I went to Katonga, a fishing village just outside of town, on a windy Sunday. I'd never been to this market in the morning, and I was constantly being told to get out of the way by people carrying large amounts of fish. The men had already returned from their night out, and had distributed their catch along the beach. Fish was everywhere: drying on wire mesh, loaded into wheelbarrows to go to town, on Mamas' heads in plastic buckets.
Getting the boat took a bit of strategizing. The guy I enlisted to help me told me to go wait by the car so he could negotiate a bit. "If they see you they'll increase the price," he explained. After a few rounds of walking up and down the market path lined with used clothes, tomatoes, and, of course, fish, I stood by the car enjoying the wait for relative anonymity. Eventually small children stop running up to peer at me and drunk guys kept rolling along. He came back. "OK we worked something out. What's next?" I went to have a look.
We walked down to the beach. Men repaired their purple fishing nets, and chatted, and added to the general windy chaos. A dozen canoes were lined up in the sand; mine was being sat in by its owner. "Want to try it out in the water?" my negotiator asked, and made ready to push it out. "No, no," I called out "I'm just looking at the wood." Looks were passed--what the hell is the deal with this woman? But the owner suffered my examination of his boat.
The bow has been smoothed by hundreds of hands that pushed it out to the water and thousands of waves that rolled over it. But patchwork began a foot down from the prow carved out of a tree. Each jagged board is loosely held together, the gaps filled in with cotton stuffing. Some are freshly added, still cyprus white, others were pilfered from other boats painted blue, some are nearly as ancient as the bow. Originally I wanted a boat that was of no use to anyone, one that was split in half, essentially driftwood. But looking at this boat I realized I wasn't going to find one because there's no such thing. Every boat is salvageable, even if in the process it becomes another boat entirely.
So I agreed on a price with the owner. At which point we entered into the formalities. Together we walked slowly up from the beach to the market chairman's office--which doubles as a stall where he sells powdered milk and phone credit. With him was a middle aged man wearing spectacles who greeted me in English. The negotiator came along as well.
The boat owner explained the transaction that was taking place, and the market chairman said--"OK. Well we need to write the contract. Here, take this piece of paper (he ripped one out of a student notebook) and this pen (he fumbled around in his desk) and write one with all the details." The boat owner took the paper and the pen and furrowed his brow. He held the paper close, he extended his arm far, he made a flourish with his left hand to fold the paper and a flourish with his right to bring the pen at the ready. He paused. "I can't write without my glasses," he said and handed his materials to the guy with the glasses. "Here, you write it."
The guy with the glasses began. "I, Jumanne Idi Nkola, am selling my dugout canoe to Jenevive Iden for the sum of fifty thousand only (=50,000/= only.) and no cents. In front of the following witnesses: (he lists the names of the three guys). Signed: (then followed space for our 5 signatures).
The contract was signed. Money was exchanged. Witnesses were paid. "OK," said the market chairman. "Now you officially own the boat." Now I will be asked no inconvenient questions about how I came to be the owner of an mtumbu.
Little did he know, I've cleverly disguised the boat. It will never float again, and even its builder might not recognize it in its present state.
