I think that there is a distinct possibility that I am a Real World kind of a girl. It isn’t just a love of amenities like Kraft Dinner, Borders, Qdoba, and drivers who obey the laws of the road that I find myself missing with increasing desperation. You see, while I love living in the developing world, there are just some things that my citified, first world mentality cannot live through without tantrums, chocolate, and numerous people telling me that I’m right and the world around me is wrong.
In India, some people complained about putting up with people who said they would arrive at 10 a.m. only to have them show up two days later at 3 in the afternoon. And I certainly wasn’t put out by calls from my landlord in the middle of meetings or days out with the Girls to tell me that HE needed access to my apartment because something of HIS needed to be fixed immediately. Nor was I one to bat an eyelash when I saw people spitting or urinating on every available wall-like surface.
Here in Nairobi, my nose is not out of joint because my Internet speed is worthy of a time warp back to 1996 – when it works that is. Nor am I upset by an unexpected truism that when it rains, satellite television dies a horrible static-y death. And lest my mother once again accuse me of whining and tell me to “buck up,” I want to point out that I’m not even complaining about the fact that none of my staff ever listen to me or do things the way I ask them to.
No today’s tempest (riddled as it was with four letter expletives, kendo stick waving, and righteous anger fed by the lack of Internet people calling me when they said they would) was courtesy of the Rainy Season that I described last week. Last night, you see, it rained viscously for several hours and, after a short break, returned to fine wet form just as we were headed to bed. I am not a rain hater: I like the rain. But I am a hater of tin roofs with holes in them, and tile covers with rabbit sized gaps in them, all of which keep me watching for drips with an intensity that would scare the most hardened of criminals.
Last night Hubby and I noticed a persistent and ominous dripping noise on the roof directly over our television. Before long, the dripping elicited a steady steam of leakage directly onto one of our bookcases. We took quick measures to protect the important member of the household – the television – and kept an eye out for further leaks. As luck would have it, we missed the one that produced several water stains in our entryway and almost ruined one of Hubby’s prints which I had hung over the hall table.
Do you think the apartment manager cared? Do you think the men he sent to fix the leaks have actually done anything more than insult me in Swahili? Do you really think that the problem is fixed? *sob* I am afraid of the rain. I am afraid of what I will find when I wake up each morning after the rain stops. I am afraid that I will hurt someone if the problem isn’t fixed soon to my satisfaction. But most of all I am tired of waking up every time I hear a drip worried that it may be landing on something important or valuable – like me!
PS – Turns out that the apartment manager does care and is in the process of getting bids to have the roof fixed rather than patched. Someone listened to me complain and cared. *sniff*
PS2 - Of course it won’t actually be fixed for at least another month by which time the Long Rains will almost be over but hey! It’s the thought that counts. Or something…