“Hey cow” and other tricks for surviving your safari

After five days in Arusha I wasn’t so much looking forward to going on safari, as I was to just leaving town, by means of safari truck or otherwise. The town, frequented by tourists on the way to the nearby Serengeti and Mt Kilimanjaro has evolved into a gauntlet of sly and untrustworthy safari salesmen, people continually asking for money, or trying to sell goods. Polite refusal sparked unprecedented anger, and rage at my expected wealth.

For five nights I barely slept. My hotel room was perched above a noisy matatu (minibus) station, and a hallway light shone into my room, enough light to watch the clock tick over till sunrise. During the day I felt crazed, threatened and suspicious of everyone. There were moments where I simply wanted to go home.

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Eventually, I found a safari group who were happy to have me along too. Siobhan, from California, and Ashley and Andy from England, had been working together on aid projects in Uganda.

Day one we set off for the first national park, Taragire, famous for its elephants, and baobab trees. I was surprised how quickly we spotted animals, considering how infrequent they are seen outside the parks, yet within minutes we were greeted by zebras, just inside the park gates.

Its seems a large part of the safari experience is the photos you take with you. Four heads attached to cameras poked out the top of our van, at the ready. We couldn’t help but comment as much on the beauty of the animals in their natural environment, as their poses and photogenic attributes.

Further down the road, three wilderbeast moped around the front of a beautiful baobab tree, framing them perfectly. We all gasped and took photos, but with their heads down, eating, we were missing the beautiful silhouettes of their horned heads. I quickly explained my solution. “On car trips we play ‘hey cow’. Rules are simple: wind down the window and scream ‘HEY COW!’ as loud as you can - One point for every cow that looks, two for a sheep.”

Andy caught on immediately. “HEY SQUIRREL!” he yelled. All three wilderbeast lifted their heads in perfect timing.
“Nice, Nice, 6 points!” I judged. Cameras went wild.

Second to capturing the perfect Kodak moment, was being the first to spot an animal. Ash took her lead here seriously. Of course, she couldn’t be right all the time. “Over there, Over there” she yelled. “Oh no, wait…that’s a tree.”
“You lose points in the squirrel game for that Ashley” ruled Andy.

The deeper into the park we saw herds of wilderbeast, right next to the car, beautiful birds, giraffes appeared, first their heads over the tops of trees, and as we drove closer, careful not to disturb, their young at their feet.

Around at the watering hole, all my Lion King dreams came true. A couple of little warthogs hanging out with none other than their meerkat mates. Disney didn’t make it up, the musical was right in front of me. Couldn’t wait to tell my little cousins.

And finally the prize of Taragire, Elephants. How many, we couldn’t tell, most of them hidden in the tress, but at least two large and a baby stripping leaves of the branches in the front. We squealed and held up 5 or 6 safari vans behind us.

Driving around in safari vans it was hard to remember your not in an open air zoo, animals conveniently appearing beside you on the road. But perched on a hilltop, overlooking a river winding through the landscape, and observing a far off field of buffalo, we were reminded of how amazing the landscape itself was, and surprising. In the valley below, an enormous old bull elephant strolled down the river, swaying from side to side, at a commanding statue and pace, its power captivating and terrifying, despite its physical distance.

We had asked our driver Frank about predators, and yes, there were a couple of lions, in the park, but only a few, and due to the long grass and hilly landscape, we were unlikely to see them today. You could judge where the exciting animals were by the number of safari vans parked beside them, and there were a lot near the clearing ahead. We watched and waited. Soon, a tail flicked above the grass. Perhaps a baboon. But then two unmistakable ears flicked just above the grass line.

A lot of the vehicles cleared off, the parked closed at 6pm, and we had to be outside the gates by then. But Frank gave us an extra few minutes and we were rewarded with a playful young lion couple frolicking towards our van. We waited for the photo, but they were too quick. With four minutes to go, we had to leave, and Frank sped though the gates.

We stayed that night at a campsite outside the park, treated to our cook, Damian’s, wonderful meal, as we relayed to him excitedly the highlight of our day.

Day two was essentially a long drive through the Ngorongoro Conservation Area to our campsite in the Serengeti National Park. The conservation area was named so as it is not a not a national park, but specifically an area aimed at the conservation of both flora and fauna, as well as the culture of the native Masai people.

As we drove through the hills were still covered with mist. But as the plains appeared, from a distance you could see the tall figure of a lone Masai warriors striding at a ferocious pace across the plain, unmistakable in his red cloak.

Throughout Eastern Africa, the Masai are the most celebrated tribe. For tourists, its there tall slender figure, their colourful clothing, and excessive jewelry, which makes them the ultimate national geographic photo opportunity.

Within African culture, there popularity is much more foreboding. The Masai tribe were warriors, and for centuries caused havoc from Tanzania, to the coast of Kenya, brutally attacking tribe after tribe, looking to claim the cattle they believed God bestowed upon them. But these days the areas they claimed and fought for are the National parks of Ngorongoro and Masai Mara in Kenya, from which they receive 19% of the park fees.

At lunch we stopped at a small picnic site. A small group of massai, one young man, no older than myself, and his many young wives, some of which were very young, cautiously wandered over to talk to our guides. As they spoke in a local language, afterwards we questioned frank eagerly. Not all the women were married yet, Frank explained, only the ones with extended earlobes. It was possible that the other women had been promised to him, once they reached maturity, as it is the case that when a female is born into the family, a husband is immediately arranged. When the woman is old enough, the man will pay for his wife with cows. The Tanzanian Government had introduced laws which stated that every child must attend school until the age of 14 in the hope that it would curb the number of young marriages.

In the truck we discussed amongst ourselves how hard it is to accept the idea of preserving this amazing culture vs our western values and preconceptions. From our point of view, the idea of marriage and children so young seems quite distressing, yet we have very little understanding of their culture, and they could probably criticize points of ours quiet readily also.

Previously, both female and male circumcision had been a large part of the massai culture, the ceremony which signifies the end of childhood and the beginning of adulthood at the age of 11 – 14. As it is now called, Female genital mutilation has become an issue on the world front, stories of horrific mistakes in un-sterilized and un-anesthetized conditions resulting in many women becoming infected or dying. The process appears to me as frightening, dangerous, and chauvinistic in the most unforgivable sense, and has been outlawed in Kenya and Tanzania, yet as an outsider I was unsure were to draw the line in criticizing their culture.

We camped inside the Serengeti that night, and after dinner Frank came to speak to us. Camping inside the park there were a few extra precautions to be taken. If we had to get up to go to the bathroom in the night, (given the facilities the bathroom was a fairly frightening experience in daylight hours anyhow), we had to flash a touch outside the tent first, and check for hyenas.

“Do lions come into the camp?” we asked Frank. Rarely, he said. Hyenas scavenge for food, so all food must be locked in the kitchen, but the occasional lion does visit. Last year, during the wet season, some of the lions came and slept against a persons tent in search of warmth. The guy woke to a lion pressed against his back, breathing heavily.
“If we do get up” asked Ashley, “and come across a lion while were walking back, what shall we do?”
“Oh” said Frank, gravely. “Very dangerous.” That was the most information we got from him. Apparently no one had lived to provide any tips about on situation.

When you go to a museum when your younger, the best, biggest, and most exciting of all the bugs are from Africa. A little pin through the centre, sitting in a glass cabinet, looking amazing. I hadn’t thought about the bugs actually being in Africa, yet by the light of our paraffin lamp, they were landing all over the table and us. Caterpillar /Dragonfly /the mosquito that changed the world in Jurassic park like animals crawling up our legs. We tried to match some insects that looked like praying mantises against each other, but they weren’t as interested as we were.

That night I slept terribly. I woke continually, wanting to puke, which may have done me more good than lying in the tent. Except a story from my childhood haunted my visions. One of our family friends famously puked in the backyard at a party. Between bouts of sickness she had to fight the pet dog away, who was bent on eating her vomit. I imagined myself, crouched outside the tent, doing the same, except fighting away a hyena with teeth that can bite through steel, trying to get a bit of the action. I decided to work on swallowing it.

Our last night on safari was spent on the rim of the Ngorongoro crater, a collapsed volcano. Year round the area is blessed with green grass and water, which means that unlike the Serengeti, the animals of this area do not migrate. The campsite is notoriously cold, as every night a dense fog settles in the area. Ash, Andy and myself armed ourselves with a large bottle of Konyagi, the local Tanzanian gin, for freezing emergencies. We had always invited Frank and Damian to sit with us at dinner, and they occasionally, but reluctantly joined us, but preferred to hang out with the other Swahili speaking guides from other safari groups. But once we bought out the gin at dinner, they weren’t so shy.

That night I was awoken by Siobhan’s terrified screams from the other tent, followed by Ashley’s laughter. “What was that!?!” I asked Andy. Prone to night terrors and semi conscious conversation Andy calmly answered “Siobhan got attacked by a monkey”. I was tired and decided to believe him and went back to sleep.

The girls woke at 6:30 and a good dose of uncontrollable laughter followed. When they finally got it together they managed to tell us of the nights events. Siobhan had woken to a nuzzle against her ear, and believing it was her dog, at home. As she snuggled into it further, she began to remember she was in Africa, and it really couldn’t be her dogs back in San Francisco. But it stopped, and she needed to use the bathroom. As she unzipped the tent , a hyena enthusiastically stuck its head through the gap. The commotion that I had woken to was Siobhan falling back into the tent, kicking the creature in the head and screaming, while Ashley awoke to the sight, and broke into a laughing fit! Full points to Siobhan though, a mere half an hour later, nature still called. It take a brave woman to, as she described, crouch down, butt cheeks glowing in the moonlight, peeing for what seemed forever, and watching the other hyenas and wild pigs strolling in between the other tents!

To Zanzibar, to see the Zanibarbarians!

Nina, Lee and I looked over Dar from the top deck of the ferry. Our view was interrupted by an Indian woman pushing her teenage son into our well staked position.
“There, stand there” she told him, and with a smile turned to us “He’s curing his fear of water” she said.

It had been a strange 24 hours. Sarah had floated away to her usual life, but would try to see us in Zanzibar. Desperate for precious internet time, we had been egger to spent our evening in the café under our hotel. But, it was nothing except bad news. Lee had six emails from her Croatian boyfriend, due in Dar the following evening, explaining how he had failed to receive his Tanzanian visa from the Italian embassy, who had taken four days off to party after their world cup victory.
“I cant believe my holiday has been ruined over a penalty shoot out” cried Lee. Lee rang her Mum. Nina and i tried to look supportive. I didn’t feel like writing emails, so I read the food section of The Age newspaper online instead.

Lee’s family was concerned about what the reaction in a Muslim town like Dar would be to rescent events. It didn’t matter, the next day we left for Zanzibar. Early in the morning the taxi drove us through the quiet streets, void of any cars, pedestrians, or sights of life, bar the large squads of riot police that had gathered in some areas. While we collected ferry tickets, Lee read the paper. Obviously the local media weren’t happy with the bombs directed at Lebanon, but they were less happy with the American head of the World Bank who would be visiting the city today. “Get me outa here” sang Lee as we climbed aboard the boat.

The ferry made me queasy, and I soon left the girls to sit at the back and watch the waves of water gushing out the back, wishing the trip was over. I wasn’t alone. The boy from the deck sat quietly to my right, wearing a similar shade of green.

Once on land we dumped our stuff at the hotel and quickly left to explore the famously confusing and enchanting streets of Zanzibar, lined with photogenic rotting buildings, ornate window shutters and doors, and beautiful Arabic children running though the streets.

For centuries, Zanzibar has been a center of trade, the capital of the Arab Empire in East Africa, famous for spices and slaves. The alleyways were shrouded in all nature of exotic paraphernalia, but by the time we arrive on the Island, there were a far more spices than slaves available. Easier to fit into the suitcases of all the visiting tourist, for there was no lack of those, and unlike other parts of Africa, Zanzibar had it made for them. There was bureau de change on every corner, thousands of souvenirs, and to the squealing delight of Lee and myself, a café serving REAL COFFEE, cappuccino coffee, and sandwiches with CHEESE – for about the same price we would pay for them at home….

We spent the afternoon devouring the shops. Alongside a thousand wood carvings, were the perfectly soft cotton scarves, African inspired clothing, jewelry and homewares, and antique stores filled with treasures from floor to ceiling. The girls would head home in a few weeks, and went wild with the shopping oppurtunities, while I sang along and tried to remind myself of the months I would spend carrying anything I bought. It didn’t help, and i would live to cursed my heavy load.

Later on we met up with Albert, and Cotton, also from the States, who had met Albert along the way. That evening we headed to the festival.

I had heard about the Zanzibar International Film Festival through some means whilst still in Australia, and had planned to make it there during my trip. Unfortunately this meant screaming through Malawi and missing out on some of the other lake side beaches I had hoped to visit, but once there, it was worth every sigh I had made on leaving Nykata bay. Set in the open air amphitheatre of an old fort, built by the Portuguese in the 17th century, every evening, a collection of short films at an amazing standard, fiction and documentary style, in most cases made by African film makers, about Africa, were shown.

Over the nights we were there, two films in particular stood out as my favorites. “Sisters in Law”, told the story of two female magistrates were working to change the laws and attitudes towards women in their country of Cameroon. “Streetcar from Zanzibar” told the story of two sixteen year old girls, both from Zanzibar, living very different lives. One girl had lived in Canada for two years with her parents, the other dreamed of the country, as her sister prepared to marry a Canadian man and emigrate. The differing options told a lot about the culture of the people of Zanzibar, the sister, a soon to be bride, promises that she will still wear the traditional kanga’s (African wraps) of her glory box, whilst the young, disappointed girl in Canada explains to the camera that there are no festivals or dancing in Canada, people go to see a movie for fun.

In addition to cheese, Zanzibar was unsurprisingly privy to many a culinary delight. On the top of our list, were the fish markets. After a few beverages at the movies, we stepped out of the fort in search of food and were greeted with tables of fresh seafood; octopus, prawns, calamari steaks, flake, a variety of fish coated in spices, alongside tradition foods such as chapatti, potato dumplings and grilled bananas. After filling your plate with a cross sections of what was available, always far to much food than would normally be considered healthy, the guys at the end grilled everything to perfection, and charged you whatever they felt like, in our case, about $2 a plate. We wouldn’t be able to tell you what else was available in town for dinner. We ate there every night.

After a couple of days in Stone Town, our group headed to the other main attraction of the island, the beaches. We laughed at all the space in the back of our minibus. After Lee’s resent transport experiences she was focusing on being alive for her nearing homecoming, and had vowed to avoid matatus at all cost. It had cost us $3 (over ten times the going local bus rate) to upgrade to a “tourist bus”, a private vehicle that had an equal number of passengers and seats, and a space for our luggage that wasn’t our laps. Cotton, Albert and I expected our dream ride to collapse once we got on the road, imagining all the extra passengers that would soon be squeezed on, but surprisingly this never eventuated.

Lee scored the frount seat next to a local woman, with the quick line “I get less car sick up here”. She was buzzing as she stepped off the bus forty minutes later at the beach. The women next to her had told her the legend of a loose man who had slept with too many women. He was seduced by a demon that haunts the baobob trees at night. The local woman warned that you should kept away from these trees at nightime or risk being seduced by the devil woman herself. “Sweet” says Cotton. “So which ones were the baobob trees again?”

We checked into our resort, a collection of little cottages along the amazing turquoise beach. Surprisingly the views were unspoilt by the rain, which plagued most of our morning. We read books in the beachside bar; Albert and Lee got cheap massages from the local women who passed through the resorts, Cotton ran a yoga class for Lee. We ate a traditional lunch of beans and rice at a local restaurant, a grass hut, along the road.

As the weather cleared up I went for a walk along the beach. The rest of the crew kept themselves entertained in the grass lounges spread across the sand. The place was amazing, I snapped away, capturing the alluring colour of the water, framed with the dramatic, interesting cliff rocks. But I wondered if my pictures were truthfully representing the paradise that is Zanzibar. The water was honestly that blue, the cliffs that magical, but none of the beaches I walked were as secluded as portrayed, as I continually cut out whatever fat white tourist was standing in the frame. But I knew they were doing the same. I was just one of many fat white tourists that had wondered onto their carefully staked out beach that afternoon.

A few days lying on the beach gave me a chance to improve my tan, read a soppy romance novel, and catch up on my diary. I bid farewell to my new friends and heading back to Dar with Nina, with no plans for the remainder of my trip. The ZIFF festival had been my only time constraint and solid plan for my whole trip. From here on in, i had no idea where to next.