shop I was in a good mood, as I knew they had the key and probably wouldn’t make me pay for it. Fundi hopped to it right off the bat with a bit of help from a passerby. They couldn’t understand that this was not the right key and were almost breaking it off in the lock when the owner emerged for his hiding spot in the dark shop and handed over the other set of keys. This popped the lock with no problem as the translator rushed to the scene to see what was up and lend a hand if he could. Fundi was talking a mile a minute and I could tell that he was talking about money. The translator confirming my suspicions said, “Fundi want money.” I couldn’t figure out what for. Finally the translator proudly remembered the words, “for the service of the bicycle.” He said. I was a bit appalled by this as no one had mentioned this when I bought the bike and I had already gone home with it. What was the statute of limitations on this sort of thing?

I explained that I was not informed of the service and that the owner should pay Fundi the 2,000 shillings for the “service”. This was obviously not acceptable but the response all around was “hamna shida!” (no problem). I asked the translator if the owner would pay Fundi the 2,000 shillings and though the answer was, “Ndio, Ndio” (yes, yes) I was not convinced. So I gave Fundi 2,000 shillings just as the translator told me that they were brothers. What the hell, even if they were putting one over on me, I knew it wasn’t much money and all this was giving me a headache. I once again swung my leg over my new bike, and as I rode off Fundi said, in decent English, “come again!” Yeah, fer sure!!

A funny thing happens when one gets sick here; the diagnosis is complete before the symptoms are fully described. Malaria!! Sore stomach, Malaria. A bit tired, Malaria. Headache, Malaria. Bone protruding from your leg, Malaria. God forbid you have a fever; in this case the Malaria drug is prescribed and administered before the thermometer has beeped with its reading. We have all been sick now and all have undergone the Malaria test. A sharp stab of the middle finger, drop some blood on a slide and wait an hour. Each time, after everyone (except Jeanine) has said, “its Malaria” the tests have all come back negative.

I’m not saying that I’m not scared of getting Malaria but my fear is amplified by the panic all around us. Abby and I are taking Malarone, which should, not only keep Malaria away but it should, minimize the fear of getting it. Nik had to stop taking it because of the nasty little side effect of insomnia. Now my fear of insomnia is beginning to get right up there with my fear of getting malaria and the fear is keeping me awake nights. So if I go off the Malarone, my fear of getting Malaria will go up a bit – if that’s possible – and my fear of Insomnia should go down, thereby letting me fall into a sound slumber.

Perhaps sleep is overrated as a mean of reinvigorating oneself. I’ve had less sleep in the last 3 nights than I had last Wednesday, during the day, and yet I’m certainly less tired now than I was when I awoke on that day. So what have I done to reinvigorate myself? I taught school today (perhaps I missed my calling) and played some “football” with Abby this morning. I ran around – walked fast actually – the hospital and Nursing school looking for a few people this afternoon. I also listened to Uncle Kracker while I worked in between. So to stave off drowsiness, do what I do, sleep less and listen to Kenny Chesney and Uncle Kracker singing, When the Sun Goes Down. Ok that probably won’t work, so take medicine that may or may not ward off a local disease that has Insomnia as a side effect. Just don’t come crying to me when everyone tells you you’ve got Malaria, because you could just have Somniferophobia.

It’s Saturday of what has been my longest week in Tanzania…or maybe it was the shortest, I did sleep a lot. Now I sit in the sporadic shade of the pepper tree while I await the return of a young tribesman from the Yaida Chini Valley who is coming back to sell me a bow and arrows. Nik and Abby went to town with Jeanine and I was left to take a nap as I am recovering from three and a half days of illness.

It hit me – the illness that is – on Wednesday evening just before Abby went to bed. General abdominal pain but nothing to serious at this point. Then around 9 or so the nausea had set in and I was getting pretty tired so Nik and I decided to turn in for the night. As part of the nightly routine, I made a trip to the bathroom and with a click of the light was confronted by a few hundred ants making a little interstate highway system between the hole in the wall, the tub, floor and two walls. I chuckled, as I knew we had enough DOOM (wicked bug spray) to dispatch this many of the little, biting buggers. The only trouble was that the DOOM was in the office, 8 meters away across the front yard. The concern with making a walk like that at this time of night was the mosquitoes, but even in my weakened condition I was ready to make a dash for it.

As I approached our front door I found that the mosquitoes were not my only concern; more ants had decided that if the interstate was out of commission in the bathroom they would simply set up a little railroad line along the door frame. As I opened the door, now with the little railroaders biting my feet and ankles my eyes were granted a birds-eye view of the entire colony on our front patio. Easily thousands of not so tiny black biting ants were staking their claim in the form a moving blanket of blackness on the cement. I felt like Indiana Jones as I leapt through the mass of insects. I narrowly missed a swarm of ants that were apparently dismantling a beetle (the beetle didn’t stand a chance) and with two steps was on the grass and sprinting for the office door. I stopped short of the office and brushed away the ants that were now munching on my toes and halfway up to my knees. I safety of the grass was only an illusion and my flashlight beam settled on the threshold of the office door illuminating a whole suburb new of Antropolos. The longer I stood brushing ants off, the more of them climbed aboard. So I braved the snapping mandibles and with lightning quickness unlocked the office and snatched up my trusty can of DOOM. I made short work of the suburb and headed for the house.

We dispatched our foe in no time with many bursts from the red and yellow can and undertook a thorough recon of any other possible entry points. We found nothing but a beetle here and a little spider there and after squishing these invaders we turned in.

The morning did not begin well for me. Fever had taken hold and my guts were churning like mad. Of course this meant that I had Malaria, or at least I should get tested for it. So I made my way through the hospital to the lab and got my finger stabbed. When I stumbled home, my energy having left me, I found the girls speaking to Jeanine (our doctor friend). She gave me the once over and said with my symptoms there was no way I had Malaria and she ran home to get me some medicine. She returned shortly and I popped the Tidizole and went to bed. A couple of days later I got up and tried to function, I ate breakfast, started teaching Abby when once again the energy left. I dropped back into bed and woke up the next day, today.

I still had little energy so when the girls left to town I was going to go to bed to ensure that I would be rested enough to function for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, or fortunately, a guy came by to talk about bows and arrows. India Badio, was from the Yaida Chini, he wore western clothes that were given to him by a German guy somewhere with a small beaded headband. We talked about his past and the fact that as a child he had been taken from his family and put in school where he had learned English. His English was fairly good but having grown up speaking the click language he had trouble with certain letters.

We also spoke about his name, India (the second I is pronounced I) means, “pig liver” and Bagio (bag I O) means of his grandfather. So I asked him, “You mean pig liver of your Grandfather?” He gave a large smile and said yes, “Pig Liver” with hand gestures showing something wide and long, “of my grandfathers.” He repeated this with the gestures a few times before I got the idea. “Oh, Oh. Big River of your Grandfathers.” It was obvious I was right, or more right now and he smiled again and said, “ya ya!” So I take it his name means big river of his ancestors. After a bit of talking he left to get the bow and arrows and bring them back for me to see. I'm not sure if or when he'll return as he had to go up the Liver to get to where the bow and arrows were parked. If he ever returns I will be able to hunt a pig and see just how big its liver is.

One of the differences between Haydom and Canada is the consumption of pop. This difference is noticeable in the amount of people that carry bottles around on the back of their bicycle. A funny thing is that this is the only place I see them carried, possibly because due to the weight of the bottles. If you try to cart a crate of grass bottles from your house to the store simply carrying them in front of you, well, you’d have a hard time…trust me, I tried it. I tried it with the full ones; store to home, 1.5 Kms. Not easy.

Pop is usually purchased by the 24-bottle crate. The bottles are 350ml which is much more manageable than the 500ml of the typical plastic bottle back home. Different stores sell it in different ways. If the shopkeeper thinks you are trustworthy, he or she will let you take the bottles without paying any deposit on them. I have arrangements with one store to allow me to do this. I usually buy a crate here if we are dry at home, as this is the closest store. If however I go there and have bottles at home I usually get a polite talking to; something like, “are you bringing back my bottles?” I say, “of course, hamna shida.” (no problem) I then get a sideways glance as if to say, “you better.” Then I go on my way.

Returning bottles however, is not the easiest chore. The other day I had a crate to take back to the store that is close, Marvin’s shop. I strapped the crate to my backpack and headed out. I hadn’t gone far when I bumped into a local friend of ours. She looked at my funny and gave me a scornful greeting of, “you can’t do that.” “Do what?” I replied. She did not answer the question, but it soon became obvious that she did not think carrying bottles like this was a good option. “Borrow a bicycle…Mama Kari has a man working for her and he has a bicycle that you can borrow.” She stated, adding, “We are not used to this.” She added waving at the crate growing out of my back. I laughed and said, ”its quite comfortable.” She was not convinced and scowled and said simply, “we are not used to this. Try a bicycle.” I thanked her for her advice and told her I may try that next time and went on my way.

I arrived at the store after getting many stares on the street, only find that the store was closed. It was about 1:45 and I realized that this was, most likely lunchtime. So I put the crate down in the sliver of shade along the building and using the backpack as a cushion on top of it, sat down to wait. I was quite an attraction for those taking the back lane past the store. Everyone stared at me, in my Tilly hat and sunglasses and they were all shocked when I greeted them in Swahili. Eventually another mazungu (white person) came to the store with his bottles and we waited together. We found this to be a very African thing to be doing on a perfect afternoon. It was nice when the storekeeper arrived 30 minutes later with a big smile and much apologizing.

The first time I bought a crate of bottles from Paschel Store, owned by a very happy guy named Frankie, I took them on ‘credit’. We took our time drinking them and as I also had a crate from the other shop I chose to return that one first, simply because the store is closer. I strapped it to my backpack and hiked to the store down the busy street leading out the hospital gate. The shopkeeper was happy to see her bottle and thanked me profusely. I bought a few things and headed back home. Shortly after that, our friend Tore, who had driven me to Frank’s initially, came by to say that Frankie had sent him a text message on his cell phone, asking where my soda bottles were. He had obviously seen me walking down the road with the empties and wanted to protect his investment. But, it cracked me up. So we returned them the next day to the great relief of Frankie.

This buying the bottles thing reminds me of the old pop-shop days when my folks would head down to the pop-shop buy some bottle and get some pop. We would never see any of that pop at home as kids but there always seemed to be empties to take back. I guess the caps weren’t too good and the pop would quickly evaporate. Hmm, then why would they buy more? Oh well, it probably would have “rotted the teeth right out of our heads” anyway.

So now I have made friends with Frankie and have bought a crate of bottles that can now be exchanged for full ones. Frankie says that every time we meet he will only speak English and I must speak Swahili. My response was, in Swahili, “Shida kubwa!” (big problem!)