Sunday, May 13, 2007
"Fun" in the SUN
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!!
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!!
