The novelty of work in Africa wears off quickly and gives way to the hard truths that exist here on a day-to-day basis. Excuses for missed days at work were one of the first things to stand out for me. I was accostomed American excuses. Usually phone calls with a little added drama to validate the common cold excuse rather than the truth which was typically a hangover. The excuses I ran into on the Swahili Coast were some real shockers. Malaria was commonplace. AIDS took one of my guys within a month of my arrival. I remember giving his wife money so she could seek treatment. She returned a couple days later asking for more. She had apparently spent the first chunk on a witchdoctor and now needed more money so that she could try Plan B - the hospital. I had a guy come into work and then “beg my permission” to leave early so he could bury his son.
Early one morning I was walking with one of the resort’s excursion guides down the dirt road that connects the village of Utende with Kilindoni. The road is in a miserable state with potholes and chunks of rock and the landscape is littered with blue plastic bags. The sun was just breaking the treeline and the air was already hot and thick. In the distance a Land Rover sped past a man on a bicycle leaving behind a blanket of dust. I looked down as the Land Rover approached and shaded my eyes. As I looked down I noticed the dust that was gathering on my sandals. The sweat from between my toes mixed with dust and turned to mud. The Land Rover passed and the air became thicker. I rubbed off the earth that was gathering on my sunglasses and I noticed that the man on the bicycle was my baker who was running about an hour late for work. The bicycle was old and looked as if it was pieced together from several others. Africa is surely the place that bicycles go to die. I noticed that it lacked the shock suspension system and hand brakes that we have in the USA for bikes we use to ride down paved roads and sidewalks. Then I turned my attention to my baker. His eyes were wide and distant and the sun glared off beads of sweat gathering on his face and forhead. He was soaking wet. I noticed he was in his uniform except for his chef jacket which I assumed he left at the resort. His face was edgy and stressed and I could tell he was in a great deal of pain.
My excursion guide exchanged a few words in Kiswahili that I did not yet understand. And then my baker tells me that he isn’t feeling well and asks me permission to take the day off. I tell him that it is no problem and furthermore I say “the next time you’re in such a sorry state just stay home”. He really looked like shit. He thanks me, turns the bike around, and rides back in the direction he just came from. I asked the guide how far away he lived. “About forty-five minutes by bicycle”. I wondered for a moment why he wouldn’t send a messenger instead of coming himself. Then I ask what was wrong with him. I am told that he had elephantitis of the balls.
This man just spent an hour and a half riding a bicycle down a primitive dirt road under the blazing African sun with a set of swollen balls in order to ask me permission to take the day off. I certainly have never seen loyalty like than in an American kitchen. And this guy was probably banking about $3 per day. Later I was talking with the dive instructor about it and found some reason for the man’s loyalty.
The baker had apparently slept with another man’s wife, which truth be told, was not an uncommon occurance on the Swahili Coast. When the husband found out he promptly plunged a knife into the baker’s back. The hospital in Kilindoni, Mafia’s only hospital was ill-equipped to handle the situation. There are no flights after dusk and the Mafia runway had to be lined with cars and flashlights so the pilot could see the runway. The owner had to fly his Cessna from Zanzibar to Mafia to pick the baker up and then deliver him to the hospital in Dar Es Salaam. The baker owes his life to the owner. He has been working for the resort now for the better part of ten years. After I heard the story I nicknamed him “Backdoor”.
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