Keith was up bright and early fiddling with the computer because he was putting Rosie’s photos onto CDs for her and we are giving her some of ours too. When it was my turn with the computer, I settled down to blog writing, for the first occasion in about a month and it was looming over me like a very daunting task. I was four weeks back in Toulouse in my head and thinking about it, I relived the great pleasure of spending time with Michel and Corine. Our experiences in Tanzania have made me realise how privileged we are to making the choice to travel, to spend time with friends far away, and to be planning a walk which is for no practical purpose. I ploughed on and I was in Avignon and about to pass the Palace of the Popes when my last typed letters failed to appear on the screen and an ominous blue notice with nasty wording appeared, cautioning me to check my hardware and my software.
Keith, who had been babysitting while Rosie did her washing, had left for the internet café when the family went out, and so everywhere was silence. I opened my book and lay down for a pleasurable time of self-indulgence. I actually started reading this book, ‘Elle S’appellait Sarah’ by Tatiana de Rosnay, while I was in Farkwa, because it is in French, and I wanted to keep that language bubbling away in my head. I really enjoyed reading it, and was pleased that I could. I was very much swept along by the two stories, told chapter by chapter, and which eventually came together. I was not aware of much of the history of France during the Second World War, other than that the Vichy Government had been a collaborationist government, and did not know about the fate of the Jews living in France at that time. Although a very serious subject, it suited me to have a deep and interesting book, and I wanted to read on whenever I could.
When Keith returned, he was able to back up most files onto our external hard drive but then the writing on the screen became the writing on the wall and our dear little computer died.
Armed with the location of a computer repair shop, we set of to the centre of the town. The technician named very reasonable prices and gave no promises, so we left the computer there and went off to find an ATM so that we would be able to retrieve it in due course. This took us around the block, and an hour later as we passed the lane with the computer repair shop in it, one of the salesmen just happened to be coming our way. He asked Keith if he had left his camera in the shop; we had not even noticed that it and Keith’s hat were missing! It would have been panic stations when we had realised, since we would not have immediately have thought of that shop.
It was quite late by the time we finally set off to visit a t-shirt shop, and of course we had abandoned a visit to the Rwanda trials for today. The rush hour on foot produced a range of eclectic dressing: traditional Maasai people wearing nothing but blankets and jewellery, draped kangas and katengas, western suits for both men and women, African fabrics sewn in skirts and blouses, 80s chiffons, every style of hair with dyed plaits, wigs and extravagant hairdos, but not many shaved heads for women.
Touts approached us to buy goods or visit the family shop, but we now knew that to go through the whole spiel was a waste of time for everyone, so we started with a polite, “Hello, we are not buying anything today.”
The dusty minor roads are lined with tiny tailoring businesses, with many of the tailors outside to make use of the daylight and to be fully accessible to customers.
There are also lots of tiny grocery shops and other specialty shops the size of cubby houses.
Closer to the main road, there is no need for a structure at all, with a bucket of tomatoes, ten pairs of shoes or a barrow of sugar cane stems creating a stall. The road past the cemetery is lined with people crouching in the dust with a few packets of peanuts or tissues to sell. Behind them the tombstones are becoming lost in the grass and shrubs, but one is clearly visible and doesn’t mince words, simply stating, ‘Janet, dead 2000’.
Some hawkers have large flat barrows covered with dress fabrics, ladies underwear or sheets, in piles that are forever being sifted through by shoppers. A more organised shop had clothing on coat hangers, and it is hard to distinguish between what could be the family washing on the line and what is for sale. Human display racks reach new heights here, with many options on the one body, and every foreign language newspaper ranged about a single salesman. We have always been offered English language papers by street vendors, so there must be something about us that announces our mother tongue, while I have seen others offered papers in French or German, without the salesman seeming to have heard them speak.
Our immediate family should be very happy that Rosie has offered to take some things back in the baggage allowance that Freddy and Pius will not fill.Back at the guest house, we changed into our anti-mozzie long pants and then we spent a frustrating hour at the internet cafe. There are multiple problems every time Keith has been to an internet café here; slow internet connections, slow computers (one place ran Windows XP Professional on a computer with only 96 Mb of RAM), old operating systems that won’t accept a USB memory stick, viruses, and even stopping all the computers from time to time to refuel the generator! Still, it was the first time that I have had access to the internet and it was good to be back in touch with the world, albeit one in which First World economies are in crisis.
In the evening we went across the road from our guest house to a different café for a change. Although called the Arusha Pizza Restaurant, and although having a menu featuring pizzas, there were no pizzas available because, as usual, the power was off in our street.
Hawkers like these wander ceaselessly through restaurants and cafes as well as along the streets.
The barrows are the size of trailers and they are routinely walked along the roads as a normal part of the traffic. They have old tyres attached to the back, which act as brakes if the front of the barrow is raised.
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