By five o'clock I had made my first Tanzanian friend, a tall, heavy- motorcyclist who, though a third-generation Indian, considers himself African. Preparing to meet his family for dinner, the unshaven All Hussein was closing his motorcycle workshop when hit with an unexpected vagabond's wish-list for repairs. Shiite Muslims are strict family men, and staying late to work on some distressed foreigner's faltering bike was the last thing on his mind. But once he'd heard my plea, he offered, "Since you are travelling such a long way, me and my men will work tonight." But wrenching in the dark leads to errors and lost parts, so we agreed to wait until sunrise.
In the morning, uncomfortable with his non-English-speaking crew, when an overly concerned Ali Hussein suggested disassembling the entire drive section for inspection and cleaning, I argued that the rest of the motorcycle is fine and all that was necessary was to unbolt the rear swing arm to replace a worn chain and sprockets- a one hour job with the correct tools. Fluent in Swahili, Hussein turned, yelling words to his men that made them laugh aloud.
Curious as to the joke, I asked, "What's so funny?"
"I told them you are afraid of their skin."
Embarrassed because he was right, I tried to deny it, "No that's not it, I just prefer not to take things apart unless absolutely necessary. You never know what can break or get misplaced in the process." Still, the truth was, I foolishly questioned their competency because they weren't Germans in white smocks.
Glen Heggstad One More Day Everywhere p 369