12 December - Ratty is dead!

In the interests of delicacy and some people’s sensibilities, I shall say no more than, Ratty is dead. I had worked out over the last few days that he was almost certainly nesting under a wardrobe in the spare room. This morning he was swiftly dispatched by the college fundi and I was left to remove what can only be described as a comfy little pad for rats. He had dragged rags, plastic bags, pieces of plastic and amongst the food and the paper, he had built himself a snug little nest in the base of the wardrobe. With the help of the bravest man I’ve met this week, the college fundi, we now leave for Dar with a clean bedroom and a huge sense of relief.

At the staff meeting this morning, I was the subject of general ridicule as the fundi  told the assembled staff the story of how I ran for cover as soon as the rat appeared, leaving him to execute the task single-handed.  I didn’t mind. I heaped glory on his head, calling for a pay rise and general applause. He was my hero!

The conversation turned to the question of husbandry and the animals grazing as a result of the fresh green grass that has sprouted since the rains. Apparently the fine bull, which was grazing outside our back door on Saturday – the College bull, no less, or as the Deputy Principal likes to put it – “we say in Swahili, half a herd,”  - has gone missing. There are boys out looking for it at present, because they hope it has just wandered off, looking for cows, but the suspicion is that it has been rustled. I decided that today was not the time to describe the beaten up car, surrounded by men, cowboys we thought, backing up to the butcher’s entrance, the other day.

In preparing to leave for Dar, we passed one of our water filters to William, our neighbour. I learned that he drinks the tap water, even though most of the time it is brown and smells bad. We only use the tap water for washing our bodies, and the toilet, and we filter it before we wash clothes with it. Water filters are low technology ways of giving some level of water purity. We are the only people in college to own one.

Back to financial matters: the Deputy Principal was pleased with himself because he said he was able to solve the problem of my allowance.

“Excellent,” I said. “Will you pay me cash right now?”

“Ah, no! It must be paid into a bank account.”
“But as you know Deputy Principal, I have no bank account and will not have one until I get a work permit. That will not be until mid January.”

At this point, his face fell. I had heartlessly dashed his good spirits and sense of achievement, with my cavalier dismissal of his efforts. I immediately felt guilty and tried to make amends,

“But never mind. I’m sure I can manage until January.”

His face beamed and we were, once again, great friends. It’s only money, after all.

Francis will kick himself all the way back to Mtwara, because he went to Dar at the week-end whilst Radio Maria came to us this evening, to record us saying the Rosary. Twenty-five of us squashed into John’s living room to say the Holy Rosary and other prayers, live on national Radio Maria. The average age, without me and Caroline, was probably eighteen, the youngest being about three. Caroline and I concentrated more on getting the words out than praying, but it was one of those humbling experiences which, when we recall it in years to come, will seem no less bizarre than it did tonight.

The roadside stall at the end of the driveway is stacked with pineapples and mangoes, so, to celebrate our liberation from Ratty, tonight, I bought a pineapple. We cut it into huge chunks and ate it like urchins, with great squelching of juice and great gobbets of fruity flesh dribbling from our faces. What luxury! Our sense of relief in being rid of that rat, is palpable. No more will we wake at night listening, Caroline too squeamish to go to the toilet, no more will we wake up in the morning, stamping our feet and whistling. Our house is ours again.