Mount Meru

The town of Arusha, where Samantha, Sofia and I live, lies in the shadow of Mount Meru. It is sort of considered to be Kilimanjaro’s forgotten sibling, although two the mountains are remarkably different. They are both volcanoes, but Meru is a much more craggy and serrated along its edges, steep and forbidding as opposed to Kilimanjaro’s gentle and infinitely long slopes. The summit of Mount Meru, known as Socialist peak, is about 1300 metres lower than the summit of Kilimanjaro. The students at school climb both mountains, and Meru is universally considered to be more intimidating for the kids, as it presents a formidable physical challenge, whereas Kili’s real challenge is the altitude. The side of Meru was blown off by a massive eruption some time ago (we are talking geological time, so I have no idea if it was “long ago” or “recently”).

We are in the short rains right now, but so far little rain has made it down to us. Every afternoon a massive storm roils and crackles over the top third of Meru, and we all run for cover before it comes rolling down over town. It never does, and when the storm finally clears up, there are streaks of snow around the summit of the mountain. An hour later the snow is gone. All this to explain that yesterday I was driving through town, contemplating another false alarm of rain, and I saw the peak of snow streaked Meru. It made me think about how impressive it is to live under this mountain. We drive around, we work, we walk through the shambas, everything we do takes place below Mount Meru, yet I only ever really look at it carefully once in a while. Therefore I dedicate this post to the mountain.

 

Sofia’s thoughts for today…

No, really, we saw them…

We took Sofia to the bush for the first time this week-end. She is 13 weeks old, for crying out loud! She was great, sleeping as the car bumped and crashed around Tarangire National Park. Her mosquito net kept her safe from any flying varmints. The thing with game drives is that you hear other tourists telling one another these amazing stories, which I am sure are true…”No, really, the cheetah cubs crossed the road right in front of us. We followed them to their mother, who suddenly took off after a baby impala and killed her right there, in front of us.”That never happens to us. And therefore I doubt the veracity of these accounts. They are never, ever followed by ” Yeah, look at this video.” or “Check out the photos we took of the whole thing.”Well, today we saw two beautiful bat-eared foxes. And here is the proof. Sofia was asleep. but on her first day on kindergarten I want her to tell everyone that she saw two bat eared foxes when she was 13 weeks old.

We Have Traffic Lights!

Although the Arusha Times has taken to calling them “traffic control lights”, they are your common variety traffic lights. Arusha’s population is growing rapidly, but not nearly as rapidly as the number of cars that crawl and clatter around town. The roads are not enough, and the traffic situation is getting worse all the time. Then, along came the raffic control lights. Apparently someone has paid a HUGE amount, to whom I do not know, in order to have the privilege of putting street lights and traffic lights in some areas of town. This unknown (to me) party has paid in order to install the lights because they will then own the advertising rights for every street light and traffic light for ever and ever (again, a guess). The lights all have an advertising board on them, ergo there is money to be made.

The one intersection in town where the lights are up and running is a a spectacle to behold. At first hundreds of people, nowadays only tens, gather to watch the lights working (as in the bulbs going on and off properly) and to revel in the chaos that ensues. The city decreed that only three of the four roads leading into the intersection deserved a traffic light. The fourth is a busy dust track that winds and bumps down Mount Meru from a town called Sanawari, running parallel to our own dusty track that runs down from Ilboru. Because it is not paved, the municipality decided that it does not get a light. They actually explained that one important issue was that they could not paint the necessary lanes onto a dust road. So the dozens of Dala Dalas (minibuses), taxis and carts that come down from Sanawari are left to carve their own path into the busy computerized intersection. The result? Bedlam. Pure, African bedlam, the best kind.

I urge you to read the article in the Arusha Times about the new traffic control lights. Of course you want to read about it all from an accredited news agency rather than believing everything that I write, but the Arusha Times delivers writing that is unique and from another time. A couple of quotes:

“They are playing with people’s lives. Had it not been for Traffic policemen who have been intervening, all day long, this junction would have been a pool of human blood,” said a woman who identified herself by the name of Mama Elisha.

A pedestrian, Melita Mollel said: “I’m surprised by the technology that threatens lives. It instructs you to cross the road but as soon as you start moving you’re surrounded by cars, all scrambling to knock you down.”

Keep reading the New York Times, the Corriere, the Repubblica. You won’t find stuff like this anywhere.

Mama Sofia

Seven weeks into Sofia’s life her mother and I are more convinced than ever that she is perfect. What has become the most apparent to me is that Sofia’s mother, Samantha, my wife, is a beautiful , caring and natural mother. The same goes for her abilities as a wife. Kweli. That’s the truth. This post settles into the unavoidable new category of “shrine to my family”…

Baba Sofia

My wife Samantha and I are back from Italy, where we spent the summer. We came back with Sofia, our new and wonderful daughter. In Tanzania, when your firstborn arrives, you take on his or her name, preceded by Baba or Mama. It is an extra layer of joyadded to the great experience of fatherhood, being hailed as Baba Sofia every day. The Tanzanians now greet me with a loooong list of “Habari ya Sofia”, “Habari ya Mama Sofia” etc. every morning. Greetings used to take a long time, now they seem endless.

That is all that fatigue will allow me right now. I have to get to bed and rest up for tomorrow’s good mornings. But I am back and writing. A little sleepier, and certainly distracted. Welcome back to you too.

Baba Sofia

Weaverbird from the Land Rover.

OP (Outdoor Pursuits) trip to the base of Mawenzi (Kilimanjaro’s second peak)

The Nairobi Fly Update

Well, upon reading back on last night’s post about my encounter with the Nairobi Fly, I think I ought to return and give the insect the respect it deserves. The skin irritation has developed into a really nasty burn, as if someone has poured acid onto my arm, which is exactly what the beetle did. So I am now using the cure most commonly cited, which is to slather toothpaste all over the wound. The toothpaste has to be of the old-school variety, the chalky stuff that dries up. The latest aqua green Crest with fluorescent spinning martians suspended in it won’t work. Hooray for Tanzanian toothpaste marketing gimmicks being 20 years out of date! Toothpaste is a strong base, and so neutralizes the acid. The dry chalkiness draws the acid out of your skin. It smells nice too. Anyway, I won’t be quite as glib about the Nairobi Fly in the future. It still hurts like hell.

The Nairobi Fly

Last week-end Samantha and I went camping out over Monduli, about one and a half hours drive from home. It is a real feat here (around Arusha) to go out into the bush and camp without being found by some wandering Maasai. And one Maasai inevitably means many, many more. And amongst them all will be the local village “mkuu”, or boss. And the mkuu will charge you a camping fee, which is usually a small sum (although they start incredibly high, and you negotiate down). Then the mkuu calls the anti-poaching ranger, who will bring you a couple of local Maasai watchmen that you are “strongly advised” to hire for the night, as there are plenty of hyenas and leopards around. Anyway, the flow of humanity rarely stems for the duration of your camp out. This time, though, we drove off the road and down deep into a valley. I think that we were down wind from the Maasai boma, as we could hear their cattle bells, but miraculously no-one came looking for us. We spent a night out in the bush with some friends completely undisturbed.

Undisturbed, that is, except by a Nairobi Fly. This little bastard is not a fly at all, but a small beetle. It is one of those animals, like the honey bee, that has a form of defense that entails it losing its own life. Hmmmmm…. it’s like a warning to not mess with its kind, but not a defense that offers the individual much comfort. Anyway, the Nairobi Fly has an abdomen full of a terrific acid that, when you smash him or her against your arm, spreads all over your skin and causes your flesh to begin to bubble up and do all of the horrific things that you would expect from a bug bite in the tropics. I must have had one of these flies land of my arm during the night, because when I woke in the morning I had a pretty bad rash in the crook of my elbow. In the last three of four days it has continued to mature, and I won’t go into any sort of detail. It is certainly not as bad as you are imagining, but it is definitely an uncomfortable ailment. If you are the gory kind, here is a picture of the damage a Nairobi Fly can do (this one is not mine!) It is also fascinating to watch the battle between my immune system and this acid play itself out on my very own arm. I am well on the road to recovery now, so rest easy. Samantha, my wife, is now seven months pregnant. She is doing wonderfully, and wanted me to add at the end of this post that she has been in no way affected by the Nairobi Fly, and that she is in excellent health. Understandably, our family tends to worry about a pregnant Samantha when they read about our life on the Dark Continent.