The alarm clock is more of a reminder; we wake up naturally, with the sun around six am. The buzz catches us stumbling into shorts and socks and shoes and ducking into the warming morning air. The dew soaks our shoes within steps as we head for the trail. Our morning run is uphill to the road and back (mileage? this is Africa..."a few hundred meters" might be a mile and might be three). The red dust coats our wet shoes as the sweat pours into our eyes and makes us squint. I have forgotten my glasses, so the mountains are blurry green and grey patchworks in the distance, and the rolling hillsides and fields and rivers are a bit indistinct. We run on the outsides of worn doubletrack, avoiding the ruts and potholes dug by passing landrovers. I jump over one such rut to avoid the acacia branch that reaches into the road with inch-long thorns, begging for a piece of my flesh.

The return is reward for the determination it takes to get to the top without stopping. Downhill is bliss and through a gap in the low trees I can spy the Ruaha pouring through massive boulders upstream of the campus; the sun is just rising over it. We have time for a quick shower and sun-dry before the old cowbell rings for breakfast. Josef and the wapishi have cooked up a special treat: pancakes, devoured quickly with imitation syrup and pineapple jam. There may not be many maple trees in East Africa, but there are plenty of pinapples!

The nine o'clock class bell finds some sitting on logs, reading or scribbling in their journals, while others make small talk over coffee or simply sit and enjoy the morning. I am busily building callouses on my fingers: the one blessing of not having a drum is that Michael has taken it upon himself to improve my guitar playing. The song of the day is "Jesus, Be the Center," a cry that we are learning comes not just from the peace and unity of its simple chords but also from the jarring confusiong of the minor chords that I am hammering from a guitar that Tim has tuned to mimic a banjo.

Dr. Arensen, unless interrupted, like yesterday, by a neighboring biologist carrying a vine snake (poisonous...no antidote, either. But being back-fanged, it has to chew on you a little to deposit its venom...) will lecture for an hour (or two...this is Africa time, event time) on zebra social structure. Tea and pineapple (or mango...your choice) break follows, and then Eli will entrance us for an hour or so with ornithology and our native Swahili teachers will try to explain how each noun belongs to a different class, and each class has different subject and object pre- and in-fixes to be attached to verbs, ad infinitum. We will learn to enunciate properly, because the difference between "I understand" and "I am completely drunk" is the difference between Nime-elewa and Nime-lewa, and Hujambo means "Hello" while Hujamba involves passing gas. That's right...the Jamba Juice coffee houses in America don't sound so appetizing anymore...

Classes break in time for chakula cha mchana...the afternoon meal. The horsemanship people will head off to the farm, while the rest of us will swim in the river (just below the rapids and upstream of the hippo prints we found two days ago), explore the hillside through endless paths, or venture out into the local villages to make friends and practice our kiswahili. Often the local children will come in the afternoon to play net(volley)ball, futbol, or duck-duck-goose (we have enculturated this game into twiga-twiga-fisi [giraffe-giraffe-hyena] and feel proud of our translation skills).

The evening might bring folklore class, or storytelling around the campfire as Bwana Jon shares his African childhood with us, and the folklore students tell tales they have gathered throughout the week. The night will burn on as some play games while others read to the accompaniment of aspiring guitarists. Tonight several of us will gather to read How People Grow aloud. Our college journeys have led us to common places of questioning, discouragement, and doubt, and we are leaning on each other as we try to make sense of both the hope and hopelessness we see everyday.

Lion. As in, large cat, with mane, chewing on a wildebeest skull. It was not ten feet from our front bumper. In cafeteria terms, I could have nailed him with a tater tot, no problem and no chance of missing. And he growled at me when I stood up to get a better picture of his amazingness.

Yeah, I think that works for a highlight right now. Thursday we flew out of London on British Airways; Naomi, the Tanzanian stranger sitting next to me, drilled me in Swahili and prayed for our journey. And we watched the Fighting Temptations. Gospel music and T-Bone running through our heads, we arrived in Dar Es Salaam.

There is so much to say...Dar is stinking hot. We buzzed through a city of ramshackle shops and fenced compounds along the coast to Lazy Lagoon, our home for the weekend. There, on an island of sand and sea breezes in the Indian Ocean, we snorkeled around coral reefs, got to know each other, and adjusted to the time lag, all while being served hand and foot by the amazing staff (three-course meals, afternoon tea, fresh seafood, omelettes and fruit for breakfast...ahhh, paradise).

The next event: safari in Mikumi. We had an excellent day: two male lions, enjoying kills within feet of the road, herds of wildebeest and cape buffalo, reedbuck leaping across the road (how much buck could a reedbuck buck buck, if a reedbuck buck could buck reedbuck bucks?), warthogs, a pride of lions with cubs, baby warthogs and zebras, vultures. I blew straight through two rolls of film.

I rode astride the Hulk: a massive green diesel powered four-wheel drive military transport once used to patrol the Berlin wall. Expertly handled by an amazing driver (the thrice-blessed Edjedi), she conquered mud, sand, water, trees and rocks with fifteen people mounted on top. Quite the beast!

Sunburnt, sore and happy, we camped for the night and continued on to our home base near Iringa: Masumbo, the sound of many waters. Heaven on earth. Tucked up in the Tanzanian Highlands, our Masumbo campus is hot in the day, cool at night, and lush and green due to the rainy season. Mike Dierks and I have a five-man tent, shaded by a grass roof and an acacia tree, that overlooks the little Ruaha river (currently too fast to swim in...something about Class 6 rapids, hippos and instant death...but later when the river goes down we'll be breaking out the inner tubes (: )

Right now, I'm in a sweaty internet cafe in Iringa, on a computer aptly named Tembo (elephant). Our first Wildlife Behavior and Swahili classes went excellently this morning, in our grass-thatched classroom. Our spare time was pleasantly spent with volleyball, frisbee, and books (written material is a prized possession out here...there's already long waiting lists for Meic Pearse' Why the Rest Hates the West, Lewis' The Great Divorce, and Buechner's Telling the Truth. My own copy of Tolkein's The Silmarillion is in less demand...for the time being :). Tonight we will play soccer, and some may enjoy scrambling on the river rocks and watching the sunset. Afterwards...the stars are amazing. We are far away from civilization, and there are so many new constellations! It's absolutely gorgeous...you just have to remember to keep stamping around loudly in order to not surprise a snake :)

My time is almost up...life here is amazing. Eli and Linda and Bryan and the Arensens are amazing staff. I'm very priveleged to get to know them. I am looking forward to learning more about this amazing continent, and I am hoping that God will surprise me during this spiritual, geographical and intellectual journey. Your emails and prayers are greatly appreciated. In the middle of all this grandeur, there are many things from the past few years troubling and wearying my heart that only God can answer.

Kwa heri!
Dan

London in 60 seconds:
St. Paul's: amazing. Choral Evensong @ St. Paul's: priceless.
Buses: what fun...how practical...what a headache...what interesting people...holy crap, are they making out? again?
Streets that don't go in straight lines. ever. simply beautiful.
Parks. Big ones. In the middle of the city. Brilliant!
Architecture: unbelievably impressive.
Art: beyond words...even the Tate Modern was interesting.
Languages: more than can be imagined, and all speaking at once.
Accents: yes, I wish I was born British...I would sound so much more intelligent.
Cultures: incredible variety.
Cultural food: oh yeah baby!
Home-cooked Chinese food and new friends: what needs to be said?
Happy Host Helmut: quite the chap. intellectual, sharp, witty, and speaks with British accent after singing in German.
Street Musicians: talented.
Fish and Chips: greasy and o-so-delicious.
God: Moving mysteriously and powerfully as always.
Legs: Very, very tired.
Heart: Alive and Happy.

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeha! What's next?

ps--check out imagestation.com, search for members anonimoose and barefootwonder7 for some of Lisa's excellent digital photography. cheers!

London...what an odd, lively, dishevelled old and interesting gentleman you are. I've spent...well, several days, at any rate (I'm still not over the time zone/jet lag thing) wandering your streets and chasing your buses and hearing your myriad of languages. And wishing o so much to have your accent. Any one of them.

Today will be my last day on your streets for a while. It's been a royal pleasure, sir, and I shall return someday, if I can ever muster enough money for your extravagant tastes. Until then...toodleoo!

4:20 am.

I'm ready.

I don't think I've every felt like this before; church was difficult for me tonight, more so than usual. I had to make the extra attempt to be involved, to make conversation, to care: my heart is looking outward now, to the journey ahead. It will be the longest of my life, and I am loathe to tarry here any longer.

My heart is leaping and overflowing with emotions, dichotomistic and schizophrenic. Naive dreams vie in my head with the corpses of dead hopes, and I am pulled in both directions. Are old things passing away, and all things being made new? Death and brokenness have marked my spiritual journey for so long that I have forgotten what a springtime of the soul feels like, and the assurances of friends aside, I am suspicious of hope.

It matters not. I am travelling again. This long break has left me restless, ill at ease and I am anxious to try my hand at anything. It matters not whether this is to be a joyous or sorrowful journey: it is the same Master who gives us both, and it is to Him that I strive. If He chooses to pour out my labor as a drink offering, than so be it.

But somewhere deep in my heart cries out that the wind is changing, and not all is as it appears...