Mood-setting fact: dung beetles spend their days feasting on balls of faeces, yet are the strongest insects in the world.
I have read over my last couple of posts and realised two things. Firstly, I have really bastardised the use of colons and semi colons, and secondly, my depiction of #TZlyf has been a tad too romantic. I’ve been heavy-handed with the lion cubs and Kilimanjaro sunrises, neglecting the tremendous wheelbarrows of shit that also make up the everyday in Arusha. So today, I’d like to scatter some manure to keep the fragrance nice and authentic. Let’s dive in.
This week I was mugged on my way to work, in broad daylight, by eight men. I swear there were 20 guys, but my witness Justine says eight, maybe ten. Nevertheless I was swarmed by a cocoon of hoodlums who fronted as dalla dalla conductors hassling me for business. But no, the phoneys were not just after a 400 shilling fare to Ilboru. They all hollered as they zeroed in on me and my mzungu trappings, crafting the ideal cacophony under which to conduct their thievery. I was reciting my hapana asantes (‘no thank yous’) as I waded through the chaos, when suddenly I felt one arsehole pull at my backpack, while another yanked at my money belt. It all happened very quickly but my money belt is sacred – I don’t endure fugly robber-proof accessories for nothing – so no way was some lowlife taking off with my Korjo fanny pack.
They picked the wrong girl. The dormant Power Ranger inside me kicked in and I flipped out. My arms windmilled, and I shrieked FARRRRKKKKKKKOOOORRRRFFFFFF!!!!!!!! at the very top of my lungs. Deafening and shrill, it worked. The eight-to-ten-or-20 bandits scattered, and my raging red Alf Stewart face drained to a deathly white as the crescendo subsided. Justine looked at me half in fear (#psychopath), before she spent the rest of the morning calming me down, with lots of Kit Kats.
In the same 24-hour period, a hand grenade was thrown into a local Indian restaurant that all our friends had been licking their fingers at only days prior. Although there were no deaths, eight souls were horribly injured. In a separate attack the same week, a bomb blasted a Muslim cleric’s private home, severely wounding two. Apparently both incidents were attributed to local business disputes, but who really knows. The police are terrifically corrupt. When an officer pulls you over on the road, you must sling him a few shillings ‘for lunchy’ in order to keep driving. There is no point becoming overly irate at the traffic cop, as he must pass up the majority of his spoils to the guy above him. And that guy, to the guy above him, and so on. The chain up to the fat cats is long.
But we can keep shovelling here. Today I picked up my third course of antibiotics to treat my latest African malady. And on Monday, we visited the poorest neighbourhood in the city, with the filthiest kids, who often survive on just one bowl of porridge a day. As the tsunami of hopelessness inside me peaked to come crashing down in that slum, I narrowly missed stepping on a human turd. Yep, human. There is not much in this universe that is more revolting.
So in many respects #TZLyf boils down to shits and giggles, but the bad days fertilise the good days. Cheers to the dung beetles for the inspo ✌.
I have read over my last couple of posts and realised two things. Firstly, I have really bastardised the use of colons and semi colons, and secondly, my depiction of #TZlyf has been a tad too romantic. I’ve been heavy-handed with the lion cubs and Kilimanjaro sunrises, neglecting the tremendous wheelbarrows of shit that also make up the everyday in Arusha. So today, I’d like to scatter some manure to keep the fragrance nice and authentic. Let’s dive in.
This week I was mugged on my way to work, in broad daylight, by eight men. I swear there were 20 guys, but my witness Justine says eight, maybe ten. Nevertheless I was swarmed by a cocoon of hoodlums who fronted as dalla dalla conductors hassling me for business. But no, the phoneys were not just after a 400 shilling fare to Ilboru. They all hollered as they zeroed in on me and my mzungu trappings, crafting the ideal cacophony under which to conduct their thievery. I was reciting my hapana asantes (‘no thank yous’) as I waded through the chaos, when suddenly I felt one arsehole pull at my backpack, while another yanked at my money belt. It all happened very quickly but my money belt is sacred – I don’t endure fugly robber-proof accessories for nothing – so no way was some lowlife taking off with my Korjo fanny pack.
They picked the wrong girl. The dormant Power Ranger inside me kicked in and I flipped out. My arms windmilled, and I shrieked FARRRRKKKKKKKOOOORRRRFFFFFF!!!!!!!! at the very top of my lungs. Deafening and shrill, it worked. The eight-to-ten-or-20 bandits scattered, and my raging red Alf Stewart face drained to a deathly white as the crescendo subsided. Justine looked at me half in fear (#psychopath), before she spent the rest of the morning calming me down, with lots of Kit Kats.
In the same 24-hour period, a hand grenade was thrown into a local Indian restaurant that all our friends had been licking their fingers at only days prior. Although there were no deaths, eight souls were horribly injured. In a separate attack the same week, a bomb blasted a Muslim cleric’s private home, severely wounding two. Apparently both incidents were attributed to local business disputes, but who really knows. The police are terrifically corrupt. When an officer pulls you over on the road, you must sling him a few shillings ‘for lunchy’ in order to keep driving. There is no point becoming overly irate at the traffic cop, as he must pass up the majority of his spoils to the guy above him. And that guy, to the guy above him, and so on. The chain up to the fat cats is long.
But we can keep shovelling here. Today I picked up my third course of antibiotics to treat my latest African malady. And on Monday, we visited the poorest neighbourhood in the city, with the filthiest kids, who often survive on just one bowl of porridge a day. As the tsunami of hopelessness inside me peaked to come crashing down in that slum, I narrowly missed stepping on a human turd. Yep, human. There is not much in this universe that is more revolting.
So in many respects #TZLyf boils down to shits and giggles, but the bad days fertilise the good days. Cheers to the dung beetles for the inspo ✌.
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