tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48822641911273291762024-03-05T15:27:16.594-08:00Kinda Like The Lion King...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-7202531153108736752011-10-26T08:23:00.001-07:002011-10-26T08:24:43.889-07:00Power Tools.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>422</o:Words> <o:characters>2411</o:Characters> <o:company>University of Minnesota</o:Company> <o:lines>20</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>5</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2828</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>14.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> 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name="Bibliography"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="39" qformat="true" name="TOC Heading"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">I spent my Sunday playing with power tools. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Five years ago, if you had asked me how I would spend my eventual destiny in Serengeti, I would not have said<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“crouching in front of an Acacia tree with my rechargeable 18V Bosch Impact Driver. “<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But that is what I’m doing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And although in general, I prefer to be tracking and watching any of our 327 lions – especially the roly-poly cubs as they play with their mother’s twitching tail-tuft – lagbolting my steel camera cases to the gnarled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Acacia</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Commiphora</i>, and sausage trees imparts a degree of satisfaction and accomplishment that watching lions has yet to give me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Here is something tangible.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I have just made my 13<sup>th</sup> camera-trap hyena proof.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Take that, you big ugly puppies. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">See, I have 200 camera traps across 1,000km<sup>2</sup> of our 2,800km<sup>2</sup> study area.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>These are remote, automatic cameras that are triggered by a combination of heat and motion – so they take pictures, night and day, of any animal I could possibly want to study.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Elusive leopards, slinky cheetahs, ambling aardvarks, blank-faced tommies, curious baboons…and of course, lions and hyenas.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m using these cameras to assess how the top carnivores are using their habitat with respect to each other, trying to understand how behavior and environment coincide to drive their patterns of coexistence.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Except that from Day 1, hyenas have been relentlessly eating my equipment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I can’t begin to describe the devastation of arriving at a camera site - after having crossed korongos and woven my way through dense whistling-thorn thickets, fighting off the tsetse flies with flailing arms and strings of obscenities – only to discover that the camera is gone.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The nylon strap is there, dangling loosely around the tree, and bits of plastic have fallen into the thorn-moat that I hoped would keep curious carnivores at bay.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But no camera.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sometimes I find it, chewed like a rawhide bone, 30 meters from the tree.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sometimes I can retrieve the data from them. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Other times, like today, the cameras are just gone.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>6 weeks of data – disappeared. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">After losing almost 90 cameras this way, I returned for my second field season armed with, yes, new cameras, but more importantly, heavy-duty steel cases and my new prized power tools.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Two hardened-steel lagscrews through the back of the steel case, and the camera is going nowhere.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I test one out, just to see – pulling on the camera in all different directions, as a particularly determined hyena might do – but the camera doesn’t budge.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Success!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I feel like I should blow the smoke from the barrel of my 18V impact driver, like a gunman in the Wild West.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s been a long, hard road initiating this camera survey, but things are finally looking up….and I can finally sleep at night without worrying about the fate of my cameras like an overanxious parent.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-26233755708439147052011-03-25T04:31:00.000-07:002011-03-25T04:32:06.824-07:00Travels.18-Feb-11<br /><br />It would not be a trip to TZ without some sort of drama. With 15 minutes before boarding, I was kneeling on my hockey-bruised knees on the cold blue tiles in front of the Delta desk. Around me were scattered camouflage steel cases, calcium supplements, lacy pink underwear.<br /><br />I had exactly 221 lbs of luggage. Exactly 11 lbs over what I could fit in 3 bags. And even though the Delta rep claimed that Delta would happily of let me go overweight with a nudge and a wink, the rest of the world does not allow bags >70lbs on board. I think she was lying. <br /><br />The vast majority of these 221 lbs was camera traps – steel and camo, they looked suspicious and malicious, and I painstakingly wrapped them in delicate undergarments and feminine products, hoping that shy Tanzanian customs agents wouldn’t push past the embarrassing intimate items if they did check me on that side…<br /><br />Of course, all of this painstaking packing was quickly undone. I watched in dismay as TSA dismembered every single artfully packed checked bag. I wonder what went through their mind, these camo colored explosive looking boxes, nestled next to kitten heels and a strapless dress; veterinary darts cuddled up to pink tissue-paper wrapped valentine’s day presents…One of them worked up the nerve to ask me what I was doing. “Studying lions,” I explained, with the briefest of explanations about Lion Project and Serengeti. My plane was boarding and I had yet to make it through security… The TSA agent nodded knowingly…”So you’re a missionary?” I squashed the urge to stare at him like he was a moron. Pissing of security agents is not typically advised.<br /><br />So I smiled. And eventually the agents packed my bags, rolling their eyes at my incessant cries of “please put the pink fluffy things on top of the cameras!” And by feigning first class tinged with authentic desperation, I was allowed to the front of the security line and made it through in a matter of single-digit minutes. Deep breath. Now I just had to make it to Arusha with all 221lbs of luggage intact…Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-59525773137259495842011-03-25T03:57:00.000-07:002011-03-25T04:01:26.130-07:00It begins again: Wet Season Survey 2011<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCDvgv2F_847g2T0nW6-FUUHjPGqYm-CNl7iWQYFR6nEPoJuSycoe2BkMbRyhQJsFH-CdWHJ_8u8NafOC2NAshtE0g7VjZ8jBZNp5ayIb_KKR_eRfO5YHmljdC3xQ4O948xgV4PX5Jnk/s1600/_DSC3852_Camera+traps+broken.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCDvgv2F_847g2T0nW6-FUUHjPGqYm-CNl7iWQYFR6nEPoJuSycoe2BkMbRyhQJsFH-CdWHJ_8u8NafOC2NAshtE0g7VjZ8jBZNp5ayIb_KKR_eRfO5YHmljdC3xQ4O948xgV4PX5Jnk/s320/_DSC3852_Camera+traps+broken.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587970697196371602" border="0" /></a>As I leave Minnesota, winter seems to be already breaking.<span style=""> </span>Amidst the national mid-winter heatwave, mountains of snow are melting, turning the roads into rivers and the hockey rinks back into lakes.<span style=""> </span>For the third time, I am watching cheesy movies across the atlantic, fast forwarding through day and night, racing the sun eastward across the ocean and winning by 30 lengths like Secretariat in the Belmont Stakes. <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Except this doesn’t feel spectacular anymore.<span style=""> </span>I am on my way to Tanzania, once again, with 240 lbs of luggage catapulting around the belly of the plane.<span style=""> </span>My back feels thrown and the plane feels cramped, and the woman sitting next to me snorts and sniffles like some Sesame Street character.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">After three weeks of delays, I’m finally heading…home?<span style=""> </span>I’m dreading – just a bit – the madness that awaits me in Serengeti.<span style=""> </span>A solid three weeks behind, I have 200 traps to place in the next 10 days….which happens to be humanly impossible.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">See, my research relies primarily on camera traps – remote, automatic cameras that are triggered by heat and motion, attached to trees so that they take pictures of wildlife night and day.<span style=""> </span>On the street they’re known as “hyena bait.”<span style=""> </span>On my street anyway.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yeah, that’s right.<span style=""> </span>I’ve discovered that hyenas are like big ugly puppies – the world is their chew toy.<span style=""> </span>However, unlike your neighbor’s cute, squirmy blue heeler, hyenas have no responsible owner to say “No! No demolishing the $200 camera trap!”<span style=""> </span>Last year alone, hyenas ate nearly $10,000 in cameras.<span style=""> </span>I would arrive at my excruciatingly selected camera site to find bits and pieces of plastic, the stray LED, a fragment of circuit board…just no camera.<span style=""> </span>Elephants took down about $5,000 in cameras, but with minimal destruction.<span style=""> </span>They typically ripped the offending trap from the tree and flung it out of site.<span style=""> </span>Those cameras usually worked, with some minor case modifications.<span style=""> </span>But the hyena victims?<span style=""> </span>Beyond repair.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Given the abysmal loss rates from the first year of this ambitious (crazy?) camera trapping study, I am now returning to the Serengeti with replacement cameras and heavy duty steel protective cases…which happen to way about 1.35 tons apiece.<span style=""> </span>That might be an exaggeration, but the point is that they are very, very heavy.<span style=""> </span>And hopefully hyena-proof.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It is dark outside, though the fancy seat-back TV map says we are smack dab over the Atlantic.<span style=""> </span>I feel like my mind should be racing with plans for my research, or meandering down memory lane – but mostly I am thinking about how good the red wine tastes, and how tired my eyes feel.<span style=""> </span>The night outside seems endless, the world feels far away and frozen in time – like Zach used to do on “Saved by the Bell” – and in my alternate reality I slip guiltlessly into mass-market movies, into staring blankly out the window, the wine wrapping its velvet fingers around my fraying neurons.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have a million things to do by…yesterday, but my brain is tired and does not want to work.<span style=""> </span>I do not want to think about where on earth I put my hard drive, or the fact that I have not yet filed my taxes despite my imminent disappearance into the bush.<span style=""> </span>I want to fade into the bright, apoplectic flashes of the action movie’s runaway trains or the feel-good underdog story of the horse that could.<span style=""> </span>When I get to Serengeti, it will be a flat-out race against the rains.<span style=""> </span>I want to get my cameras set before the rains keep me hamstrung for days at a time.<span style=""> </span>Today is Feb 19; the rains start at the beginning of March.<span style=""> </span>Can it be done?<span style=""> </span>I guess we’ll see when I get there. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-81986737105100270212010-07-30T03:43:00.001-07:002010-07-30T04:23:53.278-07:00Balloons.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW4ehvXId9gBcrUWj8gq9ob2y0iMph13eDHaArJoP70quOP1XImNy3Yiu0B4jDove0u6mMRcnvsWDBKIgQH-iKS0tYy9fl5W6QJdFh-JIAj3B4lB8TP5UH6SBuBY-Ky1Cf6dB2KiycZ-c/s1600/balloon+safari+july2010+-+07.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW4ehvXId9gBcrUWj8gq9ob2y0iMph13eDHaArJoP70quOP1XImNy3Yiu0B4jDove0u6mMRcnvsWDBKIgQH-iKS0tYy9fl5W6QJdFh-JIAj3B4lB8TP5UH6SBuBY-Ky1Cf6dB2KiycZ-c/s320/balloon+safari+july2010+-+07.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499648975000817794" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It's nice to have connections. I got to go in a balloon ride over the Serengeti.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY4PyfTRwHiJqLzcka6Pbp0GfZmUdOSVvZWMOT2U4S44xna-4nNI-uxeTIwoCoT9Ep_eSeOnSJBxvr5KyUjI02wNBsHWgrQKyhbly9b41ENLeUmWlL-4s-LFdJ3zsjfH_pbacFQY-bC40/s1600/balloon+safari+july2010+-+08.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY4PyfTRwHiJqLzcka6Pbp0GfZmUdOSVvZWMOT2U4S44xna-4nNI-uxeTIwoCoT9Ep_eSeOnSJBxvr5KyUjI02wNBsHWgrQKyhbly9b41ENLeUmWlL-4s-LFdJ3zsjfH_pbacFQY-bC40/s320/balloon+safari+july2010+-+08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499648989913832066" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4a1HxQIQ89y67OXyZuVvvs6tWr1r01UFtoRjFRGCx-ELTP8LSTtqFB-leWe90TV-fVj6hen4SfHIZdQvsZ9sOIOvkoQDDwmhhAk8NQSNRs838SoPiNfW304JsWc89s9-MZsxIN7CuJUw/s1600/balloon+safari+july2010+-+10.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4a1HxQIQ89y67OXyZuVvvs6tWr1r01UFtoRjFRGCx-ELTP8LSTtqFB-leWe90TV-fVj6hen4SfHIZdQvsZ9sOIOvkoQDDwmhhAk8NQSNRs838SoPiNfW304JsWc89s9-MZsxIN7CuJUw/s320/balloon+safari+july2010+-+10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499651232332030098" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Granted, it was *very* early in the morning<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAvwmYKuGcOH_WPIdYa8Vs_bmtsqSQr-Pwhk9V79XKNR7L8yO0id582mn9za2EBql6JedEez0XKtR-drKy-aU-7PAZj8CJPR8iACu3tYp_-q3fBvaGvJYHoS7AHLsXEk90aHSJU1D3-ew/s1600/balloon+safari+july2010+-+14.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAvwmYKuGcOH_WPIdYa8Vs_bmtsqSQr-Pwhk9V79XKNR7L8yO0id582mn9za2EBql6JedEez0XKtR-drKy-aU-7PAZj8CJPR8iACu3tYp_-q3fBvaGvJYHoS7AHLsXEk90aHSJU1D3-ew/s320/balloon+safari+july2010+-+14.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499651241260658898" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLwCCip60o7bNRWSJsBpmFFFsKPZGy6aIYFZGD8wWdrTH3cvzt-ywz626xBo6pLk_sMLDwf5Aoyq2F9Ee7mY1hPGyauGfVhCcBphXtsGVvj6Jpr64-g1wkOWzsHZrMk3Jhsp-F-V7YWuM/s1600/balloon+safari+july2010+-+18.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLwCCip60o7bNRWSJsBpmFFFsKPZGy6aIYFZGD8wWdrTH3cvzt-ywz626xBo6pLk_sMLDwf5Aoyq2F9Ee7mY1hPGyauGfVhCcBphXtsGVvj6Jpr64-g1wkOWzsHZrMk3Jhsp-F-V7YWuM/s320/balloon+safari+july2010+-+18.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499651250735001986" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />But no matter. Still freakin awesome.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPR___axsJ997QBN0hvuxyqlFdePEmlrxpdk0UV28I7xkIUuxNeFKG4puIe49wQnxYwLTnjA070syYiYajlp555fC4mEyhe7doi7c8mAqQ2TF2qidS93FmROpDRqv1ScQq6mYOFynpYsY/s1600/balloon+safari+july2010+-+31.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPR___axsJ997QBN0hvuxyqlFdePEmlrxpdk0UV28I7xkIUuxNeFKG4puIe49wQnxYwLTnjA070syYiYajlp555fC4mEyhe7doi7c8mAqQ2TF2qidS93FmROpDRqv1ScQq6mYOFynpYsY/s320/balloon+safari+july2010+-+31.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499651262391868994" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-44117319101570145292010-07-30T03:40:00.001-07:002010-07-30T03:42:33.973-07:00"Oh Dear GOD, We are going to DIE." Part II. <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/aliswanson/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>905</o:Words> <o:characters>5162</o:Characters> <o:company>University of Minnesota</o:Company> <o:lines>43</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>10</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>6339</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; 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mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">“Oh Dear God, we are going to DIE” Part II</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have been convinced of this fact many times during my short stay in the Serengeti.<span style=""> </span>Whether it was upon being startled awake in my tent by the sound of nearby lion roars, or attempting to cross the yawning abyss of the Ngare Nanyuki river in our 1980’s era landrover, my brain fights a turbulent battle against my sympathetic nervous system.<span style=""> </span>Intellectually I know we are not going to die.<span style=""> </span>In the Serengeti at least, lions do not break into tents, even though they are kind of like twinkies, a plastic yellow shell with soft human marshmallow stuffing.<span style=""> </span>And the Ngare Nanyuki, even though I cannot see the ground below me as we drive forward, has been crossed many times before.<span style=""> </span>Norbert laughs at me sometimes, “Ali,” he says, “Do you really think we are going to die?<span style=""> </span>To die is hard work.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Today though, as I sit frozen, staring at the smooth cement in front of our bathroom door, my brain knows that one wrong move, and someone actually could die.<span style=""> </span>The texts and calls roll in.<span style=""> </span>“GET OUT.<span style=""> </span>Go to Cheetah House if you have to.<span style=""> </span>GET OUT of the house!” Writes Laura.<span style=""> </span>“Close the door with a pole and break the window so it can escape.” Writes Anna.<span style=""> </span>I talk to Megan on the phone.<span style=""> </span>“I don’t want to leave,” I say, “because then I don’t know if it has really left.”<span style=""> </span>She agrees.<span style=""> </span>It is either a Cobra or a Black Mamba, one of the deadliest snakes in the world, and it is hiding in our house.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I liked snakes when I was a kid.<span style=""> </span>I still do, actually.<span style=""> </span>I think I have my mom to thank for my strange affection towards these scaly, slithering creatures.<span style=""> </span>Unlike many moms, she had no fear of them, often rescuing them from the middle of the road where they had ill-advisedly decided to sun.<span style=""> </span>We had a 6-foot long garter snake in our backyard for many years, and tried to catch him and tame him on many occasions.<span style=""> </span>He always broke out of the terrarium and slithered off into the oaks and maples and poison ivy.<span style=""> </span>My only mishap was when a tiny baby green snake bit in the soft tender tissue between my pudgy child fingers.<span style=""> </span>Even the rattlesnakes I’ve almost stepped just curl up into themselves and give a halfhearted warning and watch me leave.<span style=""> </span>Unlike spiders, which give me this involuntary, visceral shudder – what a friend calls the spinal heebie-jeebies – snakes spike my curiosity.<span style=""> </span>Somewhere there is a picture of me, as a toddler, in Bali or some other exotic location, with a 12-foot boa constrictor curling around my mother and me.<span style=""> </span>I like snakes.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Until now.<span style=""> </span>In Tanzania, poisonous snakes are the rule rather than the exception.<span style=""> </span>And the poison here makes rattlers and copperheads look like as mild as a paper cut in comparison.<span style=""> </span>I did not know this until speaking to a friend who had grown up in the bush.<span style=""> </span>Making conversation, I once asked her what animal I should worry about the most, as I go about my days in Serengeti.<span style=""> </span>I expected her to say buffalo or elephants – both of these are ubiquitous, aggressive, and unpredictable.<span style=""> </span>I am more likely to run into a buffalo or elephant than a hippo, which kills more people than any other mammal; and these are more likely to attack in daylight than a lion.<span style=""> </span>But without hesitation, she blurts out “Snakes.<span style=""> </span>Black Mambas.”<span style=""> </span>There is no question in her mind.<span style=""> </span>Walking off paths is dangerous because you cannot see what reptilian bringer of death might be lurking underfoot.<span style=""> </span>Apparently, so is walking around in your house.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The snake in our house is easily 6 feet long, a deep charcoal gray.<span style=""> </span>It is almost certainly a black mamba.<span style=""> </span>I was catching up on updating some lion photos on the computer, singing along to Josh Ritter, with my back to front door.<span style=""> </span>George and Norbert were coming home soon, and leftovers were warming on the stove.<span style=""> </span>The strange swishing noise took some time to sink in.<span style=""> </span>It wasn’t a coming car, and it wasn’t the wind.<span style=""> </span>It wasn’t any part of the normal animal chorus that plays outside our house.<span style=""> </span>Finally, I stand and turn to investigate and catch the thick gray shimmer of a snake undulating across our cold cement floor.<span style=""> </span>There is no visceral shudder that shakes me, just the cold, knife-like stabbing fear.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>If a black mamba bites you, you will be dead in less than an hour.<span style=""> </span>I am no more than 10 feet away from one of the most dangerous animals that I will ever encounter.<span style=""> </span>I hold my breath and watch it slither into the bathroom, and then I make the calls to those who have been here for many more years than I.<span style=""> </span>I close all the other doors in the house, and then climb up onto the table, off the ground, and watch the smooth, empty cement in front of our bathroom door.<span style=""> </span>I am still waiting.<span style=""> </span>30 minutes.<span style=""> </span>45 minutes.<span style=""> </span>60 minutes.<span style=""> </span>George and Norbert promise they are coming, that they will bring our next-door neighbor JumaPili to help.<span style=""> </span>Yet over an hour later, they still do not show up, do not call.<span style=""> </span>It is one of those many moments that I am more than a little annoyed with the lackadaisicality of Tanzanian culture.<span style=""> </span>30 minutes.<span style=""> </span>45 minutes.<span style=""> </span>60 minutes.<span style=""> </span>It is now 3pm.<span style=""> </span>The malaria retrovirals are making me dizzy and I want to curl up in bed, but I’m not sure where this snake is.<span style=""> </span>Eventually the men show, armed with kerosene and a long pincher-pole.<span style=""> </span>The splash the gas in the hole that runs beneath the bathtub, where the snake is almost certainly curled up.<span style=""> </span>Eventually it will tire of the smell and leave.<span style=""> </span>So they say.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So life goes back to normal, more or less.<span style=""> </span>George starts to wash vegetables in the kitchen, I return to staring at the computer screen.<span style=""> </span>Craig calls to talk about permits.<span style=""> </span>“Oh, the snake,” he says.<span style=""> </span>“It’s probably just a spitting cobra – not that poisonous, really.<span style=""> </span>If you catch it in the face, just wash it out.<span style=""> </span>You’ll go blind for about 12 hours, but nothing permanent.<span style=""> </span>Least of your worries.<span style=""> </span>Now, can you please send the data for…” he goes on to talk about permits and data analysis.<span style=""> </span>I am only half listening, and with the corner of my eyes I am watching the cold, smooth cement outside our bathroom door, smelling the antiseptic aroma of kerosene.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Least of my worries?<span style=""> </span>I can think of a million things that I am less worried about than the spitting cobra hiding beneath our bathtub.<span style=""> </span>But okay, I am not going to die today.<span style=""> </span>Which is good, because I have way too much work to do.</p> <!--EndFragment--> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-77571754877134994672010-07-08T05:21:00.000-07:002010-07-08T05:42:48.623-07:00Driving.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjClNwcb68T15OuBFRk_ktPZOe1P9A7nrFY_aXjI-0m_tLPv4bkRTTN46n5EtQoKxt8GuRZEiQUBDKOCVZC-Vl3Ei4RfGYaF6-9a4MOzGI4i4ujmE_yacD3RsXbIlpu34RYI2u_tT7Z4Kg/s1600/IMG_0194.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjClNwcb68T15OuBFRk_ktPZOe1P9A7nrFY_aXjI-0m_tLPv4bkRTTN46n5EtQoKxt8GuRZEiQUBDKOCVZC-Vl3Ei4RfGYaF6-9a4MOzGI4i4ujmE_yacD3RsXbIlpu34RYI2u_tT7Z4Kg/s320/IMG_0194.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491514265329659074" border="0" /></a><br />“Oh Dear God, We are Going to DIE.” <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I remember that phrase on constant repeat in my head during my unprepared and ill-advised ascent of the Polish Tatras.<span style=""> </span>I had decided to climb a mountain in late May with little more than a t-shirt and ultralight rain jacket – the kind that costs an arm and a leg because it weighs no more than a paper clip and fits in a tea-cup - a coarse park map and no compass.<span style=""> </span>Just as I was convinced of my imminent demise then, I am now.<span style=""> </span>“Oh God, we are going to die.”<span style=""> </span>I mutter it under my breath to myself as the ancient Landrover steering wheel ricochets between my hands.<span style=""> </span>We are on the long road from Arusha to Serengeti, and I am convinced that at any moment the wind will blow us straight off of the fresh tarmac.<span style=""> </span>Even on the best road in the district, the landy pulls and sways, as though yearning for the ditch along the road, and I constantly remind myself to breathe as I focus hard on staying straight.<span style=""> </span>Daladalas stuffed with passengers pass by effortlessly but I am scared to turn my head lest I lose my tenuous grip on our straight path forward.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjh1qoe6mLeZFKR5ljLNvYxNiE78UX_bTtzUbKxuL2abUaOyc-YPGybvkc-ZTvwIkltGOD43yo_UgoYTVyI_1E6zLkNYxwOpx0jM_6HivpzWbKz1EkLxzAJl4Je0QoPc5z4pseTezKXw/s1600/IMG_0185.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjh1qoe6mLeZFKR5ljLNvYxNiE78UX_bTtzUbKxuL2abUaOyc-YPGybvkc-ZTvwIkltGOD43yo_UgoYTVyI_1E6zLkNYxwOpx0jM_6HivpzWbKz1EkLxzAJl4Je0QoPc5z4pseTezKXw/s320/IMG_0185.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491514625329047282" border="0" /></a>It is June 22, 2010.<span style=""> </span>Today I am 27 years old, crossing that bridge from “mid-20’s” to “late-20’s,” and while I joke about how my bones creak and short-term memory is fading, I am still too young to die.<span style=""> </span>Meshack laughs quietly beside me – he is our prized fundi, our expert mechanic, and is making the long trek to Serengeti for no other reason than to make sure that I (and the car) make it there in one piece.<span style=""> </span>“Tuende!” he says, motioning forward.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Let’s go.</i><span style=""> </span>I gulp loudly and clench the wheel tighter.<span style=""> </span>There really is no respite from the terror – on the open tarmac I have to go <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7s8sB1gGzJc8PRyw7j_xGBJK9T4Scyw-jbslBZ0YdmRK08fLswwIIgw_0G_oXsV4cnx9s4fu7d42GskjQCCB7VdQ4CsOCQoyPaqbF4LsBS962btrk3o-ibl7nqN0U8zjrCblihjRAko/s1600/IMG_0187.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7s8sB1gGzJc8PRyw7j_xGBJK9T4Scyw-jbslBZ0YdmRK08fLswwIIgw_0G_oXsV4cnx9s4fu7d42GskjQCCB7VdQ4CsOCQoyPaqbF4LsBS962btrk3o-ibl7nqN0U8zjrCblihjRAko/s320/IMG_0187.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491514617821371650" border="0" /></a>faster; as we slow for villages there are pedestrians and bicyclists, peddlers and Maasai and livestock that weave alongside the road erratically, and I am convinced that at any moment one of them will meander into the path of my Monster Truck.<span style=""> </span>Winding up the gnarled and pockmarked Crater road are blind turns and oncoming trucks that only further the terror of the already perilous ascent.<span style=""> </span>I am torn between the urgent need to reach the park gates before they close, and my desire to remain alive and in more or less one piece.<span style=""> </span>When we stop at the Crater rim (in part for Patriki to take a picture, in part for me to try and restart my heart), Meshack glances at his watch nervously.<span style=""> </span>Ever so gently, he offers, “Maybe it would be faster if I drive?”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I almost kissed him.<span style=""> </span>The passenger seat in a Landrover has never felt quite so luxurious – before or since – though I still question my lifespan on a daily basis from the driver seat. <span style=""> </span>For example, George, my coworker on the Lion Project, has been teaching me to drive offroad.<span style=""> </span>“It is just fine,” he assures me as we begin to climb the veritable of dusty soil and clumpy vegetation.<span style=""> </span>Except when it is not fine.<span style=""> </span>As we circle and spin and weave through aardvark hole-ridden hilltops, I can see him clutch the window frame suddenly in panic, his foot involuntarily slamming down where the break pedal should be.<span style=""> </span>The landrover falls into the abyss where ground once was.<span style=""> </span>Ka-thunk.<span style=""> </span>I hold my breath and resist the visceral urge to slam on the accelerator and clear away from the danger as fast as I can.<span style=""> </span>The landy keeps chugging forward, powered by the magic that is low-range.<span style=""> </span>The rear tire plummets to the depths of hell and haltingly crawls back out.<span style=""> </span>We are alive.<span style=""> </span>Barely.<span style=""> </span>George laughs.<span style=""> </span>“Avoid that green grass!” he reminds me.<span style=""> </span>I am lost – it’s all green.<span style=""> </span>“That’s green!” I point, “and that! And that over there!”<span style=""> </span>It is all green and it all looks the same, but George sees some magical difference.<span style=""> </span>I’m told that in time I will see it too.<span style=""> </span>In the meanwhile, however, I maintain my running commentary.<span style=""> </span>“OH dear GOD, we are going to die!...oh, okay, we’re okay.<span style=""> </span>OH GOD that’s a hole! Oh, okay, we are alive.<span style=""> </span>That’s just grass.”<span style=""> </span>Except when it’s not.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-46222763568280788792010-07-03T05:54:00.001-07:002010-07-03T07:03:15.711-07:00Sunset.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_9Dh6CRj4t5S3htImvIq8CppwCKkka0Z_JRqqoIiapG-a4uPrHAcp1SsoJWJpqaXP_ifiycO_H22A2TabigVxlcxvdXL5-wrgqVNkpam5G6IFS93vdhe2hBetbcPUqih7kKs7Krk5JKg/s1600/IMG_0669.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_9Dh6CRj4t5S3htImvIq8CppwCKkka0Z_JRqqoIiapG-a4uPrHAcp1SsoJWJpqaXP_ifiycO_H22A2TabigVxlcxvdXL5-wrgqVNkpam5G6IFS93vdhe2hBetbcPUqih7kKs7Krk5JKg/s320/IMG_0669.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489667398800942482" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhchRsfe9mitJBB2B-Ayo-srWmk9-KQnQGNLf5nfj5ZeRs7-m0Tc2Q0DCrnuENh2KktiPauYjqJxPoVtUd7YxilP0d08EQ6bpO7VzWCt6c4cX1XvFiR4L6RM-kcFEct5NfPJWjZpCCR6No/s1600/IMG_0657.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhchRsfe9mitJBB2B-Ayo-srWmk9-KQnQGNLf5nfj5ZeRs7-m0Tc2Q0DCrnuENh2KktiPauYjqJxPoVtUd7YxilP0d08EQ6bpO7VzWCt6c4cX1XvFiR4L6RM-kcFEct5NfPJWjZpCCR6No/s320/IMG_0657.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489667393598533730" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-12172634382785801402010-06-30T03:19:00.000-07:002010-06-30T03:43:04.543-07:00The Pink HouseThe Pink House is the Savannas Forever fortress near Arusha's gated neighborhood. It sees a constant flow of SF employees and affiliates, lion researchers or grad students stopping on their way in or out of Serengeti. It is like a pink stucco fortress next to a village that has burros tied to their bus stop. ( seriously. We think it is a backup plan in case the daladala doesn't come.)<br />After inner-city Arusha excursions and watching world cup soccer eating homemade chips mayai, we head to Serengeti for months of dirt and dust and the most breathtaking wildlife in the world. <br /><br />But we will miss our Pink House Friends.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaFWzduaOV1_n2O00Ll8IMOtlAsPYjAT1emOGVx1gQeI7yWH2vsNj2up_o539JjHOf0BGOywuPvoBf26TEybWKALi-2BgdCkOLahUOpAR8VX_71cOsn4-1yQoyAQkOhG5YgHnkbXevUMQ/s1600/IMG_0126.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaFWzduaOV1_n2O00Ll8IMOtlAsPYjAT1emOGVx1gQeI7yWH2vsNj2up_o539JjHOf0BGOywuPvoBf26TEybWKALi-2BgdCkOLahUOpAR8VX_71cOsn4-1yQoyAQkOhG5YgHnkbXevUMQ/s320/IMG_0126.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488513681768934978" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmHS5mMYmN24ykiwfDqZSDslub7bUZQs-7RbI2DA4mxTRH3NLUn7RBA37wtRx6JMttNse_Z-NjGzpx_yZHmAmvVFQ7_K5azn-_RGDayR4KXSF123ZA5ORJXpvh4L7gW0MP7QbMA9UiSPo/s1600/IMG_0128.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmHS5mMYmN24ykiwfDqZSDslub7bUZQs-7RbI2DA4mxTRH3NLUn7RBA37wtRx6JMttNse_Z-NjGzpx_yZHmAmvVFQ7_K5azn-_RGDayR4KXSF123ZA5ORJXpvh4L7gW0MP7QbMA9UiSPo/s320/IMG_0128.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488513706092530994" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijbOZIraXksu8h8sFI4Ews7nlDq2wqc2s3aUa_rh4x3suvCB5XEp51nTi5AwYJyL42VugYTp6S6ciRZE17t0PTFyzcJUHkY0Jegl2i5vMJKM7SnnnkhV8ltbMa4M2_ADMc2d_jiyqXi1Y/s1600/IMG_0133.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijbOZIraXksu8h8sFI4Ews7nlDq2wqc2s3aUa_rh4x3suvCB5XEp51nTi5AwYJyL42VugYTp6S6ciRZE17t0PTFyzcJUHkY0Jegl2i5vMJKM7SnnnkhV8ltbMa4M2_ADMc2d_jiyqXi1Y/s320/IMG_0133.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488513694053563410" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9L5MEkS37UXUoGFZo3ZV0XYexhO5TOgLhyzE6wnccxn4oYNMCAwSZ4fi4cp9SZU2xrYWNGsVXRtgLcNHVPvoHfc3aOUJuXJ1_mzoE4qQ7Xod-HM-YTEnf3v8XoEm5KKq8otgZzpaLANw/s1600/IMG_0136.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9L5MEkS37UXUoGFZo3ZV0XYexhO5TOgLhyzE6wnccxn4oYNMCAwSZ4fi4cp9SZU2xrYWNGsVXRtgLcNHVPvoHfc3aOUJuXJ1_mzoE4qQ7Xod-HM-YTEnf3v8XoEm5KKq8otgZzpaLANw/s320/IMG_0136.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488513693114916594" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-76855805266977458292010-06-30T02:57:00.000-07:002010-06-30T03:09:17.692-07:00June 18 2010Even as I walk, it is a struggle to keep my eyes open. I am going on 40 hours without sleep, the world taking on that hazy, throbbing, sleep-deprived glare, the lights are harsh and do not want to focus. I had such grand plans for my 3.5 hours in Amsterdam, but all I want to do is curl up into a ball and sleep.<br /><br />As soon as I step into the bathroom, a familiar wave of “underwhelm” floods over me. The stalls are floor-to-ceiling plastic laminate, off-white with speckled blue. The toilets feel plastic and cheap; there are no vertical tanks and the water flows weakly into the bowl upon flushing – seemingly impotent in comparison to our noisy, torrential, tornado-like toilets. There is only a short, narrow mirror offset from the two plain ceramic sinks. Even the shadiest Taco Bells in the US have snazzier toilets than the Amsterdam airport, and I begin to wonder if Americans just love their bathrooms. Our bathrooms have colorful tile and big, well-lit mirrors; shiny metal stalls that create an air of spaciousness with their open tops and bottoms. Did you know that you can buy dual aquarium/toilet-tanks? The CBS featured “Fish’n’Flush” is just one of a whole line of home improvement products that lets you blend your bathroom time with some quality pet-bonding. You can watch little Nemo swim around while you heed nature’s call. The “Fish’n’Flush” page boasts that this is what you need if you are a homeowner that wants to make a statement. On the same page is an ad for helping the world’s poorest of poor. We like our bathrooms, apparently. <br /><br />Amsterdam is simply not as shiny as I feel it should be. It is like my dingy, graying MacBook – dulled in the splendor of the shiny new metallic models – exuding an aura of aging technology. The strange dissonant drabness lingers as I walk around. I stare in bleary-eyed amusement at a woman in fitted pants and high heels, and a gentleman in a gray blazer – his hair spiked into a faux-hawk, the product crispy and shiny – they walk with authoritative strides, collecting stray trash with their bare hands. I’ve never seen such a well-dressed custodial couple. Everywhere there is cleaning. Motorizing and cleaning. They love their motorized carts here – there are carts of every kind – passenger carts with back-to back benches, driven by well-postured flight attendants in crisp blue skirt-suits with bright white trim - that swerve frenetically around rolling luggage and dawdling travelers. Police on gimmicky segways that whirr weakly through the crowds. There are standing carts and sitting carts; blue carts and green carts; carts with metal boxes on the backs; carts dragging wheelchairs; carts - little orange carts – with brushy floor cleaners that spray and scrub the dull tan-gray tiles. Everywhere there is endless cleaning and motorizing. <br /><br />With my overweight bags stacked on a little pushcart, I meander through the branching hallways. The light drizzles down through a slatted ceiling that looks like someone’s unwanted venetian blinds. Venetian blinds – how I hated them as a child. They were on all of our windows and there was nothing I wanted more than fluffy, billowing curtains or a satin window shag - something to soften the harsh angularity of the vinyl strips and the sharp corners of the window frames. Here in the airport halls, these ceiling slats dull the florescent light, and it fall flat on the drab décor. The floor is a 70’s era gray-brown, the walls alternately paneled peach wallpaper, frosted windows, or tiny coral-colored tiles. <br /><br />It is almost 11 months to the day that I was here before, lost and scared, an untried mzungu embarking on my first real academic expedition. I am back now, admiring the cheese and chocolate, the well-dressed herds of flight attendants, shopping clerks, and snappy passerby(s?). I am excited and ready for anything, although desperate for orange juice and a nap. I curl up on the sofa near the unending “waterspa” that whirs and buzzes and opens and closes – a massage bed topped with some sort of super snazzy water-massage device that the lonelyattendant runs again and again and again. People walk without pausing, turning their heads as they pass to stare curiously, but they do not stop. So the spa goes on whirring and buzzing and opening and closing, and all around the little motorized carts – blue and green and orange, stand-up or sit-down style – go puttering by. In the gray, muted lights I curl up on top of my luggage, piled beside me on the bench, and close my eyes to this electric lullaby.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-37376174958358891532010-06-20T13:38:00.000-07:002010-06-20T13:39:21.832-07:00Take 2: Return to Serengeti17 June 2010<br /><br />To be honest, I don’t actually know what the date is. We are between time: moving forward, skipping beats. Leaping ahead 14 hours when we really should only saunter 6. We are somewhere between today and tomorrow, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it to come.<br /><br />Almost 11 months to the day, I am once again heading into the future. I remember how new and fresh these moments were 11 months ago. I was an untried mzungu waltzing into the bush, some white chick from the American Dream suburbs, raised on lattes and cul-de-sac kickball, and almost reluctant to admit that I thought I might be able to say something insightful about lion-hyena-leopard interactions. But this time I am confident and cool…I am proud of what I have done so far and excited for what is to come. I have a study design that blends novel concepts with a cutting edge empirical pursuit. I have camped out surrounded by hyenas, I have tracked lions and been charged by elephants. I have my name in Smithsonian. I have more than a snazzy-sounding elevator-clip of my research to back up my plans. And, perhaps most importantly, I have money. Not only did I score a sweet fellowship, but I raised $24,000 in grants for the season - for even in academia, money makes the world go round. For the first time since graduate school began, I feel like I just might be able to pull this thing off.<br /><br />Chasing day across the Atlantic, I am stunned by how different this flight is from my last. It feels small and cramped, and though the plane sits 8 across, we are all entranced in our own worlds – instead of appearing in the aisles, where we all feel guilty for blatantly ignoring the jaded attendants, the safety talk is given on our personal seatback tv’s, by a redhead with a little button nose and unusually prominent cheekbones. I remember her from my last international flight, with her weird wagging finger when she reminds us severely not to smoke. <br /><br />My traveling companion has not said a word to me, though he gets “special meals” which means that they come 40 minutes before mine and waft alluringly while I wait, half-hungry and half-asleep, for my box meal and cup of wine. I waver in and out of sleep, still in stunned disbelief that I am really going back. <br /><br />In just a few days, I will be driving out to the Serengeti, armed with nearly 200 digital camera traps (DIGITAL!!!) and 5 months of bug spray. This time, when people inquire what I am doing for my project, I will tell them rather than ask. I am still studying the mechanisms driving carnivore coexistence, but now I know how I am doing it and what the ultimate picture will be. I am using camera traps to collect empirical data on spatial and temporal patterns of carnivore habitat use with respect to their competitors – and I will assess spatiotemporal partitioning as a mechanism of coexistence. But it doesn’t stop there. There are a million mechanisms postulated for species coexistence, but few, if any, have been tested in systems like mine. So I will test for interference-exploitation trade-offs, I will look for costs incurred by one competitor on another, I will find the R* of a lion…All of this I will do by analyzing images from these cameras for the next 2 years. But right now I will sleep. Tomorrow is coming, but it is not here yet, and I will revel in today while it lasts…even if all it means is my little seatback TV and boxed meal on a plane.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-19723644085927635152009-09-07T21:04:00.000-07:002009-09-07T21:05:42.734-07:00The End.Sitting at the little airport in Arusha, I feel slightly shaky and close to tears. It could be that it’s nearly 2pm and I haven’t eaten anything yet today…but more likely I’m just sad to leave. I hear the whir of propellers and the grumbling of an engine and look up to see the zebra stripes lift off the runway – Felix in his happy little 4-seater Cessna rumbles off and out of sight. With his sly but easy smile, Felix is a dapper pilot. On the flight in (I being the only person in the world who travels from Seronera to Arusha via NAIROBE and KILIMANJARO) he is confident and deft, but not serious. We pull a couple of wicked turns and tilts, and then this charming Swiss pulls out all the stops. Felix drops the plane faster than gravity’s grasp on our bodies and we do a brief few seconds in zero-G. Things go soaring through the cockpit – the ashtray (it’s an old plane) levitates past my head, my luggage relocates from the floor to the back seat, and the dirt flies up and into our hair and onto our laps. Felix looks a bit sheepish – “Guess I should vacuum, eh?” I am giggling like a little girl. We dust off and take stock of the damage and we do it again.<br /><br />But now, sitting and trembling with my milky cup of tea at the little Coastal Air terminal, I am in vague disbelief that this summer is over. Later today, the exhaustion will set in as I haggle with the taxi from the airport. Sitting in rush hour traffic, a crazy man will try to climb into the cab with me. “Look!” he will say, frantically pointing to his hand, even though there is nothing there. HE will mime handcuffs and mumble, and my driver Jumal will step out and pull him away. I will get to the hostel hungry and weary and I will listen to some disgusting missionary shout over the phone to his brainwashed son, lecturing him about some dumb girl he is dating back home at his private Christian college in bungwater, VA. The man talks loud enough for the whole hostel to hear and prays loudly on his phone for his son to see the light. When I wind up across from this man at dinner, it is a good thing that I do not have the energy to tell him about the taste he leaves in my mouth, because I would not have the energy to stop myself. <br /><br />But all of this will happen later. For now, I sit in retrospective and brooding silence. I am strangely sad to leave a place that I barely got to know, struck with a bizarre sense of loss to leave a place that I will return to in less than a year. I cannot explain these feelings so I do not try. For now I just sit in retrospective and brooding silence, wishing Serengeti a sad and silent goodbye.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-1411167146156220372009-09-02T21:30:00.000-07:002009-09-02T21:31:06.526-07:0027-aug-09 <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/aliswanson/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>713</o:Words> <o:characters>4068</o:Characters> <o:company>University of Minnesota</o:Company> <o:lines>33</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>8</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>4995</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">
<br /><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sitting at the hyena den, waiting for the tourists to leave, Candida is bleeding from the nose.<span style=""> </span>We are in a land where people die from Malaria and sleeping sickness, tuburculosis and AIDS; I am slightly concerned.<span style=""> </span>Candi has been recovering from her bout of malaria with surprising speed, but the blood worries me.<span style=""> </span>She shrugs it off: “It is normal,” she says, “I feel fine.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The tourists leave a cloud of dust as they follow the road across the dry, short grass clearing.<span style=""> </span>The spectacularly alien Serengeti savanna exudes an aura of prehistory that reminds me vaguely of Yellowstone National Park. I remember the hot, acidic pools of our first National Park’s famous geyser basin.<span style=""> </span>While most of the cookie-cutter tourists never waddled farther than the 300 ft from their car to Old Faithful, just past the famous geyser lay a minefield of colorful hot springs, each lined with rainbow rings of heat-adapted micro-organisms. <span style=""> </span>In the weeks that I spent trying to “find myself” in Yellowstone, I most often lost myself watching the sun rise over the geyser basin.<span style=""> </span>Sitting and watching the steam rise over the pre-dawn frost that sparkled in the low light of the waking sun felt like watching the dawn of time.<span style=""> </span>I can remember thinking that maybe if I sat and watched those pools for a few billion years, I would see fish grow legs and crawl onto land.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Serengeti too feels like a land before time, with the fat cape buffalo trundling through the tall grass in front of our yard, the elles eating our aloe garden, and the giraffe in their slow-motion methodically chewing through our acacia trees.<span style=""> </span>I half expect sometimes to look up and see a brontosaurus browsing by our vaguely otherworldly creatures.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Smithsonian reporter that was here asked us what the coolest was thing was that we’d seen in Serengeti.<span style=""> </span>I remember falling silent.<span style=""> </span>In four short weeks, I’ve seen a million breathtaking, heart-stopping events that I might never see again.<span style=""> </span>I’ve seen a solitary female lion kill a Thompson gazelle in the middle of the day.<span style=""> </span>I have spent the night next to 7 lions that draped themselves luxuriously over an elephant carcass while glowing hyena eyes circled impatiently around, sniffing and rejecting our onion skins and carrot shavings while waiting hungrily for the lions to leave.<span style=""> </span>I have held my breath in the heat of a lion-elle standoff, and retreated from the middle of an epic 3 on 1 battle between neighboring male lions.<span style=""> </span>I have helped to collar a female lion, to de-snare a tangled zebra, and to dart a mother elephant.<span style=""> </span>Climbing a kopje one day, I came face to face with two unattended lion cubs.<span style=""> </span>Camping out in the Western Corridor, I was awakened by a hyena sniffing the ground by my head with only the sheer synthetic fabric between us.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But despite all of the excitement that we stumble onto while making our daily rounds, I think my favorite thing of all is to sit on the veranda just before dawn and watch the world wake up.<span style=""> </span>The house faces directly east and the sun always rises red through the haze of grass-fire smoke. From here I can sometimes see pink and purple lizards doing pushups on sunny rocks, showing off for their plain brown females, and knee-high Tommies locking horns and butting heads in a twitchy capoiera display.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The lions have moved back into the area and this morning I can hear them roaring from just past the neighbor’s house.<span style=""> </span>A cautious hyrax approaches the bucket of leftover wash-water to steal a free drink, and plops down, splay-legged on the cold stone porch.<span style=""> </span>One lazy morning, we spent an HOUR watching the elles pick off thorny branches from our toppled fever tree, their trunks snaking through the foliage, slow and methodical, moving it to their mouths.<span style=""> </span>The elles are my favorite, with their thick, drooping skin that looks several sizes too big.<span style=""> </span>The babies are only hip-high, and they wave their ears when they run to catch up to their moms. Some days the baboons move in slow, cacophonous procession around the house.<span style=""> </span>They get into our rubbish pit and open our water tanks and sit and blink their ugly little eyes at me as they crunch on the fallen Acacia seed pods.<span style=""> </span>Today, however, has been quiet, save for the lions sounding off in the gray morning light as Candi and I loaded the car for my last day in the field.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finally, as the tourists move off, Candi sniffles and shoves the car into gear.<span style=""> </span>We close in for some close-ups of the gnarled hyenas.<span style=""> </span>So far, I have 271 photos from 4 dens, 2 kills, and a million random locations that I am trying to ID using ear notches and spot patterns.<span style=""> </span>I anticipate spending most of my 11-hour layover in Jo-burg scowling at iphoto and grumbling to myself.<span style=""> </span>As September draws near, I try to fend off the overwhelming sense of panic that rides along each day like oxpeckers on a cape buffalo’s back. <span style=""> </span>I will just take it day by day, den by den, and spot by annoying-yet-individually-identifiable spot.</p> <!--EndFragment--> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-29934090719404065432009-08-27T02:08:00.000-07:002009-08-27T02:26:35.705-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWla3AUjlCOzsuNPI16QNSB-_mK7N1AiBNfjrcAtxc6f4C0rxWEyVwKSyG4mPW2JOIRC3hhyCFms0LpwOdtj7MLJ1Dxy74gP-n9zbnciHkxsFZWUdi9r8oL0IetHgJwISFWUGRfaACeJU/s1600-h/IMG_1449.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWla3AUjlCOzsuNPI16QNSB-_mK7N1AiBNfjrcAtxc6f4C0rxWEyVwKSyG4mPW2JOIRC3hhyCFms0LpwOdtj7MLJ1Dxy74gP-n9zbnciHkxsFZWUdi9r8oL0IetHgJwISFWUGRfaACeJU/s320/IMG_1449.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374572068129544338" border="0" /></a><br />We camped less than 20 meters from this thing one night. Cooking from the roof of our landy, we watched a dozen pairs of glowing hyena eyes dancing impatiently around this prize that the lions had secured. It was fine until about 3 am, when the wind died and the SMELL grew so strong that we woke up and retreated.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-19178776541126561252009-08-27T02:07:00.000-07:002009-08-27T02:08:10.446-07:00August 9, 2009Things I have learned:<br /><br />1) Billy, you got NOTHING on baboon farts.<br />2) Machetes sound like windchimes as the whistle through the tall grass.<br />3) Anywhere else in the world, what we call “tall grass” would be called just “grass,” our “medium grass” would be called “short grass,” and our “short grass” would be called “no grass.” <br />4) Your eyes play tricks on you out here. Is that a rock or a lion? The chimneys of a termite mount or the pricked ears of a crouched hyena? It’s really hard to tell.<br />5) Lions have REALLY big feet.<br />6) There is something living in our drop toilet. Perhaps many “somethings.” I learned the other day that these “somethings” include bats, one of which flew UP from the drop while I was responding to nature’s call. <br />7) Baby hyenas are really cute. The adults, tragically enough, are not.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-63190164990472377302009-08-20T01:32:00.000-07:002009-08-20T01:33:34.709-07:00In the Dark of the Night <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/aliswanson/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>538</o:Words> <o:characters>3070</o:Characters> <o:company>University of Minnesota</o:Company> <o:lines>25</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>6</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>3770</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">31-Jul-09</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>
<br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As we hurtled along the gutted road, we came face to face with a herd of elephants paying their respects to a fallen buffalo.<span style=""> </span>At first, in the murk of night, we thought they huddled around one of their own, and concerned silence fell upon us.<span style=""> </span>Ellies, for as aggressive as they can sometimes be, have earned our admiration and careful respect.<span style=""> </span>They seem to me intelligent and emotional creatures; where they are not persecuted, they tolerate the roar of our passing engine with a casual glance.<span style=""> </span>But they nearsighted to the point of legal blindness – in heavily hunted areas we are sometimes charged by a protective female, but as we hold our breaths and brace for impact, they stop their charge short and listen…but give up and turn away.<span style=""> </span>If we remain downwind in silence we are invisible.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The elephants tonight are agitated as they mill around the buffalo.<span style=""> </span>Philipp tells us that ellies often investigate death in the forests where he’s worked.<span style=""> </span>In an eerie display of some sort of cognizance, they seem to recognize that something is not right and come to look at fallen creatures.<span style=""> </span>When they come across the bones of one of their own, they pick them up and carry them away.<span style=""> </span>It is sad and scary and moving and beyond my comprehension, what must be going on in the heads of these big, gray, lumbering beasts.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The two tour vehicles that are blocking the watering hole eventually pull away, and the ellies step forward to drink.<span style=""> </span>They cluster close, pressing together side by side.<span style=""> </span>Hesitant lions slowly creep back to reclaim their half-eaten kill, and the matriarch whirls around, her ears flaring, watching the lions in a silent stand-off.<span style=""> </span>The air is still.<span style=""> </span>It is thick with tension and heavy with the severity of the moment. One ill-timed thud against the car window or a frightened squeal from any of us, and we would incited a rampage.<span style=""> </span>Silence is imperative and we hold our breaths as the ellies file past within inches of our landrover.<span style=""> </span>We can almost feel their fear and my heart twists as I wonder what it must be like to stumble blindly through a darkened world, sensing death and its bearers all around you lurking in the hazy shadows and around every corner.<span style=""> </span>As they disappear into the acacias, we hear a long, lumpy-sounding elephant fart and giggle nervously.<span style=""> </span>We can breathe again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We drive closer to the buffalo carcass and watch the lions return.<span style=""> </span>In the faint starlight, we see that an adult female has already resumed her demolition; her whole head disappears inside the opened belly to rip solid tracts of muscle from the ribcage.<span style=""> </span>We fumble for our headlamps and cameras; I look around optimitistically for an onslaught of hyenas.<span style=""> </span>I have yet to see them challenge a lion kill, and begin to question the feasibility of my research plans. <span style=""> </span>The subadult males pad around our car, their massive paws falling silently in the sandy soil.<span style=""> </span>They are full, and are now studying <i style="">us</i>.<span style=""> </span>Our windows are open, as always, and we glance around with slight unease – where did the two subadult males go?<span style=""> </span>Suddenly we hear a loud chomp from the back of our vehicle.<span style=""> </span>Fearing that they’ve gone of one of our tires, and hardly in any position to fix a flat, we frantically turn the car ignition and pull a few meters forward.<span style=""> </span>In the sideview mirror, we see a lion trot into the darkness with our plastic tire cover dangling from his teeth.<span style=""> </span>Candida’s jaw drops.<span style=""> </span>We are not quite sure what inspired them to steal such an inedible adornment, but it is late and we have company coming that night.<span style=""> </span>So we chalk the loss up to a casualty of the field…and as we drive home along the corrugated dirt road, we remind ourselves that at least we are better off than the buffalo.</p> <!--EndFragment--> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-15043188531340600292009-08-20T01:23:00.000-07:002009-08-20T01:37:54.401-07:00An Ode to Ants. <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/aliswanson/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>473</o:Words> <o:characters>2699</o:Characters> <o:company>University of Minnesota</o:Company> <o:lines>22</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>5</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>3314</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoNormal">I keep flinching and slapping at the invisible bugs that land and leap away so fast I can’t tell sometimes if they are real or merely a figment of my imagination.<span style=""> </span>By the time I slap my arm, they are gone, and all that lingers is that faint distant tickle on my skin.<span style=""> </span>Craig peers up at me over his little wire glasses.<span style=""> </span>We are wading through 25 years of radio-collaring lion data and I am playing the dusty, bugbitten, in-desperate-need-of-beer secretary.<span style=""> </span>He gives me a withering stare as I twitch murderously at the bugs that seem to molest only me.<span style=""> </span>“It’s all in you’re imagination,” he says with a playfully dismissive wave of his hand as he hunches back over the dusty files. Sreeching in indignation, I am finally successful in my arthropod assassination attempts and throw my tiny offender at my academic advisor.<span style=""> </span>“I don’t want your pickings!”<span style=""> </span>he squawks.<span style=""> </span>Merciless, I catch another and drop it in his lap.<span style=""> </span>It quickly disappears into his ridiculous leg hair. Satisfied, I resume recording.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I think the bugs are the only thing I dislike more than the baboons that crap on our veranda.<span style=""> </span>The ants recently invaded our drop toilet (the only one in town where you still have to squat, milling about on the concrete slab in typical ant frenzy.<span style=""> </span>African ants seem to be generally unstoppable.<span style=""> </span>They swarm across our kitchen countertop so thick that the white laminate is completely obscured.<span style=""> </span>Yesterday I saw them dragging a dead tsetse fly across our windowsill. <span style=""> </span>They are tiny pinprick ants, so ghostly as they crawl across your skin that you’re never quite sure if you’ve merely imagined them.<span style=""> </span>But we don’t imagine them in our food.<span style=""> </span>They are baked into our bread, spooned into our leftovers, drowned in our drinking water…They even invaded my canister of refrigerated Lindt chocolates.<span style=""> </span>They flail hopelessly in our wash water and get stuck in the little holes of our makeshift shower bucket.<span style=""> </span>I think sometimes they bite - the backs of my legs are covered with little red itchy bumps, and if they aren’t ant bites then they might be tick larvae, which is even more disgusting. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As much as I would prefer not to share my shower with a thousand tiny freeriders, I have this strange love/hate/admiration/disgust relationship with the colonial creatures.<span style=""> </span>Philipp tells me how some ants raise aphid “livestock,” carrying their little aphids around to leaves and then milking them of their leaf-juice.<span style=""> </span>Some ants live in little black balls on one of the countless acacia species and attack hungry ungulates that dare to browse on their branches.<span style=""> </span>One day while scouring game trails for fresh carnivore sign, I discovered a series of 4-inch wide paths that wove between the trees.<span style=""> </span>I turned to the camera trapping guru by my side, the funny German who’s spent the last decade in the remote west-African bush.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Ants!</i> Philipp says.<span style=""> </span>Yes, the ants move in such volume that they create barren little tracks through the woodland grass.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes we can see the ant army marching in rigid formation outside the Lion House.<span style=""> </span>They appear out of nowhere against our cinderblock corners and trudge across the dirt.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know where they are going, but they look like they’re on a mission.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps they heard that there was something in the outhouse.</p> <!--EndFragment--> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-31776327165593335292009-08-09T06:43:00.000-07:002009-08-09T06:46:36.942-07:00We get close to big cats.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkFrJznRWRZpv1yD2vnPTgu96sMUP9e1eZVw3mig9DwrZZ7crZ0MObMibT3PqRJqP3_DKFP_8bPKjukyFXJQOpaJIgWzy3NY-GVRO_p4qMRHQUmE4fw4Ee4XW12ZDy_rHnpIN_K6rfaMQ/s1600-h/_MG_5687.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkFrJznRWRZpv1yD2vnPTgu96sMUP9e1eZVw3mig9DwrZZ7crZ0MObMibT3PqRJqP3_DKFP_8bPKjukyFXJQOpaJIgWzy3NY-GVRO_p4qMRHQUmE4fw4Ee4XW12ZDy_rHnpIN_K6rfaMQ/s320/_MG_5687.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367959770492898882" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQ2a3_LkP89YcPHyoUletSzymXoGaJGZcq_jCZrGWaKfCIQ72x_-cQ7IPSzOoX5p-X9c3xHMcjLnEA2H-0yENblX5dyAdOu49RMKYEAJAN7JEUVkdcuFH6V-olHIeDl1ldIhSkvtuFYc/s1600-h/_MG_5601.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQ2a3_LkP89YcPHyoUletSzymXoGaJGZcq_jCZrGWaKfCIQ72x_-cQ7IPSzOoX5p-X9c3xHMcjLnEA2H-0yENblX5dyAdOu49RMKYEAJAN7JEUVkdcuFH6V-olHIeDl1ldIhSkvtuFYc/s320/_MG_5601.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367959766928109906" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-waBI5RA1lInHq5gWOGOE7oTNjNlhzbZTHeiRcmMLfQHB6e3oV_eEbMc9f2gRTgkPBsQbRQmuuNXVwUgFVXbGPPWrhXWJEXPMvBpR63XlyZfUPkQiQ83YIx7pwyXvVmRUXj9U1IL-8mg/s1600-h/_MG_5619.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-waBI5RA1lInHq5gWOGOE7oTNjNlhzbZTHeiRcmMLfQHB6e3oV_eEbMc9f2gRTgkPBsQbRQmuuNXVwUgFVXbGPPWrhXWJEXPMvBpR63XlyZfUPkQiQ83YIx7pwyXvVmRUXj9U1IL-8mg/s320/_MG_5619.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367959760913326418" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-65979439384973922082009-08-09T06:36:00.000-07:002009-08-09T06:42:34.257-07:0030-July-2009<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrg6biF8_GzR067PmRrxAfSICnhjTmnIp2QXAg4NujBf-UYLt48AoWwEoQeMRtYHTLA23Qt59a4LyR3cm80SsluqE9i7pk-c9wU-Fzb00hwEB_NtBz1ZNl6gI-qgmh8N7EMLIGMl6qcFk/s1600-h/_MG_5617.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrg6biF8_GzR067PmRrxAfSICnhjTmnIp2QXAg4NujBf-UYLt48AoWwEoQeMRtYHTLA23Qt59a4LyR3cm80SsluqE9i7pk-c9wU-Fzb00hwEB_NtBz1ZNl6gI-qgmh8N7EMLIGMl6qcFk/s320/_MG_5617.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367958862596380914" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I have been in the Serengeti for precisely one week now, yet I still hardly know where to begin.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The house is nicer than I could possibly have imagined.<span style=""> </span>For starters, it’s a house.<span style=""> </span>All of my previous fieldwork was conducted from the luxury of my Northface Tadpole.<span style=""> </span>Here at the Lion House we have a veranda that looks out at the dense woodlands of Seronera – the city at the heart of the Serengeti.<span style=""> </span>Furnished with wobbly table and cushioned chairs, the veranda is occasionally decorated by an especially adventurous hyrax or an especially annoying baboon.<span style=""> </span>The lions steal the cushions from the Cheetah House next door, but leave ours alone.<span style=""> </span>It might be because (we’re pretty sure) there’s something (that bites) living in our cushions.<span style=""> </span>The house is encircled by half a dozen 3000 liter tanks that catch the rainwater that runs off the roof – even though it’s fairly clean, we boil and filter it before drinking because, as Ingela says, “you never know what poops on the roof!”<span style=""> </span>Well, we know at least it’s hyraxes, possibly a leopard, maybe baboons, and almost certainly bats.<span style=""> </span>So boil we do.<span style=""> </span>In the wet season, the tanks are full enough that water flows to the taps, but right now we go back and forth with buckets.<span style=""> </span>Lots and lots of buckets.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Our electricity shuts off at 10 pm, so I am curled up on the veranda, writing by the light of my kerosene lantern.<span style=""> </span>The bats are echolocating above my head, but I wonder if they have faulty sonar.<span style=""> </span>Every now and then I hear a soft <b>thwack</b> against the wooden beams, and the other day one brushed through my knotty hair.<span style=""> </span>(My hair is like 3 inches long.<span style=""> </span>I haven’t had knotty hair since I was 12 years old and had long hair.<span style=""> </span>This is what the dust of Serengeti plus days of<span style=""> </span>not showering does to a person.)<span style=""> </span>Candida, one of the field researchers, pulls down her crunchy laundry by headlamp.<span style=""> </span>I’m not sure why our laundry is crunchy, but I don’t ask.<span style=""> </span>As long as there are no ants in my pants, I’ll be happy.<span style=""> </span>(The ants are a story in and of themselves.)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A buffalo goes crashing awkwardly through the thick grass and shrubs in our front yards.<span style=""> </span>We have a 20 meter radius of mowed grass out front, but the back yard grows tall and dangerous.<span style=""> </span>When braving the nighttime visit to the outhouse I scan for eyeshine at each step forward.<span style=""> </span>The other day Craig came running back inside the house panting.<span style=""> </span>“Don’t worry,” he said, when I nervously peered out to pay my own visit to the loo, “you can outrun him.” <span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I usually take most of what my advisor tells me with no small pinch of salt, and this was no exception – stared down by the African water buffalo, I decided that perhaps nature calling could be allowed to ring for a while.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, the veranda seems to create some invisible barrier to the bigger animals with dangerous things like hooves and claws.<span style=""> </span>The buffalo stay in the tall unmowed grass and poop on our path to the outhouse.<span style=""> </span>Occasionally we hear hyenas whooping in the distance, or lions roaring past the house next door, but nobody ever ventures up onto the concrete stoop.<span style=""> </span>So I get to sit here with my half liter of Kilimanjaro beer and stare into the night, immune to the dangers of east African wildlife…well, that is, aside from mosquitos, biting ants, ticks, and tsetses….and the occasional bat that buzzes my head.<span style=""> </span>At least this place is creative.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-69973053479767021432009-07-31T00:43:00.001-07:002009-07-31T01:01:29.151-07:00Pictures from the trip to Serengeti<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn4qxYk6S2csNNCTdwvKjvtA9T_BzwluoVL1K9skG0qlt2LP5PCbCMPTE__NJFlCqIDbYKgAeOuvPRuUEMUkzME9jcDVVvbqkMwBlzqjoQUbtsiRbCl03UwlirWRuZG4s7LkW8ddr4zFg/s1600-h/IMG_0363.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn4qxYk6S2csNNCTdwvKjvtA9T_BzwluoVL1K9skG0qlt2LP5PCbCMPTE__NJFlCqIDbYKgAeOuvPRuUEMUkzME9jcDVVvbqkMwBlzqjoQUbtsiRbCl03UwlirWRuZG4s7LkW8ddr4zFg/s320/IMG_0363.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364527490078971138" border="0" /></a><br />Standing at the edge of the Ngorongoro Crater, feeling like I'm on top of the world.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiixSv8pf1aZdlzheDbRZNOQBVpeC3g3hZRRIEhxfhM9zuW44v7oAdbv6itIH6h9yp3wk5V1jCKly7usZIs3qIyoHI5aFs8k-0_fe2QvXGwqVmIxyni6ctbHWOHHmrFQs4g1KtRyYQIIPY/s1600-h/IMG_0372.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiixSv8pf1aZdlzheDbRZNOQBVpeC3g3hZRRIEhxfhM9zuW44v7oAdbv6itIH6h9yp3wk5V1jCKly7usZIs3qIyoHI5aFs8k-0_fe2QvXGwqVmIxyni6ctbHWOHHmrFQs4g1KtRyYQIIPY/s320/IMG_0372.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364527494445400546" border="0" /></a><br />I swear, these cars are made to drive on Mars. We fall into Aardvark holes that I could pitch a tent in, climb up dry river banks, and run over acacia saplings with thorns as long as my middle finger. But as beast as they are, even landrovers get flat tires.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJ2b4JkmBQreZKI-zFX8_OW_0Ngzh-FzxYqKfALb1enPqZHFm7avOVRKscM8fuPDY8Zwe07SgN1dpWFKcT7YXOghdH7c1niu5kMiA1WSbAMi5E9kWKLi6qps2IHqLPVrLx7v-wkBoN0A/s1600-h/IMG_0381.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJ2b4JkmBQreZKI-zFX8_OW_0Ngzh-FzxYqKfALb1enPqZHFm7avOVRKscM8fuPDY8Zwe07SgN1dpWFKcT7YXOghdH7c1niu5kMiA1WSbAMi5E9kWKLi6qps2IHqLPVrLx7v-wkBoN0A/s320/IMG_0381.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364527500311417074" border="0" /></a><br />Tembo!!!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA9OdQv-fGDAGIaYhokUm7dGIQLocVciDXeUUcBKvDKopBehZ0U9sDss-gDcdBuQQpHpBLqCE-qHSeWnfwMcplRArO5i_Budjnfxub485Q7l0sA3-VWdtqb3044VBlApCk4FSX5wLTcsY/s1600-h/IMG_0378.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA9OdQv-fGDAGIaYhokUm7dGIQLocVciDXeUUcBKvDKopBehZ0U9sDss-gDcdBuQQpHpBLqCE-qHSeWnfwMcplRArO5i_Budjnfxub485Q7l0sA3-VWdtqb3044VBlApCk4FSX5wLTcsY/s320/IMG_0378.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364527495084885810" border="0" /></a>Michael, Meshack's son, enjoying a brief moment of having the entire back seat to himself. There were 7 (yes, seven) of us riding the long road from Arusha to Serengeti that day, accompanied by a months worth of food and supplies.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6OB2nyIxEMlnnXP6HkX1nQZVyf1iCz28obohYuQOgSthQvsFAAKxYeLlHY64v3Y3Z5wEQxaj3oODCeNJ7Gn7CKYDyEEweJ5lFBmCqJMyxIiwyCBP0CvJ239aTt42VdlkSAr3XwcNCBBU/s1600-h/IMG_0410.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6OB2nyIxEMlnnXP6HkX1nQZVyf1iCz28obohYuQOgSthQvsFAAKxYeLlHY64v3Y3Z5wEQxaj3oODCeNJ7Gn7CKYDyEEweJ5lFBmCqJMyxIiwyCBP0CvJ239aTt42VdlkSAr3XwcNCBBU/s320/IMG_0410.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364529558438697234" border="0" /></a>All of us with Fabio, one of the dummy lions used to study why lions have manes.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-41086715831293510182009-07-29T22:44:00.000-07:002009-07-29T22:47:47.442-07:00Quick NoteJuly 28, 2009<br />Quick note:<br />1) I am still alive.<br />2) On the veranda at night I can hear lions roaring (we think they are getting it on).<br />3) I almost stepped in giraffe poop in my front yard.<br />4) Hyenas have waaaaay more teeth than lions.<br />5) I think there are more stars here than anywhere else in the world.<br />6) I miss the internet and running water, but I love it here.<br /><br />Now that that’s out of the way, notes and things from the last week will follow.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-28358171512649479062009-07-28T22:54:00.000-07:002009-07-29T23:35:11.515-07:00Serengeti!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4rJ-cFxTv5OesWwnq4XD9FvAlev6TDwTAbGN3YsgsOrE_JeU2TTxJg-i5Jo7AkFFxxHDTmnLZST7yDD67B8cvTIkW2Qj-t1-j_agoDP96TodhFQyLMIs-pZaI4sU1wKcwzPBXqaTDM5U/s1600-h/IMG_0418.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4rJ-cFxTv5OesWwnq4XD9FvAlev6TDwTAbGN3YsgsOrE_JeU2TTxJg-i5Jo7AkFFxxHDTmnLZST7yDD67B8cvTIkW2Qj-t1-j_agoDP96TodhFQyLMIs-pZaI4sU1wKcwzPBXqaTDM5U/s320/IMG_0418.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364137855825110162" /></a><br /><br /><br />Notes from my first days in Serengeti:<br /><br />I am so stunned I don’t even know what to write. I am in the Serengeti. I am smack dab in the middle of a natural phenomenon. In my first 24 hours here, I have seen a dozen things that I can barely pronounce. Impala, Topi, Hartebeest, Buffalo, gazelle. Baboons, Hyraxes, jackals, giraffes, zebra. Elephants, hyenas, lions and leopards. <br /><br />The baboons hang outside our house, like raccoons of Africa, but bigger and more agile…and much, much uglier. Ingela, one of the field researchers and a spectacularly wonderful woman, reminds us to pull the front door closed lest the baboons invade (this has happened before). She also reminds us to occasionally look up in the tree in the side yard, as it seems to be a favorite rest-stop for a the neighborhood leopard. As I watch a giraffe meander past the outhouse out back, I feel vaguely like I have stepped back in time. Or landed on mars. What is this place?<br />(Answer: AWESOME.)<br /><br />Over whiskey and chocolates, Phil and Ingela and I discuss the important things in life, such as the following:<br /><br />Q: What to do if you encounter a lion while on foot?<br />a)Run screaming<br />b) Make yourself look really big and menacing<br />c) back away slowly, maintaining eye contact with the lion, but without tripping. At a “safe distance” turn around to face the direction you are heading, and absolutely do not look back.<br />d) wave your pot and shout “kakakakakaka.”<br /><br />Answer: Word on the street is that “c” is textbook correct, but d has proven to work after sunrise in the Serengeti. I do not personally know anyone that has attemped a, b, or c and lived to tell the tale. Both Craig and Ingela have survived on variations of d.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-20903650767003954132009-07-28T22:50:00.000-07:002009-07-29T23:36:15.932-07:00more backlogged notes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxAAOtSTKlFU_Co7o8WqmvzhYe4DmNqgKIuw8vy2z2FYhh48tvB0SOENKFVory_DB7YV1KXxtUYGwYC-q1wONQjsDkMgNzcN59yAv91iR0flUJ0ClEJnn_8ysmvq8KslPEwLvKiwopJyg/s1600-h/IMG_0357.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxAAOtSTKlFU_Co7o8WqmvzhYe4DmNqgKIuw8vy2z2FYhh48tvB0SOENKFVory_DB7YV1KXxtUYGwYC-q1wONQjsDkMgNzcN59yAv91iR0flUJ0ClEJnn_8ysmvq8KslPEwLvKiwopJyg/s320/IMG_0357.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364138261765830210" /></a><br /><br />From: July 22, 2009<br /><br />Arusha is the gateway to the Serengeti. With a native population that is 1/3 the size of Dar, it is subject to a mzungu overflow that practically dwarfs the city itself. Every which way there are western-style restaurants and kitsch for sale. Paper-mache alligators and elephants line the sidewalk outside the glamorous Impala hotel. It’s not just the thriving tourism industry, though: Arusha is home to the International Tribunal investigating the Rwandan war crimes, and we live just past “Pleasantville” which is the gated community occupied by UN folk. Eating pizza outside of a fancy rock-art shop, I watched a European lawyer-sort totter through the gravel in a tight skirt-suit and high-rise heels. At moments it’s hard to believe that the Serengeti is just around the corner…aaaaand then a vervet monkey goes scrambling across the rooftop and the wild savanna doesn’t feel quite so far away.<br /><br />The city is surprisingly dusty for such a lush place, and running errands around down leaves my throat parched and sore. I saw a man come into the Bulk store where we were buying meter after meter of iron t-bar (on which to put the camera traps if we didn’t have any trees) completely covered head to toe in fine dust. His clothes, skin, hair, eyelashes. Perhaps he had been working in the Tanzanite mines. There is such a thing, you know – Tanzanite. Apparently it’s a very rare gemstone that turns blue if you heat it up. I’ve never heard of the thing, but then again, my earrings tend to run $5 a pop and come from the same stores that sell hello-kitty mini-backpacks, and I have maybe one necklace that I haven’t lost yet. So I’m not the one to consult on such things.<br /><br />We are waiting for Meshack, a brilliant mechanic and our ride into Serengeti, to arrive with the land rover and the 80 feet of iron t-bar. Craig says it’s a 7 hour ride into the park, but my sources tell me to expect 8 or 9*. Susan’s dogs look dead as they nap in the sun, and I am briefly sad to say goodbye to the only animal life I will be able to reach out and pet for the next 6 weeks (if I want to keep all my limbs). Before departing on our next great adventure, I take a minute to reflect on the things I’ve learned and seen in the past week.<br /><br />From my time in Arusha:<br /><br />The things I have seen carried on the backs of bikes.<br />-People, not just small people, but full-sized people.<br />-7 milk-crate sized rickety wooden boxes, piled so high and wide you couldn’t see the rider.<br />-A dozen yellow buckets, similarly piled.<br />-A dog.<br /><br />The things I have seen people carry on their heads:<br />-groceries<br />-baskets of fruit for sale<br />-a bag with two mangos<br />-5 gallon buckets that look reaaaaaally heavy<br />-a bushel of socks for sale<br /><br />Other randomness:<br />-you need a land rover just to get through the roads around town.<br />-Everybody smiles and nods, but you’re never quite sure if they mean it.<br />-“Hello” takes about 10 minutes to say, and you can never quite tell if what the other person said is a response or another question, as “Salaam” can go both ways.<br />- People carry guns. Big scary guns. They are security guards that are hired to watch storefronts and doors, but when they sit down for beer and tandoori chicken with the guns they look like regular people in polo shirts and khakis….regular people sitting down with big, scary guns.<br />-Despite the dust and the honking and the death-defying driving, I like this place.<br /><br /><br />*P.S. It took 10 hours.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-5978280280355002262009-07-22T01:03:00.000-07:002009-07-22T01:05:59.546-07:00ArushaFor $2 more, I could have had a bathroom. We have one bathroom break on this 10 hour bus ride, and I drank an awful lot of water this morning. Thank God the TD hasn’t set in yet.<br /><br />I had a choice between “Luxury” and “Super Luxury,” when I purchased my ticket yesterday, and without a second thought I purchased the lower class option. It’s more authentic…and cheaper…and “Luxury” already sounded painfully lavish. Now, a naming convention where “Luxury” is the cheapest option you can find is inherently suspect, but the bus actually wasn’t so bad. Not only were there no chickens nibbling at my feet, but the seats were comfy with ample leg room. Had my equally ample neighbor not also been occupying half of my seat, the trip might have been slightly more comfortable, but hey, it’s better than livestock. (Note: I have never actually ridden in the back of a truck with assorted livestock, but it’s on my list of life goals.)<br /><br />Driving north to Arusha, the land outside is so mesmerizing that I don’t want to unglue my eyes…except to close them. I am so unexplainably tired and briefly wonder if I’ve contracted some strange, insidious disease. It’s probably just the jet lag – I’ve only forgotten my malaria meds once so far. Besides, I’m pretty sure that the travel clinic shot me so full of vaccinations that I could kill any would-be parasitic invader within a 10-meter radius just by looking at it. <br /><br />As we first turn our backs on the Indian Ocean, the landscape outside is thick and brushy, then steep mountains erupt from the flatland. The mountains are abrupt – like in Mexico and Mongolia – and they look so near that I’m not quite sure if they are small mountains or just very big hills. Climbing farther inland, the land dries out and the soil turns sandy between wispy trees and sparse grass. There seems to be a cactus plantation, with row after orderly row of spiky bushes. I’ve never seen such an unruly plant look so in line. <br /><br />Like so much of the metropolis, the tiny roadside villages are a bizarre mishmash of centuries and lifestyles. Rickety thatched-roof sheds stand with walls of laced together branches that bend and point in all directions like the uncoordinated limbs of a growing boy. Next to them, between stalls of corrugated tin, stand smooth concrete buildings with decorative fencing. Brick walls crumble nearby. Children in Osh-kosh-bigosh jean shorts play on a pile of dirt, while women in bright cloth wraps carry groceries home on their heads. <br /><br />Our bus slows suddenly. We see another bus – a Dar Express, just like us – heading southbound, stopped on the road. Beneath its front wheels is a motorcycle, a pikipiki. We all press our faces against the window as we pass – there is no blood, nobody with his head in hands – a crowd has gathered but there seems to be no injured victim. After a moment, we pick up speed and continue our climb to Arusha.<br />Closing in on Arusha nearly 1300m up, I notice the flowers for the first time. They are bright purple and seem to promise some sort of respite. The highlands are green and chilly – I reach for my sweatshirt as we pull into the dusty bus station. Craig and Susan and Philipp are waiting anxiously after having watched the last bus – the Super Luxury bus - pull in without their grad student on board. In the yellowing light of the early evening, we smile and wave, shake hands and high-five. It is Saturday night, and I am one step closer to the Serengeti.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-63155066594282789912009-07-21T05:56:00.000-07:002009-07-21T05:58:56.911-07:00Dar es SalaamJuly 17, 2009 <br /><br />Inside the feebly air conditioned Movenpick Hotel, Philipp and I sip our lattes and wonder how much it costs to stay in this marble-floored hotel where a club sandwich costs $18 for lunch. Lonely Planet, with the answers to life, the universe, and everything, tells us: $235 per night. We are not sure what it must be like to have that kind of money.<br /><br />This place feels more western than I suspect East Africa should – the dark wood decorative lattice and upholstered, claw-foot chairs feel like a remnant of some colonial officer’s club. The staff bustles by in button down shirts or poufy chef-hats, flowing slacks and shiny dress shoes. Behind the bar, a woman lifts and lowers a pitcher of whole milk around a whistling steam wand that is thick with accumulated scalded milk. Behind us, a cell phone rings insistently and the scene feels unnervingly like home. <br /><br />I desperately want to be back along the shore with the smiling women who cook ugali in big pots and deliver to us whole smoked fish with empty eyeballs and tiny tails. Phil and I were trapped there yesterday – by the “pot women” we call them, because they dance and sing and chant and laugh as they flit through buildings filled with giant cooking pots, dressed in white shirts and black skirts with rags tied around their heads. They all wear flip-flops or old keds with the backs of the shoes folded down beneath their heels. We have ordered smoked fish lunches and various sides; Phil gets a spoon with his rice, but they just laugh when I ask for one to go with my ugali. <br /><br />Ugali is a Tanzanian staple – some sort of white cornmeal mush that is solid enough to eat with your hands. You tear off lumps and dip it into coconut milk sauce or lukewarm pinto beans. Being a heavily Muslim country (about 50/50 with Christianity), it is generally rude to eat with your left hand. So I fumbled through lunch with my lonely little right hand, twisting and contorting to rip off chunks of ugali and lumps of smoked fish. There are no such things as napkins, but because water is free, a girl comes by with a pitcher and some soap to pour over our hands when we are done.<br /><br />The streets of Dar es Salaam are filled with bright colors and big smiles. Palm trees nod in the barely perceptible breeze. It is oppressively hot and humid and everyone wears a sheen of sweat. Women walk through the streets with big baskets of colorful fruit balanced atop their heads. I once asked my taxi driver – Mzee Alex, Old Alex – if he could do that too. Many men cannot do that, he laughed. I can a little, but I cannot go fast. The women, they can go very fast! They can run without spilling anything. <br /><br />The people are a startling clash of western wear and the traditional colorful robes. Everywhere there is honking, yelling. Men make kissy noises, but it is not to me – it seems to be a way of getting attention as they hawk their wares. Women balance bushels of socks on their heads, men drape themselves in hanger after hanger of designer dress pants. Along the shore, they parade with a platter of finger-seafood – octopus arms and squid, shrimp, goodness knows what else. All I can see is a mess of tentacles and suckers and feelers piled around a mason jar of what looks like cocktail sauce. <br /><br />But inside the Movenpick Hotel, there are no octopus arms for sale at 15 cents apiece. There is no eating with your hands, no peddlers draped in the random assortment of goods that they are trying to sell. Inside the Movenpick there is overpriced internet and a pair of scissors we can use to cut apart our half-dozen passport photos so that the next time we go into a permit office, we are better prepared. Mostly inside Movenpick is a chance to catch our breath – two days into the permitting process we are exhausted of cab rides and stone benches and scowling permit clerks. “Just sit and wait for a while,” they say, again and again and again. So we go next door to the Movenpick to wait in relative peace. Waiting anxiously, impatiently. We drink more coffee, get on internet, make obsessive copies of all our important paperwork, and drink coffee some more. We are acutely aware that we do not belong in a place like this, yet no one seems to notice. <br /><br />1pm. Time to go back to immigration. We are waiting for our class C residence permit so that we can finalize our dozen other research permits. In the overcrowded office, the story is again the same. “Just sit and wait,” they say, “we will see.” The faux-marble floor is packed with tired-looking Tanzanians who are also waiting. A tall and frazzled looking German lady shuffles in overanxious laps around and around the office. I play peek-a-boo with two children who teach me how to say cheetah and leopard in Swahili. And we wait. Perhaps for dinner we will go back to the pot women with their flopping shoes and big smiles. Or perhaps we will trek back across town to the late-night street-side café we discovered the night before, grilled tandoori chicken and fried cassava root, manned by the portly Indian immigrant, Karim, who lost a leg and a knee to a fight with a bus. But for now we sight and wait. If all goes well, tomorrow we will leave for Arusha – my mind soars with optimism. Arusha, then Serengeti. We are almost there! A clanging gate brings me back – it is 2pm and they have closed the doors to get in, yet the office is full of people waiting still. And so we sit and we wait and we daydream about dinner and days to come. About smoked fish and cold beer, about sunsets in the Serengeti. And so we sit. And so we wait.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4882264191127329176.post-12499892706419916582009-07-19T13:12:00.000-07:002009-07-19T13:15:00.147-07:00The JourneyJuly 15, 2009<br /><br />The sun never set. <br /><br />We flew into tomorrow across the Atlantic Ocean and the sun just never set. Sunset melted into sunrise in a seamless wash of blood-orange and fiery pink. Around 11pm they gave us breakfast and turned on the lights. “Good morning!” In one hour we would be landing. It was 6am Holland time; their day had only just begun.<br /><br />Scott and I munched our Egg McMuffins and watched the world lighten outside, talking about everything from Borat’s irreverence and penchant for potty humor to the battle between evolutionary biology and Creationism to, my favorite, UFOs. <br /><br />“They way I see it,” starts Scott, his green eyes twinkling from behind his enormous glasses that circle in wide arcs across is face, “they’re either here to use us for food or entertainment.” I smile uneasily. I am bizarrely self-conscious about our conversation. I do not normally talk about aliens, and even though I will never again see the people in the seats ahead of us, I am painfully self-conscious. This sounds totally crazy. I usually change the subject when my dad talks about aliens in public.<br /><br />I didn’t expect a conversation with a complete stranger to take on quite such a life of its own, but 8 hours after boarding, Scott and I were still talking. He was interesting – an aging surfer-dude, an English major drop-out. He looks vaguely like he’s dressed for safari – beltless field pants and khaki snapdown shirt with two front pockets. But he’s wearing scuffed white tennis shoes and carrying a battered leather satchel. No, he’s not going on safari. He’s visiting the Ukranian family of his late wife. It is almost a year to the day that she, a translator with the looks of a model, 26 years his younger, died of rare and incurable synovial cancer. <br /><br />The man is a walking contradiction. He does customer support for Verizon, yet doesn’t own a phone. He his smart and well-spoken, yet his thought process is penned up behind rigid pillars of belief that he can neither articulate nor defend. He is searching for answers to an existential question and denouncing science because it cannot provide the spiritual satisfaction he is searching for. We argue about the mechanics of evolutionary biology, and I wish I had with me any one of half-a-dozen of my colleagues who are better versed in this than I. We argue about species concept, direction and design, barriers to natural interbreeding, gradualism and venus flytraps. I desperately want to escape this circular conversation. Scott is searching for a “why” – but science can’t give him “why,” it can only give him “HOW” or “how come.” Science cannot make sense of the unbearable beauty and tragedy that we encounter in our lives, and this frustrates him. <br /><br />Somehow we escape the circular debate with no resentment. We talk about the warmth and generosity of families from former USSR nations. About honesty in expression. About Beauty. About Freedom. About being meaningful in our lives. We talk the whole time and the world lightens around us and I do not even notice when we land.<br /><br />That’s when I should have said goodbye, shaken hands, and wished him a heartfelt hope for luck in this life. But instead we got breakfast. I was tired and wanted to be alone with my thoughts and my little pocket-sized Swahili phrasebook. When he asked me, I told him that I rarely keep in touch with the people I’ve met along the way. It is hard to maintain the magic, I say, it seems to only prolong the end. Better to remember the friends I’ve made by spotlight searches through my memories, remembering them vibrant color, than to let them fade slowly out in dwindling mundane emails. I do not say that it is because it hurts me that people I love write me, and I do not find the time to write them back. Or that it hurts to never hear back from people that meant so much to me for a flashing moment in time. This keeps it simple. <br /><br />When we part ways, he says with a sardonic smile “let’s keep in touch,” and I feel guilty for how impossible I’ve made that. I give him my CouchSurfing name and tell him he can find me there, but as we walk away, we both know that we will never speak again. <br /><br />Alone for the first time, the Amsterdam airport is big and bustling. There are corner coffee bars where people stand with their lattes and cappuccinos – I guess this is a world where there is no time to sit down? But for one of the world’s international business and travel capitals, it does not feel as fresh or space-agey as I imagined. The toilet paper looks recycled and feels single-ply. But the people are beautiful and seem to know a dozen languages. I fall briefly in love with the young Indian guy working the chocolate counter. He greets me in English – a lucky guess? I ask, Or can you tell us by sight? He’s usually right, he says. He has a slicked up faux-hawk and the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard in conversation. Before boarding my plane to Nairobe, I impulsively return to tell him this but he is gone. Oddly, that’s okay – he will remain in my mind as this flash in time – the boy with the beautiful voice.<br /><br />And then I’m off. Somewhere between Sarejevo and Malta, the water below is deep blue and vast. I see the white wake of a boat below and tell myself it’s a great white whale, it’s tail fading into the blue behind it like brush strokes in an oil painting. Over the Ionian Sea I get a choice of Italian Pasta or Chicken and Rice. Floating across the Sahara I sip on a plastic cup of cabernet. The day before and the day ahead seem distant and surreal. I don’t know how long I’ve been traveling or how much farther I have to go. <br /><br />It is still daylight when we land in Nairobe, where all the signs are happily in English. I stroll through the duty-free shops, stocked with $76 of Clinique perfume, generic luggage, and m&m’s. Once inside the pre-boarding area, I sit on the dusty carpet and curl up on top of my carry-on, my arms laced through my bags 5 times over. I’m no fool when it comes to watching my back, although I manage to misplace the stub of my boarding pass. It is a small airplane, the kind that you have to walk across the tarmac to climb into, and even though they have checked our passes, they need to check our stubs before we can climb the stairs into the little puddlejumper. So I kneel desperately on the tarmac fumbling through my bags with no success until the attendants take pity on me. They find my name on the roster and let me through. The plane’s not full, it doesn’t even matter; I can sit where I want. <br /><br />It is after 11pm when we land in Dar es Salaam. I make it through the visa line in record speed, and am in a taxi-cab by 11:40. I barter with the driver before climbing in, warned by my colleagues that they are all in cahoots to rip of incoming tourists for a ride into town. I’ve practiced this conversation in Swahili again and again, but when the drivers swarm me outside the automatic sliding doors, I am caught of guard. “Taxi?!” They shout. And then in English: “How are you? Would you like a taxi?” Stunned, “Well, yes,” I say, “how much to the city center?” I kick myself. That was supposed to come out as “Ni gali gei kwenda Dar es Salaam?” When he tells me a price that is 4 times what it should be, again, I am too stunned to respond in Swahili. I lose momentum. So I feebly barter in English, with limited success. But it works, and despite the driver’s tendency to take red lights as subtle suggestions instead of law, we make it to the Luther House Hostel in one piece. <br /><br />It is midnight, a full hour earlier than I had expected. I am ecstatic…and exhausted. I’m sharing a room with a German collaborator whom I have yet to meet – all I want is my own room so I can change the clothes I’ve been wearing for the last 2 days and fart in peace and privacy. But the hostel was full and we are on a tight budget. So I dutifully drag my leaden suitcase up the narrow steps. I’m a backpacker with a bum shoulder; I hate suitcases but have no choice. Phil has promised to have cold beer waiting upon my arrival, which he does. There’s a spotted cat on one. “Cheetah!” I say excitedly at quick glance. Yeah…it’s a leopard. He forgives me easily, if only because I also had to forgive him for booking the “double” room that had just one big bed instead of two twins. <br />We tried to switch it at the front desk – “You see,” we explain, “We just work together. In fact, we only met today.” “Ohhh,” says the clerk with a devilish grin. “Because if you were a couple, it would be a good thing!” <br /><br />*sigh*<br /><br />You kind of have to love this country.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2