The sun would rise at any moment.
I stood in an open grassy space in the Serengeti and watched a half dozen men prepare the green and white hot air balloon that billowed in the light breeze. Every few seconds I turned toward the horizon behind me, afraid that I might miss the sun’s grand entrance. “You’ll load in like an astronaut,” Frank, our balloon pilot explained to the sixteen of us gathered in a half moon around him. I had no idea how an astronaut ‘loaded,’ but caught on when Frank popped into the basket, which laid on its side.
The sun had just barely risen when we loaded into the basket as Frank showed us. He ignited the flame that we were putting our lives in the hands of and in short order the balloon was rising so smoothly that we’d reached nearly 1000 feet before I remembered my fear of heights. Below me wildebeest and zebra stampeded in no particular direction. A pride of lions strolled through a clearing. Hippos gracelessly flopped into a slow moving stream. A lone cheetah paused and looked up at us. As far as I could see in any direction, miles of grassland rolled out like golden carpeting dotted with Acacia trees, each one almost poignant in its placement and near-symmetrical silhouette.
“Tumaini would love this,” I said to David, who agreed. Nobody could possibly adore the Serengeti or its wildlife as much as our safari guide.
From the moment we met Tumaini, a soft spoken, almost bashful, man in his late 20s, his pride for Tanzania was unmistakable.
As we rattled over rutted roads in his rough and tumble Land Cruiser, Tumaini explained why the weaver birds build their nests on the tip of branches (snakes) and why giraffe’s have the largest hearts (to pump the blood up their long necks) and what an elephant’s greatest enemy is (ants).
The intake of these bite-sized facts was made a mouthful due to Tumaini’s poor english (or our lack of Swahili). The language barrier was surmountable but not without effort and creativity. A few days into our time together, David endeavored to explain the US’ involvement in global politics (in response to Tumaini’s question ‘why doesn’t America give more money to some countries and less to Tanzania?’). I felt like a human thesaurus, feeding alternate words whenever Tumaini’s brow furrowed. ‘Friction’ became ‘dispute,’ then ‘disagreement,’ and finally: ‘don’t like each other.’
At other times, our communication looked more like a game of charades – reaching its most absurd (and politically incorrect) level when, desperately trying to explain Native American ‘Indians,’ I found my hand clapping over my mouth in the imitation of a war call while David stroked an imaginary feather coming out of the back of his head. Our conversations continued in this manner, proving exhausting at times but well worth the effort.
While in the Serengeti, we stayed in a semi-permanent tented camp just a few miles outside of the park’s boundaries – a line which obviously meant nothing to the animals, whose relative danger I had not fully comprehended until the first night. After dinner, we stood by the small campfire located just 30 yards from our tent and a moment later a man from the camp appeared with a bow and arrow hanging over his shoulder He shone a flashlight into the bushes in a wide arch, searching for lurking animals.
“Do you think I could go for a run here if I got him to come with me?” I jokingly asked David.
I did; however, get to run where we overnighted on our way back from the Serengeti. Situated at the top of a hill overlooking a storybook-like valley of small farms, ‘Rhotia Valley Tented Lodge’ earned a solid spot on my ‘places I’d love to live’ list.
The lodge is owned and operated by a Dutch couple (physicians) who fell so in love with Tanzania that they not only wanted to live there but also do something to improve the community. And so, from the deck of the lodge, you can look across a short distance to another hilltop where they’ve built a Children’s Home, which houses particularly ‘needy’ orphans from town. Profits from the lodge help to feed, clothe and house the children.
In a conversation with George, the lodge’s owner and a genuine inspiration, we learned that what most excites him is the lodge’s full-time employment of 60 people. “That’s 60 people who didn’t have any source of income before,” he said. “This makes a real difference for their families and the town.”
‘Source of income’ was a talking point during our time in Tanzania.
Our safari was book-ended by visits to the Maasai people – one of the most notorious tribes in Tanzania. We first toured (though I hate to use that word) a village of ‘Modern Maasai,’ located at the base of Mount Meru. Known as ‘modern’ because they’ve evolved their culture to incorporate agriculture (whereas traditional Maasai survive mainly on cattle) and most have shed the traditional red and blue cloaks for more modern attire, influenced by their interactions with others in town.
We first met with the director of the program that enabled our visit to the village. Eliakimnu, a humble and resourceful member of the tribe who recognized two things:
1. Westerners are curious about how the Maasai people live.
2. The Maasai community needs income to fund their schools and support the overwhelmingly large number of orphans.
“We want your ideas,” Eliakimnu said to us after explaining the community’s needs. He called over a little girl playing nearby who wore a dirty pink GAP sweatshirt. She stood in the doorway, her fingers hanging from her bottom lip, and gawked at us. He explained that she was an orphan due to begin primary school but needed a sponsor. He genuinely did not imply that we should be that for her, but how could I not want to be? And I suppose that was what he knew.
Afterward, a man named Joffrey walked us up a dusty road that cut through small crops of maize where, three months ago, there were potatoes growing and cabbage before that. Four adolescent girls passed us carrying bundles of thick long sticks on their heads. Joffrey said they were carrying them into town to sell. A 7 kilometer walk.
At every hut we passed, children poured out of open doorways and from behind bushes to wave and sing ‘good morning!’ Eliakimnu had urged us not to give any money to the people. He didn’t want them to become beggars and, except for the young boy who asked me for a pen, they weren’t that at all. I didn’t realize until a few days later how significant this was…
On the drive to Serengeti, we passed countless ‘Traditional Maasai’ people.
They were clearly identifiable from a distance due to the bright red or blue cloths that wrapped around their shoulders, the ever-present stick in their hand and the small herd of cattle and/or goats they urged forward through dry fields.
At one of our stops just before entering into Serengeti National Park, a group of five boys dressed in black cloth, their foreheads painted with a black and white pattern waited, for tourists like us who might give them money in exchange for a photo. Tumaini slipped them some bills in exchange for a conversation, which he translated from Swahili. They explained proudly that they had just been circumcised the month before, having reached the customary age of 15. They were now in the midst of five months without bathing, also part of the Maasai tradition. David stood beside me, openly grimacing as Tumaini translated their description of the circumcision process (a splash of ice water; crying prohibited), while I studied the sandals on the boys’ feet, which were made of strips of rubber tire.
We later visited the traditional Maasai village, an event I’d looked forward to, particularly since our visit to the modern Maasai village had been so eye opening and positive.
It was here that I realized my naivety had gotten the best of me.
We were welcomed inside of their village – two dozen round huts arranged in a circle – by two lines of men and women dressed in brightly colored robes and beaded jewelry. As they performed their traditional songs and dance, I felt instantly uncomfortable in a way similar to when I see street performers at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. I understand that they were aiming to display their culture’s authenticity, but it seemed the polar opposite.
A young man led us around the small village, past a dust-covered toddler who stared at me while black flies fed on the mucus that ran from his nose and eyes. We ducked into a hut which he explained belonged to his brother. It was dark and smelled of the cow manure used to seal the walls. We squatted onto the edge of a bed made of dried animal skin stretched over clumps of dead grass. A fire pit the size of a dinner plate stood in the middle of the room. The man pointed to the area where the cows were kept at night as a way to keep the home warm. To our right was where the parents slept; we were sitting where the three children slept. The entire home could have fit in my kitchen.
Making conversation, we asked the man how many children he had. “Three,” he said proudly. He turned the same two questions to us, giving me a look of sympathy when we shook our heads. “Not yet,” I added, suddenly self conscious of how peculiar he must think us – never mind that he drinks 5 liters of cow’s blood each day.
I’d almost let go of my discomfort over the initial song and dance routine when the man lead us to a rack of beaded bracelets and necklaces outside of the hut. I felt compelled to buy something and almost did until the man quoted me an exorbitant price (for a rusted wire strung through some beads). Haggling while wearing a $600 camera around my neck is humiliating, I realized, as a handful of people gathered around us to watch. In the end, I handed the man a few dollars and left the bracelet hanging where it was – eager to get back into the car and on our way.
We talked to Tumaini about the experience as we wound around the Ngorogoro Crater, passing more traditional Maasai people on the road who waved and then smoothly flipped their wrist in a gesture of begging. He explained that the Maasai people can no longer live the way the once did. It’s not realistic for them to survive solely on the meat, milk and blood from their cows. They need water and rice, both of which they must purchase. With money. And that’s where tourists like me come in. I was torn between feelings of admiration for the Maasai’s maintenance of their culture and sadness for their means of doing so.
But, disappointments aside: while the wildlife and beauty of Tanzania astounded me, it was the people who meant far more – both the ones I got to know well, like Tumaini, and those who I only waved at from a distance. Even now, as I buzz 28 thousand feet over South Africa, my mind still turns with a desire to fulfill Eliakimnu’s request for ‘ideas.’ They deserve a winning one.
(For photos from mainland Tanzania, click here.)
And a note to subscribers: I’ve noticed that photos sometimes don’t display very ‘elegantly’ in email – so please do skip on over to the actual blog if you want to see them in finer form.
Somewhere Seeking 
Sounds like you guys are having an amazing time! Keep sharing!
Ew, they really drink 5 liters of cow blood each day?? Fascinating stories!