Stories in Place: Bill & Debbie

(This pandemic has put a cramp in our camp, so I thought I'd start a series of short stories from our travels. You know, those kinds of stories that go around the campfire after a day of exploring, and may get repeated more than once over the years. I hope you enjoy them as much as we enjoy telling them. Pull up a camp chair and grab a beverage. Let's Story in Place together.)

The first time it happened, it was kind of funny.

"Bill! Debbie! So nice to see you again!"

A huge safari guide trotted over and embraced me in a giant bear hug, lifting me off my feet. "What are you two doing back here? I thought you were on your way to Serengeti!"

Mark and I exchanged looks of confusion. "We just got here this afternoon."

"No! Don't be kidders. Why have you come back?"

"We were in Tarangire this morning, and drove up today. We plan to see the crater tomorrow. I think you might be thinking of someone else?"

Now the confusion was on the guide's face. He shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "Well, welcome then. How are you liking Tanzania?"

That was our second day of camping on our own in Africa. 

Our next stop in Serengeti was a picnic area at the entrance of the park. We were gathering our paperwork to check in and pay our fees when another guide pulled up next to us and smiled in that familiar way of distant friends meeting again. "Bill! I can't believe we are seeing each other again so soon!" He shook Mark's hand through the open window and smiled across to me. "And Debbie, you look well!"

Almost every stop we made, we were "recognized" and greeted warmly by the wrong names. We decided it was a lucky thing that Bill and Debbie were so highly regarded. Imagine if they had been jerks? We stopped correcting people after awhile and just went with it. Why not? How could we possibly measure up to this mysterious other couple? Would they think so highly of us if we told them our real names? Or would they shake their heads and mutter in disgust about how this Mark and Kelly would never hold a candle to Bill and Debbie. Might as well take advantage of the goodwill and jovial conversation.

When we returned to Shaw Safari headquarters at Twiga Lodge two weeks later, we told the story of being mistaken for Bill and Debbie at every turn. The owner Paul Sweet laughed and explained "Bill and Debbie went on the same circuit you did and were ahead of you by a week. You must have run into some of the same guides they did along the way." Apparently it's hard to tell white people apart, especially when we travel in pairs in yellow Land Rovers. 

Someday, we'd like to run into the real Bill & Debbie. From what we've heard, they're a real kick in the pants.

Tanzania: FAQs

Mark and I have been asked a lot of questions about our trip to Tanzania, some of which have come up so frequently I thought I'd write up the answers here. Many of them included blood and mayhem (I'm starting to wonder about our choice of friends) but most of them were about the practicalities of traveling in a foreign country with only a rented vehicle as a home.

Tanzania: Lake Manyara | Running From Elephants

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

Our last stop on our self-drive safari to Tanzania was Lake Manyara National Park. This park sits just outside the town of Mto wa Mbu; in fact the entrance is within city limits, the only park we visited that was close to an urban area.

A huge giraffe peers down at us as we drive by.

After disentangling ourselves from our new friend Emanuel, we drove to the gate and paid our fees. We had a special campsite reserved for the last two nights and we were looking forward to spending some quiet time there before going back to the Twiga Lodge in Arusha.

This park was quite a change from the other entrance rituals we had experienced. There was still the giant log book, and we still had to see at least two different people before we were allowed to enter, but the workers had official uniforms and were much younger and friendlier than our previous encounters. Part of the difference was this park was smaller, and most of the visitors were coming in just for the day. There were a lot of safari vehicles and their drivers parked at the entrance, waiting to fill their cars with tourists willing to pay by the hour. The fact that there were so many people milling around either waiting for a car or returning from a tour meant there was a (paved!) parking lot equipped with a large modern bathroom, and a gift shop to spend your shillings.

We paid our fees, showed the guard our special campsite pass and were ready to go, but first we wandered into the gift shop. The shop was built from a large shipping container–still equipped with the heavy steel doors with locking bars–and it was lined with shelves full of wooden carvings, "Genuine" Maasai blankets, the obligatory jewelry, and...could it be? Snack items!

Candy bars! Sodas! Cold water! Bags of nuts and trail mix piled high! Our shriveled stomachs could barely contain themselves.

We had been on the road now for close to two weeks. Within that time we had visited one grocery store (before we left) and found one market with fruit. We were down to the last of our peanut butter, had been out of bread for a week and our paltry canned food selection was going to make for some interesting dinners. We didn't know it at the time, but we had both lost seven pounds at that point. Not a bad thing, but when presented with the opportunity to have some high fat, high sugar snacks we were not about to pass it up.

We counted up our remaining shillings, trying to guess how much we'd need for the next few days. We still needed a few gifts for people back home, so we picked out some carved wooden animals before turning our attention to the snacks. It was so hard not to sweep the whole shelf into our arms and devour everything on the spot. Hunger isn't pretty.

We were forced to make wise choices: a bag of cashews, two large bottles of water, one chocolate bar (for a treat after dinner) along with the gifts. It cost us most of our cash, leaving just enough for another tank of diesel and possible emergencies (like a quick trip back to the store for more chocolate).

We barely made it back into the car before ripping into the nuts. The taste of cashews will forever be dear to my heart.

As we motored through the gates, we were immediately struck by how much more jungle-like it was. Monkeys swung from tree to tree, and colorful birds flew by. The forest was very dense, making it hard to see anything that wasn't right at the side of the road. We followed a few of the safari cars out to an overlook at the lake. There, huge hippos were lounging with zebra, wildebeest, and hundreds of pink flamingos.

Hippos lounge surrounded by cranes, pelicans, storks with wildebeest and zebra mixed in to complete the scene.

Lake Manyara is known for it's flamingo colony and it's curious tree-climbing lions. Lions are normally ground dwellers since they typically hang out on the plains, the dry grasses blending perfectly with their tawny fur. Here there were many more trees and the resident lions have learned to climb and lounge in the branches like oversized leopards. It was a little alarming to think our campsite for the night might have a 400 lb "bird" lurking overhead. We kept our eyes peeled as we bounced along the main road of the park.

Every time we approached our camp, we found these zebra "mowing" our site.

Our special campsite in Lake Manyara.

Our campsite turned out only to be inhabited by a herd of zebra and some curious monkeys. We set up in the clearing and as we sat down in our chairs we became aware of a low buzzing sound. It wasn't loud, but it was constant and it never seemed to waver. Soon we realized it was the millions of gnats that hovered over the site in a giant undulating cloud. They didn't seem to care about us, thank goodness, but the sheer volume of insects created a deep droning hum that only stopped once the sun was down.

That's when the elephants took over.

We were expecting the normal sounds we had become accustomed to: birds, lions roaring in the distance, hyenas making their chilling laughing sounds. The elephants in this park sounded (to our rookie ears) extraordinarily angry. They trumpeted to each other, and from within our fortress walls of canvas and nylon, seemed to be signaling that there was fresh meat on top of a yellow car, just ripe for the picking. Maybe the lingering smell of our cashews had them in a frenzy.

An abandoned boat sits among the flamingos.

The next morning we took off for the farthest reaches of the park. Lake Manyara National Park is long and skinny and the road only travels down one side, making it an out and back experience. We were on the lookout for the tree lions, but also for the elephants that had sounded so numerous. What we found were hundreds of baboons; big males with no intention of getting off the road, mothers with babies, groups of juveniles chasing and tackling each other and elderly statesmen scratching themselves. We idled slowly down the road and they wouldn't move until we were practically right on top of them. Sometimes, they wouldn't budge at all and we were forced to stop and wait. It was one of these moments, when we pulled into the middle of a pack and I was taking photos out the window, when I suddenly realized I was within arm's reach of them. The big males gave us some nasty looks, and I'm sure they could probably have ripped my face off if they decided it was a good idea. I pulled the camera back in and rolled the window up. Even a great photo isn't worth the risk; I kind of like my nose where it's located.

Baboons. They're so cute when they're little.

We stopped for lunch at a designated picnic area. We had rummaged around in our food box and pulled out the last of our lunch items: a peanut butter jar with a half inch left in the bottom, the last crumbs from a bag of "French Cheese" flavored potato chips, and our coveted bag of cashews. We sat at a table and took turns scraping the peanut butter jar with a spoon and watched the tour groups pull in with their drivers.

The picnic areas at Lake Manyara were quite posh. Laid out before me was our less-than-posh meal.

A set of white Toyota Land Cruisers pulled into the parking area and disgorged a large family of Americans. There were four college age boys and their parents helping the two drivers unload the lunch boxes. It was an incredible sight: a full size cooler overflowing with icy drinks, three bins containing bagels, bread, lunchmeat, sausages, cookies and other delectable treats. Our mouths were watering, but at the same time it was almost obscene. Did they really need all that food? My mind immediately started plotting how to get some. I had the patter all lined up in my head ("Hey guys! Where are you all from? How long have you been in Tanzania?") I was getting ready to march over there when Mark grabbed my arm. "Seriously? You're going to beg?" I looked down at my hands and realized they were the same color as the dirt. I hadn't even noticed. I now have much greater sympathy for the homeless.

At the far end of the park lies a fancy lodge where the more well-heeled tourists stay. We passed the ornate wooden gates in the thick forest and tried to imagine what it would be like to be Lodge People. You can bet they weren't eating canned spaghetti sauce for dinner.

This was the end of the park, and we still hadn't spied any elephants. They were winning at Hide and Seek, even though they outweighed us by thousands of pounds. We set off down a narrow side road and saw fresh elephant dung. We must be close! We kept going and found a few more piles, hoping we were gaining on them enough to catch them before they slipped into the trees. Rounding a curve we spotted a few giant gray butts, tails swinging, buried in the bushes at the side of the road. We stopped and waited for them to pass through and a curious male stepped out onto the road. We took his picture and waited to see which way he would go. He stood in the middle of the road and waited to see where we were going.

Our first day out, in Tarangire National Park, a guide had stopped us on the road and told us what to watch for when viewing elephants. "They flare their ears and puff up. Watch for trunk swinging too–if they swing a lot they're irritated." This guy in the road looked a little irritated.

He picked up a trunk full of dust and threw it on his back. He flapped his ears and dared us to come closer. We were stuck on a one lane road in dense forest; the only alternative was to back up. We waited a moment to see if he'd get tired of the game and wander off. He started walking toward us, picking up dust and flapping his ears. Time to move out of his way.

Mark slammed the car into reverse, a task he'd had trouble with every time he'd tried it up until this moment. When a 10,000 lb animal decides it should have the right of way you learn the gear shift position in a hurry. We backed up until he stopped approaching. We watched while he plucked at a few branches, keeping his eye on us throughout. He decided he wasn't done with us and started advancing again. Again Mark found reverse with no problem and backed us up a few hundred feet. Finally, our friend seemed happy and he started walking off the road in the direction of his crew. We waited a bit then slowly crawled forward. Our friend reappeared out of the trees, just a reminder that he wasn't satisfied with our distance just yet. Back we went.

This went on for several minutes, as Mark and I prayed no one would drive up behind us. The road was barely wide enough for one vehicle; if someone came up from the rear they would have to back up too, if we could convince them of the urgency before the elephant's tusk's made it into our radiator.

Finally the elephant seemed to be happy that he had won this game of chicken, and we were happy enough to admit defeat. We slowly crawled forward, just passing the place he had walked off the road as he disappeared into the trees. Here's a video of part of the action from our GoPro:

Storks stand guard over the hot springs.

After wandering a bit more through the park, catching a little bit of an ostrich mating dance, visiting the hot springs on the side of the lake (burning hot! do not touch!), and having a safari driver stop us to ask where the animals were (a crowning achievement–just goes to show what two weeks without a shower will do for your credibility as a driver) then headed back to camp. We needed to clean ourselves and the vehicle before we turned in the car and rejoined civilization.

An unfinished walkway over the hot springs has been completely taken over by water birds.

An ostrich watches as we pass by the lakeside, his army of flamingos behind him.

Lesser mongoose look out from a termite mound.

"You can't see me!" A waterbuck hides behind branches.

This bird would not leave our mirror alone.

He was either flirting or in battle with himself.

As we attempted to brush two weeks worth of African dust out of all the nooks and crannies, I thought it would be fun to take some photos of Plucky, the Land Rover that had become our best friend. I was backing up trying to get a good shot when I heard a noise behind me. I turned and found myself far too close to an elephant that had materialized there. How do they do that?

"SHIT!" I ran back to the car and hid behind it, Mark laughing at me (but also not straying too far from the car I noticed). The elephant didn't seem to even notice I was there, he just kept grazing. The rest of the day we had a large group of elephants circling us, browsing and trumpeting to each other. I think we were the afternoon's entertainment for them.

We settled into the tent that night listening to the sounds of Africa. It had been a wild ride; stressful, dirty, scary, beautiful and thrilling. Just before going to sleep, I asked Mark if he'd ever come back here. "In a heartbeat." he said.

I'd have to agree.

Feel free to write to us if you have any questions that weren't answered in this series. We would be happy to share our experience with costs for the trip, what to expect, and how to plan for this type of adventure. You can contact us at: runningfrommoose@gmail.com

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 | Luxury by the Lake

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

The lone giraffe we saw while in the
Lake Natron area.

When we arrived at Lake Natron, we checked into the campground with high hopes. The Moivaro Lake Natron Tented Camp was purported to have both a restaurant and a swimming pool, two luxuries that had not been present at any of our other stopovers on this trip. We had learned to lower our expectations when it came to amenity listings, but hope springs eternal: At this point in the trip, crocodile-free water and food that was cooked by someone else would be 5 stars in our book.

Once we finally found the campground (there were at least two other campgrounds that went by the name "Lake Natron Tented Camp" one of which we mistakenly pulled into before realizing our error) we were met by our Maasai host, who hopped onto the running board of the Land Rover and guided us to a spot on the grassy campground, ducking as we drove under the thorny acacia trees. Once parked, we spilled out the doors in what I can only assume was a shocking amount of dust and sweat, exhausted from the eight hour drive from the Serengeti.

Mbiraru, our host, signed us in and gave us the tour. A nice garden area surrounded the luxury tents where the more posh guests were staying. In the middle of the tents (which were in reality closer to cabins, equipped with full bathrooms, running water and king size beds) was a thatch roofed open air restaurant and bar, a heavenly sight. Off to the side, a small natural swimming pool fed by water piped in from the nearby river. One of the guests was swimming laps as Mbiraru walked us by. "The pool comes with hippo." he said with a sly grin.

One of the "tents" of the Lake Natron Tented Camp.

We were the only ones in the campground. Lake Natron is not nearly as popular as the other parks in Tanzania, and camping is not nearly as popular as traveling with an organized resort tour. The attractions there are the flamingos that gather on the lake and climbing Ol Doinyo Lengai, the active volcano on the southern edge of the lake. It's remote country, eight hours of rough road from Serengeti, and seven hours from the nearest town, Mto wa Mbu, to the south. In between is a whole lot of dry plains and rocky mountains, not the romantic big game areas for which Tanzania is better known.

The pool at Lake Natron Tented Camp. Looks a lot more luxurious than it was,
yet felt much more luxurious than it looks. 
(photo credit: Moivaro.com)

Mark did a quick change and we headed back to the pool. I sat on the edge and stuck my legs in, watching Mark swim laps with the other guest we had seen earlier. We found out he was visiting from China and was here to climb the volcano, having already climbed Kilimanjaro earlier that week. He was here with a group peak bagging in Tanzania and Kenya and, as far as we could figure, completely ignoring the animals and other attractions Africa had to offer. To each his own I guess.

Birds were everywhere in the trees over camp.

A colorful kingfisher looks down at us.

After the swim we walked back to camp and took a shower, more luxury than we had thought possible on this trip. The showers were dark rooms made of rough wood poles with a thatched roof, a small window cut into the back for ventilation. The water came from large black tanks warming in the sun on the roof. There was no temperature adjustment, just on and off, but the weather here was so hot and we were so sweaty and dusty it felt magnificent. I stood under the water much longer than necessary just enjoying the smell of soap; when soap smells so intoxicating, you know you've gone too long without it.

Back at camp we dug through our suitcase looking for something presentable to wear to dinner. We were still the only campers there, but we had plenty of company. A herd of goats grazed all around us, escapees from the Maasai herds that lived in the area. Periodically one of the staff would walk through, shooing them out of the campground.

Mark relaxes before dinner, watching the goats eat theirs.

It seemed to take forever for six o'clock to come. We gussied up as best we could and walked over, trying not to be the first to arrive (but of course we were). Mbiraru met us and sat us down at a table for two, a white tablecloth and actual ceramic plates and silverware. Luxury! He brought us some bottled water and drinks, then returned holding a gigantic leather-bound menu from which he read the evening's fare. "Tonight, we have a four course meal planned for you: Tuna salad, pumpkin soup, beef over potatoes and vegetable, and chocolate almond for dessert." Sounded good to us!

The restaurant. Notice the lights hanging from the rafters: bat heaven!

Other guests started filtering in, mostly in large groups that were obviously traveling together. As it got darker, large orange-colored bats flew in and flitted in between the rafters, attracted by the bugs that were gathering around the lights. We thought they were fascinating, not to mention helpful as they scooped up moths fluttering overhead. A mother and daughter sitting near the bar were not as fascinated. Closer to petrified. Possibly horrified. They kept insisting the staff get rid of the bats, to which the waiters smiled and tried to assure the ladies they were harmless. The two were not satisfied with that answer and insisted on sitting outside the building, where unbeknownst to them the bats were flying even closer to their heads in the darkness, snapping up bugs that were swarming there. We watched this from our table and snickered into our napkins. (We later learned these were Yellow-winged bats, one of five species of false vampire bats, something I'm sure would have driven the two ladies into a full on panic attack.)

It was a pleasant dining experience. The pumpkin soup in particular was excellent, seasoned with unfamiliar and wonderful spices. Every member of the staff was Maasai, dressed in the traditional robes and jewelry, which we thought was a refreshing change from the polo-shirt-and-khakis-wearing lodge workers we had seen in other parks. A boisterous group of Australians (is there any other type of Australian group?) were sitting at a long table behind us, ordering rounds of drinks and shouting about their upcoming hike on the volcano the next morning. The place was filling up.

The bar, with it's hand-carved tree trunk with custom liquor bottle holders, scotch on the far left.

Since there was no electricity in this area, a generator hummed in the distance from over by the kitchen. It supplied power for the lights and the big chest refrigerator that held the beer, water and sodas. As the guests filed in we noticed they each gave their cell phones to the barman, who plugged the phones into an impressive array of power strips that bristled with charger cords and splitters. It reminded me of the scene in Christmas Story where Ralphie's father plugged the tree lights into the wall. I was waiting for giant sparks to fly out and the whole place to go dark (it never did).

All good things must come to an end though, so after Mark finished his glass of scotch (which he had been planning since spying the Glenfiddich bottle behind the bar on arrival) we paid up and walked back to camp, our stomachs ready to burst from the four courses, three more than we had been accustomed to lately. Back at camp the goats had gone home, but the bats were happy to keep us company.

One of the curious Yellow-winged bats hanging out above our camp.

The next day we spoke to Mbiraru while we sat at the bar slurping Cokes. He was the assistant manager there and was doing the books while he doubled as bartender. He told us the camp was built by an Englishman, but later sold to a local Maasai man who employed workers from the surrounding villages and trained them on the job. It was nice to know the locals were profiting from the place; most if not all of the lodges we had seen in the parks were foreign owned. Mbiraru told us he learned English in school, but picked up many more languages while working with the tourists. He said he probably knew fifty ways to say hello and goodbye, using english as a default. We asked him how he knew we were American right off the bat, before we even spoke to him. He said after awhile you just know (although he admitted he thought we might be Canadian at first but went with American at the last minute). As we sat there we noticed he switched effortlessly between languages when other groups approached him. It seemed mind boggling to me, but he said he'd been at the job for several years and it came naturally now.

Ol Doinyo Lengai rises up on the southern edge of Lake Natron, where groups of hardy tourists are guided to the top by groups of patient and long suffering guides.

A group of angry sounding Chinese tourists were sitting in the restaurant behind us, talking with their tour guides through the group's interpreter. We got the scoop in a hushed tone from Mbiraru: Apparently the group had hired a company to take them to the volcano. Halfway up, one of the group decided it was too hard and turned back. That woman was accompanied down the mountain by one of the guides, where the two of them waited at the car until the rest of the group returned, leaving the rest of the group on the mountain with only one guide. The woman had wanted the guide to drive her back to camp—a 10 kilometer drive—then return and hike back up the mountain to help the others on the descent. The guides argued (in the most diplomatic way possible) that it was not part of the contract to drive the route twice. In addition, it was a lot to ask a guide to hike the arduous trail twice, considering the difficult terrain (slippery pumice and ash) and it was not safe to do so alone in the dark. The Chinese interpreter insisted they would not pay the bill, that they were unsatisfied with the tour.

It seemed they were at an impasse. The guides sat with tired looks, swiping the sweat off their foreheads, unsure what else to say to convince the group. This all took place at two in the afternoon. The volcano hiking trip had started at 2:00am to avoid the heat of the day on the black, treeless volcano. Everyone was exhausted, with the exception of the Chinese interpreter. She seemed to revel in the conflict, sure that she would win this round. Finally a driver showed up with a printed copy of the release forms, where it clearly stated the tour guides were in the right.

I felt sorry for the poor guys. The tour company got paid, but I highly doubt the guides themselves were tipped for their services. We wanted to buy them a drink, but they disappeared as soon as they settled up, probably strait to their beds since no doubt they had another group of prickly tourists to ferry up the mountain in the morning. What a way to make a living.

Goats surround us at breakfast, Lake Natron Tented Camp.

I think Lake Natron was my favorite stop of the trip. It was a beautiful place to rest up for a bit before taking on the next round of corrugated roads. Even better, we had time to get to know the local people and get a sense of what it's like to live in Tanzania.

Rattling around in our Land Rover on game drives? Thrilling.

Finding out the Maasai actually have pockets sewn into their robes to hold their cell phones?

Priceless.