Madagascar - The Lost Island

Having ample amounts of time seems to impede my writing process.  For those unaware, I have returned home safely (about two months now) and have quickly repacked or unpacked for my next excursion:  the job hunt.  At least these past two months have prepared me for the two most common interview questions:

1.  What is your worst quality?
-  Procrastination

2.  What is your best quality?
-  Working well under pressure with deadlines quickly approaching.

So let's get to the business end of things since I still have a few more blogs to produce to complete my journey on the internet highway portion of this trip.

Madagascar
The name 'Madagascar' brings to life the lore of strange jungles filled with exotic creatures that can only fully be appreciated in person or by watching the animated movie of the same title.  (I wanted to get any movie related jokes out of the way early so now that is taken care of.)

After my long over land sojourn through Africa, I was happy to finally be departing the mainland via airplane from Johannesburg, South Africa to Madagascar's capital city, Antananarivo.  Even though the west coast of Madagascar is just a few hundred miles off the eastern seaboard of Mozambique, the short flight felt like I was taking a huge step forward; one foot leaving the African mainland behind while the other foot coming down on the world's fourth largest island situated in the Indian Ocean.  (You can play the home version of the 'What are the three largest islands in the world?' at your leisure.)

Bird's eye view of the Madagascar coast.

Upon arrival, I was surprised to find that the locals appeared more of Polynesian ethnicity than African.  At this point it occurred to me the lack of knowledge, that being zero, I had about the country I had just stepped foot in and would be galavanting around over the next few weeks.  With no land borders granting ease of exit in case of emergency, I figured now was a good time to brush up on the island's history and culture if I expected any chance of fitting in....at least as well as a porcupine attending a balloon animal convention.  The history of this land mass and its inhabitants is one of a kind so I have included the brief tutorial below:

Following the breakup of supercontinent Gondwana, Madagascar left India around 88 million years ago.  Rumor has it the break up was mutual but feelings are always hurt especially as they drifted further apart until Madagascar snuggled in close alongside the southeastern tip of Africa.  Due to its isolation while traveling the seas, its plants and wildlife evolved in relative isolation over the millennia making it a biodiversity hotspot; over 90% of its species are found nowhere else on the planet.  The first humans arrived around 350 BC on outrigger canoes after what one would presume to be an extremely arduous journey across the Indian Ocean from present day Indonesia carefully trying to woo the island back to its Asiatic roots.  However, the Bantu peoples of Africa wanted their side of the story heard as well and lazily started migrating to the island around 1000 AD.  The years that followed saw migrants from other lands all having their say in Malagasy culture which now consists of 18 major sub-groups. 

In the late 19th century during the peak of colonization, the French absorbed the island nation as part of its empire.  As with most colonies under foreign rule, the locals were treated poorly, subjugated to lower class status, and exploited for their large, cheap labor pool.  It wasn't until the 1960's that the French 'returned' independence to the Malagasy people while retaining high positions of authority within the newly formed government for themselves.

The cycle of politics from that point on appears to be this:  There are free and fair elections for a period of years until the French deem that the Malagasy are regaining too much control of their island where upon the French stage a coup d'etat.  This is done for two reasons.  One being to install a new local leader whose ideas are more in tune with French policy.  The other reason being to remind everyone that 'coup d'etat' is a French word.  Don't pronounce half the consonants and you may come close to saying it correctly.  

This cycle occurs about once every ten years causing periods of civil unrest along with economic instability due to the loss of much needed tourism which most of the country relies on in one form or another.  The latest coup took place in 2009 when the French installed a 35 year old former DJ as the interim prime minister.  This doesn't sound like an ideal choice but compared to other leaders installed by the US government around the globe, at least this one can work a disco ball when things get ugly. A democratic presidential election has been rescheduled multiple times over the last few years and elections were set to take place this past August while I was there, giving the capital a slightly more tense feeling but to no avail as they have now been postponed indefinitely.  Aside from the tension in the countries largest city, the only signs of any insecurities outside the capital were multiple checkpoints along the roadways usually outfitted with men in military fatigues, flip flops, rusty AK-47's, and ridiculous questions like "Are you a spy?"  Answering "Yes" is only funny the first time.

Ever since the appearance of homo sapiens, the island has had a losing battle with 90% of its natural forest gone and with 100%  predicted to be lost outside of the small pockets of national parks by the year 2025.  With an income of $2 per day and intense outside pressure from powerful countries for its natural resources, it seems an uphill battle to balance human's needs versus preserving nature's majesty.  

As the theme of traveling through Africa continues, Madagascar is the creme de la creme of not being able to find any solid information on transport about the country.  Making it even more obscure are the names of the towns:  Manjakandriana, Vangaindrano, Fianarantsoa, Belotsiribihina, Tsiroanomandidy, Ambatofinandrahana.  A headache is induced immediately after trying to read them much less remember them.  The locals had the sense to at least nickname their capital city Tana, which is officially Antananarivo, giving me a slight sense of relief on being able to pronounce the city I was to eventually fly out of.

Tana holds the only true metropolitan area in the country.  It is situated in middle of the country on top of the hillside where the arid western plateaus transform into the humid eastern forest.  The metropolitan downtown fades into colonial era structures and cobble stone streets before turning into the endless water logged rice fields that surround the city like an expansive protective moat on all sides.  It's also the only place in the entire country where you can receive any type of medical treatment.  This may be foreshadowing but you'll have to keep reading to find out.

Two girls look across Tana from the highest point in town.

A woman carried here baby alongside the rice patties that surround the capital.  

I will admit I have never been at such a loss as how to tackle the sights of a country.  After arriving at the airport, the only thing I had planned was the taxi to my hotel.  Once checked in, I quickly learned that most of the sights tourists want to see are only accessible by 4WD vehicles with a rented driver and by myself that would get quite expensive.  As I played my cards with Lady Luck for the umpteenth time, I got dealt a fair hand and found a group of four Hong Kong med-students at my hotel I was able to team up with on a route that covered the highlights of the land.  They made sure to point out that they were distinctly from Hong Kong and not from China.  From then on I referred to them only as 'The Chinese'.  I am pretty sure they despised me even though we became Facebook friends.

The next morning, The Chinese and myself loaded into our mini-van to depart Tana for the one-and-a-half day drive south to our first destination.  The houses we passed along the roadside villages were simple square two story dwellings sometimes painted in a faded pastel with intricately carved shutters or banisters hanging gingerly on the outside with farm tools and local produce decorating the premises with children and adults alike lazing about in the sultry heat.  As we stopped in a few small towns for breaks, it was obvious tourists didn't come through too often.  Each time we stopped people stared at us like we were aliens getting out of a spaceship.  Continuing south the roads deteriorated more and more, being overtaken by potholes, grass, and large herds of cattle until we reached the small riverside town that was to be the beginning of a three day dug-out canoe trip.  Waking up the next morning we were greeted by what appeared to be the entire town eager to help us pack the boats with hopes of getting any extra change that fell from our pockets before we began our journey down stream.

1 - broken wheel barrow; 10 - drivers

Everything made it on board including an extra sandal.

The dug-out canoes were actually quite comfortable once settled in and fairly stable.  We had two local river men at the paddles with three passengers in the five man boat.  We teamed up with another group heading down river as this would give us safety in numbers when camping on the sandy river banks against the threat of zebu thieves.

If you learn one word in Malagasy, it should be zebu which means cow.  Zebus are the true currency of the country outside the capital and determine a man's wealth and status.  When zebu thieves have a slow day and come up empty handed, a vulnerable group of tourists makes an easy target.

As we gently floated down river, the locals always were amused to see our presence.  Passing by high river banks, you could hear their movement in the tall grass on the other side.  I was half expecting to suddenly see arrows or spears appear flying in our direction but it would usually be a half dressed boy leading his cow to water.  My favorite was when we rounded a bend in the river and two men were bathing at its shore.  We somewhat surprised each other and one man slightly covered his genitalia.  I thought this would be a good time to wave.  He looked at me confused and gave me a discerned look and wave of his hand but more in the mood of get out of here.  I just waved harder as we floated by which appeared to cause him even more consternation.  He then picked up a spear and hurled it towards our boat I am assuming to hit me but misjudged the wind and current.  The spear landed square in the thigh of one of The Chinese.  Since this impalement would impede our progress, we pushed him overboard and figured he could take care of himself since he was a med student.  The last I heard he was doing reconstructive phrenology in a neighboring village and had married a local girl.  Everything since the 'spear' sentence is a lie.

Stares bounce back and forth as our dug-out canoe glides just above the water.

Along the way, we stopped at tiny riverside villages only accessible by boat that consisted of nothing more than a few thatch huts.  Since our stops usually occurred during midday, the parents were out working the fields or tending cattle and we were left to mingle with the children.  It's hard to imagine but most of the kids would know nothing more than the few adjacent villages that surrounded their huts their entire life.  At some point they may make the long journey up river to the town we started from but to them that even seemed like a distant planet.  They were extremely friendly especially after giving them a few pieces of candy and anything else we could do without.  They even fought over our empty water bottles and finished tins of tuna.  We talked to them via our guide/translator.  I asked if they enjoyed swimming in the river.  They said, "The river is nice to swim in if there are no crocs.  If there are crocs it is not fun."  I concurred with their logic.  Both sides wanted to stay and chat longer but we had a lot of river to cover and needed to press on to set up camp on the river bed farther downstream. 

Kool and the Gang.

Sunset at camp on the sandy river bank.

One of the other interesting stops we made was at a waterfall.  The waterfall was quite amazing actually, dropping from four stories up filling a crystal blue lagoon where we all were happy to freshen up a bit.  I took soap.  But the really interesting thing was found while eating our mediocre spaghetti lunch on some picnic tables under the shade of a tree.  There were ants wondering around at the base of one of the trees all either coming from or going to a quarter sized hole in the ground.  I tossed down a piece of pasta and watched them struggle to finally get the food into their lair.  One of the guides saw me feeding the ants and asked if I knew what they did with the food.  Thinking that my obvious answer of "Eat it." was not what she was looking for I played chase and asked for an answer.

Her answer:  The ants create a hole large enough for a small snake to enter.  They make the chamber inside very welcoming for the snake to take shelter from the elements.  Then they massage the snake and coax it to stay all the while bringing it food to eat.  The snake quickly grows too large and cannot exit.  The ants continue to feed the snake and as it grows it sheds its skin which is what the ants are really after.  I am sure each person has a differently distinct mental image of this process.  I prefer to see the snake in a spa setting with a towel on its head and cucumber slices on its eyes while receiving a relaxing hot stone treatment but I am still not sure why the ants prefer dead snake skin over cooked pasta bolognese.  This country keeps getting stranger.

Late in our third afternoon on the river we reached the conclusion of our relaxing river cruise.  Another tiny village on a high bank consisting of three huts and plenty of people whose sole purpose appeared to be to deliver tourists via ox cart to the nearby town where they could load up into a 4WD vehicle and continue on.  Our ride was up next.  While the locals got the ox carts ready and loaded up, we mingled and ate with the other bystanders.  The kids were keen to play games on a fellow traveler's smart phone but soon lost interest and went back to playing a game involving sticks and rocks in which we joined in as well.  We said goodbye to our oarsmen who would spend the night here before making the two week long journey back up river.  We loaded into the back of an ox cart to get as comfortable as possible for the relatively short trip.  One quickly learns that 'ox cart' and 'comfort' do not go together.

Hanging with the boys in the shade.

Readying the cavalry.  A thorough 12-point inspection is included for your safety.

You're not riding an ox cart unless you are racing one.

Once the 1.5 hours of bone rattling on steal wagon wheels was over, I picked up any teeth that had fallen out in hopes that the tooth fairy was operating in Madagascar.  We arrived at a proper town by Malagasy standards where our 4WD was waiting for us.  While our equipment was removed from the back of the ox cart to the top of the 4WD, we took refuge in the shade of a bar and enjoyed some local beer from the only place in town that had a refrigerator.  Whether it was working or not was another guess.  Most bars also make their own rum which we decided to try as well however I am unsure if I will be able to have children or fully regain sight in my left eye.

Once our gear was loaded, we were introduced to our new driver who also happened to be the local guy I had been buying rum shots for unaware that he was to be our driver.  I only bought him shots because I felt sorry for him for having a patch over his left eye.  We got in and began our six hour drive north to one of the world's most unique geological formations in Tsingy National Park.  Made of porous limestone eroded away after millennia by rain and runoff leaving spires of sharply pointed rock pointing upward like some surreal landscape while down below caverns and canyons created pathways barely big enough to squeeze through while other openings were large enough to fit a bus.  Tsingy roughly translates to "where one cannot walk barefoot".  So I was glad to only have my flip flops with me to navigate the needle like expanse.  Our guide said without the use of the trails the park has built, it would take a full day to cover just a half mile.  This makes Tsingy a great sanctuary for wild life and fauna where lemurs can bound across the spiky pinnacles will in the depths below frogs, snakes, and other large insects remain fairly safe from outside influence.

Carefully traversing the Tsingy.

Our guide patiently waiting as we ascend the spires.

One of The Chinese basking in glorious success upon his suspension bridge crossing.

Once our visit to the park was complete we took the only road out which was the same one we came in on meaning another 6 hours to the south plus a few more hours to get to our most southwest destination of the trip, Marandavo.  Calling it a road is like calling a hungry tiger a baby sitter.  Sometime the ruts were large enough to swallow our vehicle.  Sometimes there was no path and our driver had to plow through miles of elephant grass before finding another navigable dirt path.  Other interesting points were three river crossings on pretty shoddy looking ferries, losing our brakes and clutch, and being swarmed by kids while driving through the tiny villages.

One down.  Five more to go.

In one of the larger villages The Chinese were enamored by a few large turkeys and wanted to stop to take pictures.  As soon as we stopped, kids were running to greet us thinking we had gifts for them but The Chinese were just interested in the turkeys.  The video below shows the incident.  You can see the older woman in the video yelling at the kids to get out of the way so The Chinese can take a photo of the turkeys.  It was confusing for everyone involved.

After leaving the village unscathed we pressed on south getting closer to Marandavo.  After being on the road for so long in fairly remote areas, The Chinese were happy to be getting somewhere where they could wash clothes.  I was about to chime in and agree with them since I hadn't stayed long enough anywhere in the past few weeks to wash clothes either and was on my third day of wearing my underwear inside out.   One of them said, "I almost had to wear the same underwear two days in a row."  I held my tongue and cracked the window a bit more.

Just a half hour out of Marandavo lies another famed stretch of Madagascar, The Avenue of the Boabab.  A 300 meter stretch of road lined by the magnificent Boabab trees that can reach 30 meters tall and live for 800 years.  Translated to 'mother of the forest' this is one of the most densely populated sections of boabab in Madagascar.  Our trip was timed to be here just at sunset which was ideal for capturing the already enchanting scene.

Avenue of the Boabab

Waiting patiently, covered with a traditional mud mask to protect her from the sun,
with high hopes of selling her wares.

The lofty Boababs make grand silhouettes during sunset.

In Marandavo we had a final meal before departing our separate ways in the morning.  The Chinese flew back to Tana while I opted for the more economically viable bus route.  My trip was set to depart around 9 am the next morning and hopefully get into Tana sometime that evening.

A few hours into the ride, I noticed a couple of men walking down the highway carrying what looked like good size portion of raw meat which I thought seemed odd to be carrying down a desolate stretch of highway in the scalding heat.  As we rounded the next bend the reason became more apparent.  A cattle truck had missed the turn and rolled, what appeared to be multiple times, before lying to rest in the dirt not far from the side of the road.  It was quite the scene of carnage as you could imagine.  Like shark-nado going through a rodeo parade.  Another cattle truck had arrived to pick up the cattle that had somehow survived while the cattle that didn't make it were being hacked up where they lay by the locals to salvage what meat they could.  

It was a slightly odd scene because although it looked like it had just recently happened, there were quite a few people gathered and little makeshift tents set up around the sight.  Our driver stopped to see what the situation was.  He came back and told us that the wreck had occurred almost two days ago and the men in the trucks where still there badly injured lying under the tents with no way to get to a hospital.  There were no ambulances to call and the only hospital that could service them was 12 hours away in Tana.  This completes the foreshadowing.

Since we were heading that way, our driver kindly asked us to make room so we could take them with us.  I looked at the truck's cab and it was crushed all the way down to the steering wheel so I was expecting half dead men to come out from the tents but to my surprise one walked around the tent with a large bandage on his chin and a slight limp and the other two appeared to have the same leg injury.  Both of their right legs were heavily wrapped just above the knee where it was obvious that things weren't lining up correctly.  Other than that they seemed fine.

After the long bumpy drive, we arrived in Tana close to midnight.  At the best hospital, because it is the only hospital, in the country, a comedy routine ensued while the orderlies got the injured out of our vehicle and onto stretchers bumping them into everything within a 20 ft radius.  After searching for at least ten minutes a groggy doctor appeared who began pointing more than talking.  The inured men were wheeled out of sight and I sighed hoping the hospital would treat them better than the wreck.  I was just glad it wasn't me.

With this slight detour, we ended up at the Tana bus station just after midnight.  Information that would have been appreciated at the beginning of our bust trip should have read as follows:  If your bus arrives at the Tana bus station after sunset, you will not be allowed off your bus to gather your belongings that are packed on top due to the very real threat of being robbed immediately by street gangs.  Hence you will have to spend the night on the bus fighting off mosquitos and hypothermia until sunrise.  This is for your safety.

I don't think I need to describe how the night went, but was happy to see the first glint of sun in the morning.

And a trip to Madagascar wouldn't be considered complete without seeing a lemur.  So for the last few days I had in country I made a short trip east to one of the country's best national parks known for its lemur population before saying 'bon voyage' to Madagascar and 'herro' to Asia.

It's good to be home,
Jb

Travel Africa - A Comedy of Errers

After my time at Amani had come to an end and it was time to part with my new found friends in Moshi, my plan was to head south over land through Tanzania, cross over into Malawi and take the ferry down its famed lake for a few lazy days to soak in the sights.  Then hop across the border into Mozambique and cut to the coast to lap up the sun and lounge on the picturesque beaches the country is known for.  After my tan settled in, I would head east across the sea to Madagascar to explore the 'Red Island' for a few weeks.  I wasn't sure of what I was going to do or how I was going to return to civilization after Madagascar but there was plenty of time to figure that out on the road.

I hadn't done too much research on the route, I never do, so wasn't sure how it was going to pan out.  To plan an overland trip through Africa the one thing you don't need a lot of is planning mainly because gathering information on far off destinations, those being anything more than 100 miles from your current location, are difficult if not impossible to come by.  So while living in northeastern Tanzania and trying to get the bus schedule for southern Tanzania, much less the neighboring country, is like trying to get a politician to give you a straight answer on a sex scandal.  What it does take is an ample amount of patience mixed with three-parts flexibility and an unimaginable amount of time.

From prior experience I knew an overland trip anywhere on the continent via public transport would be terribly trying but was hoping the payoffs would make up for it.  I took a big risk from the start by taking the Tanzanian train system to its southern border.  The train is notorious for being late.  When purchasing your ticket, you are told to expect a 24 - 36 hour delay.  In my case, I was at least starting at the beginning of the line so if there was a delay I would have an uncomfortable, rusty, most likely hot and humid sleeper cabin to rest in instead of having to wait it out at some train station platform along the route with swarms of flying cockroaches.  Miraculously, maybe due to the fact that I had just worked with street children for the past 6 months, the gods were on my side and the train dropped me at my destination one hour ahead of schedule after a bumpy yet enjoyable overnight ride.  My gamble paid off and it made a good start to the trip but the fun was quickly over as it seemed the greedy gods were done with their repayment.

After departing the train somewhere near the Malawi border in the early afternoon, I was hustled onto one bus that said they were going all the way to the border.  When this bus stopped short, I was hustled onto another bus that said they were going all they way to the border.  When this bus stopped short, I was told I needed to take a motorcycle the rest of the way.  Finally I arrived at the Malawi border and crossed over without issue before being hustled into another bus for the three hour ride to my final destination of the day since night had fallen.  Busses do travel at night but due to poor road conditions, unsafe vehicles and even more unsafe drivers, I made a rule for myself that I would only travel during the day to decrease my chances of being the only foreigner killed in a small bus in a country no one cares about in an article that was never written for the local non-newspaper.

Now, getting dropped in the center of an unfamiliar town and unsure of where I was going to stay, I hopped on the back of a local "bicycle taxi" who pedaled myself and large backpack to a nearby hotel of his recommendation.  It was late so I ate whatever food the hotel could muster up before crashing on the bed and waking up the next morning at 3:30 am to catch the 4 am bus.  After another full day on the bus, I ended up at a town nestled amongst the hills and shoreline of Lake Malawi where I could relax and look forward to the gentle boat ride down the lake.

'Bicycle taxi' drivers wait for customers outside the bus station with a padded seat on the back for your comfort.

As I got settled into a cozy hotel overlooking the lake, I began my inquiry as to the particulars of the ferry schedule.  This is when the realities of African travel can make a grown-ass man cry.  The ferry had been out of commission for months but had recently been fixed and was on the water just last week only to break down immediately and put ashore with no further work on it in its future.  With no other options to proceed lazily down the lake or even fly out if I wanted to, I was stuck taking busses all the way into Mozambique.

This is what Lake Malawi looks like from the shore with Tanzania barely visible on the other side.
I'm not sure what it looked like from the water because the only boat available was out of commission. 

The roads were at least fair, for the most part, meaning they were usually paved with potholes in a few sections and a minimum amount of livestock to avoid.  As for the busses, I have been on worse but after a solid week of riding on metal and springs covered by a thin layer of fabric before finally arriving at the coast, my ass definitely received permanent nerve damage and I was forced to either stand or lay on my stomach for the next few days which made going out to eat quite awkward.  It reminded me of one of those Japanese fetish dining places where a girl lies on the table and you eat sushi off of her body except I wasn't a girl, there were no Japanese men, and no one, including myself, ate food off of my body.  Actually that metaphor doesn't really work at all except for the fact that there was eating done at a restaurant and I may have eaten a french fry that fell on my lap.

The least to say I was a bit dissatisfied with the overland trip so far and even though the beach didn't exactly make up for it, it helped me quickly forget the last few days.  Once into Mozambique and on the coast I learned that there is no way to get from Mozambique to Madagascar by land (obviously), sea, or air.  Your only option is to fly and the closest places to fly from were Johannesburg, South Africa or back up to Nairobi, Kenya.  Well I wasn't heading back north and calling it quits so pressing on to Jo'burg was my only option and I wasn't too excited about it because that meant more bus rides and going through one of the most crime ridden cities in southern Africa.  But alas what was one to do.  Seems like my sea faring days were over.

I will say that the coast of Mozambique is absolutely stunning.  Crystal blue water with great sea-life immersed between giant golden sand dunes from which the sails of local fishing boats look like toys gliding across the sea below, however, if I were going to write a travel book for Malawi and Mozambique it would be pretty short and say "Don't go."  Malawi has a great lake but without the ferry there is no way to really enjoy it.  Mozambique has some amazing beaches but the prices are out of control.  It's priced as an expensive European country but standards are still very African meaning really sh@tty.

Paths of footprints track the few intrepid travelers who make it to the top of the giant sand dune.

Local fish

Local fisherman

Sad to say, except for a few days on a breathtaking beach on the Mozambique coast, the 2000 plus miles it took me to get from Moshi, Tanzania to Johannesburg, South Africa by bus were fairly anti-climatic.  However, as my last major jaunt through Africa, I felt traveling across the continent deserved at least one solid write up in my blog to give it due credence.  Traveling through this continent has been the adventure for many a traveler from the famed Livingston and Stanley to current day overlanders driving their Land Rovers from Cairo to Cape Town, bicyclists pedaling their way around for a cause, or backpackers trekking down the coast with nothing better to do.  It is truly one of the last places in the world where guidebooks, maps, information from someone who was there yesterday, can be thrown out the window.  Each will have a different narrative but all around the same theme.  I've done it twice and never want to do it again.  I think I said that last time.  I figured this was a good time to share of that experience and decided the best way to convey this message was to use a trip I made in 2004 as the base for my tale while incorporating other trials and tribulations that have occurred to me on the continent that didn't necessarily happen on that trip but happened at some point none the less.

The route:  Go overland from Moshi, Tanzania to Kigali, Rwanda to view the mountain gorillas in Volcans National Park.  The maps I looked at had roads making that connection however I could gather no information online, in books, or through people whether the border was actually accessible and if I could cross there.  So without too much information on the route, I went forward with the plan.

The only road linking eastern Tanzania to the north cuts directly through Serengeti National Park.  Busses don't like to take this route because they would have to pay a huge fee to access the park and it would take a full day of driving on a bumpy gravel road to get there.  So they head east into Kenya via the highway before cutting back west to enter northern Tanzania.

Over 1000 miles by bus from Moshi, Tanzania to Kigali, Rwanda via Nairobi, Kenya.
Just because there is a road doesn't mean there is a way.

Arriving at the bus station in Moshi a few minutes before our scheduled departure time, I was hurriedly ushered into the bus as if I was the last passenger they were waiting for so they could leave.  I found my seat was already occupied with a woman and a basket of live chickens.  I plopped down in the seat behind her and her chickens and waited for another hour while the bus workers were trying to get more customers to fill the bus.  This is standard practice to rush you onboard only to wait for an impossible amount of time before departing.  A few times we actually left the station and made a loop through town only to end up at the bus station again in the hopes of finding more clients along the way who didn't know they wanted to go to Nairobi or hoping new ones had arrived at the bus station within the last ten minutes.  After this happened for the third time, the older African ladies started to get a little perturbed and threatened the driver with physical abuse if he did it again.  He promised to leave right away and we did the loop two more times before we were finally underway.

Advice on choosing a bus line:  If a bus line advertises that it has a toilet, tv, or air conditioning, look for one that doesn't.  If they have a toilet, this means they don't stop along the way for breaks and the onboard toilet is usually out of order or it looks like a group of people squeezed into the tiny closet size room that serves as the toilet.  Since it was too crowded for any one of them to sit on the seat they just relieved themselves on anything but the toilet.  If there is a tv, the movie will be either Rambo 1, Rambo 2, Rambo 3, or anything with Jean-Claude Van Damme.  It will play about two-thirds of the way through then the DVD will get stuck and they will start it over.  This repeats until the conclusion of your journey.  The volume will be set so high that the duct tape and aluminum foil holding the speakers together of the 'entertainment system' produce a noise that SETI (Search for Extra-Terrestrial Life) satellites would have a hard time descrambling.  If there is an a/c, the windows will be locked shut while you are blown with warm air from the vehicles manifold and the outside air temperature of 100 F would be a blessing.  

After a full day of traveling, we arrived in Nairobi in the middle of the night which I wasn't too excited about.  'Nai-robbery' is the east African equivalent to Jo'burg down south.  As everyone got off to eat a bit, I decided to stick with my luggage in the back of the bus as it took off around the corner so the driver could skip his meal and meet his 'girlfriend'.  I tried to catch some sleep in the back while being assaulted by mosquitos.

The next day we crossed back into Tanzania arriving in Mwanza, the capital of the north and Tanzania's second most populous city, in the early evening.  I would have to stay the night here and catch the early bus in the morning.  There was no worry about accommodation as the locals were more than happy to guide me to a row of tawdry looking guesthouses.  I picked the closest one since they all looked the same.  The room I was shown was akin to a large concrete jail cell with old yellow paint peeling off the walls plus these added amenities:  a broken mirror, a door, a window (broken should be associated with all three, I just didn't feel like writing it three times), a mosquito net with holes big enough for an aardvark to crawl through, and a sunken mattress on a wooden frame resting nimbly on only 3 legs with a complimentary opened condom package (no condom though) on top of the slovenly made sheet.  If I was in America, I would have preferred a jail cell but when in Rome...

I threw my backpack on the floor, not to break the bed, and agreed to the $5 rate for the night.  I doused the bed in mosquito repellent and let it soak in to get rid of as many bedfellows as possible while I went out to find a bite to eat which consisted of ugali and some indiscernible cow parts.  (Ugali is a thick porridge or doughy paste made from maize flour with absolutely zero added flavoring.  Yes, it's as good as it sounds, and yes, I like to use sarcasm when I write.)  On the return I made my way through the gauntlet of prostitutes that lined the street before entering my hotel to use the shower at the end of the hallway to wash the bus away and cool off before heading to bed.  The bathroom included a rusted pipe coming out of the ceiling almost directly over the squatter-style toilet.  As one would imagine there was only one nob for water and it wasn't hot.  Before drifting off to sleep, I did some light reading on my vaccination sheet to make sure I was current on all my shots, hoping that would help me sleep better.

Getting to Mwanza was the easy part.  From here on out, let's just say the journey carried much more of a fluid tone.  It was only about 100 miles to the Rwanda border and I was hoping to make it there by evening so I could cross over and be in Kigali for the night but I was unsure of the road conditions or bus schedule.  I awoke to the sound of a rooster crowing just outside my window.  I checked my watch and it was 10:30 pm, about 10 minutes after I went to sleep.  This happened about every 30 minutes until I finally had to get up at 5 am to catch my bus.

As I figured, the bus was not quite the standard of the last bus I was on.  It was a converted school bus that somehow made its way in a time machine from America in the 1950's to present day Tanzania.  By converted I mean the front cowling was completely gone leaving the motor and other under workings completely exposed.  Everything else was the same except for the normal wear and tear one would expect on a school bus that has been hauling locals around in northern Tanzania for over half a century.  After telling the doorman my destination for the fifth time without any mild comprehension on his part, I just got onboard unsure of where I was actually going to get dropped but would be happy as long as the bus was heading west.  I made my way to the rear and slumped down in on the bench seat next to the window trying to get some sleep before the sun came up.  That lasted until the bus departed and my head slammed against the only closed window on the bus (closed because it was the only window with a pane still in place) violently waking me up.

Calling it a road was a stretch of the imagination.  It appeared they had used military ordinance to clear the brush and then decided that "Eh, this looks good enough."  En route we made multiple stops to ensure that the bus was filled to twice its maximum capacity of passengers making even standing room in the aisle a valued commodity.  Stops were also made frequently between destinations allowing the driver to tinker with the motor, check if the bus could make it through newly formed potholes (or chasms), or to refuel on banana beer.  The last being for the driver and not a new environmentally friendly fuel for vehicles.

During the bulk of the trip, I was squeezed against the window in a bench seat for two next to another slender gentleman wearing a suit and sweating profusely.  A rather large mother seeing two skinny men on one bench seat decided there was ample room for herself and her two children as well.  In the aisle was a woman who came prepared and brought a bucket as her own seat.  As uncomfortable as this sounds, and it was, I was just happy to have acquired a seat and not stuck standing because I had no idea how long this was gong to take.

As we bounced our way down the dirt road, no one talked as they seemed to want to conserve energy knowing how tiring this trip was going to be.  The farther we got from Mwanza the smaller and more primitive the villages became.  We stopped often to exchange passengers, usually loading more on than letting off and before the bus came to a halt a mass of hawkers surrounded us selling everything from coke to local eats.  The local eats became more and more, let's say, organic until eventually it was just uncooked grasshoppers on a stick.  At the first few stops I would peek my head out just to see what was going on and as soon as the kids noticed a white person in the bus, it was immediately swarmed as the kids banged on the bus and began chanting 'mzungu' in unison which means 'white skinned'.  As the bus pulled away the kids ran along side with some clambering on without the bus driver giving them a second glance before they were bounced off the bus outside of town.  From that point on, I kept myself well hidden at the stops for fear the bus would be ripped apart.

The usual stampede of vendors trying to sell anything that might seem appeasing to the weary traveler.

After 6 hours of driving, we finally made a full stop where everyone was allowed off the bus for lunch.  The lady sitting in the aisle on her bucket stood up and took the lid off revealing a live duck, just barely by its appearance, inside but the duck gave a meager glance up while panting inside.  She gave it an apathetic look as if just to make sure it hadn't gone anywhere before securely putting the lid top back on and exiting the bus.

Once outside, away from the oppressive conditions of the bus where it was suitable for talking, I struck up a conversation with the man sitting next to me.  I hadn't noticed but on the left side of his head was a huge piece of gauze.  It was white at one point I assumed, but now was a mucky yellow.  He told me he would have to stay here for the night because he was feeling week due to his injury and he then, without my asking, showed me a gaping wound that was underneath the gauze.  I concurred that staying was a good idea because he did look pretty faint but more importantly I wasn't exactly sure how to handle someone after they passed out due to their brain leaking from their head.  Plus there would be more room on the seat now.

After a total of 8 hours of driving with no border in sight, the bus stopped at a cross roads and I was told to get off and wait here for the next bus.  That was as much as I could gather from the pointing and grunting I received from the conductor.  After receiving blank stares when trying to ask when the next bus was due, I just got off.  It was around one in the afternoon and I had no idea how long I would have to wait or how much longer it was to the border.  Side note:  I also had no idea where I was.  So I picked a shady spot on the dirt underneath a tree in front of the only row of dilapidated wooden shacks around figuring if I was still here when the sun started setting, someone would offer me a place to stay for the night.  For entertainment I watched a woman cook corn for the next bus coming through which gave me some hope and watched a man in tattered clothes collect water in a jug from the puddles in the street.  I also had these guys to keep me company:

During the 2 hours of waiting, I was able to teach them chorus to "The Crossroads" by Bone Thugs-N-Harmony.

Heaps of corn to cook:  The only hopeful sign that a bus was on its way.

After sitting in the dirt for around 2 hours and having run out of card tricks for the kids about 1 hour and 45 minutes ago, a small tattered van limped into town.  I used what is called deductive reasoning and guessed it was mine because it was going down the only other road in sight.

It was crowded but luckily not to double its capacity.  I squeezed in next to an old woman dressed in rags who looked fifty'ish but was probably in her late thirties.  She was breast feeding what appeared to be her twenty-eighth time because the youngster was attached to the nipple somewhere well below the waist.  She looked at me as if to say can you please take over and breast feed for a bit so I can take a break.  I politely declined by turning my head and staring vaguely out of the window.

The doorman attached my backpack, I was sure, securely to the roof but didn't have the energy to check myself and jumped down as the van began to take off.  Running along side, he finally hoped in and began trying to close the sliding door.  After slamming it multiple times and looking at it trying to use some type of jedi-mind trick, he decided continuously slamming it should at some point do the trick and indeed it did.  After about the fiftieth slam, the door had given up and decided its best course of action to avoid more abuse was just to give up and let go.  It completely came off doing a summersault down the road behind the van leaving a gaping hole in its place.  Of course this caused some commotion between the driver and doorman.  The rest looked like they had seen this happen hundreds of times before.  The driver backed up and everyone got out as the door was 'reinstalled'.  Using some wire that was holding the hood down and some rope that was holding about fifteen plastic jugs on the back of the van, which meant they were now placed inside, they tied the door back on leaving a big enough gap for us passengers to get in and out of.  We loaded up and were off again.

Further down there was a man with a goat waiting on the side of the road.  Due to my naivety, remember this was in 2004 before I had learned that if there is someone willing to pay a driver, he will stop no matter how full to acquire a new passenger or his goat, I thought surely we won't stop to pick them up because there is absolutely zero room inside.  I was already trying to look like I was making an effort to make room for the goat inside when one of the guys hoped up onto the roof and two others lifted the goat up to him.  After much fumbling around, the man came down with a satisfied grin on his face and I assumed he had successfully tied the goat securely to the roof hopefully with his rear end away from my backpack.  I was now thinking that if I would have known live animals could ride on the roof, I would have much preferred a seat up there but I was stuck stuffed inside as we continued our journey.

At times you couldn't help but doze off because of the overbearing heat and shear boredom of the trip however it seemed as if someone had placed holes in the road at just the right increments to insure actually catching any shut-eye for longer than five seconds was an impossibility.  At one point everyone was awakened by a slight commotion on the roof.  The commotion grew loader and a sound like small ball peen hammers patterned their way slowly towards the rear of the van.  Everyone's head was turned up staring at the ceiling with mouths agape following the noise to the back like watching a slow golf putt role across the green.  Then the noise stopped as quickly as it started and a flash of white flew past the back window.  The goat had jumped.  Raucous chatter erupted inside as the driver slammed on the breaks and everyone starred back.  The goat had made it to its feet but was just standing there in a daze with dust still hovering around him.  I was rooting for the goat and hoping he would come to his senses and take off into the thick shrubs on either side of the road to live a free life with his brethren animals however, once again, expectations were too high and he just stood there.  After all it was a goat and realistically he probably would have been viciously killed by another animal in the wild anyway.  The goat's proprietor was the first out of the van and quickly had the goat buy its rope leash.  He seemed to be giving him a good talking to for doing such a foolish thing.  Everyone in the bus was still having fits because this even for them was a new one.  Once again the goat was hoisted up and I am assuming either much more securely fastened to the roof or strangled on the roof because I never heard from him again.

Around 4:30 pm, the bus stopped and I was told this was the border.  I felt pretty good about my chances of getting across before 5:00 but just saw a row of even more dilapidated shacks than my previous stop with no official border looking thingies in sight.  After the bus departed, I was left staring at a group of men who were staring back at me.  One came forth who spoke the most English and this meant anything under two syllables.  It was obvious any foreigner who had made it this far was trying to get into Rwanda however as I found out the actual border crossing was still apiece down the road. Lucky for me they had a car they could drive me in.

They lead me to a 1988 Acura Legend, which surprisingly had all four tires.  At this point, I was just relieved that there was a border I could cross and a way to get there.  The man in charge told me it was $20 to the border.  Well I had no idea how much farther the border was but was accustomed to bargaining in the region and didn't want to get swindled as the new guy in town so I made a confident counter offer of $10 because $20 seemed ridiculous.  My friend came back with $30.  I thought this was an odd way of haggling for a price then checked myself as I looked around and realized there were no other cars in sight.  I decided the to take him up on the $20 offer.

Of course the guy you haggle with is never the guy who drives and a scrawny teenager ran around and began putting my bags in the back seat before settling into the driver's side.  We take off and I am not exactly sure if we can make it but my driver seems to be enthusiastic about driving me around.  He looks at me nervously and asks in very broken English, "Do you know this way?"  I look back at him with my "Are you serious?  It's pretty obvious that this is my first time within a thousand miles of here" look and simply nod my head in the negative.  With a big grin on his face he says it is a shortcut like I should be proud that he has thought of this all on his own.  He tells me there is only one ferry to cross instead of three.  I concurred.

As we are hauling down the gravel road while I am hoping the tires stay on, there is a sudden pop accompanied by a repetitive thumping from the rear tire.  My hopes of getting into Rwanda today deflate along with the tire.  We stop and pop the trunk to miraculously see a spare tire.  It is bald as anything but it is inflated and somehow appears to be holding air.  We were at the top of a small hill, which isn't the best place to change a tire but I just wanted this guy to get it done so we could go.  He jacked the car, took the lug nuts off the flat tire, and brought the spare out of the trunk.

At this point, locals come of what seemed to be an uninhabited forest to see what is going on with this car and the white guy.  He gets the spare out and sets it down behind him while he takes off the flat tire.  When he turns around the spare begins to role down the hill out of his reach.  Everyone just stares at the tire as it gains speed and careens down the hill straight for a man and his bicycle.  The man makes no effort to move or pull his bicycle from the out of control tire's path of destruction.  The tire runs straight into his bike taking it into the shallow ditch next to the road.  The man looks up at my driver and my driver looks at me like I should have an answer for this.

We go down to get the tire and the man is dramatically claiming that his bike is seriously damaged although the tire hitting it probably knocked most of the dirt off of it cleaning it up a bit.  He is demanding money to repair this and that and the crowd is growing in size with about twenty people now gathered around.  I am still unsure of where they are coming from.  I decide it is best for me to go back up and sit in the car... with the doors locked.  As the locals gang up on the driver, who begins sweating profusely, they demand compensation and he has no choice but to pay.  I feel sorry for him because I am sure it is a substantial amount of money and he will have to pay even more dearly when he returns to the man-in-charge in his village with a flat tire and less money than he started.  I consider whether I should help pay a bit but these feelings only last for about two seconds before I put my head back on the seat and try to catch some sleep until we are ready to move again.

When I woke up we were at a ferry crossing that consisted of a platform just big enough for a small car.  Ours was of medium size but they assured us this was no problem.  I decided not to stay in the car as they pulled it with a rope hand over hand across the river even though they assured me it was safe to stay inside.  I pointed to a couple half submerged cars near the bank after they said this and they responded with impish smirks.

Once across it was a short drive until the actual border was in sight.  Actual border meaning official looking buildings with flags and the like surrounded by a shoddy chain link fence interspersed with barbed wire.  I went through the Tanzanian side and then lugged my backpack and self towards the bridge that crossed the deep gorge separating Rwanda from Tanzania.  Across the bridge, I didn't really see any buildings to go to for entrance into Rwanda.  There was just a small one-man tent on the side of the road just passed the bridge with no one inside.  I decided to slowly proceed down the road but after ten yards or so past the aforementioned tent there was an irate yelling behind me.  I turned around to see a man in fatigues pointing a machine gun in my general direction.  Normally I would have wet my pants but after traveling this far in these conditions my senses were a bit dulled and after seeing the rust on the gun and bent shape of the muzzle, I figured he would have a better chance of throwing it at me than shooting.

In the end he gave a quick look at my passport and gave me a stamp for entrance into Rwanda.  I could tell he was a bit embarrassed for his overzealous actions due to being caught off guard and bypassed while at post.  He tried to make up for it by taking me back to the bridge and pointing out a woman's body caught in an eddy way down below in the river getting gently swirled against the rocks as her bloated body was impossible to recover.  Welcome to Rwanda.

Successfully in Rwanda, I just had to catch another small van to Kigali about 4 hours away and then find a hotel.  I don't remember much here because it was pitch black outside and I was a bit tired but I do vividly remember a few days later squatting down in the most dense forest I have ever been through surrounded by about twenty-five wild silver back gorillas and that is a great story to tell.  And of course, I could have flown from Moshi to Kigali but then I wouldn't have had anything to write about here.

Bay Jerger circa 1994.

The apex of mammalian braun:   700 pounds of silver back gorilla.

Making direct eye contact with the gorillas is a no-no since it may be perceived as a threat.
I was hoping this little one, and more importantly, his mother in the background, wouldn't mind for one shot.

There's a Miley Cyrus song called "The Climb" that my good friend Gus is fond of listening to while roundhouse-kicking his way through a serious Tai-Bo workout and the lyrics go like this:

Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb, yeah!

Yeah!  If I would write a song about traveling through Africa, the lyrics would be just the opposite.  Hope everyone is enjoying their travels through life wherever they may lead.

Cheers,
Jb

Amani Children's Home

Since I have departed my adopted home land for 7 months of Tanzania, I guess it is a good time to explain why I was residing there for such an extended period of time.

While I travel, I am always on the look out for organizations that put money to good use.  When I was backpacking through Africa in 2004 I came across Amani Children's Home while spending a few days in Moshi.  It was a small rented house with one room set up as a classroom and another room crammed wall to wall with bunk beds where the children slept 2 – 3 per bed.  Outside was a makeshift kitchen with about 30 kids running barefoot around the grounds.  I spent some time talking to the young woman who was coordinating efforts at the time and she explained to me their situation, needs, and aspirations.  As a place that seemed very resourceful with what they had, they were still in dire need of more support.

After I returned State-side in 2005 I stayed in touch with Amani, spread the word about the organization, and raised a bit of money for them each year by rendering services I shouldn't mention on this blog because the government may be listening and I am sure I didn't do the taxes correctly.  As the years went by I always thought it would be great to get back there and spend some time volunteering and this was that opportunity. 

Returning in 2012, within the span of just 8 years they had raised enough money to buy an entirely new large plot of land which housed a large complex with four classrooms, library, cafeteria, staff offices, girl’s and boy’s dorm rooms, enough land for a soccer field, basketball court, and playground and was now home to just under 100 children.  It was extremely gratifying to see how well used the money they had raised through private donations was being used.  On top of that, all the kids looked happy.

So here is my bit on poverty in East Africa:

Street children are endemic in East Africa and especially Tanzania.  With an average daily income of $1.50 and a population of over 46 million, it is one of the poorest countries in the region.  Yes, things are cheaper and $1.50 can get you a bit of food but it won't put a roof over your families head, take care of medical expenses, put your children through school, etc...  Severe poverty along with a host of other issues, including losing parents to HIV or an abusive home especially at the hands of step-parents, leave many children with no choice but to turn to the streets and things aren't any easier there.  On the streets, they are sexually abused, beaten, and robbed by older groups of street kids.  The local community and police offer no helping hand seeing the children as thieves and nuisances and often turn to beating the children as well, sometimes severely.  

The least to say the government’s infrastructure for anything is severely lacking.  They have a hard time constructing a straight road much less taking care of children living on the streets or even wanting to.  Luckily NGO’s have moved in to try and alleviate some of the pain but it's like putting a band-aid on a massive leak however for the few kids who do get helped it can make a huge difference in their lives.  This is what Amani does.

Some of the boys pose for picture outside Amani with Kilimanjaro in the background.

I had two main job duties at Amani.  Since I speak the English good and had previously taught English in Japan, they thought I would make a good fit for English club teacher.  Since I had previously trained astronauts, they also thought I would work well with the special needs children. 

Knuckle sandwiches served with every meal.

Taking the reigns as the English club teacher was a new task to itself.  With no curriculum to go by, I could do whatever I could come up with for class.  As a tip for any international teachers, bingo is a solid go-to game in any part of the world especially when hungover.  The kids were surprisingly well behaved but as with any new teacher especially one who doesn’t have a firm grasp of Swahili, they will definitely see how much they can get away with.  At the beginning, I made a cheat sheet with useful Swahili phrases for the classroom which had varying degrees of success.  While one would climb on top of the table I would look at my notes to see how to say "Get down!".  When I looked up to say "Get down!", a different one would be going through the book cabinet, and when I looked down to say "Clothes the cabinet!" another one would be yelling out of the window.  When I looked down to say "Stop yelling!" another one would be.... and so on.  Luckily before I had my Swahili figured out, I did learn that they do understand being locked in the time out room or better yet being made to work with the maintenance guy shoveling rocks and that worked quite well as a deterrent.  If all else failed, luckily in Africa, headlocks are still an acceptable form of punishment especially when bingo got out of control.    

My other main responsibility was working in the special needs class.  We had a group of about ten kids who were either dyslexic, slow learners, or who had just never learned how to learn.  If you are in need of learning the virtue of patience, this is the place to be where productivity is based on months instead of days.  Sometimes it felt like a child was never going to learn how to even recognize the letter 'A' and then all of a sudden one day they were writing the ABC's.  This didn't happen often but when it did it was gratifying to say the least.  

Apart from the group in the special needs class we had two boys with severe mental disabilities.  One was Daudi who suffers from Autism along with a host of other disorders giving him a very unique personality.  He was left at Amani's front door many years ago and without anyway of communicating where he came from, Amani is his permanent home.  Daudi uses a set of vocalizations depending on his mood that ranged from low grunts to high pitch shrieks that echo through the halls.  It was always funny when tour groups came in on the weekends and to watch the looks on their faces when Daudi was making his noises that rang throughout the building.  Some of them would get that "I am kind of scared but don't want to show I am scared because I am at a children's home" look.  When I was giving the tours I would just tell them some children were being punished for doing poorly in the nuclear physics workshop and they would vaguely nod their heads in mild comprehension.

When working one-on-one with Daudi my main goal was just to keep him from taking his clothes off and not mixing up the different colors of silly putty.  That drives me crazy.  Whether he was throwing rocks at tour groups that came in on Saturdays or going naked down the slip-n-slide, everyone loved him.

Daudi working on some chalk art on the cafeteria floor.

On the other end of the spectrum was Lengai whose general attitude can best be summed up in the picture below:

Lengai was born on the streets to a mentally challenged and drug addicted mother who died shortly thereafter and had a childhood that is impossible to comprehend.  He had a love-hate relationship with a few of the staff and a hate-hate relationship with everyone else.  He kept everyone on their toes with severe mood swings not sure if he was going to give you a big bear hug, bite you, or completely ignore you.  He definitely had the stickiest fingers out of all the kids and had a great eye for taking exactly the thing you didn't want him to take.  As soon as he saw that you were onto him, and if you didn't grab his hands in time, whatever the item was went down the front of his pants and no matter how valuable it was to you, you didn't want it back after that.  My favorite was when he got his hands on a laptop and buried it outside to hide it so he could sell it later to buy some candy.  I would value a dirt covered laptop at around 1 pack of gummie bears, 3 blow pops, 5 pixie sticks, and 2 bottles of coke. 

Aside from those two roles, myself and the other four volunteers were also relegated the duties of organizing games and events especially during school holidays which usually amounted to controlled chaos.  That being said, for a home full of street children, they were no more scuffles than your average family household and myself being from a family of one, there were few.  We tried to give the kids as normal environment as possible walking the line between big brother and disciplined teacher.  Sometimes a kid would just come up under your arm to walk down the hall or come plop in your lap while sitting outside during lunch.

Of course, the kids had their own games they played but we introduced some of our childhood favorites  as well that included twister, slip-n-slide, and dodgeball.  Although the slip-n-slide was my favorite to participate in, dodgeball was my favorite to watch.  We converted one end of the cafeteria into a dodgeball court giving it pretty tight quarters to evade the ball in and laid out the rules of the game telling them not to intentionally aim for the head.  Inevitably this was their favorite target.  Without much room to move in, the kids would run back and forth against the back wall trying to avoid getting hit.  However, occasionally a ball would come flying across at super sonic velocity and squarely hit an unsuspecting victim on the head.  Since the victim was usually pressed against the back wall, his head would then ricochet off the solid concrete behind him sending the entire cafeteria into a laughing frenzy as he fell down to the ground holding both sides of his head.  We always gave the thrower two points for that.  The nurse was never too happy after an afternoon of dodgeball or slip-n-slide and we were told we couldn't play it again.  But we did.  It wasn't like I could get fired.

The boys trying to remember 'right' and 'left' in English.

Home-made giant slip-n-slide was a hot afternoon favorite.  Of course I joined in after I put the camera down.

Dodgeball or death-ball depending on which end of the throw you were on.

Amani also had other more organized extracurricular activities for the kids to partake in.  They scheduled soccer tournaments amongst the children who lived there as well as against outside schools.  Every once in a while, we would have a staff vs kids game.  Even with the referee on our side allowing us to use our size to push the kids around, they still usually beat us.  

The kids also loved acrobatics and had a great instructor who came a couple times of week to work with them for performances.  Whether he was there or not they always enjoyed practicing and putting on a show.  I tried to get them into tightrope walking and we set up a wire across a river giving them a safe place to fall when practicing however some staff stopped our efforts due to the crocodiles in the water below.  I thought it would just be a good deterrent to keep the kids on the wire. 

After my time at Amani was up and it was time to leave, it was difficult to say goodbye knowing that I would probably never see these kids again.  They don't have iPhones or laptops to stay in touch through e-mail or Facebook but if they learned half as much from me as I learned form them, I'll be satisfied.  I felt accomplished with the time I had spent there and knew it was time to get a move on some things were becoming a bit too normal:

1.  When a short Japanese man is teaching a group of young black children how to play basketball and you don't think that is odd.

2.  When a kid has been wearing a superhero outfit for the past week as his daily outfit because somehow he got into the costume chest and you don't give it a second glance.

3.  When kids are playing with their food and eating with their hands, instead of offering them a spoon, you wish that you could eat like that.

Along with all the great kids I got to spend tons of time with, I also made some long-lasting friends with the other staff and teachers.  I was invited to a huge Tanzanian wedding that was decorated like a mix between Rainbow Brite and Star Trek with as much hot beer as you could drink and as much goat as you could eat.

I got to tag along with some friends who went to a rally cross and since it was my first one, I wasn't sure of bystander etiquette but in Tanzania it seems that it was ok, if not encouraged, to interfere with the cars as they raced by.

It's not an everyday occurrence to get a Masai villager and rally car in the same shot.

Since this blog focuses on Amani, here is their link in case you would like to read more about what they do or help out in anyway:

Amani Children's Home: http://www.amanikids.org

Obviously, if you have any other questions you can always ask me also.

Hope everyone is doing well.

Peace out,
Jb

Food for Thought:  If you are in Africa eating dinner and you don't finish all your meal, what do you do if your mom says you need to finish it because there are starving kids in Africa?