Unexpected Detour to Ethiopia

Remember when I told you about my grand plans to travel to India and Italy after volunteering in Tanzania? Well, that didn’t work out. When we arrived to the Mumbai airport after traveling all night, everything was turned upside down. We were denied entry into India because we didn’t have visas. We had been led to believe by our incompetent travel agent in the US and an Ethiopian Airlines representative that we could get our visas upon arrival (like most places in the world). The airlines should have never let us board the plane. The guy saw my passport and commented on how I had been to India before, but never mentioned needing to have a visa before entering the country.

Because we had somehow fallen through the cracks, Ethiopian Airlines was embarrassed, especially since the Cricket World Cup was going on at the moment in Mumbai, which, by the way, India won and it was a huge deal. They treated us with utter disrespect and tried to hurry us through the airport without telling us why. We said we wanted to talk to the American Embassy, but they knew that would be horrible for them so they made up lies about why we couldn’t contact them.

Finally we reached a gate and it became clear they planned to send us back to Addis Ababa, where we had our connecting flight from Kilimanjaro. I turned on the water works, hoping it would show them how inhumanely they were treating us. It didn’t work and made them want to get rid of us faster because they knew we were innocent and were causing a scene. A security guard gripped my arm and tried to pull me up to force me to board the plane. They took our passports and gave them to a stewardess, instructing her to not give them back to us until we landed in Addis.

“You’re sending us to Ethiopia?!” I cried. “We have no one there, you have no right to send us to a random country on a different continent.”

They tried to give lame excuses about how we are holding up the whole plane, how inconsiderate of us. The security guy got on his phone and tried to make it seem like he was talking to the Embassy to appease us.

“They say you have to get on the plane,” he said.

“Let me talk to him and get his advice directly,” I shot back, calling his bluff.

The guy looked uncomfortable, said a few more words to whoever was on the other end, and hung up the phone.

“They didn’t want to talk to you. Now get on the plane!!”

The security guard tried once more to pull me up even harder and I was about to throw a punch, but, before I could, the Indian airline representative stopped the one pulling me.

“Stop, that isn’t working. Now you have two options; either you get on the plane or we will take you to jail,” said the Indian airline representative.

“We choose jail,” my mom said defiantly.

At first I was surprised by her answer, but then I realized why she said it. We had done nothing wrong except to be misinformed. They had no basis to throw us in jail since we were still in an international airport. Our only chance to talk to the Embassy was to choose jail. The Indian airline rep realized his mistake by giving us that option.

“You can’t go to jail,” he said flatly. More and more security guards gathered. The man explained they couldn’t sort anything out there that we would have to go back to Addis. They would put in a good word for us there and make sure we could figure everything out. Realizing we could not win this battle, we got on the plane, which was another six and a half hours. As we were boarding the plane, they allowed me to call Rachel’s brother and tell him we wouldn’t be able to see him.

When we reached Addis, they didn’t give us our passports right away; we had to track them down in the airport. We found the person holding them for us and we were asked to follow her. It started feeling strangely like Mumbai all over again when we were ushered through security quickly in front of others waiting in line. We stopped her before we went through security and asked her where she was taking us. Just as we feared, she was planning to take us to a flight back to Kilimanjaro. So much for the Mumbai airline rep promising we could sort everything out in Addis.

Somehow we convinced her that we were supposed to stay in Addis to figure out the situation so we could go back to India. We told her how we had been treated in Mumbai and how we hadn’t properly slept in days. I don’t know what convinced her, but soon we were filling out visas to stay in Ethiopia. Unfortunately, our luggage was already forwarded to Kilimanjaro.

We were in a random country in Africa, with no luggage and no where to stay. I think we handled it considerably well. We found a booth  just outside the airport advertising a hotel and decided to stay there. When we got to the hotel, we didn’t just collapse into sleep. We went straight to the Indian Embassy, found out it was closed, went to an Internet cafe to contact a few people, ate, and then took a very short nap before heading back to the airport in hopes of retrieving our luggage.

By some miracle, our luggage was at the airport. They were ostentatiously decorated with tags from their long journey. The final trajectory of our luggage in one day is as follows: KILIMANJARO–> ADDIS ABABA–> MUMBAI–> ADDIS ABABA–> KILIMANJARO–> ADDIS ABABA. Pretty impressive.

The next week in Addis was interesting. In many ways, Addis is an exciting place right now; full of hopeful expectations for the future, construction everywhere, half-finished malls, and well-dressed youth walking the streets. It is way ahead of Tanzania in terms of commercial progress. However, there is a darker side of Addis that even the brightest of trendy restaurant lights couldn’t cover up. Poverty and tuberculosis still grip the country. Underneath the friendly Ethiopian facade lies a prejudice against white people and anyone who appears wealthy. If you don’t tip the proper amount–and let me tell you, you have to tip EVERYONE in Addis and you never know the right amount–you can see someone go from wonderfully helpful to loathsome.

It happened to our taxi driver Afework. He was really helpful and pleasant at first, but when we said we didn’t want to do a second day of touring because we still needed to plan the next leg of our journey, but we were willing to pay him for where he had already taken us, he got ugly. He started yelling about how it was his right, how we were stealing bread from his mouth, this was our agreement, and we needed to go to a police station to settle this. We had paid him the equivalent of $100 for a half day of touring, instead of $120 for two days. We thought this was more than fair but he didn’t think so. It feels awful to piss off someone as much as he was infuriated with us. We couldn’t reason with him, so we were stuck as the bad guys. It really made my mom sad.

As we walked down the street, we passed an Apple Store. Now this is a miraculous thing to find an Apple Store in Africa, much less Ethiopia. We chatted with the guy who worked there and I told him about how I used to work at an Apple Store in America. He told me all about the struggles setting a store up in Ethiopia; how they were always out of stock, impossibly high import charges, the lack of stable Internet to demonstrate products, and other problems unique to the area. It was a small store, he was the only worker. He trained himself using an authorized Apple online training program. I bet in the next five years, that place is going to be booming. (Note August 13, 2011: I’m pretty sure this was one of the many fake Apple Stores talked about in the news, read about it in the New York Times http://bits.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/07/20/the-rise-of-the-fake-apple-store/).

I’m glad I got to see a piece of Ethiopia, but quite honestly, I was ready to leave. I was ready to wander aimlessly through the canal passageways of Venice, sit by the Mediterranean and cruise around the Tuscan countryside. I was ready for a glass of wine, la dolce vita, and mouthwatering Italian food. But mainly, I was ready to feel safe, to blend in just a bit, or at least not have people assume I was rich. I wanted to relax.

My mom and I have been in Venice one whole day, and are thankful of every moment. My luggage got lost (again), so I have nothing remotely warm and the only closed-toed shoes I have are my tennis shoes. One of my bags did make it so I have most of my clothes I used in Tanzania and scarves, so I’ve been using the scarves for warmth. It’s a bummer, but honestly, I’m so happy to be here that it doesn’t matter that much. Stuff can be replaced, but experiences cannot. The first night we ate lobster pasta, wine, tomato and mozzarella, cooked vegetables, and tiramisu. After eating okay lentil soup most days in Ethiopia, this meal was absolutely heavenly.

Did I mention that just hearing Italian makes me swoon? Not for the guys, but just the language itself is so beautiful. Venice of course is the romance capital of the world, but that isn’t why I love it. I feel independent walking through the narrow cobblestone streets and across the arched bridges over canals. For some reason, I never need to use a map in Venice, and can always find my way around. It bewilders my mom how I do it. There is something beautiful about a life where there are no cars, only small boats, and where sitting by the canal eating delicious pizza or drinking a cappuccino is a perfectly okay thing to do all afternoon.

I sincerely hope we have an easier time traveling over the next few weeks. However, looking back, if we hadn’t been denied entrance into India, we would have never seen Ethiopia, gone to Venice, or had the opportunity to visit Croatia. I’ve heard Croatia is gorgeous and where many Europeans like to vacation, so both of us are excited. I’ll keep you posted about how the next few weeks go.

Advertising in Africa

Innovation in Mobile Technology is Changing How the Game is Played

To become an expert in a dynamic culture-driven world, it is important to understand global trends in technology. Advertising in Tanzania looks different from advertising in the United States because of the technology gap. Upon my arrival to Tanzania, I was struck by how companies advertised their products.

Before discussing the state of advertising in Tanzania, it’s important to understand how technology is used here. Power and electricity are not stable, so computers are fitted with a box to back-up information temporarily when the power shuts off unexpectedly. Power outages happen almost daily for extended periods of time, and it is expensive to have a generator. DSL and Dial-up are usually what is available, but only to a small percentage of people in urban settings, with very few places offering Wi-Fi. Technology, in general, from computers to cars, are poorly maintained, and only fixed when it breaks down. There are no convenient Apple Stores or commercial auto shops. Usually you have to know a guy who knows a guy who is the brother of a guy who specializes in whatever service you need done. Not to mention that technology like computers and cars cost more than the average Tanzanian can afford.

Because technology is unreliable in Tanzania, old fashioned advertising techniques common over half a century ago in the Unites States such as soliciting door to door, radio announcements, and print ads, are how companies get the word out about their products. While I was on a twenty-four hour bus ride from Iringa to Moshi, several people boarded the bus throughout the journey to market their products. They would talk at the top of their lungs to be heard over the roaring bus about lotions and creams for you, your children, your grandmother, and your lion (perhaps not a lion, I could have misinterpreted that one). Surprisingly, there were people on the bus who bought the products being sold.

Going through any town or village in Tanzania, it is impossible to miss the Coca-Cola ads. The company distributes chairs, tables, banners, awnings, stands, and refrigerators with their logo to start-up dukas (shops), and in return, their soda is marketed to the whole village. Even the school where I volunteer uses Coca-Cola banners for sporting events. Mobile phone companies advertise in a similar way. If you pass a bright purple-pink building, you know that it’s sponsored by Zain. If it’s blue, it’s sponsored by Vodacom.

Politicians prefer to market themselves over loud-speakers attached to vans. During election season, these vans drive through towns and villages, competing with one another for the ears of the public.

Although old fashioned advertising techniques are the norm, advertising in Africa is shifting drastically because of mobile technology. With the advent of smart phones and the ability to access the web from mobile phones, companies are starting to capitalize on this technology.

Mobile advertising firm InMobi, together with comScore, commissioned a landmark study entitled “A Global Consumer View of Mobile Advertising,” focusing on Africa. InMobi claims to reach 50 million Africans through nearly three-billion ad impressions monthly. They found that 69% of Africans are very or somewhat comfortable with mobile advertising, which is the highest in world with the US and Europe at only 61%. And it continues to grow. “African consumers have clearly embraced mobile as the primary screen in their lives.  Publishers in Africa have a tremendous opportunity to improve the consumer experience by providing local content and grow their business simultaneously,” said Stephen Newton, Vice President and Managing Director, Africa at InMobi (also former head of Google South Africa).

On November 18, 2010, the first ever CIO 100 Awards were held, an event that celebrates innovation in communication and interactive processes by the Chief Information Officers (CIO) in East Africa. Safaricom’s M-Pesa won first place for it’s easy and convenient payment platform for Safricom’s 3 million users. M-Kesho by Equity Bank took M-Pesa a step further by integrating it with its mobile banking services, allowing M-Pesa users to access and use their bank accounts through their mobile phones. Kenyatta University was also recognized for mobile technology innovation by its implementation of smarts cards for students and staff as well as creating a way for students to use their mobile phones to access information about fee balances and exam results.

Joshua Wanyama, who was a judge for the CIO 100 Awards, established his own Kenya-based digital marketing agency, Pamoja Media, after studying architecture in Minnesota. After seeing how the web worked in the United States, he and his business partner, Benin Brow, decided to return to Nairobi, and create an agency to help stimulate the African economy by increasing the value of trading online. However, they realized that the Internet worked differently in Africa than it did in the United States. They changed their business plan to focus on educating corporations, organizations and the government on how to use the web more efficiently, by offering online strategy, creative development, PR, social media, marketing, media buying and placement.

It’s exciting to know that Africa is on the brink of new innovations in marketing and advertising. The question is, will American and European advertising companies capitalize on the advent of mobile marketing and social media in Africa?

Link to PDF version of article with pictures: Africa to Advertising

Zanzibar

Every night in Zanzibar finished with a stunning display of yellows, oranges, pinks and reds swirling together around a brilliantly glowing orb, and spilling into the blue Indian Ocean. The sun seems larger in Africa, but Mara, a physics major at Gustavus, assures me it isn’t.

My mother and I went to Zanzibar with Cindy, a Fulbright scholar and biology professor, and Cindy’s daughter, Mara.  All of us needed some time to rest on the beach and by the pool.  For five glorious days, we soaked up the Zanzibar sun, played cards, read, and swam.  I thought Moshi got unbearably hot sometimes, but it is nothing compared to Zanzibar heat.  The air is so thick with humidity that you feel as if you are slowly walking through water.  Instead of being oppressive, the heat felt like you were in a giant sauna, sweating out all the stress, and feeling utterly relaxed.

We didn’t just lie around all day, or at least not everyday.  One day Mara, mom, and I went snorkeling and visited Prison Island.  The name of the island is a misnomer since the island was mainly used as a quarantine station for the sick and later as a resort for the elite. The main attraction of the island are the giant land tortoises.  We entered a lush area where these gargantuan creatures roams slowly and steadily, their age written in paint on their shells.  30. 55. 80. 185. The tortoises towered over young children.

When we entered the tortoise kingdom, we were given leafy food to feed them.  In America, this would have been closely supervised with the tortoises behind a barrier.  There were virtually no barriers and we were free to go up to one of the giants and watch them chomp the greenery.  When the tortoises saw you were carrying food, they wouldn’t rush to you, but let you come to them, and slowly they would rise up on their stubby legs and crane their legs to reach the food.  I fed a 150 year old tortoise who had cataracts in his eyes, and his legs shook as he tried to hoist himself out of a murky puddle.  He chomped horizontally and closed his blind eyes as green drool dribbled from the corners of his mouth.  I asked him what it was like to live in 1860.  He wasn’t much of a talker, perhaps his hearing was bad too.

All of a sudden, I heard a strange deep groaning sound, as if someone had poked an old man and he exclaimed in a sustained manner, “Oooowwwww.”  I looked up to see one of the 130 year tortoises on top of a 30 year old tortoise. Each push propelled them forward and the sound would come again.  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  Children were mesmerized and asked their parents what they were doing.  “She’s giving him a piggy back ride,” the parents nervously explained, not willing to go into the when-a-boy-tortoise-loves-a-girl-tortoise talk.

Because we were also snorkeling that day, I left my camera at home, so I had no way of documenting the incident.  Perhaps it was better that way, although it would have been funny to record the reaction of the kids.  After all the tortoise excitement, we gathered onto our wooden boat that had both a motor and sails, to go to a reef close by.  The water was warm and we saw many fish.  The waves started getting rougher while we were out at sea, so a little boat took the children back to the beach so they could swim safely.

Have you ever tried to snorkel when there are huge waves?  You breath through a tube and if a wave topples into the tube, you end up with your lungs full of salt water.  That wasn’t the worst of my problems.  Because we were using rented equipment, nothing fit quite right, especially for someone has small as me.  I got huge blisters on my feet from the fins and I could only look under water for a minute because the mask filled with sea water.  Because I had to keep readjusting the mask, it got foggy and no amount of spit would clear it out.  When I got back on the boat, my feet were blistered, my lungs were burning, and my eyes were stinging and puffy.  That being said, I would have done it again in a heart beat.

There was one day we wandered around Stone Town and ate at the night market.  It’s a very touristy place, so when we would speak to vendors and other people in Swahili, they were taken aback.  It was nice to know that we knew just enough Swahili to get around, although I wish I were more fluent.  Zanzibar is very Islamic and the architecture reflected that style with beachy Bongo Flava mixed in.  Besides spices, Stone Town is known for it’s large wood-carved doors.  Doors can be so plain, but in Zanzibar, you can’t help but wonder what is behind the ornate gateways.

Shopping is all good and fun (especially when you have honed your haggling skills), but nothing was as lively as the night market.  The only comparison I can draw is the Ramandan celebrations at night near the Blue Mosque.  Mom thought it was kind of like the state fair.  People at the state fair don’t display fresh seafood like crab, shark, octopus, and various fish on a table and then actively pursue people to come to their table to try it.  Cindy said she thinks the food actually comes from the same place, and by the look of all the arranged food across all the tables, I would have to agree.  People were everywhere, sampling this, coaxing someone to try that.  Wazungu and Tanzanians alike.  I tried baby shark, and I have to say I quite like it.  And no, it does not taste like chicken.

There were so many people there that knew each other, and greeted each other warmly.  I was surprised by the number of people I ran into there: the music teacher at the school where I work in Moshi with his wonderful wife and his mother, I recognized another teacher from Arusha, and people from our hotel.  I saw a guy walking with a Twins baseball cap and I couldn’t resist the urge to tap him on the shoulder.  He said he was from MN originally, but how he does human rights work in Uganda.  There was one family we met that was originally from Tanzania, but now live in St. Paul. The world can definitely be a small place.

We had a little drama coming home.  When we arrived to the airport to head home, we realized that our passports were still in the hotel safe, so we had to rush back and get them before our plane left.  Crisis averted.  We had to change planes in Dar Salaam, but no one gave us any instructions on where to go, or whether we needed to get our luggage and recheck it.  We had 30 minutes before our next plane was supposed to leave.  We scrambled off the plane and made our way inside.  People were everywhere and there were no clear signs.  We asked dozens of people where to go and if we needed our luggage.  Some didn’t speak any English hardly and our Swahili wasn’t good enough, and some pointed us in the wrong direction just to get us out of the way.  Finally a woman told us not to worry about our luggage and to follow her to our gate.  She lead us through an “employees only” door, through a narrow hallway, past an employee break room where people were having their afternoon chai, and through another door that lead us near our gate.  I don’t know how we would have found it otherwise.  We got there right as they were calling final boarding.  Second crisis averted. As we were flying back to Moshi, we caught a glimpse of Mt. Kilimanjaro and Mt. Meru poking through the clouds.  I couldn’t believe that in a few weeks time, I would be standing on top of that mountain, if all goes well.

We descended through the clouds to Kilimanjaro Airport.  All of us agreed we had a great time, but that we were glad to be back in cooler Moshi.  Then we ran into another snafu: mom’s luggage never made it back.  Somehow I got mine just fine, but her’s was gone.  We wrote a report and they said they would call if they found it.  Mom said that she would be okay with some of the stuff being lost, just clothes, medicine, and our keys.  Oh wait, our keys.  We got into a taxi to take us back to Moshi and we tried calling our trusty housekeeper Rebecca if she could open our house for us.  We couldn’t get a response.  When we got back home, we went to her house, but her friend said she was in Arusha.  Somehow, we got through to her and, to make a long story short, we got into our house at 11pm on New Year’s Eve.  Both of us weren’t feeling well, so we decided to have an early night and not go out.  At midnight, I was popping a pepto because my stomach felt queasy.  We spent most of the next few days in bed, sleeping or reading.  I had stomach issues, but mom had worse symptoms.  In the end, we took her to a clinic and found out she had food poisoning.  After getting the meds she needed, she’s been doing much better.  Oh, and we got her suitcase back.

I’ve figured out that any kind of travel in Tanzania, whether it be on a bus or on an airplane, is not without it’s excitement.  I’m glad for the time we had to explore Zanzibar and rest on the beach and by the pool.  I even got a tan, which I thought was virtually impossible for me to do.  In the next two weeks, I’m planning on training for our climb up Mt. Kilimanjaro.  I’ll keep you posted about how that goes!

Christmas Letter

Click on the link to view our Christmas Letter: christmas letter

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!!

The Bus that Lived Murphy’s Law

I couldn’t stand the smell of the bus anymore and my legs were stiff.  I didn’t know how long we had been at this stop, or why we were here.  Mom was next to me, just as uncomfortable and hungry as I was.  We had rushed this morning to make the 9:30am bus.  It wasn’t until four hours later that our bus finally came.  We heard from the Sumry bus officer that our bus coming from Mbeya was having problems.  I remember joking with Mom, saying we should just catch the bus the next day since this one was obviously cursed.  After everything that had happened so far, I was starting to believe this bus operated under Murphy’s Law.  I could almost see the motto written underneath the psychedelic paint-job, “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.”

I stood up and paced the length of the bus, passing a few people trying to sleep.  A child curled up to his mother, using her dress-like kanga as a blanket.  Most of the passengers were outside getting fresh air.  I had planned to stay on the bus until we left, but we had been stopped for a long time.  I passed Mom’s seat and told her I was going outside.

“Be careful,” she said in the dim light.

I used my ancient Nokia phone as a light to guide my steps off the bus.  I wandered aimlessly around, investigating the reason for the long stop.  There was the man who claimed to be the night bus driver sitting and talking to the other Sumry workers.  I didn’t trust him after he had tried to steal my seat earlier.  In the falling dusk light, he saw me staring at him.  He gave me a look I couldn’t decipher in the dark, but I imagine it wasn’t friendly so I walked on to inspect the building.  I peered inside and saw a desk with large record-keeping books, file cabinets, and hand-cuffs on the wall.  I concluded that this must be some sort of police station.

“We are trying to acquire a permit to drive at night,” a Tanzanian man said as he approached me.  I recognized him for our last extended stop.

———

I started off the bus ride with no seat, even though I had a ticket assigning me to a specific place.  Mom found her seat, but what we thought was my seat was occupied by a sleeping man.  We tried to talk to the conductor about our seats, but he told me to sit on the cushion.  I sat on the cushion beside the driver, holding on to a railing to avoid flying through to window during sudden stops. Even through the cushion, I could feel the heat of the motor, which would have been pleasant in the middle of Minnesotan winters, but not so pleasant in the sweltering Tanzanian heat.  When we came to a police check-point, an officer boarded to inspect the bus.  He kicked off the people who didn’t have a seat.  I showed him my ticket and he told the sleeping man to get out of my seat.

When the police officer left, our bus continued a few paces, stopped, and let the people who had been kicked off back on to the bus.  The man came up to me and tried to get the seat back.  He didn’t speak much English.  The conductor came up to us and tried to get me out of the seat.  He said the man was sick and might throw-up, and needed the window.  The man said he was the night driver and needed his sleep.  Mom was not happy at all, but I told her it was alright if the guy was really sick, since some fresh air would do him some good.  Since Mom would not let me sit on the cushion anymore because it was making her sick to see me so close to the front window with nothing to keep me from flying through, I agreed to sit on a crate of coke bottles with a cushion.  The cushion was not much of a buffer against the coke bottles, especially when we hit bumps and pot holes.

I settled into my make-shift seat while the man sat down, cracked open an orange Fanta, and lounged comfortably as if he was feeling miraculously better.  I realized at that moment that he had been lying the whole time.  I felt like a fool for believing him, and now I was stuck on a bumpy bus on top of coke bottles.  No one was madder than Mom.  I tried to calm her anger saying it wasn’t so bad sitting in the aisle, but she wouldn’t believe me.  When we had stopped at a gas station with especially nasty and smelly squatters a few hours later, Mom’s anger exploded.  The man left to go to the choo (toilet), Mom grabbed me off the coke bottle crate and told me to sit next to her in my rightful place.  When the man got back on the bus, and tried to get the seat back, Mom argued ferociously as only a mother can who’s cubs have been put in danger or treated unfairly.  The man would give up trying to get the seat back.

“My seaty, give my seaty. Bus-y will crash if I don’t have my seaty to shleep,” he said over, and over again.  Mom is not usually intimidated by threats and it only fueled her anger.

“Hapana! Sumry should have given you a seat, but we paid for this one. Pole sana!” Mom retorted back.

This time the conductor kept his distance and tried not to get involved in the argument.  There was nothing the night bus driver could do.  He sat on the cushion next to the day bus driver, extending his legs to the window and laying his head one of the passenger’s bags.  This was probably his original spot before he tried to steal mine.

As we were driving not long after the seat incident, two tires on the left side blew out at the same time.  It sounded like an explosion underneath our seats, but when I saw there was no fire and I was still alive, I deduced the tire had blown directly under me.  We pulled over and the Sumry workers and drivers inspected the wheels.  Everyone got off the bus, except Mom and me, since we didn’t want to give up our seats again.  A Tanzanian man turned to us before he exited the bus.

“I’m glad you got your seat.  Some people here think they can take advantage of muzungus (white people).  I’m sorry he treated you like that,” he said in flawless English.  We talked for him a while longer before he got off the bus.  I watched as baboons walked by, keeping their distance, but watching the drama they didn’t understand unfold.  It was starting to get dark, too dark to read my book.  I looked at my phone clock.  Just after 19:00. We were supposed to arrive in Moshi around 21:00, but we were hardly four hours from Iringa.  I didn’t want to get into Moshi bus station at three in the morning, knowing few taxis were operating and shady people hung out in that area.  There was nothing we could do but wait.  Finally when it was completely dark, the wheels were fixed and we were on our way to Mikumi.

———–

I turned to the Tanzanian man.

“Why do we need a permit?” I asked him.

“It’s illegal for passenger buses to drive at night for danger reasons.  If you want to drive, you need a special permit, but they are hard to acquire.  We might be here for a long time,” he replied.

I returned to the bus to tell Mom the news.  She simply sighed and shook her head.  I sat in my seat next to her and tried to get in a sleeping position.  The night bus driver came on the bus and walked purposefully towards the back.  Tanzanians don’t normally move fast or purposefully, so when they do, you pay attention to what is going on.  After a few minutes, he came back to the front and muttered something about “he must be dead.” Mom and I thought he was making a joke after trying to steal our seat earlier to lighten the mood.  We should have known that the English colloquialism “dead tired” is not in Tanzanian vernacular.

The conductor announced in Kiswahili that we must leave the bus, which the kind Tanzanian man translated for us.

“Why do we have to leave?  Are we getting on a different bus? Did we get a permit?” I asked him.

“A man has died on the bus and they must remove his body before we continue our safari,” he replied in a calm voice, as if a man dying on our bus was a natural thing.  If someone died on a bus back home in the States, people would be freaking out.  Not in Tanzania.  Death is just as natural as birth, and seems to be ever present in this society.  I’ve met two other Tanzanians who died a few weeks after I met them.  To me, it’s an eerie experience.

As a few Sumry workers attempted to lift and carry the body off the bus with great effort, I wondered how long the man had been dead while we were traveling.  Apparently he had been sick before getting on the bus and with all the problems the bus had been having as well as the lack of medical attention and food, such stresses were too much for his diseased body.  I’ve never been in a room where someone has drawn their last breath.  I didn’t even know the man and yet somehow he had been alive when he got on the bus, and now his body was being carried off the bus, lifeless.

The Sumry workers put the body in a car and it was driven off into the night.  We were told we could get back on the bus.  I got back on tentatively, sniffing the air for death.  All I could smell were sweaty people and smoke from refuse burning in a nearby shamba (garden).

Sweat smells different here.  When people get sweaty back home, it is usually from some activity recently done so they sweat has a sweet and salty smell to it.  In Tanzania, showering is not a daily or an every other day activity.  The heat beats down on bodies, and pores ooze with recently consumed Tanzanian spices, mixing with dirt, grit,and dried sweat from earlier to create a particular odor to here.  I realize it is not considered P.C. to comment on other’s body odors, especially when it pertains to another culture, but it was one of the first things I noticed when I arrived to Tanzania, and it’s captured my interest and nostrils.

Once everyone got back on the bus, we finally set off.  I figured two flat tires and a man dying on the bus was enough to persuade the police to give us a permit to drive through the night.  The night bus driver had taken over driving now.  I prayed he wouldn’t try to crash the bus because of the whole seat incident.  Considering everything that had happened, perhaps the seat incident seemed insignificant.  I looked out the front window and realized we were following a taxi down side roads much too narrow for the bus.  We bumped along uncomfortably for twenty long minutes.  At the end of the side road route, the taxi stopped and a Sumry worker got out to hop onto our bus.  I thought it strange, but I was so tired that I didn’t question it.

Close to midnight, we stopped at a trucker stop to get food since none of us had eaten since the morning.  The food was badly kept, but we decided to order chipsi mayai(basically eggs and potatoes fried together).  The kind Tanzanian man came up to us and asked if we had seen the conditions of the food.  We told him we were hungry.  As they were preparing it, I needed to go to the bathroom, but didn’t want to wander around a Tanzanian trucker stop at night to find one.  I asked the man if he knew where the choo was, and he pointed the way.  When I hesitated, he asked if I needed protection. I looked around at the truckers staring at me and replied yes.  We were cat called by the truckers, but no one approached while he was with us.  He lead Mom and me to the squatters and waited for us.  When we returned to get our food, we realized the man making our food had given it away.  Maybe it was better that way since we could have gotten very sick from the food.  The kind Tanzanian man who had been watching out for us all night was mad at the man, but we told him it was alright, the bus was starting up to go anyways.  Luckily, we still had some trail mix and digestive cookies to munch on.

I was relieved to leave the trucker stop.  For the next few hours as we drove through the night, I fell in and out of consciousness. I remember snippets of the drive.
We drove through Mikumi National Park and I remember watching herds of impala gathering on either side of the road, timing their mad dash just before the bus could hit them.  It was like driving in Minnesota at night to avoid deer, only here every few hundred meters herds of impala would run across the road.  The bus swerved a few times to avoid the young and lame ones who couldn’t time their cross properly.  I decided it was best not to watch, so I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep.

The next time I opened my eyes, I realized we had been stopped by a policeman. With my limited knowledge of Kiswahili, I could understand that our bus driver was telling him we were stopping in the next town to rest.  So we never did get that permit.  That must have been why we followed a taxi through side roads earlier.  My eyelids were heavy and soon I was back asleep.

I vaguely remember people getting off the bus on a few occasions, and Mom changing positions to avoid getting stepped on or hit by luggage.

The last time I woke up, I could see blue pre-dawn light.  I sleepily watched the country-side roll by.  An hour or so later we stopped somewhere to go to the bathroom.  I stretched my legs outside and peered up at a nearby mountain shrouded in mist and fog.  I figured we must be getting close to Mt. Kilimanjaro by now.  We got back on the bus and continued on.  My mind was blank as I started out the window.  I was passed being hungry.  I could only sit, weakly slumped in my seat.  I could tell Mom hadn’t slept much with a boy sitting on the coke bottle crate next to her, and another man sitting close to our luggage.

At 9:30am, we arrived in Moshi, 24 hours after the bus was supposed to leave Iringa the previous day.  A taxi driver we knew picked us up and brought us home.  Not having the energy for anything else, we made ramen noodles, and slept the rest of the day.

I don’t really believe in Murphy’s Law, but this bus did seem to have it’s fair share of mishaps.  However, we survived and were not hurt in anyway, so I guess not everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong in the end…

Safari (Part 2)

We rushed off across the bumpy road leading us deeper into the park where we knew we would see the most animals.  We became excited at the sight of every giraffe, elephant, and zebra, but when we realized they were everywhere, we didn’t raise our cameras with as much enthusiasm at every one we saw.  I never grew tired of these giant herbivores, but I also wanted to see the infamous big cats.  Before spotting one we saw hippos, crocodiles, mongoose, giraffes, zebras, impala, kudu, warthogs, elephants, baboons, monkeys, eagles, waterbuck, water buffalo, guinea foul, dikdik, and other animals.  I asked Esau a plethora of question like the gestation period of an elephant (which is two years—uffda!), why people don’t ride zebras like horses (their backs are too weak), and which animals are the most hunted (impala because there are so many).  I even asked him what his favorite animal was.

“The hanibajaa!” he exclaimed.

“The what?” I asked, having never heard of such an animal before.  Again he repeated the same thing, but this time he flipped through his picture book and pointed to a honey badger, as the description said, which looked a lot like a skunk.

“This is your favorite?” I asked, implying this animal was not worthy of being labeled a favorite.

“Hanibajaas are VERY dangerous.  If a lion tries to eat hanibajaa, their skin is loose so lion can’t bite meat and the hanibajaa spins around to bite and scratch lion’s face.  Even the male water buffalo that comes between mama and baby, the angry hanibajaa will run and bite the scrotum of the water buffalo.  Better to avoid the hanibajaa!” he passionately explained.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to see a hanibajaa.

“Do you have another favorite?” I asked.

“Oh yes, the warthog!” Esau yelled over the roaring engine.

“The honey badger and now the warthog? Why?”

“They are so funny and ugly!” he laughed.  I liked Esau and he seemed to like us.  We eventually did see a honey badger to Esau’s delight.

The first day we did see a big cat, a cheetah, well hidden in a distant bush, only seen through binoculars.  Somehow, Esau saw it with his bare eyes.  He also pointed out some ostriches even further away.  I peered into the binoculars.

“You mean past the elephants?” I asked.  Esau looked at me strangely and took the binoculars for a look.  He began to laugh.

“Those aren’t elephants, those are ostriches.  You think they are two-legged elephants?” Again, he hooted with laughter.  For the rest of the safari, he didn’t let it go that I had seen a two-legged elephants.  He probably went back to his safari guide friends and told them all about it.

I got a chance to see a cheetah up close, very close, protecting her recent impala kill.  Other safari trucks surrounded it, but we went back later when it was just us, the cheetah, and her kill.  She was less than a yard away, digging her hard inside the impala as the guts spilled unto the grass, the sound of sloshy gnawing with the occasional bone crushing pop filled the still African air.  I thought I would become squeamish seeing half a disemboweled impala oozing bright red blood and organs unto the dry savannah brush. Instead, I stood looking under the popped roof of the truck in wrapped fascination, reminding myself to put down my camera for a moment to witness with my naked eye the awesome nature of the animal kingdom.  This was not a National Geographic series safely displayed on a television screen.

An elephant blindly wandered close to the cheetah and the cheetah watched it attentively, panting heavily from the arduous task of consuming the entire impala. The cheetah seemed nervous, which surprised me.  The elephant with his bad eyes eventually saw the cheetah and began slowly backing up, crushing large tree-like bushes in his backwards shuffle.  The cheetah continued to methodically devour her kill.  We sat there silently, watching in awe, the trance only broken when a camera beeped before capturing a picture.  It seemed alien to have a camera, but I wouldn’t have left it at home for anything if only to capture this moment.

We saw other big cats, too.  A leopard perched in a tree, stalking a herd of impala below her.  There were too many safari trucks there, preventing her from striking.  We took our pictures and left, hoping other trucks would follow suit so she could have her meal.  We also saw a rare serval cat hiding in long grass, ready to attack a group of impala.  The impala knew she was there and made weird warning noises through their nostrils, until they ran off and the cat ran across the empty river bed with incredible speed.  However, the serval cat was unsuccessful in capturing an impala.

One of the most exciting big cats we saw, second only to the cheetah, were the lions.  Esau spotted vultures on top of a tree and said there must be lions nearby.  He also said that it was illegal to leave the roads, but if we were willing to pay the fine, we could go have a look.  We solemnly agreed and at once we sped across the bush, flying off our seats as we hit uneven ground.  All of a sudden, we came to a small clearing that we could easily tell was a lion’s den.  I counted fourteen lions of different ages lounging around a dead giraffe; some grotesquely were sprawled across the carcass, the quintessential image of gluttony.

I could see a few jackals and hyenas on the periphery, waiting for their turn to eat the lions’ leftovers.  We were surrounded by lions and they did not seem happy that we had waltzed into their territory.  One haughty teenage lion got up and stared us down, poised for attack.  My window was the closest to him and uncomfortably wide open.  I wanted to slowly close it, but I didn’t want to provoke him with an unanticipated squeak.  Instead, I held my breath.

“Quickly, take your pictures!” Esau said in a hurried whisper.  I did so with as little movement as possible, thanking God I had figured out earlier how to turn off the camera beeps.  We took our pictures quickly and sped back to the road without being caught.  Having gotten away with that, we laughed in relief, like delinquent teenagers huddling after teepeeing the principal’s house.

The game drives were filled with so much anticipation and excitement that during the break from one to four o’clock, when the sun was at its fiercest, we would collapse into the hammocks or sleep on the oversized pillows in the sand pits.  After the evening game drive, we went back to our bandas to get ready for dinner.  A man with a lantern guided us to the dried up riverbed where a long table was set up, a fire crackled close by, and lanterns formed a sacred perimeter.  I knew that just outside the fire-lit perimeter were the wild animals I had just seen on the game drives.  We were again served the most delicious gourmet meal and conversed with other safari-goers from different countries.  Wind rushed through the riverbed and disturbed the fire with ghostly hands.  I reckoned that this was the most peaceful and yet exhilarating place I had ever been.

After the meal, we were led back to our banda by the same man with the lantern.  As we were getting ready for bed, I heard lions calling each other not too far away.  Then I heard heavy breathing approaching the tent and a low growl I remembered hearing from the teenage lion that day.

“…Mom?” I called uneasily from the tent to the bathroom.  “Can you hear that?” My heart raced as I backed up against the canvas wall.  This material would be so easy for a lion to tear apart.  The heavy breathing continued, reminding me of the velocoraptors walking through the Jurassic Park kitchen, half breathing half purring as they searched for the unlucky children.

“Sounds like a lion,” my mother said, her voice too calm.  She had been here before and knew the lions had better things to do than rip apart canvas tents to eat a little girl like me.  I told myself that impalas were tastier.  Somehow I fell asleep that night, but fitfully.  I awoke around 3:00am to the sound of lions fighting or playing just across the riverbed.  Again I fell asleep, perhaps because I was so exhausted from the game drives and the sheer heat of the day.  My mother woke up at a different time because she heard an animal scratching up against our tent, but I remained fast asleep.

The next morning at 5:30am, someone brought us tea and coffee before the sun rose and the game drive started.  Since I get ready faster than my mother, I enjoyed my coffee on the verandah ledge on one of the oversized pillows, looking out over the blue pre-dawn riverbed.  Again I could hear lions calling each other, an eerie sound in the early morning.  Then I saw a lioness just on the other side of the dried up riverbed.  This time I didn’t panic and comfortably sipped my coffee, although the lioness could see me across the equivalent distance of an American suburban street.  She walked on and another one followed behind her.  And another.  And another.  I continued to sip my coffee and counted nineteen wild lions walking towards the guttural call of presumably the alpha male lion.  My mom looked at them briefly, and resumed getting ready, leaving me to savor the morning and the cup of coffee.

When we got to the truck, we told Esau what I had seen and we raced to go find them.  Sure enough a pack of at least twenty-one hungry lions (Esau said you can tell they are hungry by counting their ribs) walked across the road, searching for their next meal.  Good thing they didn’t consider me worthy prey.  Esau said to feed such a large pride of lions, they need to kill a bigger animal.  I remembered the other pride of lions sprawled across the half eaten giraffe.  As we drove on, I saw some giraffe and wondered if one of them would be the lions’ next meal.

It was our last day after having spent two nights and three days in the park.  Ruth and Owen got their last pictures of signs and termite hills before we drove back to Iringa.  I know going on safari is a cliché thing to do in Africa, especially Tanzania, but it’s cliché for a reason.  National Geographic does not do nature justice, it is something you have to see, smell, hear, and feel for yourself.  I feel so lucky, so privileged, to have had this opportunity.

Safari (Part 1)

This blog is very long, so I’ve decided to split it into two parts.  If you just want to read about the exciting part of the safari, feel free to skip to part 2 if you wish.

I last left off with the Germandsons and Esau, the driver, picking us up from Tungamalenga to go to Ruaha National Park.  This was not the first time we have met the Germandsons.  In my blogging, I have left out the few days we were in Iringa, staying at the Lutheran Center.  The Bega Kwa Bega office—literally meaning “shoulder to shoulder” in Swahili, referring to the collaboration between the Lutheran Church of America based in St. Paul, MN and the Lutheran Church of Tanzania—is conveniently located across the street from Lutheran Center.  Bo Skillman from Mankato, MN, works for Bega Kwa Bega and stays in Tanzania between 3 weeks to 3 months each year to help pair churches in America with villages in Tanzania.  This collaboration includes funding children to go to school, wells and water projects as well as building churches.

In my own opinion I think this is a good system for providing aid for many reasons.  For one thing, it provides a direct link, a face to the need so to speak, a tangible way to help.  It avoids the notorious television ads showing fly-ridden children with the bulge of malnutrition, asking for money to help the numerous children in need.  The problem with the television ads is you don’t know if your money is actually going to the children you see on the television or if part of it is being pocketed by the organization.  There are some people who are leery of giving money to a religious institution to provide aid to those in need, because they don’t want that money or aid to a weapon of evangelism, which I can understand.  However, I’d like to think that the fact that it is done through a religion institution based on certain moral principles inspires individuals on both sides as well as the middle negotiator, Bega Kwa Bega, to do what is best, what is good, what is honest for all parties under God.  Another benefit is it is not just a one-way line from giver to receiver, but a lasting relationship is formed.  Every few years or sometimes more frequently, either someone from the American church comes to Tanzania or someone from the Tanzanian village—like the pastor or another village figure—goes to America.

When someone is not visiting from either side, Bega Kwa Bega is there to represent each party.  In the BKB office, there is Dennis Ngede, a very intelligent and friendly Tanzanian with a keen business sense, who started the Lutheran Center and owns his own shuttling service called Tutanca.  Along with him is someone from the US, like Bo Skillman, or the coordinators of BKB, Don and Eunice Fultz.

Bega Kwa Bega helped the Germandsons and us plan our stay in Iringa.  Ruth and Owen Germandson are snowbirds who spend 7 months in Arizona and 5 months in Minnesota, and have traveled and lived in many places throughout their lives.  They came to Tanzania to set up a collaboration between their church in Arizona and a village resting high in the mountains with an incredibly complicated name I do not remember.  The village we visited, Tungamalenga, is actually apart of a similar collaboration with Shepherd of the Valley Church in Minnesota so when we visited, many people in Tungamalenga assumed that we were from that church.  The other reason the Germandsons came was to travel with their good friends who happen to be Bo’s parents.  Unfortunately, Bo’s father was unwell and could not make the trip, so Ruth and Owen became our travel companions.

For the few days we were in Iringa before going to Tungamalenga, we ate meals with the Germandsons and Bo, went to Isimilia Stone Age site and Haruma Orphanage with them.  As it so happens, all of the Germandson children went to St. Olaf and did various study abroad programs like Term in the Middle East.  We all had so much to talk about and they became like a fourth set of grandparents to me (the first two are my real grandparents whom I love very much and the third are my adopted grandparents, Jonathan and Barbara Hill, who lead the Global Semester).  Ruth, figuring out my embarrassing love for Starbucks coffee, gave me a few Starbucks Via instant coffee packets, which I savored.  She reminded me of my grandmother, Barb Neal, being traditional yet feisty as well as worldly and wise.  Owen was always ready for the next adventure and had boundless energy as well as a wonderful sense of humor.  He actually knows my mother’s father, having graduated a few years later from the same dental school as my grandfather.  I believe he would get along quite well with my other grandfather, Bob Neal, because they share similar travel experiences and engage in thoughtful conversations.

With this Dostoyevski-esque background explanation out of the way, I think it is time to get to the real excitement: Going on safari in Ruaha National Park.  It was wonderful to be reunited with the Germandsons, who had visited their future partner village while we visited Tungamalenga.  On our two hour trek to Mwagusi Camp located in the heart of Ruaha National Park, we swapped stories of our weekend experiences.  I was surprised how much I had missed them and how much I enjoyed their company.

After we entered the national park, we saw the occasional hippo, giraffe, impala and zebra, which only fed our anticipation for the impending safari.  We drove to Mwagusi to drop our luggage in our bandas and eat lunch.  My mother had told me that Mwagusi was a beautiful place to stay, having brought nursing students there in the past, but when we got there, nothing could have prepared me for the luxurious yet natural splendor of the place.

The verandah spilled into a sand pit with oversized pillows set high above the sand, engulfing any person wishing to lounge and peer over the verandah to the dried up river bed.  Next to the lounge pit was a hammock set at the perfect angle to place a cup of tea on the edge of the quaint straw ledge and look out over the riverbed past the stylish impala skull on the far ledge.  A large tent was strung up under a thatch roof, fitting two comfortable beds and a table with a light bulb lantern on it.  You hardly noticed you were in a tent, much less a tent in the middle of an African national park, except at night when animals come to scratch on the canvas walls and lions breathe heavily just outside the zipped mesh, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

On the opposite side of the verandah through the tent, is the most sprawling yet distinctly natural bathroom.  There is a cove for the toilet, another for the shower, a sink in the middle, and meticulously laid strands of straw to create shelves and dividers.  A shell held a soap bar while a piece of drift wood lay next to the shower, convenient for lodging shampoo and conditioner.  Strands of cloth hung from the ceiling, attaching to a branch which held hangers for you to hang up your safari gear.

I took detailed pictures of the place, vowing that when I got a place of my own, I would decorate at least one room in this fashion.  The only difference would be that the deep set windows would not be open without screens, as to discourage grotesquely large spiders and other bugs as well as squirrels with a penchant for contact cases and shiny earrings from coming into the bathroom.  I like to think I am a brave person, but it is true I refused to shower one night when I saw a multicolored spider hidden in my towel. It scuttled towards me when I went to dry my hands so after that, I shook my towels and peered into the toilet before using them.  I have slight arachnophobia, and although Africa is slowly eroding that fear, I still can’t stand the multicolored ones, which I know are probably poisonous.  Also, numerous palm-sized bugs–I later found out to be armored grasshoppers–clung to the straw walls.  They looked like sickly brown spiders that could jump across an entire room.  Needles- to-say, I used the bathroom with caution.

I only record the banda in detail because I love design, but if I have bore you with this, I’m sorry, soon I will get to the blood and guts, literally speaking.  After depositing our belongings in the bandas, we ate lunch in an equally beautifully natural dining hall, but I will spare you the decor details.  The food was as exotic and gourmet as anything created on Iron Chef.  Never have I been better fed than at Mwagusi Camp.  In a blissful haze, we walked to the safari outfitted truck, complete with a roof that could pop open and a duel gas tank that could be changed on the fly.  Esau was ready to go.  Seeing his excitement shook me from my haze into a happy anticipation for the first game drive.  Ruth and Owen looked like classic safari trekkers with their khaki pants that zip-off, white collared shirts made of breathable material, and Tilly hats.  I wondered if they had planned to match.  They were excited too, cameras and binoculars ready for when the African wildlife would jump into sight… (to be continued in part 2)

Tungamalenga

In 2006 and 2008, my mother brought nursing students to a small village called Tungamalenga to learn about cultural care practices by working with the doctor, Barnabas Kahwage. She has shown me many pictures of her students in the church sporting kitengas made for them by the women of the village. I’ve seen videos of the choir singing and dancing in church in perfect harmony. I’ve seen pictures of my mother with Barnabas, his white teeth protruding out of his wide smile. None of this prepared me for the real Tungamalenga.

We happened to run into the pastor of Tungamalenga in the Bega Kwa Bega office in Iringa, and he agreed to take the bus with us the following day to the village. He became the pastor after my mother last visited so he was new to both of us. At first he was formal and quiet, but after he found out my name was Natalia he grinned.

“It seems you were named after me since my name is Naftal. You just took out the ‘f’ and added ‘ia’.” He began hooting with laughter. I should mention here that I’m known as Natalia in Tanzania because it is easier to pronounce for Swahili speakers. If I say my name like I normally do in the states, people look at me strangely and avoid saying my name, so now I say “Naw-taw-LEE-aw.” They seem to like that name much better.

Back to the story: Naftal liked us instantly and we joked and laughed all the way to Tungamalenga on the bus. By car, it would have taken us two hours, but by bus, it took us four hours from Iringa to Tungamalenga because of all the stops. At one of the stops, one of the vendors tried to shove the skinned hind quarters of a goat in my face through the window. I laughed, saying “hapana asante” meaning “no thanks,” and turned my head away from the gore. Naftal got off the bus and purchased the half of the goat, complete with a tail sticking straight into the air.

“Did you really just buy that?!” I asked him.

“Oh yes, my wife will be pleased. You are going to eat it!” he smiled. I laughed, sincerely hoping he was joking.

It was dark by the time we arrived to Tungamalenga. Barnabas and his wife, Alice, were there to greet us with large hugs and many karibus (welcome). Barnabas looked the same as he did in the picture, but the picture could not capture his huge personality. He moved with more energy and good-humor than anyone I’ve ever met. I could tell he was thoughtful, small, very caring, easy-going, and had a great sense of humor. He over-pronounced everything, in spite of his uncharacteristically large teeth, and was always smiling. I could tell why my mom kept brought her nursing students to learn from him.

The next few days Naftal, Barnabas, and Alice were always with us. We shared meals together (yes we did eat the goat to my internal horror), and talked often. Naftal’s wife spent a lot of time with us too, but she was shy or cross, I couldn’t tell which. One other person who came with us everywhere was Lupyana. He had helped my mom both times she visited, making sure everything ran smoothly even though at the time he was younger than her students. He was following Barnabas because he wanted to become a doctor. When we visited this time, he was 25 years old and the government chose him to study international relations in hopes he would one day represent his country. He welcomed us into his home just as Naftal and Barnabas had done, and made sure we had a wonderful time while we were there.

The first evening I played football (not American football, of course) with the kids from the village. As we walked to a clearing next to the men’s football practice, more and more kids saw me carrying a brand-new football and joined us. A few people gathered to watch us play. I was regarded strangely as a woman, a white woman, playing football, but I didn’t care. Lupyana came and played with us, although he wasn’t very good, which he blamed on not wanting to play too hard against the children. We had a great time, even the pastor played keeper for a short while. I gave the ball to Barnabas’s football star kids, Hauncy and Humphrey, to play again with all the children.

Barnabas and my mother left the game early to check on a woman who was dying of ovarian cancer. After the game, Lupyana and I walked to the woman’s house. It was dark by then and the house made of wood and mud was lit by candles. The whole family was gathered in the main room and pointed us to the bedroom where the woman, Barnabas and my mom were. A lantern sat on the bedside table, casting flickering light on their faces as the wind blew through the room. Above the hollowing wind, I could hear Barnabas singing a hymn in Swahili, his voice steady and soothing. My mother tried to calm the woman with massage techniques.

Lupyana and I sat in the back by the window, observing everything. I could tell the woman’s pain twisted inside her from the cancer. The wind continued to bend the the flame in the lantern as Barnabas sang the beautiful melancholic hymn. Lupyana’s voice joined the doctor’s, supporting him in perfect harmony. One by one, the family came into the room and added their voices to the hymn. Never have I heard a sound so sad yet so hopeful fill a space. I could feel tears fill the corners of my lids, but they didn’t spill over. Lupyana put his hand on my knee, inviting me to join in the perfect melody. I hummed to the song, and watched the woman’s face slowly unfurrow. I could tell she was also touched by the music and tried to sing herself despite her agony. I don’t know how long we sang, but all too soon the song ended on a hauntingly beautiful chord that drifted out the window with the wind. My mom showed the family how to ease the woman’s pain by using complementary therapy. They practiced on each other and seemed to be encouraged that now they had something to do to help their loved one. They thanked us as we left, and Barnabas and Lupyana walked us home.

The following day was filled with more glorious Swahili hymns sung at church. The service lasted four hours, most of that filled by songs and the sermon. Since the sermon was in Swahili, I didn’t understand much, except for the few phrases translated by Barnabas. It was children’s Sunday and the reading came from revelations. All I could gather was the sermon was about being aware of snakes and evil spirits that try to cut the roots of trees, and how it is very important for children to be brought up in the church to avoid these evil spirits. The sermon was not given by Naftal, but a new guy full of fire and brimstone. At one point in the service, my mother and I had to sing and introduce ourselves in Swahili, which was a little nerve-racking. I mostly enjoyed watching the children trying to sit still for four hours, and listening to the music.

Before I knew it, we had to leave. I would love to return again to Tungamalenga to see Barnabas, Alice, Naftal, Lupyana, and the children. I know my mother is planning on bringing students there again. For me, Tungamalenga is Tanzania.

I have pictures I can show you, videos I took at church, stories I can tell you, but I know I will never be able to convey the full experience of that place. Perhaps one day you will be able to go there yourself, I know my mom and I would love to show you.

Although I was sad to leave Tungamalenga, I was excited for our next adventure. The Germandsons, whom I will tell you all about soon, picked us up in a Tutanca Land Rover driven by Esau. We packed everything in the truck with great effort (we had acquired 5 kilos of rice, a bowl of porridge seeds as well as other gifts) and headed off to Ruaha National Park to go on safari. I thought cuddling with tigers in Thailand was daring, but that was nothing compared to coming up close to wild African cats, but I’ll leave that story for next time.

Bus to Iringa

I realize it has been awhile since I’ve written a blog post, and for that I’m sorry. The task to catch you up on the past few weeks is a daunting one. I’ve barely had time to process it myself, but as a famous writer whom I’ve long forgotten his name once said, “I write to find out what I’m thinking about.” Without further procrastination, I will relay our adventures to you.

BUS TO IRINGA

Before the sun rose, we arrived at the Sumry bus station in Moshi. We’ve become savvy travelers, picking the bus company not in the main bus station and the one recommended to us by many people. It’s a good thing we paid a little more since the bus ride was thirteen hours with only a handful of bathroom stops every four to five hours. We brought nuts and digestive cookies to get us from an early breakfast to a late dinner since the food at the stops would not be okay for our weak Western stomachs. The bathrooms available were the smelly hole in the ground ones in dark shacks coated with flies, much like the ones I remembered in India. It didn’t help that I had girly issues during that time (sorry if that is too much information).

We stopped in villages and were immediately bombarded by vendors selling fresh fruit, meat, and other munchies. There was always a lot of commotion at these small stops. People tried to get on, boxes and luggage was removed from under the bus, and passengers bought vegetables through the window. At one stop, a little boy no older than 2 years old wandered on the bus, and when we started again, his mother ran alongside the bus yelling in frantic Swahili. The bus stopped, the conductor picked up the boy by one arm, and carried him to his distressed mother. Soon, we were on our way again. The sun beat down on my seat through the window, but I didn’t want to take off my scarf covering the bulge of valuables underneath my shirt.

A note about carrying money or anything valuable in Africa: it is not wise or recommended to travel with a purse or bag, even if it is slung across your shoulder. Back in Moshi, Claudette informed us about the “African purse,” which is essentially storing money in your bra. The trick is to place it so you can quickly and gracefully remove what you need without digging inappropriately. Because we were traveling and needed to carry more than we would on the average outing, I devised a way to carry as many valuables without being seen. It involved a regular bra with a sports bra over it. That formed a nice pocket to put my camera, money, ipod, cellphone, and passport discretely. It should also be noted that for every American dollar is about 1,500 Tanzanian shillings, so you can imagine how bulky that can become. For extra coverage, a scarf hid any unbecoming bulges. It also helps to have a little extra if you know what I mean. This also is probably too much information, but it has become apart of our daily routine.

The unfortunate effect of the African purse is it can also act as a central heating system. With each hour, the bus began to smell worse of sweat, rotting food, and other bodily fluids. A child threw up halfway through the trip. I opened my window and put on my sunglasses to avoid the sand from pelting my eyes. I loved watching the countryside and passing villages, and never got bored. I saw Maasai men herding their cattle with their long spears, regal red and blue clothing draped like a toga, and beads overing their ankles, necks and ears. School children in their uniforms would try to run alongside the bus, and would yell, “Muzungu!” (white person) to me since my mother and I were the only ones on the bus. In the villages, mothers would cook over open fires as the little ones wandered far away and played with toys they could find or make.

As we drew near to Iringa, my mother perfected her texting skills trying to coordinate our pick-up. We arrived late, but Bo Skillman from Bega Kwa Bega was there to pick us up and took us to a restaurant. We were weak from travel, so I ordered comfort food: pasta with plain tomato sauce and vegetables. The restaurant was on a hill and looked over the town of Iringa. Because it was a bigger town by Tanzanian standards, electric lights dotted the hill, mirroring the stars in the sky. That night, I don’t remember my head hitting the pillow.

I could not have dreamed how incredible the next week would be in the small village of Tungamalenga, on safari in Ruaha National Park, and exploring the town of Iringa. But more on that later…

Meeting People

As wonderful as the landscape of different countries may be, the most fascinating part of traveling is always the people you meet. Since we are in Tanzania for a longer period of time, we have the opportunity to not only meet people, but foster relationships. Although it is still the beginning of our stay, we have met a few people who have become apart of our life here.

Marycelina Msuya (Mama Msuya)
In 2007, Marycelina Msuya came to St. Olaf College on a faculty exchange program through the ELCA and my mother was her mentor during her stay. The two took to each other quickly so when it came time for my mother to decide what to do for her sabbatical, she knew right away that she wanted to go teach at Marycelina’s nursing school at KCMC. Ever since we arrived to Tanzania, Marycelina has taken great care of us. She made sure we had a good house, brought us shopping on the first day, and let us use her office and computer to check the Internet. She is intelligent and well-respected in the community and is a mover and a shaker. She is a busy woman, too. Besides being the dean of the nursing department, she is also a member of the ethics committee, teaches leadership and management as well as community health, and serves on task forces and committees for the Tumaini University system. Somehow, she always has time to take care of us. Jonas Mwakatobe For the first few days, Mwakatobe drove us everywhere. He also helped us get mobile phones (which was a painfully long process) and register for Internet. He doesn’t know much English, but pretended to know what we were saying by responding “Yeah, yeah, yeah” to everything we said. In many ways (besides the yeah yeah yeahs) he reminded me of Paul from the ECC while I was on Global. He is business like, but you can tell he is very protective and occasionally we can make him smile.

Rebecca
She is technically our housekeeper, but calling her that would be a gross understatement of what she does for us. Being self-sufficient Norwegians, we resisted the idea at first of having a housekeeper, but once we met Rebecca, we decided she could do a few things just to have her around. She knows enough English to get by and carries around a Swahili-English dictionary, but we all understand each other just fine and laugh a lot together. We joke all the time and when we don’t understand each other, we make crazy hand gestures and noises to convey our meaning when words fail. She has a wide small and laughs with her whole body, and works very hard. There are people in this world that make you instantly happy and make your heart smile and for me, Rebecca is one of those people. She is only twenty-seven but has three children: Angela is nine, Rich (pronounced Reech) is six, and Annie is four. I found out the other day that our gardener–who cuts the grass with a machete–is her husband. She told me her husband was a gardener, but I didn’t realize he was our gardener. We laughed together about this new revelation and she told him to come in. His name is Gadiely and speaks little English, but he saw my soccer ball and began dribbling it. Hopefully this weekend we will all play soccer together, the whole family and perhaps some neighbor kids. Last night, Rebecca taught me how to make chipati with sauce to go on it. The power went off halfway through cooking, so we used cell phones for light as we rolled out the rest of the dough. By the time it came back on, we were ready to fry it. The meal ended up being some of the most delicious food I’ve had yet. Maybe by the time I get back to America, I will be a master Tanzanian cook from Rebecca’s tutelage. It’s hard to convey how wonderful Rebecca is and how much she means to both my mom and me.

Peter
When we knew we couldn’t always call Mwakatobe for a ride since he is one of two drivers for all of KCMC, we got the number of a taxi driver named Peter. He is dependable and nice, but he overcharges us and has a shameless crush on me. When we are in the car driving, he directs most of the questions to me and I catch him staring at me through the rearview mirror when his eyes should be on the chaotic streets of Moshi. Even when he pulls away, he drives with his head turned back towards me, seeing how long he can hold my gaze before he drives off. It’s very uncomfortable and one day I’m worried he will try to drive off with me before I have time to get out of the car. We decided not to call Peter anymore. The other day we took a different taxi from KCMC and we passed Peter who waved at me excitedly, but I could tell he was also hurt that we weren’t driving with him.

Cindy Johnson
Cindy was the dean for Gustavus before she received a Fulbright Scholarship to teach biology at the African Wildlife Refuge and write a book about Serengeti ecology. She just extended her Fulbright another year to work and write. Both she and my mom have a lot of in common. Last year, Cindy’s daughter lived with her in a village not far from Moshi called Mweka, but this year her daughter is away at college so she has adopted me and my mom as part of her Minnesotan family. A few nights ago, Cindy picked us up and we all went to dinner together and had a great time. She knows the area very well, and promises to take us to see some of the sights. She also loves to dance and I told her we would go with her and her students. I look forward to getting to know her better during the year.

Claudette
A colleague of my mother’s who also teaches in the nursing department at KCMC. Although she looks and sounds British, she in fact grew up in Zimbabwe and has lived in Moshi the past ten years. Before she became a nurse, she was a horse riding instructor and competed in many horse shows. She is the person to know in Moshi because she has grown up completely African, but still understands Western ways of looking at society. She offers us great advice and loves connecting people. She is especially helpful to my mom as she tries to gauge what the students already know and what she needs to teach. Claudette gives it to you straight and is very honest about everything. She gave us a number of a trustworthy taxi driver who has driven her family for many years, and she wants to connect me with people she knows that are my age at both the international school and KCMC medical school. She is a no crap kind of a woman, and I like that.

Dr. Rao
When I thought about the people I would meet in Tanzania, I did not expect to befriend an eccentric Indian dental surgeon who is normally a recluse. In his six years of working at the KCMC hospital, he claims to have no friends, and when he is not performing surgery or checking up on patients, he is at home watching television brought to him by his giant satellite dish in the backyard. He owns a vicious dog who attacks anyone who tries to come to the house, which has caused much resentment from the neighbors. For some reason, he really likes my mom and me, and checks on us when the power goes out to make sure we are okay. So how did we meet Dr. Rao? He came to Mama Msuya’s office one day while we were there and we started talking to him. Once he found out I was a writer, he became very excited. He left and came back with a pink packet and handed it to me. “God brings people together. You will write my story!”

When he first explained the project in his heavily accented English, it sounded like he wanted me to write an article about HIV and blindness, and how the KCMC eye clinic performs surgeries for people in small villages to remove cataracts. He took me to a nearby cafe on campus and began explaining in detail to story he wanted me to write. He didn’t want me to write an article, but a screenplay complete with bollywood style songs. I told him my specialty was not songwriting, but he wants me to write the screenplay anyway. He already has some lyrics done for his songs. It starts with a scene at a bar where a barmaid is working but also entertains male customers. Here is an except of the song that is supposed to be playing in the background: “The whole planet is moving and rocking / Why don’t you rock and move / Move your body, shake your body, rock your body / Take a rum and rock your body / Take a scotch and shake your body / rock, shake, rock shake / take a scotch, drink, drink / drink a rum, drink, drink / drink wine, drink, drink / drink like a hippo.”

Later, the barmaid ends up dying of HIV/AIDS and leaves her children to be raised the grandmother. The grandmother becomes blind and the eldest granddaughter has to quit school to help her raise the other kids. After visiting church one day, the grandmother hears of the eye clinic at KCMC and goes to get cataracts removed. Her sight is restored and the granddaughter can go back to school. The end. I left out many of the details such as the grandmother almost being bitten by a snake, but let me assure you, it is an epic story complete with many songs. After I write this one, he wants me to write one about a boy who drinks cough syrup and gets locked in his school over the holidays when Katrina hit New Orleans. He survives the storm, but is still locked in the school until some gangsters find him by accident and return him to his parents for a large ransom.

Dr. Rao claims he cannot write, but he has many stories. He calls us a lot and this past weekend invited us over for the biggest lunch I’ve even had and stopped short of force feeding us when we said we were too full for thirds. He proposed going on a long road trip to South Africa, which my mother and I politely explained that my mother is here to teach and can’t go away for long periods of time, but didn’t mention we thought it would be inappropriate and highly dangerous. I think he is just lonely with his wife in India and his children at Oxford. He doesn’t trust anyone, but he likes us, and thinks I’m a wise and quiet person. I almost chuckled out loud when he said this, but held my tongue to keep the illusion going. He firmly believes I will become well-known in the world and that I already know many producers in America who would love to produce his screenplays.