Introducing the Paka: Cappy & Canelo

Paka means “cat” in Swahili. It was the first word I learned in Tanzania (apart from that stupid Jambo song that Hollywood plays whenever it sets a movie in Africa.) The reason I learned it first is because we brought our cats with us from the Congo when we moved to Tanzania. Travelling in and out of the Congo, or any African country, is a special experience, and doing it with animals even more so. I was very worried, especially after hearing that a USAID employee lost her cats at the Kinshasa airport when a porter dropped the cage and it busted open. Not until she arrived in France was she told her cats didn’t even make it on the plane! After hearing that story, I bought 2 rolls of duct tape and made sure the cages were completely secure no matter what happened

First of all, to bring animals on any flight you have to make the reservation in advance, which is just asking for trouble in the Congo, because of course this gives the cargo people time to alert the airport officials that some rich foreigner is ripe for the pickings. The moment we walked into the airport we were accosted by men in white robes claiming to be veterinarians. Guys in white coats are NEVER hanging out at the front of the airport, so clearly they had been called in just for us. Then came an hour-long negotiation about what kind of "tax" I was supposed to pay on the cats. They never actually looked at the cats, and kept insisting I had to pay an import tax. They even produced some decrepit looking law book from the 1950s which said I had to pay an import tax. There was no possibility of explaining what the word “import” actually meant!!

Finally we settled on $20, but then had another problem when I insisted on a receipt with full name and identification. Didn’t exist. I got something that sort of looked official but was certainly not a receipt and I had to insist that they write their names and phone numbers on it, just in case somewhere down the line more “vets” required yet further import taxes. But happily then I was directed to the sanctuary of the Kenya Airways Cargohold, where at least I had some recourse (and the Kenya Airways Cargo HQ phone number to complain to) if I got shaken down further. A nice tip insured not only that the cats got on the plan but that I also received a text message from the boss confirming it (always get it in writing!)

In Kenya, we had a 1 hour layover, and I already had the number of the Cargo people, so I called to make sure the cats would make the transfer to the next plan. Of course, Cargo had no idea about it. By the time I got onto the tarmac to board the plane, there was still no confirmation about the cats, so I spoke to the crew on the ground about whether they expected to receive cats. I then stood there on the tarmac, and politely declined to board until I saw the cats arrive. They were actually totally cool about this, even though I sort of held up the plane by a few minutes. And then the cats arrived, I was ushered quickly onto the plane, and all was well.

Until we got to Dar es Salaam, that is. Going straight to the cargo hold, we said Paka and there was absolutely no comprehension or expectation of cats arriving from Kenya Airways. There were, however, alligators and other reptiles boxed up for travel to the USA, which was really intriguing. After a big run around, driving back and forth from the cargo to the airport to get signatures, they finally located the cats. But, then we also had a bag in cargo. We asked to have the bag released as well, on the grounds that “the cat food is in the bag.” More running around, and 6 hours later, the bag was released. But when they went to look for it, it wasn’t there. It hadn’t even arrived. After all that effort I’d spent in Kenya making sure that the cats arrived, it didn’t occur to me to also make sure that my bag would arrive as well. Unfortunately this was the start of Easter weekend, which in Tanzania means 5 days national holiday. (which makes sense, being a Muslim country and all……….. ?)

We had nowhere to take the cats at that point, because it was nearly midnight and we had no house. So we tentatively covered up the cages, parked in front of the front door of the Holiday Inn, waved off the bell hops, and booked it across the lobby with screeching cats under blankets up to our room. Mike, who was thoroughly enjoying himself, nonchalantly hopped back down to get our bags like we didn’t just run cats into the hotel illegally and everyone saw. I stayed in the room waiting for the inevitable knock on the door from management. But it never came.

In the end we didn’t get the bag left in cargo until the next week, so we needed to search out grocery stores that sold cat food. I went traipsing all over downtown asking everyone I saw for “Paka” food. No luck, so I ended up buying some puppy chow instead. That worked for about a minute, and then I think the cats caught on that they were eating dog food and walked away in disgust. After that, it was Holiday Inn room service leftovers and whatever sausage I could sneak out of breakfast.

For the next week our refugee cats hid in the room with us. We wouldn’t let the maid in to clean, and I made a makeshift litterbox in the bathroom. But by the 7th day they’d started marking their territory. We knew where the house was that we were to move into, but the owner was making a lot of repairs and we couldn’t move in for some time to come. So we dumped the cats in the garage there with food and litter for another week until we could move into the house ourselves. By the time we finally insisted on moving into the house, the cats were thoroughly traumatized. Cappy, who is the bully, was visibly depressed. I’ve never see a cat depressed before, I didn’t know it could happen, but he was clearly unhappy. Canelo, on the other hand, never was too bright to begin with, so recovered quickly.

The paka are now back to their old habits: sleeping during the day and playing jungle cat at night. But for the first time they have to contend with a host of other animals in the yard, and it’s been tough going from their coddled city life in Kinshasa to “country” living on the Peninsula of Dar es Salaam. They’re crap at trying to catch rabbits, and were getting beat up regularly by the local strays. But they’ve toughened up a little, and now Cappy is the valiant defender of the back porch, and Canelo keeps the wandering kittens at bay. They still haven’t learned how to climb trees, though, and think the guinea fowl are shite (couldn’t agree more). And the rooster terrifies them. But they keep the mice away!

Return to main blogsite