Water, hot and cold

At the college, the bursar’s office is directly below my apartment. When I first arrived here, Tumaini, the bursar, told me that if I wanted hot water for a bath, she would turn on the switch in her office to heat a huge metal tank hidden in her closet. The trickiest part was remembering to tell her to turn it off, which meant that when I forgot, the closet doors were also heated by morning. Soon I adjusted to that system.

In the following days, I studied the larger rhythms of campus life beyond my own. Mama Viktor and the cleaning crew began sweeping the sidewalks at 6:30 a.m.; Haji, the van driver, drove through the campus gate at 7:00 to collect college workers in Moshi Town, about a half hour away. By 8:00, Kimaro had served my breakfast, and at 11:00, the campus converged into the dining hall for tea.

All of these activities were stepped into high gear this past week when a conference of 95 parish workers and pastors arrived for four days. Tea in heavy kettles were rolled over to the group at the chapel. For meals, colorful linens had been unfurled over the tables, place settings arranged, and goats roasted.

In the evening Mama Viktor and the cleaning crew were still on campus. At 8:30 p.m. I noticed they had been heating water in a huge vat over an open fire behind the chapel. Soon I saw two of the crew (all women) carry between them large buckets of steaming water from the fire to the dorms, where the guests were staying; then another two women, and then the first two women returning with another bucket. At this point, they couldn’t carry the steaming bucket without stopping to rest a time or two.

It wasn’t until later I learned they were providing hot water for the guests to bathe. The single water heater on campus leads to my apartment only.

Taking a walk at SMMUCo

At the entrance of Stefano Moshi Memorial University College (SMMUCo, pronounced “SeeMOOco”), a large yellow gate stands between the campus and the road. After I pass through the gate and greet John, the security guard, I can either go left—an uphill climb—or go right, downhill. Either way, the road is a red dust that coats the corn stalks and banana leaves, and I think to myself that corn stalks and banana leaves deserve to be clean and green. If I had a water hose, I would spray them to their proper green. As buses rush by, pedestrians fling themselves against the side of the road, billows of red dust swirl and settle, and then I know that I have just become a banana leaf.
Since I am the only Caucasian on the road, passersby often stare without any attempt at subtlety. School children call out, “Good morning, Madam!” or “Good evening, Madam!” Three little ones tiptoe beside me for a good bit of the way, staring and listening in eerie silence for any behavior from me that might offer insight into the species of English-speaking madams. Later, teenagers, who walk in swarms, rush across the road to greet me. One gives me a high-five and throws her head back, laughing hysterically.
As for the older, more sedate folk, I greet them and they return my greeting with something I’ve never heard of, so I suspect our conversations could be translated like this:
Jeanne: Hello, Madam! (“Hujambo, Mama!”)
Other person: Hello! It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?
Jeanne: Thank you. Welcome! Teacher! SMMUCo!
By the end of the walk, I am swirling with call-and-nonsensical-responses. When a VW bus stuffed with passengers roars by, one man thrusts his torso out the window and hollers, “Sorry, Madam! We have no more room for you!”
I throw my hands up in the air and yell in my best Swahili, “No!” After the red dust settles once again, I am still laughing hysterically.