Day 205: Ilha

Mozambique Island is known as Ilha de Moçambique in Portugese and is often referred to as Ilha (the ‘h’ sounds like a ‘y’ in Portugese) for short. I was in love. Our room opened up to the guesthouse’s sunken pool. We ate breakfast on the rooftop overlooking the shore and the thatched roofs covering the rest of the island. It was safe. It was quiet. It was the perfect respite after the hectic journey it took to get here. We decided to extend our stay from the start, because it was so calming, but also because Andrew’s foot and ankle continued to swell every time after every long bus ride. We thought a few days off of the public transport would help the healing process.

It had stormed the night before. Little did we know, it would be our best night of sleep on the island thanks to the temperature drop and cool gusts of wind that blew in our room all night. In the morning, puddles were everywhere.

I was going for an empty shot of this intersection, and then these two girls stopped at the end of the street to pose. I gave them the thumbs up sign after I took the image above and they waved and continued walking home from school. I couldn’t decide which picture I liked more, so I’m putting them both up.

Still elated we could walk around Africa freely, we continued to do just that and whenever I was asked to take a picture, I pulled out my Polaroid and surprised them with a print of the picture they had just posed for.

Sometimes I drew quite the crowd, so I started drawing the line at giving out two (maaaybe, sometimes three) prints at a time. Two young men saw the second crowd I had made and probably got the wrong impression of us because of it. They thought we had money, and they thought we would be interested in going on one of their boat tours that they offered to any and all tourists they met on the island. We politely declined, and told them we were satisfied walking around the island. They asked the usual questions, but did not give the usual response:

“You don’t have a home?” They were incredulous.

“No… our home was in South Korea… but then we quit our jobs and now we are traveling before we move back to the United States… So… for right now, no, we don’t have a home.” Andrew tried to explain.

“How can you not have a home? You must have a home!” The one said in complete disbelief. Andrew and I laughed.

“But if we had a home… how could we afford to travel to so many places…” I tried to reason with him.

“Your family, do they have a home?” He asked.

“Of course, they have a home… but it’s not our home…” I replied, and tried to explain further, “We have backpacks, so right now, our backpacks are our home.” I smiled. He gaped. But with this explanation, he seemed to come to the conclusion that he probably wasn’t going to get any business out of us and him and his friend said goodbye, assuring us that they would see us again later.

They did, right after we bought a big bag of popcorn from a vendor on the street. I’m assuming no one buys the amount of popcorn we did, for she was completely surprised when we held up four fingers, hoping to get four (not the requisite one) cups of popcorn each. Her son was upset, crying on the sidewalk next to us. We tried to offer him some popcorn to console him, but he wasn’t having it. She picked him up and he immediately calmed down. I whipped out my Polaroid. She was speechless when I produced a print of her with her son after.

We found the restaurant the cleaning lady at our guesthouse recommended. Somehow, in Portugese, we managed to order shrimp, grilled fish, something unidentifiable (we later learned was grilled banana leaves and cashews) and a huge bowl of coconut rice. It was delicious. While Andrew settled our bill, two girls were dancing just outside of the restaurant, and asked for a picture when they spotted my camera. As you might be able to predict, I pulled out the Polaroid, and made them wait while I pressed print. As soon as one of the girls figured out what was happening, she began jumping up and down and shrieking with absolute glee. Like Shinee just walked into my former middle school or maybe Justin Bieber walked into an American (or Canadian?) middle school. She was so. excited.

As soon as I handed one print over to her, she raced into the restaurant to show her mother. I tugged on her best friend’s shirt to show her that I was printing another one for her. As soon as it slid out of the camera and I handed it over, she was jumping up and down with it and raced after her friend still screaming inside the restaurant. Aside from the giraffes and multiple zebra encounters, it was the happiest moment I’ve had in Africa.

I’ve tried emailing and even tweeting Polaroid about the effect their camera has had on those who I’ve photographed along this trip, thinking surely they would be interested to hear about it, or maybe use it for some marketing maybe? But, they don’t seem to be too interested because I’ve yielded no response.

Day 204: Mozambique Island

We were let off of the bus at a junction in what felt like the middle of nowhere in Mozambique. Basically, the only way to get to Mozambique Island by way of public transport is to find a chappa (shared vehicle, possibly a van with seats, possibly a truck without seats), climb in and hang on(to someone). That’s exactly what we did. After a little less than a mile down the road, we were pointed towards a white pick-up truck off to the side of the road with at least twenty men, women, children, and babies in the back. We weren’t even phased.

“Is this our ride?” I asked Andrew. He nodded, and we smiled at our fellow passengers and climbed on board. At one point, an older woman had both arms wrapped around me with her head nuzzled under my arm. Another woman was sitting behind me and would sometimes push my bum to whichever way she chose. A little girl sat between my legs. I held onto Andrew with one hand and another man’s back with the other. At one point the truck came to an abrupt stop and I went flying. Everyone laughed and the man collecting money from passengers yelled at the driver to take it easy.

“Transportation is… very big problem…” One man sighed. I smiled back to him, assuring him I was ok… in my head thinking… I was ok as long as we didn’t crash.

In a tiny town, we had to climb off of one truck-bed and onto another. Andrew quickly ordered me to sit down, and sure enough, as time passed, our new empty truck-bed filled over capacity only this time, I was somewhat comfortable sitting on my backpack, grateful I didn’t have to worry about whether or not I was stepping on any little toes and fingers underneath me.

We stopped for twenty minutes for reasons unknown to us. A man bought his child a Styrofoam tube (much like what you would float on in someone’s backyard pool) and they started eating it for a snack. Breasts were repeatedly let free to feed babies that were balanced on their mothers’ laps. One woman who didn’t quite seem altogether there climbed on the truck and then climbed off. I didn’t realize she was talking to herself until other passengers started laughing at her. When they saw my inquisitive face, they pointed to their heads (much like we would do at home, as kids, making fun of other kids being crazy) informing me that she wasn’t exactly sane. I smiled. They smiled. One older woman got on the truck at one point and accepted my hand when I held it out to help her into the truck bed. She didn’t let go of my hand for nearly the entire ride. Holding her hand was my favorite part of the journey.

As we crossed the long bridge over to the island, we passed a car full of Asian tourists.

“Ne ha!” the man who was collecting money from passengers yelled out to the passing car. I sighed. I was tired. I was ready to not be on a moving vehicle. I was a little frustrated with his lack of… I don’t know, respect towards a different ethnicity after the great deal of patience both Andrew and I tried to maintain throughout our second 12 hour+ bus/chappa adventure. Especially since he was the one cramming so many people into the back of the truck! My mouth was quicker than my brain (as it often is).

“It’s not ‘ne ha’ it’s ‘nee-how’ and you don’t even know if they are Chinese. What if they are Korean? Then it would be ‘ann-yeong-ha-say-yo’ or what if they are Japanese…” I shouted diplomatically over the wind whipping around us on the bridge.

All of the remaining (four) men in the back of the pick-up truck burst out laughing and started making fun of their friend. Andrew rolled his eyes.

“What? You know it’s not ‘ne-ha.” I said to him. He shook his head wearily. (He was tired, too.)

We checked into our room shortly thereafter and asked for directions to a good place to eat. I promptly forgot all of the directions. I was just happy to wander through what felt like a deserted town, feeling inspired and comfortable enough to take my camera out to take some pictures of the picturesque former capital.

I also felt comfortable enough to have my Polaroid ready to whip out whenever some children asked for their picture taken. This was the first time that I was able to give the replacement Andrew got for me a spin and it was so much fun! Quite the crowd pleaser as well!

This mother rushed over to me with her child and requested a picture. The baby wasn’t having it. at. all. We took one, it wasn’t good. She started laughing and pushed her baby in front of the camera. The poor thing started crying even louder. While we waited for it to print out, she started feeding her and I snapped this one really quickly. I wanted to take more mother/child shots… I was so impressed with these women. Nearly all women of childbearing age had a baby tied to her back and they went everywhere and did everything. The fabrics of their dresses and wraps were always so beautiful as well.

And, this is what happens when I’m free to take my camera out after nearly two months of not feeling comfortable doing so... lots and lots of pictures.

“Ohmigod, I’m just so happy right now. I never really realized how HAPPY I am when I get to take pictures… I mean, I knew I liked it and enjoyed doing so… But this just feels so good!” I went on… and on…. and, Andrew listened. Or at least, he pretended to… sometimes I can’t always tell.

It was like walking through a ghost town. A beautiful Portugese ghost town with an unbelievable view. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like when the town was thriving. Abandoned buildings featured grand columns, paved walkways lined the beach, and walls had built in benches. It also made me wonder what it would have been like had there not been a war and the Portugese had not fled the island.

Even though the island was largely abandoned, it was hard not to notice the opulence, even when in ruins compared to the obvious poverty on display through those inhabiting the island today. Sure, there were nice hotels and a handful of restaurants that catered to tourists… But there was no way the locals could have afforded to eat at them. They seemed almost surprised when we would stop to buy snacks from local vendors on the street. Andrew, a big fan of pastries in any form, stopped sometimes twice a day to get a handful of fried bread bits. I wondered how many tourists stopped to pick out ten pieces of fried bread/dough and carry them off (no to-go bags here) for a late night snack like we did. Even when the kids would try to scam us (the equivalent of charging two cents instead of one per piece of bread) we’d smile and give them the eye until their mother would holler at them and they would smile back and charge us the correct price.

On our way back home (our home for the night, that is) we walked past this child who was really, very upset about something. What it was, we had no idea. But his little friend (possibly sister?) was perplexed as to what to do about it. No one else seemed phased by the commotion. I’m guessing it happens quite often with one child or another. I slowed down to watch how things were going to play out. If a mother would come and pick him up, if he would eventually stop crying, or at least stop laying in the middle of the walkway… Neither happened. Instead, the little girl just plopped down directly in front of him, watching him cry.

Sometimes, I take pictures for the colors or the symmetry or something I want to remember. Sometimes, I get caught taking a picture that might make a local think I’m strange. This was one of them. A little girl looked up wondering what I was photographing, and then I showed her and she smiled and trotted off. It’s just an example of the beautiful decay that surrounded us on the island. Beautiful colors and crumbling buildings and being able to not only take a picture, but show it to a child passing by without worrying if she or he was going to grab my camera and run. Have I mentioned that I’m in heaven on this island yet? Because I am.

Day 203: Pemba

We woke up not nearly as rested as we wanted to be, but then we were assured the buffet breakfast was included and we thought ok… maaaybe Russell’s Place isn’t so bad… Turned out, “included” meant that Yes, they could include it in our bill. Wasn’t that sweet of them? Andrew held his ground and we didn’t end up paying for the breakfast that almost (but not quite) made up for the smell of garbage all night.

We walked down to the beach, but it was too hot to stay out in the sun, let alone swim, so we played cards at a café there, and made our way back when the sun started going down. We had planned on staying at the lodge until two in the morning, but that was before we discovered Russell’s Place’s recommended taxi driver was going to charge us nearly four times the amount we paid during the day to drive us to the station at night. When one of the managers suggested we leave around eleven and go home with the wait-staff, we were told it would be free. We showed up to the bus “station” and crawled in between two other young men who were trying to sleep on the tarp covering the concrete stoop.

Again, around two thirty, we were able to board the bus before driving around town for two hours collecting passengers until it was over capacity and there was a sufficient amount of people standing in the aisle.

Day 202: The day our bus got stuck in mud

3 AM. Seriously. That’s what time our bus was scheduled to leave Mocimboa da Praia. When we rolled up to the bus around quarter to, we weren’t exactly surprised to see many passengers had shown up even before we did and were fast asleep. By the time the bus left the “station” it was going on four in the morning. Because it seemed to be less than half full, we picked a row of three seats with hopes of being the only two sitting in the row so Andrew would have enough leg-room. Big Mistake. HUGE. Because we spent the next hour driving around town picking up more… and more… and more passengers. By five o’clock in the morning, a woman who defied every stereotype of hunger and famine that all of the commercials about Africa had represented when I was younger had taken over half of our row. Andrew’s legs were in the aisle amid the standing passengers and I was trying to will my squished self back to sleep.

And then, not twenty minutes later, we woke up to our bus slipping, gears grinding, and then the engine giving up. This day was now going to be known as the day our bus got stuck in mud. Apparently the buses leave so early to avoid the heat. Not quite dawn, we were told we would have to wait for the sun to come up and dry the mud.

So, we waited. Half of the bus unloaded and Andrew and I climbed into some vacant rows and fell asleep for an hour or so. The sun came up. There was a pile of trucks behind us. One bus was stuck ahead of us. Barefoot men pushing bikes loaded down with coal cruised past us all.

At one point a group of men, some in their late thirties, (I’m guessing) some in their early teens came down the road holding shovels and machetes above their heads. They were riled up, shouting, waving their weapons of choice around, circling the bus. The few others who had stayed on the bus didn’t seem to be phased, one older gentleman even rolled his eyes over the spectacle. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure what to make of it at all. I did what anyone else (clearly out of her comfort zone) would do: I slipped my backpack under my legs and leaned back against my seat pretending I was bored out of my mind.

I’d like to think this tactic worked, for there was no harm done, but really, I kinda doubt they were going to harm anyone. I think they were just all worked up thinking they could dig an enormous bus out of the mud. Once they realized they couldn’t, they slinked back to wherever they came from.

We were eventually pulled out by a Caterpillar tractor and made our way down to Pemba. It was crowded. There were at least twenty people (probably more) standing in the aisle of the bus. A random group of six men appeared out of nowhere asking for a ride on our bus. The men, we guessed a mix of North African, possibly Arabic, and Indian said that they lost all of their things and were having trouble bartering with the driver getting onto the bus. At one point, they asked Andrew for $50.00 to get on the bus and said they would pay him back when we got to Pemba. Andrew relayed this to me, thinking we didn’t have enough cash on hand.

“I have it.” I told Andrew, and then added with a slight smirk, “That’s what they get when they don’t think to ask a woman…” But then, I started feeling badly, wondering how others would help us if we were in the same predicament. I even slipped my fifty dollar bill into my hand… but then the bus stopped and the men were let on. Twenty minutes later at a standard “safety” check, an officer climbed on the bus, ignored the twenty other men standing in the aisle and pulled all six of the foreign men off of the bus.

I guess it was probably a good idea I didn’t hand over my $50 after all.

Fourteen hours after we first boarded the bus, we arrived in Pemba. We were exhausted, sore, and hungry. The owner of Ten Degrees in Tanzania recommended a place to us in Pemba. She said it was a great place to hang out and had dorms that would fit our budget. We headed there.

Unfortunately, Russell’s Place was nothing to write home about, except in the form of complaints. We were given dubious looks when we asked for beds in the dorm, then not only charged a ridiculous fee, but led to an open air loft above a barn that seemed to house a generator for the entire lodge, and didn’t notice the wafting smell of garbage until after we had checked in and showered. After the past few days, I didn’t have any energy to complain, let alone walk around to find another bed to sleep in, so we sat down for dinner, and then crawled back into our respective bunks immediately after.

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.