Taking Pictures: Seeing themselves for the first time

A Story in Which Children Discover Cameras

            We grabbed our cameras, and the ladies of the group our skirts, and followed Abdi, the ranger, and Ingololo, a young Masai warrior (in training), down the red dirt road in a giant clump. Abdi requested we all stay together, the better to protect us. We trotted alongside Ingololo, and greeted the people who met us on the street.

            When we arrived at the boma, I’ve no idea what I was expecting, but the swarms of flies and children and baby goats were waiting, along with the womenfolk, and some of the boma’s warriors. As Ingololo showed us his village, a group of curious children slowly gathered around us. We snapped pictures, judiciously or not, capturing moments we wanted to store away.

            I’m not entirely sure how it happened, but the kids were swarming around Arthur’s camera, snapping photos as injudiciously as our photos probably seemed to them. They clustered around the screen, exclaiming over the images, and pointing excitedly at their siblings faces, on and off camera. It dawned on me this might be their first time seeing their own faces clearly.

I can’t help but think of my sister and I running around with those instant cameras and disposable cameras, trying to take pictures, and not trying at all. In our excitement, everything, including the carpeting and curtains, was worthy of recording. I still have some of the old pictures, and I’m sure I’ve tossed dozens more. We would pose, and have each other hold still long enough to click the button. Then we would anxiously flap the photo while it developed, watching the image magically appear to replace the grey or black rectangle.

Realizing one camera is never enough for that many children, I offered my camera, and watched, smiling, as they recorded their faces and homes. Cautiousness and shyness vanished when the cameras were in the hands of their siblings, and bright smiles replaced serious expressions. Eventually, I reclaimed my camera, and we headed back to camp, but not before lots of children were laughing and had seen their own smiling faces.

I can’t imagine the impact the cameras had on their lives, but I am sure they will remember our strange devices that let them see themselves.

Sorry, there's a drought....

Not of stories of course! There's a mental drought, as all the rain and lovely water has been used in getting Kethry settled and employed, and then there's no more Kethry to write stories. I am deeply sorry for the affect it has had on your reading material, but the drought should be clearing up pretty soon, now that Kethry is employed.

Sincerely,





Girard
Professional Giraffe
Kethry's Brain Secretary
1-800-GIRAFFE
girard@giraffe.com

Taking a Break: a Moment in Time

A Story in Which I Enjoy a Break

            I got sick, rather violently, on the rock after lunch. I knew I was going to, so I stayed back after the others headed off. I was so sick from altitude, I was given an alternate, lower altitude route. Three guides, James Bond, Julius, and Hassan, accompanied my descent. Any time I sped up, feeling better, they would reign me in, “pole pole” they’d say, and I’d reply, “hapana haraka, hakuna matata” (no hurry, no worries). We took long breaks, and I finished off my water two thirds of the way to camp. I was lucky they were willing to share.

            Eventually we wandered around a bend and could see Barranco Camp, a sandy, rock laden terrace with lots of open space, and plenty of cliffs to fling a Frisbee off or into. After running out of water, the river that ran by the dry camp was a precious gift, and I felt like I had found Atlantis. This was the second day in a row I had run out of water during my pokey puppy streak. I happily refueled and checked who my roomie was for the night. Poor Andrew was also sick. Feeling about seventy percent, as compared to forty percent during the hike, I took a seat on the sun beat rocks. They were still cool, despite the glare of the sun on the black slabs. The sky glowed, and I had to squint to see anything at all.

            Someone asked for the Frisbee, and I fetched it from my bag. We had each volunteered to carry certain items up the mountain, and this was my contribution. I tossed it to Joe, who passed it to Hannah, and slowly our game gathered more participants. At first it was only members of our traveling group, but as people tired and new people hopped in, it diversified. A couple of fellow climbers, marines on the fast track up the mountain, joined us. A guide, Sam. A couple porters. I sat back on the rocks, enjoying the view. It was the first time we had played a game that wasn’t along the lines of 20 questions. It was the first time we had played a game that included members who weren’t in our party. It was also the first time our afternoon break had involved anything more active than walking.

Above the circle of Frisbee flingers, Kili seemed to float on a pillow of clouds, as if she too were taking a break. Even the wind lessened at Barranco Camp while we took an active break at the bottom of a wall. Guides, porters, and travelers lounged on the cool black stones, while Konguru hopped among them. The Frisbee sliced the air of the insular little camp, full of wide spaces, sheer drops, and sheer walls encasing this moment in time.

Grass and Feet

A Story in Which I Play the Fool, and There Are Consequences

 

            I winced as I walked, trying to Not Think about the searing, pricking, itching pain in my feet. I wasn’t very successful. The grass around us was gorgeous, golden grains rustling in the wind, much like that scene in Nausica, Valley of the Wind. Birds and bugs flitted around in it, judging by the cud, cows stamped through it too. I watched in awe as Rambol, our Datoga guide, led us through the grass gracefully and unflinchingly. He ignored the pricks of the grasses against his bare legs, and as they stuck in his cloth. He even seemed to ignore most of the acacia thorns, ranging from a half centimeter to two and a half inches.

            I was the only other one without long leg coverings at this point; everyone else had zipped on their long pants, or pulled on their gaiters. I didn’t have any left. The only pair of long pants I had brought on this part of the trip was already full of prickers. I was not subjecting my legs to that, regardless of how nice it would be to have another layer between me and the sticky, pricky grass. I really couldn’t wait until I was out of it and could paint its beauty without having to deal with its sharp reality.

            We walked through the grass for hours. Anywhere between three and six hours is my guesstimate. At this point we had given up asking exactly how long until we were out of the atrocious grass and bushes. Don never had an accurate answer; it seemed he’d always moved through this section with much more ease than we were. Then again, he admitted he usually came after the cows had come through, decimating most of the grass.

            At some point the pricking and itching became background pain, and I stopped feeling it so much. When I realized this, I felt like Pocahontas, like I could run fast and furious through the sharp weeds without a care in the world. And I did, gathering seeds in my shoes and socks, and marks up and down my legs from where the thorns stabbed me as I ran.

            Then I stopped running, because I had caught up with the group. Eventually we sat down for lunch, swapping food like in Elementary school. I immediately regretted my Pocahontas impersonation as I tugged thick patches of seeds from my socks and shoes after finishing lunch. But there was more fields to walk through, and by the end of the day, I was a weepy mess. I had slept with my shoes and socks on the night before, trying to avoid the pain of taking them off, and wasting my expensive socks. A really stupid decision, but at the time, I didn’t think it would cause more pain later.

            The shoes and socks were gently peeled off, and I fully admit there were tears involved. I aired out my battered ankles, still full of seed threads. That night I soaked my feet in a bucket of warm water, while Mohammed was heating already heating water for showers. It stung and then felt incredible, but I have no idea how much it helped. I went to bed with seed threads in my feet, irritating my red, slightly puffy skin every time they rubbed the smooth sleeping bad fabric. It took the rest of the trip for the threads to fully work themselves out, and my feet weren’t fully healed until a week after I returned to the states.

            Next time I’ll bring gaiters… and those weird zippy pants.

 
Update: I still haven't figured out how to get the grass out of my shoes (or the socks, those were tossed after much huffing).

Home, in Tanzania

A Story in Which I Get Homesick and Hang Laundry

While traveling, we talked a lot about home. About our favorite movies, books, foods, drinks, places to eat, our siblings, our parents, cars, TV shows, and a plethora of other things. We talked about everything but what we missed most about home. It was a way of handling the homesickness without admitting it or overindulging in it.

            I didn’t really have a place set up as home when I left. I was in transition from dorm life to an apartment with roomies (which fell through), and wasn’t sure where I was going to be when I got back to the States. Being in Tanzania, moving from place to place, and putting up temporary homes was really soothing for me. It became as much of a routine as anything here.

            That’s not to say I wasn’t ever homesick. I missed my brothers and my sisters, my parents, and all my adopted family while I was climbing around and exploring. I would fantasize about bringing my siblings on a grand adventure to Tanzania, to really share with them this intense experience. I spent hours during the hikes thinking about what they might do out here. Every once in a while, I would run into something that reminded me strongly of the homes I’ve had, instead of the people I think of as home. It would hit me while I was doing a stunningly normal task, in the middle of this grandiose adventure.

            I hung my socks on the tree, trying to find the best places where the expensive liners and heavy wool socks wouldn’t go tumbling away or get too dirty. What I wouldn't give for some good clothespins right now. I then carefully hung my underwear between my t-shirts and sweaters, and found places for my water-heavy clothes to dry on the crowded line. Everyone was using it, because our clothes still hadn’t dried from the unfortunate washing experience at Lush Gardens. Last night, when we returned from Mount Kilimanjaro, we had requested our filthy clothes be washed, and had delivered giant bags to the reception desk. Reception didn’t tell us how much it would cost, or how long it would take, and most of our clothes were heat sensitive, so we had to carefully talk them out of ironing them in the morning. That night when I went wandering, I found the tile, ceiling-less room in which they hosed down, scrubbed, and hung up our clothes in the night air. I was shocked, for whatever reason, not expecting them to wash our clothes by hand.

            The next morning, we were handed bags of neatly folded wet, clean-as-new laundry, and huge bills. Joe talked the price down, and we gathered our belongings, grumpy and tired. We were thoroughly upset about the clothing that was not safe to put away, lest it mold or mildew while we traipsed across the bush. While in the bus to Karatu, I hung up some of my clothes, being careful to not hang it over anybody else’s head, or disturb anyone’s vision, as it was a bumpy, dusty road. The clothes would occasionally tumble-slap into my face, and I would fuss them back into a more secure arrangement.

            Eventually, we arrived at our first camp in Ngorongoro Conservation Area, a cultural, environmental, and economic conservation area, the only of its kind. We promptly set up camp in the waning light, and Joe strung up a line. As I carefully hung my clothes before dinner, I was struck by how normal and extraordinary this moment was, I was hanging my clothes in the African plains. I was hanging my clothes, just as I would with my mother, like that time in Watertown, Massachusetts.

            We weren’t on good terms at all, I was basically a know-it-all brat who thought she knew better than her Momma. Mom had just pulled a load of clothes from the washer, and instead of putting them in the dryer, she hauled them up the steep, creaky New England stairs that I tumbled down more than I care to admit. She had strung up a line on our balcony, crossing and recrossing the tiny structure. I was curious why my mom was interrupting my Nice-Day-Outside-On –The-Balcony moment, and watched her hang things up. I think I may have even gotten up and helped her. The breeze was a constant, cool presence on the hot day, and the sky was brilliant blue. We laughed, and I complained about how line-drying made the clothes stiff, and we argued, and then went back to hanging laundry and enjoying the day.

            I was in Tanzania, on an adventure, hanging my clothes. I breathed in the night air, bringing myself back to the present, and scampered back to eat dinner with my companions. We ate off a conglomeration of folding camp tables, dressed up with a red cloth and delicious food made by Mohammed, our chef.

Getting Settled

Hello! Sorry I missed the last two days (and, technically today), I was on a train across the country to my new home. Tomorrow morning I will continue my story blogging with a story about Home while on Kili.

Love,
Kethry

Zebras

A Story in Which Zebras Really aren't that Exciting

      

       As a professed lover of zebras, you’d think I’d have been in veritable heaven what with all the zebras running around. Now that about 15% of my photos are of zebras and their striped patooties, I’m kind of “eh”. There were literally everywhere.

      At the beginning of the trip, the group would get incredibly excited at every animal sighting, and were very confused by our guides rushing us along when clearly there were super cool animals RIGHT THERE. About an hour into our Ngorongoro Crater visit, we finally understood. Say you have a box of Lucky Charms. You LOVE Lucky Charms, especially the shooting star marshmallows. Now imagine half the box is made up of shooting star marshmallows. After the first bowl or so, they really aren’t that appetizing.

      The zebras are the shooting star marshmallows in that Lucky Charms box. And the whole grain cereal pieces are the hyenas.

     It took about two “bowls” of zebras for us realize a couple things: a) they are way more common than us zoo-raised folks were led to believe, b) they are basically fancy donkeys with weak backbones. Nice to look at, but no use to folks other than as decoration and lawn mowing. That being said, I still adore their stripey little booties, so have another picture!