The Elephant Cloud » Tanzania

An overnight bus and twenty hours later- Uganda

Darlene Nastansky — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 20:20:56 +0000

East African boarders, overland. Tales of seedy characters, red-eyed border patrol, machine guns wasting in corners, dank corridors. Stories abound, we prepared for the worst, three borders in twenty hours, Tanzania, Kenya and Uganda.

“You will be here, at the station, 2:30? we,” the voice breaks, unclear. I step from the loud bar, “But the ticket says it leaves at 4:00…”
“Be here now at 2:00..” and the line goes silent. Guide books dissuade the overnight bus to Uganda, rutted roads, the midnight stop in Nairobi, banditry, precisely our reasoning to go along.

The station feels cramped, sweaty bodies too close, touching, waiting. Bus stations become flea markets as old shoes, recycled shirts, magazines, and local food (roasted corn cob, samosas, chapatis) make the rounds, “sista, want to buy water?” a boy asks, wriggling through the crowd.
Eventually the red Kampala Coach pulls up, faded signs of luxury past, the AC and foam cushions died out long ago, and the screen that once played movies is now a skipping nineteen hour Michael Jackson tribute, but the leg room is decent.

I watch from my window seat as sacks of potatoes, steel rods, planks of wood are tucked under the bus, money passes from pockets to greedy hands, there are no limits. The added weight tires the axel, smog chokes the tailpipe, we bid farewell to Tanzania.

New roads to Kenya are in progress. Miles of black men line the route swinging machetes, pick axes and shovels, I watch the sweat dripping off their bodies. Labor is cheap but at a cost, many of these men are merely boys. Tanzania’s public education ends early, about eleven years old, only those affording secondary school can continue. The same government that won’t provide them basic education is now hiring them on for cheap labor.

Two hours later razor-wire fences, guards and guns litter the landscape. Leaving the bus, we follow the crowd into a tired, dimly lit room, the young patrolman’s eyes glued to the match, Chelsea vs Manchester. He takes our passports, stamps them with a once over and waves us on. Incredulous, we cross the boarder.
Kenya side, immigration office – even less interested he takes fifteen dollars for a transit visa, eyes on the Manchester game, smiles and wishes a pleasant trip. What, where is the chaos, the danger, the unsavory characters?

I was reprimanded by a Kenyan Maasai woman for snapping pictures of Jay outside our bus, “You canNOT take pictures of us!”
She was bitter we didn’t buy any trinkets, the same 20 trinkets sold by all the street vendors.
“I’m taking pictures of my boyfriend!” but she berated me even as we pulled from the border.

I am asleep and cannot see the lips of steel with ugly upright razor teeth laid across the road, urging vehicles to halt. Six times into the night, lights flash and Michael Jackson music rips through the bus, jarring us from sleep. The police board, guns hanging off shoulders, patting bags in overhead bins, nodding at sleepy riders, but it’s always the same, they find nothing and we carry on.

Police blocks aren’t specific to Kenya, several weeks ago in Tanzania, they found reason to confiscate our driver, bus and luggage. Stranded, we all waited, a calm African wait. At some point you begin to trust the process, knowing if you wait long enough, order will be restored, African style.
Our packs have little metal locks. Common knowledge, razors slice through canvas and belongings go missing; but my reasoning behind the bolts, evidence, evidence of tampering, should we need to prove contraband was planted. Jay says I have an overactive imagination. Hours later, our bus returns, luggage untouched and without word we have a new driver.

Uganda at dawn was beautiful, the border uneventful. Through entangled jungle, hills of forest, lush canopies, a paradise. Jay turns the page, reading from Foden’s The Last King of Scotland, “I finally clambered into one of the old Peugeots. ‘A hotel in Kampala, please. Somewhere clean.’”

And that’s just where we were headed, into Kampala.

Tanzania’s Forgotten Children

Darlene Nastansky — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 19:36:39 +0000

Around the colossal baobab tree mamas in bright kangas sell tomatoes and red onions while the village elders gather seeking shade. A scattering of chinese rusted bicycles perched up on stands lean into one another. School girls in frayed uniform skirts of green and blue run past.

Heads turn as the white land-cruiser explodes through a cloud of dust, I wonder what we look like to the unassuming villagers. Amiri is first to address the crowd. Wise and driven beyond his years, with a passion for his people and a disarming, quick wit, he eases the crowd and summons welcome for the rest of our team.Long and formal greetings are expected in Tanzania, anything short is considered rude and ill mannered. “Shikamo” is reserved for elders, Jambo and Mambo are next, “Habari za nyumbani, za asubuhi, za yako?” translates to “what’s the news of your family, your morning, you?” We are greeted by each elder, returning the formalities.

The crowd swells as word of our arrival circulates, Amiri’s words calm as they question why we want their disfigured children.

With poor tracks to these distant villages, birth arrives in mud thatched huts without running water or electricity. Many newborns with facial disfigurements die, but the living few are hidden away in shame, often malnourished and kept from school. Without electricity, cooking pits smolder, scalding spills are frequent. Smeared honey keeps burns bacteria free, but the kids will retract from pain, joining burns and healthy flesh, leaving horrific skin contractures.

As our list for surgery grows, we hear of more children hidden away by their families. Who can blame them with a history of colonialism and slavery, pervasive witch doctors and tribalism, trust comes hard.

Over a week, we cover hundreds of miles, stopping when rows of huts resembling a village appear. No maps or road signs, only the occasional cement blocks etched and painted with town names like Katesh, Haubi, Gogo and Bereko.
The need is far greater than our means as adults turn up, seeking treatment: a young mother blinded by cataracts whose husband ran away, another with a goiter, a man with a vascular disorder turning his foot to mush. We touch them, listen to their woes, often scribbling a prescription on torn paper before turning back to the kids.

All along the way, Amiri would skid to a stop as past patients would run out, smiling proudly, freed from their deformities. Embracing Paula, offering tears of joy and on this trip, three bound chickens.
The absent rains leave blistered river beds, desolate burnt shrubs, a heaviness of heat slows everything down. Under the merciless sun the dry river cracks, women dig deep into the bed, collecting any evidence of water. I am overwhelmed by their resilience as they carry buckets of water weighted with sediment.

Chris Murphy Photography

Driving slowly as herds of goats and cows cross the dusty road, a man shouts running towards the car, motioning us to stop. He has heard we help children and perhaps his son and daughter can benefit. She of fifteen has a major deformity of her right leg, while her younger brother has a severe cleft palate. Without hesitation, Bashari is placed on the surgery schedule, but Asha’s childhood knee injury is beyond repair. Instead, Paula suggests a vocational training program, there she might become a seamstress.
The next day, their father in tears, he hands his children over with one small bag of belongings. Bashari and his sister pile into the Land rover without a blink, there is no fear or resentment. I have the privilege of driving back the 9 hours with him curled next to me. Unfortunately, he speaks only the local dialect, of which I know none, but over the hours we bond nevertheless. His sister, overwhelmed by her first car ride, fares less well and vomits hourly until we return into the lighted, urban chaos of Arusha.

At the hospital, I find him cross legged, starring peacefully out the window, his sister guarding his bedside; he looks over and smiles, taking the toy bus from my hands. In the operating theater, he goes under, always without fear or tears and I wonder what this little boy has seen in his four years. Hovering, I watch in awe as the transformation begins, from gross deformity to a beautiful nose and full, round lips.

For the first time, when he returns to his village, Bashari can run with the other boys, laughing and playing soccer. No longer hidden away, primary school awaits. Such potential unlocked in this contented soul.

We were invited to join Paula Gremley’s NGO, Mwangaza. Our goal- to collect children with facial deformities and burn contractures from the remotest of villages and arrange surgery at Arusha Lutheran Medical Center (ALMC). There, a group of plastic surgeon volunteers from Colorado would begin intensive reconstructive surgery. Chris Murphy was the professional photographer, we are thankful to post some of his pictures.

Mount Meru

Jay Wright — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 17:16:19 +0000

We climbed ten thousand feet in less than forty eight hours, camping twice along the way. Five minutes before sunrise, Darlene and I gained the summit and Marco joined us as the sun rose over Mount Kilimanjaro in the distance. We were the first to summit that day just ahead of a massive group of Slovenians, who just missed the sunrise but immediately commandeered the tiny peak, ill-tempered.

Upon touchdown in Tanzania three months prior, we really believed we would climb Kilimanjaro, bag Africa’s highest peak, bask in the bragging rights and, coupled with the Serengeti, we’d do Tanzania right. We did do Serengeti, though we kinda went in the backdoor. But we never thought we’d be on the summit of the other mountain, staring across at the snows in Hemingway’s yarns.

Then again, nothing in Tanzania went the way we expected. And it was all for the best.

After three months in Tanzania we’d learned that the more you planned, the less you saw. Preconceived notions will prove you a fool and only by walking slowly with eyes wide open do you start to really see Africa.

Our climb was cheaper, more aesthetic, and less crowded unless you count the giraffe and buffalo. Our traveling companion surprised us with a rare form of HAD, high altitude diarrhea, “guys, I had to use rocks.” Our mandatory armed ranger came down with malaria and had to be evacuated, leaving us to follow the fresh buffalo tracks on our own. These were circumstances out of our control, but our social faux pas came in the process of tipping, an extravagant affair in full documented view of our entire staff, which consisted of a main guide, an assistant guide, six porters, a cook, and our aforementioned armed guard. A ridiculous affair but so full of inexplicable decision making that one can only describe it as consistent.

Thats Africa. Consistently unexpected, except in expecting the unexpected for all sorts of reasons that we’d never come up with on our own but ultimately boil down to flawed simplicity. And in the end, I smile knowing that no other country I’ve ever visited has challenged my place in the world quite like this east African nation.

Life, In a Nutshell from Elephant Cloud on Vimeo.

Grace Palmer Oct. 1, 1920 – Jan. 20, 2010

Jay Wright — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 08:31:00 +0000

My grandmothers house was immaculate and full of treats, but not too many, just always the right amount. The lawn was always mowed and we tore divots playing outdoors on summer afternoons. There were bedrooms for me and my sister and beds made up snug and tight without so much as a wrinkle. She kept us well fed and polite and the carpets were always clean for us to lay and play games on. At my grandmothers house, I felt safe, clean, and at peace.

In the room I stayed was a desk so full of stationary that I thought I won the Hallmark lottery. There were so many different sizes and colors and pens for every occasion and under her watch I drew to my hearts content. I received many letters and cards on that stationary, always assured by her pen that she loved me, heart and soul.

Experiencing peacefulness is a gift from my grandmother and a cornerstone of who I am. In this calamitous world full of uncertainty, one truth I could count on was that my grandmother loved me, heart and soul.

When I would see my grandmother over the last couple years, she always held my hand and recharged our bond. As I travel this world, I find peace imagining I am holding her hand and experiencing it with her. Finding her a postcard or composing little notes or even going somewhere on her behalf. In the Vatican City, standing in Saint Peters Cathedral, it was by thinking of my grandmother that made the experience more valuable. I believed she would appreciate walking those halls and that made me cherish it more. I looked more closely on her behalf and I felt peace.

In the forested hills outside Istanbul stands a modest home where Mary, mother of Jesus, was brought and looked after by one of the disciples of her slain son. Years ago, on a particularly warm autumn afternoon, I found myself with a rare moment alone in the room in which she prayed. In that magical context of history, as one is encouraged to do, I found myself speaking aloud to Mary. Hi Mary, I’m Jay, you probably don’t know me, I live really far away and have been a bit busy lately, but… but what I found myself settling into was a word or two about my grandmother and how it was for her that I made the trip to these hills and this home and that I thought Mary should really hear about her because I love her heart and soul.

I think my grandmother and I have different views on heaven, but I am sure she has found hers and I hope that Mary remembers my visit. As for me, I will continue to travel this world, carrying memories of loved ones with me, carrying her memory with me. I believe the soul is the memory of someone you love. And so I will recall her memory and let it enrich my experiences as it remains with me, her soul, in my heaven.

Serengeti Dreams

Jay Wright — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 13:58:39 +0000

Five minutes into the park we saw a young lioness tearing apart a Buffalo. If you have never seen a grown lioness stretch and flex her massive figure, let me just note they are sculpted power. It left an impression.

Safari guides have a network of communication to inform each other of the animals presence, which is done entirely in swahili so as to surprise their clients. I learned all the swahili names for the animals in advance and it became a source of amusement between our guide and myself, because I knew that chui kwa mtoto was a leopard with baby and were were on our way to find one. I didn’t ruin the surprise for Darlene or our two swedish friends, Anna and Lina and the guide and I shared some laughs.

On the other hand, I also knew that the words simba, tembea, hapa, and sasa, when all used together in a single sentence meant lions were heading our way, toward camp, right now. It was getting dark. Our guide prepared to sleep in his land cruiser and the camp staff in a caged banda, but it was the clients that stayed in the little exposed vinyl tents. I should mention this safari was another “good deal” because we had a friend with a friend in the business.

Before crawling into our tents, a herd of six buffalo came grazing behind the banda. Everyone huddled inside until they were gone. The affable mzee, Daudi, explained that yes, as I had heard, there were three lions tracking these buffalo. He imitated a lions call so we would know it. No more then ten minutes later we heard this sound again, but this time he was pointing, hapo, there. If you hear the baboons, he said, imitating their calls, it means they are alarmed by lion. Then he demonstrated the hyenas cry, explaining that hyena follow lion. We started taking in all the sounds, registering them, and realizing that no sound was the best sound. Miraculously, we actually fall asleep.

Darlene woke at one thirty, do you hear that? No, I was asleep, mercifully. It’s getting closer, she said, and she also moved closer gripping my arm tighter. My attempts to fall back to sleep were denied. Clearly, she wanted to share this experience. All noises lead to lions, I reminded her, but she was way ahead of me on that one. Within ten minutes the baboons were howling and we could hear Anna and Lina’s anxiety in the neighboring tent. We never asked what to do if a lion starts sniffing at our door. The staff only advised no food in the tents, but hamna shida, the animals are accustomed to them and wont bother us.

That night, under the Serengeti sky in a little vinyl tent at the end of the road, we heard with absolute distinction, the rise and fall of hooves, the snorting of breath, and the cracking joints of six grazing african buffalo. We could hear grass from the patches between our tents, being gripped, torn, and eaten as we remained frozen solid in the dead center of our tent. Darlene categorically identified every sound, hyena, baboon, anxious swedes and the complete lack of aide coming from the staff. We remained wide awake until morning.

I was the first to venture out at the crack of dawn, luring our driver from his car, anxious to get the day started. Duadi pointed out the tracks of a lioness and a hyena that had passed thru our camp. Tracks also clearly showed that we had been smack dab in the middle of where the buffalo roam.

Before breakfast we set out in the land cruiser to take in the life of the early dawn. No more than a few hundred yards from our camp, we saw the six buffalo and three stalking lioness. We astutely noted that these three powerful ladies had no kill and must be a bit hungrier than yesterday. If we could have bought them a buffalo to curb their appetite, we would have and before we camped again that night, I dug out our headphones, though in retrospect those nights were full of sounds we will cherish forever.

Wild Kingdom

Darlene Nastansky — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 11:08:01 +0000

My mother told me once if you kill a spider it will rain. Well, it hasn’t stopped raining in weeks and I’m not about to curb my appetite. Just moments ago, a hairy one scurried into the bathroom so I captured it and tossed it in the toilet. It took 10 freaking minutes until it stopped swimming, I took notes the entire time. And earlier today it was the bottom of my shoe. This morning I found two scary ones on my bed, one stuck in the netting, one climbing up the outside. Lord, let it rain!

Chapters from The East African Species of Insects can be found living in our home. As if a crusade to save the bugs has been resurrected in my flat; unfortunately the spiders think of it as an all you can eat buffet.
‘Our house in New Hampshire was winterized, warm air stayed in, bugs stayed out,’ observes Jay as he sweeps a family of little black ants and a few beetles flipped on their backs back under the closed door, closed being relative as a quarter inch gap is the norm.

The bathroom climate house the millipedes, worms and crickets. Hundreds of little black crickets everywhere, for reasons unknown they love the toilet paper rolls. Singing into the night, rubbing hind legs together, the entire population is invited over for choir. God forbid the need arises to get up in the middle of the night for a wee, a crunchy experience underfoot.

My favorite are the Kamikaze beetles, suited in brown armor helmets, they take off wings spread and buzz around the room, over your head and then zzzzzzzzz… CRASH, into the wall. Within seconds he is off again zzzzzzzzzzzz….CRASH! My research shows they can tolerate up to seven head on crashes.

At night, the lovely praying mantis make their debut, devouring their share of unsightly bugs. We welcomed them as guests, until two days later a hundred tiny offspring were stuck to the walls of our kitchen, observing their new environment. Tonight the mosquitoes are hungry, sitting under my netting before bed, three mosquitoes hover overhead, craving my blood and feeling the heat, but the netted barrier is too much and I let them starve.

But not all is arthropoda on the home front, this morning two dozen parakeets landed under our rafters and sang us into the morning…

Happy New Year

Jay Wright — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 08:37:28 +0000

We took a dalla-dalla to Lake Manyara. A dalla-dalla is any form of vehicle, usually a minivan, into which they can cram about twenty people. That’s the legal number, but as they say in Tanzania, there’s always room for one more. And no, it’s not any different than any other minivan, it’s simply CRAMMED with people, they literally sit atop one another and hang out the sliding door, which is not often closed. But it’s cheap and gets one around. Usually. Actually, ours broke down halfway and after waiting at the side of the road for twenty minutes, we finally crawled into a smaller one and resumed our journey.

At the lake, we rented mountain bikes to tour the local village, Mto wa Mbu, which is literally translated as Mosquito river. It’s an unfortunate name as the area is beautiful with tribal culture and mosquito free in the heat of the day. We pedaled jeep road and single track thru banana plantations, sampled banana beer and capped it off with a ride thru the wide open grasslands bordering the lake.

We were surrounded by zebra and curious wildebeest. Gazelles sprinted around us in sport. There are giraffe, but we didn’t see any that day. At one point I stopped riding and watched in awe as four zebra galloped a half circle around me before they made their way off to the lake, which is so full of flamingos, it glows pink. The pool where the river meets the lake is so full of hippos one could not count them all. We kept a respectable distance, but were close enough to watch them emerge and wander the grounds. As a treat to ourselves, we took a bus home, splurging on the extra thousand shilling, or eighty cents. It was a fantastic way to finish up 2009 and we’re giddy with anticipation for 2010.

Maasai Culture

Darlene Nastansky — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 08:55:15 +0000

Volunteering for FAME Medical Clinic since December has its benefits. Aside from getting to know the locals, we have befriended many of the Maasai staff. Evenings, they come by and we laugh trying to communicate, learning a few Maasai words, lots of pointing. Never short of a smile, their company is wondrous, I have become enamored with the Maasai culture.

Just so happens an escari or night watchman, has welcomed us to his family’s boma in a Maasai village about 30 km south east. Halfway to his village, we are surprised as a herd of elephants emerge from the forest and decided to linger before crossing the road. Amazing creatures with ivory tusks chomping grass and plants. A baby saunters closer as its mother’s ears fan out, giving us our first warning. A trunk is raised as Jay captures these large beasts. We are in awe and drive away slowly.

Off the road, a left at the baobab tree, right at the acacia tree, one room school house on the right, steer away from dirt path, up the left bank.….

As the Maasai steps from the car, we are greeted by his family, more and more emerge from their mud huts. He lovingly rubs the heads of all the women and children as they bow in respect. Laughter spreads as the names of his numerous brothers, their wives and children are introduced.

The eldest brother and the first to build his ‘own’ boma a few hundred feet away, walks us around, proudly showing off his father’s land, “The cows and goats live in these outside pens while the baby livestock sleep inside the huts…” Once our eyes adjust to the darkness of the mud hut, a fire pit, stools and sleeping areas emerge. The girls sleep on one side, the men on the other. Sitting next to Jay, he reveals fascinating stories of daily life, they choose to live without vehicles, electricity, or running water, they prefer to keep their pastoral, nomad way of life as warriors and herders of livestock. They spend money saved from selling livestock on food, education and healthcare. He built the only primary school room in his village, it sits in front of the baobab tree where he and a few others learned to read and write many years ago.

So proud to be Maasai, he loves his culture and the shuka, red checkered warrior dress, worn by the men. Animated, he tells us the right of passage for boys of 13 or 14. Becoming a warrior or moran usually lasts a month, they are taken with the elders, fed well and educated about the warrior ways, then when ready, the ceremonial circumcision to manhood begins. Ornate beaded jewelry adorn both women and men of all ages, weighted ear pieces create beautiful large loops in their earlobes. Bodily markings on the face, chest and arms often distinguishing families. Jay and I receive beaded bracelets as welcoming gifts. He and the other brothers love their cell phones, they are not afraid of blending modern parts of Eastern African life, as long as the Maasai culture can keep their age old traditions of grazing, interestingly they disdain agriculture and any form of land ownership. I wonder what North America would look like if the Indians had been allowed to keep their languages and cultures, instead of moving them onto reservations, forcing them to speak English and ending their ceremonial traditions?

The escari Maasai and his young wife share his mother’s hut, they will move into their own when they become pregnant. Another young daughter also lives in the hut to help out. The grandmother keeps her own hut near the goat corral and another young girl stays with her. The older brother takes us to his boma down the way where his third daughter of two months old and wife are resting, at thirty-nine years he is just starting and has a few mud huts built. His wife places the healthy baby in my arms as he tells us about childbirth. Alone with only women the mother delivers in her hut, men are not allowed to see his wife or baby for 2 weeks. Several celebrations are given for the family, the boma and the community with sharing of goats and cattle.

We leave the boma to meet his father at the weekly Maasai market. Hundreds of Maasai gather to sell livestock, slaughter and cook up a prize cut, drink banana beer, buy tire sandals, you name it…

A beautiful culture so alive and preserved, a breathing juxtaposition of cell phones and ancient ceremonies. Of course the reality is complicated with a continual push to address issues such as women’s rights, education for all, not enough roaming land for the tribes and the list goes on. But as more are educated and interested in preserving culture with progress, we can hope a balance is achieved.

The Gift of Knowing Good Health

Jay Wright — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 19:00:13 +0000

I’d taken to riding in the Land Rover with the tanzanian staff. It started on the second day in order to beat the mobile clinic to the village and capture video of it’s arrival, but from that moment on I kept my spot in the car. I preferred the intoxicating laughter as the staff amused themselves in rapid fire kiswahili. I didn’t understand a lick of it, but Amiri translated bits and entertained me in english as well. I spent the mornings strolling the village before work began, occasionally raising my camera or greeting the locals.

I’ve been to some pretty remote spots, but this was exceptional. Roads forged simply by driving the terrain. Tracks led off in multiple directions as we tried to ascertain the paths of least resistance. It was afternoon and I’d been invited to do a home visit for a patient unable to walk the return trip. Turn right at the shrubs here, go thru the break in the fence there, there were six of us, including two men that weren’t among the one hundred selected for treatment that day. Their knowledge was our map and on the return, they wanted to take me to maji moto, a small bubbling natural hot spring in the middle of a vast flat salt plain, surrounded by joshua tree-like mounds of granite in the distance.

The following day, one of the men returned to the clinic and was admitted. I greeted him in the morning and took his portrait. That afternoon I greeted him again, this time welcoming him to the lab, Darlenes signature flowing across his lab slip. I prepared a slide for malaria and test tube for brucella as she prescribed. In the corner of the lab, a makeshift studio forms and I snap portraits and the drama troup drums in the background, surrounded in dance. Educational slideshows, talks and skits entertain, as do brief encounters with their own image on my camera. Well beyond electricity, this landscape is one where firewood is precious and living is hard, but the spirit is strong and I sincerely hope that every one of these wonderful faces can know the feeling of good health.

Malaria, Parasites and Helminths

Darlene Nastansky — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 08:48:35 +0000

Sitting on the ground, I share the shade of an acacia tree with fifteen mamas from the Barabaig tribe. They ask about my hair, skin, freckles, about my tribe and wonder why I am so small, did I not get enough breast milk as a baby? They think all white women are chunky and look alike. Cracking up with laughter, we joke until I have to walk back to the mobile clinic with my translator. For five days we are in the remote bush country of Northern Tanzania, and for those that know me, a childhood dream come true.

From a remote medical clinic in Karatu, I spent three weeks figuring out East African infectious diseases, tropical medicine, parasites- a world far removed from orthopedics. Leaving the comfort of ‘home’, we turn off the asphalt and push another two and a half hours into highland desert territory, accessible only by 4×4. Baobab trees, dried river beds, mud huts, rows of onion and corn fields, the remoteness is beautiful. Children run to catch our red and white medical van, more and more huts line the road, people wave, a wooden cross sits atop a thatched church, we are in the tiny village of Barazani.
We are miles from electricity or running water. Women and children gather at wells, filling buckets and chatting, eventually placing the heavy load atop their heads, even the youngest can balance five gallons without spilling a drop.

Mornings, everyone gathers around to eat chapati, hard-boiled eggs, sweet potatoes, instant coffee or tea. Roosters and bleating goats tramp through while we discuss the days agenda. Our team of Tanzanians and Wazungu (white folk) pull out in three vehicles, and we rock hop even deeper into the bush, roads impassable during the rainy season.

An hour later, the towering old Baobab tree marks our right turn. What appears a row of colorful shrubs in the distance, comes into view- lines of elderly men and grandmothers wrapped in bright Kanga blankets, mamas in elaborate head scarfs with sick children under wing are all awaiting our arrival. Many have walked miles and sometimes days to reach us.

An unfinished structure in this barren land proves perfect for the pharmacy, two clinic rooms, a procedure room and laboratory (complete with a microscope for diagnosing Malaria, pus cells and parasites). Jay plays lab assistant, welcoming patients, numbering slides and passing out urine containers, he promised to stay clear of needles and poo. Between patients, he crouched down behind his G10 camera, capturing the faces of the Barabaig tribe. His gift obvious as children and families gathered around, smiling through their afflictions.

For three days the small room towards the back becomes my exam room. Mary translates complaints as I scribble notes onto charts. Reaching into my plastic bag, pulling out a thermometer or stethoscope, there is little to work with, and so I rely on Mary to translate questions. Not an easy task, these people don’t have watches or calendars, they have a different understanding of time, age and duration. Swahili is the national language, but in the bush where few go to school, tribal languages are spoken requiring Mary to have her own interpreter.

Gwandahini, a young mother of two with a tribal tattoo running across her nose and decorative beads hanging from her neck, ears and waist, worries they all have fevers. She points to her lower back (pathognomonic for brucella) grimacing. They are tired and weak, the youngest tied to her back has a congested cough. The toddler has an extended belly and diarrhea. They all test positive for Malaria, the baby has a respiratory infection (often exacerbated as the mosquito larva work through the lungs), the child has hook worm and dehydration while the mother has brucellosis. They have a mosquito net, but no one uses it. They live with their cows and goats, drinking the milk unboiled. Pasteurizing would kill Brucella, but eating undercooked meat and inhaling the bacteria make it impossible to avoid.

Many men test positive for the big three: Malaria, Brucellosis and Gonorrhea. They arrive so very ill, weak, unable to work. Have they ever been well? I wonder how long they had been suffering, how much of the treatment plan they understand? They will pick up multiple bags of medications and wander over to watch the Dance Troop, young local activists, perform educational skits.

Every evening we return to our small guest house, Califonia[sic], where 7 rooms face the courtyard. A communal setting for heating water, scrubbing clothes and chatter. The well water heats atop a charcoal flame, we pour what is needed into buckets, and carry it to the wood latrine. A bucket bath by hand becomes a cherished ritual after a long day in the bush. Warm beers and stories carry us into the night. Kerosene lanterns stay outside the small rooms, allowing only a whisper of light. Another amazing day in the remote African bush.

Side note- This regions well water has too much natural fluoride, and the results are devastating. Teeth become brown and rot, long bones bow and cause deformities. We referrer several young patients to the Arusha Lutheran Medical Center where orthopedic surgeons attempt to correct deformities. Unfortunately, there is no health system, and most pay out of pocket unless grants or funds are found. Unlike this mobile clinic, which is completely grant funded for 2 years, offering completely free services and medications. Donations can be made to FAME.

The Elephant Cloud » Tanzania

An overnight bus and twenty hours later- Uganda

Tanzania’s Forgotten Children

now, so beautiful

bike art

crazy guest house

playing pool

school girls

boys playing soccer

Amiri

Along our way

love that hat

crowds

darlene\'s friends

Chris at work

mama

kids

kids

dried river bed

another stop

kids

blind woman

blind woman

goiter

village down time

the monster darlin'

assessment

working

close, but not too close

all heads

crowds

darlene\'s cutie

baobab

chinese bikes

mamas at baobab

Amiri address crowd

the trip

Jay seeking solace

Mount Meru

waterfalls

waterfalls

marco staying loose

the forest

the trail

early, early morning

coming off the summit

heading to first camp

do you know these people

titus, our armed gaurd

the forest

guard, guide, and a darlin

titus, looking healthy still

first camp

first camp

kili, named after the beer

meru

flower

trail

trail

second camp

little meru, warmup

little meru warmup

meru with second camp down low

little meru hippity hop

us again

crater and summit

darlin on the summit

coming down

returning to high camp

cone

looking in the crater

cone and summit

cone

darlin

dreamy cloud

trees

fig tree

Grace Palmer Oct. 1, 1920 – Jan. 20, 2010

Serengeti Dreams

tasty treats