My Parents' Visit: Round Three

I had a council meeting in Dar, hence the delayed update. Its a long one (yeah, even for me).

That evening, as we relaxed before dinner, we were surprised by the weather on the rim- a sharp, cold wind was blowing incessantly, inescapable and penetrating. Imagine being in the middle of a safari and wishing you’d brought a coat; it seemed incongruous. As the wind continued, it began to bode ill for us campers, bringing with it those frightful and somber dark clouds that we in the Pacific Northwest know so well. Being at the crest of the crater, it seemed likely that the thunderheads might break above us, but when we went to bed, the ground was still dry. That was not to last.

At around midnight, the clouds gave up on holding back their shores of condensation, and a furious rainstorm erupted. Rain drops fell from the sky, cascading downwards with increasing velocity until they struck our tents. These tents were apparently not designed to be rain-proof, or even rain-resistant. After less than five minutes, our rainflys were soaked through and plastered to the roof of the tents, enabling the rain to pass through unimpeded. The first few drops that landed on my face and woke me up were the saddest thing. The saddest. Bill yelled over the din of the storm and its fury, telling me that it was like there was a person standing over their tent pouring buckets of water on them. My mom hunkered down in her sleeping bag, wrapping herself around her (and soon to be, my) new camera, trying to protect it from the deluge. Half an hour later, the rain lessened to a drizzle, and I’ve never been so happy to see a drizzle while camping. Our sleeping bags, our tents, and most of our packs were drenched, and it was only one in the morning. Have you ever tried sleeping while cold and wet? It’s a less fun experience than sleeping dry and warm. Luckily however, the rain didn’t return, body warmth eventually prevailed over sopping bags, and we were able to get some sleep. In the morning, Bill showed me inside my parents’ tent- there was at least three inches of standing water in the lower half. So yeah, you might say we had equipment problems.

Okaka, incorrigible rascal that he is, had opted to stay at a nearby cheap guest house (perhaps he was familiar with Ngorongoro rim weather patterns?) and arrived well-rested, happy, and dry. When we acquainted him with the details of our rough night, he laughed the same belly laugh that we’d heard the previous day when the baby gnu was in danger. It was the right response, and after some coffee and fruit, we felt rejuvenated enough to “tackle” Ngorongoro.

Let’s see what I can remember about the crater off of the top of my head (that my friends Ivan and Shawn won’t either mock me for or look up and correct; “friends” huh). Ngorongoro is the world’s largest dormant volcanic crater, being around twenty kilometers wide and fifteen long. The wildlife is highly diverse, largely due to the alkali lakes which are enough to sustain life year-round. Even while the great migration is taking place, the wildebeests in the crater remain; they still have access to water. All of the “big five” safari animals are visible in the crater (these being rhinoceros, wildebeest, lion, leopard, and....um...maybe hippo or eland or cheetah or buffalo, I don’t recall). One can see two of the most beautiful larger bird species: the crowned crane and the flamingo (greater and lesser). Personally, I was most excited to see cheetahs and rhinoceros, both of which are quite rare or absent in the Serengeti.

Within five minutes of reaching the crater floor (by means of a steep, winding access road), we were treated to our first cheetah sighting. Far in the distance, one crouched motionless on his haunches, apparently saving energy for one of those legendary bursts of feline speed. As we continued, we kept seeing large animals in the distance which I constantly assumed were rhinos; Okaka must’ve grown tired of repeatedly telling us that they were actually just more Cape buffalo.

The roads in the crater suffer from its moist climate and heavy rainfall it sees, as was evidenced by the profusion of mud patches, severe ruts, and stomach-lurching bumps and potholes. We began our tour by skirting the main salt lake, and immediately the variety of animals living in Ngorongoro was plain- in half an hour we’d seen hippos, four or five gazelle, antelope and cousin species, flamingo and crane, buffalo, zebra, wildebeest, warthog, hyena, and various species of birds. I’m sure I’m forgetting others... My mom and Bill were in awe that the manifold animals co-existed so readily. “It’s just like Wildlife Safari!” Bill kept exclaiming, referring to a drive-through animal viewing park in southern Oregon which was designed to emulate the animals’ natural habitats. I suppose it’s an entirely different experience seeing them live together in the wild. Honestly, any direction we looked we were treated to a profusion of species; the abundance was overwhelming and beautiful.

We passed the morning cruising around, repeatedly witnessing the crater’s hoards, taking fantastic (or so I assume; I have yet to see them) pictures of it all. Sometime before lunch, we stumbled upon a small pride of lionesses (Okaka said there are some twenty prides in total throughout the Ngorongroro). What was enlightening about this particular sighting was the number of vehicles that had lined up to observe the great beasts. You can’t help but feel like a tourist when there are fifteen other vehicles exactly like yours, arranged end-to-end in a semicircle around an animal, all Tanzanian drivers, all white passengers. You can delve into that one if you want, I’ll leave it alone.

Leaving the photo frenzy behind, we headed towards a well-known hippo and elephant pool. En route, Okaka saw yet another lion pride, this time on the move. We watched them lope along, a bubble of fear forming around them as other animals moved out of their way. As we reached the pool, Okaka’s guide-sense was tingling, and he told us we could come back and see the hippos later, that we should follow the lions instead. There were maybe five other vehicles at the pool, looking at the hippos and elephants mingling in the cool water. Amazingly, we were able to spend less than five minutes at the pool before we agreed to take Okaka’s advice and move on (this is amazing due to my mother’s pure joy in taking scands of pictures). Leaving the other people behind us, Okaka raced down a rarely-traveled side road and parked near a small herd of zebra.
Sure enough, his instincts were spot-on, and shortly we spotted the trotting lions coming over a crest some two hundred meters behind the zebra.

This was the third hunt we’d had the fortune to watch, and it didn’t disappoint. One other vehicle eventually showed up and watched with us, and over the following half hour, one lioness had expertly used long grass, wind, and the terrain to position herself within ten meters of the zebra. We waited expectantly, assuming that she would lunge and nail an unwary zebra at any moment. Then, in what must be the worst luck of the day, a single, lonesome wildebeest came out of nowhere, walking directly between the zebra and the lioness. It must have been within five meters of the lioness without noticing her; the wildebeest never had a chance. Bam! The lioness sprang from its hollow with such alacrity that I hardly glimpsed its motion. The hunt was over before it began, zebras scattering in terror and the wildebeest hanging on for dear life as a hungry lioness clung to its body, raking and biting. How's that for agility? Almost instantly, other lions appeared and joined in, trying to bring their massive prey down. At one point, there were two lioness and two cubs all attacking the wildebeest, while it stubbornly stood its ground, refusing to fall, refusing to die. It all ended when a third lioness came up from behind and jumped on the wildebeest’s back, driving it to the ground with her weight. Its knees buckled, down it went, the hunt ended and the feast began.

Wow, what a thing to witness. Cross that off the list, huh? I might sound morbid, but getting to see a lion kill was one of the highlights of the safari for me. Even my mom was okay with watching it, as it wasn’t a baby. Okaka kept laughing about the wildebeest’s stupidity. Bill and I just felt gratified and lucky that we were there to see it all go down. Okaka, that immaculate guide, told us there are usually about five kills each full day (including night, remember lions are also nocturnal hunters). I had to chuckle and shake my head recalling all the other tourists who we left looking at hippos; we outdid them, yeah?

The rest of the day seemed to pass in a blur, our climax having been reached. Eventually, we saw some rhinos in the distance, and another cheetah, but the lion hunt was still resounding and jading our viewing. Other things I can say about Ngorongoro- there are more zebras than you would think is possible; the monkeys in the forest wanted to fight me; the road heading out of the crater is terrifying, and I don’t even get vertigo (Okaka told us later that many tourists “cry and are very scared” during the ascent). It was a beautiful place, not only for the plethora of unusual animals which inhabit it, but for the landscape itself. The mountainous rim provides a stunning background to the wildlife, and the alkali lakes, the forests, and grasslands are all uniquely fantastic. For anyone looking to be overwhelmed by nature’s beauty and profusion, the crater is well worth your time.

That night passed without incident; the rainstorm was not repeated (although we’d taken precautions, using Okaka’s tent and tarp as additional rainflys) and we slept deeply. Awaking the following morning, we realized our safari had reached its final day. As we were so far from Mwanza, our departure and return point, almost the entire day was devoted to the journey back. This was a grand opportunity to view the true diversity of Tanzania’s environment. We traveled from the rugged volcanic highlands of the crater to the sweeping expansiveness of the southern Serengeti, and then back through all the locales that awed us on our first day in the park. The tse-tse flies came back in full force during the second half of our trip, and I can’t say we weren’t relieved when we saw the exit gate, signaling our proximity to Mwanza. While Bill and I shared a congratulatory Heineken, my mom picked up some distinctly Tanzanian souvenirs (statues and bowls made from ebony or soapstone) at the gate; we all felt gratified.

Back in Mwanza, we had several hours to burn before taking the overnight ferry back to Bukoba. My mom and I went to the local crafts market, where she wanted to buy some gifts for friends. After having traveled all day, my nerves were shot and when I noticed that all she was bringing to the market was money and a big, fancy camera, I became unduly agitated (to be fair, theft is pretty damn common here, and nothing says “rob me!” like a camera around the neck). In the sweltering heat, the market made both of us woozy and we spent a bit less time shopping than she might’ve enjoyed on a cooler day. Nonetheless, she found a more than a few good gifts for a fair price before we headed back. My mom is the queen of bargain shopping, even in a hot Tanzanian crafts market.

We had time to catch a nice dinner before the ferry departed, so we went to the New Mwanza Hotel’s balcony restaurant. The menu at this place is like fifteen pages of Indian, Chinese, and Italian dishes; another epicurean oasis. Hot, tired, and beat, I ordered a cold Stella Artois. There are times when the first drink of a beer transcends the simple act of slaking a thirst, of enjoying its taste, and becomes more, an experience that rejuvenates the soul and refreshes the spirit. My first drink of that ice-cold Stella was one of the best drinks of beer I’ve ever had; I can still recall the feeling, more than the taste. The feeling of my heat and exhaustion being washed away under the cascade of cool ambrosia. Brilliance. I think the food was pretty good too.

The ferry ride went without incident. Our arrival in Bukoba spawned in me those homecoming feelings that we all welcome but rarely experience; my mom and Bill told me they felt the same relief. Before we’d left for the safari, my parents had bought some material and taken it to my tailor, to get some custom Tanzanian clothes made (the Bukoba Nordstrom is overpriced). We went to pick them up, and were delighted to find that he’d done (almost) exactly what we had agreed upon. I’ve heard many horror stories about miscommunications with tailors about alterations of one’s favorite dress and so on... My parents now have authentic, custom-made Tanzanian outfits; ask them to model their new styles for you. Very fancy, very fantastic.

As soon as we got home and rested a bit, Jack Bauer was back in action on my laptop, and his day hadn’t gotten any better (in fact, despite his best efforts, it kept getting worse). At four in the afternoon, Manuel showed up, and he, Bill and I went to teach my basketball players a thing or two. Let me tell you this: Bill has got some moves. The players immediately gave him the nickname “Bouncer” for his skill at wrestling the ball from other players and protecting it, and his rebounding. It was a fun game, despite the sweaty exhaustion we white folk always cultivate during the two hours of ball. If you are wondering “who won?” I should let you know that when we ball, the teams are as liquid as...well...yeah. The teams at the end of the game have only a passing resemblance to the original teams, so I guess I’d say that Bill was the winner, with Manuel being a close runner-up. After taking very critical bucket-baths and drinking about two gallons of water apiece, we made some pancakes for dinner, and let the comfort of being at home seep through our bones as we relaxed.

The next morning, we met with Manuel at the only tourism office in Bukoba. We’d planned to have a “Haya Cultural Day” in which we explored a bit of the area around Bukoba, ate some traditional foods, saw a famous local church, and watched the famous Haya drum and dancing ceremony. The tour guides, while not on a level with Okaka, were knowledgeable and pleasant. Our first stop was some mysterious rock paintings about an hour’s drive from Bukoba. I say mysterious for three reasons: first, no one knows when they were painted (the guide said “at least two hundred years ago” but maybe a lot more); second, no one knows what they were painted with (some red ochre type plant, but nothing like that is indigenous here); third, no one know what they represent (although Manuel had his highly expert guesses). On the path to the rocks, we stumbled across a bright green snake. This could have been either a green mamba (pretty poisonous) or a boomslang (very poisonous). Either way, I was glad I was wearing my highly protective teva sandals. The rocks were cool, and truly unique for the area, but sadly had been defaced to a degree we are unaccustomed to in America. Apparently the nearby village has a school, and many of the students bring the school chalk to the rock paintings. They then proceed to write their names directly over the historic paintings. How frustrating, coming from a country where conservation of such monuments is taken as a matter of course. There were precious few original drawings that hadn’t been scrawled on, and it left a bad taste in all our mouths.

From there we visited a famous church that has some ties to the Virgin Mary. I’m not sure why or what, but yearly there is a large festival that draws thousands from all over East Africa to this remote little place, to pray and receive Our Lady’s blessing. While not a staunch follower of any religion, I have to admit, this place really resonated with me. I can’t do it justice by describing it in words, but the locale of the church was so placid, it emanated true peace. It was set in a narrow dell, surrounded by a canopy of verdant trees and a thin stream twisted its lethargic way under the church. I told my parents that if I could ever be a monk or give my life to the church, this is where I could do it. We all went and received ablutions from the stream where it exited the holy church, and were on our way. I’ll try to get a picture of this place to post. Tranquility exemplified.

The traditional food and dance was next on our agenda, but we were a bit early, so we took a detour to a local waterfall. Bill was laughing as he mentioned the number of waterfalls in Douglas County (where I’m from and they live). It was fun, even to us jaded waterfall-rich Oregonians. The path going to the base of the falls was not so much a trail as it was us picking our way down a cliff. The last twenty meters down was the best: someone had come in and cut down all the shrubbery and saplings, and left them on the “trail”, forcing us to climb down this heap of branches and such, not actually ever setting foot on the ground. The view of the falls was rewarding, especially for Manuel, who basked in the spray for a good ten minutes (apparently waterfalls aren’t as common in his native Peru). Climbing back up was less fun, and by the time we were back in the car, all of us were sweatier than when we played ball the previous day.

By the time we arrived at the house where we’d be eating the Haya foods, the natural air conditioning (read: open windows) had cooled us off and reduced our sweatiness to an acceptable level. We were invited inside this Mama’s house, where we sat on rushes on the floor and waited to be served lunch. When it was ready, the lunch was laid out upon several large banana leaves. The primary food for the Wahaya people is a boiled banana and beans combination that Mama set directly on the leaves. On top of this, she had made some six or seven side dishes, including spinach leaves, boiled fish, some sort of meat, a peanut sauce, and other foods. It was a great lunch, made even better by the delicious juice she served us to wash it down (a passion-pineapple juice, made with lemongrass and ginger! Oh man...). My parents seemed to enjoy the act of eating it more than they enjoyed the food itself, which I suppose is the point.

As we exited Mama’s house, a fast, deep drum beat kicked up. We walked toward it, and found ourselves watching “ngoma”- the traditional dancing and drumming of the Haya people (actually, ngoma means drum in Swahili, but we’ll let that slide). For almost half an hour, this four person dance troupe shivered, shimmied, and shook to the persistent beat of the drummer. Manuel and I both agreed that it was “really cool” and my parents took some great video of the dancing. Some of the dances were recognizable, including one mock-up of the twist, and other dances were completely foreign to us, like this one-footed hop thing. I’m glad to have seen it, it made me feel like I know a bit more about the people who I’ve been living with for the last year or so.

After our “cultural day” was over, we returned to our standard of relaxing, talking, and watching “24”. This continued until the next evening, when another American in the area, Gayle, had invited us over for dinner. It was the only time my parents had a chance to visit with all of my friends here in Bukoba. Jodi and Manuel were there, and Gayle of course, and our Tanzanian friend John. Again my parents were eager to hear more about life here from other people, especially from Gayle, who has a different perspective than us volunteers, being a middle-aged primary school teacher with a focus on music. Gayle outdid herself and cooked some delicious food, probably the best I’ve ever had in Bukoba. The conversation was good; we delved into a lot of the cultural differences that we expatriates have to deal with in our lives here. Manuel, being the only non-American expat, kept acting like he didn’t know what we were talking about and continually repeated his mantra: “I’m foreign!” (imagine him saying like Mario would).

On our final day in Bukoba, we’d planned on visiting the fishing village which I helped with writing a grant in the morning. Unfortunately, my parents needed to confirm their reservations for their flight home, and we didn’t have the number. The next two hours were spent with my mom, Bill, and I taking turns calling every number we could find that might help, starting with the Dar Es Salaam airport (even though they were flying out of Entebbe). While we were using the local payphones in town to do this, it began pouring rain. This was a bad sign for our impending village trip. In the end, we tallied that we’d spoken to at least ten different people before finally calling the correct number and confirming the reservations. To be honest, I was amazed that we succeeded. I’m no stranger to communications in East Africa (if you are wondering why we didn’t get the number online, you are a stranger to communications in East Africa; all the internet cafes were defunct that morning, naturally). By the time we’d returned home, the rain had let up, but it was much later than when we’d planned to meet with the villagers, so we decided just to relax, talk, do some Bauer (later, it turns out that the rain had dissuaded them from coming at all, so no feelings were hurt). At some point in the afternoon, when we had about six episodes left, the power went out. This forced us to A) not watch any more “24”, B) have to use candles to pack our luggage, and C) get some of the students’ food for our dinner (this included plain rice and rock-infested beans).

We caught the bus back in the early morning, bidding farewell to Ihungo, Bukoba, and then to Tanzania itself. The driver of this bus was more…sane, but I could still tell that my mom and Bill couldn’t wait for the trip to be over. We got into Kampala in the early afternoon, got ripped off by a taxi driver, and settled into our hotel rooms. The power was out, so “24” would have to wait. In the meantime, we went for a nice leisurely walk, happy to stretch our legs after the bus ride. We meandered toward the biggest, cleanest, and best craft market in East Africa, a place that I thought my mom would go crazy over. When we first walked in, she whispered to me, “I doubt I’ll buy anything, I’ve already gotten everything I want.” She was wrong. But to her credit, despite the sheer magnitude of this place and the availability of any curios one might possibly want, she only bought a few things. When we got back to the hotel, the power was back, so we watched a few more episodes of Bauer before dinnertime rolled around. You have to understand, by this point, “24” was something we HAD to finish. I would not allow them to leave with all the discs if I hadn’t watched all of it, and they weren’t planning on leaving it behind. It had claimed us.

For dinner, we’d planned on heading to the Kampala Carnivore at Half-London, the same place I went last year with Malara and ate crocodile. After a long taxi ride with a myopic old Ugandan with a discouragingly battered car, we reached the restaurant. Rather, we reached where it used to be, that is. In the last year, it went out of business and was in the process of being demolished. Curse the day! So there we were, hungry, far from the city center and its plethora of restaurants, and with the Mr. Magoo of taxi drivers. We asked if there was anything like the Half-London nearby, and eventually ended up at a French restaurant. Crocodile....French...I don’t see the connection. But en route to the French joint, we’d passed a name I recognized from the Lonely Planet guide book I’d brought with me last year- a famous Ethiopian restaurant. My parents said “what the heck, why not?” and we went for it. I now strongly urge any of you who have never had Ethiopian food to stop whatever you are doing right now, especially if it is reading this, and drive to the nearest Ethiopian restaurant. My mind was blown by this food, and my mom and Bill agreed it was beyond delicious. Keep in mind, this is no Tex-Mex or whatever, it’s a totally different way of eating. The tablecloth is edible and the dishes you order are poured onto it, then you rip off pieces of the tablecloth and scoop up whatever tastes good to you (it all will taste good to you). In the end, I feel pretty fortunate that we didn’t get crocodile, which isn’t all that great anyway.

The next day, we caught a taxi to Entebbe, and awaited my parents’ flight home (at eleven in the evening). We all had a number of emotions stirring- my parents were looking at flying back home to work, leaving behind their son and the drastically different life they’d begun to adjust to and enjoy; I was looking at saying goodbye to two people who know me so well and returning to a country of (relative) strangers, and also it was hard to realize they were heading home and I was staying. So most of the day we spent talking, reminiscing, discussing my life plans after here, and such things. We had a long, meaningful talk that lasted throughout the day, interrupted only by meals and the last few episodes of “24” (which we managed to finish; Jack saved the day, pass it on). Before we knew it, the time came and we caught the cab to the airport, said a short goodbye, and they were on their way.

I’m not sure if I’ve felt lonelier in my tenure here than I did when I took that cab back to my (now) empty hotel room. Having my parents constantly around me was a great comfort, despite the occasional difficulties in translating or cultural oddities. I guess this is where I write “thanks” to them. Mom, Bill, thanks so much for coming and seeing me here. It meant more to me than you know.

That’s it... I appreciate ((you)) reading all of what I wrote.