Mumbo-jumbo?
Mambo kaka. (Hi brother)
Jambo dada. Karibu sana (Hello sister. You are very welcome)
The ‘mumbo-jumbo’ the British scoffed at upon first arrival in Tanzania embodies a culture of warmth and hospitality you are unlikely to find in (uppity) England. My experience of this inherent kindness extended beyond warm welcomes and come-again goodbyes, thanks to a crack in our vehicle’s underbelly and a mechanic named Evani.
It was a Sunday and we were heading back to Mbeya from Dodoma, opting for the long (tarred) route via Morogoro. We’d entered Tanzania five days earlier at the Mbeya border post and from there followed the shorter – albeit dodgier – route to Dodoma. The road to Iringa was easy but unfortunately Iringa to Dodoma didn’t follow suite. The 250 kilometres of hellish dirt road took us six hours to cover and perpetrated an unkind assault on our tiring vehicle. An unexpected donga cracked the front left bodywork, and now – even on tar – the knock-knock of the chassis against the body worsened below my feet. ‘Its superficial,’ James tried to assure me, noticeably unconvinced. That soon changed to, ‘Crap Sah, I don’t think we’ll make it to the lake and back. We’re on good tar now and the car sounds like it’s falling apart. She won’t survive 900 km of dirt road in this condition.’ I didn’t share James’s obvious affection for our ailing vehicle, not then at least. She needed a swift kick up the rear axel. Swallowing my bitterness, I agreed that we couldn’t continue and just like that our dreams of Lake Tanganyika flitted out the window.
Evani & Co.
We stopped in Morogoro with a plan to change the shocks and then carry on to Dar es Salaam in search of a panel beater. Glum with the prospect of being in a city, we got a call from a family friend in Dar es Salaam. ‘Call Evani the Greek. He’s based in Morogoro and he might be able help you.’ Doubtful, we called Evani and 5 minutes later he was under our car, inspecting her wounds. ‘Come to my shop, lets see what we can do,’ Evani offered, and before long we were at his open-air workshop – 4×4 shells scattered across the yard, a turkey gobbling at my feet, palm trees and mountain lighting up the background.
Evani is in fact only part Greek. His father visited Tanzania from Greece in the fifties and enticed by the booming hunting trade, decided to stay. He fell in love with a local woman, Naomi, and eight babies later Tanzania is his undisputed home. I was let into this and other stories in Naomi’s kitchen. While the men got to work outside, Naomi invited me in for lunch – a gesture my Western sensibility stumbled across at first. ‘Thank you so much but I really don’t want to intrude “¦ and I’ve already eaten’, the words came out before I had time to think. In truth I was starving and yearned to be back in the presence of a family. Thankfully Naomi insisted, shoo-shooing my so-called correctness out of the door and ushering me in. The pumpkin, stewed meat, fried cassava chips and ugali (pap) went down a treat, sweetened by the eight strangers around me, carrying on as if I was part of the family.
We left Evani’s after dark – shocks replaced, hubs tightened and bodywork welded back to health. The cost? Nine hundred bucks (Rand) and a string of ‘thank yous’ that continued out my open window until Evani’s workshop disappeared behind us. Lake Tanganyika was back on the cards and I for one was grateful for the diversion.
