Dar Es Salaam is know as the Bongo (brain) of Tanzania because you need your brain to survive here. Abel and I came, really, for two reasons: a break from living in the bush, and to watch the Passion of Christ. Mission accomplished. First night in town: we ate at Shooter's Grill, a little place with plenty of flava and one-kilo t-bone steaks. While the larger guys worked on expanding their kitambi's, I opted for the more refined meal: prawns served up portuguese style. I have never been so satisfied: spice blended with the tastiest meat in three months. We sat back and thumped our "kabuli ya kuku" (na ngombe, na samaki, na anyama wengine wote) and chatted happily about the church in Tanzania. We even got interviewed for Tanzanian TV!

The next day we tackled mission #2. After wandering around the city doing business, we headed north to the New World Cinema (emblazoned on the outside with the slogan, "Let's Go Movies!"). The Passion of Christ had been extended for another week, and we caught it on the last day. We were the only three people in the theater. Sure, I could quibble on a few of the emphases or details, especially after Life of Christ with Dr. Paige last semester...but who can argue that this is the most awesome story ever. There were only six eyes in the audience, but every one of them, Tanzanian and American, was crying by the end.

There is so much to think about: about sacrifice, about living a noble life, about living for something greater than the mundane or self. But, being an intercultural studies student, two things stick out particularly well. One...Jesus was a carpenter in a "Two-Thirds World" country. He lived in a simple brick house, worked with his hands, had no doctors or nurses or hospitals. There were no movies or TVs or Walmarts. He lived a life much like the one we saw in homestay villages; he can truly say, "Life is more than posessions." One of the things I have struggled with the most in Tanzania is the utter disparity in what Dr. Perkins (the elder) calls "Life Chances." I had the chance for so much more than anyone else: Western Education, Western freedom, movies, music, an awesome house and household, a stay-at-home mom...how does that work? How is it fair? What makes life good, and meaningful, especially when there is so much disparity?

Jesus, too, didn't have those chances. Jesus lived a third world life, and not as a king or a merchant, but a tradesman. Life is more than things, it is more than opportunities...

The other thing I noticed was that Jesus looked a lot like Aragorn. And there is not a lot of time to say much more except that I kept expecting him to whip out a sword and kill people, or fight...but he didn't. He's a different kind of hero than we're used to.

Death Toll:
One Goat
Five Ducks (three by the hand of Dan...but one got away!)
One Cow
Two Vultures
Myriads of Mosquitoes
An Unidentified Bird (cut down midair by piki piki)

And so Dan leaves the Rukwa Valley...

Today Abel the Victorious (can anyone tell I've been hanging out with a certain Lord of Destruction, Colton "Coltonius" Rabenold?) and I mounted our trusty Honda XL125S and piki piki'd our way up several thousand feet of "escrapment" and out of the Rukwa Valley. It was a harrowing journey over massively rutted "roads" complete with mudholes, large rocks, washboarding, and suicidal cows. To say we drove, or perhaps rode, out would be overly generous to the Tanzanian road system. I think bounced and slid and whined would do better credit to the road and the pretentious little mutt of a dirtbike that brought us all those dusty miles. One of the hairiest, and most exhilirating rides of my life. That I have no (new) wounds is a testament to the white-knuckled panache of good man Abel, who put in a good six hours of intense riding to haul my butt out of the valley.

So here I sit in an Internet Cafe, serenaded by trashy American rap as usual, thinking "How can a valley become a home so quickly?" It's sad to pack up and leave another familiar place, especially the Rukwa. It's a rough and ready and rollicking place, like that grizzled uncle you never thought you'd warm to until you finally lived with him for a while. Sure it's burning hot in the day, but a quick plunge into the swimming pool and an exhilirating starlit open-air shower, powered by all the pressure of a clear mountain waterfall, and it's totally worth it. The roads are bad, and for it all the more enjoyable on dirt bikes.

I think what really got me was the people. First, the Rabenolds, with intensity and joy for any guests that dare apply. Then Abel and Samara and Bryan and the other guests, joining in enthusiastically. Then the locals, as ready to laugh with you as at you, to offer their hospitality and then pull you aside and ask for your shoes. They really made Rukwa happen for me, challenging me to stop maintaining the distance of a student, passing through, looking for information and good experiences. To open up and try to connect even a little with people I will never see after this week. To learn people's names anyway. I gave the people of Rukwa a chance to be people...and they gave me a chance to feel at home.

So, Rukwa: I'll miss you and your friendly, forward people. We watched the Jesus movie, together this time, and it was new for both of us. My one prayer is that someone will come and tell that story for the first time to the Wasukuma, for whom it is still a story of the Wafipa and the Europeans. That someone will come to sit under a tree and wave a stick and tell it so it hits your heart and becomes your story, just like it is becoming mine.

In the meantime...the main events, for the people at home:
-helped clear and airstrip; watched an AIM Air puddle jumped come into our wilderness valley
-went babboon hunting. couldn't find any babboons. headed off to the lakes. killed ducks with shotguns.
-killed and ate a cow. and a goat. ate the ducks too. except for the one that flew away...after being shot and having his neck wrung by one very inexperienced young man and two very seasoned hunters. chased unsuccessfully by one angry young man.
-showed the Jesus film in Kiswahili, while conversing with lauging wasukuma and drunk village people.
-was told by said village people that I do not know how to play the drums. or dance. or speak kiswahili. but had fun at the outreach anyway.

So...plan change. I'm not really sure what I'm going to be doing for the next few weeks. But it should be interesting. I'll probably end up mucking along in the Rukwa Valley. We'll see. In the meantime, I'll probably be out of touch for a while...

In the meantime, celebrate Easter: not just a day, but a season of remembering. Lent is a season to reflect on sorrow, suffering, death, and our fallen state. Easter is a season to meditate on resurrection, on being saved from the very things which haunted us through Lent. Easter is a season of joy.

See you in a few!

"I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."

I think Easter is the most sacred and awe-inspiring and joyous holidays I have ever experienced.

And....I'm back. The last two blogs were lost to technical difficulties :( hamna shidha, it's happened two times before that. Something like 5000 TZ Shillings and four hours of work lost. It works all right though, because I pretty much hated those entries anyway. Trying to say too much too well. So, here's what you all missed:

Homestays. Fun. Stressful. Tiring. Learned lots of Kiswahili...but I don't ever want to speak to another Kiswahili speaker again. Lots of really awesome food (Mom, you would be so proud...I loved anytime they put cabbage, peas, beans, or spinach in front of me...but, they made it really easy. Mama Lugano does, after all, pick these things straight out of a garden, and they are amazing...). But, lots of pork (the pork part is optional...you might just get a nice cube of fat and skin, maybe with a little artery running through....mmmmmmmmmhmmmmmm) and iffy chicken. It's not the taste that's a problem...it's just realizing what you're eating :)

Oh...and we played the most intense game of soccer ever. I think three entire villages showed up to watch as we played Team "Mzee" (that's old man in Kiswahili). The field was a mixture of gravel, dirt, scrubgrass, thorns and cow mavi, with a nice valley running through one corner. Many played barefoot. The intensity was so palpable that no one wanted to sub in...so we played two full forty-five minute halves, at an nice elevation of several thousand feet, against a local team. On the plus side, the women and children watching made us feel like action heroes. Every time Eli used his lanky frame and fancy footwork to put on a show, they roared. Rugby Bryan, with the hundred mile an hour powerhouse kick, earned his share of oohs and aaahs, and every header generated a heartfelt "Safi!". Houghton soccer star Mike would head it upfield to Eli, who'd head it to Brian, who'd head it back to Mike or Eli in front of the goal, and each consecutive hit would earn a louder "Safi!" (literally, "clean," but basically, "cool!"). Everyone loved soccer phenom Lisa, who not only was a girl and red headed, but also put on an amazing display of leaping, diving, catching, and kicking. And, of course, they rushed the field yelling and screaming for every goal...including the first of the game, sent home by an opportunistic rookie hailing from the great state Michigan :) And yes, I have a picture for proof...

Post Homestay, we suffered for God in Matema, a missionary resort on the shores of Lake Malawi. Sugar sand beach, water that was cool in the day and warm at night, volleyball, cheap soda from glass bottles, tubing, and an amazing trek up a mountain stream, clambering gollum-style over rocks and swimming through pools, backpacks over heads, to a one-hundred foot cataract with a massive, cold pool at the bottom. We swam and played like little children, then splashed our way downstream again. Eventually we had to leave, so we headed off to the bush, hiking through a lush nontropical rainforest to a crater lake. We crashed down a basically vertical slope, whooping and hollering all the way, to plunge into the freezing sulfur water. Then it was up and out, and down the outside. Kayaking buddy Tim, Tender Nurse Bryan and Gangly Ornithologist Eli led out, running full steam downhill on these muddy mountain paths. Crashing through banana leaves, slipping, sliding, leaping over small ledges and desperately trying not to fall off bigger ones, piling through lines of siafu ants, clinging to trees around corners and laughing uncontrollably, I think we set a new speed record for the descent, at the minor cost of a few cuts and scrapes and near-death experiences. Afterwards we huddled under a tarp from the rain, packed in tight around the charcoal fire listening to Bwana Jon, Bryan, Eli, and Dave Moyer recount harrowing tales of all their near-death and most-frightening experiences. What better way to prepare for a birthday.

The next day was, I think, the happiest birthday of my life. I was serenaded at every meal; while on the road, we played cards and laughed. I recieved the coveted director's kiss from Momma Barb, and through the rest of the day the jealous women of the trip tried to sneak pecks on the cheek. Poor me. At dinner, I presided over the cutting of the excellently tasty cake (one piece for you, one for me...) and after laughing long and hard, we played kick the can under a full moon. Good times...I slept well that night.

And now we are here...our last lectures are thought provoking as the first, examining what religion is, and where it comes from, and how Christ interacts with preexisting religions. Today we looked at witchcraft, magic, and the spirit world, and the different ways it exists even today. 10,000 people, mostly old women, were burned as witches in Tanzania in the last ten years...mostly because witchcraft is often the only explanation for misfortune, and the old and different and antisocial are feared. It's tempting to laugh at the idea that every bad event must have been caused by ill will, anger, jealousy, and supernatural forces...but it's just as logical as saying, "Hey, bad things happen, and we don't know why." Sure, we can explain that three old men died because they were standing under a granary who's support poles had been eaten out by termites...but why were they there, the three of them, at that exact time, when the granary gave way? We have no answer...it just happened. They were at the losing end of a formula involving termites and wood and gravity.

So...lots to think about, lots to enjoy, and a little sorrow, because this time is coming to an end, and many friends are leaving never to be seen again. So without further ado, I'm heading to the Hasty Tasty Too for some excellent rice and beef with friends.

Big Thanks must go out to:
Mum and Pops: for emails and love, for instigating a birthday card campaign, and for getting all those little things done that crop up when a man is overseas. Love ya!
Joy: for the coolest card your big brother has ever recieved. I love being your big brother!
Uncle Chuck, Hiram, Alo, and Becca Clark: for making Valentines Day really special. I pounded so many Jolly Ranchers (note to readers...the length of enjoyment/packing weight ratio for these is very, very high...what an excellent idea for care packages :) )
Howard and Jacoby: for being super cool. and keeping in touch.
Cheryl Winter: for my first honest-to-goodnes real solid letter. I will write you back...but for now, yes, I posit all the time, and Mike and Christine abuse me when I begin suggesting that maybe we ought to apply Community Organization and Development, and Ostrom's Framework for Crafting Institutions for Self-Governing Irrigation Systems, to the lack of hot water in the communal showers.
Deanna: for an utter shocker of a surprise real letter that arrived the day after homestay, a few days before my birthday, and enabled me to triumph with glee over Tegan and Katrina because I got a Deanna letter!. Thanks for reading...hope all is going well.
Schmutz: for a perfectly timed email about my favorite subject. Frodo Lives! See you sooner than you imagine, bub. Bring a sweater.
Donna: for an encouraging card and a very encouraging gift. Let's get together when I get home; I'm excited to see how you're doing. Everyone in my village knows you from the canoe trip pictures :)
All those who sent Birthday cards: awesome. I feel the love...now what do I do with all these balloons? :)
Jen Gerow: for chipper emails and encouragement...
Mosher: for color commentary on the amazing adventure you're on! every time I think about complaining about homestay meat (mostly cubes of skin and rubbery fat) I think about beetles and ant-eggs and smile...
All the rest of you...you know who you are. See ya soon!

The stress is building...
Last week was paradise. We trucked happily to Ruaha, bouncing along in the back of the Green Bomber, singing merry songs and playing silly games and having a good time. We sat on porches in front of little stone chalets and watched hippos play twenty feet away in the river while zebra and impala and giraffe came down to water. We ate fine British meals and played bottle-cap poker while watching hyraxes scamper over the rocks. We went on game drives in open-air, stadium seated land rovers while sipping fine soda like Fanta Passion and Stoney Tangowizi. At night the hippos came up from the river and you never knew what you might run into on the path after dark...
Yesterday, we had our own church service, with two guitars and a banjo and an African drum and small clay pots. We played the Danes at soccer and watched a projected movie (a Masumbo first) where men in ultralights followed migrating birds. Today, we were tested on crocodiles and flamingoes babboons and the social life of the incredible naked mole rat. And we prepped. And tonight we pack.
Because tomorrow we leave at the crack of dawn for a little town, accessible only by Land Rover over a motorcycle track, an hour into the hills outside of Mbeya. There, we will split into pairs and walk off into the hills to meet our host family and begin our homestays with the Wasafwa. We will spend eight days sleeping, eating, drinking, and hopefully working and talking with our hosts, trying to make friends and cross cultural barriers and gather anthropological data. No professor, no cultural brokers, no schedules, no translators, nothing but you, your tentmate, and your new family.
Excitement and anxiety...but mostly curiousity. Who knows what the next eight days will bring?

Quick Update:
After a fast and furious week of classes and papers, including four lectures this morning (did you know that naked mole rats live in colonies with a queen, breeding "kings" who are deathly afraid of her, and workers? that some workers are genetically preprogrammed to break free and form new colonies?) we are taking a quick breather. Tomorrow some of us will hike a mile across the fields to a cement-and-thatch building to sing choruses and hymns in Swahili and hear Pastor Evony give the sermon (also in Swahili). The drums will pound and temperature will rise and we will be greatful for every cross breeze that blows our way; the smell of sweat and unwashed bodies packed onto cement pews has become the smell of church to me. But something draws me back every time: Pastor Evony's warmth of heart, the beauty of the praise choruses, the hospitality of the people...and the fact that every Sunday, underneath flowers and strings of styrofoam packing peanuts and surrounded by smiles and ordinary people, my heart is lifted up and I smile too.
Monday we leave for Ruaha, again; three days and two nights of bahaing in Land Rovers and watching for animals. After that, a few days of classes, and then the apex of our journey: we leave for a week-long homestay. We will live, eat, and sleep with our respective host families for the entire week: total immersion. God help my broken Swahili.
Then we go to Lake Malawi to recover on sandy beaches; a week of classes later, we are off for a final week in Zanzibar, and the program is over. So strange to see the end in sight...but very exciting. Because then the adventure of a wholely new kind begins: Travelling Tanzania by bus, working and observing development work in the field, and seeing what it's like to be, in a little way, on my own.

Back so soon in Iringa! It's a rare blessing. Everyone else in Tanzania is trying to be a cool American rapper, so it's time to give a shout out to:
Ben Howard, my hero, for finding me a house next semester. Love ya, bro...
All my housemates, the thought of whom brings a smile to my face. Hope your year is going swimmingly!
Cheryl Winter, for an actual real letter! Awesome! Things are swell, and COD is all over the place. Even used "posit" in a paper on brown hyenas the other day!
Becca Clark, Dave Truesdell, Ryan Alo, and all others who send the amazing valentines + Jolly Ranchers! I ate them all!
All those who take the time to post and write...those are moments of joy in a sea of junk email!
All those Houghton senior who I will not be able to see graduate...keep in touch!

And, a general news brief. I just bumped my plane ticket back until the end of May; so I will be hanging around in Tanzania post-program for a month, helping a local developer with the Anglican Church, returning to the Rukwa valley to teach English to kindergartners and show the Jesus film and maybe piki piki a little, going to Dar es Salaam to observe some new ministries to Muslims, and maybe even going to an Ethnomusicology conference. Maybe. Now all I need to do is rustle up some money for bus fares and such :) I'm super excited about being "on my own" for a little while (don't worry mom...I have good local contacts everywhere). At home or at school, I'm surrounded by friends and family and people my age. A month of wandering will be a good time to develop some perspective, see things through the eyes of new companions: Tanzanians, Muslims, Anglicans, missionary families, or just myself without all my familiar peoples.

I'll be leaving Dar es Salaam on May the 23rd, laying over for a day with a friend in London and heading home on the 25th. By June, I'll be in Houghton, writing my final papers and preparing for a summer leading youth into the wilderness for Houghton's STEP outdoor adventure program. So...for friends at home, let's get together really quickly while I'm home! And for friends at school...I won't be there for graduation...keep in touch. And for friends coming to Tanzania this summer...I might get to see you right before leaving!

Thought of the day, from Walter Wangerin: in Christ, we see ourselves as in a perfect mirror. In His death on the cross, we see the inevitable end result of our lives, laid bare in all its horror. But we also see resurrection. Christ came not just to pay the price of our sins, but to experience our lot so that He could lead us through to the other side. He shows us precisely how a grain of wheat is nothing until it gives up, and dies, and is buried, so that God may cause it to become something wonderful.

Dear Jeff, Josh, Nate, Chris, Aaron, Dave Hough, and Clarky, and all other motorcycle riding friends:
I have a sunburn. Do you want to know why? Because I spent last week as one of the only white people in the Rukwa Valley of Tanzania. The Rukwa valley doesn't have much of an infrastructure: one or two dirt doubletrack roads connecting villages, and a number of cattle trails. Between hills, dips, rivers, erosion, cattle, and encroaching thornbushes, they're pretty tough, rutted, muddy, bouncy roads. Why am I telling you this? Because last week, while you were no doubt ensconced in some school some where, buttoned up against the cold, I was riding a Honda XL125S dirtbike over these roads and through those rivers. It's a real pity you're stuck in snowland. :)

To everyone else: last week was spent on the road to Rukwa and back. It's an intriguing place: difficult to access (our amazing driver had a hairy time getting a ten-ton ex-military truck down the hairpin turns on the rutted swithback down the escarpment) and very undeveloped. Two missionary families are the only white people in a huge valley which stretches as far as the eye can see from where we stood on a granite slab four thousand feet above the valley. We had an amazing time exploring, going to the exploding native church, helping out at an outdoor evangelistic meeting, showing the Jesus film in Kiswahili, and interviewing some pretty incredibly missionaries. We also had quite a bit of fun tangling with their children...it was good to see American kids and goof off with them again.

I look at my hands and my feet and my legs and see a hundred different scratches, bumps, bruises, splinters, thorns, stings, bites and blisters, and I marvel. Each one has a little story to it's own, and each is precious to me. They are the accumulations of an active life, a full life. My muscles are aching and screaming from climbing a mountain and riding for two days over crummy roads. I don't think my fingernails will ever be clean again. I'm still spitting dust from riding the piki pikis. But there is a smile on my face. I think my heart is the same way. Some places are broken, some are sore, some are empty. Some days I feel alive and free and others I am tragically not. Eli Knapp, faculty and friend here, put it best: in our humanity, we are broken, and will never be whole. Some days we are vital and strong, and other days we are not. We gain ground, and we lose it, and gain it back again, and we will never be whole in this life. Only in this weakness can we be made strong.

Closing thought: from Sadhu Sundar Singh: You cannot live life without bearing a cross; if you refuse the cross of Christ, you will inevitably carry another. Pause, and consider: what cross are you carrying? Is it worth it?

Tanzania. These little blurbs are getting increasingly difficult to write. Every attempt brings a flood of images, each with a different feel and it's own narrative. It's hard to find one theme, and impossible to follow it for long before another rises against it.

Three days ago we were sweltering in the Maasai lowlands. In the day we huddled, lethargic and somewhat grumpy, beneath the lifegiving shade of the baobab tree, miserably swatting at the dauntless hordes of Maasai flies. Two days ago we retreated up the long, winding escrapment road to Masumbo, our campus tucked in the highland hills. Trucking down to the river, soap in hand, we swam and sudsed and rinsed and laughed and even shivered a little when the clouds covered the sun. Today we do not swim because that river is at flood stage, and we are bundled in fleeces against the incessant downpour that has turned our yard into a squishy mudpuddle overnight and soaks whoever dares to venture forth.

I can't help but think of the people of Uhambigetu, clinging furiously to the base of the mountain whose springs provide the only drinkable alternative to the undrinkable saline sludge they dig out of temporary wells in dry riverbeds. Two weeks ago, the cornstalks in their shambas were showing too much leaf and too little fruit: sure sign that they are not recieving enough water. They have replaced a tropical forest with their shambas, and in response the October rains start later and later every year. This year, the first rain was the gift of Christmas Eve. Did the rain rain on them today?

In Maasailand we lived for nighttime: we could sit without sweating and move without hopscotching from shade to shade. Even the ever-present acacia thorns didn't seem so bad in the dusk. We ate the evening meal, sang, and danced: first the Maasai way, joyful, energetic, skillful, and atheletic, with a completely vocal accompaniment of rhythmic noises that stir the blood and move the feet and call you to join in with your own grunts and harrumphs and wails. Then in the American way, with giggles and laughter and the clumsiness of amateurs attempting to swing, electric slide, break dance, macarena, train, whatever we could think of to try to the scrounged tape of Congolese rap blaring from the back of the Land Rover. The Maasai joined in with the limbo, and in the improvised strobe light effect of blinking headlamps, smiles were smiled and laughs were laughed.

In the burning heat of the day, we watched the women industriously manage the daily chores, laughing and smacking the cows and roping them deftly while Sangeni, our host, pointed out which goats were born when, and which cows milked which calves, and held forth on the finer points of herd management with dignity and panache. The young men slaughter a cow with same cheerful ease with which Josh and Nate and Chris tear into a dirty carbeurator. They are happy and they are not tied to farms and the constraints of city life and they love it. Little Boma on the Prairie. I wonder if they know that little Juma is hydrocephalic, and the flies that crawl unmolested over the lump between his eyes are foreshadowing a the death that will soon claim his body. The same flies that crawl in and out of the oozing, gangrenous wound that will soon claim Sangeni's lower leg. The smiling and laughing men and women with whom we shared fresh roasted goat and the joys of dance and industrious labor live in a world where a man beats his wives who know nothing of his friendship, and care little for it, for they have the fellowship of the women of the compound. They love their lives, they are proud of their children, of their cows, of the homes they have built with their hands. They enjoy the milking and herding and birthing, the dances and feasts and celebrations: the life of a pastoralist. The very life that requires wide open spaces, a non-cash economy, and low population densities: barriers to effective medical care and education.

The mailbag was a treasure chest by the time we returned to Masumbo. One large box in particular set off explosions of joy and excitement as it brought forth handmade valentines from friends at school, ensconced in an avalanche of jolly ranchers and tootsie rolls. Our hearts were full to overflowing as we remembered and imagined the friends we left at school. All the news lifted our spirits, and I wanted to write back immediately with laughter and rejoicing for friends engaged and friends dating and new excited EMTs and friends reunited and all the stuff and wonder of everyday life.

That same day brought news that a fellow student was dead, in a car accident, and another barely holding on in a coma from the same. Jubilation and awe met squarely by emptiness and terror.

This morning I stood over the river Ruaha on a tall rock. Everything that was familiar, the rock chair where I sit and read half in and half out of the water, the boulders by which we cross to Kibebe, the little rapids that we shoot through and the eddies and wrinkles at the bottom where we catch our breath and play, the sheltered pools where we stand and wash up and the out-jutting rocks we cling to desperately to keep from being swept downstream are all gone. The currents and flows and hydraulics we know by heart are gone, swept away in a mud colored torrent that crashes and boils and roars and sprays this way and that, up, over, around, and back on itself in convoluted twists and turns and patterns too fast and tortuous for the human eye to make sense of.

This is life. The familiar landscape is gone. Something different is here, blowing away everything I thought I knew. It's unpredictable, it doesn't make sense, and it's tragic at times. But it's beautiful, too, and exciting, and standing there what wells up inside is not fear or nostalgic desire; it is wonder and expectant patience. The full story remains to be finished.

Jolts of pain shoot through my brain whenever I stand up too fast. The story my legs are telling me involves some sort of sprinted mile yesterday of which I have no memory. The closest to running I am capable of is the cramped and desperate fifty yard lope to the outhouse. It caused quite a lot of laughter among the night watchmen at midnight last night. And at one o'clock, and two o'clock, and three o'clock and even four o'clock, too. I was grinning sideburn to sideburn the whole time: never have I been this happy in a seated position.

On February 13, 1858, Burton and Speke became the first Europeans to see Lake Tanganyika. Burton had spent most of the journey from the coast swaying in a hammock between two native porters, too sick to walk. Speke was unable to see the lake due to a flare-up of opthomalia. He had spent his time in the hammock, too. Burton was taking only liquid foods because of an ulcerated jaw. Both lasted only a few miles into the return journey before themselves returning the hammocks. Pleurisy and pneumonia brought Speke to the point of raving delirium. At the coast, they convalesced for several weeks before the ocean voyage, Speke by boat for London before Burton, who needed more time to gather strength. When Stanley found Livingstone, the latter did not stride boldy from his tent ("Dr. Livingstone, I presume?") to firmly shake the hand of the dapper journalist. He was laid up with one of many recurring bouts of pneumonia, which would finally claim his life. Stanley was probably not feeling too well anyway.

Times like these remind me that with all that western culture has become rampantly materialistic, self-absorbed, and individualistic, our children do not die of diarrhea. Most the people I have met in Tanzania have no concept for words like "ambulance" and "emergency medical technician." It is western culture that brought into being that angel in distress, Nurse Adkins, with his wonderful chocolate flavored laxatives that (with the help of a mango or two) brought an end to a painful week of debilitating constipation, and all it's attendant side effects: nausea, weakness, chills, muscle aches, headaches, being bedridden.

So it is with great thanks that I sit humbly on the long drop, "driving furiously" in the local parlance, glad to be moving again, and grateful that although disease and ill health is an inescapable part of travel, there are knowledgeable people looking out for me. It's also with a humble realization that I sit here: all over the world people die of diarrhea. Constipation. Malnutrition. Simple medical problems that are unaddressed for far too long. Things that I laugh at. The solutions to these problems are one aspect of western culture that I am cheerfully and anxiously ready to export.

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...

I/don't get/many things right the first time...
in fact/I am told/that a lot

Now I know all the wrong turns/
the stumbles and falls/
brought me here...

And/where was I/before the day/
that I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it every day, and I know.

That I am...I am...I am the luckiest...

Next door/there's an old man/who lived to his nineties and
one day/passed away/in his sleep.
and his wife/she stayed for a couple of days/And passed away.

I'm sorry, I know that's a/strange way to tell you that I know/
we belong.
That I know...

That I am...I am...the luckiest.

--Ben Folds

a little something to keep me motivated
and
a little something to inspire whatever final papers you're mired in at the moment.
and
a little something I found rather profound and inspiring.

Today's moment of finals despair.