The Bicycle

The men on the Compton side of my family suffer from a common genealogical anomaly. While most of us possess a trim and svelte figure, there still exists one part of our anatomy that refuses to commit to the general slimness of the remaining appendages. Namely, we all have rounded paunches. Not giant beer belly spheres, but tiny bulbous knots that extend from just below our ribcage to tops of our pants. It’s as if we’ve all been stung directly in the bellybutton by a bee, the resulting infection causing our little tummies to swell outwardly in the shape of miniature footballs.

This concerns me, and the reality of the ailment has only increased in equal increments with each passing birthday. Because of this fear I have invested quite a bit of time in the last several years exercising and generally avoiding carbs as if they were the plague.

When we moved to Tanzania this problem relocated with us. To combat the issue I decided that it would be prudent to purchase a bicycle. Because we live on the side of a mountain and still a reasonable distance from our office in town, it only made sense to begin commuting by pedal. I reasoned that not only would I be given the opportunity to continue to quell the swelling bee-sting around my midsection, but I’d also experience Tanzania a bit more like a native does. In my time in country I had met only one Tanzanian that owned their own car, and in all reality, if a family has a vehicle, it is a bicycle.

So my search began, quite unsuccessfully. It is impossible to purchase a new mountain bike here and equally difficult to find one with a seat that doesn’t mimic a colonoscopy on wheels. The majority of bicycles available for purchase are imported from China. While these are new, they are one-speed affairs that are primarily designed to haul large loads of goods. After several weeks of trying, I gave up looking.

It was then that I stumbled upon one. We had driven to Arusha for the day to do some grocery shopping and were coming out of one of the larger stores when I spotted one. There, surrounded by a group of Tanzanian men, was a red and seemingly usable mountain bike. I had no idea the brand, the actual worth, or even the owner of said bike, but I knew it looked like it might actually function.

I approached the group and inquired about the bike. First I asked where I might find one similar. They gave me a general direction and some instructions, but I knew I would never find the shop they were directing me too. Thusly, I inquired about actually purchasing this bike, since it was in such close proximity to my vehicle.

After negotiating for 10 or so minutes and a brief test drive around the parking lot, I was strapping the bike to my roof rack. I also had one of the men demonstrate to me that he knew the combination for the lock attached to the bike, the only thing I could think of to verify that it actually belonged to them.

I drove the return trip to Babati quite proud of myself and my initiative in buying a bike off the side of the road, one that was not actually for sale. Although, if I learned anything in Tanzanian, it’s that everything is for sale as long as the price is right. The next day I woke up excited for my first ride to work. I disinfected the seat, (can you imagine all of the foreign farts that sank into that thin cushion?) and wheeled the bike outside of the gate.

I raced down the mountain. The trip to my office is almost all downhill and it was an easy ride past the shops that lined the street and the local hospital. When I crested the short rise into town I could almost glide to the front door of my building. All told I rode for perhaps 10 minutes. I carried the bike inside and went to work.

At the end of the day I mounted the bicycle again. Whereas the ride to work was a breeze, I knew the ride home would be far less so. The entire path is straight up a mountain, almost a mile in length. Before heading towards the house I took a ride outside of the compound that houses my office and rode straight through town. I needed to check the post office before returning to my house.

A note about the post office: I’m not sure why I insist on checking the tiny metal box that sits affixed to the side of the building. We almost never get mail. And it’s not because people don’t send mail, I know for a fact that members of our family in America often send packages and letters. Instead, it’s because somewhere along the line someone sees those packages and decides that instead of forwarding them on to their destination it would be much easier and more beneficial for them personally to simply end the route right there, helping themselves to whatever might be found in those envelopes. Few things about Tanzania frustrate me more than the postal service. Something about someone stealing gifts meant for your children does not register well. They sacrifice a lot because we chose to move here, the few moments of joy and connectivity that come from getting a gift from their grandparents should not be one of them.

Regardless, I rode on to the post office to check the box. The road from our office to the postal building is lined with small shops. In front of each plastered building little crowds of people sit in the shade of their overhangs, passing the day with mild conversation. As I rode by these shops the shouting began.

“MZUNGU! MZUNGU! GIVE ME MONEY! GIVE ME MONEY!” young kids and teenagers yelled from the stoops. “WHERE ARE YOU GOING MZUNGU! GIVE ME MY MONEY NOW!” It’s discouraging that the few English phrases most children know are, “Good morning,” and ‘Give me Money.” But that is their common cry. Coupled with the shouts of money were people laughing at the scene, those not shouting chuckling at those who were and at the sight of a white guy on a bicycle. It doesn’t matter if you’re doing something millions of Africans do everyday, when a white guy tries something, it’s hilarious. (To be fair, I’ve never seen myself riding a bicycle, perhaps it is hysterical).

Perhaps I should have been used to this by now, but it still bothers me to hear a five year old screaming at a white stranger as he goes by that he wants money right now. But it continued. It should also be said that I walk through town everyday on the way to lunch and never hear a word, apart from a polite greeting, from people as I pass. The only difference is that I always go to lunch with Herman, the Tanzanian associate director of our program. Something about a Mzungu being alone offers permission for everyone to scream as they pass.

I arrived at the post office and walked to the edge of the building. There was nothing. I got back on the bike, headed back through town and faced the corridor of propositions one more time. When I finally reached the edge of town and began the climb up the mountain I wanted nothing more than to be at my house. Something about the events of the last several minutes had left me feeling unwanted and isolated. I felt a sting of embarrassment and the overwhelming sense that I didn’t belong there.

I started the ascent and was breathing heavily and sweating within seconds. I hadn’t really ridden a bike in a couple of years and now I was trying to take one straight up a mountain. But I didn’t stop. There were hundreds of people lining the road as they walked home from work and I didn’t want to be around them. I just kept pedaling past everyone. Even as several people offered a friendly greeting as I passed, I continued with my head down in silence. About a quarter of the way up the hill I rode over a small speed bump, stomping on the pedal to keep the bike propelling forward. When I thrust my foot down I felt the pedal spin fruitlessly and the bike coasted to a stop. I looked down to the see the chain hanging limply below the bike.

I got off, disgusted, frustrated, and now kneeling on the ground as a crowd started gathering around. I fumbled with the chain, in my haste to get moving again I was getting nowhere. An old man, speckled with age spots and white hair rode to a stop beside me. He dismissed the group that had crowded in and knelt down beside me. Without saying a word his frail hands reached for the chain and slowly wound it back on the bike. I mumbled thank you and began to ascend once more. My legs felt like jelly and I was too weak to ride so I began the slow trudge up the hill. I was several feet away when I turned around to see the old man walking briskly behind me. He continued until we were side by side.

I looked over at him and he smiled. We continued our walk in silence. He stayed with me for the remaining 20 minutes it took to reach my gate, never saying anything, just nodding and smiling each time I looked over.

Walking in step with the old man gave me the same type of confidence I’d enjoyed while walking to lunch with Herman each day. Someone had vouched for me; someone had taken a moment to assure me I was worth more than a handout or a laugh at my expense. As we walked, the tired faces of the men and women walking in step or in the opposite direction began to come into focus. As we’d pass I’d glance up and they’d return my gaze. We’d nod and smile, or offer a simple greeting.

Eventually I arrived at my gate and waved goodbye to the old man. I pounded on the metal sheet and waited for the watchman to open the door. When he finally appeared and slid back the bolt latching the door closed I stepped inside and rolled the bike into the garage. Looking back at my day, the good had eventually outweighed the bad. Perhaps riding down the mountain would be my continued path to work. Perhaps there were great life lessons to be learned pedaling along the byways of East Africa. You know, I thought to myself in the moment, I think I can do it.

I sold the bike the next day.

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After two years of living in Africa I bought myself another bike. I ride it to work at least three times a week, and don’t quite feel like dying every time I climb back up the hill at the end of the day, although it’s close. When I ride I still get a lot of “GIVE ME MONEY!” chants from kids along the road. I understand why. A lifetime of tourists tossing shillings and foreigners arriving to provide financial aid has taught them that it never hurts to ask. But it doesn’t bother me anymore. Instead I wave and smile. Often I slow to a stop in front of them and laughingly discuss their day at school. I invite them to ride alongside me for a while or I get off and walk with them along the dirt roads that I frequent around the house. We just walk and talk, laughing and giggling together along the way. And in doing so, I hope they feel the value of knowing someone thinks they’re worth more than a handout.