Gusto Merida mucho. Este es ciudad muy bonito. La Comida da region tiene sabores muchos bienes. La arquitectura es muy interesante – moderno y antiguedad. La musica da personas como una fiesta y eles tienen muchos fiestas.

I like Merida very, very much. This is a very beautiful city. The food of the region has many good flavors. The architecture is very interesting – modern and antique. (I've never seen such a tasteful blend of old and new.) The music of the people is like a party and they have many parties.

Cuando llege (when I arrived), we went to the city center - el centro. Todos Domingos (every Sunday), they close les calles (the streets) around Plaza Grand, the square in the center of town. There is dancing in the streets. Meridians deck their traditional embroidered dresses (vestigos) and fiesta para horas (party for hours). It is colorful and beautiful. My very, very, very Chinese colleague, Xaiochen Wang, leaned over to me and said, “These people are poorer than China, but they are happier.” I smiled. That was the first halfway negative thing I’d ever heard him say about his country. The Meridians endurance through el calor y el humedad (the heat and the humidity) impressed me.

The beach is just 36 kilometers north. My colleagues took off Friday and traveled to see the famous Aztec ruins. As I had an additional project for work, homework for my online class and two applications for school, the timing didn’t quite work for me to join them. Instead I stayed in Merida, completed my work and estude espanol. I hope visit both the ruins and Playa de Carmen soon – maybe this coming weekend. Hopefully, when my Spanish is further along.

In the mean time, here are a handful of photos from

Mi casa



Mi trabajo

El Calle



And the Monument to the revolution



Disfrutar! (I think that means “enjoy”).

My neighborhood (called "colonia") is Montes De Ame. I think it must be were new money in Merida is moving. Some homes are shacks. Others are quite grand...side by side. About a mile towards the west is Gran Plaza (not to be confused with Plaza Grand). Gran Plaza is the equivalent of a mall, containing an upscale Sears, Zara, Cinnabon and plenty of nice clothing stores. I had made the mistake of not packing my black heels. Finding "zapatos com talónes became rather an adventure. Being taller than most Mexicans, I have larger feet. In the first store I asked for "nueve y meia". The salesmen looked at my feet, kindly went in back, only to return shaking his head. What a disappointment. Next I stopped at a less upscale store. The sizes were posted. 23, 24 (which looked like a size 7). No wonder he couldn't find my size. They have an entirely different sizing system and, given my limited Spanish, he didn't bother explaining. I started trying on all types of shoes (some hideous), just to figure out my size. The attendant came over to help me...accept I didn't understand her espanol and she didn't understand my ingles. She got the store manager, who did habra ingles. Thankfully, he understood. I walked out with some painfully high, high heals... In Mexico, I am a size 26.

Another thing I love - the bread and the juice. The typical Yucatanian breakfast is fresh squeezed juice (juga) and sweet breads. The bakery in the grocery is just delightful. I take a tray and walk through a slew of goodies, selecting several to compra (only several because I know I will have to carry them 1 mile, to mi casa). In the US sweats are far too sweet. Here it is not so. You can taste the flavor of the bread. It really is delightful.

In Merida, Mayan and Spanish culture mixes. That shows in the food, the architecture. Its quite interesting. That said, there is a break in the rain. I need to go grab a taxi before it starts up again. (Our first rain came today. I was two blocks from the farmacia. In those two blocks I got absolutely drenched. (I've been waiting in Starbucks...yes. They have Starbucks.)

A little background on Merida, my summer home.

Humity - 95%.

What I thought Arizona would be like...

...it is only in parts.

Mount Lemmon

After 9 months in Arizona...finally!

Grand Canyon Part 1 YouTube
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FWQtQbd-Sps

Grand Canyon You Tube Part 2
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53KPXE8SX3g

Enjoy!

Who know, I'd learn basic video editing in b-school.

where in the world is....

your daughter/sister this summer.

Merida, Mexico on the Yucatan. It is pretty much the safest place I could be. Feel better, Papa.

Hiking Camelback.

Here is the photo-essayic (sp) journey:

Breakfast in Nashville, right by Vanderbilt's medical campus. Thanks to Bets who found "Provence Bread's & Cafe". This is a fun little college street, remininscent of the main street in Grove City or in West Chester, PA or a North Jersey town like Montvale. Here you find a bookstore (I'm resisting tempation to browse), one or two bars, a music club, some furniture and jewelry shops.

The air is hot and sultry. The my server is generous. He and his wife made the cross-country trip from Texas in a VW van. He even offered me a place to stay. No. I have yet to drive through Memphis and Little Rock today. Expected destination - Oklahoma City. Katie G.'s "Aunt Barbra" is kindly hosting me tonight.

Cheers. Off I go again. 700 miles left for today. Around 1800 left for the trip.

Au Revoir. Tchau. Bye, bye. Etc.

It is time for a new phase of life – graduate school at Thunderbird. Last Tuesday I found out that I was accepted with scholarship. This Tuesday the movers arrived. Them movers finished loading the truck at 1:00pm. I was on the road 9 minutes later. As I write this, I’m in a hotel in Kingston, Tennessee. I’ve traveled around 480 miles. Only around 2,000 left.

The past week had been a complete flurry. I’d traveled back from visiting my folks after dad’s heart attach and packed up my 2,500 pounds of household goods in a week. That said, waves of love and support from friends and family has been overwhelming. I’m so blessed. Last night (Monday), a baker’s dozen gathered on our back deck to wish me safe travels…. ouch. I have to stop saying “our”. It really isn’t mine anymore. Amid the champagne and ice, I promised to blog my cross-country journey. So – here goes.

Adventure day 1.

I shot out Interstate 66 and then down Interstate 81, until I-81 became I-40, in Knoxville. Triple A’s TripTik describes Interstate 81 as follows:

“Sweeping views of farming country convey a sense of calm along this stretch of road. Dairy cows gather on hilltops creating the perfect country scene…Captivating scenery coupled with outdoor activities for every season make this [park] a great way to experience Tennessee’s natural beauty.”

I didn’t stop at the park. I stopped at the gas station. Did you know that some gas pumps from the ‘50’s still work? Come to Tennessee and see. I knew I wasn’t on the east coast anymore when I pulled up to the pump and noticed that – first – there was no credit card swipe option. You were required to go inside to pre-pay for case. Second, there was an elderly grandfather chap loitering outside. Third – when I went inside to prepay the attendant (who was in back using the restroom that I couldn’t use because it “didn’t work”), she told me I didn’t have to prepay. Rather, I could go back out to fill up. So I did…or rather I tried. First I started at one pump and realized that it had only 1 octane level – the more expensive level. So I moved to a different pump. I tried pumping again. Nothing happened. Confused, I went inside to the attendant. A lady was in front of me, purchasing her evening entertainment – a six-pack of Budweiser, a bag of Cheetos and a pack of Marlboros. There was a huge whole in the back of her shorts – so large I could see about an inch and a half of her underwear line. (I

4 grandma/grandpa types were gathered around a folding table inside the convenience store. They were there to celebrate Dorothy’s birthday. This tiny gas station was the hub of social activity in this tiny corner of Tennessee.

The attendant looked at me and said “Oh, hon, you gotta lift the little lever on the side. It mixes everybody up.” So back out I go. 3rd attempt to pump gas. I lift the lever, the entire pump starts shaking, but the gas is coming out to feed my car! Finally. I go back inside to pay. All of a sudden the bathroom is working and I’m allowed to use it.

Off I go again. Who would every have thought that a gas station could be so exciting.

Mining and metal works generates most of Peru's GDP. Peru is one of the top three producers of silver in the world. You see this in the churches, which have ornate silver plated alters. You see silver in the numerous jewelry stands sprinkled through out the markets. Cusco, the rainbow city, had a particularly special way of inlaying geometric patterns of semi-precious stones like turquiose, mother of pearl, purple Spondylus and lapis lazuli in silver.

Textiles are also key to the Peruvian economy, particularly alpaca. Our tour guide took us to a shop which helped us identify the different types of alpaca - baby alpaca, alpaca with silk, alpaca with wool and "maybe" alpaca. Besides being a bit of a sales pitch, this little lesson helped us be less like lambs among the vendor-wolves on the street, when we were shopping for family and friends.

The next day we were taken to an alpaca farm, where we were given lessons in the different types of alpacas, how to differentiate an alpaca from a llama (I kept mixing them up). We got to feed the herd. It was as exciting as the petting zoo when you were three.














Then, our guide showed us how the sheared wool would be boiled to give it color, before being spun into yarn. (This Finally, we saw the woman weaving. Yes. It was a bit of a-put-together-Peruvian-history production but it was interesting. The alpacas were so amusing with their wool flopped over their wild eyes. It gave them an air of comic aloofness.























While some of what we were shown was pure tourist show, there were elements of that show which infiltrate the daily life of a Peruvian family. They weave. They actually do use their own garments and blankets. They embrace bright colors, which lend a sense of perpetual fiesta to their world.

If I was told to choose between mountains or beach, I don't know what I would do. In 2000, my brother, Paul, and I summited our first mountain - Sacagawea - in Montana's Bridgers. In 2001, I took my first dip in salt water. It was only the cold dark water of the Long Island sound, but for me the ocean was a whole new world of adventure. Since that time, I've swam in Hawaii's warm Pacific waters, the calm warm Gulf of Mexico near Destin, the cold tumult along California's Route 1 and various spots on the Atlantic up and down the east cost. Assateague, Duck, Sunset Beach, Belmar, Sandy Hook...the list goes on.

But I haven't neglected Mountains either. Sometimes to the chagrin of my knees, my little stubborn limbs have plodded up and down paths of every major mountain range except Asia's Himalayas. In the Colorado Rockies, it was actually my horse Bone's limbs that did the work, looping through valleys, along plateaus and up steep inclines. In Africa, my safari car labored over the Great Divide. (The power steering decided it was just too strenuous and gave out. My poor driver.) Paul and I rented bikes and cycled the mountain trails surrounding Lake Interlaken, in Switzerland. Earlier that week, we had been strolling through Huemoz, peering across the French Alps to Mount Blanc. Later, we hiked to the highest point you could go on the Matterhorn, before the climb became technical. I've scrabbled along a fair share of the Appalachian trail and sipped Chianti on a Tuscan hillside. Of course, I can't forget Yosemite, the Sierra Nevadas, or Rwanda's Virungas. Each place was beautiful in it's own way. But, in my mind, nothing compares to the Andes in Peru.

A friend turned thirty over Thanksgiving. Not one month after returning from Africa, I was on the plane again. This time, traveling to South America with 5 friends. I loved the Andes. (I also had the advantage of living in high elevation in Africa, so being at 13k feet didn't bother me at all. I'm afraid my friends didn't fair so well.) What can I tell you about the Andes? Their emerald peaks are both sharp and warm. Our troupe spent one day hiking the last part of the Inca trail and another wandering Machu Picchi. The spectacular vistas of the Inca trail are lined with history...storehouses without roofs, alters to sacrifice virgins, over 400 steps older than 500 year old. But these aren't just ancient artifices. The Incas were particularly attuned to constructing architecture in symmetry with their environment. In addition to being aesthetically placed, the location of each building had astrological import. Temples would be perfectly aligned with the rising and setting of the sun during the summer solstice or the winter equinox. I will never forget the beauty of Peru's Andes.

The following paragraph in Hochschild's book reminded me of some embarrassing moments learning random facts about Zanzibari spices and their respective reproductive (or not) properties:

Like many indigenous peoples, inhabitants of the Congo basin had learned to live in balance with their environment. Some groups practiced what was, in effect, birth control, where couples had to abstain from sex before men left on a hunting expedition, for example, or as long as the woman was breast-feeding a baby. Substances found in certain leaves and bark could induce miscarriages or had contraceptive properties. All these means of population control, incidentally, were strikingly similar to those which had evolved in another great rain forest an ocean away, the Amazon basin.

In Zanzibar the air is full of spices and my spice tour guide took great pleasure pontificating upon the many properties of their spices. These ancient medicinal plants are still revered and used today.

Woman apply a certain herb to their skin before they go dancing. Why do they apply it? For the obvious reason - to attract men. Unfortunately, I forgot the name of this plant.

Then the Zanzibari male declares he doesn't need viagra because he has ginger root. Boil ginger root in water. Drink the broth. Voila. All good. Don't you want to buy some for your husband or your boyfriend? No thank you. Persistant guide. Picture Grace - very awkward social situation.

Next. We come to the plant used by woman to cause abortions. I really should remember what it was, but I'm afraid I don't. Henna? No. Aloe? Maybe.

Then, later, when touring Stonetown, my notorious guide introduced me to a man sitting in a doorway, selling little red berries. Envision little, tiny candied raspberries and you'll be just about there. My guide declared I should try them. Did he eat them? No. Did the salesman eat them? No. Who ate them? Only woman. They are supposed to help during pregnancy. Again, awkward social moment...which is pleasant to laugh about now, months later.

I'm having fun cooking on a budget and, because I can smell the difference between quality salt and not-so-quality salt (its true...and a bit ridiculous), cutting costs without cutting ingredient quality has become an exciting little game. Here are a few of the secret rules:

1) Meal plan for 15 days at a time.
2) Buy everything with cash. Only allow yourself to take out so much cash for a set period of time.
3) When you meal plan, use recipes with overlapping ingredients. Don't waste anything. Not even broccoli stems. They become veggie broth.
4) Make sure your key ingredients are less expensive items (i.e. potatoes, beans, chicken).
5) Thank God for the nice supply of spices and oils built up before being laid off.
6) Learn to make your own bread and become a temporary teetotaler if you don't like Chuck Shaw.
7) Break any rule except rule # 2, because that rule is the most exciting.

The winning recipe of this 15 day stretch is insalata di farro medievale (Medieval Farro Salad)
Serves 10. Key ingredients - borlotti & farro. Source: A Culinary Traveller in Tuscany by Beth Elon.

1 1/4 cps cooked cranberry beans, soaked overnight
2 cps farro
1 cp capers, preserved in vinegar
1 large bunch thyme or summer savory
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt & fresh ground pepper

Cook the beans over a very low heat until they are totally soft but still holding their form. Reserve.

Cook the farro in boiling salted water (substitute chicken or beef broth for lower sodium) for about half an hour, until it is cooked through but still al dente. Drain and rinse with cold water. Drain the beans and mix well with the farro.

Wash the capers well, and add to the farro along with the cooked beans and chopped herbs. Dress with a good olive oil, add salt and freshly ground pepper to taste, and serve warm or at room temperature. You may add more oil at the table.

Useful knowledge:

cranberry bean = borlotti bean = saluggia = shell bean = salugia bean = crab eye bean = rosecoco bean = Roman bean = fagiolo romano Notes: These have an excellent, nutty flavor, and are commonly used in Italian soups and stews. Substitutes: fresh cranberry bean OR tongues of fire beans (very similar) OR cannellini bean OR Great Northern bean OR pinto bean OR chili bean. (Source: foodsub.com)

Other substitutes: Farro could be substituted with barley. Dried thyme can be used in place of fresh, though it isn't as good. (I had to because my thyme plant had died.) Other foods that mix well with farro include sliced cucumbers, sliced black olives, slivers of red onion, arugula, minced garlic and chopped tomatoes.

For the DASH diet, use low-sodium chicken or beef broth to boil the farro. Instead of seasoning with salt and pepper, consider using a little vinegar (1 tbs?) and pepper or garlic and pepper.

Picaso and the Congo

If your brain would enjoy being tickled by a little art history, read on.

Most striking about the traditional societies of the Congo was their remarkable artwork: baskets, mats, pottery, copper and ironwork, and, above all, woodcarving. It would be two decades before Europeans really noticed this art. Its discovery then had a strong influence on Braque, Matisse, and Picasso - who subsequently kept African art objects in his studio until his death. Cubism was new only for Europeans, for it was partly inspired by specific pieces of African art, some of them from Pende and Songye peoples, who live int the basin of the Kasai River, one of the Congo's major tributaries.

It is easy to see the distinctive brilliance that so entranced Picasso and his collegues at their first encounter with this art at an exhibit in Paris in 1907. In these central African sculptures some body parts are exaggerated, some shrunken; eyes project, cheeks sink, mouths disappear, torsos become enlongated; eye sockets expand to cover almost the entire face; the human face and figure are broken apart and formed again in new ways and proportions that had previously lain beyond the sight of traditional European realism.

















This is an excerpt from "King Leopold's Ghost" by Adam Hochschild. Hochschild is a professor at UC Berkley. His book is well researched, and, considered one of the authorititive texts on Congolese history.

Partir, c'est mourir un peu.

To leave is to die a little. That is what my friend, Allyson tells me. I think it is a saying in France. Leaving Africa, now 7 months ago, was very difficult. I almost didn't get on that plane. But I did. Now, I'm trying to return. People ask about first impressions, when returning to the States. After all, reverse culture shock does exist. And I did experience it. My impressions. Sprawling. Telephone lines everywhere. Unkempt clothing. A lack of simple living. An unchecked sense of need. Frigidly cold. (There is nothing like the shock of November temperatures on a body that had been basking in the equatorial sun the day before.)

I do realize these are sweeping generalizations, but they have some veracity. American culture tends to fight to mold life to fit their desires, even to the point of suing. We are an extremely litigious culture. Africans in most countries like Congo and Zim, just accept what comes to them. They barter for everything, negotiating for a scrap of bread. They have many children because they hope one or two will outlive them. Daily tasks in Africa can take two or three times as long (hence the maid), but you just enjoy them. It isn't helter skelter hither thither and yan. There is more of a sense of being in the moment and enjoying the beauty or pain of that moment. Americans often have this "what you see is what you get" attitude about themselves. Not so in Africa. They keep face. Things are never as they seem. That is not necessarily bad, when you are aware of it and strive to be sensitive to the fact that you may be mistaken in your perception...grossly mistaken.

Knowing this, I came to love the people in my daily life - the bank security guards who would watch me hop off my moto taxi and cross the street and welcomed me every morning, Ingace who welcomed me home every night, Shelagh, Sarah, Adelin, Susan, and the many others I would take my lunch with, etc.

The hardest goodbye was Chantal, our housekeeper. I had packed my bags the night before. I came home and I found this card on the foot of my bed. It was a hideous pink card, but when I opened it it was inscribed with the signatures of all of Chantal's children and a little note from Chantal...as well as one of her own necklaces. My eyes still well up with tears at the thought of it. She gave me one of her own necklaces - one that I probably said looked so very pretty on her. I love that hideous card, the tacky earrings and the pretty little necklace so much. It is a picture of the warmth in the heart of woman who, over those months became so dear to me, who gave generously from the little she had.

Hassles II

Vingette No. 4

I think, as a single woman traveling alone, you experience life at its most raw. The warmest generosity. The most coldblooded cheat-ary. There is no buffer. Lonely Planet calls Stonetown (Zanibar's tiny big city) the "Heart of the Archipelago". In the salty swell of the Indian Ocean, Africa, Arabia and India mix, molding a modest, Muslim and tantalizingly sensual culture. The women are mysteriously cloaked in traditional khangas. Only their bright eyes and a oval of smooth skinned face peep out. Conservative habit does not mean that they haven't mastered the art of allurement. No. These woman bring sexy to a whole new level. I have stories. Four to be precise. Two you will be told. One I'll let you figure out. One you might be lucky enough to get from me if I've had one too many Campari & Mangos. Exhibit #1 - Singo, a brides preparation for marriage. No. I am not inventing this. Please read the description in the photo. I rather like the idea of singo... Story # 2 - a girl's induction into womanhood, as explained to me by my henna tatoo artist. Let me begin by explaining that I never stepped out of my hotel after dark except once, for reasons that will become quite apparent. That "once" was with my henna tatoo artist. She insisted I come with her to dinner and I, curious to know how real Zanzibaris live, was delighted to go along. Zanibar is famous for it's taroob music. Walking me back to the hotel after dinner, she insisted that I come with her to the Taroob Music House. I'd read about the Taroob Music House. According to Lonely Planet, it was one of the 2 best spots to sample local music. Needless to say, we clambered up the stairs to the Taroob Music House, drawn by the sound of music. The lady by the door graciously greeted us into a hallway full of Zanzibar women, leading to a hall full of even more women - all in their finest khangas embroidered with gold, silver and purple silk. The first thing I noticed was was the dancing. It was the most erotic dancing I had ever seen. (It made belly dancing at Marrakesh or your high school prom seem like kitty school.) The second thing I noticed was that, other than the band members, there were no men. Absolutely no men. Being fond of sidelines in large groups, I tried to slink into a corner. That proved difficult as my white skin, however tan, was a bit conspicuous surrounded by all those well endowed African mommas. They would have none of it. No. I had to be dragged front and center - even up on the stage - to dance with them in this erotic dance which was anything but prim and proper. Anna, the henna tatoo artist, laughed and laughed. After the song, her eyes floated over the room until they looked on a very decorated corner. Then those big brown eyes got bigger and browner with that "oh dear, oh no" look. Come, she said, we must leave. I'll explain later. After we had stumbled out of the hall, down the stairs and out the door into the maze of Stonetown streets, she began. "In Dar Saleem a girl's friends explain to her about being a woman and all about men and to stay away from men. In Zanzibar, this is explained by the girl's family." We had accidentally crashed a young girl's coming of age party. Awkward...particularly since the young girl looked rather insulted. I still have pictures of these modest women and their erotic dance. They were so demure when approached them on the street, but I got a little glimpse of what really happens behind closed doors.

So - there are pleasures and problems a single woman traveling along will experience.

As soon as I'd step out of my hotel into Stonetown, I'd be swarmed by street touts or "Papasi". The literal English translation of this Swahili word is "tick". So apropos. They really do try to attach themselves to you like a leech, burrow under your skin and suck your blood, hassling any and every shilling they can out of you to support their black market addiction. A female solo appears easy pray. There was one, a Nigerian with some crocked yellow teeth, who really did send shivers down my spine. He'd wait near my hotel. With a "Hello sister, why won't you buy..." he'd trail me down the street, lurk outside the stores I'd enter and, at my exit, call me racist for chatting with the Indian Store keeper, but not him. When I bantered with his respectable black shopkeeping brothers, he'd bark a different abuse. I finally turned around and spat out "Leave me along. I don't trust you." Thankfully, he did. At least for the remainder of the afternoon and evening. That was long enough. I left Stonetown the next day.

I really did get to a point, in Stonetown, when I didn't trust anyone. Not even the tour guide. Or, rather, I particularly distrusted my Zanzibari tour guide. It started when I arrived in the airport. According to my itinerary, I was to be greeted by a driver at the airport and then be transfer to my hotel. No driver. I went to the tourism office, where they helped me call my hotel. They sent a driver...a little dirty whitish Toyota Corolla from the "80s. He was stopped by the police and then the car ran out of gas. I'd never experienced the chug and girgle of a car running out of gas before.

Along the bustling tourist street, just outside the most refined shops, a withered young man in a white tee shirt tried to sell me "African cocaine". He had obviously been snorting something. Couldn't stand or see straight. Not exactly a tempting advertizement for his product to anyone in their right senses.

These were the reasons I never went out at night...except for the one adventure with the henna tatoo artist.

Hassles

A woman traveling alone for pleasure is a bit of a rarity. But make that a woman traveling alone for pleasure in Africa. Now we're talking scarcity at an extreme level. That would be me. While I find a certain pleasure and thrill, it is not all champagne and roses. Endless marriage proposals, serious attempts at cheating and a constant barrage of unwanted pity. The first two propelled me to a point in Zanzibar where I realized I didn't trust anyone. While I put on a strong face and a merry laugh to intercept the third, I have to admit it got a bit waring.

I'll relay a few vignettes to help you sample the sweet, the salt and gall of a single woman traveling alone.

Introduction
10 October at 4:40 am. I'd gone to bed at 23:23 the night before, after finishing a memo for Urwego and cleaning up a dinner I prepared for a guest who didn't show. A bleary eyed Tom left me in Kigali Int'l airport, specifically charging his friend to take good care of "this young lady". Tom's special friend told me that his name was Amant, French for male lover. He stuck to me like a magnet...(which, in French, is aimant, one letter different. Very Strange). He smelled bad, sat too close, and tried to live up to his name. So my name was Grace. I was American? Yes. It was his goal to marry an American girl. He'd explained this to his mother. Was I married? Here I should have lied, but unfortunately I'm too truthful for my own good. He would marry me, he said. No, I said, quite emphatic. What? I didn't want to get married? Here the honesty, or at least the complete honesty wore out. Mr. Male Lover was too serious to pick up on a sarcastic response so I just started lying, or at least not adding the "definitely not with you" phrase to the end of my responses. In his case, a lie seemed kinder:

Surely you want children. No.
What. You must want children. No.
Well, okay. You don't want children, but you must want someone to make love to you. I'll make love to you. No. (At this point, there were about a dozen people from my flight in the very quiet room...quiet except for this clearly audible conversation.)
Surely you want to make love. No.
I will speak to your father in three years. No.
Don't worry I have it all planned out. No. No. No. No. No.

I managed to shake him off with a distraction and ran away. (Quite proficient at running away.) Tom received an sms indicating that "friends" to try to "take care of me" were unwanted. I think I can manage to check into a flight on my own. Even in Africa.

Vingette No. 1

After collecting me from Kilimanjaro airport, Chilson took me to the tour company's office. He introduced me to everyone, including the manager, and then escorted me into a private room. Just he and I. Could I please help him out? He had underquoted my fee by $230. I starred. $230? $230? I could produce the “fully paid” receipt. He responded that he didn’t want to tell me of his mistake before my arrival lest it deter me from vacation. Well, he should have, I replied. I’ll be penny-pinching the entire trip as I hadn’t anticipated this additional costs and hadn’t brought much cash. However, IF he could prove me the validity of these costs and a breakdown of the entire quote, I would help.

He scurried out, to gather papers and his manager. She sat down with me to explain the quote, line-by-line. My two hour Lonely Planet cram course on the plane taught me enough to recognize the component costs she listed were fair. My accounting mind recognized that company “overhead costs” like labor, fees and rent would also need to be considered. I was convinced. Chislon had made a genuine mistake, so, even though I didn’t have to, I gave him $220.

Only then did the manager tell me that the Company had intended to take the mistaken amount out of his salary…and it was an entire month’s pay…this being pay for a young Tanzania man who went to high school in Minnesota.

I think I did right. I hope I wasn't cheated. It was quite a challenging transaction to navigate on ones own. No one to bounce thoughts off of. I had nothing but my own judgment and the hope Wonders was being honest with me. I thought about it every time I carefully measured my spending allowance through out the trip.

Vingette No. 2

Hyenas and human voices can sound quite similar to the untrained ear. My ear was definitely untrained that first night in Serengeti. Hurama, my guide, would always tell me stories…usually before bedtime and usually because I prompted with too many questions. (I know everyone is surprised. Grace asking too many questions.) Well, I foolishly asked the “is the tent safe” question. (Better to never raise the question.) Response. If you do not take food into your tent, then yes it is safe. Hurama continued, one night in Serengeti, maybe one year ago, maybe two, a couple had forgotten to take all the food out of their tent luggage. The hyenas came to visit, attracted by the scent of easy scavenging. Rumbling with hunger and excitement, their sharp teeth sliced through the tent cloth. At the sound of the fabric tear, the couple awoke with a start. The tent filled with kafuffle. Confused by the commotion, the hyena took a bit out of the wife’s bottom. The husband, in his fury, grabbed the hyena by the neck and strangled it with his bare hands. They had to be evacuated by helicopter, bite taken out of her buttock.

With that story rumbling in my head, I retired to my tent for another night of sleeping solo. I fell asleep easy enough, comforted by the gentle murmur of human voices. At 00:05 I awoke, jolted upright, cringing at the methodically growl not 10 feet from my head. It took me 5 minutes to realize that the growl was my neighbor snoring.

The second night in Serengeti I heard more than snoring neighbors. The wild world roared and cackled, moaned and hackled under the full moon. The hyenas ambled through our camp that night, calling to each other. I could even hear them sniffing around the edges of my little tent. I hunched in the middle of the two-person tent, cuddling with myself, and listening wide-eyed to the sounds of the night. A jackal wandered through camp too, 10 meters to my left with it’s higher, eerie shriek. Repeated, again and again. Lions roared in the distance. The next day, I was a very tired woman.

The final night of camping, in Ngorongora, animal noises began before the human sounds ceased. Puff. Puff. Puff. I really needed to pee... Puff. Puff. Puff. My guide had told me that I really needn´t be scared of any animal except the Buffalo. The sound the Buffalo made was "puff, puff, puff." However, it wasn´t a buffalo that slammed drunkenly into the side of my tent. It was a zebra. I could tell by the strips. I summoned the courage to visit the toilet...and waited for dawn a tad more comfortably, curled up alone in the center of my 2 person tent.

More Vingette´s and pictures to follow.