I loved standing on the edge of the cart as my father wheeled it down the aisles. I adored the moments when I was allowed to push the trolley myself. I’d place one foot on the lower rack as I used the other to hop along the floor and gain momentum. When the time was right I’d drag the lower foot onto the perch as well and careen with the cart as it screamed down the aisle or hit one of the stands that populated the center crossways. It was exciting to look up at the plastic swordfish that hung over the seafood section and to flick at the glass of the live lobster tank. Picking out cereal, stopping at the small toy section, or licking the ice off the freezer sections were a bi-weekly tradition. The store seemed so huge then as each aisle and display towered over me.
Even now in typing this I’m yearning for one of the 25-cent sodas that stocked the machines that lined the exit of the store. But alas, back to the issue of patience. Affixed to the front of Bag N’ Save was a small video store. Immediately upon entering through the sliding doors of the building you were greeted with two options. You could walk straight ahead, in which you would find yourself among several small aisles of VHS tapes, or you could turn right and begin your grocery shopping. As we got older my brother and I would immediately head straight into the movie store while my father turned right and set about filling his cart. Once inside we would quickly scurry past each VHS to the small section of Nintendo games housed at the rear of the tiny room. Once nestled among the wire racks we would pour over each box and salivate at the tiny screen shots printed on their covers. Once we had selected the object of our desire I would be delegated to return to my father.
Thus would begin a prolonged period of systematic pleading. Words aren’t enough to describe the type of fortitude and entreating that was involved in attaining our video game rental. It would begin with a simple request, “dad, can I rent a game?” The usual first response was a polite, “not today.” As a child I did not think to consider why my father would initially respond in the negative. Perhaps because the grocery store was 30 minutes away and perhaps because you could only rent games for 1 night at a time he was less inclined to oblige and be forced into repeating another trip the store the following evening to return our rental. Or it might have been that he was secretly jealous of the impeccable hand eye coordination I had developed over the years as a result of video game use. I can only speculate at this point. Regardless, our conversation always began with a simple question and a simple no.
My counterattack was to release a barrage of thoughtfully prepared responses, each more intricate and well planned than the last. They were a series of questions designed to prod at my father’s heart and appeal to his sense of compassion and decency. I would begin, “Why not, why not, why not, why not, why not, why not?”
You’d be amazed what impact a singular question can instill upon someone when it is repeated ad naseum. Eventually in a state of frustration and what I would like to think was a tiny bit of marvel at my sheer persistency, he would relent. I would run back to my brother to share the good news.
As a child, this was my definition of patience. If you pester someone long enough, eventually they’ll reach their emotional breaking point and give in. You’ve just got to wait it out. I’d later employ this strategy in courting my wife, unrelenting in my requests for her to marry me until she realized it was just easier to say yes.
For my kids, patience and the grocery store work a little bit differently. For them, patience involves packing the car at 6 am and watching the countryside roll along as we drive three hours to the nearest grocery store in the city.
We begin at the best one, or at least at the one in which we spend the most money, “Pick N Pay.” From “Bag N Save,” to “Pick N Pay,” 30 years later and across the world grocery chains are still utilizing the abbreviated “N.” “Pick N Pay” is run by a local Indian family and is a family business in the truest sense of the word. The patriarch of the family, now almost 90, sits on a small chair just inside the open glass doors, smiling and waving as he indiscreetly watches for shoplifters. His son manages the day-to-day operations, often lingering between the back room and two small checkout counters that line the front of the store. Each of his daughters mans one of these registers. Along the four small aisles that comprise the entirety of the store young Tanzanian girls in green smocks stock the dusty shelves. Each walkway is barely large enough to fit the miniaturized carts through. In passing another costumer a fair bit of gymnastics is needed to successfully navigate to the other side. If each of the four aisles were lined up end-to-end they would extend just shy the length of one typical American grocery store aisle.
Inside the store is sweltering regardless of the hour or season. There are thin AC vents along the roof but I have never seen them in operation, even on the hottest of days. The heat and cramped bodies couple to bathe the area in the strong odor of unwashed bodies.
This is the classroom that teaches my children patience. My wife almost always meticulously plans a list in advance, but is forced to improvise upon our arrival when she sees the stock has changed wildly since our last visit. We each push a cart along the thin aisles as the children hang on to the edges of each trolley. Because of the cramped nature of the store and difficulty in perusing expiration dates, it is normal for us to reside in this small store for over an hour. Eventually a small toy section placates the children as Deanna finishes the last two aisles on her own. When they’ve finished digging through the small rack of cheap plastic trinkets, they race around to an adjacent aisle and fawn over the imported candy. Chocolates and sweets from neighboring countries meet their stare and Elliana and Ian are both allowed to grab several of the cheaply priced packages and agonize over their selections.
As Deanna returns back towards the front of the store we vie for the few remaining feet of free space next to the register. She holds a child with each hand as I plop down our items on the small steel scanner. Fellow customers jockey for position around us and force their way into the neighboring aisles to continue shopping. It’s another thirty minutes before we’ve finished paying and a team of shop boys have lifted our haul into the back of the Land Cruiser.
In contrast to our previous stop, Njiro is air conditioned and immaculately maintained. Tiny shopping carts are available for kids, and our children delight in pushing the small trolleys down the aisles. Each of their carriages houses more than enough room to contain the products we buy there however, as the prices are considerably higher. While it’s aesthetically more pleasing than the other store, its’ prices reflect the enhanced atmosphere. It’s not uncommon to pay $10 for a single box of cereal, or $5 for a small bag of tootsie rolls. While the store does offer imported goods that can’t be found elsewhere, our selections are usually limited to what locally available meats are present in the deli section.
Once we have paid for our few selections we gather the kids once more and head back outside. Because it is usually lunchtime at this particular juncture of our trip, we retire to one of the open-air tables that rest in the center courtyard of the complex. Immediately waiters from each of the five surrounding restaurants descend on the table and offer up menus ranging from Indian to Italian. We politely decline a majority of their offerings before settling on the usual: a pizza for Deanna, hot dogs for Ian, ham and cheese for Elliana, and a hamburger for myself. It may sound foolish, but the break from rice and beans that Arusha affords leaves us craving these simple foods. Meals arrive incrementally over the next hour as each is ordered from a separate restaurant. The kids pass their time by chasing the numerous cats that wander in and around the tables and by staring at the movie posters that line the far wall.
When the food is finished we return to the car and drive back across town to the last of our stops. Inside another fenced compound sits Shopright, an area dominated by tourists frequenting its nearby restaurants. The kids race to the entrance and laugh at the giant smiley faces that are painted on the inside walls. Shopright also has a small toy section, and while Deanna picks up the last few items on her list the kids and I scrutinize the selections. I’m a pushover to their requests to pick something out, and we inevitably leave with a cheap knockoff Barbie and small plastic car. They’re almost always broken by the time we reach Babati that evening.
After a final trip to the outside latrines, the kids are crammed back into the car alongside our grocery haul and we begin the slow crawl out of town. Eventually we reach the open expanses beyond the city and speed towards our home some three hours south. The kids are almost always sleeping before the last few vestiges of the city pass by. It’s usually dark by the time we pull into our gates and begin emptying the car. Some twelve hours from when we departed, we arrive back from our trip to the grocery store.
You know my idea of patience growing up was waiting out my father until he relented to my requests to rent a video game. My kids’ understanding will come from spending most of their day in the back of a Land Cruiser. They’ve grown up in a world vastly different then the one I was raised in. Not bad, just different.
……….
Sometimes this leads me to wonder. How will they feel when they look back on it all? I still remember Bag N Save and the moments I spent inside that building with my Father idealistically. Although they were small moments they remain embedded in my mind and are some of my most treasured recollections.
But often, when I peer in the rearview mirror during those long drives home; when I catch glimpses of them sound asleep and clutching their cheap plastic toys. It is in those seconds, those brief moments, that I’m convinced that the memories we’re creating will change their lives forever.
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