Tanzania Journal - Day 8:Hippos in the Water; Elephants in the Mud

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Running Log, 12/31/10 -- 24 minutes in and around Dik Dik Campground

On the last morning of 2010, I awoke from a heavy sleep with the feeling that the world had regained its sense of proportion. The pounding in my head from the previous evening's entertainment had gone away, and everything was quiet and peaceful as the sun came up on another perfect day in the Serengeti.

Rob had described our agenda for the day as a "full-day game drive" through the central Serengeti area known as Seronera. We would discover that our vehicle was one of a hundred others bent on driving for the next twelve hours on the network of dirt roads that infiltrated this popular area. We would all be out there with the same objectve: see as many animals as we could before the sun went down.

We had a leisurely breakfast at Mbuzi Mawe, although nothing was ever completely leisurely with Rob reminding us that we needed to get an early start. After breakfast it took us almost no time to gather our bags and trek down to the parking area and load up the Land Cruiser. It was not yet 9:00 when we left Mbuzi Mawe in search of wildlife.

Our first stop was a bluff overlooking a wide and relatively deep pool formed by one of the shallow streams that ran through the plain. I don't recall the name of this spot, but it was known universally as "the hippo pool," because it was filled with submerged and partially submerged hippos seeking refuge from the sun and the heat of the day. Photographs do not do justice to the odd, understated grandeur of 30-40 enormous creatures packed into no more than a splash of muddy water like animate bowling balls in a bathtub.

Hippos are known to be ill-tempered and extremely dangerous when disturbed, and are responsible for more human deaths in Africa than any other mammal other than man. It was hard to believe that these massive vegetarians who seemed willing to sleep all day in the pool, shifting positions occasionally with loud and comical grunts, were deadly when roaming the land at night. I could have watched them for hours.



After leaving the hippo pool, our journey became more random -- at least that's how it felt to me. Sometimes it seemed that Rob had a definite destination in mind, but sometimes it seemed we were just circling aimlessly, waiting for something to happen or some animal to make an appearance. From time to time we would pull up next to another Land Cruiser coming from where we were heading, and Peter or Rob would exchange news with the driver. I assume they were talking about where the lions were, or the leopards, or the jaguars.

The big cats were very cool, that's for sure, but my favorite animals were the elephants. We were lucky enough to see a huge herd of 100-120 elephants, and spend a good hour in their company when they chose to come our way. Among the herd were babies and adolescents, and they put on a show for us, wallowing and playing in the mud as though they hadn't a care in the world.


Mud, mud, glorious mud -- nothing quite like it for cooling the blood.

Of all the animals we saw, the elephants (and perhaps the baboons) were the only ones who seemed free from the constant anxiety of having to hunt or avoid being hunted. Even so, we had reason to be grateful they were so good-natured, because when they came over to the Land Cruiser, any one of them could have knocked us over with little effort.

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It was late in the afternoon when we finally drove into the parking area at the Dik Dik campground. It must have been past six o-clock already, and the precious daylight was slipping away quickly. I had packed my running shorts and running shoes in my backpack for easy access, so while the others unloaded their bags, I was off immediately to change and get in that one last run of the year.

The layout of the campground would make this one of the more challenging runs. There were tents everywhere, and to have a running route at all I needed to make my way from the parking area along the edge of the background where it turned into bush, past the latrines and then up an access road that led to a second field, which was also full of tents and people. With a little creativity, I figured out how to make this a loop, of sorts, rather than a back-and-forth, and I set out to get in my requisite 20 minutes.

The first "loop" took about four minutes. As I passed our land cruiser, Rob looked on with amusement and maybe even a little pride. You see that mzungu running? He's OUR mzungu. He exercises every day, even on safari. I wondered what the other campers made of the sight of me gliding past their tents, forward and back, over and over. Surely there were other runners there. Maybe they were a little envious.

After the first loop, Joni fell in step beside me and we ran one circuit of the campground together. She ran in flip flops and civilian clothes, and it was great.



As with all of my short, repetitive, campground runs, it took forever to run the first 10 minutes, and then the next 10 went by quickly and easily. As I passed the 20-minute mark and realized that I had brought my year-long running adventure to a successful conclusion, a very happy, peaceful feeling settled over me. I celebrated with one final loop in the gathering dusk, speeding up as much as I could without terrorizing the other campers, and savoring the moment. It had been a long twelve months.

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A final note about Dik Dik. Back in 2007 when Joni was traveling in Tanzania with Liz Gleason, they stayed at the same campground, They awoke in the middle of the night to a low growling sound. It was the sound of lions walking slowly through the campground in search of whatever it is lions want at that hour. Joni and her friend lay in their tents in a paroxysm of fear. Eventually after what seemed like a very long time, the lions went away.

Joni wisely chose not to share this story with us until she was safely back in the United States. Still, it has become part of our family history -- we refer to it as the night Joni met the lions -- and we all had it in the back of our mind as we bedded down for the night in the exact same spot.

So you might understand that I was a little apprehensive and edgy as night fell. Returning from the latrine with a flashlight just before turning in for the evening, I met a couple standing on the edge of the campground looking out into the bush. "You can see eyes," they said. Sure enough, when I pointed my flashlight out into the darkness, I could see the unmistakable gleam of yellow eyes staring back at me from perhaps 50-60 yards away. I didn't mention this to Ann until the next morning. I wanted to make sure that at least one of us slept well that night.

NEXT: Lions as Role Models; Lake Nduto

Tanzania Journal - Day 7, Part 3:Mbuzi Mawe

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At Klein's Gate, it took Rob about twenty minutes to secure our permit to enter the Serengeti. I should mention that this was only the latest example of the routine delays we encountered traveling through different administrative districts. In the past two days, there had been several times when we had found our way blocked by a small gate across the road manned by some local authority. Usually there would be a few shacks nearby, perhaps a village. Peter or Rob would get out of the car and go talk to someone for a while. I was never clear as to the exact nature of the conversation -- whether it was social, official, or something else. I was never sure whether any money changed hands, or whether they were just checking the status of our permits. The first time it happened, I was apprehensive. But after a few times, I just accepted it as normal and found a few more reasons to be glad we had experienced guides.

In any case, it was about 4:30 when once more, and for the last time that day, we all climbed into the Land Rover and drove through the gate.

Almost immediately the landscape changed from scrub forest to rolling hills and grassy plains, dotted with acacia trees. We were traveling South now, and the sun was sinking lower in the sky on the right side of the car. With Rob encouraging us, we all started scanning the bush for birds and animals. At first, Rob would be the one to call out to Peter to stop the car, and then he would point out an exotic bird perched in a tree or a "bachelor herd" of antelope or a lover's triangle of hyenas. We stopped frequently, sometimes letting the engine of the Land Cruiser rumble on, and sometimes shutting it off, letting the vast silence of the plains roll over us.

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The sun had already set when we arrived at the Mbuzi Mawe tented camp. Until then, I really had no idea of what was meant by a "tented camp," but I suppose I thought it would be like, well, a CAMP... with TENTS. In fact, it was quite a bit more than that and I was unprepared. For me, at least, after two nights of roughing it, I would have been ecstatic with a hot shower and a clean bed. That, a bottle of beer, and Henry's incomparable cooking would have seemed like paradise enow.

But those simple pleasures were not on the menu at Mbuzi Mawe. As soon as Peter had pulled the Land Rover into the graveled parking area and we had climbed out of the vehicle to stretch our legs, uniformed porters appeared and whisked our bags away. Then Rob informed us that he, Peter, and Henry were heading off to the guides' quarters for the night. This came as a shock to me as I had assumed we would all be sticking together. But no, moments later more porters came and escorted us away up to the main lodge.

I was still feeling disoriented trying to figure out how we would get along without our crew when we walked through the doorway into the main building of the camp. On our right was a concierge sitting at a rather elegant wooden desk. On the left were couches with comfy pillows, coffee tables with magazines and board games, and open french doors leading to a veranda. A few more steps into the lobby, or whatever it was called, and one could see there was a gift shop, a bar, and beyond it, a well-appointed dining room. As we stood there dazed, someone offered us glasses of mango juice. "Karibu, karibu! Welcome to Mbuzi Mawe!"



Pictures from the promotional web site for Mbuzi Mawe Tented Camp

The way the camp was set up, guests stayed in these very luxurious, very large "tents," furnished with hotel-like beds, writing desks, electricity, flush toilets and yes, hot showers. I suppose they were tents because the walls and roofs were constructed from heavy canvas, but had we been at the Ritz it could hardly have felt more opulent. The only thing to remind us that we were in the midst of wilderness was the rule that after dark, guests were not to walk from the tents to the main lodge without an escort from the camp staff. Although the walk was probably no more than 150 feet along paved walkways, it was a strange feeling, indeed, to make this walk behind a camp employee wielding a flashlight.

Back in the main lodge, things kept getting weirder.

After finding an electrical outlet where we could charge camera and laptop batteries, Joni and I collapsed on a couch and waited for the others to return from washing up. While we sat there wishing for nothing more than peace and quiet, another hotel employee announced to us and the other guests milling in the lobby that we would be treated to an entertainment program before dinner. This consisted of twenty minutes of dancers and acrobats performing to tourist-friendly songs and music. When that was over, another camp staff member set up a laptop computer with speakers and began playing American country-western standards. It was not welcome, and became much worse when it turned out that there were only two songs on the laptop and they were to be repeated all night. As soon as the others arrived to rescue us, we fled into the dining room, pursued by the voice of Kenny Rogers singing for the third time "You've got to know when to hold 'em..."

Sitting at a table with the others, reading a menu, ordering wine, I felt a deep discontent. I was probably just very tired after a long day, but I couldn't shake the feeling that this gilded oasis in the Serengeti was a caricature of our privileged tastes and appetites. It was as though someone had held up a mirror and in it I had seen an image of myself that wasn't very flattering. Surely no effort had been spared to make us feel "at home," but the result was that I felt more out-of-place than at any other time during the trip.


Daytime picture of the dining area.

I suffered through dinner, allowed myself to be escorted back to our tent, brushed my teeth with bottled water, spent five minutes with my Swahili book before I realized that I wasn't paying attention, and finally turned out the light and waited for sleep.

NEXT: Hippos in the Water, Elephants in the Mud

Tanzania Journal - Day 7, Part 2:Out of the Desert

Camels near Lake Natron

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We finally left the camp at Lake Natron at about 11:00 on the morning of December 30th. Rob had wanted us to leave an hour earlier, and we had dutifully packed all our bags the previous evening for a quick departure. However, while loading those bags into the back of the Land Cruiser, Rob and Peter had noticed a problem with the latching mechanism on the rear door, and it took a while to fix.

While they did, the sun rose higher in the sky, and what had been a pleasantly warm morning gradually became a very hot day. Like every other sensible creature, we sought out shade and waited patiently for the car to be ready.

For the first half hour after we left camp, the road continued more or less North, rising gradually through an arid landscape characterized by low scrubby trees and bushes. It was impressive that these trees were able to eke out a living on the modest amounts of rain that fell erratically in that region. It seemed an inhospitable place, and yet, every few miles we came across Maasai walking slowly in small groups along the road. All seemed to be heading in the same direction, back in the general direction of the basin. Perhaps there was a market somewhere, or perhaps they were making the long round trip for water or some other need.




Comenifera tree on the road from Lake Natron

Perhaps the hot sun lulled our crew into a moment of inattention, because we rounded a bend and suddenly found ourselves in the middle of a small village of huts and animal paddocks. Rob quickly figured out that we had gone the wrong way at a fork, and so we had to backtrack for a half a mile or so. Almost as soon as we were back on the right track, the road began climbing sharply. We were now ascending the escarpment, heading roughly Northwest toward the town of Loliondo. The terrain, which hadn't been smooth by any stretch, now became daunting. The Land Cruiser pitched and bounced, as we negotiated stretches of road with huge slabs of stone and ruts two feet deep. We would harrow through some particularly improbable section of road and think to ourselves that surely it couldn't get any more rugged, only to encounter a worse section a few minutes later. There were stretches when it didn't even seem we were on a road at all, just picking our way up a boulder-strewn slope trying to keep the wheels of the car moving forward.

It was here that we came to appreciate our driver, Peter. Up until now, Peter had been the overlooked member of the crew. Rob was the leader, gregarious and informative. He had planned the trip and consulted with us frequently about what was going on. Henry was our cook, and already we had begin to marvel at his ability to conjure large quantities of good food from whatever supplies had been packed and could be prepared in a camp. Peter had been mostly quiet, but as we lurched up the side of the rift, skirting disaster at every turn, his concentration and competence made us feel very fortunate and grateful.

I wish I had some pictures from that part of the drive. No one was thinking about pictures, however, since we were all hanging on to our seats trying not to careen up to the roof with every bump.

As we neared the end of our arduous climb, the dry red rocks fell away behind us, and the landscape became greener. As we gained altitude, the climate was changing before our eyes. Here, the condensation was greater and the foliage was thicker. We began to see cattle on the hillside. The road leveled out and became friendlier.

We continued to see people on or by the side of the road, mostly women and children. Invariably they waved at the car as it went by. Once in a great while we would see another vehicle coming our way. I wanted to warn them about the road they would be descending, but I'm sure they knew better than I did what they were getting themselves into.

At one point, we drove a mile off the main road into a little town where the people were not wearing the Maasai dress. We saw some teenage boys and I think I recall they were playing soccer in or next to the street. Most were wearing pants and t-shirts, very different than the the colorful shukas we had come to expect. Rob explained that these were not Maasai, but Sonjo, another tribe with different language and customs.

It must have been sometime between 1:00 and 2:00 that we stopped for lunch in a town called Wasso. I couldn't quite figure out what kind of place it was as Peter pulled the car to a stop in a large courtyard. It seemed like an official building of some sort, although it might have been a school. If Rob told us, I've forgotten what he said. Although Rob suggested we eat inside, we had been sitting in the car for a long time and preferred to stay in the open air. He seemed to consider this a little strange, but accepted it and went into the building to get us some soft drinks.

A word about soft drinks: other than instant coffee or tea in the morning, beer if we were lucky, and bottled water the rest of the time, the one reliable thing to drink was Coca-Cola and its sister products. There seemed to be an excellent distribution system that supplied recycled glass bottles of Coke and Fanta to every town, where they sold for what seemed like a very reasonable price of 500 Tanzanian shillings, or about 33 cents.

It was pleasant in this courtyard, but a sense of contradiction tugged at my consciousness. Here we were at this official-looking building in this big, important town -- at least big by the standards of Northern Tanzania -- and yet instead of bathrooms, there was an outhouse with holes in the ground, and no running water or soap to be had anywhere.

I'm afraid I have to spend a little time on the topic of sanitary facilities. I was struck by how access to and use of the toilets was a matter of more-or-less constant concern for all of us on the trip. Other than Joni, everyone in our family experienced a certain amount of digestive distress when we got to Tanzania. We suspected that it might be related to the anti-malarial medication we were taking although it's possible that there was some other cause. In any case, in Arusha, we had running water at the hotel, but not when we visited Oju's family, and not when we visited Rose in Monduli. At Tarangire, the camp toilets were crude and we weren't even allowed to use those after lights out. At Lake Natron where it was safer, it was not measurably cleaner (although there were simple showers of not-potable water). Sanitation was always an issue, and we wondered what microbes were out and about, waiting to pounce on our poorly-adapted immune systems. I wish I could say that I got used to roughing it, but it would be more accurate to say that I endured the lack of plumbing the best that I could and was very happy whenever we got to use a western-style loo.

After our lunch, we got back into the Land Cruiser and began driving West. We would enter the Serengeti National Park at an outpost named Klein's Gate. Although it was not many kilometers, it took us a couple of hours to reach the entrance to the Park. On the way we encountered more horrendous roads, and passed through several small, isolated villages.

One village, in particular, left a strong impression on me. The town seemed to appear out of nowhere. We had been driving along, and all of a sudden there was a cluster of buildings, some with masonry walls. What was most strange was that there seemed to be a crowd of people in the center of the town, but it didn't seem like anything was happening. Or rather, it appeared that everyone was waiting for something to happen, but in a slow, listless fashion without any definite expectation. There was no market, no activity, just people sitting or standing or milling around.

The other strange thing was when we encountered a bus traveling in the opposite direction. It was inconceivable that a bus could pass on the roads we had just traversed, and yet Rob assured me that it was heading to Arusha. I couldn't believe it.

We reached Klein's Gate at about 4:30. While Rob went into the office there to pick up the necessary permits, we admired a herd of giraffe a few hundred yards away. These were not our first giraffe; we had seen some in Tarangire and near Lake Natron, but these were Serengeti giraffe, and we felt very excited to have arrived, at last.


We were very careful to observe Rule 3...

Tanzania Journal - Day 7, Part 1:Lake Natron

"Here it is the landscape rather than the animals that is the attraction - the area around the lake is dry, desolate and hauntingly beautiful." (www.moivaro.com)


"The lake is 35 miles (56 km) long and 15 miles (24 km) wide and contains salt, soda, and magnesite deposits. The lake’s warm water is an ideal breeding ground for the Rift Valley flamingos." (Encyclopedia Brittanica)

"Three-quarters of the world population of lesser flamingos live and nest in East Africa. All depend on Tanzania's Lake Natron as a breeding site. Food is plentiful, nesting sites abound – and above all, the lake is isolated and undisturbed." (www.rspb.com)

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Running Log, 12/30/10 -- 30 minutes in and around Lake Natron camp, including "hill repeats"

December 30th was our second full day of Safari and would be, in every sense, our longest. It would take us from the near lunar isolation of Lake Natron to a brazen island of Western luxury in the heart of the Serengeti. In between, we would traverse a stretch of road so uneven it would make our Land Cruiser buck like an enraged bull, with only our seat belts keeping us from repeatedly banging our heads on the roof of the truck.

Our longest day began before dawn with a sunrise drive to the mud flats on the southern end of Lake Natron. Rob had strongly urged us to an early start, and it was nearly pitch black when we staggered out of our tents, carrying flashlights to find our way to the toilets across camp. Henry had heated water for tea or instant coffee, and after a few minutes to linger over our cups, it was time to bundle into the Land Cruiser for the fifteen-minute drive to the Lake.


Giraffes at sunrise near Lake Natron

There were many things that I saw on our trip that left a general impression that has acquired detail over time as I have read more and been able to put the experience into some sort of context. The early morning wander among the flamingos at Lake Natron is one of those things. So forgive me if I take a few moments to digress and things I learned later when I sat down and read about this place.

Let's start with the name. I was a little put off by the name, which sounds harsh and forbidding -- so different from the Swahili and Maasai names I was learning. Wikipedia tells me that "Natron" is an English word (from a French cognate) that refers to a naturally occurring mixture of sodium carbonate decahydrate (hydrated soda ash). So Lake Natron is something like "Salt Lake".

Alkalinity in the large, shallow lake can reach a pH of 9 to 10.5 (almost as alkaline as ammonia), and temperatures can reach 50 degrees Celsius (120 degrees Fahrenheit). Who could love such a place?

It turns out that these conditions are ideal for salt-loving organisms, including Spirulina, a cyanobacterium that grows in water and makes its own food via photosynthesis. The bacteria have a reddish pigment that gives the open water of Lake Natron a deep red appearance. Flamingos feed on the bacteria, and the pigment makes the birds appear pink. In other words, pink flamingos aren't born pink -- they get that way by eating red bacteria.



The other advantage for the flamingos is that a lake whose water is so alkaline is no haven for predators. Other than a few giraffes off in the distance, the only traces of larger mammals we saw near Lake Natron were some bleached bones on the shore. It seemed to me that unless you were a flamingo, the lake was a place to go to die.

Near us, there were thousands of flamingos wading in the water, feeding. We spent a long time walking slowly out on the flats, taking a few pictures, picking up a few bones. I look at the pictures now and none of them seem particularly compelling. It was a quiet refuge, isolated and spare. After an hour or so, we headed back to the Land Cruiser for the drive back to camp.

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When we got back to camp, it was probably around 8:30 or 9:00 and breakfast was waiting for us. However, I had other plans. On the second to last day of the year there was no way I was going to pass up my one and only opportunity to sneak in a run. I told Ann to save me some food, and I slipped away to change into shorts and running shoes.

I didn't have high hopes for this run when I began my usual routine of looping around the campground. Even though the morning was pleasantly warm before the heat of midday and the grass and soft roads in camp were a pleasure, I expected to feel like a horse in a paddock. These pictures that Peter took sort of get that across.




However, after a few laps in the camp, and with Rob's assurance that there were no lions around, on my next loop I ventured out of camp and up the road that led past the Maasai village to the open plain beyond. I soon found a very runnable path that led up a decent hill and intersected the road we came in on. Thus, even without heading into the wilderness (I thought about it), I was able to follow a big lopsided figure 8 that combined small curcuits of the campground and large loops outside with a challenging climb to keep me focused.

The more I ran, the better I felt. At one point, I was joined by a Maasai boy and we ran together for a few minutes, a thrill for both of us, I think. In spite of the fact that I knew breakfast would be put away and that Rob would want to be leaving, I extended the run longer than the minimum and managed a good thirty minutes and some energetic charges up the hill. It would be my second favorite run of the whole trip.

Tanzania Journal - Day 6: Water in a Dry Land

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Running Log, 12/29/10 -- 22 minutes w/Oju up and back the road at our campsite at Tarangire

I was very happy when it finally began to get light at Tarangire. It had been our first night camping, and I had slept fitfully. Our tents had been hot and stuffy and it took a while to figure out how to ventilate them properly. Ann had fallen asleep quickly, but I lay on my back for what seemed like hours trying to think cool thoughts and trying not to listen too carefully for the sounds of large animals in the night. It didn't help recalling Rob's words of caution should we happen to feel the "call of nature" before it was light enough to safely cross the campground to the toilets. I don't know know how the others felt, but being told that I was confined to the tent for the next eight hours made me anxious and restless.

So it was a relief to have the sun finally come up, and to be able to climb out of the tent, stiff and groggy but unmauled and ready for another day.

As far as running went, this would be a test, of sorts, to judge whether it would be practical for me to run while inside the parks. Both Rob and Joni had been skeptical, considering that Rob would not sanction me venturing outside the campground for any reason. I understood that he had no desire to lose a client to a freelancing lion who might pass by while I was doing my best impersonation of breakfast. It would not be good for business.

I had already decided that the morning's run would consist of running up and back the campground access road, a strip of soft dirt that extended perhaps 150 meters from our tents. On the near end of each lap, I could circle the tents and the small pavilion that the cooks used to prepare meals. On the far end, I could take a wide turn around some bushes on either side of the road -- not much different from the turns we used to run in the old Newton North SOA. Plus, I would have company. When I had described the plan the previous evening, Oju had said to wake him up for the fun.

So it was that as the sun rose on Tarangire, we set off together at a sleepy jog, our first tentative steps taking us away from the safety of the tribe towards the bush, and then, as we approached the edge of our tiny island of human habitation, turning back again to complete a lap. The goal was to continue for as many laps as it would take to log twenty minutes. All year that had been the informal minimum I had established to "count" as a run.

Our first lap felt pretty tame. Having to turn around so soon after we started was drudgery. Returning to circle the tents barely a minute after we had left made us objects of amusement for our traveling companions and crew. On the first lap, I felt self-conscious, but soon I had other things to think about. At the far point of our second circuit, I looked out beyond the road and realized that there were hundreds of baboons foraging in the bush not more than 200 meters away. A shot of adrenaline went through me, and I experienced the visceral sensation of the wildness surrounding us. There was nothing separating us but dry grass and a few acacia trees. It was, I thought, very fortunate that the baboons had no interest in us.

Newly alert, we continued our laps, even finding ways to make our run more playful. We started weaving through the campground, bounding up the steps one one side of the pavilion, crossing it, and leaping off the other side, then heading out to the end of the access road and the indifferent baboons, and then back a minute later. After twenty minutes of this, I decided we needed to do one more lap, so we did, and finished without fatigue or distress. Rob, who had been watching us with the same concern that a mama bear might have watching her cubs wandering away from the den, gave us a broad smile. I'm not sure he approved, but he seemed to accept that this was what we did to amuse ourselves.

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After breakfast, and after everything and everybody were packed back into the Land Rover, we left Tarangire and began to head North. Our destination for the day was Lake Natron, located along Tanzania's border with Kenya.

The previous day, we had spent the entire afternoon driving on bumpy park roads. I hated to admit it, but it was actually nice to leave the park and return to smooth pavement for a while. I had no idea at that point that the next few days' journey would challenge my very definition of "road." Knowing nothing of what was to come, I relaxed as we made the easy drive to the town of Mto Wa Mbu ("Mosquito River" in Swahili), where we picked up a few more supplies and said good-bye to Oju, who left us to catch a dala dala back to Monduli.

Leaving Mto Wa Mbu, we drove for a short way on the paved highway and then turned off onto an unpaved road, strewn with gravel and stones. I remember thinking that this must be a shortcut. Actually, it was the main route leading to Lake Natron and beyond it the Northern entrance to the Serengeti. It was very dry, this road, and the surrounding land appeared desolate and hardly habitable. Still, we continued to see Maasai villages, and occasionally passed Maasai men, women, and children walking slowly along the road, sometimes leading small herds of bony cattle.

Apart from the people, the most dramatic feature of the landscape was the East Africa Rift escarpment, a thousand-foot difference between the valley floor and the higher plain to the West that stretched to the North and South as far as we could see. The escarpment was a constant and impressive reminder of the tectonic activity happening here.


Maasai village with the Rift escarpment in the background
(Photo: Marc Gamble)

I remember that drive as having a timeless quality. It was the middle of the day, and no one said much as we bumped along through for what seemed like hours through that dry valley. After we had been driving for a while, the road began to rise and we could look out over the landscape of the Engaruka Basin. Here and there, the wind whipped up tall, slender dust devils that extended hundreds of feet in the air and presided over the basin like primitive spirits of the land.


Dust devil - Engaruka Basin

As we continued North, we had excellent views of Ol Doinyo Lengai, an active volcano and the third-tallest mountain in Tanzania. The volcano, whose name means "mountain of God" in the local Maasai language, has erupted several times in the last hundred years, most recently in 2007-2008, when it deposited new layers of lava and ash into the Lake Natron basin. Rob explained that the lava from Ol Doinyo is unique among active volcanoes, containing sodium and potassium carbonate that makes Lake Natron a "Soda lake" and that gives the surrounding area an appearance unlike anywhere else in the world.

Ol Doinyo Lengai

Throughout the trip, Rob gave a lot of thought to finding spectacular spots for our stops, and this day was no different. In the early afternoon, we pulled off the road and up to the edge of a huge caldera a kilometer across with a view of Ol Doinyo looming in the distance.



We must not have been the only travelers to ever stop in this place. A minute after our Land Rover pulled to a stop in the soft gravel, a band of Maasai women and girls appeared with bracelets, necklaces, and other trinkets to sell. None of us were interested in buying anything, and after a few words of Swahili were exchanged, the women left us alone and sat down in the shade of an Acacia tree. Our party sat down in the shade of another and we ate our lunch. It was impossible not to think about what we had -- our bottled water, the individual boxes prepared by Henry that each contained more than any of us would eat at one sitting -- and not think about our neighbors. We had no way of knowing whether food was scarce for them or not, but the option of throwing away the food was intolerable. When we were finished, Peter, our driver, took a box of untouched fruit and other items over to them, and then we left.


The Maasai have quietly asserted their authority by taking the best shade.

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It was fairly late in the afternoon, probably around 4 p.m. when we arrived at the Lake Natron tented camp. The camp was adjacent to a Maasai settlement that turned out to be the same village where Joni had stayed for a week as a student in 2004. Maybe she had mentioned this before and it had not registered with me, but it made the place feel oddly familiar, as though I had known it for a long time before arriving on this day.

Unlike everything else we had seen that day, the camp was lush with green grass and a variety of trees. The reason for this was a stream that flowed out of the high hills above the camp, down to the lake. Our plan for the end of the afternoon was to follow that stream backwards, hiking through the narrow gash in the rocks where the water rushed down until we came to what Rob promised would be a waterfall and pool where we could swim.

We were certainly ready to be out of the Land Rover, and the idea of swimming was very tempting. For our hike, Rob had hired a Maasai to accompany us. At first, I thought that the role of guide was an honorary position, a courtesy to the local population, but I soon changed my mind. After a short way on the trail, we began criss-crossing the stream, now stepping on submerged rocks, now plunging through the water. Our guide knew every step of the way, knew which stones were firm steps and which were treacherous. Although he was a slight man, perhaps 5'2", he was extremely strong, as I discovered at one stream crossing. He was standing knee-deep in the torrent, patiently helping each of us cross without mishap. When it was my turn, I put my foot down in the wrong place and stumbled slightly. At once he reached out to steady me. His arm was like an iron bar.

After a half hour of hiking in this way, we arrived at the waterfall, an astonishing extravagance of water in this dry place. While the older adults waded gingerly into the pool, Joni and Loren leaped in like seals and splashed about joyfully, washing away the dust of the long day's drive.


Hiking to the waterfall


Loren and Joni under the waterfall.

Thus refreshed, we walked back down the trail and took the short ride back to the camp. The sun was setting as we entered this oasis for the second time. It turned out that some of the camp personnel had a generator and had converted one of the tents into a "Club" with a satellite radio and a tiny refrigerator that held beer that was not actually warm. We splurged on a few bottles of "Safari" and settled down for our evening meal.

Next: Out of the Desert

Tanzania Journal - Day 5: Tarangire

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Running Log, 12/28/10 -- 3 miles, out and back from L'Oasis

After our day in Monduli, we returned to Arusha Monday night and spent all evening sorting through our stuff, separating the things we would need for our eight-day trip through the national parks from the things we could leave until our return. About half our luggage and a lot of the things we had brought from the U.S. for Joni were packed away and left for later. What was left still looked like too much.

After the blissful experience of the previous day's run in the hills outside Monduli, my three-mile run in Arusha was a hard return to reality. I struggled to get out of bed, and pulled on my running stuff with an utter lack of enthusiasm. As I ran along the now familiar main highway, the air seemed dirtier and the road surface harder. Other than that, the run made no impression on me, and I devoted one listless sentence to it in my journal. Such is the life of a streak. When I got back, instead of a leisurely breakfast, I had to hustle to take a quick shower (my last for a while), and eat a hasty plate of toast and fruit.

This was the first day of our journey into the national parks, which meant the first day of stuffing ourselves and our belongings into (or on top of) the land rover. The land rover would become our home away from home, not only our transportation but our only protection from the predators whose domain we were about to invade. Rob, Peter (our driver), and Henry (our cook) appeared on schedule at 8 a.m. It took about 30 minutes to pack everything, and then we were off. Well, sort of. Before heading out of town, we first drove back into the city to pick up supplies and other last-minute necessities. These included cases and cases of water, several dozen eggs, and various other sundries. In addition to the collective supplies, this was our last chance to get personal items. For Joni, this meant buying more air-time for her cell phone (yes, there is cell phone reception in parts of the Serengeti). For Loren, this meant getting the next volume of Stieg Larsson's Millenium trilogy. For me, it was a slim book called "Beginning Swahili," which would become my constant companion for the next week.

With the shopping, and various other delays, we didn't leave Arusha until well after 10:00 a.m. Our plan was to pick up Oju, who would accompany us to Tarngire National Park, and camp with us for one night. We would then drop him at a spot where he could get a dala dala back to Monduli and we would continue, first to Lake Natron and then to Loliondo and the Northern entrance to the Serengeti.

The drive to Tarnagire was uneventful except for a stop we made at a small roadside market. Within seconds of the land rover pulling to a stop, it was surrounded by a crowd of Maasai women pressing up to the windows with necklaces, bracelets, and other handmade items. We had been told that this was likely to happen, but being told hadn't really prepared us. I didn't want to buy anything, and after exhausting my repertoire of ways to say "no, thank you, I don't wany any," I gave up and turned back to my Swahili book. The irony of the moment would haunt me for several days. As the trip went on, we became more and more immune to this kind of interaction with the Maasai. That is, we learned to be indifferent.

We arrived at Tarangire about half past noon and waited for what would become a familiar twenty-minute ritual of having Rob pay our fees to enter the park. I don't know what transpired during those twenty minutes, but I don't think I want to know. Having obtained the necessary permission, we drove for about 15 minutes to a campsite and dropped off Henry and all our gear. Then we started the first of many game drives.

I am not going to recount every new animal sighting. It would be time-consumig for me and boring for you. I will say that Rob had set up our trip with a kind of genius in that every new place we drove, it seemed like things got more exotic. Our first sight of a giraffe was an occasion for ten minutes of taking pictures. In the coming days, we would get used to giraffes and baboons, and even elephants, although it's hard to get used to elephants.

Anyway, the highlights of this drive were our first sightings of all of the above, and more; our lunch stop where we matched wits with the sneaky, thieving vervet monkeys, and the baobab trees. I never got tired of elephants or baobabs.


I could look at these trees for hours.

As the sun went down, we returned to our campsite. This was our first sunset outside the city, and the views were stunningly beautiful. I've included two, below. The first is just a picture of the sky above one of the hills as we drove past. The other shows the road to our campsite.





It was late when we got out of the land rover, and we ate our dinner by torchlight. Before crawling into sleeping bags for the night, we were given a stern lecture by Rob about not leaving our tents in the dark. I won't repeat his instructions about what to do in case we felt we couldn't wait until morning to relieve ourselves. Anyway, his talk ensured that I would spend my waking moments, and there were many, listening for the sound of animal incursions into our encampment. It was a long night.

Next: Water in a Dry Land

Tanzania Journal - Day 4: Monduli Juu (Continued)

Running Log, 12/27/10 - about 12 miles, from Monduli to Monduli Juu and back, with Oju

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I promised to tell you about Oju's shoes...

When Joni was living in Monduli back in 2007, she did some running with a pair of well-worn ASICS that she had had for at least a couple of years. When it was time for her to leave and return to the States, she decided she would be buying new shoes and she knew that Oju could use them, so she left the shoes with him. I'm not sure what Oju was wearing before that, but they must have been trouble, because Joni's shoes were at least a size too small, probably more. But three and a half years later, he was still using them for his runs to Monduli Juu.

In the weeks leading up to our trip, Joni had told me I should bring an extra pair of running shoes that I wouldn't mind leaving behind. So I brought one pair for hiking in, one pair for running in, and one to give away. It turned out that Oju was the beneficiary. When I arrived at his room in the center of Monduli, I pulled out this pair from my backpack and made a presentation of sorts. Oju took off the shoes he had gotten from Joni, which were too small, and put on the ones I had brought, which were too big. I had this terrible feeling that they would be the cause of blisters, so I convinced him to wear two pairs of socks.

This whole exchange made a big impression on me. I couldn't quite imagine having such a strong desire or need to run that I would do 18 kilometers twice a week in shoes that forced my toes up tight into the front of the shoe. And then to exchange them for big clown-feet shoes that were too big seemed very unfair. And yet Oju assured me the "new" shoes were much better. The next time I go to Arusha, I'm going to bring the right size running shoes.

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We set off at a leisurely trot, and my Swahili lesson began. We took a few turns to leave the main village, so I learned "kulia" (right), "kushoto" (left), and "sawa mbele" (straight ahead). The road was slightly downhill at first, then flattened out. The surface was a reddish dirt, soft without being too loose. The sun was almost directly overhead, but the the temperature was very comfortable, and there was a pleasant breeze. It was a beautiful day for a run.

As we left the village behind, we saw small groups of children playing in the fields by the side of the road. Sometimes they yelled something, but it was never sharp and edgy the way the kids had yelled in Arusha. I began to relax.

After about a mile and a half, the road began rising. There was no mystery about where we were heading. We had been able to see the mountains rising up in front us almost since we started. Our pace was still very slow and deliberate. Even so, the steady climbing kept us breathing fairly hard, and there were only a few words exchanged. "Kilima," said Oju, gesturing at the road in front of us. I repeated "kilima," and then to make sure, "hill?" Oju said yes. I repeated "kilima" a few more times, because it seemed this would be a very useful word.

After several miles of steady progress, we turned a corner and began ascending a much steeper hill. Here the grade was so severe that the road had been paved to keep it from washing away during the rains. I was just putting my head down, when Oju stopped and began walking. It was a little surprising at first, but then seemed such a sensible thing to do that I fell in step beside him. We were, after all, in no hurry. The road was long, the hill was steep, and we had plenty of time.

I began to think about time. It seemed to me that no one every became a distance runner without having a lot of time on their hands. Obviously no one who was in a hurry and who had money to spend would choose to run from Monduli to a distant outpost six miles away. I thought of all the distractions in my life, and the even greater sense of distraction I sensed in the kids at Concord. There was always something to do, and always someplace to go in a hurry. Oju was not in a hurry. He had all day, and so did I.

I thought about how, at our gentle pace, I could easily run for twenty miles, and then do it again the next day, and the next. Joni had told me that when she was living in Monduli, she would sometimes walk the six miles from town to the main road back to Arusha to catch a bus there. She didn't need to, she just had time for it and nothing else to do.

In the days that followed, we would drive through the Maasai lands, and would see Maasai men, women, and children walking miles and miles from the nearest village. They could and did walk all day and were never in a hurry. Later, in the national parks, we would get the same impression from the giraffes, elephants, zebra, and other creatures that slouched their way through the hot African day. No one rushed. There always seemed to be ample time to get wherever you needed to go. Even the big cats, who could, had they wanted to, shown us sprinting that would have made Usain Bolt look like he was running backwards, mostly just slept. These were the thoughts I had as we resumed our easy trot up the road.

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After the steep grade, the pavement disappeared again, and we made our way up through the lovely countryside. From time to time we would come across children watching over herds of cattle or goats. Once we met two boys on the road, who ran with us for a little with big smiles before returning to their animals. At one point, a car passed, raising clouds of dust. It had been the first vehicle we had seen since we had left the plains.

Some time later the road leveled out onto a broad plateau, and we saw a low row of buildings. We had arrived in the market town of Monduli Juu. There were a lot of people milling around, including quite a few wearing the traditional Maasai shuka, the colorful robe draped over one shoulder. Oju knew a lot of people here, and exchanged greetings with several. No one seemed to think it unusual that we had run there.

At one point Oju disappeared into one of the shops and emerged a few moments later with two bottles of water. He nodded back towards the shop and said, simply, "my friend." We walked about, drinking our water, while Oju pointed to things and told me what they were in English and Swahili, or sometimes just Swahili. I repeated everything.

Although neither one of us was in any hurry to turn around and run down the mountain again, eventually we decided that we would. As the afternoon went on, our families would be waiting for us, wondering if we had been eaten by lions. We set out slowly, gathering speed as the road descended. The run back was easy, under control. I'm sure it took less time to run down than it had to run up, but the pace never picked up, even on the steep paved section.

Back in Monduli, we retraced our steps to Oju's house, picked up my backpack, and then began walking to Rose's house -- about a mile more. It seemed we could have run, but the walk was a nice cool down. Hakuna shida. No worry.

At Roses, I used a bucket of water to sponge off and then changed into pants and a clean shirt. Although everyone else had finished their afternoon meal, we feasted on the leftovers. Ann asked whether I had been able to keep up with Oju. I said that I was able to keep with him in running, but my Swahili was still lagging far behind. But I still had time, lots of time, to learn more.


Oju and I after running to Monduli Juu and back. Oju is still wearing his "new" shoes, his two pairs of socks, and the shorts he ran in. I've already sponged off and changed into my civilian clothes.

Next: Tarangire

Tanzania Journal - Day 4: Monduli Juu

It may be that everything I have written so far has been motivated by a desire to write about the run I had on Monday, Dec. 27th. That was the day that Oju and I ran from the town of Monduli to the village of Monduli Juu (Monduli Highlands) and back again, a round trip of about 18 kilometers.

I know that I won't be able to fully describe the feeling I had on that day, the swelling sense of freedom and joy at running under the hot sun up the dirt road, seeing an occasional motor bike and passing Maasai children tending cattle on the hillside. On that day, I think I was as happy as I have ever been to be a runner. Although it sounds like an exaggeration, without that run I'm not sure how much I would have understood about Oju, about Arusha, about myself. That run seemed to make all the difference -- and for a few hours, at least, I didn't have to see Tanzania through the eyes of a baffled, apprehensive tourist, but instead could feel it through the soles of my feet and in the dust of the road stretching lazily before us.

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To explain what led to that run in Monduli, I have to go back a few years.

When Joni returned to Tanzania in 2007, she didn't really have any plan that covered basic things like finding a place to stay. She had many friends and contacts in Arusha, though, so she ended up there and set about figuring out the next step. Although I don't know the whole series of events that led her there, Joni ended up staying for several months in Monduli with a woman named Rose, a teacher who worked at a school that served the local Maasai. Joni lived with her and helped take care of her house and two young sons.


Joni with Rose and her two sons

While living in Monduli, Joni began getting to know some of the people who worked at the open air market in the center of town. One of those people was Oju, a young man in his early twenties who sold produce there. They became friends, and Joni discovered that Oju liked to run. Or to put it more exactly, she found out that he would regularly run from Monduli to the Masaai market that was held twice a week in the village of Monduli Juu, about 9 kilometers away.



Joni and Oju selling tomatoes at the Monduli market, circa June 2007. Notice she is wearing a BSC XC Championship t-shirt

At least once, Joni ran part of the way with Oju. It was then that she found out that the road to Monduli Juu started easily but then rose sharply over a thousand feet into the hills. I remember her writing about this run, and I remember wishing I could have seen that road.

Back in the present, I knew there would be few opportunities to run. The city was crowded and dirty and not very pleasant, and the bush was far too dangerous. As a runner herself, Joni understood instinctively my need to do a "real" run, and she arranged it with Oju that he and I would run together in Monduli on one of our free days. As the day approached, I experienced a mix of intense anticipation for the run tempered by a small voice in my head that wondered whether I'd be able to handle it.

I don't think non-runners really understand or appreciate that even fit runners always have these voices of self-doubt. Going into a race or even a challenging workout we always wonder whether we'll be able to handle it. I was in that same state of mind thinking about the run with Oju. Here, in no particular order, were the things that worried me and nagged at my self-confidence:

The sun - I was newly arrived from New England, where the temperature had been below freezing for three weeks and the sun was a listless visitor lurking low on the horizon in a half-hearted appearance for nine hours out of every twenty-four. From that reality, I would be running for a couple of hours in the middle of the twelve-hour equatorial day, with the sun directly overhead. As far as I knew, we would have no water for the twelve mile round trip.

The hills - From Joni's description, these hills seemed really steep and really long. I didn't know exactly what that meant, but having seen the hills around Arusha, I was anxious that I would need oxygen for the mountains ahead.

Oju - I really had no idea how fit Oju was, but I knew that he did this run regularly and that he had sprinted up the hill behind his parents' house with a spring in his stride that I hadn't felt in twenty-five years. I knew he wouldn't abandon me, but I didn't want to be a weakling on this run and not be able to keep up with him.

It was with these thoughts in my head that I prepared for our third day in Tanzania

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We woke early, ate breakfast, and headed downtown. The plan was to do a few errands, meet Oju, find a dala dala heading to Monduli and get there in the late morning. Oju and I would run. Joni and the others would visit with Rose and her kids and have lunch with them. In the afternoon, we would get a ride back to Arusha from another of Joni's friends who was heading that way.

Our second trip into the city was scarcely less chaotic than the first one. The day before had been a Sunday, and many shops and businesses had been closed. Now it was Monday, and the level of activity seemed to be at least double. Everything took longer. Everyone seemed a little more aggressive, a little more edgy. Even Joni began to get exasperated as she tried to guide us through the hubbub to places where we could do our errands, while brushing off the flycatchers who trailed after us.

When it was time to leave, it took us a long time to find a dala dala that was not empty. The problem with the empty ones was that, this being Africa, they wouldn't leave until they were full. So if we wanted to avoid waiting for another hour, we had to find one that was already half full but that had room for the six of us. Eventually we settled for one that was mostly empty, and put up with several circuits of the downtown area as the dala dala's driver and runner tried to round up more riders. With all this, we didn't actually leave Arusha until about 11:30, and didn't arrive in the Monduli until 45 minutes later.

Monduli seemed very small and provincial after Arusha, not that this was a mark against it. For one thing, the air was much better here. For another, no one immediately came over to sell us stuff. Joni gave us a very brief tour of the market, greeted some old friends, and then it was time for our party split up.

As everyone else headed off to Rose's house, Oju and I went to drop off my backpack at Oju's room, which was one of several in a one-story cinder block building near the main square. I took another long drink of water from the bottle I had brought with me, and then left it in Oju's room. It was time to start running, and I was giddy with anticipation.

Ah, but I have forgotten to tell you about Oju's shoes.


To be continued...

Tanzania Journal - Day 3 Immersion (continued)

There are many local languages spoken in Tanzania, but only two "official" languages. One is English, which is used in higher education, commerce, and government. The other is Kiswahili, or as we say, "Swahili," which is used for just about everything else. The CIA World Factbook refers to Swahili as the "lingua Franca" of Central and East Africa.

It was our experience that everyone spoke Kiswahili and knew at least a little English, depending on how far they went in school and how much their work required them to interact with English speakers. For example, our tour guide, Rob, spoke English quite well. The hotel staff spoke it adequately. Many of the other Tanzanians we spent time with -- Oju and his family, our driver, our cook -- had varying amounts of limited English.

By the time we arrived at Oju's parents' house, muddy and damp, we had been in the country for a little less than 24 hours. In that time the urge to speak and understand Swahili had become an obsession for me. Despite the fact that I had not yet mastered basic greetings, I was working hard to acquire more words and would repeat them whenever the situation plausibly gave me an opportunity. With Oju, I had practiced some simple phrases, such as introducing myself and my family. Of course, with such a small repertoire, almost all our conversations ended a few moments after they began with me saying asante sana, thank you very much, and Oju saying karibu, you're welcome, and then appeals for Joni to translate.

Thus, when we arrived at Oju's family's house, most of our communication was with smiles, gestures, and a word here or there, or sometimes a longer phrase directed at someone who would render it into the language that the listener could understand. This would be followed by nods, more smiles, handshakes, hugs.

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In addition to Oju and his parents, the other family members included Oju's brothers and sisters, brother-in-laws, sister-in-laws, a niece and nephew, and a baby. Among the adults of Oju's generation, it was never clear who was a blood relative and who was a relative by marriage. To make things more complicated, the women in the family with daughters were not called by their given name; instead, their family called them "Mama" followed by the name of the eldest daughter. Thus, Oju's mother was not called by her given name, but was referred to as "Mama Joyce" because Oju's oldest sister was named Joyce. Another of Oju's sisters had a daughter named "Pray," and so she was referred to as "Mama Pray."

After all of our greetings and after presenting the gifts we had brought, we were ushered into the larger room of the two-room main house, where we packed ourselves in around a low table. I sat between Joni and Peter on my right, and Oju's brother Emmanuel ("Imma") and sister Joyce on my left. Imma was gregarious and engaging. He had studied enough English to both keep a conversation going and be able to answer some of my questions about how to say things in Swahili. It turned out he also knew some French, so our conversation, which was mostly on his side, shifted from English to French, with a little Swahili thrown in. Throughout the meal, He also made it his personal mission to make sure I had seconds, thirds, and fourths, of every one of the delicious dishes put in front of me.


Peter, Joni, Jon, Imma, and Joyce. Imma is telling a story and plotting to get me to eat all of the avocados and bananas on the nearest plate.

I don't know how long we sat at the table, passing around the dishes of rise, beans, vegetables, and fresh fruit. It seemed like many hours, although perhaps it was less. With our limited language skills, we did the best we could to express all that could be expressed, and especially our gratitude for the meal and for their hospitality to us and to Joni.

After our feast, we went outside and a decision was made to see the house of one of Oju's sisters, a little way up the road. So we all walked to that house, went inside and sat down around another table, where we were served glass bottles of coke and Fanta. Although we were all quite full from our large meal, we would not have considered refusing this gesture of hospitality. Unlike Oju's parents' house, his sister's house had electricity and a TV. For the entire time we were there, the TV played a music video showing alternating shots of a singer crooning away, some African drummers, and a line of men doing cheesy dance steps in apparently traditional tribal costume (think: grass skirts). The music was catchy, but the video was... well, pretty silly, actually.

(We would be surprised when the next day, we visited another Tanzanian home with a TV and saw another similar video playing over and over. It was hard not to think of these as some kind of joke, but they must have been very popular.)

When we had drunk our sodas, someone else had they idea that we should walk up the hillside to a ridge where we could see a nice view of the valley. So we walked out and up, under banana trees, past small garden plots of soft rich soil, and up a steep hill. Oju led the way, bounding up the steep grade like a mountain goat. By this time, everyone knew that Joni had arranged for me and Oju to go for a long run the next day, and as they saw Oju swiftly and effortlessly climb this hill, most of my family started speculating on how long I would last. Only Loren expressed confidence in me, saying that Oju looked like a sprinter to him.

The view from the top of the hill was spectacular and well worth the climb. Although we couldn't see downtown Arusha, we could see far below us the road we had walked in the rain to get to Oju's house. We took lots of pictures, and then walked along a ridge to try to get a glimpse of Mt. Meru, the second highest mountain in Tanzania after Mt. Kilimanjaro. I've included a picture of Mt. Meru that we took at the end of our trip from a different location, but on that day only the shoulders of the mountain were visible, and the summit was shrouded in mist.


Oju's brother Zakayu takes a picture of Joni and Oju.


My running partner, Oju.


Mt. Meru on a clearer day.

As we walked down the hillside again, the afternoon was getting quite late. We stopped again to admire the building site for a house that another one of Oju's brothers (or brothers-in-law) was building. It was explained that construction on a house might start and stop many times, as money became available or scarce. We admired the foundation, but secretly worried that the house, built on the side of this steep hill, would wash away with the rest of the hillside if there was too much rain.

Then it was time to say our good-byes to our hosts, to take more pictures, to promise to print out some of those pictures for them, and to begin the long walk down to the main road, where we would catch a dala dala and head back to the hotel.

We began our walk with half the family walking with us, then one-by-one, they would stop and turn back. It was getting late, and there was less than an hour of daylight left for our journey. Both Oju and Joni made it clear that we did NOT want to be out after dark. With the sun setting, we reached the end of the dirt road.

A few minutes later we were on a dala dala, and a half hour later we walked through the gates of L'Oasis in the twilight. None of us were hungry, but we all gathered in the large common room of the hotel with bottles of beer to talk about and relive our amazing day. As we thought of our hosts and their home, we couldn't help looking around at the hotel with its electric lights, its running water, its refrigeration, and its TV showing English soccer on TV. What had appeared rustic the previous evening, now seemed opulent.

NEXT: Running With Oju

Tanzania Journal - Day 3: Immersion

Feast with Oju's family.

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Running Log, 12/26/10 -- about 4 miles, out and back from L'Oasis

Our first full day in Arusha was in many ways, as remarkable and memorable as any we experienced during the trip. And yet, when I describe it, it sounds commonplace. I woke up, I went for a short run, we went into town to the market, we visited Oju's family's house. We returned to the hotel. Why was it so extraordinary?

I had gone to bed the previous evening listening to loud voices and music from the alley behind our hut, and in the distance, the barking of dogs back and forth in the night. When I woke up, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was actually morning and that I had slept through the night. The wild barking of the dogs had been replaced by the reassuring crowing of roosters. Without stopping long to think, I pulled on my running stuff and prepared for my first solo run in Tanzania. It was Sunday morning, and I figured that there wouldn't be many people out and about this early. I figured wrong.

I had planned to follow the same route that Joni and I had run the previous afternoon, going a little bit further this time. I went down to the gate and stepped out into the lane, trying to pretend that it was just another run. The first thing I noticed as I took my first tentative steps was that I was not alone. Someone was already walking along the lane. I took my first turn and there were more people walking, plus a bicyclist. After a couple of hundred meters I turned again onto a slightly wider road and was amazed to see people of all ages walking in both directions, some heading down to the main highway, others coming back. Sometimes a bicycle or motorcycle would go by, sometimes a truck or car. This was at 6:45 on a Sunday morning.

I ran down the road avoiding the pedestrians, bikes, and vehicles, and at the same being careful not to stumble on the stones and ruts. I had to keep reminding myself that Tanzanians drive on the left side of the road, not the right, and I tried hard to stay well out of the way of the few motorists. I reached the main highway and decided to turn East, out of town, instead of West the way Joni and I had gone the day before. There were lots of of people walking or standing on the side of the road, many of them waiting to catch a ride from a dala dala, one of a motley fleet of minivans that seemed to run at all hours. I'll have more to say about the dala dalas, but I had not yet ridden on one and knew nothing of their ways.

Although there were some stretches where I had to be cautious, for the most part I was able to progress more or less unimpeded by running on the shoulder between the pedestrians and the lanes of traffic. I started running faster, but soon felt a tightness in my lungs. Even at this early hour, the air was foul with the black haze from diesel trucks, buses, and the dala dalas, as well as from the smoke from open fires. After a few days, all of us would find that being in the city left us with persistent sore throats and hacking coughs. When we blew our noses, the tissues would be black with airborn pollution.

I ran for about a mile and a half, reaching the top of a fairly long rise where a wide dirt road came in from the side. This seemed like a good place to turn around if I didn't want to miss breakfast, so I headed back. Ten minutes later I was feeling pretty pleased with myself as I made my turn off the highway onto the dirt road, and ran confidently up the hill. The smaller road that led to the hotel was around here somewhere... but suddenly I was passing buildings I had never seen before. For a moment I felt complete disorientation -- like waking up and not recognizing the room you are in. I had a moment of panic thinking that I had no way to find my way back, but then regained my composure and realized I had only to backtrack a little bit. Retracing my steps for fifty meters, I saw that I had passed right by what now seemed like an insignificant alley between two houses. This was, in fact, the lane back to the hotel.

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After a shower and breakfast -- eggs, toast, some nondescript cereal, and delicious fresh pineapples, bananas, and mangos -- Joni, Loren, Ann, Ann's brother Peter, and I headed toward town. We walked down to the main road, turning West this time, and then continued for another mile or so until we got to downtown Arusha.

In writing this, I searched for pictures to help convey what the downtown area was like. Unfortunately, all I found were a handful of mostly antiseptic pictures of big buildings, statues, and ourselves. There's a picture of Loren and me, on some quiet street outside some nice building, and I want to turn the camera in some other direction away from the calmness. Maybe the absence of any photos with grit reflects that fact that we were feeling uncomfortable at being so obviously from somewhere else; maybe we thought we would be insulting the inhabitants by taking pictures of what we found unusual -- the street vendors, the teeming market, the garbage in the streets; or maybe it just didn't occur to us to try to capture the hot, hustling, unwashed heart of the city. Whatever the reason, I have no images other than the ones in my memory that capture the feeling of that first walk into downtown.


Loren and Jon find a quiet corner in downtown Arusha. Not even a hint of tan yet.

It soon became obvious that what we were doing was following Joni, who led us through a series of errands. Much of the cityscape was familiar -- big, modern buildings, with well-dressed men and women coming in and out, billboards for cell phones and coca cola, traffic lights and uniformed policemen. But much was exotic and unexpected -- the women with full baskets of fruit on their heads, the men pulling impossibly heavy wooden carts filled with produce.

And then there were the flycatchers. These were young men who hung around downtown waiting for white tourists to show up. They would then engage the tourists in English, Italian, German, or whatever was needed in a clever sales pitch for some cheap painting or trinket. If the victim tried to say hapana, asante -- no, thank you, they would smile and pull out a slim English-Swahili phrasebook for sale. If the customer grew really annoyed, they would reach into a bag and offer to sell a t-shirt emblazoned with the words "I am a mzungu, no I do not want to buy anything." The flycatchers loved talking to Loren, who would engage them in discussions of their favorite American hip hop artists.

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Our plan for the day involved meeting Joni's friend Oju, and taking a dala dala to his family's house in a neighborhood a few miles from our hotel. Oju himself lived in the village of Monduli, about 30 kilometers from Arusha and the place where Joni had stayed in 2007. I will have a lot more to say about Oju. After buying some gifts for Oju's family at the central market, we met Oju and found a dala dala headed in our direction.

Here's how the dala dalas worked: each one had a driver and a "runner" who leaned out a window or the sliding door of the van to announce the destination and encourage people to get on board. At a stop, the runner would leap out of the van and make sure everyone and everything got in. We found out that dala dala carried not only people, but cargo, too -- baskets of fruit or vegetables being popular. When we thought the van was full, it wasn't. More people would get on. When it was time to pull away, the runner would bang his hand on the roof as a signal to the driver, and the dala dala would speed off to its next stop where even MORE people or bananas would get on.

There were dala dalas everywhere and almost every one sported an image or slogan to make that particular vehicle stand out among all the others. Some of these decorations were solemn -- for example, references to the bible or Koran -- but most of them were images or logos taken from popular culture. Some proclaimed their allegiance to American sports teams or English football clubs. Others had the face or name of a famous public figure -- a hip hop artist or politician. Together they formed a kind of garish and bizarre art form, a series of glimpses into Arusha's and our collective unconscience. Loren and I found them fascinating and hilarious.

The dala dala took us back in the same general direction we had come from, continuing on the highway that I had run that morning. I was surprised when we stopped at precisely the point where I had turned around on my run, and we all tumbled out of the van and collected ourselves.

We were at the beginning of another dirt road that snaked uphill into another recently built neighborhood of shops and two-room houses. As Oju led us up the hill, it began to rain. At first the rain was pleasant, making the heat less oppressive. But soon it was a full downpour and the dirt road was a river of mud. We took shelter under the porch of a low concrete building, while Oju and his cousin disappeared. Considering the heavy rain, I was struck by the lack of urgency to cover bins of produce or other things. Although activity slowed down in the street, it didn't completely stop, and there were people and animals who simply continued to let the rain fall on them. In about ten minutes, maybe less, Oju returned with three umbrellas. We paired off and continued walking up the road, through the mud, two people to an umbrella, which was really like not having an umbrella at all. Luckily, the rain was already less intense, and by the time we reached Oju's family's house about a half mile up the road, the rain had stopped.


On the way to Oju's house, waiting for the rain to let up.

How can I describe what it was like to arrive at Oju's house? It was a distinctly strange and wonderful experiences to step off the soupy dirt lane, duck through a gap in the trees and find ourselves in the open courtyard of their home. There was the main house with a room for sleeping and a room for living/eating; there was a separate structure for cooking meals, an outhouse, and a pen with goats. I think there might have been a chicken coop, too. When we entered this compound, we were treated like long lost relatives by this Tanzanian family. Although our clothes were now sodden and caked with red mud from the road, we felt like honored guests at a state dinner.


Oju's father (left), mother (middle), and brother (right).


To be continued...