Ostriches on Safari Pt.4, Or The Traditional Killing of Muppets

Have you ever seen a bush baby? They're adorable. Imagine the cutest creature from Labyrinth. Adorable. It really lives up to its name: usually living in thorny areas of bush or acacia, with the features of a hairy baby, gigantic eyes, a slight smile on its little gummy mouth. Imagine this creature now, sleeping in the sun, a routine for the nocturnal bushel of cute. All of the sudden, he is shot point plank with a wooden arrow by a Hadza man, completely exploding his left lung. He tries as hard as he can, silently as that may be, to pull the arrow out, but to his dismay, he is shot once again, this time through the shoulder. He is still alive however, and he is struggling, now caged by his fate, bars made of carved arrows and a thorny nest. The Hadza man reaches for the bush baby with his bow, pulling at his neck to claim his prize, but the baby is stuck. With a forced ripping, the Hadza man tears him out of the tree, pulling a number of thorns with him. The bushbaby is still alive, but not for long. The Hadza man grasps the bush baby by the neck with his teeth, and with one swift motion, cracks his neck straight through, and slams his adorable treasure to the ground. The bushbaby is dead, and three students from Lewis and Clark, including myself, look on with mouths open wide enough to drown us in a rainstorm.

Camp 4: Yaida Valley. It's hot here. It's really really hot here. We set up camp and I immediately find refuge underneath the kitchen tent. I prop myself up against a box of tea bags, using them as a pillow, and drift into the greatest nap of my life.

Yaida Valley is home to a handful of the pastoral Tatoga tribe, but is mainly inhabited by wildlife, in my opinion, including the hunter-gatherer tribe, the Hadza. The Hadza are one of the last hunter gatherer groups left in the world, an unprecedented resilience in culture in a world that refuses to accept them. However, they are disappearing, with only 1000 or so members left in the world. They eat everything found in a days work, they save nothing. If the Hadza and yourself are ever invited to a party that Subway catered, you better get to those turkey subs quick, cause they will be gone. They own nothing but a single shirt, pants (or dress), a bow and a few arrows. they sleep where they need to sleep (although nowadays there's a main village called Mongo Ya Mono).They take what they need from the land and no more, an astoundingly efficient process. They are, in laymen terms, completely and absolutely a part of nature. They are some of the most relaxed, funny, interesting and knowledgeable people I've ever met.

Education is something we can all agree is important, no matter what or where the situation lies. The main problem in East Africa is when cultural tradition, something like hunting and gathering, the way in which we as human being started our existence, clashes with the governments ideals of structured education. It is a problem, as a Maasai elder later described as "a continuing issue that we're all still working on"(a paraphrase, to say the least).

The two most notable Hadza we had the pleasure to stay with were Moshi, a gigantic beast of a man, who was perpetually stoned (the Hadza's two main vices are tobacco and weed) and had the tendency to sporadically bellow "MOTO SANA!", which means "VERY HOT!". The other is Maroba (maroBA), a 50 year old, 4ft 5in man capable of hunting and killing a giraffe on his own. Also perpetually stoned, Maroba was once taken to Ngorongoro Crater (a place we will get to eventually) and was so tempted to kill the abundance of wildlife around him that he finally caved and ran off to hunt a bushpig, returning hours later victorious.

What seemed like 10% of the entire Hadza population came to stay with us at one point, teaching us to carve arrows, hunt and dig for edible roots. It was the greatest experience I have had thus far. Even the excruciating itchiness of pink eye (which I required the day after I caved and finally showered, 15 grimy days later) couldn't hinder my excitement. Something about being out there with the people who have barely changed any of their ways since the dawn of man, it was an other worldly experience, and yet felt so natural to my being.

The hunting day brought the death of a bushbaby, the only victorious hunt of the day. Our guide Daudi asked me something quickly in Swahili, dead baby in hand. I nodded like a moron, not understanding a single word, and replying with "ndio" which means "yes". I couldn't make myself look like I was out there, not understanding them the whole time (which was in fact the case), so I went with the most natural phrase I knew...yes. All of the sudden, Daudi was trotting towards me, shoving the dead creature under my belt. Apparently I had agreed to tow it for 4 more hours, it's large wet eyes staring up at me the entire time. It was like some weird dream; I had a muppet attached to my belt, bleeding all over my only pair of shorts; I could only see out of one eye due to its bulging pink status; I couldn't understand any of the language around me, Hadzabe being a difficult and foreign "clicking" language. I had never felt so uncomfortable, or at least so comfortable with being uncomfortable.

Our final night brought celebration. I was asked to lead the Americans in a singalong, followed by the Hadza singing and dancing traditional Hadza songs. We chose "Such Great Heights" (the Iron and Wine version) "Help" by the Beatles, and "The Weight" by The Band. They chose the most fun call and answer song-and-dance I have ever partaken in. We concluded the night with, get this, a dance off. We competed against the very skilled Hadza for hours, showcasing all our best moves. This was my favorite time during safari.

More to come,

Tim