Theft

So much happens every day, some things seem routine, but others continue to surprise me.  This blog has been harder to write and maintain than I ever thought it would be, especially since in 2012 I always wrote almost every day about people, places, and happenings.  This time is different: Maybe because I am older and less energetic or perhaps because almost nothing is completely new anymore.  Still, each day has moments of new awareness, and unexpected events.

Last week, I experienced my very first encounter with something many people fear and is all too common in African cities: Theft.  In over 40+ years living and visiting in different African countries, I had never had anything stolen from me until Wednesday.  For lunch, John, Megan, and I had gone to the New Safari Hotel’s restaurant, which has a semi-enclosed open eating area, with posted security guards.  They serve lovely, big salads for about  $5, so it has long been one of my favorite places to go for a special treat.  Plus, it is owned and operated by the Lutheran church here in Tanzania and has very competent and congenial servers.  We three sat at one of the small round tables, John to my right, and Megan directly across from me, and ordered.  As usual, I had my wonderful little string bag I bought when I first went to Moldova and Lithuania in the summer of 2007, and I hung it on a knob on my chair’s back so that it was at my side and—because of the knob--could not be removed without special effort.  We had a great lunch, and then when I stood up, there was no bag anymore.  I was stunned.  I had felt nothing; John and Megan, who both always had me in their views, had seen nothing.  Whoever had taken the bag had apparently cut the straps, moved quickly, and had somehow been able to avoid any suspicion. The food manager came and wondered if I had really brought the bag in with me or had perhaps left it in our taxi, and though I knew I had had the bag with me because I had taken out my phone to call Megan, we called Ray to come back.  He was horrified and assured the manager that I had kept my bag with me.  One of the other diner’s suggested that the video from the security camera be checked, and while I strongly suspected that the camera had not been operational, I asked the manager to do that.  We waited and waited, but eventually the manager said they hadn’t seen anything “yet,” so we left, knowing there would be no further news.

I felt betrayed and sad.  Foreign visitors so often say negative things about Africa, as though here but never at home bad things happen and people are less than trustworthy.  While it’s true that many Africans are very poor and perhaps desperate for a better life or even daily food, I’ve never felt that thievery was any more prevalent here than is major cities in America or Europe.  The news at home in Spokane is always full of burglaries, stolen cars, assaults, etc.  I actually feel much safer here—especially as a privileged white person—than I do in downtown Spokane.  So, I was stunned.  Fortunately, during our taxi drive to the café, I had given our camera to John to carry, and I had taken out my phone to call Megan, so those items were not taken.  And, I never ever carry my passport on me unless we are actually traveling, so that wasn’t taken either.  I lost my wallet with maybe $60 and my two credit cards, my sunglasses, my red cowboy hanky, a comb, a collapsing umbrella, some pens, etc.  None of that was very important to me (Well, I was fond of the hanky), but losing my little string bag was a big blow.  It’s odd which items we may cherish most: that bag had traveled with me twice to Lithuania and twice to Tanzania and was the perfect size for carrying everything I needed with me when I went into town, and yet it never looked stuffed and bulky. It had become my adult equivalent of a child’s favorite blanket.  So, I miss it acutely and feel violated that now someone else has it.  If I thought I could get it back, I would post a reward.  I really would!

Megan and I eventually left John behind to deal further with the NS manager while we went to pick up some items we had custom ordered from a group of women who do bead work under a big tree downtown.  We had cut a deal with them the week before and paid a hefty deposit, so we wondered if they had maybe cut and run.  But, there they were, sitting along the sidewalk, stringing beads.  When they saw us, the called out greetings to their “rafiki” and shook our hands and some even hugged us.  We went back to their “office,” which is really an alley in which they stack their supplies and goods under plastic coverings, and they brought out our orders.  I had only three items to retrieve, a customized bracelet and two beaded stars for my Christmas tree, but Megan had ordered a lot of beaded stars, rings, and coasters.  There is no such thing as just paying and leaving, so we sat on upside down plastic buckets and discussed how great their work was, how happy we were with what they had made, why we did not need more beaded sandals or other things, and whether or not we would return with more orders.  The young woman sitting next to me, leaned over and laid her arms across my lap as she spoke with Megan, and I was again comforted by how accepting and open people here can be.  It felt good after what had happened less than an hour before.  John finally came, and there were more greetings and handshakes before we finally left to run our other errands and return to Kundayo.

Business women

 All in all, it was a good bad day: Theft and disappointment, yes, but also concern and warmth. And, I got a bit crazy and made bread pudding in my little handmade clay pot. So, I ended the day feeling okay—though I do miss my little black string bag.

Not bad bread pudding