Tutaonana Tanzania (We'll be seeing each other Tanzania)

Malaria/Typhoid Testing Tools

I don't know about you, but when they prick your arm with that little needle labelled "anti-fecal-matter-induced-sickness miracle vaccine" and ply you with bottles of little "will-kill-all-things-mosquito-born-related" orange pills, you start to relax a bit, maybe even feel a bit cocky in the face of horrifying one-only-gets-sick-in-the-jungles-or-wilds-of-africa type diseases like malaria and typhoid. You don't dare to assume (at least I didn't) that it would even be remotely possible to contract not one, but both  diseases I'd somewhat written off as ailments of dirty pirate ships and things you write grant proposals about mosquito nets for. Wrong, wrong. So many ways to be wrong. Though I was proud to have successfully communicated my symptoms and suspicions of the diseases in Swahili to nurses at the clinic my housemate recommended, I was far less enthusiastic about their grim diagnosis: malaria-typhoid double-whammy and a few other random illnesses related to dehydration for good measure. I had my doubts after watching the lab technician withdraw my blood with a syringe that was then squirted unceremoniously onto a glass slide with a square of plastic fitted on top (vaguely reminding me of high school biology class) and then instructing me to relieve myself in a small canister identical to an old-school holder for a roll of film. There was the slight possibility that I should solicit a second opinion. Regardless, however, I popped over to the local corner pharmacy and purchased the many-packs' regimen of two metallic tasting post-malaria pills and ten days' worth of extra strength post-typhoid antibiotics. Whoopee! Combine that lovely experience with lots of travels to and fro, hence the many weeks' lag since my last post! But I digress...

Mount Meru at Sunset

It's never easy to say good byes. You always end up wavering between some embarrassing sniffling, snorting, and soggy tissue episode, or dashing off to make a swift farewell-less getaway when no one's looking. Sometimes it's a bit of both as happened to be the case when I departed Arusha and then Tanzania, winding down my East African sojourn for the summer. I must admit I was more than a little disturbed when I tried to part ways with one of our favorite moto-taxi drivers Baraka (meaning: Blessings) and somehow succeeded in informing him that I was in love with him. Nakupenda. 

Baraka, our favorite moto driver

To be fair, I did pantomime tears and distance so I can see where the confusion might set in, but really? I love you? After three months? Sigh. It's a shame Nitakumis (I will miss you) had escaped my countless informal Swahili lessons over the summer. He was tickled pink at this suggestion and considering that I had just hugged him good bye and taken a series of awkwardly angled "selfies" with him on my camera, I should not have been surprised at his conclusion that I was in fact madly head over heels for him and had been secretly so for the past several months. With a promise to email once I returned home, I bade him a final bumbling farewell and hurried off into what was to be my last glorious Arusha sunset erupting in gold and orange rays around the crisp blue gray outline of Mount Meru. Sheer beauty. 

Mama Kanga!!

World's Most Energetic Dog Chi Chi

I continued a similar series of near-tearful salutations (I'm such a sap, really) with Mama Kanga (who insisted on a stream of photos at different angles in her shop), the owners of my favorite mystery milkshake spot in town, Cafe Noble (never did find out the meaning of chikoo fruit which they swore was in every delicious frothy concoction they brought me), our lovable young house guard and energetic pooch (who, as evidenced by her calm, loving, and bite-free licks good-bye, knew I was taking off for good), and random passersby who more than likely noticed my trembling bottom lip and leaky eyes in the final days leading up to my departure. Everything tugged at my heart strings savoring those remaining moments. 

Roomies!!

Cynthia and Julie gifting a pumpkin to Salim

Farewell Dinner with newlyweds!

Farewell pizza with the ladies of Arusha!

For example, I was touched by the impromptu gathering of a whole passel of friends all gleaned from the ranks of companions of my two fabulous roommates, who joined together for a sad, yet wonderful and delicious sendoff at the best pizza spot in town. I got choked up recalling moments like being rescued by a loyal co-worker who stood guard against crickets and spiders in the open door of a squat toilet while I (to quote Facebook) "handled business with the speed of a starving cheetah" terrified as I was by the crawling creatures in the dark of the toilet, or receiving a shirt with the image of zebra stripes as a parting gift from a dear friend who remembered our random late night spotting of what I deemed a lucky herd of zebras galloping across the road as we returned from a field visit. For all the ups, downs, and loop-de-loops of the past few months, I genuinely, deeply was heartbroken to go. Just as life started to take shape-- words that meant comprehension, not translation; meals that made me giddy for a lump of ugali; nights out dancing and actually singing the words to new favorite songs; road trips that left me giggling and chewing on sticks of muwa (sugar cane) or lugging home gifts of oversized pumpkins-- and it was time to go. A fleeting glimpse of what could be, and the reality of what was to be. Just like that I was done.

It's not that every moment was rosy or that I looked back fondly on the minutes I'd spent frustrated with that or that, lamenting stomach-lurching situations like the raging bull of a man who threatened and attacked my group of friends in Dar; the story of another friend's encounter with her purse thief on a Tanzanian train, a young boy who was then beaten to death in front of her as harsh vigilante justice; the acid attacks against young British tourists in Zanzibar. None of those moments or stories would be easy to forget, but memories of the many people who gave me misty eyes in my final days would certainly be hard to erase. 

John, House Guard Extraordinaire

That last week, I found myself unexpectedly in the home of one of our next door neighbors, a small family consisting of a single mother and her two young girls, fourteen and eleven. I had been invited over initially to meet our guard's mother who he was finally able to see for the first time in just over a year. Though she lived only an hour's bus ride away, fears of taking time off from work compounded with the financial strain of paying for the $12 roundtrip ride back home had kept him away. After sitting for the better part of an hour with mom, son, neighbors, and their visiting friends, I stood to leave only to be asked to return again the next day to talk with the girls who were learning English. I came back the next day and the next at their request just to sit and spend time with the family trio. The young mother worked as a maid at a nearby Bible college while the eldest daughter Einoth had tested into an English medium school were she'd acquired what seemed to be fairly impeccable English with astounding vocabulary and commendable grammar. (A faint flutter of teacher's pride I couldn't suppress welled up in me from my days in front of the chalkboard.) Exceptionally bright with that sense of intelligence you can read in a person's eyes, she was an artist, skilled with a drawing pen or pencil and wanted to become a female pilot. Her younger sister Gladness, whose swollen cheerful cheeks revealed a broad-toothed grin, followed eagerly in her footsteps, copying her sister's strokes with the pen in English and in sketch. She was a wonder with small children who clung to her like their own mothers. Each night I came, everyone would arrange themselves  in front of a little TV in the small concrete one-room home, a curtain dividing the sitting room space from the sleeping area where they all slept together. As we watched the latest Filipino soap "Eternity" (dubbed in horrendously comical English), the mother Lilian would prepare the evening's meal on the propane tank and burner beside us. Plates at the ready, the TV would be turned off for everyone to hold hands and bow their heads in prayer before settling in to eat.

Adopted Tz Familia

That first night I found it hard to dig in with everyone else as I had watched Lilian prepare the modest dinner of a handful of lightly fried fingerling potatoes and a dab of ketchup with a few slices of cucumber and tomato. The meager portions she doled out to me first as the guest (who consequently received the largest share), then to each of the girls in turn, and finally to herself. A neighbor's three year old son had wandered over and rather than send him home for supper, she propped him on her lap to share her plate of which the child eventually ate the lion's share, asking for more. I tried to return several of my own fingerlings only to be rejected and urged to eat my fill. It was hard to swallow mouthfuls of potato against the hard knot gathering in my throat as I looked around the tiny room at the the four people with which I shared the evening. 

Letters from the heart

In my mind, in some parallel time and place I could see Einoth as a precocious high school freshman, laughing and joking with her friends and sketching drawings in the back of her notebook as the bell rang and she traipsed off to her Physics class to learn about aerodynamics. I could see Gladness rustling up the neighborhood kids like the one plopped on her mother's lap to babysit, earning some pocket money in her free time, perhaps with her eye on becoming a pediatric nurse or social worker. I could see Lilian, ever the indefatigable single mother balancing multiple jobs and parenting to take care of her girls, and was reminded of something my supervisor once told me: Always hire single mothers; they're some of the hardest workers out there because they shoulder tremendous responsibility and have too much to lose to fail. What I found it hard to see was a bright future on the horizon for this little family that had willingly opened their door to adopt me. Miracles can happen any day, and with education it's very likely that these girls can find a better way forward, but with a road as steep as the one they faced, it would come as no surprise if they failed. It would be little shock if Einoth woke up one day as a highly commended, yet mundane front desk clerk in one of Arusha's dozens of tourist hotels. It would be no surprise if young Gladness eventually took up a needle and thread to apprentice stitching for the neighborhood seamstress or followed in her mother's footsteps as a maid. Respectable jobs certainly, but nowhere near the potential either of these girls had, simply because they were born into circumstances they would have to fight to rise up out of. 

Life on our street

But this is no world phenomenon. It happens everywhere. Poverty is reality for most of the world's citizens. That's the reason I chose to work in international development, to find some way to make a dent in the massive blockade holding so many people back. What struck such a chord, however, was the outpouring of love and generosity I had been shown by so many with so little throughout my short time in East Africa. From the kindly Kenyan taxi driver who took me under his wing, dubbing himself my Kenyan baba (father) to the wakulima (farmers) we trained for our pilot project to this my very own adopted Tanzanian familia. Like the story of the widow's mite (Luke 21:1-4, Mark 12:41-44), even with so very little, it was clear this family had so much and were willing to share with open arms. And as we spooned precious mouthfuls of goat meat pasta my final night (a special treat for my going away), I knew I would miss much more about Tanzania than watching mahindi (corn cobs) dry on rooftops before being grilled on the streets and slathered with chili and lime; more than waking up at 8am to our other neighbor blasting 2 Chainz, P Square, and/or Neyo on his alarmingly professional stereo equipment next door; and more than even driving by places like Oprah Fashion House, American Barber, or G Unit Apparel. I would miss the people who made this summer an experience I never imagined.

Unexpected Besties at the hair salon

As I've said before and will say again, we always come back to the places we leave pieces of our hearts in. I knew that in Asia and I still believe that now. So, Arusha, Tanzania, this is not kwa heri (good bye), but merely tutaonana (we'll be seeing each other) for now. Don't forget me. I certainly won't be forgetting you.

Prom, or Safari in the Serengeti

I have to admit: finding a good safari company is a lot like picking the best date for prom. You skip about from this storefront office to the next, careful to glance over your shoulder lest the last smitten tour operator should notice and become jealous. You start to feel a bit two-timey and cheap, hopping in and out of this free ride and the next, worried one might catch you cheating with another. You dread the explanation of But I was only just looking to see what he offered! about as much as that regular check-up at the dentist’s after six months of non-stop candy-coated sugar-eating bliss and chewy nougat. As I made my way through the thick of them, substituting phone and email conversations when I had donned as much as I could bear to wear in disguise- super-sized sunglasses, hair up this day and down the next, hoodies, long pants/capris/skirts, some days I even adopted a slight limp- I came upon two companies upon recommendation of a good friend.

Map of the Serengeti

The first seemed like a steal, something that should have been a red flag at the first. Usually this points to some sort of shady dealing (though all companies seem to engage in some) that typically means a staff member or two is being shafted. After all, when have you known a company to cut its own profit for anyone? 

Dozens of smiling photos of pre-safari families, friends, and couples posing with one of the lead managers adorned the walls of the office as I entered, though surprisingly there was not a single after-photo to speak of. After three hours of continuous pitching, convincing, proffering of bottles of water and eventually sticks of mishkaki (kebabs), I finally relented, agreeing to send a message to my friends that it looked like we had found a great deal. With indefatigable insistence, he asked if I wouldn’t just sign and make a deposit now, how easy was it just to pop by the bank? Growing both weary and suspicious, I remained steadfast in my refusal upon consultation with the marafiki (friends) who would be joining me. Four more encouraging texts that evening and finally silence.

That night the onslaught of bad press that was uncovered online, including a stream of vicious Trip Advisor commentary (launched by none other than said company against disgruntled customers) cemented our ultimate refusal much to the chagrin of the ever-smiling and persistent operator. After several polite, yet firm, messages of our decision to look elsewhere, suddenly I felt trapped by what I can only describe as a lover scorned. The text messages went from curious to clipped and disdainful to pleading in a matter of hours. It was necessary to stop answering my phone. When I emerged the next day to meet what I hoped would be our last operator (praying at this point, mind you), I was decked out in my wintry best not at all unbefitting the Arusha chill- hat, scarf, two jackets, hair tucked beneath a hood, glasses. No way Mr. Persistent would recognize me. I didn’t recognize me!

With Elia, General Manager of Scandic Safari

When I signed with Scandic Safari after about thirty minutes of explanation and minimal coaxing- though I was offered an icy cold Coke to slake my kiu (thirst)- I had seen all the signs that I had finally met my corsage-toting counterpart for the three-day event that was to be our safari prom: he seemed genuinely indifferent as to whether or not we would sign; every girl's dream of the guy playing-hard-to-get who ignores her instead of asking her out! Actually, it signaled to me that he was not desperately in need of the cash, a sign I took of regular customer flow. He demonstrated exactly where we would go on a map and wrote up a full itinerary with times when requested. He was able to break down the costs of the trip with little hesitation. And the great clincher- he bought me lunch. Call me easy, but I was sold.

Heather and Becca cough up the dough in Tz shillings and dollars. 

Two weeks later, with Becca and Heather in tow, we embarked on our first ever safari through Ngorongoro Crater (world’s largest inactive, unfilled, volcanic caldera teeming with wildlife) and, you guessed it…the Serengeti. I read this warning message on a list of reminders pre safari and couldn’t help but chuckle: “There are some roads that may be very bumpy. Supportive clothing (as in a comfrotable bra) is recommended during these trips.”

Without further adieu, our TOP TEN(ish) MOMENTS ON SAFARI:

#1 Day 1: Somewhat foolish tourist is taken by surprise as these not-so-friendly foes encircled her and one grabbed round her waist to make off with her lunch sandwich. Baboons yikes!

Mmm boxed lunches

Baboon Mama and Baby

Take heed

#2 Day 1: In the middle of the night I woke to what I thought were little mongooses scampering about our campsite, only to learn the next day that wailing and laughing hyenas were not too far away scavenging for meaty leftovers from predators or careless humans. 

Not always laughing, hmm?

Campers beware

Mongooses/Mongeese

#3 Day 2: Two dik diks, creatures that resemble miniature Bambis with mohawks, tee off in a dance-fight mimicry that is part of the mating ritual. These lovely little ones mate for life. Take that nature-induced polyamory!

Dik Dik mating dance 

On the hunt!

#4 Day 2: Crouching elephant, hidden campsite. Daring Dumbo makes his way into the frigid campsite inside Ngorongoro Conservation Area and is scared away by several of the safari driver-guides and porters. Interesting tidbit: Unlike the Serengeti which is a National Park, Ngorongoro as a Conservation Area which means that human inhabitants can be given special permission to dwell there permanently, such as the Masaai people.

Bottom left!

Careful. Elephant Crossing!

Serengeti National Park

Sunrise on the Serengeti

 #5 Day 2: Lions on the prowl between safari cars. These early morning felines seem to take no notice at the diesel-guzzling machines in their midst. Not even in a last minute dash for a Thompson’s gazelle after nearly thirty minutes of laying in waiting in the grass.

Lions prowl between cars

Lioness in waiting

As lunch makes a break for it

Grr baby grr; somewhere Circle of Life is playing on loop

#6 Day 2: And is it? Oh yes it is! A pair of hunting cheetahs!! The speed demons of the wild who run faster than any other land mammal and are much more rarely spotted on safari than their clambering feline cousins, the lions.

Sleek, slender, and graceful. My favorite predator yet. Where were they in Lion King?!

Cheetah prey? Pretty formidable

Safari-ing like a champ

#7 Day 3: Becca savoring a delicious chicken drumstick before she unwittingly becomes the target of a very sharp-eyed (and talon-ed) hawk/falcon/bird of prey that swoops in for a quick lunch.

Lunchtime on the lake

Swooping in for the kill (of cooked meat)!

#8 Day 3: A childhood favorite- lakeside flamingos peppered the waters of Ngorongoro Crater while zebras, water buffaloes, and wildebeest grazed in the distance.

One flamingo, two flamingo, three flamingo, more!

Pale pink flamingos take a drink

#9 Day 3: We may have missed the Great Migration through northern Serengeti, but that does not mean we did not get to savor a few moments caught in the midst of the wildebeest herds just the same!

You killed Mufasa!!

Like a painting, but it's real!!

 #10 Day 3: In what I can only take as an act of love and/or companionship, two adorable zebras nestle neck on neck in a fond embrace. Way to close a truly stunning and spectacular trip.

Play time!

Best image yet. L.O.V.E. Love.

Three gals and a safari car

We may have been completely blind through the night without flashlights and spent most of our time tracking other safari cars equipped with radios, and at times had to goad our guide into sharing his wealth of knowledge on the wildlife, but some of that just adds character to the visit, eh?  For a budget safari, I really can’t complain. How often do you get to say you camped in the Serengeti with hyenas nibbling at your tent? Not too often I’d guess ;)

(More photos to come on Facebook!)

Tiniest Moments, Biggest Smiles

*Note: The past two weeks have been hectic and packed, but never fear, I will make up for being remiss with several posts this week, including safari!*

How to hail a bus in Dar es Salaam

For as long as I can remember-- which dates about back to the time I was three and tottering across a blue shag carpet (ah, thank the 70’s for that ingenious creation) in my grandmother’s high heels and oversized Sunday church hat (incidentally also the time when my family decided I was either bound for the stage or a stripper’s pole)—my parents have repeated that age old adage “Don’t sweat the small things” ad nauseam. I’ve listened, smiled politely like I was listening at least, and continued to be perturbed by even the slightest of hiccups. Go figure choosing a life and career of constant unexpected gems and harrowing moments in development. Keep breathing I would remind myself. It really can’t be as bad as it seems. And usually (usually) it wasn’t. My father, the ever patient man that he is, has carefully reminded me before each nail-biting plane ride to some far-flung land: Remember, whatever happens don’t panic. My brother is typically more direct in his appeal of Chill out. What’s the worst that can happen? For a slightly paranoid disaster-conspiracy theorist/life-is-a-walking-booby-trap believer who has a Plan B for the day before she opens her eyes the morning and who has born holes in her computer screen reading horror stories of abductions, maimings, ill-functioning body parts, and unsavory jail cells (not to mention watching reruns of every Law & Order SVU episode known to man), this usually does not calm my rattled nerves nor assuage the miles-long list of fears locked in my brain. But I digress. Don’t sweat the small things.

As my time in Tanzania grows short with mere weeks creeping up on me, a sunny day suddenly brought to life all the small things and moments that I have managed to not only not sweat, but appreciate and relish about this scenic mountainside town and the country in general.

Having an impromptu dance party in the middle of the night with my housemate and the house guard, with an alternating playlist of Pitbull, Rihanna, Bon Jovi, Counting Crows, and Bongo Flava (Tanzanian style danceable music fusing something like hip hop and Caribbean vibes) in the background. Then afterwards, spending quality time with the twenty-something guard just older than my brother who spends day and night looking over our home and learning that though he has many male friends in the neighborhood, few of the ladies have caught his eye, but who knows what might happen one day? 

Who can resist that face? Little Sharon!

Listening to the field trainer at work tell you how much you remind him of his daughter who surprisingly has the same Kenyan birth name you were granted in your one week exploring- Wanjiku- before buying you a beautiful traditional Masaai embroidered wrap as a parting gift when he leaves.

Cuddling adorable babies as they fall asleep on you time and again; practicing lullabies to keep them that way.

Receiving a text from a driver friend in Dar es Salaam and understanding about 85% of this when I asked for a ride from the bus station:

Sina uhakika, kwa sababu kuna mtu atakuwa na mimi kesho, hivyo sijui atamaliza muda gani- atakuja rafiki yangu au mimi, ahsante.

(I am not sure, because someone will be with me tomorrow, so I do not know how long until it finishes- my friend or I will come, thank you.)

Nap Time for Godwin

Knowing a faithful piki piki driver who not only will wake at 4:30am to carry me to the bus station, but will call the night before to confirm and then text the morning of to ask Uko tayari 5:00am? (Are you ready at 5:00am?)

Spending ten hours on a bus to Dar with a surly young woman beside me who seemed to loathe my very presence for much of the ride (reasons unknown) and then decided at the last minute to be a helpful guide in perfect English, assisting me to navigate which stop to exit the bus where there would be fewer hustlers and I could get a decent, affordable ride home.

Thanking a kind-hearted Muslim taxi driver for finishing his Ramadan fast-breaking early one evening in Zanzibar to drive two girls somewhat stranded on the roadside at dusk in Dole (sp?) village back to Stone Town. This came after a similarly kind-hearted Christian guy waited (with no expectations of compensation) to watch over us until the Muslim prayers were through and the driver was ready, yet before the taxi driver and his friend proffered us a sack full of sweet and delicious tende (dates) to take home for the night.

Kitambaa of choice

Visiting the kind kanga seller on my street and, finding her absent (there was a moment where I sat grinning fatuously for about ten minutes after I swear her son said she was in the loo) and then realizing I would have to ::gulp:: convey to her son and husband what I needed. It wasn’t easy explaining in—albeit broken, but somewhat functional—Swahili that I would like two sketis (skirts) made tafadhali (please). Unaweza kushona? (Can you sew?) One kama huu (like this one) and one a bit fupi (short) from this kitambaa rangi ya kijani (green fabric) and this kitambaa bluu (blue fabric). Eventually, I was led down a small alley through a green-leafed corridor and into a metal gate where a seamstress and a team of several young apprentices sat around a single machine chatting, stitching, folding in an assembly line. With one glance at me and the nakshi (pattern) I held, she took no measurements, asked no questions (except: Lining or no?), and told me to return at saa kumi (Swahili time for 4pm) kesho (tomorrow) to pick up my miniskirts. Errrrrrrr? Miniskirts?? I sighed, smiled, remembered not to sweat the small things, and went home wondering if I would return to a thigh-high mini on the morrow. Ah well, stripper’s pole after all then. 

The next day, I approached timidly just a few minutes shy of the deadline, remembering that whatever she produced, I would pay for, smile, and cherish till the end of time (or until the nearest wastebasket or used clothes bin). Already the day was feeling bright as I approached and found the Mama owner of the kanga fabric shop who had been missing the day prior. She welcomed me in, asked after the friend who had accompanied me weeks past, and ushered me down the little alley to the back. I held my breath as the seamstress produced two folded sketis beaming. Her apprentices stood to watch my reaction as she unfolded the gorgeous pieces. Giggling with them, I spun around exclaiming how vizuri sana (very beautiful) they were. Mama Kanga admired the work, but clicked her tongue at the length of the “mini” which hung just about to my knees. With a promise not to wear it on a mototaxi and only to wear it in Marekani (America), we both laughed and she patted me on the shoulder and encouraged me to come again. Karibu tena. (Welcome again). For less than $20 and two beautiful pieces plus the remaining fabrics for shawls and wraps, I definitely would.

Our street

Thus despite the frequent power cuts and sandstorms of dirt and dust clogging my lungs and nostrils as I walk or ride the crater-pocked road home, or the frigid nights and constant haggling in the market place every time we need new fruit and vegetables to last the week, this country is filled with moments like these that form the gems in my brief experience, reminding me that learning not to sweat the small things means learning to recognize that sometimes the small things can make the biggest difference. When you remember that being here is really about the tiniest of moments that bring the biggest of smiles, it makes all the rest of it that much more worthwhile.

Up next: Safari, Bagamoyo, back into the field, and Zanzibar Part 2!