Notes

Notes

When it comes to friends and neighbours, my old Dad’s adage was: if you can’t do a good turn, it’s a pretty sad world! He drummed into us that if we saw a need, we should just step in. Like, when I was out delivering milk with him, if it happened to be raining and it was an elderly person’s house, I had to drop it off at the the porch and if there is a newspaper lying on the drive, well, just pick it up put it on the porch too. Actually it was no extra trouble.

Working around Mt. Meru, we found the concept a bit different. Helping, one way or another usually end up being a cost, and for sure, we didn’t have the backing of a bank. For us, it was a matter of choice and we utilized the local culture of when something was requested, giving a little always outweighs an outright refusal. When it came to money, my response was to simply say that the cow was dry, and that was perfectly understood.  Money isn’t always the answer. In our small village, there was no other vehicle, so I absorbed the fuel cost when I was asked to take people to hospital, the sick and pregnant were disadvantaged enough! Of course we were caught out from time to time. One woman showed us prescriptions for medicine needed by her spina bifida child, so we gave her money each time, until we found that she boozed up the money with her sexy boyfriend! It paid to be aware.

At home I had a small windfall, not a happy one but a windfall nevertheless. It was going to fund a special project, so I co-opted my brother to send the money out. Anywhere in the world, it’s risky to have money in the house, but I had no option, my constant ploy was to make a show of having no cash other than a few shillings in my pocket, but the nature of my assignment meant I had to carry as much as million Tanzania shillings, which was secreted away in various hiding places in the house.

The first consignment from my brother converted to some six and a half million shillings! He sent it out by Western Union to their Arusha depot, which was the Meru Post Office. The Meru Post Office doesn’t sit in the safest place in town, it’s bustling, the streets are busy and there are young men waiting their chance. Which is why most expats used the Clocktower Post Office, a much safer area.

The Meru Post Office was built in Nyerere’s heyday when he was closely allied to USSR and their funding. They designed and built the post office, in typical dour Russian style. Mags was with me in the Landrover and as I left, I reminded her to keep the doors locked. A bored policeman stood at the bank doorway cradling his automatic firearm with its curved magazine. I’d be surprised if the magazine was full, I knew other armed guards who only had one or even no bullets! It was a stinking hot day and the yellowed concrete work of the building was bright on the eyes. Inside it was dark after the glare and it took a while to get my bearings.

As my eyes adjusted, I was reminded of government offices built in the fifties with wooden panelling, furniture and fittings all in dark varnished timber. There were young men hanging around in groups, leaning on the walls like vultures looking for an opportunity. Maybe they were just sheltering from the heat, but their beady eyes were sweeping the customers, and locked on me. There were two queues, but queues weren’t readily respected, anyway I noticed a window dedicated to Western Union and it had no queue, so I stood there. Eventually the teller loudly asked me my secret question! I had to know the question as well as the answer! He peered at me trying to decipher if the description my brother had written down was a likeness. Then I was required to produce ID. I was told to wait on one of the forms that skirted the walls, so I joined the sweating throng.

The teller called me to the window, and dumped a huge pile of notes on the counter! He reminded me that the government were issuing the new notes, but the larger denominations still weren’t to hand. I cursed, it had slipped my mind! I cursed too that I didn’t bring a bag! He had me count with him the five and ten thousand shilling notes! What a pile! My mind was racing, how am I going to carry it all? I could feel a thousand table-tennis eyes moving between my back and that pile of notes! I asked the teller for an envelope and after a lengthy search, he eventually produced a foolscap one, but by over-stuffing, I burst the arse clean out of it! He didn’t have another! So, after casting my eyes around the room, and trying to look like I knew what I was doing, I tucked my shirt into my trousers and stuffed the money down my neck! I must have looked like a really dedicated beer drinker!

Heading out, I kept a wary eye for sudden movement, and tried not to make eye contact with any of the vultures. Mags saw my approach and I signalled her to unlock the door! Then I felt a firm hand on my shoulder… Holy shit Batman! It was the policeman!  In front of the post office there’s a chained-off area with no exit!  I’d been aware of it but in my haste, I’d forgotten and the policeman was merely reminding me! I quickly skirted around the barrier and made it to the car! The money stayed in my shirt until we arrived home!

As a sort of post script, a new bank started up in Arusha and whenever I had business there, people, some of them youngish women, would join the queue holding plastic supermarket bags full of money. They had blatantly walked along the street carrying their bags! Most of the cash was takings from nearby petrol stations, and I never heard of a single case of them being robbed!