Categories
Books Memoir People

Feathered Canyons – a memoir

A memoir is a safari back through time.  Whether you write it or not, some part of your life deserves a memoir. Which years, which events were most meaningful for you?

It was easy for me to answer that question. I’d always wanted to write about my life-changing adventures in the 1960s in California. But when would I find the time?

I spent years getting my Ph.D., then went to Cambridge University in UK, where I met and married David. We then went to Africa, spending four years studying lions in the Serengeti ecosystem. More years followed doing scientific papers, research seminars and lecture tours, then back to Tanzania to do education projects. After two more decades living in a colorful, wild, fascinating rural village, we finally came to roost here in Arizona.

That’s a long road to a memoir. Once we had settled, I retrieved boxes of letters from my sister’s barn in California, gathered more letters and memories from friends, found notes and sketches I’d made back in the 60s. During the next 20 years I put all that together and got David to create the illustrations. Finally it’s written, published, available!

Now you can read about my life journey through the 1960s. That was the time that formed me and pointed me along the path towards all the other fun stuff. I’ve written my memoir with the aim that it will resonate with you, inspire you, cause you to remember your own life, maybe do your own memoir. If you’re young, get out of your comfort zone and try something different! That is what I want, so start now, read Feathered Canyons, think about life’s lessons –  mine are summarized in a section at the end of the book.

Start writing about – or living – that special, memorable part of your life!

Author hiking down into a forested river canyon
Walking into the Feather River canyon
Categories
People Safari

Remembering Paul Oliver

Paul at Olivers Camp, Tarangire, 2012

This month, our old friend Paul Oliver departed on his final safari. He has been part of the Tanzania tourism scene for so long that it is hard to imagine him not being there.

Paul first came into our lives in March 1984 as a wandering Englishman, fascinated by nature and exploring Serengeti. I was at the University of Dar-es-Salaam organizing a field course for my students to visit Serengeti and Ngorongoro. Meanwhile Jeannette was acting as temporary lion biologist at Serengeti Research Institute.

One day Paul arrived at the Lion House in his overland van. He knocked on the door and was greeted by a 5-foot high woman in a kanga. He peered down at her and asked,

“Is there a scientist around here?”

Jeannette bristled somewhat, as she has a PhD, but said “I’m a scientist. How can I help you?” “Well, there’s a snake somewhere in my van, and I need some help to get it out!”

So Jeannette marched out in her flip-flops, armed with another kanga and a glass jar, and quickly found and captured the young spitting cobra. Thus began a beautiful friendship!

Paul soon found a niche as a driver-guide with Ngare Sero Safaris, based in Arusha. He was a quick study and became their head guide. He dreamed of having his own bush camp, and we accompanied him on exploratory trips looking for a suitable site on the border of Tarangire National Park. Eventually he established the first Oliver’s Camp at Kikoti, a beautiful location among giant rocks. From this luxurious base you could drive into the park for game-viewing, or take a walk on the wild side with Paul, or enjoy sundowners while watching baboons scale a sheer rock face to their sleeping roost. As Oliver’s Camp’s reputation grew, Tanzania National Parks encouraged Paul to move his camp to its present location within the Park. After a few years, he sold the business so that he could concentrate more on mobile camping and specialized birding tours.

Paul Oliver at Kikoti – Tarangire
Jim Howitt & Jeannette in lounge at Olivers camp, Kikoti, Tarangire 1992.
Baboons climbing sleeping rock, Kikoti

During the Ngare Sero years, I did some safaris with Paul, and this diary fragment preserves a flavour of that experience:

In May 1987 Paul and I were assigned to take a family on a camping tour through Ngorongoro and southern Serengeti. We drove two Land-Rovers to Kilimanjaro Airport to meet New York lawyer Mr Goldfisch (not his real name) and his wife and two teenage daughters. The eldest daughter, we noticed, wore a neck brace.

Mr Goldfisch told us, “I hope we won’t be driving on very rough roads, because my daughter recently broke her neck”.

Paul and I looked at each other, thinking of at least 200 miles of dirt-road driving that lay beyond the end of the tarmac at Makuyuni.

“Erm, we’ll do our best to smooth out the bumps!” said Paul brightly.

The trip started well. We saw the elephants of Manyara, and toured Ngorongoro Crater. My photos show that we visited Olduvai and drove cross-country to Shifting Sands, where Paul encouraged the girls to gallop down the sand dune. Then we continued, mostly cross-country, through the wildebeest herds towards Ndutu.

Paul playing with clients at Shifting Sands, NCA 1987

About 20 miles out from Ndutu, I was driving by a small waterhole when SQUELCH! Into the mud I went. It looked like ordinary plains grass, but rain had turned the soil to goo. Stuck fast, I leaped out and ran over the rise waving to Paul to come tow me out. (No radios in those days!) Although I had royally screwed up, Paul didn’t waste time chewing me out, he just got down to work trying to solve the problem. We roped the rear end of my car to the front of his, he pulled – VROOM! VROOM! – And he got stuck too. All of us, even the mother and the daughters, set to shoveling mud, jacking up Paul’s car and putting rocks under the wheels, and we managed to get Paul out. Next we worked on my Land-rover, which was much more stuck, for another hour or so – but the tow-rope kept getting shorter each time it broke! Finally Paul decided to take the clients to the Lodge, where we’d spend the night while camp was being set up.

“I’ll send our supply truck to pull you out. Here’s a beer to keep you going!” he grinned.

With the gnus for company, I worked on the car for about 90 minutes, managing to move about a foot backwards and 3 inches deeper.

About 6pm, Paul drove back followed by Ben in his big truck, with a vast steel hawser wrapped around its front. Ben roared up behind my car and the ground trembled like jelly.

“He’ll get stuck!” I said.

“Oh no, he’s far too experienced for that!” said Paul

We hitched up the cable, Ben revved up the truck….and sank six inches into the mud!

We spent the next half hour helping Ben lengthen and deepen the ruts he was stuck in. Finally we quit and left poor Ben with the remains of our picnic lunch, to guard the two vehicles for the night. After dinner I flouted the law by driving at night from the lodge to Ben to take him some dinner in his lonely plains vigil. Springhares hopped like miniature kangaroos and ghostly freight-trains of wildebeest thundered across the road, only their eyes reflecting my lights.

Came the dawn – I was left to babysit the clients while Paul went back to the mud-wallow. He was back very quickly. Ben had woken to find about 6 lions and 30 hyenas around him! He had chased them away and unstuck the 10-ton truck all by himself and had almost got my Rover out too, which they quickly finished together.

Then Paul returned and we went game-viewing our way to camp – found a wonderful tame cheetah and followed it hunting for an hour or so. Back at camp for lunch – no truck! Paul rushed off again to search and found that the truck had died after a few miles – ruptured the water hose and bust the water pump.

Built into the truck, of course, was our camp’s water supply….

The repercussions continued. In the afternoon, while we were out for a game drive, rangers turned up festooned with AK-47s and bandoliers and pistols and demanded to search the camp, convinced that someone there had been out poaching wildlife at night! I was ordered to go straightway to the ranger post near the Lodge and explain, but it was all OK – as soon as they realized it was just me fooling around out there. I got back to camp and I told Paul with a grave face:

“It’s really bad. They’ve banned me from the Park, effective from today, and we have 24 hours to get out of here”.

He went pale with shock, until I grinned – “Just kidding!”

The safari ended well. A rescue mechanic came with the spare pump for the truck, and news that the charter to fly out the Goldfisches would shortly be coming. They were relieved to be heading back to civilization, but they were pleased with all the animals they had seen. Broken-neck Girl was no worse and seemed enlivened by her adventures, and they had enough stories, no doubt, to last for the next few decades.

After they departed, Paul and I returned to camp. We screamed and hugged each other and danced around the kitchen area, to the amusement of our staff! He broke out drinks for all, and later we drove leisurely back to Arusha.

We’ll miss you, mate.

Categories
Books People Safari

Return to Lake Eyasi

If you lived happily in a place for 18 years and had to leave, should you go back? Some say you shouldn’t. But I’ve returned several times to Mangola in northern Tanzania since leaving the home we built and unbuilt. I’ve enjoyed each journey. My visit in January 2020 was no exception.

I had some free days after leading a National Geographic Expedition to Tanzania’s northern parks and I planned to travel to Mangola with some former neighbors, to spend time with them and catch up with other friends from the past. I’d arranged to meet them at an up-market shopping center near the Arusha airport outside of town. While waiting, I browsed the craft shops and a well-stocked, clean supermarket, and sipped an excellent cappuccino by an ornamental pool, where golden-backed weavers wove their intricate nests in the reeds. Such places just didn’t exist 20 years ago.

Soon Chris showed up—a handsome, confident German whose greeting hug always makes me stand on tiptoe—with his feisty Argentinian wife, Nani, beaming up at me. Standing shyly aside was their eldest boy, Kian, now a lanky 18. Chris’s mother, Leonie, ageless and precise, greeted me warmly. She had started our adventure when she first sent us to Mangola 36 years ago.

During our nearly two decades living near Lake Eyasi, this family became dear friends. They lived some distance from us, were also foreigners, and always helpful and welcoming. We all piled into their old Toyota 4WD and headed out along the tarmac highway. As Chris drove, we exchanged news of mutual friends, of their past year, and of my recent safari. We crossed green plains and rolling wooded hills, passed healthy herds of cattle and sheep with their Maasai herders, and stopped at a roadside espresso bar—another surprise—in the market town of Mto wa Mbu.

Kian, Leonie, Nani & Christian at cafe in Mto wa Mbu

From there, our smooth paved road climbed the 2000-foot escarpment overlooking Lake Manyara and cut through the Mbulu highlands to Karatu. This road used to be frightful, its gravel and red dirt surface scarred with potholes and corrugations, From dusty mud huts around a muddy market square. Karatu has become a sprawling town with power lines and banks and supermarkets and high-rise buildings.

A few miles past the town, Chris turned left at Njiapanda. We headed down what we used to call the Horrid Road towards Mangola and Lake Eyasi. This unpaved road had been newly graded, and we hummed smoothly along, a dust-cloud chasing us. Gone were the car-swallowing gullies, the cruel staircases of rocks. The long flat section of road, that used to be underwater in years as wet as this one, was now high and dry and flanked by acres of tall maize.

As we swept through our once-primitive village of Gorofani, I saw architect-designed houses, satellite dishes, and power lines. The side road through bush country to the settlement of Kisimangeda looked more familiar, with its rocks and sand-traps. Zooming towards the lakeshore however, I was astounded by the sight of new tourist hotels looking like castles and palaces. Visitors now regularly come to Mangola. They want to see the Hadzabe foragers, see their grass huts, go hunting with bows and arrows.

Mansion for tourists (above), Hadzabe traditional grass hut (below)

Maybe add on a visit to the Datoga livestock herders in their black fringed cloaks. Even here, the power poles marched all the way to Kisimangeda Camp, Chris and Nani’s carefully designed tented lodge hidden near the papyrus-rimmed springs. After four decades of diesel generators, my friends would be connected to the grid this week.

Kisimangeda farmhouse peers out from a forest of doum palms and fever-trees. It faces the gleaming expanse of the seasonal lake and the Eyasi rift cliffs beyond.

At the house, Kaunda came by and greeted me: “Shayamo!” “Mtana-ba!” This short, old and endlessly cheerful Hadza man has helped the family in many ways for many years. He has always been their main liaison with his tribe of foragers. He laughs a lot, but his skill with bow and poisoned arrows is legendary, so he is treated with due respect.

For a day I prowled the forest and the lakeshore, finding familiar birds and other wildlife. I climbed the high basalt rock outcrop for a fine panoramic view of the lake. On the next day, Chris let me borrow the Toyota so I could go visiting. My first stop was to visit Ruth, who lives on the ridge between Gorofani and Barazani villages. For several years she’s been building her health clinic there. It is a grand building with white walls and clean, tiled interiors.

Ruth and diagnostic room in her new clinic

Seeing Ruth now reminds me of her 30-year arc from shy schoolgirl to nurse and clinic developer. Her career began in our home not far away. We follow her progress with interest and love. Ruth is now a stout woman in her forties with a calm certainty that any obstacle can be overcome. She greeted me warmly and showed me around the clinic, labs, her home, and guest rooms for visiting medics. It’s still a work in progress, but one day it will be a fine medical center.

What of our old home? I drove back towards Gorofani and turned off by the baobab tree, trying to follow the old track through the Chemchem forest to our place. The bushes had closed in and formed thickets and soon I just had to park and walk. Across the river, diesel pumps throbbed, sending water to the onion fields. Casting around, I stumbled on a new pipeline—a trench cleared and dug through the thickets with a couple of 6” plastic pipes laid in it, to carry water from the springs to new onion plantations on the west side of the river.

Water pipes and house ruins
Fragment of courtyard wall with Jeannette’s mural

Scrambling along that ditch, I managed to reach our old house site. Not much remained. I found a part of the stone wall round our outdoor courtyard and shower and the ruins of a battered concrete couch where our front porch had been. The flamboyant trees we had planted still flourished, overshadowing the baby baobab that will outlast them by centuries. A troop of baboons feasted noisily on the sour pods of a tamarind tree overhanging the rubble of our two-story studio.

Baboon in the ruins

We had called our place “Mikwajuni,” meaning “among the tamarind trees”—slow-growing, sturdy, shady, fruit-bearing trees with lovely flowers. I could not see a trace of my office, the first round building we had constructed. But nearby I discovered the concrete lip of my car maintenance pit above the swamp water. This showed that the stream level had risen about 5 feet in 16 years. Most of the tall fig trees and fever trees had drowned and fallen down. New ones were growing up to replace them.

I was happy to learn that the whole Chemchem area of forest, springs, and swamp is now protected by the village. We were part of the struggle to achieve that status and suffered the consequences. As I stood among the thriving vegetation, I could view the ruins of our old home with a strange detachment. We had poured a lot of energy into building it, we had some very good times there. And hard times, too. Our leaving had been traumatic, but we moved on.

I had to move on, too. I drove on to the village and past the mosque, still one of the most elegant buildings in the village with its green and white minaret. Nearby I went to the house of a successful local tour-guide who had been our protegé, enemy, and friend. He was away in Arusha so his lovely wife told me the family news. I learned their daughter is following in dad’s footsteps and going to a tourism college. Near their home, I paid my respects to the grave of Bashki. He had been a powerful chief whose elaborate funeral rites we had attended. Nearby was a small concrete memorial to our mutual friend, Professor Tomikawa, a Japanese gentleman and scholar who had been Bashki’s dear friend.

Continuing through the village, I went to see Athumani and his wife Mama Furaha. These two are now an elderly couple originally from the Usambara mountains near Tanzania’s coast. Athumani, a modest man of great integrity and wisdom, had been the most essential member of our household. He became our trusted guide to village culture. When I arrived near their modest home, I saw Athumani in his white Muslim cap pottering around the goat pen. He turned to see me drive in, recognized me, and he came running over with a warm embrace.

Mama Furaha & Athumani

Age had shrunk him and stolen many teeth, but he and Mama looked well. They gave me the news of their nine kids who are scattered around the country. The big news was the wedding of Number Two Son, Bashiri, whom Jeannette had helped deliver. Ever since we left Mangola and gave Athumani all the concrete blocks he could salvage from our home, their new house has been growing next to their sway-backed old mud hut. It is nearly finished, but our friendship continues. I left them with another donation to their building project, and they insisted that I bring “Mama Simba” next time.

Continuing my loop through the village, I passed a small café and spied our former village chairman, Mzee Saidi. He was crouched down, inspecting a drain outside his building. Looking up in surprise he chuckled. “Ho, bwana David! Karibu sana!” he exclaimed and dragged me into a back room for a soda.

Saidi in his cafe

Saidi has the impassive face of an ebony sculpture and speaks with the sonorous cadence of a preacher. Saidi had been our supporter and friend when we first came to Mangola. He had invited us to apply for our own plot of land, which led to our building our homestead at Mikwajuni. As usual, he lamented the “worthless people” who had caused us so much trouble long ago. He thanked me for all the positive things we had done for the village.

The sun was getting low as I crossed the main highway to the little shop and café called Gorofani Junction. In the back yard old Mama Ramadhani sat regally in a blue plastic chair. As always, she was surrounded by children, chickens, and goats. She looked up at me in amazement and grasped my hand in both of hers, rumbling a greeting in her deep voice. She is a powerful figure in the village, some say a witch; I say she is a wise friend. Next to her was plump Amina, who had once been one of those cheeky little toddlers and now has contributed two boys of her own to the crowd. Amina’s mother Halima came out and gave me the mandatory flask of hot sweet milky tea. I sat and sipped it, while shy little hands explored the unfamiliar hair on my arms. I watched the sun set behind Mama Rama’s shoulder, feeling warmly accepted by this benevolent matriarchy that seems to perpetuate itself without the visible presence of men.

Mama Ramadhani & kids

Try to imagine what kind of story connects these varied characters: an adventurous German settler family, a Hadza hunter, a determined Iraqw nurse, a mercurial Datoga tour guide, an urbane Japanese professor, a respected pastoralist chief, a village politician, a Sancho Panza butler/farmer, and an Iraqw wise woman. We were part of the brew too, a British-American duo of artist/biologist refugees. All of our lives entwined for many years, our diverse spirits drawn together by that bountiful freshwater oasis in an arid Tanzanian landscape.

Why did we live there? What life lessons did we learn from each one of those people? What conflicts did we experience and why did we leave? In our book, Spirited Oasis, we begin to tell that story, and in Beyond the Oasis, we continue it.

© Jeannette Hanby and David Bygott.

Visit our book site

Categories
Arizona Safari

Ringtail and Genet

I am fascinated by the way environments shape animals that have different lineages. Two animals that fit this look-alike-but-different description are Ringtails in the Americas and Genets in Africa. 

Here are pictures of these two look-alikes. Both the ringtail and the genet are deft, busy nocturnal creatures with pointy noses and big eyes. Their ringed tails are as long as their bodies. They are both about the size of a small cat. There are some differences: Ringtails have white around their eyes, brown fur, while the genet has spots all over its body.

The ringtail and the genet behave similarly. By night they run up and down trees hunting for small prey: fruit, insects, lizards, birds and rodents. By day they hide in holes or brush. Both slinky creatures are hyper alert, adept at keeping out of the way of their main predators that include snakes, owls, and big cats.

Their way of life demands the ability to see well in the dark, to climb, balance, snatch and be willing to eat most anything. These qualities mean a compact body, short legs, big eyes, a sensitive nose and ears, plus a long balancing tail. Ringtails and genets are mostly solitary animals, mate briefly and the young stay with mom for a short time until they can hunt for themselves.

Ringtails and genets look alike and act alike but their most recent common ancestor was 60 million years ago, when the “cat-like” carnivores (Feliformia) separated from the “dog-like” Caniformia. From the latter stock evolved the Procyonids in the Americas. The Procyonids today include ringtails, racoons, coatis and kinkajous. About 10 million years ago, ringtails and raccoons diverged from one another. That means they separated longer ago than humans did from chimpanzees. The ringtail is Arizona’s state mammal and lives in many parts of the desert, places we can glimpse and appreciate them.

The genets are part of a group called the Viverrids that evolved from Feliformia stock in the Old World. They include genets, civets, and linsangs – all mysterious scented creatures that are among the most poorly known carnivores. The similarities between ringtails and genets are due to adaptation to similar environments. This is called convergent evolution and is fairly common in nature. Examples include hummingbirds in the Americas and the similar but different lineage of sunbirds in Africa. Also sharks, a fish, contrasted with a dolphin, a mammal, but both streamlined swimmers. Even plants converge in appearance when they have to cope with similar habitats. Consider the spiny desert cacti of the Americas and the spiny euphorbias of Africa. Very different genetic backgrounds but both groups needing to conserve water and protect themselves from animals in hot climates.

Photo of ringtail exploring mining cabin
Ringtail exploring my mining cabin, Feather River CA, 1966

Ringtails introduced themselves to me when I was a young placer gold miner in the mountains of California. When they visited our camp, hardened miner types melted in their presence. We loved to lure them in, feed and play with them, but left them wild and free. I got hooked on these creatures, called Bassaricus astutus.

Later when I went to Africa, I was struck by the similar genet, Genetta genetta, who also came into buildings to be fed, yet remaining wild and free too. Ringtails and genets are my “totem” animals. I identify with them. I too am a visitor to the modern busy world. I feed and play here but long to escape back to the wild.

Jeannette feeding a genet
The author with a genet at Ndutu Safari Lodge, Tanzania, 1987

A friend who ran a lodge in the southern Serengeti where genets were abundant gave me the nickname Genetta. It fits me better than Bassaricus. My Genetta name reminds me of both these graceful convergent creatures of the two different continents that have shaped me.

Categories
Arizona Evolution Safari

Hawk or Buzzard?

I dread meeting this bird on safari. I try to distract my clients’ attention:

“Er….Everybody, look at that hartebeest on the left”It’s a beautiful hawk about 2ft tall, who often perches on top of a tree displaying his pure white breast to the morning sun. Try as I will to ignore him, someone always spots him.

“What’s that big hawk on the right, Dave?”

“(sigh)…It’s an Augur Buzzard”.

“A what? An Ogre Bustard?”

“No. A-U-G-U-R as in prophecy. Buzzard as in hawk”

“Oh, so he’s a scavenger then?”

“Noooo!…Let me explain….”

“Hey! Is that a lion?”

“No, it’s a hartebeest.”

“Are we nearly there yet?….”

Back in the day, the Europeans were familiar with large brown hawks sailing on broad wings over hill and farmland, searching for rabbits and rodents. The Romans called them buteo, which morphed through Old French buson or buison to  Anglo-Norman buisart and hence to buzzard. Buzzards were known to be predators who rarely scavenged; the familiar carrion-eaters were black or red kites around the cities, and vultures in southern Europe.

When European naturalists explored Africa, they found their familiar Common Buzzard on winter migration, and met similar native species which they named Mountain Buzzard, Jackal Buzzard, and, ugh, Augur Buzzard. “Why augur?” I would like to ask Herr Ruppell (1836) who named it. It’s not from “auger”, which is a kind of drill, and this is not a boring bird. An Augur in Roman times was a kind of prophet or soothsayer, who interpreted the intentions of the gods from natural signs such as the movement (or entrails) of birds.

The Europeans who settled the New World were more taxonomically confused. They took the ‘buzzard concept’ and applied it to a large black soaring scavenger, a.k.a. Turkey Vulture. The closest relative of the European buzzard was named, quite accurately, Red-tailed Hawk.

So the Red-tailed Hawk which occasionally soars over our saguaros in Arizona is the ecological equivalent of the Augur Buzzard in Ngorongoro and Serengeti. They are virtually the same bird, with brick-red tails and keen dark eyes.

“Just think of it as an African red-tailed hawk”, I tell my confused American tourists.

Redtailed Hawk and Augur Buzzard
Left: Red-tailed Hawk, Buteo jamaicensis, right: Augur Buzzard, Buteo augur

Categories
Safari

Eclipse

Crowd at eclipse viewing site

We never expected so many people!

Wrenched from our beds at Utengule Coffee Lodge before dawn, we boarded a bus and drove three hours east along the main highway from Mbeya, Tanzania. Turning north, we had continued several miles to Rujewa. This remote little village had been chosen for viewing the Annular Solar Eclipse on 1st September 2016.

A total eclipse of the sun happens when the moon passes in front of the sun, completely obscuring it for a few minutes. An annular eclipse means that a ring of sunlight would be visible surrounding the Moon’s disc. This happens when the Moon’s elliptical orbit takes it so far from Earth that its disc looks smaller than that of the Sun. There are slightly more annular than total eclipses because, on average, the Moon lies too far from Earth to cover the Sun completely. Total and annular eclipses are visible somewhere on Earth about 3 times every 2 years, but at any given spot you would only see one every 400 years. To see an annular eclipse was a very big deal for the people of Rujewa. Their village lay on the median of the path of totality, a strip 100km wide running across northern Madagascar, Mozambique, Tanzania, DRC and Gabon, within which viewers would see the sun and moon perfectly aligned.

The eclipse had been publicized in the national media, with reassurances that this was a natural phenomenon and the world would not end nor the Sun fall from the sky. Tanzania Tourist Board had also promoted it as a tourist attraction. So people came not only from Mbeya region but from far away to see this rare event, including 16 of us all the way from USA.

Merchants spread out curios for sale at eclipse viewing site

Cultural dancers

As the moon began to eat away at the sun, the murmur of the crowd swelled. Arms rose above the heads, shielding eyes, aiming cellphones or tablets or cameras at the sun. My group had brought tripods and filters and long lenses. Each photographer attracted a ring of spectators, eager to look at the image on the back of a digital camera, trying to photograph that with their phones, or merely taking selfies next to the aliens. A roving reporter interviewed some of us for the BBC World Service.

Two photographers point cameras at sky  Woman photographing with mobile phone  BBC reporter interviewing tourists Boy views eclipse through special glasses  Man photographs image of eclipse from camera display with his phone

At least half the viewers were crisply uniformed school groups, whose teachers herded them into lines. Each student in turn had a few seconds of wonderment, viewing the sun through the communal eclipse specs. I wandered among the less organized school groups distributing spare eclipse viewers and anarchy.

Several people asked if I could pose for a photo with them. A raucous quartet of party girls sharing a beer can called, “Hey mzungu! Take our picture!” before trooping off in search of fresh excitement.

Party girls pose for photo

A young couple approached me, husband dragging pretty wife by her hand.

“My wife has a question for you, sir, but she is too shy to speak to a Mzungu!”

A small crowd gathered. I took her hand and said in Swahili,

“Hello, don’t be afraid. I’m just a human being, like you. What would you like to know?”

She giggled and looked embarrassed but eventually said,

“What is the cause of this thing, this eclipse?”

So I explained how the sun is far away, and how the moon was passing between us and the sun. She seemed to get it, and thanked me.

“You’re very welcome. And beautiful too!”

She dissolved into more giggles and was dragged away.

At 11:53 the eclipse reached its maximum. The day became a little darker and definitely colder, but even 95% obscured, the tropical midday sun was still too bright for us to see the ‘ring of fire’ with the naked eye or an unfiltered camera. I held my eclipse specs over my lens and got an image.

After three minutes the shadow passed. The sky brightened, the warmth returned. An eclipse is so transient, a brief crossing of heavenly bodies. I captured a bright ring in my photo but it could be anything, anywhere.

What I will remember more is the delight on the faces of children and adults alike, whether brown or pink, all united in our excitement and awe at this natural wonder.

Children excited about viewing eclipse Girl wearing white hijab

Categories
Arizona Safari Tucson

Balloons

Tumamoc & Tucson w/ balloon
Tumamoc & Tucson w/ balloon

Colorful, floating, flying, festive and fun. I love balloons. The little ones you blow up evoke happy images of celebrations and the hot air ones that lift you high to soar over landscapes can pull you physically into a higher realm. Today I saw a hot air balloon making its way across the Tucson valley, framed by our iconic saguaros. It reminded me of the thrill of seeing the land from on high.

Recently both of us had a chance to climb into the big baskets and fly over Serengeti. Jeannette got a ride over the kopjes and plains where animals collect around the Seronera river. David got to float over the southern plains covered with vast herds. It was a rare treat to view one of our favorite landscapes aloft. The bubbly champagne breakfast can lift your spirits even higher!

Aerial view of balloon over wildebeest, Serengeti Plain
Balloon over wildebeest, Serengeti Plain

Aerial view of wildebeest and balloon shadow on Serengeti Plain
Wildebeest and balloon shadow, Serengeti Plain

Aerial view of wildebeest herd
Wildebeest herd on Serengeti Plain as seen from balloon

Categories
Safari

Where there is no Dentist

So gappy to meet you!
So gappy to meet you!

Crack! As I bite down on some tough meat, I feel an expensive crunch and something hard rattles against my teeth. Damn, there goes that front crown! It’s the eve of a new safari and I must go to the airport to meet a new group. I only get this one chance to make a good first impression. “Hi, I’m Zavid your zure-leazer. Welcome to Zanzania!” – Wanna come with this gap-toothed lisping troll into darkest Africa? No, I need a quick fix. The crown is intact and hollow. It fits over a peg anchored in the tooth’s root. I just need some dental cement, but I won’t find it in Arusha on a Sunday night, and tomorrow I have to brief the group after breakfast, then we hit the road to adventure. So, what have I got that’s sticky and indestructible and kind to the mouth? Chewing gum! Well, it won’t set hard, but its stickiness is legendary, and I have plenty. I start chewing and pack the crown with gum and push it into place. It sits well and feels good. This can work – as long as I don’t bite hard on it.

And it does work. For almost a week, I confidently grin and eat, and begin to take my flexible tooth for granted. Mistake. Nibbling some meat off a bone, I feel the loose crown roll to the back of my throat, then it’s GONE. I could bolt out of the dining-tent into the Serengeti night and throw up – but why waste such a good dinner? There’s another alternative, but it’s not pleasant. It involves some waiting,  a can of water, a stick, a flat rock, and a hole in the ground.

Gynanisa moth on my hand
The emperor moth at my lamp (Gynanisa sp.)

24 hours later, preparing to “go through the motions” for the third time, I step out of my tent into the moonlight. By my outside lamp, a giant emperor moth flutters. So does my heart, as I sense a large presence.

Buffalo. He stands on my path, ruminating. Two more chomp at grass ten yards from the tent. To hell with buffalos – I have a mission. I stay close to the tent, and they don’t care. This time, I hit pay-dirt, a little white tooth amid the brown. I boil and disinfect it, then chew up some gum and presto! I have my smile again. Maybe next week, I’ll get some dental cement.

Buffalo at night on path to my tent
Buffalo on path to my tent

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The phrase “sh*t-eating grin” has a totally new meaning for me now.

Categories
quiz Safari

Hominid Eyes

Looking a gorilla or chimp in the eyes is – for most humans – a profound experience. Ape eyes are so enigmatic and it’s obvious that we have much in common in the way of facial expressions and behavior.

Do you like being stared at? Probably not. In most primates a direct stare is a threat, while looking down or away is submissive. Being able to read the eye movements of others is very important in social communication. This is easier to do if the color of the iris contrasts with that of the sclera – in our case, the sclera is the “white of the eye”. In other members of the hominid family (apes and us) the sclera is usually darker, but occasional mutants show a white sclera too. Why might it be an advantage to have a white sclera? Why do some people dye their sclera black?

Here is a fun quiz for all of you who think you know how to tell about a person or animal from the eyes. See if you can guess the owners of the eyes at left. (Answers below)

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answers: orang, bonobo, human, chimp, gorilla

Categories
Safari Tucson

Noise

Jeanette wearing giant model bat ears
Some people are really sensitive to noise – Jeannette with simulated bat ears at Arizona Sonora Desert Museum

Here in Tanzania I am reminded of peoples’ different tolerance of noise. Back in Tucson, our close neighborhood has firm rules about noise pollution. No power tools or loud music between 10 p.m. and 8 a.m. One new resident complained angrily to the community about a loud rattly power tool being used on a metal roof at dawn – the culprit was a Gila woodpecker, who had found this to be a much more effective territorial display than drumming on a dead tree!

In our gardens, leafblowers are banned. However, we dispose of our tree prunings on site with a rather noisy chipper that converts them into mulch. Recently I was running it late in the evening and next day we received a complaint from a neighbor about 300 yards away. We worked it out amicably, that I wouldn’t chip after dark. So there are layers of noise prevention – mutually accepted constraints, policing by neighbors, and if that fails, policing by the police.

In the suburb of Arusha where we’ve been staying (picture), it’s a different story. Moshono Juu is about as densely populated as our Tucson suburb, but people are either more tolerant, less organized or both. A lot of the noise is due to religion, particularly evangelical preachers. They get behind a powerful amplifier and pour hellfire on the whole neighborhood. Last night it woke us up about 2:30 a.m. An insane bellowing in Kiswahili, the same phrases repeated over and over, definitely channeling a god of hate and vengeance rather than love. I wondered what sleepless cult attended this harangue. Would they be stoked on drugs or booze to endure such cacophony? And would our PC friend Dave call it “entitlement” if I, a mzungu (paleface), were to walk into an African village and demand a good night’s sleep? But then, what if other neighbors also wanted to sleep, yet didn’t dare make a fuss? This must be a powerful cult indeed. Would a wild-eyed enraged congregation fall on me with rocks and cudgels for interrupting their religious ecstasy?

Eventually, insomnia and curiosity won. I took a big maglite that could double as a club, and slipped out into the moonlight into unscripted territory. The gravel road down the hill was treacherous, like walking on ball bearings. The demonic sound grew ever louder. Half a mile away, its source was a low barn of poles and tarps with a tin roof. A simple church. Easy to burn down – but I had no matches. A long white power cable connected it to a nearby hut – easy to cut, if only I had a panga. OK, I get cranky when sleep-deprived; those are last resorts. Let’s first assess the strength of the enemy and try a polite request. The doors were shut so I peered through a window opening and was amazed. The benches were empty! There was a makeshift altar and a table full of sound equipment. Taped hymns were playing, and a lone young man in a shabby Tshirt was pacing to and fro, yelling into his microphone. I leaned in through the window and he turned down the sound and came over. He looked sheepish.

“Please can you make less noise?” I asked. “It’s 4 a.m. and we can’t sleep!”

“Where you from?”he asked.

“Up the hill. It doesn’t matter. Can’t you let us sleep?”

I wished him goodnight and left him leaning on the sill, his head bowed, perhaps seeking divine inspiration. All was quiet as I trudged up the hill. Then a short final outburst, slightly less loud, barely enough to blister paint or singe nearby trees, and he was done for the night. It was nearly 5 a.m.