The Milk Run

So Monday takes us into a new week and first thing, as I sat freshly shining from my shower, Lorraine reminded me that we needed to collect milk from the van. [We make our own yoghurt and have tried a few sources, including the antibiotic-stuffed milk from the Dr.’s down the road, but that killed off the yoghurt culture so they are now shunned and never spoken of.] The milk van arrives around 8, so you have to be early and may have to wait a while - this is Africa. I set off down the road (all clean remember) and saw a 4x4 coming towards me with the obligatory cloud of road dirt following in its wake. My heart sank; I had been dust-free for 10 minutes and here was the first layer of filth approaching...

Suitably covered I continued, following the path created by many feet through the undergrowth and found myself standing alongside the large open drain that runs parallel to the road. My legs are little and the gap is wide so I stood and swore, before looking up to see a young girl chuckling at me. Ever one for a challenge, I took a deep breath and with a brief prayer I leapt (successfully – I am writing this aren’t I?) and continued up the road.

The usual crowd of people were waiting and I took a place on the wall, having muttered “Habari" (Hiya) a few times, but with little response. (This is not unusual, my accent is not great). After an age the van pulled up and we shambled across the road with our various plastic containers. (No hygienic metal pails for us!) The Big Guy stands at the side collecting the money and then everyone pushes to the back of the lorry which has been let down to display a chap with a dubious plastic jug that goes into a dubious plastic barrel to ladle out the fresh, warm milk. There are also a few old-fashioned milk churns and for a moment I ponder whether these are for artistic appeal or practical use. Yes, it’s obvious really.

Still in a bafflingly romantic mood, I stood back a bit, considering what a nice, colourful scene this was and - ready to take my turn - I practiced saying moje (one, as in one litre). My reverie was broken when I realised that I was starting to choke on the diesel fumes and perhaps the milk dripping on my shoe from out of the corner of the van wasn’t so great. Last in the queue - as I have not honed the necessary pushing-in skills - I got my milk and returned.

Coming home I reached the drain by the path and flew across, forgetting that now I was carrying milk. The result was not the gazelle-like leap I had hoped for, but again I survived and am happy for small mercies.