The following 3 days would be a brutally hot, mildly productive but educational experience.  As the red sun rose above the horizon on our second day, our cool morning stroll quickly transformed into a blistering typical day in the plains. Within 30 minutes of the sunrise all of the clouds had burnt off and we began to sweat. One hour into the journey we came across a series of zebra tracks that hadn’t been there the previous evening. We decided to follow them in hopes of getting some good ground shots of the psychedelic donkey-like creatures. For 20 minutes or so we followed the tracks, winding our way through some thick brush and out into an open plain where we found 3 adults and a baby casually grazing in the dry pasture. We sat in the shade to rest and watch the zebras chow. Thankfully, it was still early enough in the day that the shade and cool breeze was enough to get some rest. I sat and closed my eyes. The whistle of the wind and song of Fischers Lovebirds filled the air. But just as Paul Theroux once wrote, ‘Not the trumpeting of elephants nor the roar of lions, the predominant sound of the African bush was the coo-cooing of the turtle dove.’

Sadly, our shade had left us and again we were being cooked alive by the sun. We continued our trek for a short time and lazily wandered back to the village, sweaty shirts draped on our heads. I’d forgotten that it was a Sunday, so when we rounded the last large cluster of trees, we found ourselves surrounded by a couple hundred Maasai men, women and children. The weekends at Engareyani Maasai village are fairly busy despite its remote location. Families from all of the bomas for miles around walk for hours in the early morning to come and sell their goods. I decided to walk with Pius a bit longer – for I was in search of some traditional Maasai gear. I wanted some jewelry, one of the infamous swords they use to cut through bone, and my own set of shuka. I’ve always admired the Maasai for continuing to wear their traditional wraps. They mildly resemble the togas of the Romans, without the aristocratic white and testosterone filled sexual deviant. They appear to be silent humble warriors. Seeing Pius’s father slowly stroll through the plains is a legendary sight. His ancient looking skin, dark glazed over eyes with a thousand yard stare – walking stick in hand and sword at his side.

We searched only briefly and found that it was going to be difficult to negotiate a reasonable price with me present. Pius sent me back to his brother’s house to wait for him to bring some options back. So I strolled towards the house admiring the bustle of the market around me. People stared, some laughed, some scowling, either way I enjoyed myself – just watching the purple and red cloth flowing in the wind, the twinkling tiny disks hanging by the hundreds on the bejeweled passers-by. I decided to make a quick stop at the shop to grab a pouch of Konyagi (The gin like creation made here in Tanzania, sold in 3oz soft plasic pouches). I quickly regretted my decision as I heard an obnoxious familiar voice bellow out to my left. “Daoglos! Ukuja, ukunywa beiya” Once again, I was in for a painful, but educational experience. I sat down next to Joseph and listened to him rattle of a whole bunch of confusing broken statements about his “brothers” around him. I think the nearly unconscious one to my left was actually his brother, but either way he continued on motioning to the various men in the room mumbling inaudible trash talk that did eventually end up in near violence. I was not afraid, but not exactly comfortable with the situation. The other men assumed I had bought his beer and were all complaining that I wasn’t going to buy them beers, and to elevate the situation, Joseph just began cussing and waving his arms at them. So, I quickly finished my drink, begged their pardon and departed back to the house. By the look on my face Pius could tell I had had another exciting time with Joseph – patted me on the back and showed me his finds. I purchased a few of the goods and sat down in the cool dark room of his brother’s house to read my book – enough excitement for one day.

The next two days would be a frustrating lifeless experience. I’d forgotten to bring my camera trap with me, therefore eliminating my ability get some cool nighttime shots of that honey badger and other nocturnal animals. The last of the exciting experiences was the tracking of a small snake near-by one of the bomas. This creature conveniently kept to the softer sand areas, making it very easy to track – winding its way through a series of bushes, I was so close I could feel it. We had been searching for days! We saw tracks of small snakes, medium snakes, even huge ones. After our visit to Messerani Snake Park outside of Arusha, I was just dying to get some shots of a cobra, or puff adder or even the legendary Black Mamba. So, on we went, weaving our way through the brush, catching our clothes on thorns, occasionally so thoroughly that no which direction I twisted I was pricked by 3 inch brutal spikes. Finally, just before the acceptance of complete failure, I caught a glimpse of something in the branches of a bush about 60 feet away. I ran like a child to an ice-cream truck – there hanging in the tree was the un-torn freshly shed skin of a snake, measuring about one foot in length. I had searched for so long with no results, even finding skin was enough to make me jump for joy! It was even something I could take back with me, without the disaproval of customs officials. I carefully plucked it from the tree, it was still wet! That snake had JUST disappeared. I stuffed the skin into a pocket and gave the order to search furiously through the surrounding area. A sweaty twenty minutes later, with no finds, I decided to call it a day and head back to the house. When we arrived I immediately pulled out my field guide and began to examine the skin. Cross referencing details of the scales and color with information in the book I found, the skin belongs to a Common Egg-eater (Dasypeltis Scabra)! For me, this made the whole 4 days, a WIN! Tomorrow I would once again board the large truck, this time in the cold dark hours of the morning. This time, it was not so pleasant. My fellow roof-riders and I wrapped up tight to keep warm. I even pulled one of my shuka from my bag and wrapped it tightly around my head and shoulders. On this journey, there was no laughter, no jovial conversation. Just a group of people huddled together to share warmth, and a few of us (in my opinion, lucky ones), wrapped just tightly enough to sit up top and watch the red giant rise over the plains one more time.

That first night was an uncomfortable sleepless night, and I actually found relief in the rising sun. The rhythmic coo of a turtle dove kindly replaced the brutal buzzing of my cell-phone alarm clock. I turned to find Pius had already started moving about the home collecting ingredients for our breakfast of chipsi mayai (fried potato wedges mixed into a few scrambled eggs). We quickly ate the meal and collected some gear for the days adventure. After my moonlit stroll the previous night, Pius and I sat and discussed the following days plan. Our goal was to walk out to the first (and most desirable) site he had chosen as our possible future boma (a traditional Maasai homestead, usually one to 5 buildings for a family and its closest relatives, surrounded by a fence of thorny shrubs), then we would hike another kilometer north to his older brothers home to check on the materials they had collected for the huts we would soon be building.

The moment we stepped out into the already blazing sun – fully traditionally adorned in, earrings, necklaces, bracelets, anklets, shuka, sword and all, a man loudly approached us. I’d immediately recognized him as one of the many villagers that found it necessary to come into the family home to introduce themselves the night before. This particular individual made it painfully clear that he spoke English and would be present for the duration of my stay, assisting myself and Pius in the collection of the materials and initial construction of the boma. As nice as he was, I found myself begging for patience on a number of occasions. So, on we trekked, into the bush. As we walked away from the home through the center of the village, I began to recognize the sights I’d seen here 5 years back – the large watering hole (now dry) 100 yards out to my left, the two small shops to purchase basic survival goods and food, even some of the trees. One of those trees was bent over at a more than 30 degree angle, with two baby goats awkwardly perched on its trunk calling for their mother – an amusing sound almost as if they were a drunk and disorderly toddler screaming for its mother’s breast. As we made our way through the plains I watched Pius react to his surroundings, he was watching for something. I had strayed out to his left by 50 yards or so and made my way over to him. He stopped, pushing some thorned branches out of his way; he bent down to inspect the ground. As I reached him he looked up with a giddy smile and said, “There! Look! A Honey badger stole and ate a snake!” I burst into laughter, startling my dear friend. I gave one short futile attempt at explaining the relation between our situation and a popular YouTube video I’d recently been introduced to. One painfully awkward and confused moment later, I told him to just forget I’d said anything and moved on. After snapping a few shots of the animal tracks he’d been referring to, we moved on. Between the village and reaching our first destination, we saw a myriad of tracks. Giraffe (probably my friend from the previous night), wildebeest, zebra, of course goats, my personal favorite so far, the honey badger, large snakes, small snakes, a small species of wild cat, rodents, birds, cattle, ostrich, and even the illusive Hyena!

Only 30 minutes into our journey we’d arrived at the first of the 3 sites. Immediately upon our arrival, by some sort of Maasai voodoo magic, two of Pius’s brothers appeared in the clearing across from us to discuss the details of our plans. The first site was decent enough – a large wide-open space with nothing but short grasses and some short trees surrounding the clearing. It was nice, but I wanted a fully unobstructed view. I conveyed my desires and we quickly moved on to the next destination. What I thought would be another few kilometers of trekking, turned out to be literally the next clearing over, not 500 yards to the north. The moment we cleared the tree line, I realized I was standing in the exact same spot I’d stood 5 years previous, marveling at the surreal feelings bubbling to the surface. There I was, surrounded by low tan grasses, scattered acacia, far out to the north east a small boma (Pius’s brothers), and there in front of me, not 10 miles to the north lay the majestic Mt. Meru. Like the ancient pyramids only a couple thousand miles away, Meru burst into the skyline – a perfectly triangular green jungle of creepy crawlies, lightly shrouded in a haze of moisture hanging on its shoulders like a Maasai shuka keeping her warm.

“This is the spot.”

Pius told his brothers that I’d approved and they were happy to invite us to their home for a cup of tea and inspection of materials.We drank the chai and walked across the boma.  Behind two of the buildings lay bundles and bundles of dried grasses and branches, just waiting to be constructed into my own little village. We discussed logistics of construction and set out back towards the site. After a minute of searching for sufficient shade, we bargained and agreed on a price to build the fence that would soon protect half a dozen huts, a bathroom, showers, stables, a greenhouse, observation tower and more. The day, despite its lack of reptilian discoveries, was a great success.

We wound our way over the mostly flat terrain stopping every half hour or so to unload passengers and supplies to the various villages and bomas scattered across the desert plains. It was an inspirational sight to see the disembarking Maasai hop from the truck and begin walking into what appeared to be an open endless landscape. They would eventually disappear amongst the shrubs and apparition-like heat waves coursing across the cracked red clay. The remaining passengers would occasionally break out in laughter and jovial conversation, periodically looking up to the railing spying on the strange visitor. Pius kindly translated, they were discussing plans to visit the village Pius’s family lived in to amuse themselves at my presence. “Come to my home in a couple days, we’ll sell him lots of jewelry!” If an mzungu is present, everything becomes about money. For a period of time, it bothered me but I just accepted it as another well developed skill to help them survive in this harsh environment. We finally arrived at Engareyani Village, one of the last villages on the road before it makes a long turn west, heading towards the road to Arusha, the larger of the two cities in this region. As the truck pulled through the town, doors opened – parents standing, watching as a flurry of children poured out of the homes to chase after the truck, all screaming “mzungu, mzungu, mzungu!” They really don’t get many visitors way out here…

Pius had been in touch with his family over a couple of weeks discussing our plans for the upcoming trip. Naturally, being a very remote village, it only took days for the near one hundred occupants to know of our plans. We unloaded our bags into Pius’s brother’s house where we would be staying for the duration of the trip. Pius’s mother brought a kerosene lantern into the small, home. It dimly lit the interior walls, all covered with newspaper, the apparent Maasai replacement for wallpaper. (The traditional Maasai home is constructed with branches from the local Orng’oswa (the tree from which we derived our company name), the red dirt, and clay from the interior of the giant termite mounds that can be found scattered throughout the plains. The roof is constructed with either large bundles of long grasses or corrugated steel sheets, depending on how rich you are).  As we sat together drinking a cup of tea, Pius’s father returned home from his day of herding the family’s livestock. I courteously greeted him with the traditional “shikamoo mzee”, he smiled, shook my hand and replied “marahaba”. I moved to allow him a seat and squatted on the dirt floor. The next half an hour was like something out of a cliché Hollywood movie.

– The khaki sporting explorer squatted on the dirt floor of the small, but comfortably warm hut. The dim yellow light of the lantern flickering, dancing across the cracked mud walls -random articles, and junk mail newspaper pinned loosely around the room. Sitting in this other-worldly place, listening to what sounded like music – the elegant Maasai language, as Pius’s father told him a story of a recent lion attack on another village 30 kilometers away. The young explorer found himself frustrated by the photos and ads for fancy clothing and nice cars and everything western… There simply was no place left untouched, unmolested by the infectious desire for shiny things. He stood and excused himself stepping out into the warm quiet night.  “Am I doing the right thing” he wondered. “How can I show the world what these people are like, without changing them?” The unfortunate answer is that it was simply naivety – there is no way to stop the change. As he walked out of the village he saw a small hill not too far away. The explorer weaved his way through the succulents and ocean of spiked brutal vegetation, bright stars and a massive moon lighting his way, he climbed to the top of the hill and sat in the sand. There between the three giant mountains, he sat looking out across the brightly lit plains of Tanzania – and slowly unannounced, a full grown giraffe walked directly in front of him. Thinking he would be trampled if he even moved the explorer sat, in silence, just watching it eat from the tree in front of him. He was sure that he hadn’t been seen, that he was another shrub, hidden amongst many – the giraffe turned, and stared directly into his eyes, unwavering, just staring. The explorer and the giraffe, stood there, watching each other, studying each other. Then as if to say “ok, you’re not so bad”, the giraffe continued to pluck delectable bites from the tree and watch the new visitor. The explorer stood, and to his amazement, the animal just kept on eating – he turned, smiling, and began walking back to the village. “Yes, people, must come.”

Hello Explorers!

We’re way overdue for an update! But I’m happy to report the last month has been very productive. All of the necessary preparations have been completed and some exciting events have transpired. The most recent of which was our trip to Engareyani Maasai village about 15 kilometers northeast of Mt. Meru. It was great to get out into the bush and see Pius’s family again. This trip was dedicated primarily to the acquisition of the land required for our Cultural Immersion Tours portion of the company. Pius (our senior safari driver and Maasai guide) went out to the village early this year to scout out a few of the best locations for the project. This made picking the best spot very easy, allowing for a little more time doing what he and I do best… Tracking wildlife!

The start of the journey was everything I’d remembered from the last visit back in 2007. The first step was squeezing ourselves into the uncomfortably jam-packed daladala (mini-bus taxi) for a 45 minute ride from downtown Moshi to Kwa Sadala village. From there, we set off to Sanya Juu market place (don’t let me forget Sanya Juu for a later post, as I have great plans to keep  you, the readers,  a little more connected with our slice of paradise!) The vehicle that is the Tanzanian daladala (bills y’all), is not to be taken lightly. If you have an issue with claustrophobia, or perhaps a problem with people invading your “personal bubble”, then you’re gonna spend some serious cash trying to get where we were going! After 45 sweaty minutes of people staring at the crazy “mzungu” (white man), we arrived in Sanya Juu market place. (Another side note, someone amusingly translated mzungu as “One who holds his farts in” Validity anyone?). So, “the tight-ass” and his trusty companion wove their way through the bustling Saturday market’s many isles of tin covered shacks collecting food for the next 4 days. As with any other purchases I’ve made here in Africa, the prices begin at 400% of their normal cost once my skin has been spotted. As 4pm rolled around we piled into the bed of the large flat-bed truck and prepared for departure. The next 3 hours would be a bumpy, unforgettable ride into the vast plains. The bed of the truck was thoroughly lined with bags of maize, cloth wrapped Maasai men and women, jugs of cooking oil, goats, chickens and children. It was filled so completely that (much like my previous ride), Pius and I spent those hours sitting on the tube steel frame atop the truck. The warm breeze blasted by as we bounced across the dirt path through the bush. I say path because to say road would be unfair to the word. Pius and I sat in silence watching the giant red sun set below the horizon as we dodged left and right to avoid the on-coming acacia thorns. God I missed this place.

To be continued…