Village Days and Blueband Nights, or How Wedding Decorations Made Me Sad

I can't believe I'm here right now. Not in the sense of location, I think I'm finally coming to terms with where I stand latitudinally and longitudinally; my stomach can tear through literally any cut of grizzled meat they throw at me; my Swahili is at a point in which I could survive if I decided to set up camp for good here; my feet are like rhino hide, as they should after weeks of tortuous barefoot land walking (although the occasional acacia thorn the size, shape and sharpness of an eagle talon tends to find its way into the depths of my heel, still). What I can't believe is where I am in the program, a week away from our final culmination, our retreat and departure. On another note, I cannot believe the immense amount of experience we've acquired here. I'm convinced that this is a trip that cannot be replicated unless you are Oprah Freakin' Winfrey. The people we've stayed with, the places we have been able to walk on foot, these are things that don't come with just a phone call to a tour agency, but lifetime relationships of trust and understanding that we conveniently are allowed to view peripherally.

As we left Maasailand, we had two days to drive back to Dorobo HQ, one of which gave me my favorite view thus far. At the end of a long, bumpy drive, we weaved around a cliff side to reach the view of Lake Natron, a vast salty, sulphury lake that seems to be only a couple feet deep at most. Massive flocks of flamingo speckle and paint the lake with pink from the micro-plankton and shrimp they slurp up , coloring their initially white exterior. Looking to the left, we spot (although it's not like it was difficult to find) a massive, classically shaped volcano, still active to this day. I swear to God we were gonna curve around the road to find a brontosaurus or pterodactyl. Land Before Time? I think yes.

That night we hiked, as we so often do, along a slippery, river -crossed path to another amazing natural sight. High ceilinged cliffs were home to countless waterfalls; the water, warmer than a public pool; the bottom, sandier than White Sands Beach Resort in Zanzibar. We were astonished. It didn't take us long to realize that we were the only people around for miles, at which point all 14 of us stripped of our already soaking clothes and had bit more natural of a dip in the water. I felt as if we were being baptized: After finishing the trials and tribulations of a month in and around the wild, we returned from whence we came. We walked through the rocky corridor, bare cheeked and bewildered at the paradise we had stumbled upon. Poetic? Probably less than I imagine. Fun? Oh, hell yes.

I'm now in Arusha, a city the size of Portland ,although the concept of census is about as useless here as trying to keep a pair of white corduroys white in Africa, (this I know from experience. I still don't know what I was thinking, packing the damn things). We have been working closely with the Peterson brothers and Thad P's wife Robin, a psychologist who is working with the village of Olasiti, slowly trying to improve living conditions. Our assignment was the same: to research a piece of culture that is can be qualified, then to present our findings to the village council. Again, the opportunity to actually propose some good to the council is something you couldn't find with any tour group.

I have decided to determine what public opinion of community based art programs is. I went into the project believing that I would find a community starving for more art because of it's creativity unleashing qualities and it's ability to allow you to "find yourself". Stupid. What I have found is that on a whole, art is extremely important to the community, especially the younger generation, but for its ability to "allow the youth to drive their careers," or to "bring income to the family" (both of which were my most popular answers).

This was quite confusing to me for some time. While I thought about the data I had gathered, Nate and I were staying in a home with a woman who we called "Mama Musa". Her name was Evelyn, but chose to go by the name of her eldest son Musa. We were told Mama was nine months pregnant, with three children, and a husband who had jumped ship months ago. The week just got more exciting, we told each other, justifiably nervous. When we arrived we were greeted by a beautiful young woman, Evelyn, stomach prevalent and obviously pregnant, but not to the extreme degree we were both imagining. She smiled from ear to ear and then some, amazingly glad and excited to have us in her home. Next we met Musa, a quiet young man who later took us to his friend's house to watch MTV (a research project in itself). Next was Orainy and Lighty (phonetically and probably incorrectly spelled on this blog) ages 10 and 9, shy but extremely mature and kind. Finally we met Miriam, a four year old spunk-nugget who was probably the cutest child I have met (although that is up for debate, lemme get back to you on that). Miriam had a habit of wearing three dresses at a time, making funny faces at us and flopping into your arms like frayed string cheese when you tried to pick her up. Nate and I fell in love.

We ate so much. So much. We were given gigantic barrels of food and self serve utensils, but from our past experiences in homestays, it's quite rude not to eat most, if not all the food. Thus, our addiction began, or in my case, I fell into relapse. Blueband. Nasty, horrific, delicious Blueband. Margarine spread that must have an alphabet of additives in it. We were given a tub of Blueband and an entire loaf of sliced white bread with every meal. As we looked at the ingredients, we could almost see the word "cocaine" in between the lines, as the addiction process seemed to be the same. I knew the effects well. Not of cocaine, per say,but in Riruta I constantly felt the shaky hands of desire when I wasn't given enough BB on my bread to be mistaken for creamcheese. And now I saw it in Nate. We sweat, our stomachs growled, we craved the vile stuff.

After a week of waking up, eating, researching, eating, researching, eating, and sleeping, we decided to get to know our mother more. We talked more and more, laughed more, and finally she came very close with us. We played guitar and sang at night, making her baby kick with joy. I lead a sing along of "You Can't Always Get What You Want", an unofficial themesong to the trip. The family really didn't know what to make of it, but obliged and sang along nonetheless.

Mama Musa came up to us one day. She had a picture in her hands of her wedding. I immediately noticed that the wedding decorations were the same that decorated the otherwise plain, cement block house. She had kept them up for 19 years. She began to spill her guts to us about how she still loved the prick, how he left right before the baby was announced, and that he now lives at the base of Kilimanjaro with a new wife and a young son. She began to cry softly. It's heartbreaking to watch your "mother" cry and try her best to explain herself, and not be able to fully express yourself back; our swahili was just as limited as her English.It was the most anyone had opened up to me on this trip. We did our best to comfort her, and in the end, we felt pretty terrible, but also we had come to a greater understanding of each other. Mama Musa was pushing through her days with a smile bolted to her face. What was the alternative? She had to raise 5 children, two of which were her young sister's, who had died a few years ago (a fact that seemed to escape our trip leaders at first). Everyone has the same goal in mind here: bring your kids up right, regardless of the conditions you see around you. What Mama had done was created a healthy future for her children in an otherwise terribly unhealthy environment .

We said our goodbyes to Mama Musa and the family, giving the wide eyed Miriam some squishy toys and a spiderman ball, which she immediately began to play with...we were the past, the toys were all she could see. Now I try to compile my data and kick my nasty Blueband habit. Back in tents for a week, then off to Lamu. Then Amsterdam. What a life, right?

More to come,

Tim

Ostriches on Safari Pt.6, Or Cattle, Cacti, Culmination

Camp 6 & 7: Eight days are left on our cross country journey. We spend three nights at a campground about 20km from where we will have our final stay. The camp is run by village members, all of which are Maasai. The day of Halloween, we have our final exam. It takes about an hour, and after it's over we decide to kick our boots off and relax a bit.

(*Note: Any vegetarians reading this paragraph should think twice about it. On one hand, what you are about to read is not exactly the most animal friendly experience I have encountered. It is, on the other hand, truth, and a truth that has been practiced for longer than vegetarians have existed). Relaxation was quickly thrown out the window, however with the news that our hosts would be slaughtering a goat very near us, a ritualistic tradition. Maasai used to depend entirely on their livestock (goats and cows). They would eat and drink nothing but blood, meat and milk. Economy was strictly based around the amount of cows a man owned. We really knew not what to expect, but I think the majority of us envisioned a quick but probably quite bloody death. In reality, the process took quite a long time with no initial blood spill. They choked the goat out, its bulging eyes slowly dilating. Maybe I'm just a naive kid from the suburbs, but the sound of a choking goat is much like that of a choking child. It's not something that should be experienced without warning. After five or so minutes (what seemed more like a 3 hr. slow smother), the life was snuffed from the Maasai's sacrifice. The neck was then delicately opened, so as not to pierce the muscle and spring a leak. Once an appropriate amount of skin was sheared to make a ladle, however, the jugular was pierced and out flowed the blood into the basin made of skin. One by one the Maasai leaned over the goat and began to slurp loudly from the throat, each arising with a bloodied nose tip. We were then offered the chance to sample the blood. Only four of us found the courage (or stupidity? I'm not quite sure which) to try it out. I was the last of the four.

"Just do it, Tim, you wimp," I thought to myself. "You will never in your life have this opportunity". Josh, Thad's nephew looked on with uneasy contentment. He's lived with in Tanzania his entire life. He has gone to warrior camp with Maasai warriors. He has never tried goat blood. An unsettling precursor to my soon to be delicacy. I lean over the goat, I swear to God I could feel it breathe. As I dip my lips into the, lets just say much warmer than expected, red liquid and begin to sip, I catch something between my pursed lips that stops up the drinking process. I suck harder. A large chunk, later discovered to be a blood clot, flies to the back of my mouth. I wince, but not enough to show discontent. Rule #1 when trying someone else's food culture: You may hate it, but you never show it. This is their freakin' livelihood, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna hate on it. The taste is that of luke warm chicken broth, but goat-ier?...honestly, there's no other way to explain it.

The rest of the night was wonderful; it was Halloween after all. My good friend Nate and I decided to be lounge lizards from a dingy club. We splayed our collars, slicked our hair back, found the perfect pairs of creepy shades, and extenuated our mustaches with mascara (something I may have forgotten to mention entirely. The four boys, excuse me, men, on the trip decided to go through safari with mustaches. I got a head start, and haven't shaved or trimmed mine since September. Have I mentioned this?) In the end, we looked more like Columbian cocaine lords, so that's what we rolled with.

The next day we packed up and headed two hours (again, only 20km) down the road and ended in the village of Ololosokwan. After a night of preparation, our Maasai mamas came to gather us. We were told to line up in a semi circle as our mamas sang and danced, slowly in our direction. Once the song finished, they scrambled to pick one of us, like captains of a middle school dodgeball team. All I could think was "don't get picked last, Tim, let's not re-live seventh grade". I puffed out my chest and stood up straight for once, trying to look like a real morani (warrior). A beautiful woman picked me (albeit her secondary choice) named Norpiaia (pronounced nor.pee.EYE.ah). She was about 35 (although an exact age isn't really relevant in Maasai culture) with long earlobes, stretched over the years, a shaved head, piercing wise eyes, and more homemade jewelry on than a DIY craft center. She spoke no English and a bit of broken Swahili. Mostly just maasai. The entire walk consisted of her pointing at objects, and telling me what they were in her language. I'm embarrassed but all I remember is the word for thunder (injoon) and shoes (nahmokai).

We walked about 5 miles back to the boma. Once inside, well initially, nothing happened, and nothing really could happen, for that matter. It was pitch black dark. The boma, as all bomas in the village, was set up as such: First room for young livestock. I was thankful to not have this room full of goats as many of my classmates did. Next, a hallway half the width of my shoulders, weaves around a few corners and opens into the kitchen/bedroom/living room (hint: they are one in the same). The room is so smoky, my father the fire chief would declare it unsuitable conditions for human life. I cried of smoke poisoning the entire five days. My mother's bed and my bed (my practically non-existent father's bed) were on opposite sides of the room, with a campfire in the middle. Bathrooms? Anywhere and everywhere, my friends. No "room" was designated for such activities, but if you could find a bush, you could claim it as your own.

Once my eyes adjusted, I realized there were at least four children hangin' out in the boma. I was first introduced to Paolo, my eight year old (or so) brother. For the next four days, I would learn with Paolo, the family cattle herder. Paolo was quite pensive, quiet at first. He spoke Swahili very fluently, but didn't really know what to make of my presence. That night, my father came by, a drunken man named Torpiwu. My "Central Track and Field" shirt I wore conveniently displayed a rocket, which I pointed to and said "TORPEDO!" I then pointed to my father, "TORPIWU". They found this most entertaining, and from then on, became my me and my father's only talking point.

The marriage, gender, equal rights issue here is quite complex. From what I have gained, it goes like this. Maasai are polygamist. The men start as cattle herders from the time they are five or so, till they're about 16. Then a rigorous warrior training is initiated, and taa daa, you are a morani, fighting lions and ransacking other tribes, or at least that's how it used to be. Now they just kind of mess around, throwing sticks at various plants, drinking, hooking up with 14 year olds. After a good ten years as a morani, you become an elder, and your responsibilities are to

look over the village. And drink. A lot. Women on the other hand, have no "age sets". They work from the time they are able to walk, till the time they are no longer able to walk. Their entire life. They build their own houses. They cook for 7+ children, including the children of other wives in the family. They carry 20 liter jugs on their head, everyday. They are wonder women. My father would come by every morning, bright and happy, glad to see me. He would return at night, drunk and sad, swaying like a punching bag. At one point my mother dragged him outside and yelled at him for being so drunk, at which point he sobbed and snorted like a toddler given rum in his bottle. It was, to say the least, pathetic.

The next morning, Paolo and I woke up at 6 to herd cattle. We were quite silent until he handed me a carved stick, bulging on one end, sharp on the other. We began a target practice at the invasive cacti species, sticking our spears in to the succulent plant. We quickly bonded, playing soccer games, piggy back rides (a new thing for Paolo), chopping down trees for fences, running through the forest. He was fascinated with my watch, telling time in Swahili obviously a newly learned subject in school. Over the next few days, we became quite talkative; I would read my journal to him, he would read his homework. I went out for an extensive herding journey with a few of his eight year old friends, all of them loin clothed and weaponed to the brim. As we hunted lizards and threw sticks at cacti, I felt as if I had found myself with a bunch of feral children, hunting for their survival. Of all the people I have met on this trip, I will miss Paolo the most.

Each day I was required to wear and carry a number of items. First, without debate, I had to wear my Maasai blanket. My mother tied it around my neck as if I was a super hero, then turned my plaid cape around so it covered by front side, much like a flannel hospital gown. i was then given a machete, a bow and poison arrows, a number of clubs and throwing sticks, and a small knife. I was my own army. Finally, I was given half of my mother's jewelry. It was so honest, though, so earnest. When dressed up in Tumbe, I was paraded around the village like a float, like a poodle with a goofy new hair cut. Here, it was just protocol;the people were so proud to have me apart of their culture. I felt at home (although hindsight, I could never live like the Maasai, I'm just not that strong).

My goodbye was an odd one, one I wish I could have done over. First, I had to pack up and leave without saying goodbye to Paolo. In a place without hours, the cattle herders job is never done. He left me his prized throwing stick, his absolute favorite. He wanted me to take it home. My mother decorated me with bracelets and necklaces she had made. I walked back to camp with her, saddened by the concept of leaving these wonderful people. The final decision by the trip leaders was to finish up with a "market hour" with the mothers, in which we could buy accessories from our mamas. It was a terrible way to end it all. Here we were, after a week with families, and now we had to leave on a business note. I was quite disappointed.

I could go on for days on end about my amazing time in Ololosokwan. What I picked up most from my time here was the fact that happiness is much simpler than we would wish to believe in the states. We believe their are many levels of happiness, acquired through time and strife for the best new thing, that you can always be HAPPIER. Paolo was fascinated by my watch, but he was exponentially happier while throwing sticks at cacti. My mother enjoyed looking at pictures of my family, but enjoyed more thoroughly listening to me and four children define words from Maasai to Swahili to English. No matter where you go in the world, you will find the same emotions; maybe the means to these emotions differ, but the core of the feeling is completely the same. Each person wants to laugh, love, learn, be understood, be fed, and feel accomplished. Happiness is not a product of the iphone's upgradeable happiness ap, but of such simple emotions.

Four people ended up winning the Smell Off: Ben, Chelsea, Gareth, and Sam. Congratulations. Enjoy the parasites.

I want to say more, but c'mon, these are freakin long posts.

More to come,

Tim

Ostriches on Safari Pt.5, Or 4:00 AM Trumpets And Guns

We said our final goodbyes to our drifter-hosts, with a final "MOTO SANA!" from the enormous Moshi, and board out creaky, increasingly wheezy Armymobile. Our day of travel is truly one for the books--eleven hours straight, through only about 200 miles. That's one thing you get used to quick being in east Africa: the interior is about as well maintained as Joaquin Phoenix nowadays. Roads, especially paved ones, are less of a structured and tangible utility and more of a dreamers whimsical fantasy. It doesn't help when your mode of transportation will flip and explode in a musty, Die Hard-esque fireball of tents and out of date military technology if it doesn't maintain a speed below 20mph. It's like some converse, terrible sequel of Speed.

Campsite 5: Ngorongoro Crater. After seemingly years on our butts, now eternally asleep from the combination of our bumpy journey and the more than firm seats, we were told that our waiting would pay off. We wake up early the next morning, to "beat the tourist rush," as Thad put it, a promise less than music to our ears, after spending such wonderful weeks with the Iraqu and Hadza. We abandon our truck, file into individual "Safari Cars" which are basically Land Rovers with roofs that pop open and are a staple sight all over this part of the country. Immediately, we felt like tourists far more than we had since our literal assignment in Zanzibar to "act like tourists". There is a stark and noticeable difference in the local's demeanor towards you if you clarify your status as a student rather than a tourist.

As we are cleared through the gates (a task that we later find to cost $200 per person...) we climb a steep hill through a jungle. The tallest trees I have seen, discounting the redwoods of California, loom and surround us. We turn a gradual corner at the zenith of the hill and come across a viewpoint which is permanently engraved in my aura now: our first sight of Ngorongoro Crater. Virtually level, the rim of the massive circular hole can bee seen in crisp, Planet Earth documentary series definition. The rim cascades down about a mile to a spectacularly open grassland, filled with sulfury lakes and candelabra trees, that look like cacti from Jupiter. We squint through our binoculars, mouths cemented open in astonishment, viewing the faint outlines and shadows and moving dotted figures of thousands of wildebeest, zebra, Thompson's gazelle, cape buffalo, and a variety of predators awaiting their all-you-can-hunt buffet.

We begin to fall into the crater itself in our safari cars, stopped by countless Maasai salesmen pawning "authentic spears" and "hand painted statuettes". It is heartbreaking, for a number reasons best left to a future blog post.

I must say, my time spent in the crater itself is probably best left to a verbal, eye to eye conversation filled with my studdering bewilderment at what I experienced. If I was too write about what was seen at this point I would -

a) come off as more than pretentious, sensationalist, and possibly "holier-than-thou" (I can almost see myself now, writing "I don't expect YOU to understand..."

b)bore you with my tendency to draw out my sentences to unnecessary proportions, never really reaching the point I originally intended to make, much like Miss South Carolina (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lj3iNxZ8Dww)

Therefore, I will make a list of some the wild things we encountered.

1. Lots of ostriches. Stupid.

2. Literally thousands of wildebeest, chillin' and minglin' with thousands of zebra. Zebra and wildebeest tend to work in massive groups together due to their similar grazing and migration patterns.

3. Lions. Lions doing a number of crazy things...

a. Sleeping in the shade of our safari car. At one point, my life flashed before eyes, when a flashing camera from our assistant leader spooked the resting giant, who sneered in our direction, literally feet from our faces, letting out a grunt.

b. Two young males, fresh from a meal, lumbered by a huge crowd of wildebeest. Their potential prey was on top guard, protecting the young in small circles, but the bulging bellies of the lions should have been a tell that they weren't interested in any more food for a while.

c. a female who had taken down, obviously with the help of her pride, a full sized cape buffalo, devouring the enormous beast's head. A jackal hid in the bushes nearby for the scraps.

4. A hyena, slowly making it's way down the dirt road. I find hyenas to be the most terrifying of all the predators in Africa.

5. Grey lumps of hippopotamuses, lounging at our lunch area while I give a natural history report on, what else, hippos. Nothing like a live example to spice up a presentation.

6. A cancerous water buffalo, with large tumors on both front knees. It was heartbreaking.

7. Uncountable amounts of Kori Bustards, which, when said quickly sounds like a 1930s swooner cursing, but in fact is the largest bird of flight in the world.

8. Long Tailed Kites, birds that hang around picnic areas and swipe sandwiches with such ease, you will bite your hand before you know your lunch is gone.

And in the midst of this wonderment, I couldn't help but be taken out of the moment by the immense number of tourists. No sight worth watching was left unnoticed by dozens of safari cars, crowding the area. Each snap of a camera made a collective applause, each flash a strobe light dance club. It was not natural, it was not meant to be. Ngorongoro can be considered a self contained, self maintained zoo: just add wazungu. And that's exactly what the national government has decided to do. At some point in the late 60s, the government realized the untapped potential in the crater. The maasai who used to inhabit the area were booted from their land, with no choice but to be come cheap crap peddlers, now the tribe's main source of income country-wide. Ngorongoro Crater is now the most visited landmark in E. Africa, is considered one of the seven natural wonders of the world, and is a gigantic money maker for government workers, who claim to give the majority of income back to the maasai and land preservation, but numbers have yet to add up.

We climb out of the crater as the sun goes down, and drift into a deep sleep, (not before a long, intense discussion about the aid and repercussions of tourism). At 4 in the morning, my tent-mate Jessica and I awake to the raging screams of Habibu, hollering something in Swahili. We listen in confusion, assuming by this point every other tent is awake as well. A truck roars feet from our tent and screeches to a halt. Habibu is still screaming, and the faint sound of crunching sticks and branches is heard. Suddenly three people are screaming rather than one, one of which being Thad who is telling us to stay in our tents. Then, a brash, incredibly loud elephant trumpeting a warning call is blasted near our ears. We all yelp. A gun is cocked. The elephant lets out what sounds like the worlds loudest hiccup. A shot is fired. We wince. A second shot is fired, followed by the sound of gigantic footsteps galloping into the jungle once again. The park ranger had fired two shots in the air to scare the elephant, who was rummaging through our kitchen for potatoes.

Ngorongoro is a beautiful contradiction. It is proclaimed a natural gem, a spectacle unprecedented in the natural world, but also a place where you can spend a $2000 dollar night watching such "wildlife" from a crystal bathtub. It is a place where you are simultaneously as close as you can get to the natural world (elephants close enough to squish the grape that is your head) but not without the mechanical assistance of a menagerie of cameras and mp3 players. The once currency-less maasai will do a cultural dance for you, a tradition that has been repeated since the beginning of time, but not without a chain of bracelets and necklaces in one hand and the other hand open, palm up, waiting for payment.

I came away from Ngorongoro astonished, amazed at the sights and sounds, and ready to leave.

People still haven't taken showers.

I am glad I did.

More to come,

Tim

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

Ostriches on Safari Pt.3, Or "Huhhh huhhh" means "Cool" in Kiraqu

Campsite 3: The Nau (pronounced "no") Forest. Let us descend once again from the natural wonder of the national park. I loved my time in Terengiri (and yes I realize that I have spelled it a whole mess o' ways, but it doesn't seem like even the locals get it right half the time), but it almost was played out like a Disneyland ride. We weren't able to leave the truck (a realization that struck quickly with the insistence by Douglass to drink mass amounts of water), and every time we found something worth stopping for, we were surrounded by at least seven or eight other safari vehicles, overflowing with pudgy Europeans in homogeneously beige colored suits, the sound of million dollar cameras clicking and snapping at what now seemed like an animatronic lion rather than one in its natural habitat.

I digress. We descend from the bountiful wildlife playground and drive through the desert until we hear a combination of sounds that is far from promising: Hissssssss POW! Hissssss, followed by Habibu yelling "Aww man!". Our faithful behemoth had lost its steam, literally, and was proclaimed unsafe and unfit to drive in. Soon enough, however, we were met by a hopeful sound. The sound of clanking metal and a roaring, environment demolishing engine screaming down the dirt path. It was the MAN. Our back up truck a 1940s German army vehicle, literally engraved with "MAN" in bold letters on the grill, became our terrifying home. twice as wide as our original truck, green with the front not unlike a mechanical oxen, When we all jumped into the MAN we looked like some horrific nazi parade float, coming to invade Poland, binoculars in hand and sleeping bags in tow. I feared for the people of Tanzania.

Not 30 minutes after packing the MAN and rattling noisily down the first paved road in a week and a half, we break down again. After much deliberation, we (or Habibu, Douglass and Thad) come to the conclusion that a dangerous, hissing, popping truck is better than one that refuses to move. But fear not, faithful readers of this long and tedious blog...the MAN will return.

After several ostrich sightings and another grandiose ascent, this time for hours into the mountains, we find our surroundings quite different, and yet quite familiar as well. Rainy, cold, forest, it reminded most people of Portland if no one ever had lived there. In fact,the Nau Forest is so similar to Portland, our long strikes of homesickness were simultaneously eradicated and extenuated. I was torn: I was missed everyone back home and also never wanted to leave such an amazing place.

The Nau Forrest is inhabited by the occasional leopard, tons of freakin birds, lizards, and the Iraqu people. The Iraqu are a modest people who have a language that, to the untrained ear (aka Tim Howe) sounds like a bunch of muddled consonants. One of our favorite Swahili phrases is "safi" which literally translates to "clean" but is used by the youth as "cool". When we asked one of our Iraqu hosts, "Umesemaje 'safi' kwa Kiraqu", or "How do you say 'safi' in Iraqu" we were met with what sounded like Fat Albert's laugh. "Huhhh Huhhh", he bellowed, and again, so that we understood what he was doing was not some strange nervous tick, but a word. For the rest of our stay, we probably scared half the wildlife off with our low guttural throat clearings, exclaiming about the coolness of nearly everything "Huhhh Huhh". The Iraqu have recently made a huge quake in Tanzania, with a front runner in the political party Chedema, the strong political opposition to CCM, the political (and may I just say from an outsiders perspective, staggeringly corrupt) superpower in this country. The political tensions here are palpable, you can feel it in the air, much like the mist of the Nau Forest. I guess we have more in common in America than I thought.

Half the group became violently ill here. It was terrible. Vomiting, diarrhea, searing stomach pains, uncontrollable and frequent. I was spared, but it didn't help my inexplicable bad mood. After a rough night for everyone, we woke up and trekked for hours on a dangerous trail to one of the most spectacular sights I have ever come across: a gigantic waterfall, miles from any type of civilization anywhere. We swam in it. We cleansed ourselves (good thing too, because the Smell Off was not over and we were long overdue for some kind of natural hose down) We picked leaches off of each other, and hiked back, exhausted, happy once again, and for the most part, healthy.

I will never forget the Nau Forrest. The people so genuine and frank about their beliefs. The astounding scenery, when, from atop the tallest hill, is indistinguishable from any given scene in the forest of "Lord of the Rings". Perhaps all we needed was to get clean. I mean safi. I mean huhhh huhhh.

More to come,

Tim

Ostriches on Safari Pt.2, Or Stylized Action and Beauty

Campsite Two: Teringeri National Park. Even though we're no further than 20km away, it takes forever to actually reach the place. One thing we came to terms with while riding across this country is the excruciatingly slow speeds you must travel at when attempting to transport 18 people on non-roads; still, you would think America's army would find the technology for such endeavors. We slowly trudge along the ashy pseudo-path until we reach a series of hills, each of which we climb and weave around. The scenery slowly changes, from burnt grasses and acacias fighting for their survival, to tall yellow grasses, impala sprinting at the sight of our mechanical dragon of a bus, the occasional zebra, of course, more ostrich. Soon enough, however, it transforms again into what can only be described as a scene from the Lion King. Words, or at least my words, will never be enough to detail the flourishing Animal Kingdom Mecca we stumbled upon; a marsh filled with herons and green grasses stretched for miles, weaving through hundreds of zebra, elephant, impala, wildebeest, heron, fish eagle, until finally enormous hills of trees and threateningly tall yellow grass framed the scenic wonderment. It was beyond anything I had ever imagined I would ever see. It was also our lunch stop.

Tanzania is comprised of three types of land: village, which our last stop at Oldonu Sambu was, reserved, which includes National Parks, game reserves, and other types of wildlife protected (or shooting gallery) areas, and general land, owned by no one, a rarity nowadays. Terengiri is a wildlife reserve that is home to a super-abundance of concentrated wildlife, due to its variety of habitat, large size (think Connecticut and Rhode Island combined) and its year long water availability.

Just think of your favorite animal as a kid. An elephant? A lion? A freakin' dik dik (looks like a two foot high deer with a pointed snout)? All of those landmark "Africa animals" can be found here, with relative ease. My favorite was always the cheetah, one that in fact was said to be a difficult find. By the end of our three day stay, we saw four.

Our job was to count animals. Scientifically, of course. For 3 km, at intervals of 10 min, we were assigned 8 linear transects of specific ungulates, both water dependent and independent with the overall goal of determining their relative abundance and the diversity among them. I got to count zebras. It was awesome.

I forgot to mention. At the beginning of our journey we decided to make a bet. Whoever could last the longest without showering would reign supreme. Each person to drop out owed the winner (or winners, due to our mandatory shower before our Olasiti homestay) a beer. I was hesitant about the entire competition, but eventually gave a half hearted, lackluster confirmation on my participation in the Smell-Off. It really didn't take long for people to get dirty and putrid. A week in the savanna is basically a week in dust bath. Even the washing of hands, feet and faces (acceptable in the competition for health reasons) didn't seem to matter much; dirt seems to fall perpetually and invisibly from the sky .

Our next stop was to be a big switch from our week in the hot desert sun. The Nau forest would be our cool off.

More to come,

Tim

Ostriches on Safari Pt.1, Or The Beginning of Our Insanity

It would be hard for nearly anyone to give a depiction of an entire months-worth of activities, much less a man who has been on a month long Tanzanian safari. The task becomes even more strenuous and conclusively pointless when done over a single blog post; as far as I'm concerned, the best way to hear about what I have accomplished (and for that matter failed to do) is over coffee. This, however is not a possibility at the moment, and I have a hunch that at least my family would like to hear from me. Therefore, instead of trying to boil someones eyeballs with a novel-length post about each and every event encountered in the last month, I will split them into each campsite we visited, each about three days long, so that you as the reader can stop and start at your leisure.

So. Stop one. Arusha. We arrive at Dorobo Bros. homebase, a camp on the cusp of the village of Olasiti, a place we would be told to get acquainted with, due to our month long stay homestay to come. Our tents are aligned much like army bunkers, an ironic fact that is only propelled when our safari-mobile, a 1960s Army Transport Vehicle rolls up to the campsite(but more on this to come).

The behemoth truck is driven by Habibu, a sarcastic maniac who made us fear for our lives at least once a week. Habibu is one of the best drivers in the world, I'm sure of it. Along with us is Douglass, who accompanied us in Pembe Abwe, and Thad Peterson. Thad is an ox of an old man, with feathered "grandma hair" and bulging calf muscles. His sense of humor becomes both our relief at the end of an exhausting day, and eventually the bane of our existence. Both Thad and Douglass, although not trained scientists, seem to have a bottomless well of knowledge on all matters Tanzania. "Living here, you can't not immerse yourself completely in it," Thad tells us.

As we roll out of Olasiti in the massive transport, the noisy city slowly subsides. The horns and exhaust trickle away until all that is left is a makeshift shack or two. Then, abruptly, we hit a dirt road. The ways of Western civilization are behind us and will continue to be. After an hour, we abandon even the road and begin to twist through thorny acacia trees. Our first siting of a Grants gazelle is exciting, but in hindsight a laughable thing; if we only knew how tired we would get of gazelle.

We arrive at our first campsite, outside of the Maasai village of Emborette in a place called Oldonu Sambu. Our scenery consists of a dry river bed (rivers are only found flowing for three months of the year), a giant rock-hill (one that we would prepare to climb), and ashy, burnt fields. We soon find that the fields are burnt by the Maasai to prepare for the rainy season and the bounty of new grass it brings. Burning of land is somewhat frowned upon by much of the country, but getting the Maasai to do what the government thinks is acceptable is comparable to getting a llama to do your dishes.

Climbing the rock the next day brought sweaty brows (due in part to the intense heat that makes the Tanzanian Savannah famous) and a new glimpse of what we were inside of. Vast and dry, the trees are scarce and spread out enough to collect as much precipitation as possible. Wild life has adapted to such extremes by becoming virtually independent of water. It was humbling, the vast arid landscape, and yet reminded me strangely of eastern Oregon.

We were hosted by a number of Maasai from the village. Our first assignment was to interview(in swahili, of course; English had to become our second language around each of our many hosts on the trip) one of our hosts. We all became quite embarrassed when told that asking how many cows or new pastoral friends owned was much like asking an American if they were richer or poorer than us. Our Maasai hosts were quite welcoming, but for the most part kept to themselves. Our consensus on a favorite was Sitote, an elder who claimed to have fought several lions, and bragged about his many wives. We still think he's full of it.

Our first campsite also brought our first field ID, and now that safari is over, I can say this with confidence: I hate birds. I really do. I always have. Birds do nothing for me, they do not excite me in the least. I have a phobia of pigeons. The birds we had to identify and write about were, to some, quite beautiful. The most colorful bird in the world lives here: the lilac breasted roller. Or maybe its the most colorful in the country, I don't know. I don't care. I hate birds. We encountered so many ostriches ( a bird I once found quite interesting, actually) that it soon became a running joke that ostriches were the worst animal ever.

I'm glad I got that out of my system. After three days we packed up, said our "kwaherini" (or goodbyes) and packed up our excursion-mobile. On to Terigere Park.

More to come,

Tim