Fish heads and biscuits

Today I have two short anecdotes from today’s foray into town, which, in some ways, encapsulate the contrasting experiences of living here in Mtwara. I’ve been wondering for a few days, why our moods seem so helter-skelterish – sometimes high, sometimes low, not always for any discernible reason. Perhaps it is the unpredictability of day-to-day life which brings its own form of powerlessness; or perhaps it’s the pressure of constantly being a stranger in a strange land. That strangeness is sometimes exciting, enervating; at other times, its stressful and depressing.

We went for lunch today to our favourite day-time restaurant. It’s situated just off the main street and comprises about 15 plastic tables. You can tell it’s relatively high class because each table is located immediately below a fan and the hand-washing facilities – which incidentally are de rigeur in TZ – are high quality, with warm water from a tap in a bucket and some liquid soap. The menu is fish or chicken with rice or ugali. We nearly always choose fish and rice. Today the fish was a complete fish-head. I can almost see Mary’s reaction now, but believe me, there’s loads of fish on it and once you’ve got the hang of the bones and taken care not to eat the eye, it really is very tasty. The best advertisement for the place is that it’s full of people, all sorts of people.  The owner/manager, I think, is quite pleased that we frequent the place. I complemented him on his food last time and today he came over especially to welcome us. It is a fulfilling experience in more ways than one and, at 6000tsh (£2.40) for the two of us, including a bottle of water, extremely good value.

The good value lunch makes up, perhaps, for the contrasting experience in the bakery. I had said the other day what a good little business it is. Today, Caroline bought a pack of three crumbly biscuits which should cost 800tsh. I paid with a 1000 tsh note and the woman smiled at me, almost grinned, and said that she didn’t have change. Instead of standing my ground or demanding my money back, I sheepishly accepted this daylight robbery and tried to make a joke about her owing me 200 tsh. “Its about 8p. What are you going on about Adrian “, I can hear you say; but that doesn’t go anywhere near describing the debilitating effect that being looked on purely as a mzungo, a man with loads of money and someone ripe for being ripped off, day after day, has on your state of mind. Imagine in the UK, a wealthy man buys a pound of apples from the market with a £5.00 note and the trader decides not to give him change because the man is rich. I’ve considered that if this is the price rich people from the developed world have to pay, then they’ve got off far too lightly. I don’t need to be reminded of the politics of world development. I’m talking about the personal affront that you feel when one human being looks you in the eye and has no respect for anything other than the money in your pocket. I’m determined to get my 200 tsh back from her. I’ll let you know how I get on.