Tanzania: Shakedowns and Breakdowns

(This is the sixteenth installment in an ongoing series about our self-drive safari to Tanzania. To start at the beginning, click here.)

March 20th was International Day of Happiness. I love the image of the whole world stopping for 24 hours to smile, but I hold no illusions that it actually happened. Although I don't remember specifically, I must have been fairly happy that day. It was a Friday after all...

So what makes us happy? Wide open spaces, the sound of palm trees in the desert, a whale breaching just off the coast, getting a photo that perfectly captures what we're seeing.

What makes us unhappy? Being stuck in a large city for more than 2 hours, being harassed for money and vehicle breakdowns.

What happened to us on our 11th day in Tanzania? Everything listed in that second category.

We hated to leave Lake Natron but it was time to move on. We packed up and headed south, skirting the base of Ol Doinyo Lengai on the rutted road to Mto wa Mbu. We waved goodbye to the two giraffe that seemed to always be browsing on the same tree near the village. We took one last picture of the smoking, almost comically perfect cone-shaped volcano. We stopped on a rise and looked back towards the lake, the thousands of flamingos making a pink haze in the distance. Another perfect morning in Africa.

Only a few kilometers down the road we spotted a small shack by the side of the road. A yellow-painted tree branch was laid across two home made sawhorses blocking the way. Ah. We'd reached the first of the checkpoints we'd been warned about.

A man dressed in olive drab stepped out of the shack to greet us when we pulled up. After the usual pleasantries he told us we owed him $10.00 US each for passage. Sounded pretty reasonable so we handed him $20, which he took inside and carefully filled out a receipt, noting our license plate number in his log book along with the date and time. We asked him about the road condition and he said it was good. We were hopeful that his "good" matched our somewhat modified impression of good, and went on our way.

We were traveling across the plains of Engaresero, an ancient volcanic area with sparse vegetation and consequently a sparse population. It was beautiful in the way deserts are beautiful; the emptiness making it easy to see the stark lines of the rocks and mountains. We were glad we had left early in the morning, the colors were soft and what few animals were around were out grabbing breakfast before it got too hot.

The rocky road across the Engaresero plains.

The road turned out to be fairly decent, the washboard ruts not as deep as in Serengeti, actually smoothing out in a few places. Mark was emboldened by this and pushed the car a little faster than our normal 40 kph. The moment we hit a bump (almost immediately, this was Tanzania after all) the steering wheel almost ripped out of his hands, jerking back and forth. We slowed to a stop and started easing forward again, the steering wheel holding steady. What the hell?

After experimenting with speeds it seemed every time we exceeded 35 kph the car would go into it's wobble mode. The slight problem we were having with the steering between Serengeti and Lake Natron had become a major one. We pulled over and tried to call Shaw Safari to let them know.

No bars. We drove a few more kilometers and came to the top of a rise. No bars.

A lone zebra wonders what's up with our steering.

We have that kind of luck; the kind that guarantees no problems right up to the point where we can't get help if we need it. Paul at Shaw had told us he knew exactly what was needed to fix the car (on a call we made to him when we originally started noticing the wiggle) and to give him a ring when we got close to Mto wa Mbu. Now we couldn't get through and the problem was a hundred times worse. What could we do?

We went on. At 34 kph, one mile shy of wiggle speed. For those of you unfamiliar with the metric system, that translates to 21 mph. We had 75 miles to go; good thing we weren't in a hurry.

About an hour into this journey, we spotted another little shack in the distance. Hmmmm. Someone either chose to build a house right on the road, or we were going to be "tolled" again. Sure enough as we got closer a guy stepped out of the shack and waved us over.

"Jambo!" The Toll Taker looked decidedly less official than the last one. He was wearing a pair of acid washed jeans and a ripped sweatshirt with a soccer team logo on the back. "You must pay a toll to pass. It is fifteen United States dollars."

We pulled out $15 and handed it to him. "No! EACH!" he motioned toward each of us and pointed to the money. Geez, things seemed to be getting more expensive. We gave him another $15 and he waved us forward. No receipt? we asked. "No. Not needed. I remember you." We could only hope.

Blazing down the road at 21 miles per hour, not surprisingly I had a little time to look ahead in our guide book for any interesting roadside attractions. Up ahead somewhere were ruins of an ancient set of villages that had been supported by a complex system of irrigation, an amazing feat considering the lack of rainfall and distant water sources they had to deal with. We spotted a greenish blotch in the valley below and figured that must be it: Engaruka.

A Kori Bustard eyes us suspiciously from the grass.

Maasai have taken over the area once thought to be the home of other tribes (Iraqw and Sonjo) that built the original villages. We passed a few herds of cattle with their keepers on the way down into the valley, waving as we went. We had become accustomed to the stares as we passed by, being in one of the few private vehicles to pass through this area.

There was a wide, shallow river running through the middle of the village, around which it seemed all the local cattle were gathered along with their keepers. The road clearly crossed the river and continued on the other side of the crowds, so we turned into the water and slowly made our way across, waiting patiently for the cattle to part.

A young man ran out into the river yelling at us. "No no no no! This way! The road goes this way!"

We were looking at the road, just 20 feet from us. We pointed to it "Mto wa Mbu?" we asked.

"No, no, no! You must go this way for Mto wa Mbu!"

Ok. We turned around and went back up the bank, turning into a cluster of huts and cattle enclosures. This sure didn't seem like the main road, but it's best to keep your mouth closed until you figure out the lay of the land and the temperament of your host. (Yet another life lesson that extends to pretty much every situation anywhere.)

We slowly followed along behind the young guy as he motioned us through the parting cattle and staring kids. We rounded a corner and saw the now-familiar tree trunk on sawhorses and realized the source of his indignance; we had unwittingly tried to bypass another toll gate.

Our guide ducked inside the toll booth and stood behind the counter. We idled up to the window and he sternly told us we needed to pay for passage through the village. "How much do we owe you?" Mark asked. "Twenty dollars United States." he replied, flipping his log book open and jotting down our license plate number. I pulled a $20 out from our dwindling supply of American money and handed it to Mark.

Our toll keeper made a disgusted noise when Mark tried to hand him the $20. "Each. EACH!"

This is when things started to go a little lopsided. We were both stressed about the steering problem and lack of cell coverage. We didn't mind paying to travel through an area that was obviously economically disadvantaged, but at this point we had already paid $50 to travel 35 miles. Now they wanted $40 for the privilege of beating our car up for another 35? Quite literally highway robbery.

We decided it was worth the risk to try and talk him down. On our first attempt, we willfully misunderstood him and tried to force him to take the $20.

"Twenty each! Twenty each!"

"Yes, here is twenty. For you!"

"No! Each! Must be each!"

In the meantime, an old woman approached with a fist full of necklaces. She stuck her arm in my window and smiled a mostly toothless smile. "Pretty? You like?" she held up a large tooth strung with wooden beads. "Simba! Is simba (lion) tooth!" To illustrate this she clawed at the air and made roaring sounds, menacing me with her gums.

What followed was a confusing mash up of haggling for goods and services. Mark and the toll guy were going thirty rounds. "Twenty?" "Each!" "How about twenty-five for both?" "Each!" while the saleslady and I were bargaining "Simba! You like?" "No, very nice. But no money." "Five dollar. Only five for you." "No. Sorry" "Four dollar. Good price!"

It was hilarious. The toll was going up almost as fast as the necklace price was coming down. I had no interest in another necklace, even if I was allowed to carry the thing onto the plane (which I wouldn't be) and the toll guy was just getting irritated. A small crowd was starting to gather that included some strong young men that didn't look any happier than our toll guy. We decided to cut our losses and pay him his original price. Some things aren't worth the risk.

The unhappy toll guy finally raised the tree trunk and we moved through, crossing the river thirty feet east of our first crossing, joining the road at the exact point we had almost reached ten minutes ago, forty United States dollars lighter. We wondered out loud what would have happened if we had just kept driving and ignored the toll man's yells. Would they have pursued us? How? There didn't seem to be any vehicles anywhere in the village. On second thought, if they did have a motorcycle tucked in there somewhere it wouldn't have been much of a challenge to catch us. Land Rovers aren't really built for high speed chases, especially ones with bad steering bushings.

We spent another two hours bumping along, trying to baby the car and checking for reception on every rise in the road. Finally, about 15 miles from town, we were able to get through to Shaw. We made arrangements to meet the mechanics in Mto wa Mbu. All we had to do was get there in one piece.

We finally reached the pavement, immensely relieved. As crazy as the traffic can be in town, at least the road was smooth. Mark goosed the car along and got it up to 60 kph. Just as we started to celebrate this incredible speed we hit a bump and the steering wheel ripped out of Mark's hands, front wheels slamming back and forth until the car came to a halt. Back to 34 kph it is then.

Our instructions were to call the mechanic when we arrived in town. We found a nice spot in the shade of a banana plantation and parked the car. I dialed the number and as I listened to it ring a young man walked up to Mark's window holding—wait for it—a fist full of necklaces.

This was Emanuel, a charismatic, opinionated salesman in a virtual sea of salesmen. Like flies on elephant dung, sales guys (or flycatchers as they're referred to there, somewhat ironically) swarmed around us the moment we stopped moving. It's as annoying and maddening as you'd imagine. And we had no choice but to play along.

He started with the standard sales pitch. After wearing us down for ten minutes, Mark gave in and bought two necklaces figuring once the sale was made he would leave us alone. No such luck. Two of his buddies came along and tried to get us to buy but Mark held firm. Nope, don't need any more jewelry of any kind. No.

For my part I had hit the limit of good natured haggling back in Engaruka. I've never been one to enjoy bargaining and after the long slow drive from Natron I was tired and sweaty and hungry, not a good combination for pleasant conversation, at least from me. I stayed on the phone a full five minutes beyond the time the mechanic's answering machine picked up, listening to the dial tone to save myself from the sales pitch. I'm not above such behavior, I'll admit.

Eventually Emanuel stopped trying to sell things and just chatted. His friends drifted away, but he leaned his arms on Mark's window and grilled us about America. Who did we vote for? Did we like Obama? Did we know Obama visited Africa and did not visit Tanzania? Why not? Why didn't he come here? He called us out for not knowing who the president of Tanzania is. "I know Obama, why do you not know my president?" he asked. A good point. (It's Jakaya Kikwete by the way, we looked it up when we got home.)

Wasim, on the right, checks his phone while his mechanic replaces our bad steering parts. Roadside, Mtu wa Mbu.

At last our mechanic arrived, Wasim's Auto Repair. They pulled up in a beat up Toyota truck, Wasim himself along with a guy in coveralls and a helper. The Coveralls Guy pulled a new steering arm assembly out of the truck, threw a rubber floor mat under our car and slid under. After about ten minutes of clanking and hammering the old one was off, the new one on, right there on the side of the road. Tuktuks, safari vehicles, motorcycles and trucks flew by within a few feet of  our makeshift auto shop as Wasim told us how common this problem was. "Every time one of these vehicles goes out for two weeks they need a new bushing. They just can't take these roads. And Serengeti? Two days in Serengeti and you will need to change the bushing. I'm surprised you made it as far as you did!"

Meanwhile Emanuel was still hanging out, watching the repair and commenting with a gathering crowd on the merits of different makes of safari vehicles. Apparently we were providing entertainment.

Once the repair was complete, Wasim told us to drive on and give him a call in five minutes to let him know how the ride was. He was on his way to another roadside repair but could circle back if something went awry. We started the car up and got settled but Emanuel wasn't ready to let us go.

"I will take you on a tour of the town. I will show you Mto wa Mbu, no charge." I think he was getting desperate.

"No, we have to go. We've got reservations at Lake Manyara and have to be there today." Mark told him.

"Come back after. On your way back I will give you the tour. Take my picture, then you will recognize me." Emanuel stood back and struck a pose. Mark felt obligated to take his picture.

Sorry to leave you Emanuel. I hope you sold lots of necklaces that day.

Emanuel: Salesman, Tour Guide, Political Commentator

Tanzania: Lake Natron Stories | Footprints and the Kichaa Man

(This is the fifteenth installment in an ongoing series about our self-drive safari to Tanzania. To start at the beginning, click here.)

A pair of giraffes are startled as we drive by, the flanks of the active volcano Ol Doinyo Lengai in the background.

We had one more stop on our guided tour of the Lake Natron area: A look at some of the oldest known footprints left by man. A rare find, the footprints were discovered in 2006 and were carbon dated back 120,000 years.

We arrived to find a big slab of rock surrounded by a cyclone fence. An old man emerged from a small hut nearby and he headed over to greet us. He and Parison shook hands and exchanged pleasantries as he unlocked the gate protecting the area. This was Koongo Ole Sakai, the very man who discovered the footprints here.

We walked across the knobbly fossilized mud; a mass of footprints were embedded across the slab. We tried not to step on them (it seemed sacrilegious) but it was hard when there were so many so close together. Parison explained to us that Koongo had been working at the Engaresero Camp mining volcanic ash when he uncovered the prints. He reported them to the owner of the mining company, who in turn showed them to archeologists. When the mine closed, Koongo stayed on to guard the prints, living in a small shack above the site.

This upturned piece of fossilized mud reveals how the discovery was made. In pulling up the layers of stone in the mining process the footprints were revealed.

We took photos and, of course, tried to fit our feet into some of the tracks (isn't that a requirement?) Wandering around in circles looking at all the prints we could see there were some children's mixed in with the adults, along with the distinct hoof marks of cattle. It wasn't hard to imagine a large family group walking across the plain together with their herd. It was strange to be standing next to Parison and Koongo in their traditional Maasai garb while viewing the 120,000 year old footprints of their ancestors. We stood alongside them as our Eddie Bauer UV resistant, poly/nylon clothing flapped in the wind, marveling at the absurd contrast of it all.

Ancient human footprints

Our car parked outside the enclosed footprint area.

Cattle prints were mixed in among the human prints;
it is theorized this is some of the first evidence of domesticated livestock.

As we walked toward the gate Parison whispered to us that it is customary to tip Koongo for his service. He lived out here all alone and this was his only form of income. We thanked him kindly for his tour as Mark handed him some shillings. Though he didn't speak English it was clear he was proud of his discovery and happy to share it with us.

We rode back to camp, dropping Parison off at his village on the way. It had been a long day, the wind, dust and heat had worn us down. Relaxing in the shade of the car after a shower sounded like a pretty good plan. Relaxing at the bar after our shower sounded even better.

More Dollars Than Sense

We were just finishing up washing the grit out of our hair in the side-by-side showers at the campground when we heard something we hadn't noticed since landing at Mt. Kilimanjaro airport: the sound of a helicopter approaching. What the heck? Did someone get injured climbing up the volcano? We rushed to get dried off and dressed hoping to catch sight of it. We missed it, but could hear the rotors winding down somewhere close by. We locked up the car and rushed over to the restaurant/bar to find out what was going on.

As we entered the bar an array of the largest camera lenses we've ever seen were lined up on a blanket on the floor of the restaurant. Standing in the middle of the floor were two sets of rubber galoshes, each of which were secured with zip ties to large squares of plywood. A man and his son, dressed in photography vests designed to look "outdoorsy," were standing over the equipment in earnest discussion.

Things were getting curiouser and curiouser.

A haggard looking pilot walked in and started gesturing to the photographers, trying to tell them he couldn't take all the gear up in his helicopter at once. They, in turn, enthusiastically gestured that they wanted to take everything with them and their plan was to strap on the boots/platform combos once they were in the air. They wanted him to land the helicopter in the shallow end of the lake where they would climb out and walk in their modified "mud shoes" so they could get closer to the flamingos. All this was being discussed with very little actual dialogue, as the South African pilot didn't speak Mandarin, and the photographers spoke very little English. It was quite impressive, actually, how much was understood—we were able to get the gist of it from all the way across the room.

We sat down outside with our drinks, hoping to catch the rest of the story as it unfolded. After more haggling, the photographers went back to their tent and the pilot walked out into the courtyard shaking his head.

"Long day?" we asked. The pilot let out that universal "pshhhhh" sound of exasperation and sat down next to us.

"This guy wants me to land in the lake! I told him no way can I do that, you guys are going to have to jump out. If I land in that muck I'll never be able to take off again. Don't they know how thick that mud is? And you know what'll happen when they jump? They're going to sink to their knees, and no WAY am I letting them get back in with that crap on their clothes. Jesus Christ! What a day." He wandered off toward his helicopter and we tried to stifle our laughter until he was out of earshot.

After some more haggling, the two photographers untied their galoshes from the plywood sheets and carried them out to the copter along with an abbreviated supply of camera lenses. The staff from the bar came out and we all watched as it took off in the warm glow of the late afternoon.

They told us these two guys came to Lake Natron every year just to take pictures of the flamingos. The older guy was a rich executive back in China, and he was obsessed with the birds; he rented a helicopter for the entire week of his stay every year and had the pilot fly him around while he took hundreds of photos. It was our luck to have arrived while he was there; the entertainment factor was fantastic. As we watched the helicopter hover over the lake in the distance, we asked the bartender what the word for "crazy" is in Kiswahili.

"Kichaa!" they all said in unison, and laughed as they walked back into the restaurant.

Tanzania: Lake Natron Stories | Markets, Waterfalls and Bandages

(This is the fourteenth installment in an ongoing series about our self-drive safari to Tanzania. To start at the beginning, click here.)

We had agreed to meet up with our guide Parison in the afternoon to check out "The Market" (his words). We had pictured walking through town checking out tables spread with locally crafted jewelry and home grown fruit and vegetables, items we were anxious to stock up on. We were also hoping to meet more of the people who choose to scratch out a living in this very hot and seemingly inhospitable Lake Natron area.

Our guide, Parison

Parison was right where he said he'd be, sitting on a large tree root out in front of his family's campground. Seeing us approach he stood and gathered his walking stick, ready for the afternoon's adventures. We drove down the road towards town and he gestured for Mark to turn into a dirt lot, which was teeming with goats and their handlers. "Here?" Mark was a bit confused.

"Yes, yes. The market." Parison got out of the car and started greeting each of the Maasai herders by name, shaking hands and joking with them. He led us through a gate and into an enclosure made up of woven tree branches, a rough fence to keep the goats and cattle in one place on the dusty hillside.

We stood under a tree and watched as two older gentleman poked and prodded each of the goats as they were presented. Parison explained in hushed tones that these were the elders; they judged each of the animals that were for sale and sorted them by certain criteria. The fatter, healthier ones would bring a much bigger price. We watched as the serious business of sorting the animals and haggling took place in front of us. Parison explained that taking care of the herds was a man's work and women were not allowed at the market. I had noticed I was the only female there, and frankly, it was making me a bit uncomfortable. No one really acknowledged us; I think the locals were all used to tourists coming through; I'm sure I was having more trouble with it than they were. Somehow it felt disrespectful to be breaking the rules just because I was a visitor.

It seemed the buyers and sellers were in no particular hurry and it was sweltering even in the shade of the tree, so we walked back to the car. Parison asked if we'd like to get something cool to drink. Sounded like a great idea to us. He guided us up the road into town, having us pull over into another dirt lot next to an open bar area. Under a thatched roof, plastic chairs and tables were set up around a pool table that was propped up on various pots and bits of scrap metal that helped level it on the dirt floor. Several guys were hanging out at the bar and watching as a few others played pool. Parison called out our order to the owner. "Do you play?" Parison asked Mark. "No, not really. I'm not much of a pool player." Parison looked disappointed; I think he really wanted to hang out with his friends and play a few rounds. We sat and watched silently for a while, slurping our cokes before they had a chance to warm up in the sun.

"MAaarrrkk." Oh no. We had been found.

Elizabeth

Elizabeth walked in trailing a small assortment of her daughters, granddaughters and various female relatives. It was Parison's mom, the one we had met at the lake that morning, the one who had taken a shine to Mark while I was being accosted by the rest of the sales crew.

"Mark. Pretty? You buy for mama!" Elizabeth held up a string of bracelets, smiling and nodding, willing him to buy something.

"Yes pretty. But no, we cannot buy anything now." Mark's smile was looking a bit strained, his eyes darting back and forth for an exit. We were trapped. They all trouped into the bar and sat down at the table with us. It was a little annoying in a way, being subjected to pressure sales tactics while trying to enjoy our cold drinks. But once they realized we really weren't going to buy anything they just sat in the shade and talked with one another. It was nice to see Maasai women up close, they always seemed to be lurking in the background at the other places we had been.

Maasai culture is very different from ours, there is a strict division of labor between the sexes. As part of our tour, Parison had explained to us how this works:

Woman's Job:

• Get water
• Build the house
• Cook
• Clean clothes
• Take care of children
• Gather firewood
• Make and tend the fire
• Build the animal enclosures

Man's Job:

• Tend the animals

Mark thought this sounded like a pretty fair deal. I punched him in the arm. Parison laughed. We asked him how many wives he had. "Only one right now. And I have one child." Mark asked him how many wives he thought he might have. "I cannot guess. But probably at least three." He smiled at Mark: "And you?"

Mark looked at me and shook his head. "Only one. That's all I can handle." It was Parison's turn to shake his head and laugh. What kind of place only allows for one wife? How ever would all those chores get done?

We finished off our cokes and it was time to go. Elizabeth made one last half-hearted attempt to sell Mark some earrings, then we climbed into our car. Our last stop was going to be a hike up the river to the waterfalls, something we were looking forward to in the heat of the afternoon.

The base of the waterfall trail. The Engaresero River is fed from springs that originate in the Ngorongoro Crater area.

We drove out of town once again, crossing the river that seemed so out of place in the dry desert and turned up a road leading into a canyon. We parked under a scrubby tree and were greeted by some young boys that were hanging around the parking area. We seemed to be a curiosity to them, or perhaps an easy mark. It was always a toss up out here.

Flexible black pipes served to carry water down to the village.
One of them had sprung a leak and was leaping up and down
as the water surged through it.

Parison led us up a path beside the river. We had to climb over a few thick plastic pipes that were draped down the hill; he explained these were what supplied the village with water. One of the pipes had sprung a spectacular leak and was spraying water high into the air; it looked like someone had tried to repair it at one point with some duct tape, the tattered ends of which were flapping in the spray.

We made our way up the river, crossing it several times as access to the path petered out on one side then the other in the narrow canyon. After twenty minutes or so we came to the end. A spectacular waterfall blocked the way, the water coming over a sheer cliff. Parison told us the water came from a spring in the Ngorongoro area. He invited us to take a swim and with the bored look of someone who had seen this view too many times, he promptly took off his belt, put down his walking stick, laid back on a rock and closed his eyes. Parison was officially on break.

We took photos and a video, marveling at the amount of water that was pouring into the ravine. Ferns and other greenery were sprouting from the cliff, waving in the wind created by the force of the water. It all seemed so out of place considering the Lake Natron valley only gets a few inches of rainfall in a year.

The base of the waterfall, a welcome change from the dry desert.

We hadn't really come prepared to swim, and I was a little worried about my knees in the water. Just a few days before we left for Tanzania I had fallen and scraped the skin off both my knees. I had done a good job too, nice deep scrapes that were still raw and oozing days after the fall. I had been struggling to keep them clean and protected all week, washing them as best I could and putting on new bandages every morning, but it was a losing battle in the dust and grime that is camping in Africa. Prominent in my brain were the warnings of waterborne beasties that could use any opening in the skin as a welcome mat. As much as I love company, I wasn't feeling the need to invite that kind of guest.

Mark and I at the base of the falls. Notice the bandage on my knee.

We finished up with our photos and headed back down the river the way we had come. About halfway back I stepped into a hole in the riverbed plunging up to my waist into the water. When I emerged my bandages were hanging by a thread, revealing waterlogged scabs and raw skin that looked much more gory than it felt. I tore what was left of the bandages off and kept going, figuring whatever was going to happen probably already did (and if it did what a great story!) At the base of the trail we ran into another group on their way up. An ancient Maasai man was leading a group that included two women, the very ones that were making a fuss about the bats flying around in the restaurant the night before (story here). The older woman kept staring at my knees, shaking her head slowly back and forth.

Palm trees clinging to the side of the cliff above the falls.

We greeted the group and met their guide. Murunga was excited to hear we were from the U.S. "I have been! I visited Washington DC in 1968. I wish to go back someday." We shook his hand and told him we were from California ("Oh! Hollywood!") and admitted that we had never been to DC. Unlike most of the guides we had met in Lake Natron, Murunga spoke almost perfect English; he had spent some time in the U.S. going to school in his youth. He was fascinating to talk to and I regret not taking his photo; he had the most interesting face, worn from the years of squinting into the sun and wind.

In the meantime, the older woman was still staring at my knees and speaking rapid fire French to her companion. She pulled on my arm as I walked past, almost in tears.

"It is dangerous?"

At first I didn't know what she was talking about. Murunga laughed and told her no "it is just a walk in the water." She didn't listen to him, she was still holding my arm and repeated "Dangerous?"

"No, no! I was hurt before I started. No the walk is fine." I tried to reassure her but she wasn't having any of it. There might have been translation issues (or perhaps she had already made up her mind) but she insisted on turning around. Poor Murunga had lost a client.

A small waterfall in the lower Engaresero River canyon.

Tanzania: Lake Natron Stories | Parison and the Pink Flamingos

(This is the twelfth installment in an ongoing series about our self-drive safari to Tanzania. To start at the beginning, click here.)

Parison met us at the campground gate, walking stick in hand, to guide us out to the lake. Like most Maasai men he was tall and thin, a shock of bright red robes tied artfully around him. He got in the car with us and we drove down the road, fording the river where women were washing clothes on the rocks, children playing in the water and staring at us as we passed by. Getting caught behind a herd of cattle that weren't in the least interested in moving off the road, Parison reached over and honked the horn telling Mark to keep driving, they'll move when they see you won't stop. The boys that were supposed to be tending the herd stood alongside the road and watched, laughing as we slowly nudged our way through the cows.

Parison and Mark walk ahead along the lake shore.

We parked on the edge of the shoreline far enough away to avoid the sticky mud that lurked closer to the water. Parison took the lead and started walking to the lake's edge, his long legs moving so quickly I had to break into a trot to keep up. The salty crust under our feet made crackling noises as we broke through to the silty mud below. It started to get a bit slippery, forcing us to take smaller steps so we wouldn't slide into an unplanned split.

Footprints make trails across the muddy lakeshore.

The toxic stew that is Lake Natron. The reddish hue is red algae,
the main diet of the Lesser Flamingo.

Lake Natron is a huge alkaline lake. It's situated in a wide desert valley ringed by rocky mountains. The lake has no natural outlet so what little water runs in has only evaporation to take it away. This concentrates the sodium and potassium carbonates (that leach from the ash spewed by the nearby active volcano) into a lethal stew capable of burning human skin. The lake is also shallow—3 meters at its deepest—and in the hot desert sun it reaches temperatures of up to 140 degrees fahrenheit. The water doesn't support much life but for one important exception; the red algae Spirulina, the main food source for the Lesser Flamingos that flock there by the thousands.

Lesser Flamingos hunker down in the strong wind at Lake Natron.

We had come to see flamingos and the lake didn't disappoint. Hundreds of birds stood ankle deep in the water, dipping their bills in and out as they scooped up algae. The wind was screaming across the valley making it hard to keep the camera steady enough to get a good shot. We stood squinting into the wind trying to take it all in, tears streaming down our faces from the salty dust that blew into our eyes.

Parison waits patiently while we take photos of the lake, 
modestly trying to hold his robes in place in the wind.

We climbed onto a rocky outcropping that jutted up from the lake bed. As far as our leaking eyes could see a fuzzy carpet of wind-blown flamingos were spread out across a sheet of rippling water. On the other side of the outcropping was a large marshy area covered with bright green grass. It was a jarring sight, set against the rest of the horizon of dull gray rocks. Parison explained that a small freshwater spring fed this area, and to prove that fact there were a few zebra grazing on the grass below. There was also a fresh zebra corpse, it's stomach torn open and most of its innards missing. Parison told us there weren't any lions in the area, but there was a band of roving hyenas that made life hell for the Maasai herds and the few zebra that made a home here. Good to know.

What was left of a hyena dinner: Zebra carcass on the marshy plain.

We stayed on the rocks taking pictures while Parison made himself comfortable on a big boulder. He was an experienced local guide, not impressed by the scenery he had grown up with. When the wind became too much for us we walked back toward the car, Parison curiously slowing his gait as we got closer to the vehicle.

I'm pretty sure he was texting his sisters
to tell them we were leaving. That's my
theory anyway...

Out of the bushes a line of women emerged and made their way toward our vehicle from the direction of the village. We arrived at the car at the same time they did and were immediately mobbed by enthusiastic saleswomen shoving bracelets, earrings and carvings into our hands.

We had been set up.

An unlucky flamingo's leg is perfectly preserved on the salty crust of the lakeshore.

It's a hard life in the Lake Natron area. There's not much for the Maasai herds to eat, water is scarce and big game doesn't really come into the area much so tourists are few and far between. The locals make their money as guides or by selling handmade jewelry and they work hard for what little they earn. We had already purchased so many bracelets and necklaces at previous stops we had run out of people at home to give them to; besides we had to save what cash we had for diesel and tolls on the road out of here.

The women were all friendly and nice, but insistent. I got the brunt of the sales pitch as the ladies snapped bracelets on my wrists and held earrings up to my head "Pretty? Yes? You buy?" Mark and Parison stood off to the side and watched, amused by my struggle to say no politely. An elder woman had taken a shine to Mark though and offered him a ring, free of charge. It turned out this was Elizabeth, one of Parison's mothers*. Most of the other women were his sisters and cousins. Ah, now it made sense.
*Maasai men take on as many wives as they can support. Elizabeth was one of eleven women that raised Parison and his siblings.

Elizabeth worked on Mark to buy something for "Mama" (me) while I was losing the battle against the rest. Finally one of the younger women got tired of hearing no and said "OK, no bracelet? Then picture! You pay for picture!"

An out! I had an out!

"OK, I will give you 10,000 shillings for a picture. But it has to be all of you. And you have to look pretty for the photo."

They all laughed and lined up enthusiastically on the dry lakebed. I took a few shots and they ran over to see them on the camera (digital cameras are a godsend; it's so wonderful to be able to immediately share a photo with your subjects, especially in places where cameras are few and far between.) I have never been so happy to pay for a picture in my life. We got into the car at last, and the women made their way back to the village, apparently satisfied with our transaction.

This picture, by the way, is one of my favorites out of the hundreds we took on the trip. Totally worth the 10,000 shilling ($7.00) price.

The group photo: Our guide Parison (the tallest and only male), his mom Elizabeth (just to the left of him) and the rest of the clan. The women are holding up strings of bracelets, rings and necklaces they were selling.

Tanzania: The Right Track to Natron

(This is the eleventh installment in a series about our self-drive safari to Tanzania. Click here to start at the beginning.)

The GPS beeped, the screen flickering for a split second before going dark. Mark let the car drift to the side of the road while I frantically jiggled the cord, pushing the 'ON' button over and over in a futile attempt to get the map back up on the screen.

"I think it might be dead."

The morning had started out so well. Within a mile of our campsite we had driven right through part of the great migration, watching huge herds of wildebeest roll across the sweeping green plains. We stopped to admire the views from the top of the kopjes as we made our way towards Klein's Gate, the northern-most exit from the Serengeti in Tanzania.

Huge herd of wildebeest graze near Klein's Gate, Serengeti

We stopped in at the gate to check out of the park and sign the Log Book. Klein's is a lightly used gate, it's far from the more popular parts of the park. Not many people travel through this area; there were only two guards here and both jumped up to greet us. I think they were happy to have someone break up the monotony of the morning. Inside the office, we looked at the map that was tacked up on the wall and asked about the road to Lake Natron.

"How is the road? Are there any problem spots?" Both Shaw and our guide book had described some difficult areas on this stretch. When the road is dry, it's just the usual rutted, corrugated stuff to which we had become accustomed. But after it rains, the "black cotton" soil turns to gluey, tire sucking muck, making the going difficult to impossible. Beyond the muddy areas, the road travels through a rocky desert and descends into the Nguruman Escarpment, a volcanic area sharing a border with Kenya. There is a section of switchbacks nicknamed Seventeen Corners that is notorious for it's narrow, acrophobic drop-offs and puckering two way traffic on what should be a a one way road.

"Roads are fine. They are good. No problems."

We had learned to take what was said about roads here in perspective. Roads that are "good" to natives would have triggered a stack of letters to the city council (and possibly lawsuits) back home. But the fact that they had also mentioned they were mostly dry was a good sign. We could manage the ruts and bumps, but mud would have thrown us a new challenge we weren't sure we were ready to take on.

Our rule when traveling in Africa was always "if there's a restroom, use it" so we wandered over that way. I opened the door to the ladies and found this one was equipped with a squat toilet. All the restrooms we had visited to this point had either the western style toilets or a mixture of squats and western. This, being such a remote outpost, was only equipped with one hole, quite literally.

The green color on this side of the park was a refreshing change from the dry brown of the rest of the Serengeti.

For those unfamiliar with the concept, the squat toilet is a hole in the floor surrounded by a porcelain plate (if it's a fancy one) with two grooved foot pads on the sides. There isn't any toilet paper; for washing purposes a bucket of water is placed in the room with a small bowl meant to dip and pour over your parts and clean up any "excess" on the porcelain. This particular room had a large barrel made by sawing a 55 gallon drum in half. I have to hand it to the guys; the restroom was very clean, unlike most of the others we had visited.

No, I did not take a picture of the toilet
there. This is for illustration purposes
only.

Now, I'm up for anything. We had spent the last few days digging our own holes and hiding behind bushes, so a little squatting wasn't going to be a deal breaker. I have a habit of stuffing my pockets full of tissue before we go anywhere while we're camping, so that wasn't an issue. Besides, I would have just hovered over a western-style toilet anyway, so what's the difference?

I lined myself up, taking care not to let my shorts drag on the floor. Everything was flowing well and I don't mind telling you my aim was spot on. I had a little trouble getting the tissue out of my pocket while still in a squat; should have thought to take it out before I got started. That was when things went a little awry; as I bent over to pull up my shorts, my sunglasses—which were tucked in the neck of my shirt—started to slide out. Immediately I envisioned them falling down the hole, a place I wasn't willing to go no matter how badly I needed them. As I reached up to grab them they slid out, glancing off the back of my hand and catapulting away, splashing down in the water bucket in the corner.

I quickly hobbled over and plunged my hand in the bucket, chasing the glasses as they fluttered down into the water. I caught them before they went too deep; if they had gotten to the bottom I would have been up to my armpit in questionable water. Sunglasses raised victoriously in the air, arm dripping, shirt sleeve wet, shorts around my knees: I was the picture of triumph. Now to figure out how to pull up and button my shorts with only one hand.

Back at the car I stood outside the door, not wanting to touch anything until I got myself cleaned up. The water from the restroom seemed clean, but it certainly wasn't to drinking water standards. I had to ask Mark to get out the wet wipes so I could clean up before climbing into the passenger seat. I had trouble explaining my predicament to him because I was suddenly overcome with a serious case of the giggles. While we had been making our pitstop another tour car had pulled in and it's occupants were standing nearby waiting for their driver. I'm sure I was just confirming what this European safari group already knew; Americans aren't fit for polite company.

A group of giraffe grazing near the road just outside Klein's Gate.

Back on the road, I located the next route on the GPS. I had pre-programmed Klein's to Natron the night before, carefully cross checking the route with the description in the book. I was determined to have a trouble free day, especially important today; we were leaving the park boundaries, with their spotty but occasional road signs, and traversing remote countryside with little cell coverage. It was important not to get lost, both for our well being and possibly our marital harmony. (Nothing is more stressful for an already stressed out driver than having the question "Which way?" be answered by "I'm not sure...")

The countryside in this part of Tanzania is absolutely gorgeous. The late rains had kept the hills green and lush; small villages dotted the valleys around us, the herds of cattle here the fattest we had seen the whole trip. We came across a section thickly lined with trees and were surprised to find a large group of giraffe, munching away. We had been in Africa for over a week now but it never ceased to amaze me that these huge animals were everywhere. Not just relegated to certain areas, but everywhere. It was a thrill to drive, never knowing what might be around the next corner.

We traveled through several small villages making our way towards the town of Wasso, the halfway point to Lake Natron. Our instructions from Shaw said we should stock up on food and fuel there, it being the last stop for the next few days. We puttered along, getting stuck in a few Maasai cattle traffic jams, taking in the beautiful scenery.

Why, oh why, do the cattle always want to walk on the road? This happened over and over on the road to Wasso.

We found our turnoff for Wasso and descended into town. It was not at all like the description in the guide book. Not a surprise really, not much of anything on this trip had been. The town was a dusty road flanked by small wood and mud buildings, much like most of the towns we had visited. We traveled all the way through without being able to locate a gas station or food store, so turned around and headed back. The usual "guys standing around" watched us curiously; this area is not often visited by tour groups, and I assume even more rarely visited by individuals traveling without a guide. We couldn't see any sign of a modern-type gas station, so we pulled over and asked a group of guys gathered in front of a restaurant.

"Fuel? Over there!" they pointed right across the street to a hut surrounded by 55 gallon barrels.

Hmmm. We were told not to get fuel anywhere but a regular pump type station. There wasn't anything like that here. We had about 200 kilometers of road before the next fuel stop and maybe a little extra thrown in for exploration around Lake Natron. We didn't have any choice; we crossed our fingers and hoped this guy was on the up and up.

Fill 'er up! Fuel station in Wasso.

We pulled in front of the hut and the guy asked us how much we needed. (This required running back across the street and asking for a translator.) A guy on a motorcycle volunteered to come over and help us with the transaction. Mark had to do some quick figuring; we had to fill the tank, but since our fuel gauge had been stuck on full the entire trip, we had to not only calculate how much we'd need to get where we were going, but how much we had used so far. Luckily, we'd been tracking our fuel usage since Ngorongoro, and figured we needed about 20L.

The fuel man stuck a piece of hose into the diesel drum and started hand cranking a pump he had clamped onto it, filling a jerry can to the 20L mark. He then put a funnel with a filter attachment into the car fuel filler and emptied the jerry can into our tank. This would have given the California Air Quality Board (not to mention OSHA) fits, but you know what? This is what ingenuity looks like. When you don't have electricity you have to make do. It saved our butts and made him a little cash: everyone was happy.

Off we went down the road through town for the second time, this time on a quest for food. There were little stores here and there, but it was hard to tell who was selling what. We pulled over at what would amount to a mini strip mall in the U.S., a line of shops with crates of empty Coke bottles lined up outside. There were boxes of dusty produce on display outside one of the doors, and as we looked it over a woman walked out to help us. We weren't sure what some of the items were, but picked up a bunch of bananas and a few beat up oranges. "Water?" we asked. "No water. No." We peeked inside the shop and saw three 500ml bottles on the shelf, which wouldn't have been enough for us anyway, and decided to let it go.

We paid for our fruit and got back on the road, stopping briefly to help push start a disabled car (we wanted to leave a good impression for the next hapless white folks who happened to stumble through.) On our way up the hills outside of town the terrain turned from lush and green to dry and gray with the occasional candelabra tree. We were moving into the desert region of the Nguruman Escarpment, the edge of the Lake Natron valley area.

Candelabra trees line the road outside of Wasso

It was hard to tell on these bumpy roads, but we were starting to get a distinct wiggle in the steering. On the sporadic occasion of a smooth stretch of road Mark would accelerate from our normal 25-30 mph to 40-45. The car would be fine up until we hit a bump, at which time the steering wheel would wiggle back and forth until he slowed back down to 20. It could be the alignment was off—God knows we hit enough rocks and corrugation to do it—but to be extra sure it wasn't something more serious we pulled over to check it out.

First we checked the tires to make sure we didn't have a flat, then popped the hood. There was a little leak coming from the power steering box, but it didn't look too major. Mark topped it off and couldn't find anything else that seemed amiss. Just have to keep an eye on it.

When we started the car up again I turned the GPS back on (the GPS unit relied on the car for power.) It booted back up and I was pulling up our route when the unthinkable happened: after letting out a forlorn beeping sound, the screen went black. Ok, not a huge deal. The cigarette lighter power connection had been jiggling around the whole trip so I figured it had come a little loose. I pulled it out then plugged it firmly back in. No go. I did the same with the cord connection to the device. Nothing. I jammed the "ON" button down so hard I had the button imprint on my index finger for half an hour. No dice.

If this had happened anywhere else, it would have been acceptable. Tarangire? No worries, we had a map. Ngorongoro? We had a guide and plenty of other people around to ask. Serengeti? There were signs, and if we were truly lost, someone would be along within the hour.

Here?

We had only seen one other vehicle since we left town, we didn't have a road map that covered this area, there was no cell service and to top it off, we were starting to suspect there was something wrong with the steering. So, as one of our favorite instructors at Overland Expo had taught us, when you are presented with a problem that is giving you trouble, stop and make a cup of tea.

Not literally of course. It was 90 sweaty degrees outside with no shade for miles. We sat in the car and mulled our options:

• Up to this point in our lives we considered ourselves fairly competent;
• We were on what appeared to be the main road; 
• The guards at the gate said it was easy; 
• The truck was still running great, the steering was a bit off but if we kept our speed down it didn't seem to be a problem. 

We decided to push on and try to navigate using the description in the guide book. What could happen?

We traveled for two more hours through terrain that was getting increasingly dry and rocky. Must be getting close to the Nguruman Escarpment! The road had been easy to follow for the most part; there were very few other side roads up here. We descended into a little valley and crossed a dry riverbed, Mark navigating the sandy wash with ease (Serpentine!*) when "BEEP!" a cheerful little sound from our GPS announced it had decided to work again. After pulling up our route on the screen it confirmed we were still on the right track. Hallelujah!
(*There are tricks to keep from getting stuck in sand: keep the car's momentum going at all costs and steer back and forth to keep from getting bogged down in the ruts created by the last guy who went through. Mark loves doing this and likes to shout "Serpentine!" while the car swings back and forth, wheels spraying sand in the air. A little 4WD humor for you, silly I know, but there you have it.)

At the bottom of a hill we came to a fork in the road, both directions looking equally "main." This turnoff wasn't mentioned in the book, nor was it marked on the GPS. Two Maasai women were sitting by the side of the road, one nursing a baby. I rolled down my window and smiled at them "Jambo!" They smiled back and walked over to the car, laughing and nodding at me. I asked them with lots of hand signals and gestures which way to Natron? Puzzled looks and shaking heads. I pulled out a map of Tanzania, pointing to the lake and where I thought we were (approximately.) They looked at the map and smiled, with looks that indicated they probably hadn't seen a map before. I'm not even sure they knew how to read. And I'm pretty certain they didn't know Kiswahili either, based on the way they said hello. The baby gurgled and smiled at me, not sure what to make of this strange looking (and sounding) woman.

Just at that moment two safari vehicles drove around the corner. Mark waved one of them down and yelled "Natron?" The guy nodded and pointed back the way they had come. "Yes, that way. Right turns! All right turns and you will get to Natron!"

It had been confirmed. We were on the right track.

Looking down onto the Lake Natron plain.

Tanzania: The Roads

(This is the third installment about our self-drive safari to Tanzania. The next post will be about our first stop, Tarangire National Park.)

Before we left for Tanzania, well meaning friends and family warned us of the dangers we might face: Be careful of the animals! Did you get your shots? Do you have a safe place to store your stuff? And the ever present: are you bringing a gun? (I'll address these in other posts, but just let me say now that none of them were a concern.)

No one, however, warned us about the most terrifying thing that Tanzania threw at us: the roads.

My God.

This was our view for most of the trip.  The corrugation was so bad we had to strap everything down for fear it would vibrate right out (or off) of the car.

I will never, ever complain again about the condition of our roads here in the US. Take the worst corrugated gravel road you've ever driven, multiply it by six, throw in random potholes the size of refrigerators, narrow it down to one lane and put two way traffic on it, then heap it up in the middle so the car is at a 25 degree angle when moved to the side. Throw in deep sand, thorny bushes and/or weedy ditches of indeterminate depth on either side and you have a typical Tanzanian road. Oh, and I forgot the random rocky patches peppered with unmarked washed out sections that require delicate four wheel drive maneuvers to cross.

The narrow road around Ngorongoro Crater, with it's high crown, red dust, sandy edges and crazy safari drivers.

The main road between the Serengeti and Lake Natron.

What about pavement you say? We traveled on two paved roads in the two weeks we were gone, both main highways between major cities and parks. They were pretty decent roads, the surfaces smooth and fairly well marked (discounting the large potholes that occasionally cropped up.) You couldn't let your guard down for a minute though, as traffic in the northern part of Tanzania can include not just trucks and cars: motorcycles that for some inexplicable reason always drove in the breakdown lane; hand drawn carts; mini-van type buses that stopped here and there without warning; herds of cattle, sheep and goats (mostly) tended by Maasi; police check points that consisted of a policeman standing in the middle of the road and randomly waving vehicles over; huge semi trucks carting more than three times the amount of stuff they were rated for, the loads teetering frighteningly every time they hit a bump (this was sometimes addressed by having a guy ride on top holding onto the load as best he could, making us not only worry we'd have a pile of lumber falling on us but the poor lumber-holder as well.)

A typical scene on the main highway across northern Tanzania: Maasi driving cattle from one side to the other.

City driving was a whole other ball of wax. Take all the motorcycles, hand carts, cattle, trucks and mini-van buses and multiply those by three, then add in hundreds of pedestrians, dogs, larger city buses, those little three wheeled tuk tuks like you see in India, beggars and newspaper salesmen working the lines at the stoplights.

This is supposed to be a two lane road. Try telling that to the mini-buses that used the center divider as a passing lane.

Did I mention Tanzanian's drive on the left side of the road? That was another challenge for us.

Poor Mark was thrown into this whirlwind of traffic on the very first day, dealing with a new-to-him vehicle with right hand drive, working the unfamiliar gear shift with his left hand. It would have been nice to have a little practice run, but we had arrived a day late due to an airline cancellation, so we had to hit the ground running if we were to make our first stop by nightfall.

Here's a little taste of city driving:

And a small portion of not-so-bad dirt road driving (most of the roads were so rutted the camera wouldn't focus for all the joggling):

                                          

(It's important to note the video of the city driving was taken on our way back to return the car, so Mark had two weeks of experience at this point. We were too jet lagged and petrified to run the camera on the first day through. The dirt road video was taken in Lake Manyara National Park which had the best maintained roads of all the parks we visited. We tried to take some video in the other parks but the GoPro kept falling off it's mount on the windshield.) 

After a few harrowing days we finally got used to the roads but it was never a "let's jump in the car and take a drive" kind of place for us (it was more an "I need a drink after that drive" kind of place.) I think you'd have to be there at least a month before becoming really comfortable with the flow of things.

We are spoiled here in the US with our paved roads and well marked intersections. We met a guy originally from the UK now living in Tanzania who said you could almost fall asleep driving in the US. He's got a point; maybe it's TOO easy to drive here. Perhaps we need to throw in some wandering livestock and random potholes to keep people from doing the stupid things they do behind the wheel like texting, applying makeup and sipping lattes. I never had the nerve to do any of those things while in the car while we were there and I was the passenger.

It did get easier as time went on and any discomfort was balanced out by the scenery and wildlife, which ranged from wonderful to breathtaking to stunning throughout our trip. And I'd like to thank Dr. Forni, my dentist, for the excellent work he's done for me over the years; after two weeks of driving in Tanzania I didn't lose one filling.