As a principle, buses in Tanzania leave when the bus is full, not when it’s time. They do this to make the maximum amount of money. The bus conductor begins his pursuit of passengers as though casting a line into a lake.
Standing near the buses but not too near, conductors eye potential catches. Like wary fish, we passengers sidle through hoards of people at the bus terminal and angle to find one of about four competing buses with the most passengers. We want the bus that will leave first.
It’s best if you can hide your identity as a fish, but as a Westerner, I might as well be a whale. Unlike a whale, I am easy to reel in because I usually admit I’m going to Arusha or wherever, and then like a wriggling catch, I find myself in the hands of one conductor who ushers me to one bus, and then another conductor who points to a bus that’s fuller. I step onto the bus, and often the conductor will shout something like, "We have an Mzungu on board!"
Sitting quietly on the second bus, I overhear the bus conductor reeling in the next wary fish by telling her that the fare is only 800 shillings today, rather than 1,000. This is the Shannon Spinner of lures, three hooks with each hook made of three. Your finger or arm gets caught and sliced just by looking at it. While the lower bus fare catches quite a few fish, I realize how the conductor and driver have won once again: a lower fare means they will need more passengers to make up the difference. The fish will have to sit in the tank just as long as those in the next bus with the higher fare.
In the meantime, all these buses want the fish to believe they are about to leave. Despite the high cost of gasoline, all of their engines are running. Conductors periodically pound on the bus, the standard signal for the driver to go, but the bus goes nowhere.
Inside the bus, a catchy song over the stereo keeps the caught fish happy. And the driver needs to keep the fish happy: they can flop out at any moment, deciding they’ve been duped and the next bus is better. But it’s always a risk. The other fish tank looks fuller but it could be worse maybe five of those passengers are friends of the driver keeping him company.
As the bus begins to fill, the driver watches the progress of the conductor outside as he is about to catch more fish. When it looks like the conductor can pull in three to five fish, the driver will roar out of the parking lane and rush toward the terminal exit. This catches even more fish who suddenly hop on board. I get my hopes up. After the five are safely netted, the bus jerks us backward, and we are parked in the same place once again.
Finally, at last, when the bus is more than crowded with passengers standing in the aisle, the driver heads the bus out of the exit gate, turns the corner onto the main road and stops once again we have caught three more fish.
The journey begins. The conductor squeezes himself among the standing passengers and rests only until the bus reaches Arusha, when the conductor and driver will have to work once again to fill up the bus.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Names Can Never Hurt Me
Generating a list of my students has been a tortuous hand-wringing affair. At SMMUCo the admissions department does not generate a list. The student appears and then one writes that student’s name down. At least, as far as I can figure out.
I decided that if I wanted to know who was in my class, I should assign something. I assigned a business letter. Without any instruction on my part, 90 percent of those business letters came with a cover sheet, complete with my name and the student’s name, the college name, the major, the class, the date, and anything else the student thought appropriate.
As I entered student names on a spreadsheet, I made assumptions. For example, if the last name written in a series was “Njivaine,” I assumed it was the surname. If “Ayubu” was written as the first name, I assumed it was the name given to the individual and not the family.
But after the second writing assignment, I began to discover some mysteries. In many cases, students left off one name and decided to include their middle name on the cover sheet. It was as though students believed they were given a whole wardrobe of names, and they could select any names on that day depending on their mood and whatever was in the wardrobe. Pesambili Pesambili decided he was now Pesambili George for the second assignment. Ayubu Hamisi felt he should be Hamisi Ayubu.
Then there were shifts in spelling. The letters in the name “Gerald” morphed into “Jerad.” “Matthew” became “Mathew” in later assignments, and “Innocent” lost an “n” and found it again in January.
On the last day of class, students reviewed my spreadsheet with their semester grades on it. One of them appeared and said, “I think I should tell you my name isn’t John Fadhili but Fadhili Salumi.” I said yes, that would be good for me to know and even better for his grade point average. Four other students announced similar name changes that day.
And when it came time to reckon my list of students with the college list, it took four of us to solve many identity mysteries over the course of three days.
I decided that if I wanted to know who was in my class, I should assign something. I assigned a business letter. Without any instruction on my part, 90 percent of those business letters came with a cover sheet, complete with my name and the student’s name, the college name, the major, the class, the date, and anything else the student thought appropriate.
As I entered student names on a spreadsheet, I made assumptions. For example, if the last name written in a series was “Njivaine,” I assumed it was the surname. If “Ayubu” was written as the first name, I assumed it was the name given to the individual and not the family.
But after the second writing assignment, I began to discover some mysteries. In many cases, students left off one name and decided to include their middle name on the cover sheet. It was as though students believed they were given a whole wardrobe of names, and they could select any names on that day depending on their mood and whatever was in the wardrobe. Pesambili Pesambili decided he was now Pesambili George for the second assignment. Ayubu Hamisi felt he should be Hamisi Ayubu.
Then there were shifts in spelling. The letters in the name “Gerald” morphed into “Jerad.” “Matthew” became “Mathew” in later assignments, and “Innocent” lost an “n” and found it again in January.
On the last day of class, students reviewed my spreadsheet with their semester grades on it. One of them appeared and said, “I think I should tell you my name isn’t John Fadhili but Fadhili Salumi.” I said yes, that would be good for me to know and even better for his grade point average. Four other students announced similar name changes that day.
And when it came time to reckon my list of students with the college list, it took four of us to solve many identity mysteries over the course of three days.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The victory of molecules
It was late afternoon, and the sun was sinking, and as I walked through the bus terminal to the Moshi-Kirima bus stand, I found Mama Vanessa standing outside the bus. But neither she nor I would be getting on this particular bus because it was packed with people, and more people were shoving madly to squeeze themselves in. There’s a time to fight for space and a time to give up.
Within two minutes, another bus appeared, and this time Mama Vanessa and I held our breath as we now elbowed and jabbed and shoved our way into the bus. Not surprisingly, Mama Vanessa took a seat first, since too many of my polite practices still linger deep within me. But she had craftily moved over in the seat to save me a space and I sank in beside her, both of us pleased with a major victory. In about two more minutes, the bus filled again, all of us like molecules of a rockno one would be moving except when bounced by the bus. However, there was one woman who complained to the man that his arm was crushing her chest. For a second he didn’t move it, but when a few more molecules adjusted, he found another place for his arm.
The bus fare from town to Masoka is 500 Tanzanian shillings. Often conductors will force passengers to pay more, claiming that the fare has gone up due to increases in fuel prices. Sometimes the entire bus complains and the conductor is cowed into relenting. Sometimes the conductor stops the bus and forces one passenger out. When I handed 1,000 shillings to the conductor and told him it was for me and Mama Vanessa, he handed it back and said a few sentences in Kiswahili which I didn’t understand. Mama Vanessa argued back. The lady behind us argued. I still held my wallet in my hand, and now Mama Vanessa put her hand on it and told me to zip it into my purse. But she unzipped her own wallet, pulled out two coins, and held them.
I knew the essence of what the conductor saidhe was telling me I needed to pay 1,500 shillings for the two of us. Since I was the Mzungu, I should pay 1,000 because I had money. This has happened many times. I try to pay for another person and suddenly the money that I hand over is not enough. I cannot argue back since I don’t have the language skills, and if the friend doesn’t have the gumption to argue back, a good deed becomes a low moment in life.
Now a second time, the conductor shook the change in his hand at me - the signal to pay - and I handed him my 1,000 bill. He threw it back. So Mama Vanessa and I stared out the window or talked, both of us avoiding any eye contact with the conductor. Since we couldn’t see him through all of the molecules, this wasn’t difficult. As the bus continued to roll closer to the college campus in Masoka, I figured that if the conductor threw us out, our walk would be shorter and shorter.
We arrived at the college campus, the molecules on the bus shifted, and we plopped out of the bus. The conductor, the primary molecule, stood outside of the bus waiting for my fare. I handed him my 1,000 bill and marched through the gate without looking back. A few steps into the gate, I asked Mama Vanessa if she had paid anything. She shook her two coins.
Within two minutes, another bus appeared, and this time Mama Vanessa and I held our breath as we now elbowed and jabbed and shoved our way into the bus. Not surprisingly, Mama Vanessa took a seat first, since too many of my polite practices still linger deep within me. But she had craftily moved over in the seat to save me a space and I sank in beside her, both of us pleased with a major victory. In about two more minutes, the bus filled again, all of us like molecules of a rockno one would be moving except when bounced by the bus. However, there was one woman who complained to the man that his arm was crushing her chest. For a second he didn’t move it, but when a few more molecules adjusted, he found another place for his arm.
The bus fare from town to Masoka is 500 Tanzanian shillings. Often conductors will force passengers to pay more, claiming that the fare has gone up due to increases in fuel prices. Sometimes the entire bus complains and the conductor is cowed into relenting. Sometimes the conductor stops the bus and forces one passenger out. When I handed 1,000 shillings to the conductor and told him it was for me and Mama Vanessa, he handed it back and said a few sentences in Kiswahili which I didn’t understand. Mama Vanessa argued back. The lady behind us argued. I still held my wallet in my hand, and now Mama Vanessa put her hand on it and told me to zip it into my purse. But she unzipped her own wallet, pulled out two coins, and held them.
I knew the essence of what the conductor saidhe was telling me I needed to pay 1,500 shillings for the two of us. Since I was the Mzungu, I should pay 1,000 because I had money. This has happened many times. I try to pay for another person and suddenly the money that I hand over is not enough. I cannot argue back since I don’t have the language skills, and if the friend doesn’t have the gumption to argue back, a good deed becomes a low moment in life.
Now a second time, the conductor shook the change in his hand at me - the signal to pay - and I handed him my 1,000 bill. He threw it back. So Mama Vanessa and I stared out the window or talked, both of us avoiding any eye contact with the conductor. Since we couldn’t see him through all of the molecules, this wasn’t difficult. As the bus continued to roll closer to the college campus in Masoka, I figured that if the conductor threw us out, our walk would be shorter and shorter.
We arrived at the college campus, the molecules on the bus shifted, and we plopped out of the bus. The conductor, the primary molecule, stood outside of the bus waiting for my fare. I handed him my 1,000 bill and marched through the gate without looking back. A few steps into the gate, I asked Mama Vanessa if she had paid anything. She shook her two coins.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Notes on an a capella tradition
As a member of a non-a capella tradition, I have made some observations of how the a capella tradition works at a church service here in Tanzania, or at least at SMMUCo.
First, before church begins, there is no organ prelude. Instead, of those who gather early in the sanctuary, one person calls out a hymn number, waits for others to look it up, and then he or she throws himself into the hymn. There is no vocal searching for a good singable key with “hmm, hmm, hmm.” The others fall into harmony as easily as swinging the arms while walking.
During the liturgy, the pastor leads the antiphonal singing in the same way, no testing out notes, no tiptoeing in, just lead onward with confidence. At SMMUCo, there’s a woman who adds harmony to the pastor’s part. If I tried to do that, there’d be that wispy first-verse-harmony, where I’m singing and learning where the notes are. No, she nails every note despite the fact that she is the only one adding harmony and the whole room is listening. As far as I can tell, she didn’t ask to do it, the pastor didn’t tell her to do it, and he didn’t tell her to stop. It happens magically and wonderfully.
In the chapel at SMMUCo, a student has brought his own electric piano, and he accompanies the church service. This is when the a capella tradition clearly stands out. No one expects this accompanist to introduce the hymn. Hymns begin the same way without accompaniment: the pastor sounds the first three notes and the rest fall in swinging with harmony. It is the accompanist who tests out the notes on the keyboard, searching for the key that was magically chosen by the pastor. After happening upon a key, the accompanist follows along.
In the Western tradition, if there’s any slight disagreement between the accompanist and congregation, the congregationlike dutiful foot soldiersfollow the organ or piano. Not here. The odd note sounded by the piano throws off no one. The congregation sticks very firmly to the first key chosen, and the accompanist sticks to his key a half-step away, and the two stomp in parallel jarring lines. Through all five or seven verses.
This is hard to do. It is one more reason to admire those of the a capella tradition.
First, before church begins, there is no organ prelude. Instead, of those who gather early in the sanctuary, one person calls out a hymn number, waits for others to look it up, and then he or she throws himself into the hymn. There is no vocal searching for a good singable key with “hmm, hmm, hmm.” The others fall into harmony as easily as swinging the arms while walking.
During the liturgy, the pastor leads the antiphonal singing in the same way, no testing out notes, no tiptoeing in, just lead onward with confidence. At SMMUCo, there’s a woman who adds harmony to the pastor’s part. If I tried to do that, there’d be that wispy first-verse-harmony, where I’m singing and learning where the notes are. No, she nails every note despite the fact that she is the only one adding harmony and the whole room is listening. As far as I can tell, she didn’t ask to do it, the pastor didn’t tell her to do it, and he didn’t tell her to stop. It happens magically and wonderfully.
In the chapel at SMMUCo, a student has brought his own electric piano, and he accompanies the church service. This is when the a capella tradition clearly stands out. No one expects this accompanist to introduce the hymn. Hymns begin the same way without accompaniment: the pastor sounds the first three notes and the rest fall in swinging with harmony. It is the accompanist who tests out the notes on the keyboard, searching for the key that was magically chosen by the pastor. After happening upon a key, the accompanist follows along.
In the Western tradition, if there’s any slight disagreement between the accompanist and congregation, the congregationlike dutiful foot soldiersfollow the organ or piano. Not here. The odd note sounded by the piano throws off no one. The congregation sticks very firmly to the first key chosen, and the accompanist sticks to his key a half-step away, and the two stomp in parallel jarring lines. Through all five or seven verses.
This is hard to do. It is one more reason to admire those of the a capella tradition.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Click!
On a visit to Tanzania, my parents wanted to see the market at Moshi. I’d been there twice with friends and when I tried to find it the third time on my own, I didn’t. My plan was to ask someone at the bus terminal and follow the pointed finger and then ask again if I needed to. I did not tell my parents this.
On the ride to Moshi in the college Land Cruiser, we rode with Spenciosa, secretary to the head of the humanities department, and it just so happened that she was going to the market. Embracing her role as market guide, she helped me buy several items at one stall. When my mother took the bag of items to carry, Spenciosa quickly took it back and explained that the mother did not carry anything, the children did. The children in this case were Spenciosa and me.
At one point, my mother stopped to admire the long row of women seated behind neatly piled mangoes, avocadoes, and oranges. My mother asked for her camera from my purse. She clicked a picture, and the row of mango sellers stood up in concert and began a long stream of angry charges with shaking fingers and hands on hips.
“Oh dear,” said my mother, “I think I’ve just started World War III.”
From the words that I could recognize, I understood that the woman whose image was now captured wanted ransom money. I could feel my mother slipping into the shadows, while my father watched in fascination.
My mother wanted to know what was wrong with taking a picture. I can only guess: to be clicked at by a wealthy foreigner is to be selected as an object of interest or fascination. If you’re tired or exhausted from carrying a huge bag of mangoes to the bus stand, tired of hauling the bag onto the bus along with 40 people crammed in there, tired of thinking of that journey back home, tired of wondering whether your ripe mangoes would be sold that day, whether you’d make enough money for that dayhaving someone merely fascinated by you as an object wouldn’t make you happy.
Then again, these women knew that foreigners will pay money for their picture, especially if they get angry. People of the Maasai tribe near Arusha have cashed in on this tendency. And everyone in Tanzania knows this. When I had friends from the States take a picture of me in class with my students, one student came up to me later and wanted to know when he’d be collecting the money. If the Maasai got money for their pictures, why wouldn’t he? (He was joking.)
Mixed in with all of that, probably, is a resentment that foreigners have money and the mango women do not. The finger of fate does not seem to care about justice when it chooses those for poverty and those for wealth.
So we were left to face charges of injustice and image theft by an irate mango woman. Spenciosa began to apologize, but it was clear that apologies weren’t enough. I walked over to the mangoes and asked the woman which one would be good for tomorrow. Immediately she began to press the mangoes one by one and selected a large one. I handed over the money. She had asked a fair price.
The camera remained in my purse for the rest of the journey through the market. We did not take a picture of the ladies now seated, clucking in contentment. We did not take a picture of the rows of small cages with chickens and roosters. We did not take a picture of enormous bags of lentils and flour, stacks of smoked fish.
The next day we ate the best mango we‘d ever had, fruit for the gods.
On the ride to Moshi in the college Land Cruiser, we rode with Spenciosa, secretary to the head of the humanities department, and it just so happened that she was going to the market. Embracing her role as market guide, she helped me buy several items at one stall. When my mother took the bag of items to carry, Spenciosa quickly took it back and explained that the mother did not carry anything, the children did. The children in this case were Spenciosa and me.
At one point, my mother stopped to admire the long row of women seated behind neatly piled mangoes, avocadoes, and oranges. My mother asked for her camera from my purse. She clicked a picture, and the row of mango sellers stood up in concert and began a long stream of angry charges with shaking fingers and hands on hips.
“Oh dear,” said my mother, “I think I’ve just started World War III.”
From the words that I could recognize, I understood that the woman whose image was now captured wanted ransom money. I could feel my mother slipping into the shadows, while my father watched in fascination.
My mother wanted to know what was wrong with taking a picture. I can only guess: to be clicked at by a wealthy foreigner is to be selected as an object of interest or fascination. If you’re tired or exhausted from carrying a huge bag of mangoes to the bus stand, tired of hauling the bag onto the bus along with 40 people crammed in there, tired of thinking of that journey back home, tired of wondering whether your ripe mangoes would be sold that day, whether you’d make enough money for that dayhaving someone merely fascinated by you as an object wouldn’t make you happy.
Then again, these women knew that foreigners will pay money for their picture, especially if they get angry. People of the Maasai tribe near Arusha have cashed in on this tendency. And everyone in Tanzania knows this. When I had friends from the States take a picture of me in class with my students, one student came up to me later and wanted to know when he’d be collecting the money. If the Maasai got money for their pictures, why wouldn’t he? (He was joking.)
Mixed in with all of that, probably, is a resentment that foreigners have money and the mango women do not. The finger of fate does not seem to care about justice when it chooses those for poverty and those for wealth.
So we were left to face charges of injustice and image theft by an irate mango woman. Spenciosa began to apologize, but it was clear that apologies weren’t enough. I walked over to the mangoes and asked the woman which one would be good for tomorrow. Immediately she began to press the mangoes one by one and selected a large one. I handed over the money. She had asked a fair price.
The camera remained in my purse for the rest of the journey through the market. We did not take a picture of the ladies now seated, clucking in contentment. We did not take a picture of the rows of small cages with chickens and roosters. We did not take a picture of enormous bags of lentils and flour, stacks of smoked fish.
The next day we ate the best mango we‘d ever had, fruit for the gods.
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Wrong Person to Help
On the bus from Arusha to Moshi a few weeks ago, a young woman carrying a baby sidled down the aisle with umbrella, baby blanket, and purse. As she headed toward the back where I sat, I put up my hands to show I could hold her purse and blanket while she folded down the aisle seat. The soldier on the other side of her did none of these things, nor did the two mamas in the seat in front of me. Her face brightened at my offer, and she handed over her huge umbrella with lethal metal point at the end, the blanket and purse. She folded down the jump seat and loudly harrumphed in Kiswahili that it was a sad day when the only person on the bus to help was the Mzungu. The two mamas in front of me jerked their faces toward the window and fumed. The soldier beside her continued to look apathetic.
After she situated herself and her baby beside me, the young mama happily chattered even after I explained in cave-man grammar that I didn’t really know Kiswahili. The bus stopped, and the people in the back row behind the young mama needed to get off. She stood up and waited for the soldier to fold up her seat, but he had no idea that he was to do anything except sit in his own bubble of solitude. Perhaps it was the way she harrumphed again when she folded up the seat, but the second and third and fourth times she had to get up, he caught on.
At some point, the woman began to nurse the baby. Another someone from the back row shouted that they needed to stop at the next point, the bus bounced to a stop, and suddenly the woman unhooked the baby and stood up. By then the soldier was trained to help, but the woman was half naked in the process of getting herself arranged to stand aside. She returned to the seat again, and to nursing the baby. The mamas who had been fuming earlier now stared at her, breast and all.
By the time we arrived at the Moshi bus stand, she must’ve stood up more than five times. She charged out of the bus with the baby, leaving me to gather up the blanket, purse, and umbrella. When I found her outside the bus, she was arranging a kanga, a traditional cloth, around the baby on her back.
I’ve seen this done alongside the road. The mother bends over, while another woman holds the baby against the back. The bending mother ties the kanga in front. The helper makes sure the baby’s feet are free so that the kanga cups the baby’s bottom.
As the young mama bent over, I knew I was supposed to act the helper. But I was no more effective than the soldier and the two fuming mamas. I knew the part about the feet, but exactly where should the baby fit on the mama’s back? Below the shoulder blades? At the shoulder blades? And then the head wobbled as the woman walked away. This did not look good. I stopped another woman and asked for help. She rearranged the head, but then rearranged it again and said it was fine. The three of us parted ways, and as I turned to say goodbye, I saw the little head bouncing again.
Clearly that young mama lived in a world of apathetic and pathetic helpers.
After she situated herself and her baby beside me, the young mama happily chattered even after I explained in cave-man grammar that I didn’t really know Kiswahili. The bus stopped, and the people in the back row behind the young mama needed to get off. She stood up and waited for the soldier to fold up her seat, but he had no idea that he was to do anything except sit in his own bubble of solitude. Perhaps it was the way she harrumphed again when she folded up the seat, but the second and third and fourth times she had to get up, he caught on.
At some point, the woman began to nurse the baby. Another someone from the back row shouted that they needed to stop at the next point, the bus bounced to a stop, and suddenly the woman unhooked the baby and stood up. By then the soldier was trained to help, but the woman was half naked in the process of getting herself arranged to stand aside. She returned to the seat again, and to nursing the baby. The mamas who had been fuming earlier now stared at her, breast and all.
By the time we arrived at the Moshi bus stand, she must’ve stood up more than five times. She charged out of the bus with the baby, leaving me to gather up the blanket, purse, and umbrella. When I found her outside the bus, she was arranging a kanga, a traditional cloth, around the baby on her back.
I’ve seen this done alongside the road. The mother bends over, while another woman holds the baby against the back. The bending mother ties the kanga in front. The helper makes sure the baby’s feet are free so that the kanga cups the baby’s bottom.
As the young mama bent over, I knew I was supposed to act the helper. But I was no more effective than the soldier and the two fuming mamas. I knew the part about the feet, but exactly where should the baby fit on the mama’s back? Below the shoulder blades? At the shoulder blades? And then the head wobbled as the woman walked away. This did not look good. I stopped another woman and asked for help. She rearranged the head, but then rearranged it again and said it was fine. The three of us parted ways, and as I turned to say goodbye, I saw the little head bouncing again.
Clearly that young mama lived in a world of apathetic and pathetic helpers.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Mattress
Weary from many nights of feeling bed slats under a thin mattress, I asked Rose, the matron at SMMUCo, for a new mattress. Rose jumped on the request and informed me that I would be getting a new mattress in two days. Two or three days later she said I’d be getting the mattress in a couple more days. The next week she told me that she was waiting for money from the assistant bursar to buy the mattress. Finally a few days later, she told me she had the money, and I’d be getting the mattress the next day.
She was right the last time. At about 5:00 in the evening, she and the college driver Haji arrived with a 6 foot by 6 foot mattress. I had hauled off the old foam mattress by the time Rose entered with the new one still sheathed in plastic. We quickly slid off the plastic, plopped the new one onto the wooden slats, and saw that the mattress hung over one side by about six inches. By then Haji had entered the room, and we three stared at the too-big mattress in silence. I tried to squish the mattress down into the frame, but it was impossible. It was then that Rose decided the frame was not 6-by-6 but 6-by-5.
After some Kiswahili words were exchanged between Rose and Haji, the three of us put the mattress back into the plastic, Rose said they’d be coming back with a smaller mattress, and I made sure she repeated the word for “today” - leo.
It was well after dark and I was fighting bed-time yawns when they arrived again. We did not take the plastic off the mattress but plopped it onto the slats. Now there was more silence as we stared at the extra 3 inches of slats exposed on either side of the mattress. Rose and Haji exchanged more words. Haji and I repeated that the mattress seemed to be 6-by-5 ½. I said it wouldn’t be a problem and repeated that several times to Rose who stared and stewed at the exposed slats. Then Haji had the idea of cutting off foam from another mattress and sewing it onto the new one.
Haji, master of jerry rigging, would know. The college Land Cruiser has received much of Haji’s creative solutions that hold the thing together. The hand brake is kept in place by an oil can secured under it. There are always at least two bottles of water lodged under the hood, possibly to cool down a radiator. Above the driver’s seat, a stick is secured between parts of the ceiling frame to hold up I-don’t-know-what. The back door of the Cruiser has been an endless source of creativity for Haji. It never stays closed. After a month of almost losing the back passengers closest to the door, Haji used a strap of rubber to secure the door like a hinge. Then it only banged open and shut on the large boulders along Kibosho road. Eventually, someonepossibly Hajisoldered a latch onto the door. Now the only one who can successfully close the door is Haji.
So it was no surprise that Haji arrived at the idea to cut off foam from another mattress and sew it on. I was informed that the foam strip would arrive the next day.
And that was two weeks ago.
She was right the last time. At about 5:00 in the evening, she and the college driver Haji arrived with a 6 foot by 6 foot mattress. I had hauled off the old foam mattress by the time Rose entered with the new one still sheathed in plastic. We quickly slid off the plastic, plopped the new one onto the wooden slats, and saw that the mattress hung over one side by about six inches. By then Haji had entered the room, and we three stared at the too-big mattress in silence. I tried to squish the mattress down into the frame, but it was impossible. It was then that Rose decided the frame was not 6-by-6 but 6-by-5.
After some Kiswahili words were exchanged between Rose and Haji, the three of us put the mattress back into the plastic, Rose said they’d be coming back with a smaller mattress, and I made sure she repeated the word for “today” - leo.
It was well after dark and I was fighting bed-time yawns when they arrived again. We did not take the plastic off the mattress but plopped it onto the slats. Now there was more silence as we stared at the extra 3 inches of slats exposed on either side of the mattress. Rose and Haji exchanged more words. Haji and I repeated that the mattress seemed to be 6-by-5 ½. I said it wouldn’t be a problem and repeated that several times to Rose who stared and stewed at the exposed slats. Then Haji had the idea of cutting off foam from another mattress and sewing it onto the new one.
Haji, master of jerry rigging, would know. The college Land Cruiser has received much of Haji’s creative solutions that hold the thing together. The hand brake is kept in place by an oil can secured under it. There are always at least two bottles of water lodged under the hood, possibly to cool down a radiator. Above the driver’s seat, a stick is secured between parts of the ceiling frame to hold up I-don’t-know-what. The back door of the Cruiser has been an endless source of creativity for Haji. It never stays closed. After a month of almost losing the back passengers closest to the door, Haji used a strap of rubber to secure the door like a hinge. Then it only banged open and shut on the large boulders along Kibosho road. Eventually, someonepossibly Hajisoldered a latch onto the door. Now the only one who can successfully close the door is Haji.
So it was no surprise that Haji arrived at the idea to cut off foam from another mattress and sew it on. I was informed that the foam strip would arrive the next day.
And that was two weeks ago.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
