You Are Better Than Potatoes

The first couple of weeks I got here moved so slowly I didn't know how I would make it through; I started imagining leaving before I'd even settled in. I was missing home, my friends, love. It was so unfamiliar. In those first weeks I downloaded a countdown app that showed me how many days until I would be home and I looked at it frequently. Watching the number tick down each day gave me comfort, even though it seemed endless.

Before long, I stopped looking at that countdown and started finding things to enjoy here. Weeks went by quickly and then suddenly it had been months. I had a pretty rough patch in the middle where I got quite sick and lonely and everything froze but I came out of it. Now, the number of days has become so small, I've started looking at the app again. 12 days until I leave Mto wa Mbu for Zanzibar. 19 until I'll be home. Probably I should be reflecting about what I learned about myself and the world. That will come. For now, I just want to capture some anecdotes about my life here so that I can hang on to it after it's gone.

I could easily write a whole post about the hard stuff: that I'm currently typing this while listening to a family of rats running around in my kitchen; that I have fleas in my bed that won't quit; that a day doesn't go by during which I don't get frustrated with someone for lying to me about something pointless; how the church property I live on spends at least three hours every day blasting trumpets and tone deaf choir singers; that you must wait and wait and wait for anything to happen; that I cannot walk down the street without being chased by children screaming at me and asking for candy and money or sometimes reaching out to touch or slap my skin. These things are difficult and I won't miss them.

A post shared by Kelsey Friedman (@bangerangkk) on May 12, 2017 at 12:20pm PDT

The sounds of my life: daily church choir practice outside my bedroom window. Chickens come free. Make sure your speakers are on if you want to experience my misery. 

But as I begin facing my departure, I'm catching myself thinking about the good times and about the often charming absurdity of it all. Like the time we put 26 people in the school Land Cruiser and then I watched us pile out one at a time like from a clown car. Or when the next door neighbor's chicken came into my house and laid an egg on the couch. Or how, because the sun rises around six in the morning year round, when Tanzanians look at a clock pointing at 12, they call it six because that's when the day begins—with the sun. So by this logic, two is eight and 11 is five and nothing ever makes any sense. And how not once but three different times, we splurged and went to a fancy grocery store in the big city, only to come home to 48 hour power outages that put our fridge out of commission—and our coveted cheese and meat products in the trash.

Yet, among all the ludicrousness, there are so many moments of pure joy; moments that are so raw and unexpected, I sometimes catch myself smiling at nobody. Like the fact that despite being a culture that generally fears homosexuality, the men here are more affectionate than I've ever seen men at home. On campus and street corners and even in bars, some of my favorite moments are glimpses of boys and men walking sweetly hand in hand. I wish I could see this back home; I wish everyone was so comfortable showing friendship this way.

Or how instead of seeping road rage and frustration, the drivers work together to help each other. If you pay attention, you'll see drivers with their hands out their windows flashing signals to warn oncoming vehicles about what lies ahead. If a vehicle is stopped somewhere up the road, you'll know it because there will be shrubs littering the pavement on the approach. And if you're on a dangerous turn, the car in front of you will help you pass by using its blinkers to tell you when it's safe to go. But watch out if you're a pedestrian because you come last. Cars do not stop for you and in fact, at busy intersections, they will push right through you to get you out of the way.

The local drink of choice is Konyagi, a Tanzania gin, of which you can buy a whole bottle for two to five dollars, depending on the size. When the bartender brings you the bottle, he pops the bottom (like we used to do with Snapples) and then lays it on its side on the table. After pouring from it, you must always place it back on its side. You absolutely must! I still don't really understand why, though I've heard whispers about it keeping you from getting too drunk and also that "Tanzanians are tired from holding up all of Africa" or something else totally hyperbolic. What I do know is the hangover is drowning but that's never reason enough to stop drinking it.

One of the most endearing Tanzanian idiosyncrasies is how they remove the letter "y" from the end of most words, resulting in adorable adjectives like "craze" and "fance" and everyone—including all the students—calling me "Kels" and making me feel like we're all best friends. While at the same time, they add the letter "y" to a million other words that don't need them, like "andy" and "firsty" and "Microsofty Wordy."

And how along highways there are signs that warn of "Blind People" in places where there are absolutely no blind people to be found. That hair salons are called saloons. That there are open air restaurant bazaars where you sit at a table and 20 people will run over and stack piles and piles of menus in front of you, hoping you'll choose their establishment. And how semi truck and tuk tuk drivers take so much pride in their vehicles that they trick them out with party lights and add hilarious names to the windshields. Whenever we go on road trips, I always take note of the best decor, including my very favorite: a Dala-Dala (a local van transport) called "Chocolate City." Second place goes to a tuk tuk named "Lover Boy."

Other winners are:

• The Choosen One
• This is 2 Much
• Full Jesus
• Drama Boy
• Pappa Junior
• Led Zeppler
• Positive Vibration
• You Must Pay the Cost to the Boss
• Don't Panick Try Again
• God is Better Than Money
• Thank God 2day is Friday
• The Sniper
• Mo Best
• Michael Jordan
• UB 40

It's been difficult to make close friends here because my life experience is so different than the locals' and while I have formed friendships, there will always be an inescapable barrier to how close we can become. That being said, we've had a lot of great times together and over the months I've noted some of my favorite one-liners and expressions, like when they tell you not to worry they say "worry out." Or how they respond "why not?" when asked to do something or they ask "is it?" or "isn't it?" when they mean "do you understand?"

Once, when a powerful man was arrested, my friend Sheb said "the flood came and got him." He also told me that when it rains "a lion is giving birth" and when talking about death he said "nobody wants to sleep forever." He once told me that "friendship is expensive" (but mostly because he wanted something from me) and at a park entrance, when the guard tried to charge him extra for our car, he refused, exclaiming that "our car is not going to enjoy anything." He also once said, "you are better than potatoes" when he offered to drop his cooking to go help our friend who needed a ride. His favorite Americanisms I've taught him are "Do the Dew," calling crazy people "kuku" (which means chicken in Swahili) and the word "dope." Now, he thinks everything good is dope. The bad stuff, well that's "not dope" of course.

When discussing the effect climate change is having on their country, my friend Edward once said to me, "we don't have civil war like Sudan but we still starve." It was powerful and I'll never forget it; I've had a heart-shattering, up-close look at the realities of global warming—more on that in the previously noted "what did Kelsey learn" post to come. Though it really kept me from needing to learn much Swahili, I'm grateful the locals I know well speak such great English because I've so enjoyed listening to their perspectives on the world and politics. I think I've learned as much from them about America—what we have and what we lack—as I've learned about Tanzania. I've seen our students put Western kids to shame and at the same time, in a culture that adores our country, I've often felt ashamed to be American. I've watched kids' eyes open wide a hundred times at things I've said and places we've seen together. I've caught them smiling at me across the classroom in a way that make me sure they'll always remember me.

One of my very favorite students named Glory.

It's impossible not to love the kids and all the people here. They are full of joy, even though their lives are tough. I love their smiles, so often filled with fluoride-stained and sugarcane-rotting teeth, but heartwarming nonetheless. I love their dedication to their families and their work ethic and their amazing names like Lightness and Happyness and Praygod. I love the beautiful Maasai women with intricate beads hanging from ears to collarbones and the bright prints the villagers wear and the often hilarious secondhand clothes from America they proudly tout. One day a while back, one of my favorite students named Yohana was sporting a neon shirt plastered with "Sunriver, Oregon" (a town just 15 miles from where I grew up). That I could find myself in the company of that shirt, all the way across the world, felt comforting and impossible and incredible all at the same time.

Vast expanses speckled with crooked acacia trees, which seem to be stretched out in search of companionship in the void of all that space; perfectly arranged rice patties that glisten in the sun all the way to the horizon; sweet, fresh mangoes and bananas sold by micro-communities of powerful women on every street corner; day after day after day of warm sunshine; elephants and giraffes roaming free, daring me to catch a glimpse of them in the trees; sunsets like I've never seen before, so multidimensional that each one appears more incredible than the last; lighting storms that electrify the clouds so magnificently they might make me believe in God, even just for a second; and when I take the time to stand still and look up into all that quiet, the endless night skies are filled with so many stars I sometimes feel like I will never close my eyes again.

For every moment that was difficult here, there are as many that were meaningful. I'm already forgetting about the many days I wished I could go home. These other things—these are the memories that will stick with me forever.

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! Baboons

Africa is an immense place. It's a weird phenomenon that most people refer to the continent when speaking about any specific country here. I did it before I came and I still catch myself doing it now. "I'm moving to Africa for six months." Why didn't I say I was moving to Tanzania? There are 54 African countries. It covers almost 12 million square miles. There are 1.2 billion people living here. No one would say "I'm going to North America" when they mean the United States, so why do we all think Africa is Africa is Africa? It's not.

I traveled to South Africa last week and it was shocking how far from Tanzania I felt (and actually was). To be fair, I didn't leave Cape Town, which I've been told is a lovely little island in an incredibly complicated country. But nonetheless, I kept saying to myself in true naive form, "this doesn't feel like Africa." What I really meant was, "this doesn't feel like the East Africa I am used to." It was as different from Tanzania as Mexico is from America and I had to keep reminding myself that just because a place shares a continent with my temporary home, doesn't mean it will resemble it at all.

And I'm happy it didn't. Taking a break from the rural life I lead was exactly what I needed to refresh and re-appreciate the slowness of Mto. I took a quick detour through Ethiopia—which felt incredibly familiar—and stepped off the plane into a dream. Grocery stores, wine country, Uber, unbelievable food, music, dancing, nature, vast expanses of ocean, scuba diving, sailboats, ferris wheels, bike rides, sundresses, three new flavors of Magnum bars. It had everything!

I've seen a lot of corners of the world and honestly this may have been my favorite. I kicked it off with a ride on the Cape Wheel, which overlooks the waterfront and gave me a beautiful first look at my new favorite city. For the last five years, after reading the book Devil in the White City about the invention of the ferris wheel, I've been on a little personal quest to ride ferris wheels all over the world. I've made loops over Bangkok, Tokyo, Singapore, Black Rock City and all over the U.S. It was a perfect way to start a trip that was filled with so many things I love.

I started to write about my eight day trip, but I realized a few paragraphs in that it didn't really make for good reading. People want anecdotes with lessons or humor or feeling. They don't care about the details of how I did my first cold water dive and saw how much I still have to learn or that I surfed for the first time and rode a wave all the way in or that I climbed Table Mountain at sunrise or that I watched the sun set over Signal Hill with my American friends who happened to also be there or that I ate corn dogs and a whole crab for lunch one day or that I was bit by a baboon after he came into my car and stole my bag and then I fought him to get it back. Wait actually, maybe people want to hear about that one?

Let me start this with a warning: Read this story and then remember it if you go to Cape Town. I'd read a similar story myself and completely forgotten the author's advice. Don't make this same mistake.

We were driving through Cape Point in the national park on Cape Peninsula and there were signs everywhere that said "! Baboons." When researching the drive a few days earlier, I'd read that the baboons were quite wily and would get into your car to look for food so be sure to lock your doors and close your windows. Yep, they can open doors. This completely slipped my mind and I just assumed the signs were warnings to watch out for them crossing the road. Near the Cape of Good Hope, we pulled over along the coast and I hopped out to take a photo on my phone.

My friend stayed in the car with her window down. As I was looking out at sea, from the corner of my eye I saw a baboon making his way up the road. He passed right next to a guy, checked him out and moved on, so he seemed completely harmless. In fact, when he jumped on top of our car, instead of doing anything proactive, I decided to annoyingly make a little boomerang video of him checking out Faye (see below). It took about five seconds for me to realize my mistake and I ran to the car just as he hopped in through the window and into the back, where my purse was sitting with everything I needed inside it. Also inside was an orange and a Kind bar. That bag was toast.

A post shared by Kelsey Friedman (@bangerangkk) on Apr 19, 2017 at 12:58pm PDT

I opened the back door screaming at him to try to, I don't know, scare him I guess? In his creepy little hairy human hands rested my Canon DSLR, credit card, driver's license, AirBnB key and money. There was no way I was letting the little shit take off down the rocks with all of this, so I tried to grab it back and that's when it got dirty. We played tug of war for a bit—and then he bit me. He grabbed hold of my hand with the two piercing knives in his mouth and jaws of steel, breaking the skin and sending me jumping back in shock. My adrenaline was pumping so when he jumped out of the car, I chased him. I later read that you should never follow after a baboon because they can rip you to shreds if they feel threatened, but I was feeling fierce (and stupid) in that moment.

His crew quickly joined him and as he sat there dumping things out of the bag, unzipping every zipper and looking through every pocket, the other baboons circled around waiting for their turn to investigate. Every time I crept in close to try to pick up something that had dropped, one of his friends would jump in and snatch it up or snarl at me. They dumped out a pack of cards, unrolled toilet paper, and squeezed out sunscreen. Out of the crowd of at least 20 people watching, one woman came to help me. We slowly started gathering up my things as we could but when I had almost everything in hand, the original thief took off down the road. A tour guide in a car told me that if I let him be, he'd eventually leave the bag when the food was gone. He didn't. So I chased him again. And then a man with a huge stick joined me in the chase and somehow managed to flail and bang and scream enough to get my bag back. The gawking crowd dispersed and I thanked the woman and man sincerely. I got in the car, locked the doors and cried tears of relief.

It was terrifying. I was exhausted and embarrassed. And I now I had a South African monkey bite. Do monkeys carry HIV? They must at least carry rabies? Fuck, I need to go to a hospital. The rest of our evening plans were just ruined by my impending trip to the emergency room. We booked it out of there and started the hour drive back to Cape Town. On the way out of the park I was able to talk to park rangers who told me that the baboons there didn't have rabies and that because I'd had a tetanus shot in November, I would be fine. This made me feel infinitely better and I finally relaxed, until later that night when I started Googling about monkey bites. In my second panic, I called the hospital and a nurse confirmed what the ranger said. I relaxed again, until I woke up at 6am with throbbing pain in my hand and I started more frantic monkey-bite-Googling. I called the hospital again and they said that I could visit them or go to a pharmacy to see if I needed antibiotics for infection. The pharmacist confirmed there was nothing to be worried about and that it was just enflamed from a pretty strong bite from a fierce animal. I finally decided to accept this fourth professional's assessment and move on.

So my hand bruised up. My finger swelled. And the pain lasted a few days. Then it healed. And I don't think I have rabies. And the baboon didn't get my stuff. Faye says she thinks I won, but I'd say it was a draw because he got my Kind bar and damn those things are a tasty reminder of home. Now I'll always have this memory of being one of those dumb ass tourists who let a baboon into her car. In fact, I bet I'll be on YouTube soon.

One of the reasons I travel is for experiences like this. To start a day awakened by god-awful roosters at 4am in one African country and end a 15-hour journey overlooking the ocean from a rooftop patio in another. To have moments of solitude slide in next to moments of chaos. To feel comfort in being anonymous. To feel grateful that as a 32-year-old woman, I get to step slowly through my life, opening doors to so many incredible places. To see worlds underwater and breathe the scents of a thousand cuisines. To scratch the ears of stray kittens in my local bar and be scratched by the claws of wild beasts. Some days are hard when you travel. A lot of them are hard when you move away to a rural village for half a year. But weeks like my last remind me how lucky I am to have opened my life up to exploration. If you ever make it to Cape Town, I can't imagine you won't feel the same way.

Just don't feed the baboons.

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A Bittersweet History Lesson

Last weekend I had to leave Tanzania to renew my visa. Seeing as how I am already leaving the country for spring break in two weeks, the timing was unfortunate, but it led to a surprise trip to Kigali, Rwanda. Rwanda wasn’t even on my radar, but my roommate went last year and said it was a nice city, so I went.

A nice city is an understatement. By the standards I’ve been living, it felt like a Trump vacation to Mar-a-Lago. A lot of money has been invested to build up the infrastructure of a city that lost its soul and was heavily traumatized by the genocide that occurred there in the 90s. I felt like I walked through a portal into an advanced western city and I’m not gonna lie, it felt good. Prices skyrocketed, but so too did my level of comfort. 

It was such a strange city. There were beautiful, gigantic houses with gorgeous lawns and security all around. Apartment complexes were going up everywhere. The streets were lined with perfect landscaping. The airport was advanced and modern. There were proper shopping malls and everything was carefully planned out and civilized. This is what I noticed on first glance. But upon walking around, I began to notice all the in betweens. The streets here and there that were lined with traditional African housing rather than gaudy mansions. Women carrying produce on their heads instead of carrying shopping bags in their hands. People eating street food instead of eating sushi. And suddenly I got a sense that there was a huge divide in this city. Between the rich and the poor. The ex-pats and the locals. The future and the past. 

On Sunday we visited the genocide memorial. I’m embarrassed to admit that I knew nothing about what happened there in 1994. I was only nine, so it’s not a total surprise that I don’t remember it, but it’s still shocking that it’s not something that was taught later in history class like the holocaust. It’s even more shocking what happened. In less than 100 days, 800,000 Tutsis were murdered in their homes, on the streets, by their neighbors and by their friends. Not to mention the millions of Rwandans who were displaced and became refugees during this time. It was orchestrated by the government, carried out by the people and widely ignored by the world. So ignored that even to this day, most people I know don’t even know what happened. 

After we visited the museum, I walked out with a very different view of this city. This history seems to have been consciously erased from the outside. Replaced with a bustling and seemingly perfect urban dream. Was this an attempt to forget what happened? Or was it an attempt to atone for it? I don’t know. But what I came to realize that day was that nearly every Rwandan I spoke with had a high likelihood of harboring some very real and recent memories of the atrocities that occurred. As I spoke to people back at the hotel, I couldn't help but think gruesomely to myself: “This person might have watched his family be hacked to pieces before his eyes.” It was only 23 years ago. Kigali is probably filled with thousands and thousands of people who have not forgotten. Have not erased it. Who never will. That was a feeling that was really hard to shake. And I guess I shouldn’t want to shake it because forgetting that feeling adds to the tragedy I think.

This city made me feel all kinds of things. Guilt and shame for how little I had known or cared about the genocide. Peace and relief at how safe and advanced everything seemed. Excitement to be away from the mundaneness of my modest life. Exhausted from the great lengths we traveled to move about the huge city.  

My trip to Kigali also made me oh-so-aware how not cut out for rural life I am — it was pretty apparent when I was overcome with a fair level of dread when I had to leave.  I’m a little ashamed of the sense of security and relief I got from knowing that I could order a cup of iced coffee made from real beans or that I had options for meals that went beyond fries and rice or that there were police all over the city protecting us through the night. I had a number of people tell me “you can walk here at midnight and you are perfectly safe.” In my town, we don’t walk past dark. I moved to rural Africa knowing that it would be small and slow, but I guess I wasn’t prepared for how isolated and lonely it would feel. I didn’t know how important it was to me to have places to go when I feel anxious or people to go visit when I feel alone. Without those things, I often feel trapped. 

In just a couple months I'll be back to the reality of the western world. I imagine in many ways it's going to be tough to return to, though right now I find myself aching for it. So the challenge I’m facing is to look around me in those moments of panic and remember why I came here in the first place: to learn to slow down, to be okay with the stillness, to spend time with myself. These were goals of mine because it’s something I’ve always been bad at and boy am I bad at it.


My PSA: Today, April 7th, is the 23rd anniversary of the day the genocide began and the beginning of a week of mourning in Rwanda. If you don't know much about it, take some time to look it up. It's awful and sad and something we should all know more about. Today's a perfect day to learn. 

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An Ode to the Wildebra

It seems like everything I do here pulls my emotional core in all different directions. Some days I feel invigorated and free from the greed of the Western world while others I feel trapped. Sometimes I wonder if I'll be ready to leave in June and on some days I wonder if I should change my flight and call it early. The last two weeks were no different, though they were filled with new experiences and amazing memories.

My parents and friend Lindsey (aka Elektra) all came to visit. It just so happened that the time they could all come overlapped, so I jam packed my 6 months of visitors into one trip. It was amazing. And it was also hard. For the first time in over two months, I was able to fully be myself. I didn’t have to worry about social niceties or making friends or exposing my vulnerabilities. I just got to be who I am and I think after taking two months off from that raw honesty, my heart was a little overwhelmed when it got to be its real self again. I could talk about my true feelings and I could shed tears when I felt sad. It made me quite aware of the fact that while I’m learning new things every day here, my emotional self isn’t being stimulated much at all. So I stimulated it. In good ways and bad.

My parents were here for six days before Elektra arrived. We spent a day in Arusha eating good food and soaking in the urban African flair and then headed to my little part of the world. The unfortunate thing about traveling to Mto wa Mbu is that there’s not much to do. We have one proper restaurant (and I use the word proper lightly), no coffee shops or cozy bars and no taxis to get out of town. My biggest challenge here is feeling constantly socked in, so when my parents came, I instantly felt anxious about them getting bored. For the most part we kept busy, visiting the school for them to meet the kids and work in the garden, taking long walks and tuk tuk’n back and forth between my house and their hotel. We just barely kept our eating schedule full, considering the lack of food options, and luckily they were jet lagged so nap time took up much of the slow, hot afternoons. My mom knew I was anxious and kept telling me to relax about it, but I couldn’t help feel a responsibility to make sure they had a great time. Isn’t that what a good Jewish hostess does? Despite the down time, I know they came away from Mto with fond memories. They loved the kids and the school. They loved the local people who were friendly all the time. And, without a doubt, they loved the prices! 

But when safari time came, boy was it a relief. I knew that we’d be busy for the rest of the trip so the pressure was off. Elektra arrived Wednesday night and on Thursday we headed to Lake Manyara National Park for a day trip guided by my friend Sheb, who went to wildlife school but is now our school’s operations manager. He’s a bird lover like my parents, so a large part of the day was spent bird tracking, in addition to chasing down larger game all over the park. The highlights of the trip were seeing more than 40 bird species, locking eyes with an adorable lion cub from just 15 feet away and getting into an elephant stand off in the middle of the road.

As we were driving, a baby elephant crossed the road in front of us with her mama following right behind. Watching elephants protect their young is absolutely magical. At the threat of nearly anything, the whole herd crowds around the baby and stands in the way of the predator. We saw it time and again in different situations, but this time mom was standing alone and she was mad. She blocked the road and stared us down, walking a line back and forth, daring us to make a move. Earlier that day Sheb told us that in wildlife school they have to learn to drive backwards quickly and for long distances. When asked why, he told us that once on a tour he had to reverse for 2km to escape a charging elephant. With that story fresh in all of our minds, Sheb sat silently with one hand on the reverse gear and the other on the ignition. Apparently our silence worked because elephants don’t see well, so after the longest, most heart-pounding 3 minutes of my life, she decided the threat was gone and tromped off into the trees after the baby. I felt confident in Sheb because he’d done this before, but what really made me nervous were the elephants I could hear in the trees to the side of the car. I kept thinking about the velociraptors in Jurassic Park and wondering if these too were "clever girls." I half expected the rest of the herd to attack us from all sides while mama stood in the road roaring and fist-pumping her trunk in triumph. Luckily, when the mom stepped off the road, Sheb bolted out of there and we cheered and laughed as our blood pressure dropped.

A post shared by Kelsey Friedman (@bangerangkk) on Mar 9, 2017 at 8:38am PST

The next morning we began our three day overnight safari. Our guide Ben, a friend of Sheb’s, and our cook Habib picked us up early to start the long process of getting into the park. There are gates and fees all over as you enter, so we had to make many stops on the 3 hour drive before we found ourselves in the Serengeti at last.

I’d like to start this part of the story with a bold statement: We had the most incredible luck and I feel forever grateful that the African stars aligned to give us such an amazing weekend. 

First of all: We had perfect weather. I knew that we were skirting the edge of rainy season when my parents booked their trip, but because this has been such a dry year, the rains held off. A wet season safari is still possible, but African rains are downpours and the roads easily wash out, so we wouldn’t have made it to half the places we were able to go. Every day leading up to the trip was a gamble of whether the rain would come and as it turned out, it came a few days after we finished. We had the benefits of low season, meaning little competition for animal sightings, without the serious downfalls (see what I did there?)

Secondly: We saw the famous Great Wildebeest Migration!  I mean, come on!? How did we accidentally, unknowingly plan our safari for the time of year the wildebeests would be starting their exit from central Serengeti? Most people go their whole lives without seeing this, or even knowing it exists, but just by chance we happened upon it and I get to check off this “seven new wonders of the world” event. 1.7 million wildebeests, accompanied by hundreds of thousands of gazelle, zebra and eland, make an annual circular migration, following the rain and the greener pastures it leads to.

Aside from the sheer magnitude of animals (we counted exactly one million of the 1.7 wildebeests I think it was), it was completely fascinating to see the symbiotic ecosystem the migration creates. Zebras and wildebeests stick together because they eat different parts of the same grass and because with the beests’ killer sense of smell and the bras’ bad-ass sight, together they can sense predators and help each other live. Elektra and I affectionally named this relationship that of the “wildebras." Look out for the new Pixar movie about overcoming animal species prejudice coming soon (and our Halloween costumes next year)! There was also an amazing effect of disgusting dung beetles feeding off their poo and spreading nutrients across the grasslands, helping fertilize the soil for next year’s migration. For hours, the windows of our Land Cruiser seemed as if they were a television screen airing the latest episode of Planet Earth.

We basically saw it all: more elephant moms protecting their tiny babies, which walk under their bellies until they are too old and tall to fit, while teenagers battled each other in tusk-pushing competitions, preparing for the fights they would eventually hold to determine the alpha male who would move on to another herd.


In an amazing stroke of luck on our first afternoon, we happened upon a leopard viewing of a lifetime (the only thing more unbelievable would have been to watch a kill). An antelope leg was dangling from a tree — a quick sign to the guides that there was something to be seen. As we approached, we saw that a mother leopard was gnawing at the antelope's open flesh while a tiny cub watched in admiration from another branch. As she ate her meal, she continuously adjusted the position of the body so it wouldn’t fall from the tree as the weight of the meal shifted. We watched her for twenty minutes as she ate and adjusted and ate and adjusted. When she’d had her fill, she dragged the remaining carcass into the highest bows of the tree, apparently to hide it until she was hungry again. Ben told us that in seven years of guiding, he’s only seen this one other time.

We saw two more leopards during the trip, bringing the total to four — some people don’t even see one! We saw more than 60 lions (dad counted), 17 of them at one time snoozing together in the shade and another pride of at least 13 lazing in the trees as the sun went down. We saw four rhinos in Ngorogoro Crater, another “Big 5” animal of which not every safarist catches a glimpse. We even found cheetahs, which are Ben’s favorite animal and a personal mission of his to track. In an absolutely insane showing of tour guide genius, he spotted one sticking out from the brush a couple of football fields away. To the rest of us, with the naked eye, it looked like bushes. With our binoculars, it looked like a stick. How he spotted it is still completely incomprehensible to me. If you go the Serengeti, he’s your guy. It turned out there were two cheetahs, popping up and down, scanning the land for prey. 

We sat and watched for almost an hour, hoping to see them make a kill. It was exhilarating waiting for nature to strike — in the end we didn’t see the carnage we were hoping for, but there was a different payoff of the opposite kind. Instead, we got to witness the rescue of a stranded baby wildebeest, who’d been separated from the migration and was sure to become some predator's dinner (shall I mention the part where we were egging on the cheetahs in its direction?) The WB was sticking close to the car because it felt safe near us and it was quite devastating to watch it wander around alone in the empty, vast stretch of nothingness. By the end of our fruitless cheetah stalk, a pack of adult WBs passed by and gathered up the lonely baby. We cheered as we watched their reunion. That animal would live another day — or perhaps it would lose the pack again within the hour; we saw many lone babies across the savannah, which makes it pretty clear that Darwinism runs rampant out there.



Though we didn’t see the cheetahs eat, we did eventually watch them run across the grassland on the horizon when they got bored. It's pretty unbelievable that we saw a leopard, famous for its fierceness and strength, drag an entire animal up a tree and we saw two cheetahs, the fastest animal on land, race each other into the sky. Again, I feel like I can say we pretty much saw everything and Ben agreed. Afterward, he told Sheb that it was one of the best game drives he’d ever guided. Sheb confirmed for us that we’d had a once in a lifetime safari.

It was magic. After two months of living a slow, simple life, I had a weekend of intense and fulfilling adventure: inside jokes and delicious food and the best entertainment you could ever ask for, right in front of our eyes. 

Returning to Mto was difficult at best. The entire town was out of power and by some crazy cosmic coincidence, the pump that fills our water tank broke while we were gone. My parents had power and water at their hotel because of a generator, but Elektra and I were stuck being truly basic. The next day, on which the three of them were leaving to Arusha to catch their flights, we were still waterless and powerless and then the last straw came when our kitchen propane ran out. I couldn’t cook, shower, flush, see or charge anything. It was one of those days where I said to myself “what in the hell am I doing here?” The visit I’d been looking forward to for so long was coming to a close, the house I live in was becoming uninhabitable (I haven’t mentioned the rats and fleas yet have I?) and I was suddenly facing the reality of having to revisit that emotional chasm I started building when I got here. I cowered and ran to Arusha with my visitors, staying for one last night with Elektra while the power/water/gas situation resolved itself. 

They’ve been gone for four days. I’m getting used to my life again. The house is livable and I’m settled back in to work. But my heart is still lonely and I think until I’m back home with my people, it will remain that way. It’s one of the challenges I knew I’d face coming into this and while I expected it, I know now that it’s not something I need to feel again in the future. At least I’ve got the memories of the Serengeti and my beloved wildebras to keep my going until I can surround myself again in love.

Note: I have 1,200 safari photos to go through but once I do, I'll update this post with a link to an album somewhere.  Playing wildlife photographer was amazing. 

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Little Joys in a Big World

Kids are kids. When I'm up at the school I often notice things about the students that seem so universal. The cool kids leaning up against a wall flirting with the popular girls. The younger girls giggling to each other when the older boys mess with them. The class clown shouting things out in assemblies to get a laugh. They get detention for being late. They roll their eyes when they are bored. They get excited when they see explosions in chemistry class.

But this weekend I got to see firsthand that while kids are kids, not every one of them sees the world the same way. Or lives in the same world for that matter.

After holding trials at the school a couple weeks ago, we took the fastest boy and girl from each grade to compete in the Kilimanjaro Marathon 5k Fun Run in Moshi - a 4 hour drive from Mto wa Mbu. The students and a couple teachers were leaving at 3am Sunday in a full car, so my roommates and I headed up a day early on a bus to stay the night in Moshi. This story is full of a lot of ups and downs, but I think the downs of the weekend made the ups even more amazing.

We had a fun adventure there with our colleague, a local teacher named Edward, who was going to visit his mom and accompanied us on the bus. It was great to have him there to lead the way and help us find the best bus (one in which we each got our own seat!), rather than just the first bus, as I'm sure we would have done without him. However, when we arrived, the adorable hostel we'd booked did not have our reservation and so the manager moved us against our will to their awful budget hotel down the road. It was clean, but that was the only thing going for it. Where was the charming patio restaurant surrounded in trees? Where was the on-site bar packed with runners and Kili climbers? Where were the house cats waiting for me to scoop them up into my pet-deprived arms?

I was overheated and frustrated that my plans to meet some other travelers had been thwarted, but a walk about town culminated in a delicious coffee milkshake and a wonderful one-hour massage - something I've been seeking out since I arrived. Things were indeed looking up... until they weren't. Come dinnertime, Faye and I were standing outside a restaurant, on an unfortunately dark street, when a motorcyclist almost rammed right into me. At first I thought he was drunk so I jumped out of the way, at which time his passenger snatched Faye's purse from her shoulder. Aside from losing her phone and a fair amount of money, as well as her sense of calm and security, our hotel key was taken.

Turns out I was right to fret about this shithole of a place because we came to find out they don't keep spare keys. Our friend Jane was staying in another room and the front desk attendant told us in broken English that we could share her key. Wait, WHAT? The keys work on all the rooms? Are you kidding me? And now the purse thief has one of the hotel keys (labeled with the hotel name no less), which will open any room in that hotel? Let's just set that absurdity aside for a minute.

The biggest problem was that the rooms in these weird hotels can only be locked from the inside using the key, but now we only had one key between two rooms. So after hassling the guy, he tried dozens of random keys looking for a match but to no avail. At some point it was 1am and we were getting up at 5:30 for the race so we just said screw it, dragged a mattress from one room onto the floor of the other and got settled in, only to realize that the key locks just one of the rooms from the inside. The other one. Of course we had also picked the room with a door that doesn't latch shut, requiring a key to even close it (we chose this one because the fan in the other room sounded like a machine gun that hadn't been cleaned in 100 years). When it was all said and done, we were too tired to bother switching back to the other room, so we ended up sleeping mishkaki in the busted room with a table jammed against the door to keep it closed, just praying that the thieves weren't going to come to the hotel to try to snag some more loot. As we're drifting off to sleep I muttered out loud "You know, if we'd just done this table thing from the start, Jane could have stayed in her room and we could have been asleep an hour ago." Silence from them both. "Let's pretend that's not true."

Flash forward to the next morning. An expensive cab ride later (from which we had to jump out and walk anyway because the roads were blocked for the marathon), a quick change of clothes at the car and a pre-run run to make it to the start in time to race with the kids and my weekend finally started looking up for real.

There were hundreds of people crowding around waiting for some sign that the race would begin. At some point, with no warning or signal, we all just started running. I stuck with the girls while the boys raced ahead. Turns out the two slowest girls were running at just my ten-minute-mile pace so we had a really nice time together, running through charming neighborhoods and passing more people than passed us. We took selfies as we ran, threw water over our heads at the 2k station and rejoiced together at the finish line. After the race, the kids stood around for at least an hour watching the half marathon and then the marathon racers finish. They were entranced by the drones flying overhead and couldn't believe that the Kenyan winner would take home 4 million t shillings, or 2,000 USD.

We made our way to the car and packed the whole gang in -16 of us in all - for a crowded and sleepy ride to Arusha. Just like last year, the organization took the racers to a hotel to go swimming and eat lunch. Many of them had never been swimming and even those who had were still scared of the water. I gave them underwater piggy back rides and they howled with laughter when I oinked at them. Glory even gave me a ride back once she conquered her fear of leaving the edge of the pool. I held up the scared ones under their bellies so they could practice kicking their feet and then I let them go so they could learn to tread water. Sarah had tears in her eyes when she realized she could keep herself floating by simply kicking her feet in place and moving her arms. I told her to just imagine she was running the 5k underwater and she would stay afloat. I instantly got tears in my own eyes as I watched her confidence soar.

After swimming we sat at a big table and ordered them plates of pizza and spaghetti. They all sat there politely and quietly waiting for their food. It was almost uncomfortable watching them be so well behaved. Ashley had given them a speech in the car about being good guests so we could come back again and they took this seriously. It was the most serious I've ever seen teenagers. When the food came, they dipped their pizza in ketchup (cause why not?) and laughed as they slurped up noodles covered in sauce. The adults ate Indian food and at the end of the meal we passed them our leftovers. Some of them loved it and others were completely appalled at the taste. I think it's safe to say every one of them ate something new.

The most magical part of the trip was after lunch. Last year the kids had discovered the elevator, or "lifty" as they call it, and they had been talking about it all day. Ashley went up with the girls first and then I joined the boys afterward. We stepped into the elevator and pushed floor 9. As we began to rise, Yohana shrieked in fear and turned his back away from the glass walls overlooking the city. He laughed at himself and trembled at the same time. The other boys were glued to the windows with eyes wide. When we reached the top we stepped out and looked across the city from the 9th floor. Losotu, a Form I Massai boy who'd never left Mto wa Mbu, was in utter shock at the view from up high. My heart melted as I watched them all experiencing something new and amazing for the first time. Something so mundane and utilitarian to a Westerner was a thrill to these kids. And it was a thrill to me to watch their brains expanding before my eyes.

After lunch, we all piled back in the car and the kids used each other as pillows to sleep the whole way home. They were completely exhausted, overstimulated and the happiest I'd seen them since I arrived. This was the first time since I've been here that I've spent a significant amount of time with any of the kids and I finally feel a connection and an investment in them. It's hard not to after watching them live so extraordinarily.

All this to say that sometimes, when you get to glimpse the world through someone else's eyes, it's a completely different place. When's the last time you looked out a glass elevator and marveled at the impressive technology beneath your feet? Can you even remember your first road trip? Or the first slice of pizza you ate? Have you ever seen a child completely astonished when you tell her you've been 100 stories high in a building? That evening in Moshi felt like a nightmare at the time. But then I think about how Faye's money and phone can be replaced so easily and how what I considered a shitty hotel would probably feel like a palace to all the students. It's embarrassing and humbling but most importantly, it makes me excited to see what else these amazing kids are going to teach me.

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Party in the U.R.T

Yesterday was super African. Yes, every day is technically African now, but some days here are different. These ones are so rare and unlike my life at home that they’re nearly impossible to describe. But I’ll try. Disclaimer: vegetarians and animal lovers might not be super into the contents of this post. 

This weekend we threw a staff party to celebrate the new school year and the fantastic exam results we just received. All week the teachers have been seeping excitement because they know what a staff party means: nyama choma mbuzi. A whole roasted goat. This is a big deal here. There is a ritual to it. And frankly, it's expensive - by African standards anyway.

I decided early in the week that I wanted to be a part of the whole experience of buying and eating the goat, so on Thursday I went to the market while Sheb haggled with a number of Massai herders to find the perfect meal. Then I rode in the back of Kifaru (the name of our 4x4, which means Rhino) with Sheb and the terrified goat, who nuzzled it’s head in my lap in fear and licked my leg… I’m not sure why. Because I knew I’d later be eating it, I did my best not to attach much sentiment to the car ride lest it make the rest of the process much harder. However, I did forbid Faye from giving him a name when she tried. The goat lived at the school for a couple of days, where the groundskeeper and students took care of him — and chased him across campus when he ran away. We caught the tail end of this escape attempt, driving up to school just as the kids were wrangling him back in across the soccer field. 

Yesterday I woke up early and spent the morning scrambling to get some work done before everyone started showing up. I didn’t realize how many of them would come so early, but I should have guessed since they'd all been glowing about it all week. I was still working on the porch in my pajamas when Sheb and Ema rode up on a motorbike, sitting mishkaki with the goat between them (more on what that means here). He told me they’d laid down cloth between them all in case the goat decided to pee on the way. This sight itself was hilarious, but was made funnier to me as I immediately had an image of Harry and Lloyd riding frozen through Colorado: “Just go man.”

Within five minutes, four men had turned up and were preparing for the slaughter. They chopped down banana leaves from my backyard to make a blanket on which they would butcher the goat. The slaughter had to be performed by a Muslim so that our many Muslim staff could partake in the meal. As it turns out, the man who stopped by briefly to perform the ritual was a true master. While three of my colleagues held the goat down, he cleanly slit the throat and the goat bled out in moments. He didn’t scream or move. It felt very humane; as much as animal murder can be I guess. 

The goat killer was gone as quickly as he came and then Ema, our groundskeeper and resident butcher, got to work. He’s Massai and told me he’d been cutting up goats since he was a small boy - too many to count. The process of finding a knife sharp enough for the task at hand wasn't easy, but once we did it took him two hours to remove the skin, which came off in one piece, and carefully slice the pieces of meat apart. They eat it all. Every last bit. Liver, heart, intestines, tail.

Each part is prepared differently - the organs and ribs cooked on the barbecue, the haunches and legs roasted on sticks over a flame, the intestines and fat simmered long and slowly in a salty broth. The cooking began at around 1pm and until shortly before dark, the meat flowed freely. I’ve never seen more meat in my life. First came bites of spleen and heart; I didn’t try the former but the latter was surprisingly good. The texture was both tender and firm but the flavor was mild. Then slowly came the ribs, thighs and legs. It’s all cooked plain with no seasoning, but you squeeze lime over the meat and dip it in salt. Each piece had a completely different texture and taste, but every bite was fantastic. Every time a plate was emptied, Ema showed up with another. Each refill had some new cut to try, cooked to varying levels of rareness and always to perfection.

As we let our stomachs settle, we played corn hole with bags made from Masaii fabric. We drank straight from bottles of Konyagi, which is their cheap, local version of gin. Many teachers who "don’t drink" drank; what happens in the home is very different than what happens on the street. We had a dance party on our porch blasting mostly Bongo Flava songs on repeat. Many of the staff members don’t speak English so dancing together finally gave us a chance to become friends as we laughed and fist pumped to songs we only sometimes knew. We sent home teachers who got too drunk in tuk tuks. At some point I discovered someone had left the faucet running in the bathroom for god knows how long. I think someone else either threw up in the shower or cleaned piles of foliage from their body - this one I'm not totally clear on. The kitchen floor was an absolute disaster - caked in dirt from forty feet covered in African dust and sprinkled with oil from the massive loads of chips (fries) that Ma B made to accompany the meat. As the alcohol tapered, people slowly trickled out, some saying goodbye and some who just disappeared. Every last bit of the goat was eaten. Every last beer in the fridge was gone.

It was like any party I’ve ever hosted in the U.S. Except it wasn’t. Cause it was African.

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If It's There, It's There

I can’t help but think of a story my family was laughing about over Christmas this year. It’s a fully acknowledged fact that my oldest brother Cory had it much harder than the other two kids in the family. I think it’s probably the case for most families: As parents learn to be parents they ease up a bit on the strictness. Cory was recalling the time he got kicked off the bus for a week and my parents refused to give him a ride. Each day that week he had to wake up an hour early to walk almost three miles to school and then do it again on the way home. As an added bonus, my parents made him stop into their restaurant, which was on the way, just to prove he hadn’t gotten a ride from someone else. Cory remembers this as one of the most arduous and humiliating punishments of his childhood. 

Walking an hour each way to school over here is just a rite of passage. I'm not sure I'm ever going to get used to the sight of dozens and dozens of children, sometimes as young as four or five, walking alone along the highway in their primary school uniforms. The area from which Mungere School pulls our students is wide enough that some of the students walk an hour and a half each way every day. When the rains come, schlepping through mud can sometimes double the journey time. During the second day of student selection this year, a few of the kids forgot to bring back their registration numbers from day one. When they arrived empty handed and were questioned about it, none of them blinked twice. They turned around, headed home swiftly and returned an hour later with their numbers. These kids spent two full days that week waiting in the hot sun for their turn to take the exam, interview with the staff and be given a chance.

More than sixty prospective students wait for their turn to be interviewed. 

They want to go to school. They’ll do whatever it takes, including tell white lies, to try to earn a place in the student roster. The Mungere students come with clean uniforms and clean hands, yet somehow I can’t seem to keep the dirt out of my grimy fingernails for more than ten minutes. Every morning they tidy up the school: rearranging desks, mopping floors and even sometimes landscaping the shrubs and grass. They help in the school garden to grow food for their own lunches. In fact, the newest class of students spent the entire first week of the year gardening. They took down rows of overgrown bougainvillea, hand-tilled dozens of beds of soil, pruned banana trees and watered for hours. They did this to show us their work ethic; to learn the importance of contributing back to the school; to see that the food they would eat comes from their hands and those of their classmates. Simply put: They work hard. And they do all of this with a smile.

Mungere students work in the garden during their activity period. 

There's an expression in Tanzania: "If it's there, it's there" or "Kama ipo ipo tu" in Swahili. I think this can most closely be compared to our expression: "It is what it is." My mom used to say this to me when I was a kid and I despised it. It always felt like such a mom way to say "deal with it." Now, I really love it and say it often myself. It helps me accept things that I can't explain or cannot change. Oh mom, turns out you're pretty smart.

I think this is a big part of the Tanzanian reality. If this is the way it is, then that's the way it's going to be. Doing physical labor at school is not only accepted but expected. Working hard for your education and for your family. Waking up at dawn to walk to school or a neighboring town for market day. Never knowing if you will have electricity (it went out across the whole town for 48 hours this weekend) and not complaining when you don't.

Tanzanian rapper Chemical sings lyrics I don't understand, presumably about this idea of "if it's there, it's there." Mostly I thought you might like to hear some Tanzanian Bongo Flava.

It's a really important perspective for me to consider right now as I'm watching my own country both fall apart and come together. For what feels like the first time in my life, I'm seeing huge masses of people back home standing up for what they believe in. It's so easy for us to complain about our lives, to disagree with what's happening, to wish things could be different. But it's rare that any of us actually try to change things, whether it's a job we dislike or a politician we oppose. I'm proud to see that instead of saying "I don't like this but, meh, what can I do?" Americans are starting to say "I don't like this and this is what I can do!" I guess maybe it isn't always what it is.

But over here... it might be. The big difference I see is that instead of complaining, they just live it. I don't exactly mean to glorify the people here. Trust me, Tanzanians have their own infuriating cultural norms. For example, they'd rather lie to you than tell you something you don't want to hear; I think this goes back to the same idea - it is what it is, so instead of just being honest, they try to explain it away. We went camping this weekend and the wonderfully sweet woman who ran the campsite ultimately told us lie after lie when things didn't work out as planned: Why didn't the kayak I rented ever show up at the lake? Because the guide wasn't here to bring it. Why are the menu items listed not available? Because the car broke down and the chef is stuck in town. Why did you say you would cook us meat if we brought it but now you say you can't? Because we don't have the charcoal. I've heard this called the "Tanzanian Truth." Perhaps this is their version of "Alternative Facts?"

Form I students take a break from gardening. They love yelling"pitcha, pitcha" whenever I have my camera.

These are the things that take some getting used to over here. While I'm impressed every day by the work ethic and tenacity of most people I meet, I'm also frustrated by the total unpredictability of outcomes. It's one thing to expect things to go awry; it's another entirely to never know who is telling the truth. I'm both put at ease by the simplicity of life and disillusioned to know that things are unlikely to change for the people here.

Every culture is so different. I'm currently floating between two very different ideologies - my homeland is fighting against that with which they don't agree, while my new neighbors are simply living the life they were given. It's probably a good thing for me to cultivate a little of both philosophies inside of me. There are plenty of things you cannot change and accepting them is important, but for those you can, fight back!

Special shout out to all those of you back home fighting the good fight right now. I'd join you if I could.

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Comfort in Discomfort

When Trump was elected president, I can't even count how many people said to me how I lucky I was I wouldn't be around to see it through. I think it must have just been a way for people to cope with the weight of what had happened, because now it doesn't really make any sense. I'm still American and I'll be home in half a year. It's actually been quite difficult being here feeling alone this week while the people I love are back home uniting. Luckily I'm living with another American so I've had someone to commiserate with, but in this small town, if people are even familiar with Trump, they aren't expressing any opinions about him. I watched the inauguration in a hotel bar in Arusha, shouting at the TV as I downed a bottle's worth of cheap wine. The bartenders were quite amused by the passionate/drunk American girl, but when we asked how they felt about the new president, they didn't really have much to say. The United States may be the "leader of the free world" but I'm not exactly in that free world right now and what leads here is simply survival.

Watching the women's march this weekend has been remarkable and inspiring, but honestly it's also a little alienating. I feel so proud of the women (and men) I love who are marching, but it also feels impossible to relate to because the women here are living such a different reality. Will we all eat today? Will there be enough water for the cows? Will I have a job tomorrow? Will my husband? It would never occur to the women in Mto wa Mbu to organize a political protest; not only is it illegal to speak out against the government, it would just get in the way of the things they need to do to survive.

Women line the streets of Mto wa Mbu selling fruit until well past sundown

This morning I went for a run down a back road and felt embarrassed in my expensive work out gear with my phone in my hand, passing by women carrying baskets of fruit on their heads to market, teenagers with stacks of green bananas piled six feet high on the backs of their bicycles and shepherds leading their goats as tuk tuks and motorbikes dodged around them. Every day it is so clear that I am a stranger in a very strange world. 

Our new student Losotu stands outside his boma 

One of the best parts about seeing the world is exposing myself to these differences, even when they make me uncomfortable - and usually they do. I'm very lucky because as a part of the organization for which I work, I have a pretty all-access pass to some of the incredibly intimate realities of village life.

Last week I got to enter a boma, which is a Maasai home made from mud and cow dung. While it is possible to go inside these on tourist expeditions, they are typically a little more staged and there is some monetary reward for the owners of the homes. Instead, I was inside the home of a sweet Maasai mama with seven kids (who may or may not all have been hers); we were there to confirm a prospective student truly lived within our selection boundaries. It was completely dark and amazingly cool inside and the mama was shy and sweet - an extreme introvert willing to welcome us into her home so that her son might get the chance to attend our school. Her young baby screeched in fear and tucked into her arms when seeing us - I was later told it was because we were likely the first white people the baby had ever seen. The other children were amazed to touch the skin on my arms and totally enthralled by seeing themselves on my digital camera; I don't know if it was seeing their own faces or the action of swiping the touch screen - which they took turns doing gleefully - that gave them more joy.

Two days ago I visited the Maasai market, which happens every Thursday just outside of my town. All morning vendors make the trip from neighboring villages to sell their wares. Some come on foot with baskets on their heads or pushing loaded wooden carts, while others hire tuk tuks so impossibly full of bananas and gigantic bags of beans that it's a wonder they aren't tipping over. Women set up blankets in the raging sun, on which they rest carefully arranged piles of onions, mangos, lentils and dried fish. Further up the market you'll find long stretches of "shops" where you can choose from an assortment of second hand clothing, accessories shipped from China and a hodge podge of sandals, dress shoes and sneakers. Finally, after walking through the textile traders who offer large pieces of Maasai fabric, blankets and tablecloths, you make your way to the livestock market. This is where you'll find the men. 

They bring their herds of goats and cows to be auctioned off. The best ones are gone by late morning, so when we arrived it was pretty slim pickins; I can't imagine anyone successfully selling the scrawny, emaciated animals that were left, so I choose to believe that they will take them home and do their best to fatten them up, giving them at least another week to live. Last in the market is what we'll call the row of food carts. Young women cook up giant pots of soup, filled to the brim with every part of an animal you could image: intestines, feet, stomach, hair. There are also men butchering meat right there to be cooked to order over a hot flame. I was told not to take pictures in the market unless invited to do so. One of the butchers was a friend of my companion and he said it would be okay, so this is the only thing I could document. Apologies for the gruesome photo, but hey, it's kind of a gruesome business. 

This week I've watched parents bombard our executive director all over town to try to convince her their child should get into the school regardless of their merit. I've seen locals get angry with my friend Sheb for trying to help me get a reasonable price (they seem to all believe that he should be on their side just because I'm white). My first night here we passed a wreck with a man stuck in the cab of the truck; there were dozens of men on the side of the road in the dark, working together to build some sort of makeshift jaws-of-life tool to help get the man out, though he appeared to already be dead. It seems like every day I am exposed to a new kind of challenge, be it glimpses of poverty or simply cultural unknowns. 

But I've also watched countless children giggle with delight when I smile and wave or even better yet, attempt to greet them in Swahili. I've seen dadas (which means sister and is used to describe women my age), express sincere gratitude at the business we've conducted and I felt happy knowing that what seemed like a negligible amount to me was incredibly valuable to them. When our car died on the way to Arusha and I hopped out to push, a police officer who had undoubtedly just been bribing someone else, joined me and we laughed as we pushed the Land Cruiser together - he in his uniform and me in my flip flops. Best of all, I watched more than twenty children show up on their first day of school at Mungere with the biggest smiles on their faces, knowing that their futures had suddenly just become a lot brighter.

The new Form I students race to get in line for introductions on their first day of school

This is why I travel. To see the things that can be incredibly hard and different but are inevitably beautiful and real. Each day that goes by I become a little more comfortable here but I doubt Africa will ever stop surprising me. 

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