Unpleasant Experiences…

Maybe I should title this The Theme of Ruthlessness; but, that is too one sided. Experiences are there to remind us.
Unpleasant incidents are teachers. Judges. Saints. Jugglers.
They come and go. They shall always B there.
So I pleaded. He said NO!
I ridiculed him. He didn’t FLINCH!


I turned to my friend the camera and snapped hoping to remember the occasion. Posterity.
He said calmly : “ I will take yours, too.”
That got me thinking of a rock, a cliff, a wall which you puSH and end up hurting your own SHoulders.
Slippery eel.

I could only wallow in self pity and philosophy: “What comes around goes around…”
Ever spat to the sea?
Spit to the ocean and your tiny, tiny speck is nothing to the gargantuan distance of waters, it is consumed. Sucked by a larger family of liquids.
“I am just doing my job,” He muttered, going away, leaving, carrying my anger, venom, frustration…
He smacked me with a packing ticket, 80 pounds (160 Dollars) in total, REDUCTION OF 50% IF PAID WITHIN 14 DAYS…

It was like this.
Sunny Tuesday afternoon, September 18th, 2007. I am in Clissold Park jogging and exercising, the sun is shining; it is still very green; early Autumn.
I parked, paid £2 for an hour.
Finished and sweaty, I was about to drive off when I saw this crow pouncing on a pigeon. A rare scene. No sooner was I about to snap, than the crow had a change of mind ( or so, assuming )…I was left with a pigeon and some purple flowers.
Then I turned to see the man in uniform sticking a ticket fine on my vehicle.
“Hey!”
I am running now. Desperation. I was just by the corner. Please.
“Even if it is ONE minute, you still get it, mate…”
He was busy scribbling.
We are living in the era of clicking buttons. Starts from simple things- like text messages, ending relationships via emails; downloading the good and the bad, to buttons that are switched to shock, awe and bomb. Done. Nuclear age. Done. Terrorism.

Around us curious onlookers watched, a bloke shook his head in sympathetic, bewildered, exasperation as the parking attendant scooped out his camera and started snapping the car and me. I read a sentence on the Penalty Charge sheet that screamed on the machine’s windshield:
“Photography may be used for evidence purposes…”
(In case a driver refuses to pay. But I wasn’t refusing. I was merely requesting consideration; circumstantial conditions…)
He won.
I got the fine. Ruthlessness won.
They get quotas, it is not just about right or wrong, a passing Lady reminded.
“You may publish me in your Book…put me in your Website. " The Man declared strolling away.
Wrong Words, Tough Guy.
B L O G.

He was driving while Texting!

let us talk about cell phones and mobile phones and driving...

I am in a bus.
A few minutes ago I boarded this huge monster in Dar es Salaam. Dar Es Salaam, the commercial capital of Tanzania means “harbour of peace” in Arabic.
I remember how touts invaded us as we rolled towards the bus station with suitcases and bags. It was something resembling safari ants attacking a fresh carcass of meat. These guys get a cut (“baksheesh”) as long as they get more riders. There are so many buses to choose and so the touts help sorting out the traveller’s mind.
And it is not just touts. Numerous guys sell you ice cream, sweets, cashew nuts, magazines even novels by the famous British author, James Hadley Chase. Now these Chase books are another interesting “globalisation” wonder. Today you don’t find Chase novels in Europe anymore. But a company based in India is publishing and shipping them to Africa. Once in London I was fishing around a second hand bookshop and the owner quipped:
“Used James Hadley Chase books? As soon as they come they are gone. They never last. It is mostly Africans who buy them…”
“Why don’t they print them anymore?”
“I don’t know.”
James Hadley Chase novels were popular back in the 1970’s. Chase (real name Rene Brabazon Raymond) who died in 1985 is a gripping writer who holds you through brilliantly plotted fast moving heart churning crime stories.
His books are plenty at these bus stations…
Cut to a few hours later.
The bus is speeding. Not only speeding, the driver is overtaking anywhere, be it a corner or a dangerous hill. I am thinking this might be my last day. In rich countries it is recommended that drivers rest after every two hours. Ours has gone non-stop for at least five.
The longest resting time is hardly more than three minutes.
I am especially sympathetic to the women who have it worse. We halt at some village. Men stroll out and piss by the road. The few ladies who manage a quick pee have to physically run to whatever available acacia bushes. But the shrubs are hardly large enough to give them any privacy. That is not the problem, however.
The impatient driver is already blowing the horn his itching foot on the accelerator pedal.
Meaning, the rumbling vehicle is never switched off. Smell of diesel and engine oil becomes part of our travelling oxygen. And then comes the theme of this story.
Somewhere along the route going at eighty kilometres per hour, the driver decides to send a text message.
His eyes dart between the road and his deftly held cell phone. I am thinking, here I am, in a sprinting bus wearing no seat belt my life in the hands of a lunatic who doesn’t care whether we will crash or not. Funny how, despite the lack of crucial safety seat belts nobody in the bus seems worried at all. It is as though, were death to occur, it would be acceptable and expected. And that is what I found to be appalling and sad about our contemporary African psyche. People have come to accept the saga of death. The macabre, sombre, morbid , grim nature of this saga is shocking. It reminded me of the expression you hear in Kiswahili all the time in Tanzania:
Watu wanamalizika kama nzi siku hizi!
(people are dying like flies nowadays)
That people are dying and death is common in a peaceful country (not Afghanistan or Iraq) is extraordinary. This is supposed to be a land re-known for never having fought any major war since the Maji Maji rebellion of 1905-1907!
A hundred years of peace…in a continent filled regular civil strife.
On a journey from Arusha to Dar Es Salaam I luckily find “Royal Buses” the only bus company with safety seat belts. It costs double the price. Not only is Royal comfortable (with air-condition, self contained toilets and music), it’s driver observes speed limits, the attendants are friendly and free drinks, offered. Despite complaints of regular users that Royal’s toilets are not as clean as they used to be (stank of urine) and that drinks are few; “Royal” is the only bus with foreign passengers and tourists. Around the country low income folk moan this particular fleet travels too slow; their “fees are too high.”
Meaning to be safe in Africa you must have money!
Grave yards have become part of the Tanzanian landscape and within that scenario the accepted outlook on life. Recently East African statistics tell us life expectancy (including that of Kenya) has dropped to 44 years for males and 46 for females while Ugandans have risen to 52 years. In an era of progress, where people communicate faster and eat better, life should also be better. In the old days our ancestors, who walked and drank sugar cane juice instead of Fanta and bottled beer lived longer. My great grand father Abraham Macha died aged 95 years old in 1935. He had 52 children. Those were the days with no speeding buses, petrol stations, chicken and chips with chemical filled tomato ketch-up.
Those were the days of our ancestors …they had certain fundamental secrets, that we need digging and exhuming.

-Abridged from the Tanzanian Guardian March, 2007.
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