Increase in Liquidity

This weekend featured no lions. I spent zero time gazing  across vast plains so famous that their mere mention brings romantic images of Africa to mind. I saw no scenes of genocide, spent no time peering over sheer cliff face and handled absolutely zero lizards with more advanced stealth techniques than JTF2. It was still an incredible weekend.

Andres Perez, who apparently has an endless supply of ideas, energy and organizational merit (which begs the question how on earth he is working for the UN) had put together another spectacular weekend. It was to start Saturday morning with a trip to Maji Moto (literally, Swahili for “water hot”) hot springs, to swim and relax. Upon return, we would have dinner, then proceed on the sketchiest of possible pub crawls, visiting a number of Arusha bars, clubs and pubs in search of enlightenment. Well… not really, but we were in search of the next drink.

In order to get to all of these destinations, Andres had rented for us our a daladala – one of the minibuses that doubles as a clown car. With every seat full, a daladala holds roughly 17 very cramped people. For msot morning transports, of course, they don’t worry about small matters like ‘seats’, and instead fill every available particle of free space with human mass, bringing the total capacity to somewhere around 39 people. I think they tape people to the ceiling. We, thankfully, were sticking with a smaller crowd – around 9 of us in the daladala, reducing significantly the possibility of chipped teeth, squashed vertebrae, stress fractures and exacerbated blood feud. In what is becoming an ongoing theme of Tanzania, the ‘road’ out to this place spent its former life as a cheese grater, and clearly remembers that experience with fondess. It was worse for Andres and Hilary, however, since they went on a dirtbike… which while great at roads, isn’t fantastic in pouring rain. Which, incidentally, we had.

I should paint for you, briefly, the picture of what we were headed into. The grasses were mostly brownish yellowy beige, with brief splashes of green dotted across the landscape. Trees looked to be in their Canadian winter best, decorated sparesely with the occasional bird wondering where the heck all the leaves were. The rain, which had by this point become sporadic, had at least helped to eliminate some of the dust, but the general landscape was similar to what you’d expect to find after, oh… I don’t know… plague had destroyed every living thing. Then we arrived at Maji Moto.

It was, basically, a small chunk of verdant rainforest surrounded by what appeared to be Sudburyesque landscaping (*zing*). The water was crystal clear – with use of the mask someone had brought, we could see underwater easily for 50m+. This, of course, was useful in scouting out any potential crocodiles/alligators intent on turning us into chakula. Since the water was spring fed and there was a surprisingly strong current, there was also nil chance of bilharzia – a bacteria/parasite that apparently gives you some minor symptoms like total organ failure. Hot springs was a bit of a misnomer, since the water wasn’t exactly warm – but being that we’re fairly close to the equator, the sun had done a more than adequate job of heating the temperature to that of a normal pool.

Adding to the intrigue was the fact that none of the nearby tribes had set up residence near this apparent paradise. When Nelson – the Swahili-speaking Tanzanian boyfriend of one of the girls we were with – queried as to why this was, he was informed it was because the locals believed there were evil spirits here. I note, with some please, that this fear didn’t prevent one of them from charging us 3000 Tsh a head to use the water. I debated the idea of performing an exorcism for 4000 Tsh, but since I’d left my Roman collar and Holy Water in my other life, I thought they may not buy it.

We spent the afternoon exploring the underwater cave, swinging off branches into the water, watching Ronnie fall 20 ft. from a tree into 7 ft. of water while trying to jump, getting inordinately excited about a monkey who appeared, and eating the leftover turkey from an American Thanksgiving dinner that had been prepared at White House the Thursday previous.

That was the quiet part of the day.

The evening featured somewhere in the neighbourhood of 9 bars/pubs. While its much harder for me to provide a coherent and consistent storyline, certain events stand out in my memory. Andres had again rented a daladala for the night, to ferry us from location to location. This got off to a somewhat bumpy start when the driver left us at the first bar, went to gas up, and accidentally put diesel instead of regular into his van. This necessitated a full draining of the gastank, and had us sitting on the curb patiently waiting for some 55 minutes. We were, however, entertained by drunken Tanzanians wandering past on their way out of a wedding. From what we could tell, they were taking closed beers from the open bar, selling them around the corner, and returning to play again.

 

We finally got on track, and as it happens, my mind goes a bit off-track here. I recall being asked to sing by a 70-year old man, who then proceeded to dance with me while I did so. I recall doing the microwave at the Silk Club, a club that had a 2000 Tsh cover… and NO one inside but the 22 of us. I recall recieving a number of increasingly direct offers from a lady of negotiable affection at “Shivers”, a bar where even locals dread to tread. Chris Shelton also got those offers (see right)… as did Antony, Hilary and a few others. (I got out of that one by claiming that Lindsey, 2 ft. over, was my wife. The woman responded that she had a husband, so what? Irrefutable logic, there.) Finally, I recall leaving Masaai Camp – the last bar of the night – around 3:45 and riding on the roof of the daladala back to the White House, along with Andres (who, btw, is actually paid by the UN and therefore a positive role model. Right? Right.)

Sunday featured – along with surprisingly few after-effects of the night before – a visit the shamba of the Deputy Register for African-style Thanksgiving with turkey, cranberry sauce, salads… gazelle, kudu and hartebeest. Y’know… just like the Indians brought to the Pilgrims at Plymouth.

Now… the only question is what is actually left in my budget for the last month I’m here. The answer: very little. Just enough to climb an active volcano (next weekend) and go to Uganda (sometime later). Man, Africa is awesome.