Magari mabaya

Jamila and I had been to the market and were on our way back when her car began to make the most concerning noises. We limped to a small garage that she had used many times before, and luckily got there before the car broke down completely. This naturally meant we slightly inconvenienced the traffic heading towards the city so our progress was accompanied by a chorus of honking. Jamila had had the car mended on two previous occasions in the last few weeks. The first time the mechanic had merely taken out, and then put back, the defective parts so the car broke down almost immediately, but, unfortunately, not until after he had been paid . Jamila then purchased new parts, herself, and a second mechanic installed them, but -so we were told - completely wrongly. The garage we ended up in, she had used for many years and had been completely happy with. She however now lives many miles away, and therefore had put herself into the hands of a couple of cowboys. I did say that the same thing happens in the UK - the AA report it regularly. She found it hard to believe, as her European experience is 14 years in Denmark. We were by this time in the bar next to the garage, shortly to be joined by the garage owner who was drinking half and half tumblers of Konyagi and water - it didn't appear to have much effect on him but it would have had me out cold! By this time I had abandoned my stuttering intent to speak only Kiswahili: I don't have the vocabulary to discuss car repairs in English let alone Swahili, but "engine mount" appears to be common to both languages... It only left me with even greater respect for J who speaks not only Kiswahili and English but fluent Danish as well, which she reckons is harder than either. The Tanzanian total incapacity to pass on bad news then took over - in this case how long the repair was going to take. 15 minutes was followed by 30, by 15, by 45... After four and a quarter hours, we took up the GOM's offer of rescue, previously refused on the grounds that it would push the bill up to mzungu levels. I think I didn't count as I was clearly a hapless passenger rather than someone who might foot the bill. During the long wait in the bar (Cokes only, please note)I had ample opportunity for people watching Tz style. What was supposed to be, I guess, a pavement of sorts outside was occupied by traffic in both directions (though it was just a car width wide), looking to beat the traffic snarlup in and out of the city on the Ali Hassan Mwinyi dual carriage way, as the rushhour built up. Seeing as the vehicles were driving on a path presumably meant for pedestrians, it might be reasonable to expect them to drive at a speed commensurate with coming across a school child, a cyclist or a cripple in front of them. Such a thought clearly had not crossed most drivers' minds - they just treated it as a third lane.
The GOM took us to the Anghiti for a much relished Indian meal: he, like many others, had given up going there after a frightening armed robbery last year, but memories are short, and it was again packed on a Friday night. Our desertion of our duty post was obviously the incentive to complete the work, (perhaps also because it was after 9pm and even though this garage stays open till 11 or later, everyone wants to get home sometime) so we had hardly started on our first course before the call came that the car was done.
So I wasn't happy to hear on our way home at last, that he thought there was something wrong with his steering. Closer inspection the next morning convinced me ( a complete moron as far as cars go) that this baby was not even fit for a trip to the shops. The idea of a jaunt up to the Pugo Hills ( the last remaining area of rain forest near Dar) went out of the window. However, a neat wheeze was that he took a photo and emailed it, so that when Gamma comes to mend it tomorrow he knows what the problem is and brings the right parts. So that is the photo accompanying this post - our car not Jamila's. From the mechanical among you I expect sucked teeth!