Domestic Dispute

I have a house cleaner. A domestic servant. House help? A cleaning lady? I'm not sure what her official title is; only sure that it's not the shudder-inducing "house girl."

The woman who works in my house (does my laundry, washes my dishes, mops my floor, makes my bed, cooks me dinner on Wednesdays, sweeps the dirt that is my front lawn, waters the garden, and other around-the-house chores) is incredible. She is smart, funny, and dying to organize people.

She can't stand that the residents of my housing complex, nearly all expats, let the (government) landlord get away with poor maintenance. Of course, she's the one who really has to deal with it. I'm at the office all day, but she's there mopping up.

My house leaks. A lot. Because the pipes were imported form Europe they are measured on the metric system. But the spare parts available in town are on the British Imperial measurement system. Which creates problems when a 15 year old plumbing systems needs repairs.

On top of that, the plumbers and electricians and other fundis who work for the housing complex never show up when they say they do. Or if they show up, don't actually fix the problem. Or if they fix the problem, they leave a big hole in the wall that large animals (like two-foot-long Forest Rats, I kid you not) can enter the house through.

She says to me, "why don't all of you get together and decide as a group to do something. You should then write an official letter from all of you to the management. You can decide to just hire your own fundis and deduct the cost of repair from your rent!"

But she'll never organize us. Expats are far too apathetic. We're all in Kigoma to be pro-active--we're fighting for refugees' rights, we're providing health care, we're building water systems, we're conserving biodiversity. But really we're a bunch of lazy bastards. And we're all moving on in a few months or a few years; let somebody else deal with it.

Howl

A few weeks ago I heard an eerie sound, both intensely familiar and strongly out-of-place.

The sound swept down the street, high pitched and wailing, and as it passed every dog in the neighborhood took up the call. They howled an off-key, off-kilter chorus; dozens of voices each at their own rhythm and pitch. The dogs had never heard such a powerful howl, and one by one they trailed off in defeat till the only sound left was that original wail. The blaring siren of an ambulance.

Rain and Beans

Yesterday during my morning run I passed dozens of women hoeing their front yards.

The rainy season has started in earnest. A few weeks ago the occasional storms were a dramatic surprise. When I was up in the highland villages in September a storm swept in suddenly; the sky darkened to asphalt-gray, the wind picked up, and rain spat down--until the wind doubled its efforts, and rain poured down in sheets. Banana trees were blown in two and at one point I thought falling eucalyptus trees were going to hit the car. Since then, when I've gone "uphill" the ground below the coffee trees is startlingly green with young bean, yam, and corn plants.

In town, rain the rain took a while longer to arrive; the clouds had to unstick themselves from the mountain peaks to get down here to the lakeshore. This week women are out in the early morning turning the soil to ready it for planting. Their fields had looked dusty brown and cement hard; now they are rich mahogany and invitingly soft. The rainy season is here and it's time to plant.

Mango Season

Last night during dinner, we heard a sudden "plunk! bonk, bonk, bonk...splat." It was the first time in a year we had heard that distinct sound, and we paused with our spoons hovering over our bowls.

"What was that?" our guest asked.
"A mango," we replied in unison and took another mouthful of soup.

In August, the hundreds of mango trees around town produced their brown, pollen-heavy blossoms. Last month the first fruits became visible, tightly-wound balls of green hanging down from the branches. Now the strings that hold the mango up are straining against the rosy weight. Until--plunk--they fall to the ground.

The good thing about mango is that, unlike guava or lemon, each tree produces so much fruit that the kids in my neighborhood can't possibly harvest it all before I can get some. There's just no way. A large part of a tree's crop just rots on the ground.

My first mango season, 2006, was a pivotal moment. Every mango was a delicious, mysterious experience. And I ate at least one a day. Each morning I would sit and marvel at the beauty of repetition, the pleasure in plainness, the tactile richness. Maybe I am a tad dramatic. But really, I stay in Tanzania because of mango season 2006.

Nuts and Bolts

One thing I hate--really, really hate--is plugging appliances into wall sockets.

Luckily, I don't actually have to do it very often. Most sockets in my house and office have nice strips that match perfectly with our varying plug shapes. But if for some reason I'm working strip-less, I first examine the plug to be plugged. If it's got three large square prongs, I'm happy. Pop it in, turn the socket on--the lamp will light, the oven will heat, the fridge will cool. If it's American style, two flat prongs, forget about it. I gotta go get myself a strip. But if the plug has got two round prongs, that's something I can work with. I take a deep breath, and proceed as follows:

My equipment: a pen, screwdriver, or other slightly pointy sturdy object. My method: turn off the socket (that is important). Insert pointy sturdy object into the bottom space while simultaneously inserting the appliance's plug. If I have the angle of the pointy sturdy object just right, the plug will pop in, I turn the socket on, and my lamp will light. If I can't reach the socket quite right, or if the tip of my pencil breaks, I usually throw my hands up in frustration and start looking for a flashlight.

Why would you design an electrical socket into which you must insert metal objects? I'm told this is the British design, which I guess means that all over the UK people have become inured to close calls with electrocution. Or maybe the socket design is just fine if appliances come with a standard plug design to match; unfortunately Tanzania's smorgasbord of imported electronics guarantee nothing. Thank goodness for Chinese strip manufacturers.

Mzungu!

A couple mornings a week I run along one of the few paved roads of Kigoma to the chorus of several dozen school children yelling "mzungu!" If you've been to East Africa and you're white you've been called the same thing. It gets kinda old.

What I do think is interesting are the patterns that develop for yelling mzungu!--based on hour, location, and the evolution of name-calling across time.

I used to be an evening jogger, since I figured fewer bored children trying to lengthen their walk to school would mean fewer shouters. But actually, as a friend pointed out, early morning is best since school children tend to be too tired to put much effort into yelling. Instead of one out of five people under the age of 14 yelling mzungu! around sunset, in the minutes just after sunrise it's more like one out of ten.

Recently, I've become such a well known sight along this road that people yell out "Jenny!" "Jane!" "Janet!" Once even "Gena!" I rarely answer to the mzungu! call, but when someone shouts my name I always turn my head, sometimes wave, and occasionally even shout back. I wonder if with increased reaction will come more calls. Or if this is a sign that I'm becoming an actual person on my road instead of an oddity to be pointed out. Which might mean my run will become an obstacle course where I must dodge around extended greetings, rush between salaams, and duck under family inquiries.

*
Last weekend I ran to a beach on the outskirts of town. The path goes around the central round-about, past the Regional Commissioner's residence, near the local prison and through a village before arriving at a beautiful sandy stretch along the lake. The town drunks and prisoners don't scare me. But the village children--oh, the children. They're terrifying.

During one point of the jog, a group of 25 three-foot-tall villagers swarmed us, arms outstretched, yelling as loudly as their little lungs allowed. We ran through them and they streamed behind us, picking up more and more children along the path who heard the call toddled out. In this village things are a little different. They yell mzungu! true, but that initial call is followed by a series of crescendoing "mpira! mpira! mpiraaa!" This call puzzled me for a long time. Mpira means "ball"--usually a soccer ball. I certainly don't know any mzungu who gives out balls to children. And the call was tightly contained in this area--children from surrounding villages haven't picked up the mpira! cry.

But until the mid-nineties the Norwegian development agency ran a water program out of Kigoma. A series of wazungu, the wives and children of engineers, would pass through this village on their way to play tennis. (I think the court has since disappeared) When their balls deflated too much for tennis-worthiness they tossed them out the window. Mpira! was born. And although no Norwegian tennis players have given out anything in twenty years, the children of children who did get the bouncy balls continue that cry.

In another village, Bitale, road construction has dramatically changed the way people shout at foreigners. From mzungu! children have shifted to mchina! The Chinese construction workers clearly have made an impact--if not on the road itself, well at least on Bitale's shouting culture.