Today I woke up dogless. Being dogless wasn't a huge surprise, but this morning was a little frustrating because the evening before, my fellow volunteer (whose village I came to visit that day) and I had unsuccessfully attempted to get a man to sell me one of his puppies. I had lured the friendliest puppy close by dropping chipsi (fries) closer and closer to me, until I was able to pick him up, holding his soft weight for about an hour as we engaged in deliberations with this man until he finally told us that he wasn't going to sell the puppy. So I put the puppy down and we left, with nothing but cold bagged Chipsi in tow.
In Tanzania, it's important to have contingency plans. So the morning after my first plans were thwarted, I knew that I would stop at a village that's between mine and my fellow volunteer's, on the off-chance that there were puppies there, because there are none in my village (the ones that did exist were eaten by hyenas one night - or so I was told).
I got off the bus around eight in the morning, found a chai mama, and sat watching her roll chapati while the tea heated up on the red-hot charcoal stoves. I had tea and chapati and asked her if she knew of any puppies in this village. She said she didn't really know, so after I finished I wandered around the corner, where I found a man manning a small shop. I asked him, and he in turn called out to a pikipiki (motorcycle) driver who was nearby. They deliberated, asked me if I wanted a male or female, and then the piki driver and a teenage boy took off, a small cardboard box in tow.
By this time it's past nine in the morning. The shop owner informs me that the first puppy litter they found had only females, so they were searching further afield. There is nothing for me to do but wait, so I stand in front of the shop for the better part of an hour, as a group of teenage boys gather. More piki drivers pull up, also vijana (teenagers). The shop is where they buy fuel, by the liter or half-liter, for their pikis. There are a few bottles of fuel lined up on the shop railing, shining a dull clear reddish color. One young piki driver starts a spirited rant about fuel prices, galloping around and riling up all the boys, while another revs the engine of his piki that is ailing.
The shop owner finally brings out a wicked-looking machete, brandishing it nonchalantly at the boys, cigarette in his mouth and a few mumbled tribal words on his lips. Most of the boys disperse, and the piki driver cools down. The shopkeeper puts the machete back.
Finally my wait seems to be over as my piki driver, leather jacket buttoned backwards onto his torso, pulls up with boy and box in tow. I take out the scared creature, and it's a girl. "Did we make a mistake?" They ask, and I tell them yes, return with a male.
More waiting, then they return, and I lift out a little runt of a male puppy. He is light brown with white on his chest, and he curls up, hiding his face under my jacket.
"So," I ask the piki driver.
"So, what price will you pay?" Asks the driver.
Long story short, I paid 15,000 shillings for the whole situation - technically the breakdown was 5,000 for the puppy and 10,000 for the "fuel". But it all amounts to about $7, so I can't complain.
One of my few bus options passed as we were deliberating payment, so I had to wait for another bus. I went over to the other shop whose owner I know, and she was very happy to see me. I waited there for the next bus option, and swaddled the puppy in a kanga I brought. But when the bus pulled up, the conductor told me I would have to put my dog in the boot, that I couldn't take him on like that. I refused, deciding I would wait through the afternoon until the last bus, which is my favorite because it's a small bus, typically chaotic, and typically a very friendly bunch of people.
So we waited through the afternoon, and a friendly guy took me to find a cardboard box to put the puppy in this time. He even cut air holes in it! What a nice fellow. My conductor friend in this village found me, and he called the chain to find out when my bus was approaching. As time dwindled, we put the puppy in the box and tied it shut with some twine.
As anticipated, my favorite bus people were very accommodating, even to the point of the puppy riding up front, in his box, in the nook between the bus driver and his door! The driver kept glancing down under his arm at the puppy, which made me nervous, because the road has many switchbacks and hills. Everything went well until about halfway though, when the puppy managed to get its front legs out of the box and began to emerge! My bus driver stopped the bus and handed the box back to me, and the conductors and I tried to push him back into the box. Then we were just a few minutes from my village when my puppy couldn't hold it any longer and messed inside his box. Despite the very crowded bus, I think he and I were the only ones who got dirty, and shortly thereafter we piled out, a hot and stressed mess, at my village.
I was in a bit of a daze, and I walk past people who are surprised and happy that I've gotten a puppy. We get to our house, and I let him out. He looks so small wandering about my courtyard!
About a year ago, I knew that I would do Peace corps, and I knew that I would probably be living in a predominantly Muslim country or area. I knew that I wanted to get a dog during my service, so I started looking into Muslim perceptions of dogs. And I discovered an interesting legend. The coolest thing about this legend is that it is shared by both Muslims and Christians, even though a lot of people don't know about it.
It is the legend of the seven sleepers, and you can google it, but I can summarize it briefly: it's about a group of people (typically seven), who, in the early ADs, were being persecuted for their faith. They flee to the hills, finding refuge in a cave, where they enter and fall asleep. Their dog stretches out at the entrance, and passerby only see a dog napping in the sun - no cave or refugees to be seen!
The story takes a Rip-van-Winkle turn, and the seven sleepers wake up years later, having slept through their faith's persecution.
In the Muslim version of the legend, the dog's name is Qitmir, or Kitmeer, depending on spelling. And amazingly, when I arrived in Tanzania, one of the first billboards that caught my eye was for Kitmeer, which is the name of a furniture brand here!
So that is his name. A little obscure, but it means something to me.
