Mikumi

I leaned forward, hovering slightly, before lashing out with one flat hand. The driver caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to me. My hand skidded over the top of his scalp instead of whacking him square in the back of the head.

When on safari, smacking the tsetse flies off the person next to you before they bite is a courtesy. Not assault.

Our voyage to Mikumi National Park was, in a word, epic. We had arranged for a car the night before our trip and were under the impression our combined 600,000 Tsh would include a car, driver, entrance to the park, and our car in the park. We crammed into a small SUV, five students with four available seats. One person was forced to sit in the luggage compartment behind the back seats. We rotated this dubious honor amongst ourselves throughout the day, the person in the back referred to as den bikkja bakerst, "the dog in the back."

Sadly, as most matters of money turn out in Tanzania, there was a misunderstanding. Our driver told us once we reached the park that our 600,000 Tsh covered his pay and the use of his car. The car was ours to use for the day, but if we used a park car we would end up paying for two hours of driving. We settled down at the entrance to the park, put-out and whining. There was no way the five of us would put up 600,000 for one driver and car, 100,000 for a safari car, 20,000 for a guide, plus 120,000 for park entrance, and then lunch.

As negotiations were being made I wandered off to take pictures of the impala herd that started grazing around the park entrance. These things are everywhere.


Eventually we sorted our dilemma. We would only pay for the park entrance and we would use the car we already hired, we would trade-off being den jaevla bikkja bakerst, and give up a huge safari car with open roof for standing. We turned down the guide and asked our car driver to drive us through the park.

Thus we set off, five students and a driver who had never driven through a national park before, driving someone else's car. On my first bus trip to Arusha the driver played a movie about an American family that goes on vacation to Africa. The step-mom and kids take a safari in a park. The driver gets out of the car, and subsequently is killed and eaten by lions. The rest of the movie is spent documenting the horror of the family as numerous rescues and friends get killed. And eaten. By lions. While on safari.

I thought about this movie a lot, especially when we stopped in a muddy pit to catch pictures of hippos in a pond. Did you know hippos kill more humans than any other animal in Africa? True story.

And there is a hippo in this pond, can you see his nostril?*


We also stopped and looked at a crocodile, but they're not fast enough to get into a car, are they? I like to think he's mumbling, "Damn kids, get off my lawn!"


Connoisseurs of man-flesh aside, the park was full of amazing wildlife. Giraffes nibbled green leaves, deftly avoiding the finger-long thorns of acacia trees. The younger ones were nervous of the car and would run away with gigantic, slow-motion strides. There's something so ridiculous about giraffes, but at the same time so incredibly beautiful.





Oh, what else was there? Water buffalo (they're pretty damn dangerous, too), one single gnu (or wildebeest) trying to camouflage himself amidst yet another herd of impala. Monkeys and turkey things, too! Or are they large quail things?









Our driver told me he had not been in the park since he was a little boy. He enjoyed seeing the animals as much as we did, although it was obvious he hadn't taken the Safari Driver's Safety Course, as we experienced more than one elephant charging the car in warning. And trust me, no one wants to deal with pissed pachyderms.




Why did the elephant and her baby cross the road? To get to the other side. Duh.


I'm fairly certain all of you are aware by now that I am an unrepentant horse lover. Even though my fellow students said they were so hungry their stomachs were growling, I begged for the driver to stop so we could take pictures of a little herd of zebras. They're just so cute! Say it with me now, Awww...








Other than the crocodile we saw no meat eaters. However, lion tracks dotted one of the roads. The driver called in to the ranger station. A lion was reported traversing the park early in the morning, but they were mostly active in the evening and in the mornings, a daytime sighting in tall grass was nearly impossible. Too bad, but with the man-eating movie fresh in my mind I wasn't too disappointed.

And finally my dears, for your ogling pleasure, several gratuitous butt-shots. (The hippos and crocodile were, apparently, not those kinds of individuals. The prudes.)


* Trick question, there's actually two hippopotami in that photo. Who knows if they're male or female, you can't make judgement calls like that based on a photo. Besides, there has to be two, what other reason do I have to write hippopotami? Seriously.

How was your day?

I don't have much time to blog. I'm very tired after a long day looking at...giraffe butts.


And a lot of other butts, too.

We went on a little safari today to Mikuni National Park. We saw all sorts of animals (but no lions or hyenas, mostly grazers), and it was all very exciting and I promise I will blog more and load pictures.

Until then, you'll have to satisfy yourself with on-road giraffe butt.

Ut På Tur, Aldri Sur

That's what the Norwegians say.

The rain started last night, just after I got of Skype with Sverre. It's nearly 10:30 A.M., twelve hours later, and it is still coming down. I saw the storm approaching last night while I was at dinner, all the lightening, thunder and wind foretold this would be a big 'un. Long, at the very least.


Fortunately, I took myself out on a long walk yesterday. There's so much to see around campus.

Cattle grazing by the on-campus bank (I just can't get over this, it tickles me each time I see animals in odd places).


Students playing soccer.


School farm plots.



The red dirt pathways winding all over the campus.

A Tale of Two Cities...In Which I've Been Robbed

Arusha is a big, bustling city. It is the jumping off point to Serengeti and Ngorogoro, so it is filled with a mix of local Tanzanians and tourists. It's quite easy to spot the tourists; they cross streets and take up sidewalks, pale-fleshed herds poorly camouflaged in khaki, “perfect accessories for Africa!,” and wearing matching hats. They stay for a day or two, haggling with safari operators over the best price and offers, then make their way out to see the Big Five of the animal kingdom, shooting from the rugged jeeps with Canons and Nikons instead of weapons.

Tourists are easy pickings for the thieves of Arusha. Most of us, unused to the need for such a high level of personal security, are foolish enough to leave things out in the open, or display our highly-priced gadgets where they are easily spotted by members of local thief-rings. We are used to gentler public environments.

Last year, a classmate of mine was heading down to Tanzania. She was Canadian, and her room at the university would not be held for her as she would board a plane for home the morning after she arrived back in Norway. So I offered to let her keep her suitcase packed full of winter clothes and accessories in our basement storage unit. She hauled her things to Oslo, and we wrestled the bulky luggage down the narrow basement stairs.

The door to the storage unit swung open, looking menacing in the dank shadows cast by the dirty concrete walls—for some reason the cleaning personnel never seem to make it down there to sweep and mop. “Shit,” I breathed. “This isn't good.”

Someone had cut the padlock that secured the door of our unit and had dumped all of my Christmas decorations on the floor. After the initial shock wore off, Sverre and I concluded that they must have been drug addicts, or someone like that, for nothing of value was taken. The old laptops, the winter barn jackets, the sled...nothing that could have been easily transported and sold was gone. Instead, all that was missing was a box full of cheap Christmas decorations from Nille, the Norwegian equivalent of the dollar store.

My friend's suitcase stayed in my living room for the duration of her trip, safe and untouched. We informed our neighbor, a member of the building's board, about the robbery, and an investigation was carried out. The building security now patrols the basement daily. (Why didn't they do this before? Maybe they were supposed to and slacked off, I don't know.)

Break-ins are not uncommon in Oslo. While there is a feeling of general safety, pick-pockets have become increasingly active in the downtown area, and last summer's and fall's spike of rape attacks had the whole city on edge. But I've never felt the fear of being openly robbed, or mugged, in broad daylight. I think I look out for myself well enough.

After three days in Arusha, I was feeling comfortable there as well. After threading through markets, standing in front of butcher shops with hot meat dangling from their iron hooks, curious onlookers pressing in close around us as we interviewed meat shop operators and buyers, I thought I knew how to handle myself. I kept my bag firmly slung over my neck and shoulder, with my arm resting over the zipper. I kept nothing in my pockets. Batting at the flies circling in the butcher shop where we stood, restless in the heat, I was inwardly pleased with how well I was adapting.

Another round of surveys done, we piled into the car. Normally my Tanzanian supervisor took the window seat, punching data into his iPad, the window open to let in air, me smooshed between him and a Norwegian scientist. The professor, that veritable old gentleman, always took the front seat, and the other students and ministry employees crammed in the back. This time, however, I took the window seat. I was eager to catch pictures of the people of town, albeit surreptitiously. What I really wanted to catch was a picture of the Masai who from time-to-time walked down the street, talking into their cellphones. I wanted visual proof of the incongruity that is the Western mental picture of Africa and the reality of Tanzania.

That reality slammed into me while the jeep moved slowly through traffic.

I had been careful to keep my hands and telephone, my shiny new Samsung Galaxy, inside the vehicle. I even had the presence of mind to shut the window often. But I had just missed the perfect photo op, and was determined to wait for it to come again. That's when the thief struck.

He hit the side of the car which such force the professor sitting in the front seat was sure the driver had hit a pedestrian. Others in the car thought we had been hit by another vehicle. For that split second, only I knew what was happening. The man had slammed hard into the side of the car by my window, reached in, and snatched the phone from my fingers. We stared each other in the eye, and he turned as I lunged after him, swatting at his hands and yelling, “HEY!” at the top of my lungs. While I was unable to snatch the phone back, he was forced to drop it on the asphalt. He swooped it from the road, and in a flash was running into the slums, jumping the barriers.

My supervisor, when he realized what was happening, leaned over me pointing and shouting, “Mwizi!” Thief! as loudly as he could. The car pulled over, my buddy from the bus ride to Arusha and the younger men took off into the slums after the thief. My hands shook, and I paced back and forth, scrubbing my hands over my eyes while inwardly calling myself six kinds of fool.

The professor whisked me into a cab and we filed a police report. When the rhythm of acting, instead of reacting, established itself he called an old student—the police commissioner of Arusha.

“The professor is an old man,” my buddy told me when he returned, patting my shoulder in comfort. “He knows everyone.”

Apparently so. To this day the phone is still floating around Arusha somewhere, though the police have a good idea of who has it. After learning that suspects can be and will be put to hard question here, I don't think it's worth a telephone. It makes me question the social forces in place that would cause someone to risk such pain in order to get something to sell. The phone was eventually sold down the chain for a fraction of its real worth, we know this now, but it still makes me sad to think of.

Now, nearly two weeks later, I've learned even more. I've let the phone go, mentally, though the first few days after the theft were stressful. I've collected everything I need to make an insurance claim back home, fortunately our kick-ass travel insurance we bought for our trip to the U.S. last year is still valid. My buddy calls every now and then to give me police updates, though I tell him not to use up time from his own work and family. It's just a thing, I tell everyone, it can be replaced. Still I think they feel responsible, the guilty feeling you get when a guest has a bad time at your home. I don't travel alone off campus (which has made this week excruciatingly boring, I can't wait for the other Norwegian students to get here tomorrow), and I don't carry my purse anymore. The first time my supervisor saw me fish money from my bra strap he laughed and said, “You're doing it African style.”

Maybe. I still think back on those brief moments of shock and cringe at my stupidity. But then, as with the break-in at our apartment, sometimes shit happens. I glimpsed the uglier side of Tanzania that day, but as with Norway, I can't give up on it because something bad happened. I've adapted well to Norway, learned how to cope with its ups and downs, and now I've learned a little about Tanzania, too.

Beside me, on my desk, sits a truly craptacular phone.

Horses outside my office

Oh, horses! Outside and roaming around, deciding to stop by and visit me!

Alright, so maybe they weren't too thrilled to have me flitting around, clucking and trying to pet them. Everyone else on campus seems to ignore their presence. But, oh! Pretty...