And the rest of what happened in Tanzania

Other than the Dutch already mentioned, the additional people on my safari were Angélique from Montreal, Matt from Melbourne and Ahmed from Zanzibar. (The last two joining us only on the second day for the descent into Ngorongoro Crater.) They were all quite pleasant company (and Rudger quite pleasant to look at as well) J

At first I didn't feel significantly different than the other travelers, other than the fact that I had a leopard-printed hand luggage carry-on as my suitcase, and nothing resembling backpacker attire (i.e. large hiking backpack, safari-tan hats, khakis, grungy cargo shorts, t-shirts celebrating brands of Thai and Indian beer.) I soon found out that they were all 24-years-old or less, four of them 22 or less, and it struck me as funny that this was the budget safari I had chosen to afford. (Considering that I sell several thousand dollar luxury safaris almost daily.) Reflects back on my current situation a bit, as well as the fact that I really should be using complimentary and significantly reduced semi-luxurious travel options--touting my travel operator status as reason to deserve familiarization trips. This would of course involve planning, not to mention a bit more notice than a rushed workweek in which i am told I will be traveling to Tanzania for a trade show.

The campsite in which I stayed two nights was pretty sparse. We were fed simple foods, such as orange slices and spaghetti with meatsauce, then rice with meat and watermelon and mango on the second night. The shared bathrooms were more than a bit disgusting--as are most public restrooms in Africa-- the first night especially inducing dry-heaving upon entry. It looked as if someone had died—from one end in particular—in one of the stalls. The other stalls were drop pots, where you literally have to squat over a hole and aim in order to keep your feet clear of errant sprays. Men have it so easy sometimes. 

Here, as in Kampala, men will just pull their car or bike over and go stand on the side of the road and pee onto something. It happens in the middle of the city. I could be walking along a path to the grocery store and have to step several feet out of the way to avoid seeing more than I bargained for and/or getting sprayed.

Still, it all turned out well-enough in the end. The girl I invited on the bus to the campsite near Lake Manyara, Angélique, got the same trip and itinerary for $110 less than me (thanks to my negotiations on her behalf) and because I assumed that adding a person to our vehicle would lower my own cost. The tricky part was negotiating with the Tanzanian tour operators to agree to pay me back. I ended up with a $50 refund and an apology, but at least I learned my lesson and made it clear to the operator that something of a monetary gesture in refund/apology was better than nothing.

Lake Manyara turned out to be pretty disappointing after the appeal of seeing giraffes and zebras in the wild wore off.... you tend to get a bit desensitized quite quickly after driving back the same animals for hours at a time. That was pretty much all we saw, with a few forest elephants near the entrance. Although, it is fair to say giraffes are extremely unusual creatures, and quite comical in appearance when closely analyzed: alien antennaes sticking out above fuzzy hears and a quizzical expression on top of an overly stretched neck, slanted back and different-length gangly legs. When they run it’s even funnier, as they canter horse-like, yet in awkward, uneven and jarring steps. 

The landscape by the lake was impressionable. It’s unusual to see giraffes lounging lakeside, their long necks sticking out in the foreground of the expanse beyond.

The following day at Ngorongoro Crater was a different story--a different world. As soon as the safari vehicle descended below the fog resting on top of the crater, a great African savannah revealed itself below. Wildebeasts charged each other, running in circles, stirring up dust, communicating constantly in a series of humerous grunts.

We had a close encounter with a huge male elephant-- who looked like he was considering standing off with the safari car near us....

It ended with a stare-down, a quick dust bath and dismissive flap of the ears and trunk.

The lions in the crater are so accustomed to safari cars and humans, the literally walk in front in between the cars,  stop in the middle of the road, and, in one case in particular, spoon with tires. 

 

In one case, a female lion walked slowly between the vehicles, about 6 inches below my window, which I stupidly leaned out of to get a great picture--realizing I could have literally pet the thing without even extending my arm... Fortunately for me, the lions there are so habituated, they don't even bat a lion eyelash or raise a lion nostril to your nearby human stench.

I felt pretty lucky to finally get the chance to see a huge variety of game in the wild, and spend some time off work to explore on my own. We drove back to Arusha that evening and I spent the night at the Backpacker's Hostel in town. 

(Where I contemplated my softness, but enjoyed sleeping in a top-bunk like a 12-year old.)

I met up with my friend the next day and we spent the afternoon in town before driving to Moshi for an overnight at her house. It was great to catch up with an old friend in a completely random, foreign setting. Who could have guessed we would have a reunion in East Africa? Complaining about African drivers, men peeing all over the place, the utter inefficiency of most things, and the dangers of walking alone at night...

"But no, I really do love it here."

"Really? It doesn't sound like it...."

(I guess it's just nice to have a familiar face to lament to, sometimes.)

The end (s).

Blogging about blogging

Ever notice how prolongued hunger has the effect of actually causing you to lose you appetite? Your stomach shrinks a bit, and suddenly you realize that you don’t feel those gnawing hunger pangs anymore—or you do finally eat then realize you’re satiated by much less?

So goes my social life, as I have become more and more accustomed to being alone, spending each day in a similar routine of get-myself-through-hectic-polluted-Kampala-traffic-noise-and-home with the occasional bout of solitary exercise before or after, such as running through said smog-choked streets. And often throw in 40 minutes of reading at a quiet table during lunch, and there you have it—Holly in Africa.

I haven’t given up, completely, I just stopped caring so much. Yes, I am single, and—gasp--twenty-eight. I would love to find a meaningful romantic relationship, loyal, inspiring friendships, and a career that challenges and energizes me. Yet, no, I haven’t discovered that repeated excursions of binge drinking and banal conversation really stimulate my interest in Kampala’s social offerings.

On par with my new hermity self, I settled onto my bed, excited to zone out to two or three episodes of HBO’s Rome before going to bed. True, it might be fun to catch some of the European cup at a nearby bar for a 9:45pm kickoff as I almost managed to do… but that would involve leaving my bed.

I watched an episode and a half and got sucked into Facebook. That’s when I saw that a friend’s mother recently died of cancer. I had missed the announcements in the past week offering condolences and an invite to her memorial service. I’ve known this friend for over a decade, but we were never as close as back when we were little girls, chasing animals around in the barn or getting pulled through poopy mud puddles by her brother on a tractor.

It’s strange this world we live in, where you can get such an intimate glimpse into people’s lives without having to make yourself known. You can read someone’s diary online (ahem, cough, blogging) or just be a creepy stalker of your new boy or girlfriend’s old photos involving the opposite sex. We are so undeniably involved in the business of others, yet entirely removed and sterilized, so that we can easily go about our own selfish ways without ever truly giving of ourselves.

It was through the same power of Stalkbook months ago that I discovered another friend from high school had lost her new baby only weeks after its birth. I am no longer close enough to this friend to really have any business in comforting her, but shit, this virtual news makes me sad. It makes me think.  I am so fortunate for what I have been given in life and what I (hopefully) have left to experience.

But this life business aint easy.

People get their hearts broken. People suffer serious tragedy. No one escapes pain.

Some seem to ease their way through life, but maybe they are better at privatizing their problems rather than Tweeting their grief and “PinInterest”ing their strife. We throw up pictures on Facebook and other media forums demonstrating this plastered and imagined ideal of happiness—ahhhh life is all drinks and parties and trampolines and instagram colors of precious moments and confetti and cake and beautiful vacations and significant others and laughing.

But then, it’s not.

People’s new babies die for no apparent reason. People’s mothers depart this life well before their time.  People’s brothers and cousins go into rehab, they fight with their girlfriends, they get dumped by their cheating boyfriends, their parents divorce, their grandfathers die, and their dogs get run over by cars.

Yet we must persist, because, really, what choice is there? This pain that is so alarming when first confronted is also unifying, because in its essence, it’s what makes us human.
The lows in life allow us to truly appreciate and recognize the highs.

Experiencing one anothers' pain is a humbling and grounding force for acknowledging our own blessings in life—and appreciating them before it’s too late.

That said, I am missing my mom right now, and hope she knows how much I love her, even though we fight like newly introduced hens half of the time.

And I hope my friend who lost her mom is feeling loved by everyone else in her life, and knows her mom is forever watching over her as well. 

Jambo!

Am I becoming soft? The last couple days have suddenly caused me to question this very notion as I travel among the backpacker early twenty-something crowd. Not feeling so much older as just... er... well-seasoned? At least people are still surprised when I tell them I'm 28. Fake it 'til I make it.

My time here in Tanzania has been partially frustrating, partially awe-inspiring, partially just a treat away from the working world. The trip began with three days at the Karibu Trade and Tourism Fair--a pretty low-end (in terms of snooty tour operators' standards) travel fair where different companies related to travel in the area come to network/sell/learn about products and related services. Much of the fair was a bit boring, sitting at a table within the Rwandan booth (our company has an office in Kigali as well,) but it was broken up by entertaining bouts of traditional dancing from four Rwandese students. One boy in particular had the most mesmerizing smile I have seen-- it undulated pure joy. Every time I looked at him, I became happy.  It was the most incredible thing--his bliss was contagious.

People wandering around the fair, agents, operators and tourists alike, were drawn to the graceful and vibrant dancing from these kids... and we tabled our wares in the interim.

   


My lack of Swahili was repeatedly (and sometimes antagonistically challenged) as certain arrogant men sternly repeated themselves louder and louder, as if somehow I could snap out of English and magically speak fluent Swahili back if they just forced it out of me. I am still mixed up days later, but now respond in like form to the greetings of Jambo/Mambo/Karibu Sana from everyone I meet.

Nice!

I am typing this post poolside from the hotel I stayed at for a few days during the fair. My childhood friend arrives soon from Moshi, and we'll spend the rest of my trip together. Life is good!! Even when it's momentarily bad. I'm running out of time here, but have lots to share about the last couple days, where I ventured into the wild with my ridiculous, cheetah-spotted carry-on luggage for camping, a bit of "roughing it," butchering Swahili greetings and replies, meeting some interesting people and getting so close to a lion I could have easily pet its back. I visited Lake Manyara and Ngorongoro Crater with a group of four others, then seven, as two joined us for day two in the crater. Our driver, nicknamed China, apparently because he knows some tae kwon do, even though it's a Japanese sport was an interesting sort. On each side of his neck sat an elongated growth that looked something like a triangular, pointy fingernail growing from a small spot of skin. I tried to focus on his face when talking to him, but my eyes frequently wandered southward, thinking "what the hell are those?!?" I never did find out.

Britt's here! Will tell you more when I am in front of a computer again.

Things are looking up, and so am I!

Funny how changing location makes me so ridiculously happy by default. Going to a new place and noticing positive, tangible change reminds me of how fortunate I am. I experience moments of being proud of how far I've come in my life--the things I have overcome and experienced thus far and will continue to experience... I don't just settle. And it's uncomfortable sometimes. Much of the time. Excrutiatingly so. But then I have these moments of really experiencing the calm awareness that anything I truly want to make happen, from deeply within myself, I will.
Really, anyone can materialize these things for themselves, if they choose to make it so.
My dream life and idea of progress entirely differs from many others, but I have discovered what doesn't make me happy... feeling stuck, stagnant, bored and uninspired. And when I am that frustrated and uncomfortable, and it's sticking, I know it's time for a change.

So, here I am, sitting in the airport, en route to Tanzania for a week. My favorite guide drove my coworker, Agnes, and me to Entebbe from the office. His name is Moses, surname Bahati, but here the order is typically reversed in introductions and really any written document, (not to mention the fact that there are four ‘Moses’es that work for Volcanoes,) so he generally goes by Bahati. I call him Bahottie. As you can imagine, he’s your “typical” beautiful African man—tall, silky smooth-looking dark skin, thin but muscular…man, oh man. The funny thing is he just started talking to me over the past couple weeks. Before that, I would sit, tormented in the office as he walked by, internally screaming, “Say hi to me! Smile in my direction!” And then, after about a month of this ridiculous internal strife, I finally gave up on the idea of flirting with the sexy guide. Now he talks to me every time he’s around the office. In fact, last week he did a double take walking past the sales team desk toward reception and almost ran into the wall.

It was amazing. Amazingly hilarious. I looked around, nervous for his sake, to see if anyone had captured the incident…unfortunately, (or fortunately) I was the only one who noticed.  

The eternal curse of irony.

Our drive to Entebbe involved navigating the typical cityscape through Kampala and its outskirts. I sat in front of the safari vehicle, sweating, since the passenger seat is directly above the gearbox or some other hot car mechanical-type-thing. We passed men on the street selling electronic bug swatters, multipacks of toilet paper, prepaid cell phone minute cards, waving giant instructional geography maps of Africa for children, or basic anatomy diagrams of labeled body parts. I looked around affectionately at the madness... I wish there was a way my eyes could better translate to my fingers to translate to you what one sees looking out a window in these countries. I'll feebly attempt a bit. 

Men in tattered, sun-faded t-shirts (the worn-out shades hipsters would die for in Portland) push clunky steel bicycles piled high with wood, or grass along the side of the road. One young guy stops rolling a tractor tire almost as large as him at a stoplight alongside a backlog of boda drivers.  Matatu taxis veer erratically on and off the road and into traffic, their enforced metal grills in front acting like battering rams should anyone try to get in their way. At one crossing, a fully grown cow stood on the cement divider between two lanes of traffic. How it got there is anyone's guess. The fact that no one cared is another. 

As you enter the slightly more rural outskirts of Kampala, the various duka shops, salons and garages have men sitting around in front, looking bored. Women carry water in jerry cans from some nearby source. Some people have wares laid out in front of them on the roadside on blankets: miscellaneous shoes, pots and pans, tomatoes and mangoes piled high into pyramids in colorful plastic bowls. There undoubtedly is someone selling chapatis, or samosas, friend triangular folds filled with meat or diced oily vegetables. Or maandazi in handmade wooden boxes fashioned onto the backs of bodas or 

Everyone seems to be moving, scurrying across the street, biking, boda-driving... it's hard to figure out where everyone is going, or coming from, and why. It's also tiring just watching some of these people, out in the hot sun on their cumbersome bicycles, dragging supplies to another area. Nothing is easy here... unless you can afford to make it so by having other people do all the hard stuff for you. But somehow, there are moments, where everything is beautiful and bright and hopeful--and you feel lucky to be alive and experiencing all that is around you.

I flew into Arusha on a small plane, seeing Kilimanjaro for the first time looming in the distance as we neared the runway. You could find me grinning maniacally at various intervals throughout this entire airport/flying/landing/airport/waiting/walking/sitting/driving day.  Just happy. Happy to be on the move. Seeing something new.  We took a private car to the Impala Hotel, which turns out to be this charming, vintage-luxury-type place. I thought we would be sharing rooms, in the same style as the fam trip finale. (still need to post the rest of those stories) but no, I get to lounge around in peace in my princess bed (thanks to the dramatic appeal of mosquito netting) and pirate free wireless and feel grateful and forunate to be in this place, in my body, with my life. Even though I'm not sure how it will all work out, when I will meet the man of my dreams, when this whole career thing will settle a bit and make sense... I have faith that it will. And sometimes that's enough.