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Thursday, 15 May 2008
Home arrow Musings arrow More Musings (2004) arrow Ufamati
Ufamati PDF Print E-mail
At dinner the other night I said something typically thoughtless, to which Nancy replied, ‘Ufamati,’ a made-up word with lots of feeling. When the kids asked what it meant, I quickly replied ‘Teach me!’ but Nancy let them know the meaning she had more closely intended was ‘screw you’. I expounded upon what a wonderful thing it was that a new word could have two such divergent meanings, and the kids seemed to enjoy that idea as well – at least to judge by the frequency with which they used it for the next couple of minutes.
Luke with Elephant
'The Baby'
Days pass and the water situation remains grim. After two years of drought, people are worried that the water sources are empty (the paper runs a daily ‘pumping meter’ on the front page telling everyone which areas are going to be served water that day and – by indirection – which are not). While we ourselves are down to water service only on Sundays, we are definitely among the elite, the ‘fortunate few’. First of all, we have water to the house, something that easily puts us in the fifty percent of this city. We also have a 7000 liter water storage capacity in three large outdoor tanks. That probably knock us up into the top five or ten percent. Finally, we have a water hotline to a tanker truck provided by the Embassy to ensure that we are never really ‘out’. That drops us into what? The super-elite…maybe one tenth of one percent?

Of course having water delivered to the door is not as rare as it may seem. Here in the fashionable Msasani district water tankers literally prowl the streets. And here too – as everywhere – thin well-muscled men push two wheeled carts stacked with yellow barrels of water in search of customers who need to wash or perhaps who only need a drink. If you’re lucky, you might pay as little as ten cents a bucket if you live close to the water source, but the price will double if you live a kilometer away. And around here, twenty cents is a professional level wage for an hour's work. Water is becoming ‘dear’.

On the short ferry ride across the city harbor leading to South Beach children hawk their wares between cars packed so tightly they have to fold the mirrors to squeeze by. The raw eggs one sees so often balanced on the back or bicycles ten plates high are served here boiled for a nickel (which includes a quick topping from a common bag of salt). And here too is found the tail end of the water selling cycle. Here a goldfish bag of water (minus the fish itself) will cost you a nickel…a hefty percentage of the price for a full bucket back on land.

Stopped at a traffic light on the way home after a South Beach tour, a young man proffers a plate of bagged cashews for fifty cents a pop. “Not today,” I tell him, but he won’t be easily brushed away. “For the baby,” he says, pointing at Luke, to which my twelve years smiles politely and says, “Teach me.” Luckily we are not hungry as are so many people here. And clearly Luke has no particular fondness for being called a baby.

 
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