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. '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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