Day 249: a word about World Nomads travel insurance

We had planned on joining the hop on hop off bus tour (City Windows Sightseeing) around Istanbul, but after waiting for ten minutes to purchase a ticket (while other customers complained, asked for refunds, etc.) and then getting a shoddy exchange rate, we figured it wasn’t worth it.

Instead, Andrew and I wound up hanging out in a cafe off Taksim Square trying to process claims with World Nomads for our missing luggage and attempt to start filing claims related to our accident in Tanzania. This has not been an easy (nor enjoyable) process. But the entire situation could have been much worse had we not been staying with our friends, Juliet and Daniel. They let us take over their computer when our portable modem was lost in our luggage. They let us use their phone number to give to the luggage and airline companies who liked to call them in the middle of teaching. They cooked us dinner, let us make dinner, and kept us company even though we were wearing the same dirty clothes for multiple days in a row. Thanks, Juliet and Daniel, again. You are champions. Throughout past trips, I’ve shied away from travel insurance. This is probably not the smartest thing to do, but I did so because in my experience, pharmacies, and from what I’ve heard- hospital visits (I’m sure everyone has a different story) in Asia have all been very cheap and easier to pay out of pocket than to worry about receipts and dealing with insurance after something goes wrong.

I refused to get travel insurance at the start of this trip. Andrew complained. He threatened to call my mom. (I wondered which side she would have picked) He even suggested paying for it. I refused, rolled my eyes, and changed the subject. This tactic worked rather well until we touched down in Morocco. Once we were in Africa, distracting him from the idea of me not having insurance didn’t work as well. To make him happy, I bought an entire six month plan through World Nomads. Coverage began the day before we flew down to Uganda. He was happy. I was happy (that he was happy).

Fast forward to arriving in Istanbul without our luggage for several days. We lost at least three full days to waiting around for our luggage when Havas Ground Company (affiliated with Etihad Air) told us our bags would be delivered. I wondered if our insurance covered anything. They said they would! I just needed to provide luggage tags and receipts.  No big deal. I didn’t have the receipts for the clothes I bought- but I had a credit card statement, and according to their website, that worked. Done.

I wondered if they would cover my iphone and lens that were both damaged in Africa. I filed a claim. They needed proof we were on the bus that crashed in Tanzania. They asked for our tickets. It was a bus in the middle of Africa. There were no tickets on these buses. You haggled over the price, you got on the bus, you hoped you made it to your destination safely. Unfortunately, we didn’t exactly make it to our destination safely, and we didn’t have good enough internet at the time to deal with the start of an insurance claim.

If they accept my pictures (of the bus off the road) and my passport stamps (from the border crossing we were on our way to) and if the guesthouse responds to my emailed request for a statement that we indeed stayed there, then I just have to figure out a way to get proof that I originally purchased my iphone in Korea two years ago. Because, that should be easy enough, you know, while I’m in the middle of Turkey.

Here is what I’ve learned (the hard way) about travel insurance:

1. Before you go on your trip, scan any and all receipts or proof of purchase for items of value you will be traveling with.

2. If you do not get a ticket, and your bus crashes, even if you’re ok at the time: ask your guesthouse to call the bus company for a statement or proof. Get a document from your guesthouse with dates and your name on it that you stayed there. Notify your insurer to simply say “we’ve been in an accident, we’re ok right now, but… is there anything we should do” Because if I HAD done that, then I would have been at least able to get a receipt for where we stayed and it would have been easier to get proof from the bus company that there was an accident.

3. Even if you DO keep everything (receipts, transportation tickets, museum passes included) like I do. (And I really do. Who knows what kind of fun art project I’ll get up to with it all when I get home) Take a picture of any and all receipts before you stuff them in an envelope to send home. Because you never know what you’ll need in the future. Initially, we thought we were ok, and then Andrew’s leg kept swelling up and my iphone wouldn’t turn on…

I still cannot say that I’m an advocate for travel insurance. So far, even having the appropriate documents (according to their website) World Nomads is giving me the run around over a claim for a grand total of $51.00 after not having my bags for three days in Istanbul. I purchased the insurance not to get reimbursed for a few days of discomfort in dirty clothes, but for the possibility of my bus running off of the road in Africa. I needed and maybe will continue to need insurance traveling through places that don’t accept credit cards and don’t provide receipts  when you pay in cash. What is the point when you get insurance and they won’t cover your claim because your pictures of your bus off the road in the middle of Tanzania and your passport stamp at the little land border crossing a few days later aren’t enough proof?

If I could go back, I probably still would have purchased the travel insurance. For Andrew. I would purchase it for me, for him. But I would have called World Nomads immediately. I would have asked for receipts (even though in some places, they don’t know what a receipt is and you have no way to communicate that to them) when they weren’t given. I would have taken more pictures. I would have figured out how to email World Nomads with all of the necessary documents before we left Tanzania.

I would have. Wouldn’t you? I mean, would you think to do all of this after your bus goes flying off the side of the road at 130 kilometers per hour in the middle of nowhere on the east coast of Africa?

Day 201: Kilambo border crossing

We were outside, bags packed by five in the morning, waiting for our tuk-tuk (in Mozambique this is called a bajaj) to pick us up to take us to the earliest dala-dala to the border. He was late. The ferry left at eight. There was only one ferry per day for the Kilambo border crossing. If we missed it, we would have to take our chances taking a dug-out canoe across the river and hope that the canoe ‘captain’ wouldn’t try to extort money from us – or the canoe would tip over in the middle of the crocodile infested waters.

By twenty after five, he arrived, and we were cruising down the highway into Mtwara. Once in town, we passed a group of forty or so high school boys running together. It was barely dawn and they consumed the road. Some, not even wearing any shoes, but all maintaining a decent speed that made me envy their willpower to get up so early and athleticism that I’ve forgotten once this trip started. Andrew and I exchanged smiles and I cursed the fact that my camera was buried in my daypack.

The dala-dala ride wasn’t terribly long and we arrived at the Tanzanian customs around seven. We started standing in line for passport control by quarter after. At first we thought it was perfect timing, and then we realized the line was not moving. By quarter till eight, I started mentally preparing how I would fight off a crocodile simultaneous to negotiating a lower fee across the rest of the river. Luckily, our entire dala-dala was heading across the river as well, and the ferry waited for one last load before crossing.

I heaved a sigh of relief as we scooted past the dugout canoes and onto the sturdy looking ferry. I sighed again when one of the men shouted something out, pointing to the water.

“Crocodile?” I asked slapping my arms together, in my best croc impression. He nodded yes and we exchanged big, scary eyes at each other. A young man came up to chat halfway across the river. He kept telling me about his ‘husband.’

“You mean wife. Wife is for a woman. Husband is for a man.” I said, pointing back and forth between me and Andrew to try to distinguish the difference.

“Yes.” He seemed to agree, and then…

“My husband’s name is…” He started to tell me. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it up for me to see, asking:

“Do you like this?” It was a picture of a girl, topless on his phone. I started laughing, wondering why on earth he would think it a good idea to show a nudie picture to a stranger, let alone a ‘mizungu.’

“Is that your husband?” I asked thinking there was no sense confusing him with the term ‘wife’.

“No… My friend.” He replied.

“Ohhh really? Does your husband know about your friend?” I teased. He shook his head and then asked if he could help me with my bags to the bus. I declined, insisting I was very strong and could do it myself. This didn’t make him very happy, and he seemed genuinely worried about not being able to help me get to the bus, let alone a seat on the bus.

“Really, I am ok, I can do it.” I assured him as Andrew stood a little ways away with our other bigger backpacks.

Then I was told to hold on, as the ferry was going to simply crash into the riverbank. I saw only one dala-dala and two pickup trucks standing by. There were at least fifty, probably more on the ferry. Everyone was inching forward, ready, as if preparing for a race. The ferry shook as it bumped into the riverbank and then everyone was running.

I ran. With the two smaller backpacks, I ran straight to the dala-dala, ignoring the men calling me to the pick-up.

“No thank you! I want to sit down!” I yelled back towards the pick-up truck as I pushed my way onto the dala-dala, no clue where Andrew was in the shuffle. The money collector on the dala-dala saw me and started yelling at a young male passenger to move for the ‘mizungu.’ I had stopped to see if there was room for two, not to steal someone else’s seat because I was a white girl. I shook my head and told him to stay while I went further back in the van to find an empty seat. Another passenger told me to sit down in an empty seat by a window just as I saw Andrew hoist our big backpacks onto the top of the van. He climbed in and after helping lift an older tribal (face tattoos and all) woman up over one seat, we were able to score seats next to each other and were soon dropped off outside of the Mozambique passport control.

After washing our hands with a chemical/water mixture to prevent cholera, we stood in line outside of the building for what felt like days. The tribal woman clapped me on the back and smiled at me several times as we waited. When we got inside and I handed my passport over to the Mozambican authority, I saw what the wait was all about. It must have been his first day in front of a computer. It took roughly ten minutes for him to process my passport.

Once we were both cleared, two guards at the next counter inspected our bags. Everything was unzipped and examined.

“What?” One of the officers held up my unmarked box of vitamins.

“Vitamins.” I declared.

“For what?” He asked, pointing to his head, his stomach…”

“Um, just… vitamins… for…” I replied making a circle around my whole body. The officers exchanged dubious looks. They asked again what the pills were and why I had them. Both Andrew and I repeated “vitamins” several times, trying to explain “for general health” to them. Finally, they gave up and handed them back.

Thank God they didn’t dig deep enough and unzip my First Aid kit. That would have been a nightmare!

We waited for another hour for everyone else to get through customs before the dala-dala honked its horn signaling it was time to load up and go. Only we didn’t go. We waited another hour in the running van, in the sun, before we started the four-hour drive to Mocimboa da Praia.

We arrived in town an hour before dusk, and asked to be dropped off at the bus to Pemba. It was then we discovered that Andrew’s leg was swollen, but also that the bus to Pemba left at three o’clock in the morning.

“In nine hours?” I tried to verify.

The driver agreed. We sat down on the side of the dirt road and I busted out my First Aid kit. Andrew scraped away what now looked like an infection over the cut on his leg (he stopped me from doing it because he said I was too gentle) and I cleaned it out with an alcohol wipe and bandaged it up in front of a young audience of elementary school boys curious what we were up to.

We walked through town – two dirt roads that were lined with little shops. Eventually, we found a guesthouse of sorts, in the form of several private huts that offered electricity and a mosquito net, but no running water. I balked at the price. $20.00 for this? I thought surely there was a misunderstanding, but it was better than sleeping on the bus before an eight hour bus ride leaving at three in the morning. We tried to get a discount, but we were challenged for the first time on this trip dealing with a language barrier so great that numbers of time were confused with numbers of days that were confused with numbers of money… We gave up and dropped our bags before going into town to try to exchange money and find something to eat.

Dinner consisted of an order ofchips mayai (French fries cooked in an omlet and then slid into a plastic bag) for me, bread rolls for Andrew, and strawberry soft serve ice-cream for us both. That is all we could find on the street to eat. This two-dirt-road town offered no restaurants, no grocery stores, and no sign of other travelers having ever walked through town. We were quite the spectacle.

Sometimes I worry that I’m one of those girls who thinks she is low-maintenance, but really is super high-maintenance. (They are the worst, am I right?) It was tonight, as I attempted to shower by way of sloshing brown water from a bucket over me, that I realized I cannot high-maintenance at all. Despite all of my dreams of my clothes, shoes, scented lotion and even expensive make-up waiting patiently for my return, one could not take a shower in the conditions I have on this trip and still be considered high-maintenance.

“That was refreshing!” I said, climbing under the mosquito net into bed. Andrew eyed me suspiciously.

“Well, it was brown, but there was soap and it was better than nothing…” I said. Soon after, he picked the damp scarf I used to dry off and went in pursuit of cleanliness.

Day 200: Mikindani

Neither of us was quite ready to get back on a bus, so we decided to stay for another day in Mikindani. It didn’t hurt that we really liked the atmosphere at Ten Degrees (where we were staying). It was a perfect place to relax before moving again, and it had super good food.

We walked around the little town and reveled in simply being able to do so without having to flag down a dala-dala, get on a bus and without worrying about our safety walking around. I abandoned wearing long pants and got a few looks and tsk-tsks from the Muslim men, but it was hot and I couldn’t be bothered covering up.

“They’re just legs. Everybody’s got ‘em.” I recalled a German girl telling a Ugandan man in our hostel in Kampala and smiled.

We walked past the old slave market, up to the Old Boma Hotel, and down through the little village that was undergoing some renovation that made me wonder what the town would look like in a couple of years.

It was unlike any other town we had been in in Tanzania. It was a quieter, softer side of Tanzania that I had been looking for. After the journey to get here, it was much appreciated. We didn’t stay out long with the sun beating down on us, and headed back for a siesta and one last order of kachumbari before the border crossing in the morning.

Day 199: Mtwara and the post office

Waking up somewhat rested, in one piece, felt pretty wonderful. Before we fell asleep last night, Andrew was nervous that my headache was a concussion. I assured him it was just a result of an empty stomach and the stress from the bus crash. Fortunately he forgot about it and I woke up just fine (aside from the bruised arms and legs) in the morning.  His leg looked like it was already on the mend, and we decided we may as well head to the post office to mail our Masai shukas home before we continued over the border and down into Mozambique.

We caught a dala dala into Mtwara and walked to the post office. They gave us a box and after we had packed it, they instructed us to go to customs. Sweet.

“Where is customs?” we asked the clerks. They pointed towards the back door. We walked outside and asked the guard where customs was. He pointed towards the next door.

If only it was going to be that easy.

We walked into what appeared to be some kind of customer service office for a phone company. With our box of Masai shukas in hand, we asked for customs. Fortunately, one man seemed to figure out what we were looking for. He walked us back out of the office, back through the post office and out the front door, then he pointed down the road and gave us instructions to drive down the street.

“No car.” We told him. He looked confused, but carried on with instructions to turn right and customs would be on our left. We started walking, with our (slightly bigger than a computer paper) box down the dirt road. We dodged semi-trailers that were stuck in mud in the middle of the road. We maneuvered through the drivers that were trying to figure out a way to dig their loads out.

Finally, around 4:30, we walked into the customs office. The clerk asked us to unpack our box while he checked the list of what we had written down on the customs form. He told us to pack it back up while he grabbed a stamp and then asked where our tape was.

“Tape? What tape?” Andrew asked, befuddled.

“May we use your tape?” I asked. It was an office. A customs office. Surely, one equipped with tape.

“Tape? I don’t have tape. Where is YOUR tape?” He asked. Andrew and I gaped at each other. We had just walked over a mile on a dirt road in the middle of this tiny town in Tanzania with only fifteen minutes to get back to the post office to mail our shukas home.

“You don’t have ANY tape?” Andrew asked.

“It’s ok. Andrew, your emergency kit. The duct tape. We have tape.” I said, while Andrew pulled out the emergency roll with about a foot of duct tape left on it. I slapped it on the box and the customs officer stamped every corner of the box. The box was practically falling apart, but we got our stamps and then ran out the door hoping to flag a tuk-tuk down to drive us back to the post office.

Fortunately, it was still open, and it sold rolls of packing tape. Unfortunately, Tanzania does not offer surface mail and it’s airmail is EXPENSIVE. More than $100.00 expensive. We shook our heads “No” and took our box of shukas down to the EMS counter and got a better deal. Although still expensive, we figured it was better than lugging it across the border and through Mozambique with us.

“You know what, chances are, we get home and give these shukas out to our friends or family or whoever, and they’re going to be like… Great… a tablecloth from Tanzania… and we’re going to feel like idiots for going to so much trouble to get them, mail them home, and give them to our loved ones who are going to care less about them.” I ranted, supremely jealous of others we’ve met traveling who made the executive decision at the beginning of their trip not to get any gifts for friends and family back home.

“From now on, it has to fit in our pocket… if we get anything for anyone else.” Andrew declared. I agreed, after all, he did say “if we get anything for anyone else,” that excludes me, right? Right.

Day 198: The day our bus crashed

We were told we could buy our tickets at the bus when we boarded in the morning. We arranged for a taxi to pick us up at five in the morning and before dawn, we were pushing our way through the absolute chaos that is the Dar Es Salaam bus station trying to find the right bus. Chaos is most probably an understatement. This was not your typical station. Picture instead, the fair grounds, the day after the fair and a hard rain. No lights, other than the few from buses with engines running and headlights on for a near future take off. Behind the buses ready to go were more… Rows upon rows of buses. Without signs to where they are going. With vendors offering up loaves of bread or bottles of Fanta roaming in between.

“Mtwara?” I asked one of the women selling bread. She hollered for someone and suddenly we were being led in between buses, in the dark, stopping only to asses how big a puddle was and how I could avoid stepping in its muddy waters. Usually I would refuse to be led in the dark, to a place unknown, in a language I don’t speak, but I didn’t see refusal being an option, and I certainly didn’t want to stay in Dar for another day, so I followed willingly.

When we arrived at the bus Andrew found had the best reputation, we were told we could not buy tickets, therefore could not take the bus. We were led, yet again, through a maze of buses to another couple going to our same destination. Andrew didn’t recognize the first bus and demanded another company he read had a decent reputation. We haggled over the price, put our bags underneath, and took our seats. Maybe ten minutes later, we were pulling out of the station. Not fifteen minutes after that, we stopped at another station and parked for an hour, waiting for the bus to fill up before we could make the journey down to southern Tanzania.

It was uncomfortable. Although this bus at least stopped for multiple bathroom breaks, which cannot be said for the bus we took from Arusha to Dar. By bathroom breaks, I mean the bus pulls over to the side of the road, and everyone gets out and drops trow next to the road. Sometimes women go to one side of the road, and men to the other, but not always. I thought I had achieved something when I got comfortable stripping down in the Korean bath houses and having a Korean ajjumma (older woman) scrub me down. But squatting down on the side of the road in plain sight of not only your fellow bus companions, but any bus passing by is a whole new level.

“It’s better to go than not to go… It’s better to go than not to go…” I chanted in my head hoping that having Andrew standing a couple feet in front of me at least prevented any curious onlookers from seeing my hoo-ha.

These buses are unlike anything I have ever ridden before. Instead of a pair of seats on each side of the aisle, one side has two skinny seats, while the other side offers a row of three skinny seats. I think a typical bus seats 35-40 passengers, these buses seat 60-70. There is little legroom, which means there is none for Andrew, and don’t even think of reclining. Also, you have to really pay attention to where you sit, otherwise you might not have any access to open or close the window. And that, my friends, is something you want control over.

We seemed to be making good time, due to the crazy speed our driver was going, and we were about two hours away from our stop, when there was a loud pop and the bus started to swerve back and forth on the road. At first, I didn’t think anything of it, as I’ve become quite accustomed to the speed and the jerky nature of many drivers. But the swaying only intensified and I instinctively grabbed onto Andrew, afraid the bus was going to go on its side. I remember being scared, simultaneous to “Yep, I thought this was going to happen at some point on this trip” feeling. Having never experienced a serious crash before, I was almost in wonder, wondering how it was going to play out.

Suddenly, we were off the road and tall grass was flying against the window I was sitting next to. I looked at the window, wondering if I had left it open or had recently closed it, and what would be best upon impact. If it’s open, am I going to fall out of it? If it’s closed, should I open it more? These thoughts flew through my head and it suddenly seemed as though we weren’t going to go on one side, but I wondered how long we would continue to speed off the road.

And then it all stopped. Water sloshed up around the bus. The windshield shattered. And it was over. The men behind me sprang out of the bus, jumping out one of the windows. Somehow Andrew was caught halfway on the seat in front of us and halfway in the aisle. I was confused and wondered if I would even fit if I tried to jump out of the window the men had easily slid through. They were standing on ground, even though water surrounded the bus. I stood up and Andrew and I were quickly demanding if one another were ok. Babies were crying and everyone on the bus was half dazed and half panicked about getting off.

I stood up with my backpack that was in my lap and told Andrew we had to get off the bus. He had lost his i-phone and was searching the floor of the bus for it, a bit oblivious of the fact that we might need to hurry. I loosened our plastic bag of Masai shukas from the shelf above and again, upon smelling gas, again insisted we needed to get off the bus immediately. Finally, it sunk in and he grabbed his bag and turned to squeeze past others searching for their own belongings. Luckily I spotted his phone on the floor our way out of the bus, as I stood up, I was face to face with a young man who had clearly been sitting near the windshield as his face was covered in blood. I felt so clumsy trying to maneuver past him, wondering what it was that he felt necessary to go back for with his face so mangled.

Once off of the bus, I held a man’s bag while he slipped his shoes off to walk through the water to get to dry land. Andrew yelled at me, wanting me to get away from the bus. It was so surreal, everyone going in different directions and locals from the village we had just passed walking down to help by way of the trail of smashed grass our bus had left in its wake. I took my flip-flops off after nearly losing one in the muddy water the back end of the bus rested in. Andrew had given me both of our daypacks and the bag of shukas while he tried to get our bigger backpacks out from under the bus. He ordered me to go up to the road and take pictures in case we needed them for insurance purposes. Smart. It would have been smarter had I stayed below to take pictures of the bus in water though…

With two backpacks full of computers and cameras, I sank up to my thighs in water and gratefully handed over our things and accepted a hand to help pull me out. One of the women also walking away from the bus slowed down to walk with me. I think she thought I was hurt, but I was mostly having a hard time climbing up to the road in my flip-flops as my feet were covered in mud. We got up to the road and an older man took one of the bags from me and they both began walking me towards the awaiting bus that had stopped.

“Hospital.” My new friend declared with worry all over her face.

“No, no… I’m ok. It’s ok. You go!” I tried to tell her, repeating the Swahili word for “fine” over and over again as she looked me over with concern. I put down my bags and thanked the older man for helping. Then pointed to Andrew who was by the bus and tried to communicate that I couldn’t leave him.

Andrew gave up trying to retrieve our backpacks momentarily and came up to meet me on the road. Both of our legs had raised bumps from hitting the seats in front of ours, but one of his legs was oozing blood and I immediately started ripping my bag apart for wet wipes and band-aids, suggesting we go to the hospital immediately. Not having any band-aids big enough, I unwrapped a panty-liner and band-aided it to his leg. He wasn’t nearly as impressed with my handiwork as I was. His leg continued to bleed, and wondering if he needed stitches, I suggested again we go to the hospital. I envisioned us leaving our backpacks behind and wearing Masai shukas for the next several days. He said he was fine and that wasn’t leaving without our bags.

We asked around for a phone to try to call our guesthouse to see if they had any suggestions on what to do about our bags and/or how we should go about getting there. One man, who didn’t speak English, nodded and told me to follow him. I left Andrew with all of our bags on the side of the road and thought we weren’t going far. Two hundred meters later, I stopped the man and when I turned around, I could see Andrew beginning to walk towards us. Later, Andrew told me that after our bus crashed, we made it out ok, he wasn’t going to let me be led somewhere without him. I assured him the man wasn’t trying to harm me – at. all. But understanding his thought process completely. After all, it’s why I stopped and told the man I needed to wait for my ‘husband.’

We gave some money to a younger boy who ran back into their town to get credits to make a phone call. It didn’t work. We couldn’t get any reception. I handed out melted chocolates to all of the men who waited with me while Andrew tried again to get our bags. Fifteen minutes later, he waved me over and I could see him holding one of our bags. Another bus had pulled over and I began to run (how one would with two bruised up legs and three bags in her arms) towards the bus.

We squeezed in front, me sharing seats while Andrew sat on top of the boarded over engine with several others. I tried not to panic every time the bus sped up or hit a bump in the road. I tried not to remember the boy who was too close to the front of our crashed bus with the bloody face. I prayed to Jesus, Buddha, and even Ganesh that we wouldn’t crash twice in one day. I concentrated on not crying about all of the above.

Our bus didn’t ask for any fare, but instead dropped us off when it was turning off of the road we needed to continue on. Five minutes later a dala-dala pulled up and we were squeezed in, standing in the middle of the shared mini-van. Twenty minutes after that, we were dropped off at the door of our guesthouse. We showered. We cried. We drank a beer and then watched Project Runway pretending, at least for one hour that we didn’t just get the shit scared out of us.

Day 196 Stone Town Fish Market

After a late morning taxi back to Stone Town, we lunched, walked around town, and then headed to the Stone Town Fish Market after dusk. What was the best part about going to the fish market? Not the fish (although I am now a huge huge fan of barracuda)… No, not Mr. Nutella either, but it was having an expert with us to point out the shady sellers and what was worth trying. Asha had been to the fish market before we met up in Kendwa and had the lowdown on who was who at the fish market. Ok, not exactly. But she knew of at least one dude to avoid and what price on average was good for skewers and sugarcane juice. That was more than we knew and we ran with it.

We had grilled barracuda, lobster skewers, sugar cane juice, and I tried the mango nutella pancake. Our pancakes came with a little Swahili lesson as well. I’ve been thoroughly confused trying to say hello to people throughout this country. When do I say ‘Jambo,’ when do I say ‘Mambo,’ and why do people keep saying ‘Poa’ back to me, but only some of the time? For the past two weeks I’ve simply been taking turns saying ‘Mambo’ and ‘Jambo’ and smiling at their response- whatever their response may be. Mr. Nutella set me straight.

Jambo = hello. You say ‘Jambo’ they say ‘Jambo’ and that is all.

Mambo = how are you. You say ‘Mambo’ they say ‘Poa’ which means ‘fine’

It was all pretty delicious and pretty touristy, but sometimes a little bit touristy is not a bad thing. It was certainly better than sitting down for overpriced fish or grilled (when I ordered fried) calamari.

Day 195 One more day on Kendwa

Again, we did a whole lot of nothing with our one more day on Kendwa beach. That is, after it rained. While it rained, I edited photos and transferred video and a whole lot of editing for when I would have the internet at my disposal again. The interesting thing about Africa- and Tanzania especially- is that the internet is available. Even on Zanzibar, and specifically on Kendwa Beach. But it’s only available to those who want to pay (a lot) to use it. And then you pay a lot to use it (as I did) and it isn’t good for anything other than emailing and updating your Facebook status. This irked me. As much as I hate being behind on the blog, I hate paying for not even slightly mediocre internet (I’m looking at YOU Kendwa Rocks.) even more.

We waited out the rain, and then resumed lounging around under umbrellas until one last dinner with Cristina and Asha.

Day 194 Kendwa Beach

Obviously, it was a rough day for us on Kendwa Beach.

Day 193 Nungwi to Kendwa

Our new friends (from Arusha) texted where they had settled on Kendwa Beach. Kendwa is just south of Nungwi, and we had planned on meeting up with them when they arrived. More like, as soon as I was finished hanging out with the sea turtles. It was simply so peaceful (as you can see above – and you can catch one of them coming up for air, although it might not amuse you as much as it did us). Needless to say, it was hard to tear myself away from them.

The water was so much clearer today than it was yesterday. I should have went swimming with them again, but thought I was only going to say goodbye instead of sitting and hanging out with them for an hour before we taxied over to Kendwa.

Cristina, Asha, Nora and Tiffany were already on the beach and we chatted for a while before I tried to find some Wi-Fi and they tried to find some cheap massages. Then we all hung out under leafy umbrellas. Sometimes sleeping. Sometimes swimming. Most of the time doing nothing at all. It was glorious.

Day 192: Swimming with sea-turtles

Sea-turtles are the most graceful yet most clumsy animal I’ve ever encountered. Walking down the steps with a bucket of seaweed into their natural aquarium is what I would imagine walking into a room of puppies with an armful of doggie-treats would be like. Somehow they just know you’re there and chances are you have something good for them to eat.

My favorite was the biggest one, a male, roughly around 30 years old would bump all of the other turtles out of the way and then use his front fins to push up out of the water. I’m not quite sure why he did this, because eating the seaweed in the air did not seem to work at all. It needed to be in the water so then he, like the rest, could scoop it up in their mouths. But I like to think he was always trying to give me a little bit of a hug, if he could, by pushing up on the rocks to greet me the way he did.

When I finally mustered up the courage to climb in the pool with the ten turtles, Andrew and I timed it out. He would fed them on one end of the ledge while I scampered in unnoticed at the other end and perched on a rock that was slowly becoming submerged with the tide coming in. When the turtles ate all of the seaweed Andrew had thrown in, they would circle back to me, as if I had some hidden. They are totally harmless, but I would get a little nervous every time they surrounded me. I thought I was being a bit of a baby until Andrew got in and would not move his hands away from his manhood. Like they were going to bite it off or something.

I became totally fascinated watching the turtles rise out of water for a breath of fresh air. It’s like they are all born being super old open mouth breathers or something because they sounded absolutely ridiculous breathing. I set out to capture it on camera, but I would always miss it. We took turns. Jumping in and swimming. feeding. taking pictures. And then we just hung out on the steps with them for awhile, like we had an aquarium all to ourselves. Eventually, Andrew dragged me away, promising me they’d be back after we went to the beach.

After we went swimming, we went to a restaurant on the beach. At the restaurant next-door, a Masai wedding began to take place. A Western woman was marrying a “warrior.” I put quotations around warrior, because some Canadian girls at the table next to us asked our waiter if he was really a Masai. They had heard that none of the Masai on the island were real Masai, that it was only for the tourists… Our waiter smiled, and didn’t comment. We all laughed. From what we could see, the wedding consisted of a few pictures and then some singing. When we all moved out onto the beach for dinner, the wedding party had disappeared.

Day 191: Stone Town to Nungwi

I was excited and a little on edge about heading to Nungwi and Kendwa. These are the two beaches on the northern and western part of the island. While undoubtedly beautiful, there was a reputation for theft. Theft from your hotel room, theft from hotel safes, theft on the beach… and, per usual, it was advised not to walk around at night. I tried to concentrate on the beauty of the scenery instead of the logistics of how I was going to go swimming with my laptop, camera, iphone, wallet- not leaving anything in the guesthouse room or on the beach for someone to walk away with. This concentration led to an experiment of photos taken from the dala dala window on our drive up. Some are a bit blurry, but I quite liked the watercolor-esque tone that the images took on.

We dropped several people off outside of different guesthouses and one fancy hotel where I lusted after the cool wet towel that was immediately handed to their new guest. One day I will be that kind of guest. One day…

Then we rolled up to the guesthouse Andrew had read about. It was close to the beach. It wasn’t a hotbox ON the beach. And there were sea-turtles. Unfortunately, upon first glance, it looked shabby. All of the warnings Andrew had read aloud to me about what to try to avoid clouded my judgement, the malaria meds got the best of me, and I immediately envisioned all of our things getting stolen and several nights of restless sleep for a price that simply made me angry. Not wanting to walk with our bags back into town, we decided to stay, and I continued to feel uncomfortable.

And then, as we waited for our room to be made up, we spotted the natural pool of water and the ten rescued sea-turtles swimming about within it. I watched, mesmerized by them. I took photos of the couple that stopped by to swim with them. We checked into our room and it was cool and clean. I felt better. But not good enough to leave my computer behind while we walked down to the beach.

We jumped in the water and marveled at how few chairs there were set up or people out enjoying the white sands and clear water. Beach boys bombarded us asking if we wanted to go snorkeling with them tomorrow, if we wanted the sunset cruise tonight, and even if we wanted something to smoke or snort… We said “No” and explained we were just there for the beach (and calamari for me, beer for Andrew).

Day 190 Stone Town

Stone Town is the old part of Zanzibar City, on Zanzibar, an island off the coast of Tanzania mainland. At one time, it was the vibrant center of the spice and slave trades. It’s an UNESCO World Heritage Site because of the confluence of Swahili, Arab, Indian, even European (and possibly more) architecture. It reminded both of us of the medinas in Morocco.

Our day began with a (somewhat) quick trip to the Mozambican consulate on the island. We needed visas for our planned overland crossing from Tanzania next week. We were a little nervous because quite a few requirements were listed that we weren’t sure we could provide. Namely; a hotel booking for our first night there (there wasn’t a hotel- at least online- in the first city we were going to stop in), and recent bank statements. The woman at the desk clearly didn’t care to see any bank statements, didn’t ask for where we were going to stay, and only had us fill in half of the form, before asking us for our passport pictures. I fished out two older pictures where I have bright blond (more like yellow) hair, not exactly corresponding to the long brown hair in my passport. Andrew fished out two recent pictures where he’s wearing a bandana, he’s not wearing glasses, and he’s at least 100 pounds lighter than his nine-year-old passport.

This was problematic. My yellow hair picture, not so much. Andrew’s skinny-without glasses-with a bandana picture.

“It’s big problem.” We were told.

Andrew tried to explain that the passport is nine years old. That he doesn’t wear glasses anymore, let alone have a pair with him on Zanzibar. She eyed everything suspiciously.

“You need a photo without this.” She said, pointing to the bandana. I took a deep breath and then realized I had my (replacement) Polaroid camera with me. – My original camera was taken in Nepal. Unbeknownst to me, Andrew had ordered a replacement for me for Christmas. His mom sent it to the UAE, but their postal system didn’t notify our friends living there. It was sent back to Wisconsin. His mom (Thanks Chari!) sent it again, this time to Tanzania, and when Andrew went to “the bank” he came back with a box of treats for both of us from the post office!

“Ok. Hold on.” I told the clerk, and assured Andrew it would work. We went outside and took a passport photo, printed two copies, and handed them over to the clerk. One cleaning woman was watching this whole process in complete awe that we were able to print a photo off immediately after taking it. I took one of her and I think her enthusiasm swayed the clerk inside to accept Andrew’s makeshift, newly printed passport photos.

We handed our passports over for the week, and then went exploring around Stone Town. Starting first at the former slave market. Now, a hostel (weird) stands over the cells where up to seventy-five slaves were held at once in a way too tiny space as you can see Andrew trying to squeeze into it.

The area where we were standing was where the slaves would go to the bathroom, and at high tide, the water would rise in and take the waste away. Most slaves were brought here and kept for a couple of days until the market was held on Sunday.

After the slave market was closed by Sultan Barghash in 1873, missionaries bought the site and built a cathedral. Inside the church, we were shown the site of the former “whipping tree” where slaves were beaten during the auction (or market, or whatever you want to call it) to show how strong they were. Now, a gold plate lies in place of the tree directly in front of the altar.

We wandered through Stone Town around the time that school children were let out, I’m assuming for a siesta. One girl walked with us, not saying anything, just keeping us company after her friends departed. This has happened before and it warms my heart to no end.

Looking for a snack, and being a huge Queen fan, we made our way to Mercury’s. A little bit of trivia for you: Freddie Mercury was born on Zanzibar. Hence, the bar/restaurant. It was right on the water and had a beautiful view- but the food was minimal and ridiculously overpriced. When we arrived, I debated getting a t-shirt. When we left, I was still hungry and plotted out my TripAdvisor review. Luckily the mini-store across the street had banana chips (my favorite snack so far in Africa) seasoned with chili (even better). We nibbled as we made our way back to our guesthouse for an air-conditioned siesta.

Day 189 Dar to Zanzibar

See ya, Dar! We’re heading to Zanzibar! We were both looking forward to a vacation from our vacation on the island. A few days on a beach. A respite. A break is exactly what we needed after what felt like a whirlwind of Tanzania. We caught the ferry early in the afternoon and arrived on Zanzibar, to the expected (by now) taxi-driver gauntlet two and a half hours later. While it is an island, Stonetown especially is not new to the tourist circuit and immediately we had “tourist officials” offering their services. Despite being in a seedy part of Stonetown, Andrew read good reviews about one guesthouse and wanted to check it out. It wasn’t far from the port. We walked. Tourist Official #1 tagged along, introducing himself and informing us we weren’t in a good part of town. I humored him, looking at his laminated identification card on his lanyard and thanked him, while Andrew asked a shopkeeper for directions instead. He waited and walked with us (uninvited) to the guesthouse. That… turned out to be a joke. A way overpriced joke. We left and started walking across Stonetown (not so far really, maybe a mile? maybe less?) to check on the other recommended guesthouse.

En route, Tourist Official #2 offered his services. I stopped myself from rolling my eyes and wondered how many men were in on this scam, laminating their own ids and approaching tourists. Instead I shouted ahead to Andrew (as always, I’m trailing behind) “Andrew! Would you believe this kind sir has a guesthouse he would like to take us to? Isn’t that SO NICE of him? And he can help with everything we need on the island!” The “Official” picked up on the fact that we would not be in need of his services and meandered away.

But then, Tourist Official #1 magically reappeared. And this made me super uncomfortable. Either it was a complete coincidence or he was going to walk with us and then collect a commission by telling the owner of the guesthouse that he had brought us there. I couldn’t be too sure and my mouth was a little bit quicker than my mind (which often leads to trouble).

“What are you doing here, you crazy stalker?” I asked in a joking manner, but hoping to convey my I-don’t-want-you-following-me message. He didn’t pick up on my joking tone. He stopped short and his face turned creepy defensive.

“What did you say?” He asked.

“I said you were a crazy stalker.” I replied, now annoyed that he was the one questioning me. He told me he was on his way home or something like that, that could have been believable, only I wasn’t buying it and did not trust him. I like to think that I’ve gotten pretty good at reading other people on this trip. I’m not perfect. But, if I get a weird feeling about someone, chances are they are up to no good. And that’s exactly how I felt about this guy.

“I’ve been to America.” He said totally randomly, as he continued, yet again, to walk with us down the street to the guesthouse at the end.

“Then you would know that what you are doing is wrong!” I said, feeling myself getting worked up over him continuing to follow us.

We ended up taking a room at the guesthouse. Creepy McCreeperson hung out outside of the gueshouse for an hour and even went inside to talk to the frontdesk clerk. Maybe he was just on his way home and happened to be friends with the guys working at the guesthouse, but when we returned to Stonetown the following week, the price (at the same place) was cheaper, so I can’t be entirely sure if he really did get a commission or the guesthouse screwed us over. Regardless, it wasn’t the most welcoming first day on Zanzibar.

Day 188 Dar Es Salaam

This is the view from our hotel. I would share a video and more pictures from our day, but unfortunately I didn’t feel comfortable at. all. taking my camera out as we walked around Dar Es Salaam. And by “walked around Dar Es Salaam” I mean, walked for fifteen minutes from our hotel to the ferry to check times for the next day. After we checked times, we took an overpriced taxi to a coffee shop where we hung out all afternoon before meeting up with our friends Maryama and Emma for dinner. Aside from their wonderful company, it was a rather uneventful day.

Dar is less thrilling than Kampala was. At least in Kampala there were people around and the city had a bit of a buzz to it. In Dar, especially on a Sunday, it was void of energy, and had a creepy air to it, as if you were to take out your camera or not pay strict attention to your bag, one or both would disappear.

It’s frustrating, at least for me, to be in a place that I want to capture and be unable to take a photo. Instead, I kept everything on lockdown, keeping in mind that being able to take pictures later would be better than getting my camera stolen and not being able to take pictures at all.

Day 187 Arusha to Dar Es Salaam

We’ve lost count of how many terrible bus experiences we’ve had. This one joined the list. I didn’t have enough leg room, which means, Andrew had it even worse. And for some reason, bus drivers in select countries around the world seem to think blasting music is mandatory for journeys clocking in at twelve hours or more, even when these journeys begin at six in the morning.

Gospel music with close up booty shots were on the menu this morning. It only got worse as the day continued with a low budget African movie full of slapstick “comedy” and one man cutting off his own toe. Strange? Not to all of the other passengers on the bus…

We arrived in Dar around dusk and immediately ran into two of our new friends from Arusha. After dinner, we all crashed. Dar doesn’t offer much to do by day, and it’s advised not to go out at night. It’s nights like these that make me grateful for Andrew’s hard-drive of movies and television. We watched Project Runway (All Stars. Is it just me or is Heidi’s replacement, Caroline kind of annoying?) and crashed.

Day 186 Mt. Meru Market

Andrew and I woke up squeezed into one dorm bunk bed because the hostel had overbooked and half of us partnered up to make room for guests who had arrived with a reservation and no room to sleep. I felt like we had been transported back to college waking up to so many squeezed into one room and giggling over the night before.

There was a karaoke machine in the club. Andrew and I may (or may not have) killed it with our own rendition of Mr. Big’s “Be With You.” Not to mention the dance-offs that took place between middle aged tourists and Tanzanian b-boys workin’ the floor. It. Was. Fun.

The day after wasn’t as much fun. After breakfast, Andrew and I busted a move back to town to figure out how we were going to get down to Dar or if possible, straight to Zanzibar. We had our fingers crossed for a really cheap flight, like all of our new Arusha best-friends said we would find. But… unfortunately none of the cheap flights were available the next day.

We stopped back at the tourist market for some earings and shukkas (Masai shoulder wraps) but I couldn’t be bothered with haggling whilst hung-over. The market is a gauntlet. Everyone asking you to come in their shop. Everyone telling you to slow down. I knew I was going after earings and shukkas which made things a little easier. I also had ice cream that was melting, so we didn’t stay long and instead headed back to the hostel to lounge with the smart ones who stayed in all day.

Day 185 A Masai Village

Before we even set foot in Tanzania, I was intrigued by the Masai way of life. I wanted to know more about their culture. And more specifically, I wanted to know more about the women. This feeling was only heightened after my interaction with the Masai woman on the dala-dala and then, of course on our visit to the touristy Masai village outside of The Ngorongoro Crater.

I wanted to go to a village and ask questions to the women and get answers. From the women. And I wanted to take portraits of them as well because I just find them to be so beautiful. It’s like their faces hold so many more stories than the flawless Korean skin I became used to in Seoul, or those so similar to my own back in Kentucky. I asked around at our hostel to see if this was possible. Michael, one of the hostel managers said he could take me and he would translate all of my questions and I could take pictures. I was elated. Two girls at the hostel heard I was going and planned to tag along, after I warned them I wanted to ask a ton of questions – and there was the possibility they would be bored. Fortunately they were equally (I think) excited.

During breakfast we exchanged different stories we had heard about the Masai before we arrived to Tanzania or during our time in and around Arusha. Most of these stories revolved around FGM (Female Genital Mutilation) and the customs of the men staking their claim over the Masai women.

One girl heard that a Masai man can put his spear outside of a woman’s house if he wanted to have her- even if she was married. If her husband was gone, she was free for the taking. A spear would be planted outside of her house and she would have company until the man took his spear elsewhere. Another girl heard that during the female circumcision, the woman was sewn up until her wedding night, it was only then that her betrothed would cut her open. Someone saw an Oprah show, where in one African country, (the specific country was not recalled) a dull blade is used because the ceremony is supposed to last a certain number of hours. We debated, not about whether or not FGM was right or wrong, but about what was accurate and what were just stories told to gullible tourists.

“I’m so curious of the logistics, you know? I mean, seriously. How is it done? Is someone in the tribe a specialist? It’s not the easiest thing to find…” I asked the girls, oblivious to the fact that I was clearly setting Andrew up for an opportunity to be sarcastic.

“I’ve had a lot of practice, and I still have trouble finding it.” Andrew tried to say on the sly, only every girl in the room heard him and couldn’t stop laughing.

At the touristy village, questions regarding the women seemed to be ignored. If it regarded the women, why on earth would any man (including our guide) know or want to know about it. So when we arrived to the non-touristy village a few hours later, I was ready to get some answers. After a three hour drive, we arrived. Immediately we were greeted warmly and Michael told me I was free to take pictures. Obviously, I was drawn to the oldest man in the village immediately after seeing his method of carrying his medicine around. By way of his ear.

We went through a very similar tour of two houses. A woman’s house. And a man’s house. But, we were told that when the man wants the woman, she goes to his house- not the other way around. So, according to this village, a man can’t literally (and figuratively) plant his spear outside the woman’s house. We learned that there are marriage ceremonies- but then we were also told that a man can court (and do other things) with other women if he wants. When we tried to ask what the point of a marriage ceremony was- we didn’t get a clear answer.

Men become circumcised around the age of 15. But it’s done as a group. So some men might be a little older when it’s done. It’s a coming of age tradition. When I asked about the women, knowing that in Tanzania it is technically illegal, the men we were talking to told us that they perform the ceremony on the women in secret. The older women perform the ceremony on the younger women in private. She is not sewn up like we had heard to be rumored. Instead, she stays in her hut and puts oil on herself until she feels she has healed and then will leave her house. According to the men that we talked to- the women, just like the men, look forward to this ceremony because it is only then that the tribe will recognize her as a woman. We heard other rumors that FGM is done so the woman will not enjoy sex. The men that we talked to seemed to dismiss this, that it was only performed as a coming of age tradition- much like the men.

“But… what do the women really think of it? And… what do the women do about their periods and giving birth?” I asked Michael, wanting to get the women in on the discussion. He translated to the men and told me that they didn’t know the answer. This discussion, by the way, was going on simultaneous to the men workin’ it for the camera. That mirror is tied onto the back of the one dude’s shuka. Masai player, right there. (I guess they all are though, in a way, puttin’ their spears wherever they want, whenever they want…)

“Women don’t talk to men about these things. Only to other women.” He told me.

“Well, let’s go ask them!” He laughed, and started going with me, until he stopped to talk to the Masai men, and then he turned to me.

“I can’t talk to them about these things. I am a man. You can talk to them in Swahili…” He teased, knowing I don’t speak more than four words in Swahili. My heart fell. The whole point of coming to the village was to have this kind of discussion with the women, and I didn’t even think that having a translator, even if he was male, would matter. I felt silly for having assumed it would be so easy.

We started walking towards the women and children. I was able to get a few pictures of them, but not portraits of every woman, like I really wanted. I was glad I went, but next time, I’ll be going with a female translator.

Michael (seen above) told me to ask one of the girls at the hostel. She was from a Masai tribe and could talk to me about my questions. Later, I ended up asking her the same questions, but I felt like her answers were guarded. She didn’t get into the specifics of FGM with me and when I asked what women really thought of it, she gave me a somewhat bland answer about how women needed to be educated before it would end. Obviously I agree, but I wasn’t sure that she was really telling me what women thought of it or what she thought I wanted to hear.

Day 184 Ngorongoro Crater

You know it’s going to be a good day when an elephant ambles into your campsite to get a drink of water before your jeep is loaded up. The view from the edge of the rim, before we descended into the crater was spectacular, and it was a wonderful start to the day that marked our three-year anniversary. Three whole years together that included six whole months spent traveling through more than ten countries together.

At first, I thought “Oh this is pretty! Yep… lots of animals here… How nice…”

And then, we saw a line of metal and glass reflecting the sunlight in the distance. “Something is going on down there.” Josh said excitedly. I couldn’t believe so many jeeps would be lined up watching something, “Really? “Maybe it’s a parking lot or something… That’s a lot of jeeps!” I responded.

It wasn’t a parking lot. As we got closer, it was a line of a crazy amount of jeeps watching seven lions surround two cape buffalo. It was a big five kill taking place before our very eyes. ‘The Big Five’ refers to the five animals that are hardest to kill on foot. Not, because of their size. They are the lion, leopard, Cape buffalo, African elephant, and Black rhinoceros.

We later learned that this drawn out kill began with seven or eight buffalo when the lions attacked. At first we thought the male mate was sticking by his wounded female, but we later learned that they were both males. The other buffalos had left, leaving one wounded and one trying to help his friend.

“Arnold, I think I should go help the buffalo…” I said, offering to climb out of the jeep and protect the wounded animal from the preying lions. He laughed, and allowed no such thing. Even from far away, looking through the binoculars, we were wide-eyed with excitement and wonder over the drawn out big five battle. We were also surprised there was no big male lion leading the fight. Younger males and lionesses were in charge. Where was the older male?

“There he is!” I cried out as I spotted an older lion with a big mane laying up against one of the jeeps watching the battle.

Arnold told us that the older male lions let the young and the females do their bidding until the animal was dead. Then he was the first to eat from the fresh kill. We were in awe at his laziness. He just slept in the shade while not one, but seven of his pride tackled a huge buffalo for his (and their) dinner. Arnold drove us closer. We learned that some of the jeeps had been watching since sunrise – a little over two hours before we had arrived. I was grateful we hadn’t been there so long. It was hard to watch, and I felt for the buffalo.

The lions would circle in, one would jump on the wounded buffalo and he would try to fight back until his friend came and shooed the lions away. Sometimes the lions would tease the healthy buffalo, until he would lower his horns and the lions would back off. The healthy lion called for his friends, but none of them responded, none of them came to help fend the lions away. Our friends from the hostel who were also on safari were there watching in another jeep. Tiffany said it was as if the one buffalo sat down to take one for the team- in a way, to let the other ones go away, and live. But this didn’t make the healthy buffalo who stayed by the wounded one’s side happy.

The healthy buffalo nudged his wounded friend, trying to get him up, but he wouldn’t budge. He circled around for awhile, and then… he started walking away. I know, I know, “It’s the circle of life…” and I shouldn’t be so emotional over it, but it was heartbreaking. Editing the hundreds (and believe me. There were hundreds) of photos was more difficult than watching the kill unfold in real life.

As soon as the lions were sure the healthy buffalo was far enough away, they moved in. The wounded buffalo had to know what was coming, but he put up a fight. It was heroic. With seven lions either on him or pulling his legs apart, he stayed up for quite awhile before they eventually had him on his back. It was cruel watching them rip the buffalo apart. But then, the buffalo got up again, making one last stand until the lions pulled him back down one last time.

I’m assuming it was one last time. After the two hours or so we had devoted to watching the kill go down, we told Arnold we could go pursue a rhino or two before our permit was up to stay in the crater. We reeled, in disbelief over what we saw. And then there were more lions, just hanging out in the crater. Walking around LIKE A BOSS. Making all of the other animals a little bit twitchy wondering what they were going to do. Instead of any more kills, they walked towards us and took a sip of water from a puddle on the side of the road and continued ambling around the crater.

“They are lazy in the crater.” Arnold told us. With the walls so high, other animals have nowhere to go. If that water buffalo kill happened in the Serengeti, it would have happened much faster because the Serengeti is so huge, and the animals can run away or hide more easily.

We spotted a rhino in the distance, rounding out our Big Five sightings, some zebras playing, took a few group pictures and then headed out of the crater and back to Arusha. We may be over budget, but boy was it totally worth it. And hey, maybe this means we’ll be home sooner than we thought we would! Good news all around!

Day 183 The Serengeti and a Masai Tribe

We woke up before the sun to go on a drive. By the time we were on the road, the sun was barely peeking over the horizon and we stopped to take in its beauty forgetting, momentarily, about our hunt for cheetahs chasing after wildebeest or perhaps a baboon holding a lion cub up over an audience of animals bowing before them while magically, Elton John descended from the clouds playing ‘The Circle of Life’ on a white grand piano.

This thought alone prompted me to start singing “MAAAAHHHH-ZABENYA!” Everyone laughed and humored me as I burst out in song at random moments on safari. At least, I’d like to think they were humoring me and weren’t annoyed in the slightest.

I’ve become slightly (Andrew thinks “oddly”) obsessed with maribou storks. I just think they are the absolute coolest birds ever. I was ecstatic about a whole tree full of them in the morning.

The game drive in the morning wasn’t as exciting as we thought it was going to be, save for the line of zebras we stopped to watch in awe at their penchant for traveling in single file. We saw a hippo out of water, zebras rolling around on the ground to get the mosquitos off their backs…

And more leopards in sausage trees (I swear, that’s what they were called)! But, sadly, no cheetahs.

On our way out of the park, someone called out “Giraffe!” and sitting in the back seat, I looked out either side of the jeep wondering where it was, figuring it was way off in the distance, that is, until I looked up and the giraffe was right. there. Less than two meters away from our jeep, he loomed above us and then it seemed figured we weren’t a tree with leaves for him to nibble on, so he ambled over to something he could take a bite out of. It was hands down, my favorite part of the day.

We agreed to stop at the touristy Masai village on our way to the rim of the Ngorongoro Crater. There was a small entrance fee, and we knew it wasn’t going to be the most unique tribal experience, but I was still curious what they were going to present to us as their “day to day” life and what they would say about their tribe.

Immediately we were greeted, and the men started chanting and did something of a skip back and forth in front of us. They got Josh to join, but Andrew hung back with a camera instead of skipping and singing with the warriors. Then Leanne and I were led to the semi-circle of women, and a beaded necklace was placed around our necks and the women began singing. Now, usually, I think I handle myself (for the most part) pretty well when I’m in a new environment or surrounded by people much different than myself. But for some reason, I could not wrap my head around the fact that I was standing in the midst of a group of Masai women, one who was gently holding my hand, as they were all singing around me. It’s clear, from Andrew’s videos and Leanne’s pictures, I look quite the fish out of water. It wasn’t that I was uncomfortable- not in the slightest- it was just a sheer moment of awe of our trip.

The Masai continued to sing and then the men jumped. Those men have some serious ups and I debated how they would fare on a basketball court, amused by the thought that they would probably kill it, all while playing in their Masai shuka wraps and plastic sandals against the western style jerseys and shoes.

We were led into a modest cow dung and straw hut. A man slept on the bed behind us as we sat on its edge listening to the Masai way of life. Leanne and I asked a few questions about the women- who helped them when it was time to have a baby, etc. Our guide brushed it off saying, something along the lines of “The women know.” We smiled, amused that he didn’t seem to want, nor care to either know the answer or perhaps to simply communicate the answer to us.

Josh asked why there were so many more women than men in the tribe. How is it possible for one Masai man to have so many wives and there not be more men for the amount of women. It was a fair question. One that was not given a fair answer. “That’s just how Masai are. More women are born instead of men.” He answered. This really got Josh’s goat. He wasn’t having it, and neither were we, but we didn’t have another source to ask, at least, not yet.

Our guide tried to lead us to the makeshift shop in the middle of the village, but we skirted around it, instead walking along the huts and asking more questions. We were then led to the “school” a small hut (if you could even call one) outside of the circle of houses. Children ran around outside until they saw us coming and then immediately ran into the school to sit on the benches for their latest visitors. A blackboard was behind us with letters and numbers and sentences that was clearly set up as a prop for the stage that the students promptly took before us, reciting their ABCs. It made me uncomfortable. I should have taken some video, but I was too… I don’t know… aghast at the thought that they clearly do this for the donation box that is set up in front of them, even after we were told that our entrance fee was for the children and their education.

Again, after the school, we were led to the display of necklaces in the center of the village. Again, we avoided it and instead photographed the women sitting against a house making more necklaces. This is why I wanted to visit the village. These women are so beautiful and I’m sure they have led such an interesting life. Again, I wanted to know more, more about the women, not the men whom the tribe is so famous for.

This is a patriarchal tribe. Males- known as warriors- are in charge, they have multiple wives, and there are rumors of continued FGM practices even though it is illegal by Tanzanian law. Girls at our hostel told us stories they had heard that blew my mind and made me so curious of the realities of women in these tribes. Do the women comply readily with these expectations of them? Is there ever any dissent? Aside from all of the work they do for the men in the tribe, are they treated well? Could a woman ever be a warrior? Women can play football in the states if they really want to, right? It’s practically the same thing, right?

I asked our guide. He burst out laughing. Like it was the absolute funniest thing he had ever heard of in his life. “But… why not?” I asked, curious. “A man has to be circumcised…” He trailed off, amused by my curiosity. “But, women ARE circumcised.” I replied. He laughed, like it was still not possible for a woman to ever be a warrior, like the mere thought was simply… wrong.

I smiled. “I don’t understand, if all a man has to do is get circumcised and then go into the woods for three months to learn how to become a warrior, couldn’t a woman do the same? She will be circumcised anyway…” He listened, paused, and then continued to shake his head, but didn’t offer any further rebuttal.

The women sat in a circle nearby with several babies, oblivious to the content of our conversation. I desperately wanted to bring them into the conversation, but I had a feeling that was not possible. It seems as though the men enjoy their women uneducated, pregnant, and oblivious. Perhaps I’m mistaken, and my observations- at least from this tribe is not necessarily accurate. I became anxious to go to a real Masai village to talk to the woman about their role within the Masai after our safari.

Our guide deemed our time was up and we were ushered out nicely, but in a clear “Ok, it’s time for you to go…” kinda way. Our curiosity was piqued and we sat in the jeep on our way to the rim of the crater playing the visit over again. “Something is going on there, more women than men? No way.” Josh pointed out. We all agreed and wondered if even at another tribe, not visited every twenty minutes by a jeep full of safari goers would we get a more accurate answer.

The rim of the crater was beautiful. That is, until I was sure something had gotten in our tent and then Andrew saw a large mass of blackness eating grass around our tent. “It can’t be a hippo, they can’t get up here…” The cooks assured him on his way back from the bathroom. “It’s probably just a buffalo…” Because, that certainly makes one feel better walking to and from the bathroom after dark…

Day 182: The Serengeti

Going on a safari is kinda like going on a road trip. Fortunately today’s road trip was to the Serengeti. I didn’t realize how exciting this was until we were standing outside of a giant gate welcoming us into the park. The Serengeti is just one of those places, much like Angkor Wat and the Taj Mahal and the Old City in Jerusalem where I never really pictured myself standing in front of. This Round-the-World adventure can be a bit of a head-trip at times.

En route to The Serengeti, we had to drive around Ngorongoro Crater, we stopped to take in the view, and then I continued to love the scenery in between the crater and the Serengeti. Masai homes dotted the landscape. Warriors stood out against the landscape. It was quite beautiful, especially when one would be out with their cattle or lounging in the grass with their friends. I’m in love with the Masai shukas (the colorful shawls they wear around their shoulders) especially against the backdrop of greens and browns in the fields.

Day 182 also happened to be Andrew and my six month trip-aversary! We’ve made it a whole six months of traveling around the world together! Before we left, we wondered how long we would make it… We would not only wonder if our friends were placing bets on whether or not we would make it, and for how long, but we would also make the same kinds of bets ourselves. It seems like forever since we left Korea, yet unbelievable we’ve been on the road for as long as we have been. I’m glad we’re still kicking and this was a wonderful way to celebrate!

Other safari-goers were posing in front of the gate and we readily climbed out of the jeep to take a few pictures of our own. Only, we had to wait for a group of French girls to finish their shots that were no doubt going into their modeling portfolios back home. Leanne and I giggled at their perfectly planned poses and agreed we had to do a similar shoot of our own. The boys played along. Not exactly by choice…

The ride itself was at times, slightly traumatizing. Headache inducing. Cloudy with dust. Bumpy. A small price to pay for the animals on either side of the road. Wildebeest were everywhere. A pregnant hyena gave pause only a few feet from where we stopped. We were mesmerized and we knew we were just getting started.

We stopped for lunch at the bottom of a rocky hill and climbed up the hill for the view after we sifted through our packed lunches for what we each deemed edible. Arnold, our guide, told us that the Serengeti means “endless” and with a view like this, you can see why the park is named so… I was equally impressed with the cloud shadows over the plains.

After we dropped off our tents and bags at the campsite to make more room in the jeep for our afternoon drive, we spotted several jeeps stopped in the middle of the road. We joined them, and sure enough a lioness was sleeping in the tall grass. Only minutes later, a male lion stood up- surprising us all and climbed on top of the lioness. Lit’rally. (I couldn’t bring myself to photograph the lions doin’ it. Sorry, if that’s your thing, but it felt a little too intrusive and I put my camera down during you know, the business…)

“They have separated themselves from the pride to mate.” Arnold told us, and further explained that a male and female will leave the pride for a week. A whole week, to mate every fifteen minutes. The lioness didn’t seem to pleased about this situation and the mating didn’t last for long before they were laying back in the grass again. We waited to see if they would have another go at it, but eventually got bored, and told Arnold we could go.

We saw more elephants, more lions lounging in the grass, and a couple more hyenas until we spotted another group of jeeps in the distance. Arnold sped up and we were bouncing around the back of the jeep all the way to join them.

Everyone was looking towards the ‘sausage trees’ in the distance. There were leopards in them. Can you see the one in the middle of the tree trunk above? Another is standing on the lower branch/stump on the smaller tree below.

We traded binoculars and directions for where to look and we sat for at least a half hour watching one drag a kill up into the tree and a couple of others go from one tree to the next. Leopards. In trees. Andrew was satisfied. He’s been wanting to see a cat in a tree since Uganda like I wanted to see a zebra.

By dusk, we were back at the campsite setting up our tents and standing in line for showers before the sun went down completely. Dinner was again a fun exchange of stories until we realized we should probably head to our tents like everyone else. Only, we stood outside of our tents for awhile longer giggling like schoolchildren over stories and the appropriate accents to go with them. Stopping only to catch our breath from laughing so hard and repeated glances up at the absolutely magnificent starry sky above. Best. Sky. Ever. Hands down. Of not only this trip, but of life. The Serengeti is where it’s at!