On the safari, as we mentioned, the girls were slightly skittish about the unfamiliar animal sounds and wildlife roaming around the tented camps in which we stayed. Accordingly, the girls insisted on each sleeping with one parent. It was the first week, so we were fine with that. Indeed, we both appreciated the opportunity to cuddle and spend some time alone with each of our daughters. One of the things we learned is that our girls have very different cuddling styles. Maya is what I would call a conventional cuddler. She cuddles at the beginning and then wanders to her side of the bed—coming back for an occasional check in. Emma, on the other hand has a much more aggressive style of cuddling that Adam has begun referring to as Greco Roman cuddling. When sleeping with Emma, there is not a second of the evening during which each of your limbs are not completely entangled with hers—and we are not talking gently touching—but aggressively entwined. Occasionally, we attempt, to no avail, to disentangle as we toss and turn or restlessly sleep. Emma is not pleased by this and has started accusing us, with a pathetic face, of “dodging her cuddles.” This has now become our family joke—and Emma makes us swear each night that if we are sharing a bed, we will not dodge her cuddles.
When we planned this six month adventure with our girls, we were particularly looking forward to the opportunity to spend time alone as a family. Adam and I assumed that an obvious consequence of that, particularly on such a small budget, would be a somewhat limited amount of time alone together as a couple. Of course, until the safari, we had no idea how true that would be. Now the four of us are in a small room, in bunk beds (we did force the kids to take the top bunks), which, of course, is not exactly conducive to intimacy.
When we arrived at the home base, we couldn’t help but laugh when we read the following policy set forth in the volunteer’s handbook:
“Cross-Cultural Solutions forbids sexual relations in the Cross-Cultural Solutions premise . . .”
As if. . .
We have now been away for a month or so, and forget about a romantic evening alone together, I don’t even think we have had a private conversation that has lasted longer than 10 seconds. Oh well, we were running out of things to say to each other anyway after 15 years.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
AIDS/HIV
On January 24, we were given a presentation regarding HIV/AIDS in Africa, generally, and Tanzania, specifically. It was a fairly sobering conversation. The discussion was led by a Nun who is also an MD. She was a very impressive woman, and proved to be more progressive in her thinking than her status as a nun might otherwise suggest.
While Africa comprises 1/3 of the world’s population, 2/3 of the world’s cases of HIV/AIDS are in Sub-Saharan Africa. Tanzania, relatively speaking is doing ok, with a prevalence rate of 7%, in contrast to, for instance, South Africa’s 20% to 30% prevalence rate. The demographic group most at risk in Tanzania is 15 to 24 year old woman. I learned a number of interesting things:
1. There has been prevalent myth perpetrated by traditional healers that if an HIV infected male has sex with a virgin or, in some cases, an elderly woman, the man will be cured. This has given rise to sexual assault in Tanzania, previously a very rare occurrence, and an increase in the spread of the virus.
2. Rich men who become infected conclude that they’re unwilling to die alone and engage in a concerted effort to spread the disease as broadly as possible.
3. Despite now being illegal, female genital mutilation continues to occur. It is done in a non-sterile manner, with shared instruments, providing an ideal opportunity for transmission of the virus.
4. There is social and economic pressure for woman to breast feed, which results in the transmission of the virus to an infected mother’s baby. So, women who have avoided giving the virus to their babies through pregnancy and in the hospital get home and are pressured by their family members breast feed. The women then have the choice of either revealing that they are infected, subjecting themselves to shame and stigma, or subjecting their newborn to AIDS/HIV. To make matters worse, the economic reality is without breast milk, many children would simply starve to death.
5. Until recently Tanzanians would not get tested for the simple reason that treatments were not available or were too expensive. So, in their minds, there was no point in testing. The only reason to do so was to advise you of a death sentence and subject you to horrible stigma about which you could do nothing. Obviously, the result of this was the continued rampant transmission of the virus. Now that donor countries have made the drugs more available testing is becoming more common.
6. There is engrained cultural acceptance of men being unfaithful to their wives, which, of course, also results in further transmission.
The agreed-upon solution, as a matter of national policy, is ABC: abstinence, be faithful and condoms. Each of these has its deficiencies. For instance, in terms of condoms, it is not uncommon for condoms to be used repeatedly, shared and generally used incorrectly.
While I did not need to go to Africa to appreciate the staggering problem of AIDS/HIV here, gaining a preliminary understanding of some of the cultural challenges associated with this intractable problem has been illuminating and exceedingly depressing. You are also left, once again, with the crushing feeling that as devastating as the AIDS/HIV problem is, it must continue to compete with the overwhelming variety of other scourges Tanzania, and countries like it, face---poverty, lack of basic services and infrastructure and educational and vocational opportunities.
While Africa comprises 1/3 of the world’s population, 2/3 of the world’s cases of HIV/AIDS are in Sub-Saharan Africa. Tanzania, relatively speaking is doing ok, with a prevalence rate of 7%, in contrast to, for instance, South Africa’s 20% to 30% prevalence rate. The demographic group most at risk in Tanzania is 15 to 24 year old woman. I learned a number of interesting things:
1. There has been prevalent myth perpetrated by traditional healers that if an HIV infected male has sex with a virgin or, in some cases, an elderly woman, the man will be cured. This has given rise to sexual assault in Tanzania, previously a very rare occurrence, and an increase in the spread of the virus.
2. Rich men who become infected conclude that they’re unwilling to die alone and engage in a concerted effort to spread the disease as broadly as possible.
3. Despite now being illegal, female genital mutilation continues to occur. It is done in a non-sterile manner, with shared instruments, providing an ideal opportunity for transmission of the virus.
4. There is social and economic pressure for woman to breast feed, which results in the transmission of the virus to an infected mother’s baby. So, women who have avoided giving the virus to their babies through pregnancy and in the hospital get home and are pressured by their family members breast feed. The women then have the choice of either revealing that they are infected, subjecting themselves to shame and stigma, or subjecting their newborn to AIDS/HIV. To make matters worse, the economic reality is without breast milk, many children would simply starve to death.
5. Until recently Tanzanians would not get tested for the simple reason that treatments were not available or were too expensive. So, in their minds, there was no point in testing. The only reason to do so was to advise you of a death sentence and subject you to horrible stigma about which you could do nothing. Obviously, the result of this was the continued rampant transmission of the virus. Now that donor countries have made the drugs more available testing is becoming more common.
6. There is engrained cultural acceptance of men being unfaithful to their wives, which, of course, also results in further transmission.
The agreed-upon solution, as a matter of national policy, is ABC: abstinence, be faithful and condoms. Each of these has its deficiencies. For instance, in terms of condoms, it is not uncommon for condoms to be used repeatedly, shared and generally used incorrectly.
While I did not need to go to Africa to appreciate the staggering problem of AIDS/HIV here, gaining a preliminary understanding of some of the cultural challenges associated with this intractable problem has been illuminating and exceedingly depressing. You are also left, once again, with the crushing feeling that as devastating as the AIDS/HIV problem is, it must continue to compete with the overwhelming variety of other scourges Tanzania, and countries like it, face---poverty, lack of basic services and infrastructure and educational and vocational opportunities.
Dirt, Home Base, Volunteering: Adam and Emma
Dirt
“Out Damn Dirt”
--Macbeth (or what the line might have been had the play been set in Africa).
I don’t share Melissa’s OCD tendencies regarding dirt, but even my highly relaxed standards are being tested. Every night, I scrub the bottom of my feet and yet they remain black. I have this nagging fear that I’m going to end up in a lovely, walled institution, where I will spend the balance of my days scrubbing my feet, while gazing emptily into the sky. You must visit!!
Home Base
Melissa pretty well captured the animal menagerie that is our morning alarm clock. I have only one thing to add. Roosters really do say cock a doodle do. It's uncanny. The other unfortunate side effect of this noise is that every morning I wake up with an adolescent joke on my mind. What’s the difference between a rooster and a prostitute? Given the family nature of this blog, I will spare you the punch line (thought I suspect that many of you have heard this joke). If you really want to know the punch line, email me.
It is worth briefly introducing you to the locals that run the organization here. There are three senior people: Moses is the boss, Mama Grace and Fulgence. Each of them is quite extraordinary. Moses exudes this Gandhiesque wisdom and gentleness. Mama Grace is a regal woman who exudes African strength. In a world where woman are still very subservient, she is a forceful and opinionated (in a good way) presence. Fulgence is a gentle, jovial soul. He speaks in a slow, deliberate, almost dramatic cadence. He almost sounds like he is performing Shakespeare when he speaks of even the most insignificant matters (e.g. giving directions to the local orphanage). The main responsibility of the three of them is to ensure that all runs smoothly, from our accommodations to our placements. They are committed to our getting as much out of our time in Africa as is possible. They are remarkable people and we all feel our lives have been enriched by knowing them. There are several others as well—and everyone one of them feels like part of this really lovely and warm family.
Volunteering
Emma and my work experience has been markedly different from Melissa’s and Maya’s. We’re at a school called Ebenezer Academy, an English immersion school, so every subject is taught in English. On Monday, I met the headmaster, who seemed nice, if slightly psychologically off-kilter. More on that later. Our first day, Tuesday, was spent observing. We arrived at, what by Tanzanian standards, was a fairly high end private school, classrooms (with real floors), only 20 students or so in a class, a real cafeteria of sorts, etc. When we arrived, they were doing their morning assembly, consisting of singing the Tanzanian National Anthem and praying to God. While the school is not a parochial school per se, Christianity is firmly embedded into the school. I wonder what the Muslim students think. In addition, they do a lot of quasi-military activities-marching, responsive yelling, etc. They are all dressed in uniforms consisting of green v-neck sweaters and green shorts for the boys and green skirts for the girls. Uniforms are mandatory for school kids in both the public and private schools. Every morning, throughout Tanzania, you see reams of similarly clad children walking to school. It’s a very adorable sight. At Ebenezer the kids range in age from 2 to 13 or so. Emma spent the bulk of the day hanging out with the pre-school kids, who love her and I observed a variety of classes.
However, at one point, Emma joined me in a science class. Imagine my surprise when I saw the teacher write on the top of the board “Human Reproduction.” So, a moment of uncertainty set in—do I grab Emma and run out of the class and risk insulting them? Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not naïve enough to believe that my precocious Emma is unaware of the birds and the bees, it was really more a question of what was going to be presented. Well, we decided to stay, for the sake of cultural sensitivity. The teacher then proceeded to go into an in depth discussion of the female reproductive system. Unlike an American classroom, where all the students would be tittering, the students took this very seriously answering all manner of questions about female sexual organs. Only Emma and I were tittering. I will say that it was somewhat humorous in that while the teacher’s English was very good, some of the idioms were slightly off, which in the context of a discussion of female sex organs is, well, funny. For instance, menstruation was described as the “monthly flowing out of uterus fragments together with blood.” Certainly not wrong (I think), but perhaps not the words that I would have chosen. Indeed, to me, it sounded like the description of a botched hysterectomy. After class, Emma and I made a blood oath to never talk of this again.
The teaching has been interesting. First, when you walk into the classroom the students stand up and give you a formal welcome. It’s not short. I stand there feeling slightly awkward as this ritual goes on. It reminded me, a little, of when I had just moved from NY to LA. I was used to jay walking in NY and the first time I started to jay walk in LA across a major thoroughfare, I brought traffic to a complete halt. I didn’t know whether to continue to jay walk or move back. Similarly, when they start this welcome ritual I don’t know whether to have them sit down and forego or just stand there awkwardly.
I have been asked to teach math and English. The math is currently adding and subtracting fractions, of which I, of course, had no recollection. As a lawyer, adding and subtracting fractions does not come up much. The English class was a bit more my speed, but even that posed unexpected challenges. They teach in a very traditional manner. For instance, I was asked to prepare a lesson on present tense—present simple, present continuous and present perfect. Needless to say, I did not admit that I had no recollection of these various tenses. Nonetheless, I muddled through and it has been okay (although when Maya came with me one day she thought that I was atrociously boring). The kids are good kids and seem committed to learning. I think the fact that they’re at a private school suggests that the parents of these kids recognize the importance of education.
A brief side note: Corporal punishment is still permitted in the schools in Tanzania. They use a switch to discipline the kids. While I have not seen it, Emma and I heard a kid being disciplined and it was very upsetting. We were warned of this practice before we started, but it’s still jarring to hear this going on right in front of you. I discussed this with one of the teachers, a 21 year old from man from Kenya named Hillary, and he believes that, in moderation, this type of discipline is appropriate. He asked me how it would be viewed in the US, to which I responded the teacher would be fired and arrested. He laughed, I laughed and another slightly surreal moment had passed.
I have become pretty good friends with two of the teachers, Hillary and Charles, both of whom are from Kenya and in their early twenties. Both are committed, talented teachers and very interesting guys. After meeting Charles for all of five minutes, he asked me who was going to be the next president. Similarly, at one point, Hillary asked me what Bush was thinking in wanting to increase the number of troops in Iraq. We have had some great conversations.
The one day that Maya came with me, they asked her to sing the US National Anthem. She said no, but offered me up. I started to try to sing it, but did not remember the words, so I promised to sing it the next day on the condition that they would sing the Tanzanian national anthem. Sure enough, the next day (after finding the words online the night before) I got up in front of the class and sang the national anthem. For those of you who know me, singing in public (especially a song that requires a 4 octave range) is slightly less desirable than root canal. However, in my effort to transcend my naturally curmudgeonly tendencies, I decided to go with it. All I can say is that, in retrospect, Roseanne Barr’s rendition was actually pretty good. I do not expect an invitation to the Super Bowl, anytime soon.
Yesterday, at snack time, which is preceded and proceeded by a prayer to Jesus, I was introduced to the School Manager. He spoke to the students and advised them that “knowledge starts with fear of god.” So that’s my problem, I’m only afraid of Melissa (and to a lesser extent, but only slightly, Paulette). After meeting the school manager, I asked one of the teachers to explain to me the structure of the school management. He advised me that the guy who had been introduced to me as the Headmaster had essentially been kicked upstairs. When I asked why, the teacher responded that he had psychological problems. As I mentioned above, I had this sense early on. When the headmaster was giving me the tour the teachers showed him very little respect. Moreover, when I talk to him, I always had this feeling that one synapse was slightly misfiring.
While it was an interesting week, I think I’m going to change my volunteer placement. The fact is that the teachers at Ebenezer are better than I am and I am simply taking the place of more qualified teachers. I think that they want volunteers so that they can tell people that they have volunteers and I think that they also see it as a source of potential donations. On Monday, I’m going to check out another organization called Second Chance, which focuses on helping kids who did not make it into the regular secondary schools. Apparently, they need English teachers pretty desperately. I think the placement will be more difficult, but I think that I will be able to provide more valuable assistance.
Most of the volunteers do various side projects in addition to their day to day volunteering. As Melissa mentioned in her earlier blog, we have helped raise money to buy mattresses for an orphanage. Below are pictures from the orphanage.
Today (Saturday) we painted the inside of dilapidated building, in what can only be described as a shanty town. The project was inspired and orchestrated by our fellow volunteers—two extraordinary young women with boundless energy and impressive skills.
The building will be used as an orphanage and a school. It’s hard to know whether these projects are worthwhile. On the one hand, these projects provide immediate benefits (and satisfaction to the volunteers) and some hope and optimism for the locals who were so appreciative and seemingly touched by the whole production. We have some sense that projects such as these seem like non-sustainable band aids, but maybe inspiration is enough. It’s really hard to know what the right thing is.
That said, last night, we dropped off the mattresses at the orphanage. It was an amazing experience. The kids were simply overjoyed to see us. The kids are unbelievably cute. They also seem so happy, despite the fact that they live in squalor, truly.
Adios.
“Out Damn Dirt”
--Macbeth (or what the line might have been had the play been set in Africa).
I don’t share Melissa’s OCD tendencies regarding dirt, but even my highly relaxed standards are being tested. Every night, I scrub the bottom of my feet and yet they remain black. I have this nagging fear that I’m going to end up in a lovely, walled institution, where I will spend the balance of my days scrubbing my feet, while gazing emptily into the sky. You must visit!!
Home Base
Melissa pretty well captured the animal menagerie that is our morning alarm clock. I have only one thing to add. Roosters really do say cock a doodle do. It's uncanny. The other unfortunate side effect of this noise is that every morning I wake up with an adolescent joke on my mind. What’s the difference between a rooster and a prostitute? Given the family nature of this blog, I will spare you the punch line (thought I suspect that many of you have heard this joke). If you really want to know the punch line, email me.
It is worth briefly introducing you to the locals that run the organization here. There are three senior people: Moses is the boss, Mama Grace and Fulgence. Each of them is quite extraordinary. Moses exudes this Gandhiesque wisdom and gentleness. Mama Grace is a regal woman who exudes African strength. In a world where woman are still very subservient, she is a forceful and opinionated (in a good way) presence. Fulgence is a gentle, jovial soul. He speaks in a slow, deliberate, almost dramatic cadence. He almost sounds like he is performing Shakespeare when he speaks of even the most insignificant matters (e.g. giving directions to the local orphanage). The main responsibility of the three of them is to ensure that all runs smoothly, from our accommodations to our placements. They are committed to our getting as much out of our time in Africa as is possible. They are remarkable people and we all feel our lives have been enriched by knowing them. There are several others as well—and everyone one of them feels like part of this really lovely and warm family.
Volunteering
Emma and my work experience has been markedly different from Melissa’s and Maya’s. We’re at a school called Ebenezer Academy, an English immersion school, so every subject is taught in English. On Monday, I met the headmaster, who seemed nice, if slightly psychologically off-kilter. More on that later. Our first day, Tuesday, was spent observing. We arrived at, what by Tanzanian standards, was a fairly high end private school, classrooms (with real floors), only 20 students or so in a class, a real cafeteria of sorts, etc. When we arrived, they were doing their morning assembly, consisting of singing the Tanzanian National Anthem and praying to God. While the school is not a parochial school per se, Christianity is firmly embedded into the school. I wonder what the Muslim students think. In addition, they do a lot of quasi-military activities-marching, responsive yelling, etc. They are all dressed in uniforms consisting of green v-neck sweaters and green shorts for the boys and green skirts for the girls. Uniforms are mandatory for school kids in both the public and private schools. Every morning, throughout Tanzania, you see reams of similarly clad children walking to school. It’s a very adorable sight. At Ebenezer the kids range in age from 2 to 13 or so. Emma spent the bulk of the day hanging out with the pre-school kids, who love her and I observed a variety of classes.
However, at one point, Emma joined me in a science class. Imagine my surprise when I saw the teacher write on the top of the board “Human Reproduction.” So, a moment of uncertainty set in—do I grab Emma and run out of the class and risk insulting them? Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not naïve enough to believe that my precocious Emma is unaware of the birds and the bees, it was really more a question of what was going to be presented. Well, we decided to stay, for the sake of cultural sensitivity. The teacher then proceeded to go into an in depth discussion of the female reproductive system. Unlike an American classroom, where all the students would be tittering, the students took this very seriously answering all manner of questions about female sexual organs. Only Emma and I were tittering. I will say that it was somewhat humorous in that while the teacher’s English was very good, some of the idioms were slightly off, which in the context of a discussion of female sex organs is, well, funny. For instance, menstruation was described as the “monthly flowing out of uterus fragments together with blood.” Certainly not wrong (I think), but perhaps not the words that I would have chosen. Indeed, to me, it sounded like the description of a botched hysterectomy. After class, Emma and I made a blood oath to never talk of this again.
The teaching has been interesting. First, when you walk into the classroom the students stand up and give you a formal welcome. It’s not short. I stand there feeling slightly awkward as this ritual goes on. It reminded me, a little, of when I had just moved from NY to LA. I was used to jay walking in NY and the first time I started to jay walk in LA across a major thoroughfare, I brought traffic to a complete halt. I didn’t know whether to continue to jay walk or move back. Similarly, when they start this welcome ritual I don’t know whether to have them sit down and forego or just stand there awkwardly.
I have been asked to teach math and English. The math is currently adding and subtracting fractions, of which I, of course, had no recollection. As a lawyer, adding and subtracting fractions does not come up much. The English class was a bit more my speed, but even that posed unexpected challenges. They teach in a very traditional manner. For instance, I was asked to prepare a lesson on present tense—present simple, present continuous and present perfect. Needless to say, I did not admit that I had no recollection of these various tenses. Nonetheless, I muddled through and it has been okay (although when Maya came with me one day she thought that I was atrociously boring). The kids are good kids and seem committed to learning. I think the fact that they’re at a private school suggests that the parents of these kids recognize the importance of education.
A brief side note: Corporal punishment is still permitted in the schools in Tanzania. They use a switch to discipline the kids. While I have not seen it, Emma and I heard a kid being disciplined and it was very upsetting. We were warned of this practice before we started, but it’s still jarring to hear this going on right in front of you. I discussed this with one of the teachers, a 21 year old from man from Kenya named Hillary, and he believes that, in moderation, this type of discipline is appropriate. He asked me how it would be viewed in the US, to which I responded the teacher would be fired and arrested. He laughed, I laughed and another slightly surreal moment had passed.
I have become pretty good friends with two of the teachers, Hillary and Charles, both of whom are from Kenya and in their early twenties. Both are committed, talented teachers and very interesting guys. After meeting Charles for all of five minutes, he asked me who was going to be the next president. Similarly, at one point, Hillary asked me what Bush was thinking in wanting to increase the number of troops in Iraq. We have had some great conversations.
The one day that Maya came with me, they asked her to sing the US National Anthem. She said no, but offered me up. I started to try to sing it, but did not remember the words, so I promised to sing it the next day on the condition that they would sing the Tanzanian national anthem. Sure enough, the next day (after finding the words online the night before) I got up in front of the class and sang the national anthem. For those of you who know me, singing in public (especially a song that requires a 4 octave range) is slightly less desirable than root canal. However, in my effort to transcend my naturally curmudgeonly tendencies, I decided to go with it. All I can say is that, in retrospect, Roseanne Barr’s rendition was actually pretty good. I do not expect an invitation to the Super Bowl, anytime soon.
Yesterday, at snack time, which is preceded and proceeded by a prayer to Jesus, I was introduced to the School Manager. He spoke to the students and advised them that “knowledge starts with fear of god.” So that’s my problem, I’m only afraid of Melissa (and to a lesser extent, but only slightly, Paulette). After meeting the school manager, I asked one of the teachers to explain to me the structure of the school management. He advised me that the guy who had been introduced to me as the Headmaster had essentially been kicked upstairs. When I asked why, the teacher responded that he had psychological problems. As I mentioned above, I had this sense early on. When the headmaster was giving me the tour the teachers showed him very little respect. Moreover, when I talk to him, I always had this feeling that one synapse was slightly misfiring.
While it was an interesting week, I think I’m going to change my volunteer placement. The fact is that the teachers at Ebenezer are better than I am and I am simply taking the place of more qualified teachers. I think that they want volunteers so that they can tell people that they have volunteers and I think that they also see it as a source of potential donations. On Monday, I’m going to check out another organization called Second Chance, which focuses on helping kids who did not make it into the regular secondary schools. Apparently, they need English teachers pretty desperately. I think the placement will be more difficult, but I think that I will be able to provide more valuable assistance.
Most of the volunteers do various side projects in addition to their day to day volunteering. As Melissa mentioned in her earlier blog, we have helped raise money to buy mattresses for an orphanage. Below are pictures from the orphanage.
Today (Saturday) we painted the inside of dilapidated building, in what can only be described as a shanty town. The project was inspired and orchestrated by our fellow volunteers—two extraordinary young women with boundless energy and impressive skills.
The building will be used as an orphanage and a school. It’s hard to know whether these projects are worthwhile. On the one hand, these projects provide immediate benefits (and satisfaction to the volunteers) and some hope and optimism for the locals who were so appreciative and seemingly touched by the whole production. We have some sense that projects such as these seem like non-sustainable band aids, but maybe inspiration is enough. It’s really hard to know what the right thing is.
That said, last night, we dropped off the mattresses at the orphanage. It was an amazing experience. The kids were simply overjoyed to see us. The kids are unbelievably cute. They also seem so happy, despite the fact that they live in squalor, truly.
Adios.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Home Base Addendum: Roosters and Goats and Cattle, Oh My
I can’t believe I neglected to mention the occupationally challenged roosters who are our immediate neighbors. It was always my understanding that roosters crow at day break, but these, who essentially share a wall with us, seem to think day break begins at 3 am, and 3:30, 4, 4:30, 5 and then every five minutes until you just give up. Our rooter also has friends in the neighborhood who are egged on by his unfortunate time keeping ability. Sadly, the mosquito nets do not provide much of a sound barrier. The locals say “it’s Africa” and you get used to it, but we are still working on that. We have been conspiring with the other volunteers to have this particular rooster fired (both legally and physically) so our other senses can enjoy him—taste rather than sound. We think he would make an excellent dinner. We also have some loud goats next door, who I am convinced sound like humans trying to make goat sounds. The goats save their incessant bleating for dinner time, which I find much more considerate. The goats are more like pets around here anyway. People actually walk them with leashes.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Volunteering: Home Base and Melissa and Maya
Volunteer Home Base
The place that we call home is actually quite nice—certainly much nicer than expected. It’s a fenced compound, which seems kind of odd given why we are here, but I suppose a large compound with a bunch of white people is a relatively tempting target. There are 4 or 5 small buildings that house about 30 volunteers—mostly from the states but a few from Britain and Canada. Each room has bunk beds—4 to a room—with a bathroom. It’s reminiscent of camp, with the addition of, believe it or not, maid service. They actually come and make the beds and tidy up each day. It’s not the Four Seasons, it’s not really even a Motel 6, but it’s quite comfortable and the kids really love feeling like they are in camp.
Despite our surprisingly acceptable living conditions, I have never been so dirty in my life. Absolutely everything is covered in dust and my feet have yet to be clean. Indeed, try as I might I simply cannot get the dirt of my feet, the minute you walk out side your room, you are filthy. I am trying desperately to embrace my grubbiness—one of my challenges.
The staff is absolutely remarkable and they take excellent care of us. Each one of them is incredibly warm, friendly, and knowledgeable. I was skeptical about volunteering through a program like this, but it ended up being the right choice. They take the time to help us understand the culture and integrate as much as a bunch of “wazungas” (foreigners, or more accurately, white people) can. There is a staff of 10 or so who teach us Kiswahili, cook for us, drive us to our work placements, communicate and trouble shoot with our placements and generally help us go about our business. And even though we are clearly tourists and stick out like sore thumbs, we feel like we are becoming part of the local community. The food is surprisingly excellent—Maya is even enjoying it. Adam and I keep joking about how incongruous it would be for us to gain weight in Africa—but the way we are fed here it is actually possible.
We are in a village called Rau, about a 45 minute walk from a reasonably large town called Moshi, a relatively well known Tanzanian town given its proximity to Mount Kilimanjaro, which breathtakingly soars out of the sky-- a guardian of the community. The people in the village are extraordinarily friendly, consistent with everyone we have met or come in contact with in Tanzania. Everyone you pass greets you with a friendly “mambo” (how’s it going?) or “jambo” (hello) or a welcoming wave (I guess that is where the term mumbo jumbo comes from?). I keep expecting some level of resentment from the locals, but we seem to be warmly greeted by absolutely everyone.
The other volunteers are a fascinating group, consisting of around 30 people, of which only 4 are men. Most of them are college students, or recent graduates. There is a small group of women in their 50’s and 60’s and one man, 68, who is here from Ireland with his grown daughter. Maya and Emma are the youngest, by far and Adam and I are the sole representatives of the 40-50 set. This makes sense--it’s either students or retirees. People in the peak years of their careers generally do not take such rash and irresponsible action. We are actually a bit of a novelty act-everyone refers to us as “the family” and the locals refer to me as “the mama.” It is a pleasure getting to know all of them. Everyone has an interesting story to tell and reason for being here. The younger crowd is a very interesting bunch—all open minded, idealistic, smart and really kind. They seem to like us despite our advanced years. To Adam, the crowd is reminiscent of the women active in his college’s anti-divestment movement, which Adam only participated in to advance his “social” agenda. It’s very much like a camp atmosphere. Even though we have only been with these folks for a few days, it feels like we have known them forever. The other unintended, but extremely fortuitous by-product of the volunteer demographic is the fact that our kids are surrounded by a bevy of camp counselors—all of whom seem to be more than willing to entertain our children and let them tag along. Indeed, our children are far more interested in hanging out with the cool college kids instead of their lame parents.
Despite their protestations about this trip, the kids are really having a blast and now freely admit that to almost anyone who asks. Fortunately, we did not have to wait as long for this as we expected.
On our second day here, before most of our group of volunteers had arrived, we tagged along with one of the veteran volunteers to go to the kids’ service at one of the local Catholic churches. It was unbelievable—probably 400 kids ages 2-14 or so, most without their parents, sitting quietly, signing and clapping on cue, and responding appropriately to the priest for a solid hour. It was hard to imagine a bunch of American kids doing the same without being heavily bribed with food and toys. Truth be told, Emma got a little squirmy—understandable given that it was an unfamiliar Catholic service and all in Kiswahili to boot. Maya mentioned that she was surprised that the service was so sedate—she said she expected it to be more like IKAR—with drumming and dancing. I considered that a sincere compliment to IKAR. The kids are warm and curious. After the service, they surrounded all of us and grabbed our hands. It was both overwhelming and heart warming.
On the way home from church, we stopped at an orphanage that one of the veteran volunteers has adopted. It is impossible to prepare yourself for the conditions. Two rooms with several kids in each; 4 kids to a bed only half of which have mattresses; not a toy or game in sight and kids wearing clothes that I would probably have been uncomfortable donating for fear that they were too tattered and worn. Also, sadly, the one adult that spends the night takes one of the mattresses. It’s hard to not be judgmental, but being here you learn that there is so much that is grey. The kids are so incredibly adorable. They immediately grab your hand and want to get as close to you as possible. You can’t help but be completely enchanted and drawn in by them. I have never had the experience of having my heart so touched and so broken at the same time. The conditions are so sparse and desperate, and your instinct is to get out your checkbook and try to fix it all (which the volunteers are doing as we speak). Then you realize that this is such a common scenario in this country and in most of the developing world—it’s just overwhelming to even contemplate what needs to happen in order to effect any real change in this world and begin to ensure even subsistence level survival for so many people.
Volunteering:
Our volunteering placements are interesting and exceedingly challenging. Maya and I are placed in a “preschool” called Kigangoni which is essentially a construction zone--a gigantic space with walls a tin roof, a dirt floor, boards with rusty nails sticking out and a bunch of benches (it also served as the church described above). There is on old blackboard that the teacher schleps in every day, a disintegrating cardboard box with a few broken pencils and tattered work books. All of this with one teacher and fifty children between the ages of 3 and 7 (as far as I can tell—many people do not keep track of their ages here). The teacher speaks no English, and our Swahili is, shall we say, a work in progress. As dusty as we get around the compound, there are no words to describe the layers of dirt with which we are covered as we leave. The children who attend are not unlike those we met in the orphanage—indeed a few of the orphans attend the school. Their clothes are filthy and in tatters and they each seem to only have one outfit. Some have a torn plastic bag with a few belongings, most have nothing. The teacher does not seem to be in much better shape. She’s not a great teacher and does not even know most of the kids’ names, but she has a nearly impossible task. It’s only been two days, but it is very difficult and Maya and I aren’t even sure if we are adding value. As soon as we walk in, the kids surround us and absolutely smother us which is incredibly sweet. We usually have ten kids each holding our hands—one on each finger and fights frequently erupt among the students as they jockey for position. We hope that by being there, giving them love, helping them with letters and teaching them some songs we are helping. But it’s hard to imagine any of these kids even having a fighting chance. Forget the bucket; this is a drop in all of the earth’s oceans combined. Maya is unbelievable and I am so grateful to have her there with me. The kids flock to her and she is so loving and kind with them. She is also very creative and thoughtful in determining activities to do with the kids. My lawyer skills aren’t exactly useful—and it is very hard for me to not be able to take control and make things better—but I am trying to do what I can. It pains me, but when it is time to leave, we both breathe a huge sign of relief and crawl back to the compound guiltily to eat a warm and abundant lunch in the safety and relative cleanliness of our compound.
We wanted to have a volunteer component to our travels as a family both to contribute, in an admittedly small way, but also to gain a deeper entry point into some of the places that we’re visiting. For all of those reasons, we’re glad that we’re doing it. But, it’s hard, at times, to escape the feeling of dilletantism. We traipse in from our nice life in LA, hang out for four weeks and then continue with our adventure. It’s hard to avoid the question of who the volunteering is really benefiting: us or them? Nonetheless, it has been difficult, yet eye opening and moving and unquestionably worth it.
Adam’s volunteer experience is a bit different, which he will relate to you shortly. More to come…
The place that we call home is actually quite nice—certainly much nicer than expected. It’s a fenced compound, which seems kind of odd given why we are here, but I suppose a large compound with a bunch of white people is a relatively tempting target. There are 4 or 5 small buildings that house about 30 volunteers—mostly from the states but a few from Britain and Canada. Each room has bunk beds—4 to a room—with a bathroom. It’s reminiscent of camp, with the addition of, believe it or not, maid service. They actually come and make the beds and tidy up each day. It’s not the Four Seasons, it’s not really even a Motel 6, but it’s quite comfortable and the kids really love feeling like they are in camp.
Despite our surprisingly acceptable living conditions, I have never been so dirty in my life. Absolutely everything is covered in dust and my feet have yet to be clean. Indeed, try as I might I simply cannot get the dirt of my feet, the minute you walk out side your room, you are filthy. I am trying desperately to embrace my grubbiness—one of my challenges.
The staff is absolutely remarkable and they take excellent care of us. Each one of them is incredibly warm, friendly, and knowledgeable. I was skeptical about volunteering through a program like this, but it ended up being the right choice. They take the time to help us understand the culture and integrate as much as a bunch of “wazungas” (foreigners, or more accurately, white people) can. There is a staff of 10 or so who teach us Kiswahili, cook for us, drive us to our work placements, communicate and trouble shoot with our placements and generally help us go about our business. And even though we are clearly tourists and stick out like sore thumbs, we feel like we are becoming part of the local community. The food is surprisingly excellent—Maya is even enjoying it. Adam and I keep joking about how incongruous it would be for us to gain weight in Africa—but the way we are fed here it is actually possible.
We are in a village called Rau, about a 45 minute walk from a reasonably large town called Moshi, a relatively well known Tanzanian town given its proximity to Mount Kilimanjaro, which breathtakingly soars out of the sky-- a guardian of the community. The people in the village are extraordinarily friendly, consistent with everyone we have met or come in contact with in Tanzania. Everyone you pass greets you with a friendly “mambo” (how’s it going?) or “jambo” (hello) or a welcoming wave (I guess that is where the term mumbo jumbo comes from?). I keep expecting some level of resentment from the locals, but we seem to be warmly greeted by absolutely everyone.
The other volunteers are a fascinating group, consisting of around 30 people, of which only 4 are men. Most of them are college students, or recent graduates. There is a small group of women in their 50’s and 60’s and one man, 68, who is here from Ireland with his grown daughter. Maya and Emma are the youngest, by far and Adam and I are the sole representatives of the 40-50 set. This makes sense--it’s either students or retirees. People in the peak years of their careers generally do not take such rash and irresponsible action. We are actually a bit of a novelty act-everyone refers to us as “the family” and the locals refer to me as “the mama.” It is a pleasure getting to know all of them. Everyone has an interesting story to tell and reason for being here. The younger crowd is a very interesting bunch—all open minded, idealistic, smart and really kind. They seem to like us despite our advanced years. To Adam, the crowd is reminiscent of the women active in his college’s anti-divestment movement, which Adam only participated in to advance his “social” agenda. It’s very much like a camp atmosphere. Even though we have only been with these folks for a few days, it feels like we have known them forever. The other unintended, but extremely fortuitous by-product of the volunteer demographic is the fact that our kids are surrounded by a bevy of camp counselors—all of whom seem to be more than willing to entertain our children and let them tag along. Indeed, our children are far more interested in hanging out with the cool college kids instead of their lame parents.
Despite their protestations about this trip, the kids are really having a blast and now freely admit that to almost anyone who asks. Fortunately, we did not have to wait as long for this as we expected.
On our second day here, before most of our group of volunteers had arrived, we tagged along with one of the veteran volunteers to go to the kids’ service at one of the local Catholic churches. It was unbelievable—probably 400 kids ages 2-14 or so, most without their parents, sitting quietly, signing and clapping on cue, and responding appropriately to the priest for a solid hour. It was hard to imagine a bunch of American kids doing the same without being heavily bribed with food and toys. Truth be told, Emma got a little squirmy—understandable given that it was an unfamiliar Catholic service and all in Kiswahili to boot. Maya mentioned that she was surprised that the service was so sedate—she said she expected it to be more like IKAR—with drumming and dancing. I considered that a sincere compliment to IKAR. The kids are warm and curious. After the service, they surrounded all of us and grabbed our hands. It was both overwhelming and heart warming.
On the way home from church, we stopped at an orphanage that one of the veteran volunteers has adopted. It is impossible to prepare yourself for the conditions. Two rooms with several kids in each; 4 kids to a bed only half of which have mattresses; not a toy or game in sight and kids wearing clothes that I would probably have been uncomfortable donating for fear that they were too tattered and worn. Also, sadly, the one adult that spends the night takes one of the mattresses. It’s hard to not be judgmental, but being here you learn that there is so much that is grey. The kids are so incredibly adorable. They immediately grab your hand and want to get as close to you as possible. You can’t help but be completely enchanted and drawn in by them. I have never had the experience of having my heart so touched and so broken at the same time. The conditions are so sparse and desperate, and your instinct is to get out your checkbook and try to fix it all (which the volunteers are doing as we speak). Then you realize that this is such a common scenario in this country and in most of the developing world—it’s just overwhelming to even contemplate what needs to happen in order to effect any real change in this world and begin to ensure even subsistence level survival for so many people.
Volunteering:
Our volunteering placements are interesting and exceedingly challenging. Maya and I are placed in a “preschool” called Kigangoni which is essentially a construction zone--a gigantic space with walls a tin roof, a dirt floor, boards with rusty nails sticking out and a bunch of benches (it also served as the church described above). There is on old blackboard that the teacher schleps in every day, a disintegrating cardboard box with a few broken pencils and tattered work books. All of this with one teacher and fifty children between the ages of 3 and 7 (as far as I can tell—many people do not keep track of their ages here). The teacher speaks no English, and our Swahili is, shall we say, a work in progress. As dusty as we get around the compound, there are no words to describe the layers of dirt with which we are covered as we leave. The children who attend are not unlike those we met in the orphanage—indeed a few of the orphans attend the school. Their clothes are filthy and in tatters and they each seem to only have one outfit. Some have a torn plastic bag with a few belongings, most have nothing. The teacher does not seem to be in much better shape. She’s not a great teacher and does not even know most of the kids’ names, but she has a nearly impossible task. It’s only been two days, but it is very difficult and Maya and I aren’t even sure if we are adding value. As soon as we walk in, the kids surround us and absolutely smother us which is incredibly sweet. We usually have ten kids each holding our hands—one on each finger and fights frequently erupt among the students as they jockey for position. We hope that by being there, giving them love, helping them with letters and teaching them some songs we are helping. But it’s hard to imagine any of these kids even having a fighting chance. Forget the bucket; this is a drop in all of the earth’s oceans combined. Maya is unbelievable and I am so grateful to have her there with me. The kids flock to her and she is so loving and kind with them. She is also very creative and thoughtful in determining activities to do with the kids. My lawyer skills aren’t exactly useful—and it is very hard for me to not be able to take control and make things better—but I am trying to do what I can. It pains me, but when it is time to leave, we both breathe a huge sign of relief and crawl back to the compound guiltily to eat a warm and abundant lunch in the safety and relative cleanliness of our compound.
We wanted to have a volunteer component to our travels as a family both to contribute, in an admittedly small way, but also to gain a deeper entry point into some of the places that we’re visiting. For all of those reasons, we’re glad that we’re doing it. But, it’s hard, at times, to escape the feeling of dilletantism. We traipse in from our nice life in LA, hang out for four weeks and then continue with our adventure. It’s hard to avoid the question of who the volunteering is really benefiting: us or them? Nonetheless, it has been difficult, yet eye opening and moving and unquestionably worth it.
Adam’s volunteer experience is a bit different, which he will relate to you shortly. More to come…
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Preliminary musings and random thoughts
I am consistently struck by the cadence of life here and how diametrically opposed it is from our usual fever pitch. It’s also surprising to note how easily I have slipped into the pace myself. Moving slowly, relaxing, stopping to smell the roses—or, more accurately, see the wildebeest and acacia trees.
I am also struck by the desperate poverty—with no real sense of desperation. As we drive through villages that are no more than groups of primitive mud walled huts, one of which is a small grocery and another may be a cell phone store, with skinny cows and dust and dirt, the people smile and waive at us and the children are thrilled and appreciative when we give them pencils. It is truly hard to imagine getting a similar reception while driving through blighted areas of Los Angeles in what must be the equivalent of a fancy BMW. While we did not have a chance to speak to villagers, and I imagine that such conversations would not really be possible any way, it seems as though they do not feel oppressed by poverty or their living situation, but relatively happy and content with their lives. This statement seems extremely condescending and paternalistic and I hope to learn more, but it is likely also paternalistic to assume that they would be happier living a lifestyle more akin to ours.
I don’t think I have yet to completely relax on this trip. I am ashamed on being put off by the dirt, smells and bugs, thanks in no small part to Beth Tigay, and the book she gave me How to Shit Around the World, that I foolishly read cover to cover before we left, which describes in horrifying detail all of the various diseases you can catch when traveling in the developing world, and worse, how these diseases are transmitted. Somehow, in the rush of getting out of town, getting shots, filling prescriptions and stocking up on a ludicrous array of over the counter meds, I had not really focused on the fact that any of us could get really sick. I am not talking about what everyone euphemistically calls “traveler’s tummy”, but malaria, dengue fever and the like. I am determined to get passed these fears—but also to keep my family healthy.
I am very moved by watching this whole experience through the eyes of our daughters. They are such an interesting mix of things—raised in such privilege with so many people doing things for them, yet they don’t seem to have an obvious sense of expectation and they act with appropriate respect to all (other than the reasonably frequent bickering over such slights as their feet touching their side of the seat. I love that Emma spent several meals copiously noting that Mrosso was always served last. It seemed to genuinely offend her sense of fairness. I also love that they both seem so comfortable with people of all types and are genuinely interested in getting to know them and understanding them, without being scared off by what is so dramatically different from anything they know, or to which they have previously been exposed.
I am also struck by the desperate poverty—with no real sense of desperation. As we drive through villages that are no more than groups of primitive mud walled huts, one of which is a small grocery and another may be a cell phone store, with skinny cows and dust and dirt, the people smile and waive at us and the children are thrilled and appreciative when we give them pencils. It is truly hard to imagine getting a similar reception while driving through blighted areas of Los Angeles in what must be the equivalent of a fancy BMW. While we did not have a chance to speak to villagers, and I imagine that such conversations would not really be possible any way, it seems as though they do not feel oppressed by poverty or their living situation, but relatively happy and content with their lives. This statement seems extremely condescending and paternalistic and I hope to learn more, but it is likely also paternalistic to assume that they would be happier living a lifestyle more akin to ours.
I don’t think I have yet to completely relax on this trip. I am ashamed on being put off by the dirt, smells and bugs, thanks in no small part to Beth Tigay, and the book she gave me How to Shit Around the World, that I foolishly read cover to cover before we left, which describes in horrifying detail all of the various diseases you can catch when traveling in the developing world, and worse, how these diseases are transmitted. Somehow, in the rush of getting out of town, getting shots, filling prescriptions and stocking up on a ludicrous array of over the counter meds, I had not really focused on the fact that any of us could get really sick. I am not talking about what everyone euphemistically calls “traveler’s tummy”, but malaria, dengue fever and the like. I am determined to get passed these fears—but also to keep my family healthy.
I am very moved by watching this whole experience through the eyes of our daughters. They are such an interesting mix of things—raised in such privilege with so many people doing things for them, yet they don’t seem to have an obvious sense of expectation and they act with appropriate respect to all (other than the reasonably frequent bickering over such slights as their feet touching their side of the seat. I love that Emma spent several meals copiously noting that Mrosso was always served last. It seemed to genuinely offend her sense of fairness. I also love that they both seem so comfortable with people of all types and are genuinely interested in getting to know them and understanding them, without being scared off by what is so dramatically different from anything they know, or to which they have previously been exposed.
Safari Part 2
January 19, 2007
Yesterday, we descended into the Garden of Eden.
However, before I get into that, let me pick up where Melissa left off. After the cultural part of the safari, we commenced the traditional safari. For those of you who have not been on a safari before (which included me until now), a safari conjures up romantic images of strenuous days of animal tracking followed by gin and tonics and scintillating conversation with Ernest Hemingway. The reality is somewhat different, but still spectacular. The truth of the matter is that you’re essentially sitting in a large Toyota Land Cruiser that has an open roof for hours on end as your guide drives you through the various parks. Yet, oddly, by the end of the day, you still feel as if you have spent the day tracking wild game and that gin and tonic still tastes pretty good.
January 12-13, 2007
After leaving KN, we headed to the Ikoma Bush Camp. On the way, we drove through the Ngorongoro Conservation Area and into the Serengeti National Park. The prime difference between the NCA and the Serengeti is that humans can inhabit the conservation areas (subject to a host of limitations), while humans may not inhabit the national parks. Heading into the NCA, we were on a beautiful smooth road, which was a welcome change from the organ shifting experience of the road to KN. Interestingly, the road, which covers about 100 kilometers heading into the NCA was built by the Japanese government as a means to enhance tourism for Tanzania. However, once you enter the NCA, the road is a dirt road, which, I think is appropriate. It would seem anomalous to have essentially a highway cutting through the NCA and the Serengeti. One thing that you immediately notice in the NCA is the presence of the Massai, an ancient warrior tribe. The Massai are a regal people, who dress in an intense and deep shade of red. Apparently, lions are afraid of the color red. You can spot Massai dotting the green countryside. The region is also blanketed with their significant herds of cows and their villages, which can be described as small fenced in villages with a ½ dozen or so circular thatched roof huts. However, the Massai, who value their herds of cow beyond virtually all else, are semi-nomadic, depending on where the best grass to feed their cattle is. Melissa and I both read an autobiography of a Massai Warrior. While not spectacularly well written, it was very interesting and provided insight into this truly unique culture. Of particular interest is the fact that they practice both circumcision and do not eat milk and meat together (though they will eat blood and milk together). In watching the Massai, it was impossible to not think of the patriarchs and matriarchs of the Torah as they wandered the dessert. The semi-nomadic existence, the tending to the cattle, all seemed reminiscent of life in biblical times. At a minimum, it is certainly the case that the lives of the Massai have not radically changed in centuries, even if you do occasionally see the oddly incongruous sight of a Massai holding a cell phone from time to time.
We stopped for lunch at the Oldupai Gorge (yes, you learned it as the Olduvai Gorge, but apparently, the foreigner misheard the Massai pronunciation making all of our teachers liars, lo these many years). We received an interesting but brief presentation of 3,000,000 years of human evolutionary history. Melissa and I found the presentation and the museum pretty interesting, the kids, not so much.
At this point, we started seeing animals. It kind of sneaks up on you. You’re driving along and the guide will casually say there’s a zebra. The next thing that you know, you are less than ten feet from families of giraffes, zebras, gazelles. At this point, all four of us we’re standing on our seats with our heads out the roof, oohing and aahing at the vast display of animals passing by, sometimes only feet away. I felt like a kid, eyes and mouth agape at the sights before us. However, seeing it through the eyes of Maya and Emma made it even more amazing. Their joy and wonderment was simply infectious. Melissa and I kept wondering how people could choose to leave their kids behind. It seemed akin to us taking a trip to Disneyland without the kids. As we headed into the Serengeti, we had the great fortune of seeing, for the first time, the wildebeest migration. Apparently, this migration is currently the largest yearly migration of animals, involving the movement of nearly 1.5 million wildebeest, accompanied by scores of zebras and gazelles from Kenya into Tanzania and back, in search for better grass (then again, who isn’t searching for better grass?). It is without exaggeration, the most spectacular thing that I have ever seen. Animals literally as far as the eye can see. At some point, I stopped taking pictures because there were simply too many pictures to be taken.
We also saw some amazing flora and fauna. The acacia trees are unbelievable. These huge umbrella-like trees with branches reaching everywhere are amazing. It’s also interesting to see a single acacia tree in the middle of the plains, like a guard of the dessert. There are also Sausage Trees, which, obviously enough, look like they have sausages hanging from them. Maya first saw them and thought they had been decorated like Christmas trees. A fairly unusual site.
We then headed to our base camp for the next two nights, the Ikoma Bush Camp, located on the Serengeti. Melissa and I were a bit split on this place with Melissa primarily troubled by the Feng Shui deficiencies in its design. However, I liked the place. It was another tented lodge, where we had two tents. The two tents opened up into this area of high grass, the sunrise coming over the savannah was simply breathtaking. However, the place was a bit scary at night. The strange whooping sounds of the hyenas and other unidentifiable animal noises and impenetrable darkness.
The next day, we further explored the Serengeti, this time seeing elephants and giraffes, close enough to touch. Both animals are just amazing. Giraffes have this aristocratic nature seeming to own all that they survey. Maya described their movement as if you’re watching them in slow motion, which is accurate. They take long loping strides. Quite something to behold. Elephants are also breathtaking. I’m reading a fascinating book, The Tree Where Man Was Born by Peter Matthiesen, which provides an account of the nature of the region. He discusses the dangers posed by the elephants, who literally destroy everything in their path. Huge trees are knocked down as elephants blithely stroll by. You can always tell when elephants have been around. However, seeing elephants in close proximity is wonderful. They generally move in herds. The bulls with their long, sharp ivory tusks are just remarkable.
January 14-16, 2007
We headed to Speke Bay, which is on Lake Victoria. Lake Victoria is huge and beautiful, with parts in each of Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania, the largest portion in Tanzania. Unfortunately, we could not swim for fear of charging hippos. We stayed at the Speke Bay Lodge where we had two stand alone rooms in round buildings. The rooms were fine and had the best showers to date, but the place was not our favorite place. It was the only place that did not provide a room from our guide, which bothered all of us. However, it was nice to have a day off from long game drives. The only down side was not being busy made us miss home a bit. As consolation, we forced the kids to do math. We felt much better.
On the morning of the 16th we headed back into the Serengeti to the Ndutu Safari Lodge, locate between Ngorongoro and the Serengeti. . En route, we again saw the wildebeest migration, in all of its glory. As a first, we saw lions from ten feet away, females and cubs. Lions are stunning, majestic creatures. We did not see a lot of activity, as, apparently, they had just eaten and were just lazily lying there. Every time they moved, we oohed and ahhed. Lions are possessed of a sleek perfection. We learned that the female lions are the more adept hunters. However, once they make a kill the male lions get the first opportunity to eat, followed by the cubs and then, if there’s anything left, the female lions get to eat. Just like our home—only the only thing Melissa hunts for is a parking space at Trader Joes.
The Ndutu Lodge was our favorite place. We arrived there to an immensely gracious greeting. Our rooms were rustic, but fine, with immense views of the savannah. The food was great and the staff incredibly friendly and warm.
January 17, 2007
The next morning we headed back into the Serengeti, where we saw an apparently rare sight—a pride of nine lions, including males, females and cubs. The male lions with their huge and golden mane are majestic. Again, they were lazily loping around, but we sat there for quite some time, entranced by their beauty. We then saw and spent a ½ hour observing an absolutely gorgeous cheetah that Melissa spotted lurking in the tall grass--a very luck find.
We returned to Ndutu for a great lunch. Maya was not feeling well. It’s hard to not worry a bit when your child says they’re not feeling well in Africa. After lunch, we poured poor Maya into the car and headed to our final destination, the plantation lodge. Fortunately, within a couple of hours after sleeping on Melissa’s lap, Maya started to perk up.
We arrived at the Plantation Lodge, which was gorgeous, evoking, more than any other place, colonial gentility. We ended up in a huge two bedroom suite (after Melissa complained about a mold smell in her first room—mold continues to haunt us). It was another place that brought to mind romantic game hunts followed, of course, by gin and tonics. I chose to partake. . .in the gin and tonics.
January 18, 2007
Now this brings us to Eden, otherwise known as that Ngorongoro Crater. As you approach the crater, it is impossible to not be filled by wonder. It is the result of the explosion several million years ago of a 4,500 meter mountain. The view from the top of the crater is nothing less than divine. Getting into the crater is a bit tough. The road going in is a bit jarring. In addition, the acacia trees bring to mind the talking trees in the Wizard of Oz. They were strangely menacing, as if they’re warning you to stay away. As you enter, you immediately see zebras and wildebeest. While at this point, we had seen many of both such animals, here it was a bit different. Because the animals are so accustomed to cars in this area, they are literally on the dirt roads, so instead of 10 feet away, the animals are one foot away. We similarly saw buffaloes and lions. A special treat was that we were able to see three, of the highly endangered, black rhinos.
The whole experience was just consuming. You have the sense that you could get out of the car and be in this utopic communion with nature.
It was another great day and time for a gin and tonic.
January 19, 2007
On this final morning of our safari, we went to the beautiful Lake Manyara, which is a small, but beautiful national park. The highlights of the morning were seeing a brand new baby elephant walking gingerly under his mother’s legs and a sea of pink flamingoes on the lake.
All in all, our safari was a wonderful experience. However, beyond the uncomfortable colonial aspect of the whole experience there is a social aspect that is worth considering. I asked Mrosso whether Tanzanian kids get to experience the wonder of the Tanzanian national parks. He said that the vast majority will never benefit from the opportunity for cost reasons—not because of the entry fee which is nominal for Tanzanian residents, but because most don’t have an available vehicle. It is clear that as you’re on safari virtually all of the people on safari are white westerners. It is a striking fact that the Serengeti National Park was created in 1951 while Tanzania only achieved independence in 1961. Put another way, the animals were given independence before the humans. It is clearly the case that this extraordinary natural gift is for the benefit of the visitors not the Tanzanians. Matthiesen writes as follows:
Not long ago it was estimated that only one East African in twelve had ever seen a lion, though lions are common in the park at the very outskirts of Nairobi, but one is not allowed into the parks without a car, and very few Africans have access to a car, far less own one. The average citizen has more fear of than interest in wild animals, which most Africans regard as evidence of backwardness, a view in which they were long encouraged by European farmers and administrators. Far from being proud of the “priceless heritage” so dear to conservation literature, they are ashamed of it.
While Matthiessen wrote his book in 1972, my sense is that the reality has not changed substantially since then. Certainly, it is the case that Tanzanians benefit from the tourist revenue brought to this very poor country, but it is inescapable that the tourist infrastructure may prefer the white interest in conservation (an admittedly important objective) at the expense of the citizens.
Next up: the volunteering.
Adios.
Yesterday, we descended into the Garden of Eden.
However, before I get into that, let me pick up where Melissa left off. After the cultural part of the safari, we commenced the traditional safari. For those of you who have not been on a safari before (which included me until now), a safari conjures up romantic images of strenuous days of animal tracking followed by gin and tonics and scintillating conversation with Ernest Hemingway. The reality is somewhat different, but still spectacular. The truth of the matter is that you’re essentially sitting in a large Toyota Land Cruiser that has an open roof for hours on end as your guide drives you through the various parks. Yet, oddly, by the end of the day, you still feel as if you have spent the day tracking wild game and that gin and tonic still tastes pretty good.
January 12-13, 2007
After leaving KN, we headed to the Ikoma Bush Camp. On the way, we drove through the Ngorongoro Conservation Area and into the Serengeti National Park. The prime difference between the NCA and the Serengeti is that humans can inhabit the conservation areas (subject to a host of limitations), while humans may not inhabit the national parks. Heading into the NCA, we were on a beautiful smooth road, which was a welcome change from the organ shifting experience of the road to KN. Interestingly, the road, which covers about 100 kilometers heading into the NCA was built by the Japanese government as a means to enhance tourism for Tanzania. However, once you enter the NCA, the road is a dirt road, which, I think is appropriate. It would seem anomalous to have essentially a highway cutting through the NCA and the Serengeti. One thing that you immediately notice in the NCA is the presence of the Massai, an ancient warrior tribe. The Massai are a regal people, who dress in an intense and deep shade of red. Apparently, lions are afraid of the color red. You can spot Massai dotting the green countryside. The region is also blanketed with their significant herds of cows and their villages, which can be described as small fenced in villages with a ½ dozen or so circular thatched roof huts. However, the Massai, who value their herds of cow beyond virtually all else, are semi-nomadic, depending on where the best grass to feed their cattle is. Melissa and I both read an autobiography of a Massai Warrior. While not spectacularly well written, it was very interesting and provided insight into this truly unique culture. Of particular interest is the fact that they practice both circumcision and do not eat milk and meat together (though they will eat blood and milk together). In watching the Massai, it was impossible to not think of the patriarchs and matriarchs of the Torah as they wandered the dessert. The semi-nomadic existence, the tending to the cattle, all seemed reminiscent of life in biblical times. At a minimum, it is certainly the case that the lives of the Massai have not radically changed in centuries, even if you do occasionally see the oddly incongruous sight of a Massai holding a cell phone from time to time.
We stopped for lunch at the Oldupai Gorge (yes, you learned it as the Olduvai Gorge, but apparently, the foreigner misheard the Massai pronunciation making all of our teachers liars, lo these many years). We received an interesting but brief presentation of 3,000,000 years of human evolutionary history. Melissa and I found the presentation and the museum pretty interesting, the kids, not so much.
At this point, we started seeing animals. It kind of sneaks up on you. You’re driving along and the guide will casually say there’s a zebra. The next thing that you know, you are less than ten feet from families of giraffes, zebras, gazelles. At this point, all four of us we’re standing on our seats with our heads out the roof, oohing and aahing at the vast display of animals passing by, sometimes only feet away. I felt like a kid, eyes and mouth agape at the sights before us. However, seeing it through the eyes of Maya and Emma made it even more amazing. Their joy and wonderment was simply infectious. Melissa and I kept wondering how people could choose to leave their kids behind. It seemed akin to us taking a trip to Disneyland without the kids. As we headed into the Serengeti, we had the great fortune of seeing, for the first time, the wildebeest migration. Apparently, this migration is currently the largest yearly migration of animals, involving the movement of nearly 1.5 million wildebeest, accompanied by scores of zebras and gazelles from Kenya into Tanzania and back, in search for better grass (then again, who isn’t searching for better grass?). It is without exaggeration, the most spectacular thing that I have ever seen. Animals literally as far as the eye can see. At some point, I stopped taking pictures because there were simply too many pictures to be taken.
We also saw some amazing flora and fauna. The acacia trees are unbelievable. These huge umbrella-like trees with branches reaching everywhere are amazing. It’s also interesting to see a single acacia tree in the middle of the plains, like a guard of the dessert. There are also Sausage Trees, which, obviously enough, look like they have sausages hanging from them. Maya first saw them and thought they had been decorated like Christmas trees. A fairly unusual site.
We then headed to our base camp for the next two nights, the Ikoma Bush Camp, located on the Serengeti. Melissa and I were a bit split on this place with Melissa primarily troubled by the Feng Shui deficiencies in its design. However, I liked the place. It was another tented lodge, where we had two tents. The two tents opened up into this area of high grass, the sunrise coming over the savannah was simply breathtaking. However, the place was a bit scary at night. The strange whooping sounds of the hyenas and other unidentifiable animal noises and impenetrable darkness.
The next day, we further explored the Serengeti, this time seeing elephants and giraffes, close enough to touch. Both animals are just amazing. Giraffes have this aristocratic nature seeming to own all that they survey. Maya described their movement as if you’re watching them in slow motion, which is accurate. They take long loping strides. Quite something to behold. Elephants are also breathtaking. I’m reading a fascinating book, The Tree Where Man Was Born by Peter Matthiesen, which provides an account of the nature of the region. He discusses the dangers posed by the elephants, who literally destroy everything in their path. Huge trees are knocked down as elephants blithely stroll by. You can always tell when elephants have been around. However, seeing elephants in close proximity is wonderful. They generally move in herds. The bulls with their long, sharp ivory tusks are just remarkable.
January 14-16, 2007
We headed to Speke Bay, which is on Lake Victoria. Lake Victoria is huge and beautiful, with parts in each of Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania, the largest portion in Tanzania. Unfortunately, we could not swim for fear of charging hippos. We stayed at the Speke Bay Lodge where we had two stand alone rooms in round buildings. The rooms were fine and had the best showers to date, but the place was not our favorite place. It was the only place that did not provide a room from our guide, which bothered all of us. However, it was nice to have a day off from long game drives. The only down side was not being busy made us miss home a bit. As consolation, we forced the kids to do math. We felt much better.
On the morning of the 16th we headed back into the Serengeti to the Ndutu Safari Lodge, locate between Ngorongoro and the Serengeti. . En route, we again saw the wildebeest migration, in all of its glory. As a first, we saw lions from ten feet away, females and cubs. Lions are stunning, majestic creatures. We did not see a lot of activity, as, apparently, they had just eaten and were just lazily lying there. Every time they moved, we oohed and ahhed. Lions are possessed of a sleek perfection. We learned that the female lions are the more adept hunters. However, once they make a kill the male lions get the first opportunity to eat, followed by the cubs and then, if there’s anything left, the female lions get to eat. Just like our home—only the only thing Melissa hunts for is a parking space at Trader Joes.
The Ndutu Lodge was our favorite place. We arrived there to an immensely gracious greeting. Our rooms were rustic, but fine, with immense views of the savannah. The food was great and the staff incredibly friendly and warm.
January 17, 2007
The next morning we headed back into the Serengeti, where we saw an apparently rare sight—a pride of nine lions, including males, females and cubs. The male lions with their huge and golden mane are majestic. Again, they were lazily loping around, but we sat there for quite some time, entranced by their beauty. We then saw and spent a ½ hour observing an absolutely gorgeous cheetah that Melissa spotted lurking in the tall grass--a very luck find.
We returned to Ndutu for a great lunch. Maya was not feeling well. It’s hard to not worry a bit when your child says they’re not feeling well in Africa. After lunch, we poured poor Maya into the car and headed to our final destination, the plantation lodge. Fortunately, within a couple of hours after sleeping on Melissa’s lap, Maya started to perk up.
We arrived at the Plantation Lodge, which was gorgeous, evoking, more than any other place, colonial gentility. We ended up in a huge two bedroom suite (after Melissa complained about a mold smell in her first room—mold continues to haunt us). It was another place that brought to mind romantic game hunts followed, of course, by gin and tonics. I chose to partake. . .in the gin and tonics.
January 18, 2007
Now this brings us to Eden, otherwise known as that Ngorongoro Crater. As you approach the crater, it is impossible to not be filled by wonder. It is the result of the explosion several million years ago of a 4,500 meter mountain. The view from the top of the crater is nothing less than divine. Getting into the crater is a bit tough. The road going in is a bit jarring. In addition, the acacia trees bring to mind the talking trees in the Wizard of Oz. They were strangely menacing, as if they’re warning you to stay away. As you enter, you immediately see zebras and wildebeest. While at this point, we had seen many of both such animals, here it was a bit different. Because the animals are so accustomed to cars in this area, they are literally on the dirt roads, so instead of 10 feet away, the animals are one foot away. We similarly saw buffaloes and lions. A special treat was that we were able to see three, of the highly endangered, black rhinos.
The whole experience was just consuming. You have the sense that you could get out of the car and be in this utopic communion with nature.
It was another great day and time for a gin and tonic.
January 19, 2007
On this final morning of our safari, we went to the beautiful Lake Manyara, which is a small, but beautiful national park. The highlights of the morning were seeing a brand new baby elephant walking gingerly under his mother’s legs and a sea of pink flamingoes on the lake.
All in all, our safari was a wonderful experience. However, beyond the uncomfortable colonial aspect of the whole experience there is a social aspect that is worth considering. I asked Mrosso whether Tanzanian kids get to experience the wonder of the Tanzanian national parks. He said that the vast majority will never benefit from the opportunity for cost reasons—not because of the entry fee which is nominal for Tanzanian residents, but because most don’t have an available vehicle. It is clear that as you’re on safari virtually all of the people on safari are white westerners. It is a striking fact that the Serengeti National Park was created in 1951 while Tanzania only achieved independence in 1961. Put another way, the animals were given independence before the humans. It is clearly the case that this extraordinary natural gift is for the benefit of the visitors not the Tanzanians. Matthiesen writes as follows:
Not long ago it was estimated that only one East African in twelve had ever seen a lion, though lions are common in the park at the very outskirts of Nairobi, but one is not allowed into the parks without a car, and very few Africans have access to a car, far less own one. The average citizen has more fear of than interest in wild animals, which most Africans regard as evidence of backwardness, a view in which they were long encouraged by European farmers and administrators. Far from being proud of the “priceless heritage” so dear to conservation literature, they are ashamed of it.
While Matthiessen wrote his book in 1972, my sense is that the reality has not changed substantially since then. Certainly, it is the case that Tanzanians benefit from the tourist revenue brought to this very poor country, but it is inescapable that the tourist infrastructure may prefer the white interest in conservation (an admittedly important objective) at the expense of the citizens.
Next up: the volunteering.
Adios.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Safari Part 1
January 9, 2007
We finally arrived in Kilimanjaro on January 9, 2007, exhausted and relieved to be off of airplanes. We were greeted warmly by Mrosso, our safari guide. Mrosso is from the Chaga Tribe, which historically was from the Kilimanjaro region. There are over 100 tribes in Tanzania, each with its own language, of which very few have written expression. The dominant languages are Swahili and English. Tanzania, until its independence in 1961, had been colonized by both the Germans and the British. The British influence, however, seems to dominate.
Mrosso immediately took us to Mt. Meru Game lodge, where, upon arrival, we were greeted by a small herd of zebra and an ostrich. We were then briefed by Mia, the Swedish tour operator, about our upcoming safari and had a lovely lunch—our first meal that wasn’t plane food or potato chips in an airport lounge. After lunch, we piled into the car with our pared down but seemingly still overwhelming amount of luggage and drove to our first stop-Kirurumu Tented Camp. Adam and I fought to stay away awake as we took our first real drive into Tanzania, through Arusha and other areas. However, completely overcome by exhaustion, we were unsuccessful and simply missed our first exposure to an African city. Eventually, we made it to the camp—dazed, exhausted and a bit smelly, but happy. These tented camps are amazing—simple, but large tents, with attached bathrooms. Thus far, we have stayed in three tented camps and all three have also come with wonderful and different views. We all took long awaited showers and tried hard to stay awake through dinner. Emma was practically asleep in her soup, but we made it until 8:30 and went straight to bed. The kids were somewhat freaked by the deafening animal sounds and complete and utter darkness that surrounded us, but I know they will get used to it as the days go by.
January 10, 2007
We awoke the next day, had a delicious breakfast and took a long journey over a road so bumpy we had to use all of our muscles to hold our vital organs in place. It was well worth the trip—we arrived at Kisma Ndgeda Tented camp—an extraordinarily beautiful camp on the side of a lake with wonderfully warm and welcoming people, delicious food and beautiful tents. It is owned by a white couple, Christian, who was born in Tanzania, but was educated in Kenya and Germany and his wife, Nonnie, who is Argentinean. Our sense was that Christian’s family originally came from Germany as a vestige of German colonization. They clearly owned a significant amount of land in Tanzania. When Christian’s father died, Christian inherited approximately 150 acres of land on Lake Eyasi, where he and Nonnie then built the camp, planted crops and built homes for the local villagers who work for them. Adam and I have both had significant discomfort in that the Safari industry is so evocative of colonialism, white dominance and the unmistakable disparity that still exists between the significant wealth of the white visitors (long and short term) and the poverty and lack of real opportunity of the black Tanzanians. While it is clear that the safari industry in Tanzania is a vital aspect of the economy, it is still uncomfortable. Christian clearly is the local benevolent duke or lord of the area. He and his family are obviously kind and warm, care about the well being of the dozens of families who work for him, and take pains to create a beautiful retreat with minimal impact on the natural environment. They seem to be genuinely very much in love with Tanzania and its people. Despite this, his stature as the area sovereign is well ensconced and, seemingly, unquestioned. We thought it interesting that when we asked about tipping, Christian said that the amount was up to us, but that we would pay it at the end and that they would make sure that a member of the staff was present so that the tipping transaction would be entirely transparent to the staff.
We had lunch, rested, read and generally relaxed. We went swimming in the “pool” which was a local natural spring around which they built a fence, accompanied by Tilapia and other fish. Later, we took a wonderful walk led by a local guide, Sad, and Mrosso through the surrounding area, ending at the top of a beautiful peak to watch a glorious sunset over Lake Eyasi. Emma had hit the wall hard by this point--still upside down from the long trip and time change—but she persevered and actually enjoyed the view, particularly when I started taking bets on when the sun would set—appealing to Emma’s ever present competitive streak.
January 11, 2007
The purpose of this first part of our safari was more cultural than natural. We left early (the kids were not pleased at having to get up while it was still dark) for a visit with members of the Hadzapi Tribe. It was both odd and unbelievably intriguing. At first, it felt almost insulting to be watching these people as though we were viewing animals in the zoo. But we were assured by Mrosso and Sad, our local guide, that this was not the case and indeed, they were extremely welcoming. Clearly, this has become a symbiotic economic relationship in that afterwards, our guide paid them some money and we bought some of their wares. This seems to be an established part of cultural commerce in Tanzania. When we arrived, the men, dressed only in grimy shorts, were sitting around a fire smoking tobacco out of a make shift pipe (that they clearly did not need as evidenced by the accompanying hacking coughs), while the women were dressed in pieces of traditional Tanzania fabrics tied around them reasonably haphazardly. To call their living environment sparse would be a gross understatement. They essentially lived under a lean-to, made of grass and sticks—probably no more than 20 square feet. Inside were two straw mats—no bigger than beach towels, on which the entire family of 8 or 10 people slept, with the women sleeping “inside” and the men sleeping outside. Nothing else—no plates or pots or clothes or anything. Initially, the men showed us how they made a fire, without matches. It had a little bit of the feel of a boy scout demonstration.
After an opportunity to observe and ask many questions, we accompanied the men on a hunt. Apparently we brought them luck as they quickly found and killed, with a bow and arrow, a dik dik, the smallest (and sadly, cutest) of the East African antelopes. It was both thrilling and a bit horrifying. We walked with them back to camp as the family patriarch with a pronounced limp and hacking cough, had slung the dik dik over his shoulders with blood dripping from the small animal’s mouth. We then watched as they quickly skinned the animal, placed it over the fire for less than a minute and immediately ate the organs and innards (the youngest kids were either treated to, or were stuck with, the brain)--dik dik tartare, as we have taken to calling it. Now whenever we see a dik dik, we refer to it as breakfast. The carcass was placed in the roof of their hut, presumably being saved for lunch. The kids sat in the car during the disembowelment, understandably slightly aghast (yet not judgmental) over the somewhat gruesome (and unfamiliar) scene. Indeed, it was hard for me to control the gag reflex and remain appropriately respectful in the face of such a scene, particularly in my jet lagged condition (though I doubt it would have felt much different if we were well rested). The kids emerged from the car, whereupon Emma, as the apparent source of good luck, was offered the practically still beating heart. Surprisingly, she declined, as did Adam when he was offered him some meat. According to Mrosso, no part of the animal will go to waste—and even he was slightly aghast at the scene, particularly the “rareness” of the meat. Neighbors joined in the feast.
Then, the dance—some sort of victory celebration that reminded us of the hora—clearly an expression of joy and thankfulness for their good fortune. It seems that the lives of the Hadzapi Tribe have not changed dramatically since the beginning of time-we read that they have been in this area of Tanzania for 10,000 years. We bought jewelry from them that reminded each of us of my mom and went back to the welcome familiarity of Kisma Ndgeda and a more conventional breakfast.
We finally arrived in Kilimanjaro on January 9, 2007, exhausted and relieved to be off of airplanes. We were greeted warmly by Mrosso, our safari guide. Mrosso is from the Chaga Tribe, which historically was from the Kilimanjaro region. There are over 100 tribes in Tanzania, each with its own language, of which very few have written expression. The dominant languages are Swahili and English. Tanzania, until its independence in 1961, had been colonized by both the Germans and the British. The British influence, however, seems to dominate.
Mrosso immediately took us to Mt. Meru Game lodge, where, upon arrival, we were greeted by a small herd of zebra and an ostrich. We were then briefed by Mia, the Swedish tour operator, about our upcoming safari and had a lovely lunch—our first meal that wasn’t plane food or potato chips in an airport lounge. After lunch, we piled into the car with our pared down but seemingly still overwhelming amount of luggage and drove to our first stop-Kirurumu Tented Camp. Adam and I fought to stay away awake as we took our first real drive into Tanzania, through Arusha and other areas. However, completely overcome by exhaustion, we were unsuccessful and simply missed our first exposure to an African city. Eventually, we made it to the camp—dazed, exhausted and a bit smelly, but happy. These tented camps are amazing—simple, but large tents, with attached bathrooms. Thus far, we have stayed in three tented camps and all three have also come with wonderful and different views. We all took long awaited showers and tried hard to stay awake through dinner. Emma was practically asleep in her soup, but we made it until 8:30 and went straight to bed. The kids were somewhat freaked by the deafening animal sounds and complete and utter darkness that surrounded us, but I know they will get used to it as the days go by.
January 10, 2007
We awoke the next day, had a delicious breakfast and took a long journey over a road so bumpy we had to use all of our muscles to hold our vital organs in place. It was well worth the trip—we arrived at Kisma Ndgeda Tented camp—an extraordinarily beautiful camp on the side of a lake with wonderfully warm and welcoming people, delicious food and beautiful tents. It is owned by a white couple, Christian, who was born in Tanzania, but was educated in Kenya and Germany and his wife, Nonnie, who is Argentinean. Our sense was that Christian’s family originally came from Germany as a vestige of German colonization. They clearly owned a significant amount of land in Tanzania. When Christian’s father died, Christian inherited approximately 150 acres of land on Lake Eyasi, where he and Nonnie then built the camp, planted crops and built homes for the local villagers who work for them. Adam and I have both had significant discomfort in that the Safari industry is so evocative of colonialism, white dominance and the unmistakable disparity that still exists between the significant wealth of the white visitors (long and short term) and the poverty and lack of real opportunity of the black Tanzanians. While it is clear that the safari industry in Tanzania is a vital aspect of the economy, it is still uncomfortable. Christian clearly is the local benevolent duke or lord of the area. He and his family are obviously kind and warm, care about the well being of the dozens of families who work for him, and take pains to create a beautiful retreat with minimal impact on the natural environment. They seem to be genuinely very much in love with Tanzania and its people. Despite this, his stature as the area sovereign is well ensconced and, seemingly, unquestioned. We thought it interesting that when we asked about tipping, Christian said that the amount was up to us, but that we would pay it at the end and that they would make sure that a member of the staff was present so that the tipping transaction would be entirely transparent to the staff.
We had lunch, rested, read and generally relaxed. We went swimming in the “pool” which was a local natural spring around which they built a fence, accompanied by Tilapia and other fish. Later, we took a wonderful walk led by a local guide, Sad, and Mrosso through the surrounding area, ending at the top of a beautiful peak to watch a glorious sunset over Lake Eyasi. Emma had hit the wall hard by this point--still upside down from the long trip and time change—but she persevered and actually enjoyed the view, particularly when I started taking bets on when the sun would set—appealing to Emma’s ever present competitive streak.
January 11, 2007
The purpose of this first part of our safari was more cultural than natural. We left early (the kids were not pleased at having to get up while it was still dark) for a visit with members of the Hadzapi Tribe. It was both odd and unbelievably intriguing. At first, it felt almost insulting to be watching these people as though we were viewing animals in the zoo. But we were assured by Mrosso and Sad, our local guide, that this was not the case and indeed, they were extremely welcoming. Clearly, this has become a symbiotic economic relationship in that afterwards, our guide paid them some money and we bought some of their wares. This seems to be an established part of cultural commerce in Tanzania. When we arrived, the men, dressed only in grimy shorts, were sitting around a fire smoking tobacco out of a make shift pipe (that they clearly did not need as evidenced by the accompanying hacking coughs), while the women were dressed in pieces of traditional Tanzania fabrics tied around them reasonably haphazardly. To call their living environment sparse would be a gross understatement. They essentially lived under a lean-to, made of grass and sticks—probably no more than 20 square feet. Inside were two straw mats—no bigger than beach towels, on which the entire family of 8 or 10 people slept, with the women sleeping “inside” and the men sleeping outside. Nothing else—no plates or pots or clothes or anything. Initially, the men showed us how they made a fire, without matches. It had a little bit of the feel of a boy scout demonstration.After an opportunity to observe and ask many questions, we accompanied the men on a hunt. Apparently we brought them luck as they quickly found and killed, with a bow and arrow, a dik dik, the smallest (and sadly, cutest) of the East African antelopes. It was both thrilling and a bit horrifying. We walked with them back to camp as the family patriarch with a pronounced limp and hacking cough, had slung the dik dik over his shoulders with blood dripping from the small animal’s mouth. We then watched as they quickly skinned the animal, placed it over the fire for less than a minute and immediately ate the organs and innards (the youngest kids were either treated to, or were stuck with, the brain)--dik dik tartare, as we have taken to calling it. Now whenever we see a dik dik, we refer to it as breakfast. The carcass was placed in the roof of their hut, presumably being saved for lunch. The kids sat in the car during the disembowelment, understandably slightly aghast (yet not judgmental) over the somewhat gruesome (and unfamiliar) scene. Indeed, it was hard for me to control the gag reflex and remain appropriately respectful in the face of such a scene, particularly in my jet lagged condition (though I doubt it would have felt much different if we were well rested). The kids emerged from the car, whereupon Emma, as the apparent source of good luck, was offered the practically still beating heart. Surprisingly, she declined, as did Adam when he was offered him some meat. According to Mrosso, no part of the animal will go to waste—and even he was slightly aghast at the scene, particularly the “rareness” of the meat. Neighbors joined in the feast.
Then, the dance—some sort of victory celebration that reminded us of the hora—clearly an expression of joy and thankfulness for their good fortune. It seems that the lives of the Hadzapi Tribe have not changed dramatically since the beginning of time-we read that they have been in this area of Tanzania for 10,000 years. We bought jewelry from them that reminded each of us of my mom and went back to the welcome familiarity of Kisma Ndgeda and a more conventional breakfast.
Later that day, we went on our next cultural tour to visit that Tatoga Tribe. This tribe has, over time, developed skills in metal work made from whatever scrap metal they could find and melt. It was pretty fascinating watching them work. That day, they were melting down an ordinary lock (similar to ones we see every day). They had a small fire going, with one person behind the fire with a bellows of sorts, keeping the fire as hot as possible. The tribal leader would then melt down the lock and pour it into molds, where it would ultimately be shaped into bracelets. At the same time, his son was making incredibly intricate metal arrows. Apparently, the Tatoga would trade the arrows to the Hadzapi for honey and other items. After watching the metal work, they brought us to their living area. This tribe is a bit more advanced in that they live in enclosed huts. Yet the conditions are still pretty meager. In some ways it seems more desperate because there is a semblance, albeit small, of modernity. They wore clothes that looked like rejects from Salvation Army donations, had flies covering their bodies, particularly in the eyes of the unbelievably adorable children and their huts were probably 100 sq ft and are made up of grass, mud, and dung, with the accompanying smell. All of this, and the leader had a cell phone. They brought the girls and I into one of the huts, where we were given a demonstration of how the woman grind the maize into cornmeal. I was given a chance to give it a shot—more of a photo op than anything else. It was difficult and somewhat intimidating to be in such a cramped area with all the smells, but was still a fascinating experience.
Inauspicious Beginning
January 8, 2007 (Johannesburg Airport)
So—we made it to Africa—but not exactly where we planned. When we arrived at Kennedy in plenty of time with what we thought were confirmed seats from NY to Zurich to Nairobi (16 hours total), we were told that the flight was overbooked and we had been re-routed to Nairobi via Dakar (Senegal) and Johannesburg. For the geographically challenged among you (and I was one of those until I got out our pocket atlas), that is somewhat like flying LA-NY via Panama.
So we arrived in Jo'burg after a 19 hour journey, only to wait 4 hours for the airport for the Kenya Air staff to show up and then figure out just what kind of mess that Swiss Air had created for us (whatever happened to Swiss efficiency?). We weaseled ourselves into the Premier lounge for another 4 hour wait, created make-shift beds for the kids to rest before our next 4 hour flight, 6 hour layover and 2 hour flight to Kilimanjaro where we should be picked up by the Safari company. We were supposed to stay a night in Nairobi, but we missed that completely. In other words, traveled enough to have completely circumnavigated the globe when we were barely two days into our six month trip. Fortunately—or unfortunately—we checked our luggage through to Nairobi so we have been relatively unencumbered during our stay in the Jo'burg airport. retrieving it, and were pleasantly surprised when it showed up in Nairobi.
So—we made it to Africa—but not exactly where we planned. When we arrived at Kennedy in plenty of time with what we thought were confirmed seats from NY to Zurich to Nairobi (16 hours total), we were told that the flight was overbooked and we had been re-routed to Nairobi via Dakar (Senegal) and Johannesburg. For the geographically challenged among you (and I was one of those until I got out our pocket atlas), that is somewhat like flying LA-NY via Panama.
So we arrived in Jo'burg after a 19 hour journey, only to wait 4 hours for the airport for the Kenya Air staff to show up and then figure out just what kind of mess that Swiss Air had created for us (whatever happened to Swiss efficiency?). We weaseled ourselves into the Premier lounge for another 4 hour wait, created make-shift beds for the kids to rest before our next 4 hour flight, 6 hour layover and 2 hour flight to Kilimanjaro where we should be picked up by the Safari company. We were supposed to stay a night in Nairobi, but we missed that completely. In other words, traveled enough to have completely circumnavigated the globe when we were barely two days into our six month trip. Fortunately—or unfortunately—we checked our luggage through to Nairobi so we have been relatively unencumbered during our stay in the Jo'burg airport. retrieving it, and were pleasantly surprised when it showed up in Nairobi.
The kids were absolutely remarkable on no sleep and stressful travel—though they quickly seized upon the opportunity to repeatedly inquire as to why we have decided to take them on this trip and blackmail us into endless amounts of sodas and candy. Short of a few well deserved whines during the challenging journey, they were total troopers. In fact, we have all been in reasonably good humor and know this is just part of traveling.
So—we are healthy and safe, if tired, and ready for the real adventure to start.
Friday, January 5, 2007
On the Plane to NY
1/3/07 (11:10 Cal. Time)
Two weeks later and we’re now on the plane. It has been a tough couple of weeks. We have the house rented. However, only for two months. On the positive side though, we have rented the house to an academy award winning actress. Just another side plot in the narrative of this trip. We gave away our two cars on a temporary basis. Our Subaru to my mother-in-law and our Prius to our Rabbi. Our Rabbi can only be described as giddy at having received the Prius.
Packing up the house and packing for the trip has been nothing short of horrendous. What does one take for a six month excursion to some pretty rugged places? Well, we decided to take everything, literally. Gone, apparently, are the carefree days of living out of a single backpack. Our bags are huge and unwieldy. If people judge us by our baggage, they will conclude—Ugly Americans, ill equipped to handle the rigors of travel. Obviously, I will have to disabuse them of this first impression with my charm and dazzling personality. I guess we’re screwed. Actually, there’s something comedic about the amount of crap. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
We have been to so many farewell events, that we’re frankly sick to death of hearing ourselves talk about the trip. Although, I can safely say that nothing I have done in my life has met with so much acclaim. Not sure if that’s more a reflection of my lack of accomplishing anything particularly noteworthy. Although it seems clear that this trip resonates with people in ways that I did not anticipate. The response has been a generally consistent mixture of “that’s the most amazing thing I have ever heard of” and “I could never do it.” Interesting to me is that the “I could never do it” sentiment crosses socioeconomic lines. Both our less wealthy friends and more wealthy friends echo the same sentiment. So maybe it’s not about wealth. Certainly for Melissa and me, we had planned on doing this trip after we had “struck it rich,” but it just did not happen. So we decided, to hell with it, we would just go. So why? I think it’s a confluence of events—Maya starting high school next year, Melissa and I both ready for job/career changes, and just a general feeling that we need to break the pattern of our lives. Ultimately, I think it’s a function of Melissa and me supporting each other in the fulfillment of this somewhat crazy but shared ambition. Or maybe it’s simply folie a deux. Indeed, after many recent sleepless nights, Melissa and I have started our recent morning conversations with some version of “what the fuck are we doing!?”
At this point, I am bit scared of the kids. They swing violently between hating us (it seems more me than Melissa) and this kind of heart-breaking despair at being ripped away from their family and friends. Everyone says that they’ll appreciate this when they’re older. I just hope that I’m alive to reap the rewards of this new-found perspective. Oddly, they seem most scared about the safari. Perhaps it was an unwise move for us to show slides from Melissa’s safari as a kid: I think the images of snakes eating frogs, lions fornicating, and huge bugs freaked the hell out of them. Live and learn.
As we left this morning for the airport, the kids were weepy and surly (I’m sure it did not help that they had to sit on top of luggage as there wasn’t room for all of it in the trunk.) As we pulled out of our driveway for the last time for 6 months, the song playing on the radio was REM’s “it’s the end of my life as I know it. . .” Adios.
Two weeks later and we’re now on the plane. It has been a tough couple of weeks. We have the house rented. However, only for two months. On the positive side though, we have rented the house to an academy award winning actress. Just another side plot in the narrative of this trip. We gave away our two cars on a temporary basis. Our Subaru to my mother-in-law and our Prius to our Rabbi. Our Rabbi can only be described as giddy at having received the Prius.
Packing up the house and packing for the trip has been nothing short of horrendous. What does one take for a six month excursion to some pretty rugged places? Well, we decided to take everything, literally. Gone, apparently, are the carefree days of living out of a single backpack. Our bags are huge and unwieldy. If people judge us by our baggage, they will conclude—Ugly Americans, ill equipped to handle the rigors of travel. Obviously, I will have to disabuse them of this first impression with my charm and dazzling personality. I guess we’re screwed. Actually, there’s something comedic about the amount of crap. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
We have been to so many farewell events, that we’re frankly sick to death of hearing ourselves talk about the trip. Although, I can safely say that nothing I have done in my life has met with so much acclaim. Not sure if that’s more a reflection of my lack of accomplishing anything particularly noteworthy. Although it seems clear that this trip resonates with people in ways that I did not anticipate. The response has been a generally consistent mixture of “that’s the most amazing thing I have ever heard of” and “I could never do it.” Interesting to me is that the “I could never do it” sentiment crosses socioeconomic lines. Both our less wealthy friends and more wealthy friends echo the same sentiment. So maybe it’s not about wealth. Certainly for Melissa and me, we had planned on doing this trip after we had “struck it rich,” but it just did not happen. So we decided, to hell with it, we would just go. So why? I think it’s a confluence of events—Maya starting high school next year, Melissa and I both ready for job/career changes, and just a general feeling that we need to break the pattern of our lives. Ultimately, I think it’s a function of Melissa and me supporting each other in the fulfillment of this somewhat crazy but shared ambition. Or maybe it’s simply folie a deux. Indeed, after many recent sleepless nights, Melissa and I have started our recent morning conversations with some version of “what the fuck are we doing!?”
At this point, I am bit scared of the kids. They swing violently between hating us (it seems more me than Melissa) and this kind of heart-breaking despair at being ripped away from their family and friends. Everyone says that they’ll appreciate this when they’re older. I just hope that I’m alive to reap the rewards of this new-found perspective. Oddly, they seem most scared about the safari. Perhaps it was an unwise move for us to show slides from Melissa’s safari as a kid: I think the images of snakes eating frogs, lions fornicating, and huge bugs freaked the hell out of them. Live and learn.
As we left this morning for the airport, the kids were weepy and surly (I’m sure it did not help that they had to sit on top of luggage as there wasn’t room for all of it in the trunk.) As we pulled out of our driveway for the last time for 6 months, the song playing on the radio was REM’s “it’s the end of my life as I know it. . .” Adios.
Connecticut Stopover
After four months of constant motion—planning this trip, Maya’s Bat Mitzvah, transitioning out of IKAR and my job at USC Law, attending the nearly endless array of goodbye functions during which most attendees had grown weary of saying goodbye, and packing our house—I finally have a moment to sit down and write a few words before we actually get on the plane to Africa.
We are now in Connecticut and getting out of LA was quite a challenge. As we pulled out of our driveway, our Subaru stuffed to gills with stuff, REM playing “The End of the World as we Know it” on the radio, I felt like we were walking the death march as our daughter’s wept piteously in the back seat. Tears actually filled my eyes as well as I finally stopped to think about what we are doing. I have been so focused on the details of our crazy lives and trying to extricate ourselves from them, that I never really allowed myself to think clearly about this adventure on which we were about to embark—or how much we will miss when we are gone—friends, family, IKAR, beds, toilets, privacy. I also was overwhelmed with the amount of crap we were schlepping along with us. As soon as we got on the plane to NYC I began to plot how to lose much of it. Indeed, my first order of business was a radical slash and burn campaign of all of our stuff—much of which we will leave with our in-laws who probably need to rent a storage unit to keep it all. I never really believed that old saying about packing for a trip—determine what you actually need and then cut it half—until now. I may live to regret it, but schlepping around a duffel bag that could comfortably accommodate both of our children was more than I could bear.
As we prepare to leave the country, my head is spinning with a million questions. What will it feel like to be so far away for so long? How will it feel for the four of us to sleep in a small room with bunk beds? What will the volunteering be like? Will I be able to connect with the kids and people with whom we are working? Will I have the right shoes? Will I be able to shower regularly? Who will get sick first and how traumatic will that be? The toilets? When will we run out of money? What will we learn and what will be most memorable? Most disastrous? Will I have to use the phenomenal array of sanitary and medical supplies that Paulette so lovingly chose? It seems that if we do, something will have gone terribly wrong—yet I am so appreciative to have it all.
I also wonder how long it will take the kids to fully embrace the trip. Their steely resolve seems to be melting ever so slightly despite themselves and I find it interesting that they tell me they love me on an hourly basis, but follow up with the declaration that I must not love them or I would not be forcing them to go on this trip. My mother-in-law says that children love their parents so much that they will sacrifice their own identity and needs to ensure that parents will always love them. In any event, it seems like an odd dialogue, but I am exceedingly grateful for it. Even though I am convinced that this trip will be a remarkably life altering experience for them, my heart breaks when I see them so sad—particularly when I understand how hard it must be for them to leave everything familiar for the completely unpredictable.
Our last few days in the states will be a study in contrasts to the next six months. We have seen Wicked on Broadway, dined in fancy restaurants, typical American diners, and on my mother-in-law’s delicious cooking. We will go to Becca Banoff’s Bat Mitzvah with all of the attendant activities and generally enjoy all of the comforts of life here. It all still feels so normal, can’t imagine what it will feel like when we actually get on the plane.
We are now in Connecticut and getting out of LA was quite a challenge. As we pulled out of our driveway, our Subaru stuffed to gills with stuff, REM playing “The End of the World as we Know it” on the radio, I felt like we were walking the death march as our daughter’s wept piteously in the back seat. Tears actually filled my eyes as well as I finally stopped to think about what we are doing. I have been so focused on the details of our crazy lives and trying to extricate ourselves from them, that I never really allowed myself to think clearly about this adventure on which we were about to embark—or how much we will miss when we are gone—friends, family, IKAR, beds, toilets, privacy. I also was overwhelmed with the amount of crap we were schlepping along with us. As soon as we got on the plane to NYC I began to plot how to lose much of it. Indeed, my first order of business was a radical slash and burn campaign of all of our stuff—much of which we will leave with our in-laws who probably need to rent a storage unit to keep it all. I never really believed that old saying about packing for a trip—determine what you actually need and then cut it half—until now. I may live to regret it, but schlepping around a duffel bag that could comfortably accommodate both of our children was more than I could bear.
As we prepare to leave the country, my head is spinning with a million questions. What will it feel like to be so far away for so long? How will it feel for the four of us to sleep in a small room with bunk beds? What will the volunteering be like? Will I be able to connect with the kids and people with whom we are working? Will I have the right shoes? Will I be able to shower regularly? Who will get sick first and how traumatic will that be? The toilets? When will we run out of money? What will we learn and what will be most memorable? Most disastrous? Will I have to use the phenomenal array of sanitary and medical supplies that Paulette so lovingly chose? It seems that if we do, something will have gone terribly wrong—yet I am so appreciative to have it all.
I also wonder how long it will take the kids to fully embrace the trip. Their steely resolve seems to be melting ever so slightly despite themselves and I find it interesting that they tell me they love me on an hourly basis, but follow up with the declaration that I must not love them or I would not be forcing them to go on this trip. My mother-in-law says that children love their parents so much that they will sacrifice their own identity and needs to ensure that parents will always love them. In any event, it seems like an odd dialogue, but I am exceedingly grateful for it. Even though I am convinced that this trip will be a remarkably life altering experience for them, my heart breaks when I see them so sad—particularly when I understand how hard it must be for them to leave everything familiar for the completely unpredictable.
Our last few days in the states will be a study in contrasts to the next six months. We have seen Wicked on Broadway, dined in fancy restaurants, typical American diners, and on my mother-in-law’s delicious cooking. We will go to Becca Banoff’s Bat Mitzvah with all of the attendant activities and generally enjoy all of the comforts of life here. It all still feels so normal, can’t imagine what it will feel like when we actually get on the plane.
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