Road deconstruction

And you thought your job was tough.

I recently heard the unmistakable hearkening of the end of the world: the sound of a flood and an earthquake all rolled into one. I ran to the window but the source had flown down Kibirizi Road too fast. All I saw was Stella staring at me with that “is the door locked?” sort of look.

So I returned to my business as usual and a bit later the sound came flooding back.

This time I made it to the window in time to see a pickup truck hauling down the road with two men standing in the back holding onto a big mess of rebar which they were dragging noisily behind them. The only reason I can think to drive multiple times down a road dragging rebar is to resurface it. And if you have seen Tanzania's roads in the wet season, you can understand the virtue of this.

But it was a good reminder for me, and perhaps a good reminder for all of us: when I next think my job is tough, at least I am not holding onto a bundle of quivering reinforcing bars while standing in the back of a pickup truck which is flying down the road at break-arm speed.

...but somebody's gotta do it

My kitchen might qualify again under US health codes, but it hasn’t been easy.

There have been two recent bouts of waterlessness in my neighborhood which inspired challenging questions, such as: do I take a shower or flush the toilet or wash two sinks full of dishes? Because with one bucket of water - brought by a guy on a bicycle – I can't do all three.

Usually the dishes lose, and in that respect, the biomass lying-in-wait in my kitchen wins.

I know all about roaches. I know their infinite forms and varieties. I've seen them squished between bills dispensed by the ATM, scurrying inside a ball cap I removed from my head, hidden like Where's Waldo in more meals than I'd like remember, and once a tiny one was in a sealed package of bubblegum (figure that one out), proving their limitless ingenuity.

Just last night I let my cat play with an elephantine specimen which lumbered out of the shower drain. Stella has so few toys to play with.

So while I was not necessarily surprised that two species helped clean the dishes, I was surprised by their quantity – the sheer magnitude of their forces.

One species was long, thin and pinkish - somehow shrimp-like, but with wings. The other black-brown and pyknic, peppercornesque. Both now dead.

As men laid pipe on the lawn to fix the pump, I gathered my supplies: anti-bacterial soap, trash bucket and a large kitchen sponge I received as a birthday present last year (which I had saved for a special occasion such as this). I tried to divine assistance like the commercials where Mr. Clean jumps off the bottle and mops the floor in one, big S-shaped streak. But clearly I was going to be doing this alone. I rolled-up my sleeves and stood at the ready. When I heard air, then the water, gurgling in the pipes, I got to work.

I soon found the bugs' secret lair and annihilated it in a progrom I call "shock-and-eww." Confident about the thoroughness of my cleaning, I returned to food preparation at home. And when we lost water the next week, well, I repeated the whole process over again.

I sometimes forget that in Kigoma you're never alone. I walked into my kitchen the other night and discovered a noisome odor that could only be one thing: dinosaur poo. More specifically, the white, liquidy guano too often secreted in our attic by Monty, the non-pet resident monitor lizard (who hasn't paid a shilling toward rent).

So I checked the ceiling and there it was: the telltale white stain situated over the drying rack next to the sink, the dishes from which I had just stowed in the cupboards.

So what sponge does one use to clean monitor lizard poo off otherwise clean dishes? If I ever find the dish it landed on, I'll be sure to let you know.

Frank Sinatra sings a new tune (again)

It sometimes seems that nearly everything is possible in Tanzania.

A friend of mine recently needed to fly last-minute to Dar and had no money. We took her to the airport and I shook the guy’s hand and promised him money for the ticket by the afternoon if he put her on the morning flight.

He consented, and in the second after, I wondered where else a handshake can substitute a plane ticket.

But my housemates and I recently learned something else which, quite Frankly, we didn't see coming.

I took our cat Stella (nee Frank Sinatra) to Dar on a trip synchronized with her theoretical fertility, so that she could be spayed and we could avoid the radical genesis of inbred progeny, which seemed a given. But as it turns out, the cat we originally thought a he and later deemed a she is a he after all. At least for now.

Poor Frank Sinatra. So misunderstood.

I am sure showbiz is full of mistaken identities and (at least historically) genders, but for those of us in small town Kigoma, it has been entertaining.

As for Stella, well, he's now a little more tenor than base.

Breaking news about Frank Sinatra

My housemate and I recently found a motherless, diarrhea-laden kitten who stole our hearts. We took him home, washed him and named him Frank Sinatra (because of his blue, blue eyes).

The name provided seemingly endless inevitable but nonetheless enjoyable clichés: he found us on the patio of a friends' house - a real "Stranger in the Night" who seemed to "Only Have Eyes for Us." He gave us a look which said: "I've Got You Under My Skin," and sure enough, we adopted him without much further debate. As they say, Fools Rush In.

Did I mention he enjoys Dancing Cheek to Cheek?

But after subsequent bathing and a couple weeks of growing around-the-clock, Frank Sinatra appears to be less of a Guy than a Doll. Not only that, but one of his eyes is turning green and (Sinatra fans may wish to stop reading here) he shows no interest in self-grooming at all.

So now we are trying to find a new name which fits. We flirted with Ginger Rodgers, because she loves dancing (or at least sliding across the floor). We also considered Nancy Sinatra, but she doesn't really seem the boots-were-made-for-walking type.

Name suggestions are encouraged. At the end of the day, she's high-maintenance but oh-so-lovable (some would say, "So Embraceable"), and no matter what we call her, They Can't Take that Away from Her.