REJUVENATION, AFRICAN STYLE
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” I grew up with this aphorism, and it makes a
lot of sense. The African version of
this philosophy is a bit more extreme. I
will articulate it as, “If you can tape it, don’t toss it.” If the Formica is chipped or warped, it can
still serve as a writing surface. If the
chipped and cracked teacup does not leak (or only just a little) it is still
useful. And so on. You get the picture.
Thus, I was surprised when Mohammed insisted that we get the
car painted. But, on further thought, he
was absolutely right. If repainted, the
16 year-old RAV 4 would last another 10 years or so. If left to its own devices, the roof would
most assuredly rust through before too long.
It was solid thinking, just a little more visionary than one generally
encounters in Tanzania.
The paint shop—actually, much more than a paint shop, it is a
vehicle restoration establishment—came with sterling credentials. They paint police cars. I wondered if perhaps they could make our
vehicle look official, so that we would not be waved over so often by the ice
cream suit cops. This was, of course, an
idle fantasy.
We were instructed to head toward the sugar plantation and
look for the first green gate after the railroad tracks, the railroad tracks
being the most solid reference point. We
had never been to the sugar plantation, and we had to head down three different
streets off the roundabout before finding a street that actually crossed the
tracks. One could also argue whether or not the gate is actually green. I would label it as chartreuse, bordering on
yellow.
There was only a narrow “bridge” over the deep stonelined
drainage sluice. Inside the gate was a
scene that could have been the set for Mad Max.
I state this with no authority, since I have only ever seen the previews. There were trucks and large I-don’t-know-what vehicles that had all seen much better days, but were still
functional. We were regarded with some
consternation when we first entered.
Workers seemed to wonder why we were there. The chips and dents on the sides and bumpers
hardly warranted their attention. But
when we pointed out the sad state of the sun-burned roof, there were earnest nods
of comprehension.
One of the men pulled out chairs for us to wait in while an
estimate was prepared. The chairs had
nearly matching deficits in the wooden backs.
The pseudo leather covering each seat had an identical large side to
side split that revealed an equivalent deep chasm in the underlying foam. They were comfortable.
Newman, in a shirt that formerly belonged to a MacDonald’s worker,
opened up the hood and looked at the engine.
I’m not sure why. Then he
strolled around the car, and retreated to some office.
A large squarish rusted machine had some fearsome
projections and foot pedals that looked like they came from a piano. My husband told me that it was a machine that
takes tires off of wheels, and this one looked like it could have removed a
million in its time. I told him that the
tire guys at the Orix station never resort to such technology. They do everything by hand. I have great admiration for the Orix
guys. They keep me entertained whenever
we stop to refuel our RAV 4.
Numerous old spare parts of questionable utility were
interspersed around the workspace. I
hesitate to use the term, “scattered” since they could well have been placed
strategically. I used such a system on
my desk, back when I had an office. It
looked jumbled, but I knew where everything was, just in case I might need it. The thickness of the red dust layer was
highly variable, but it covered everything except our chairs.
I marveled at the idea that a place so apparently cluttered
and dusty could produce such pristine painting results.
After half an hour, no estimate was forthcoming. We were told we should go on, as someone
would contact us. That has not happened
yet, and no one answers the phone when we call.
Mohammed says we should give them a couple of days. I can certainly do that. And even if we never
succeed in getting our car repainted, even if the roof ultimately rusts through,
I will always treasure my afternoon in the garden of ancient automotive artifacts.
