...but somebody's gotta do it

My kitchen might qualify again under US health codes, but it hasn’t been easy.

There have been two recent bouts of waterlessness in my neighborhood which inspired challenging questions, such as: do I take a shower or flush the toilet or wash two sinks full of dishes? Because with one bucket of water - brought by a guy on a bicycle – I can't do all three.

Usually the dishes lose, and in that respect, the biomass lying-in-wait in my kitchen wins.

I know all about roaches. I know their infinite forms and varieties. I've seen them squished between bills dispensed by the ATM, scurrying inside a ball cap I removed from my head, hidden like Where's Waldo in more meals than I'd like remember, and once a tiny one was in a sealed package of bubblegum (figure that one out), proving their limitless ingenuity.

Just last night I let my cat play with an elephantine specimen which lumbered out of the shower drain. Stella has so few toys to play with.

So while I was not necessarily surprised that two species helped clean the dishes, I was surprised by their quantity – the sheer magnitude of their forces.

One species was long, thin and pinkish - somehow shrimp-like, but with wings. The other black-brown and pyknic, peppercornesque. Both now dead.

As men laid pipe on the lawn to fix the pump, I gathered my supplies: anti-bacterial soap, trash bucket and a large kitchen sponge I received as a birthday present last year (which I had saved for a special occasion such as this). I tried to divine assistance like the commercials where Mr. Clean jumps off the bottle and mops the floor in one, big S-shaped streak. But clearly I was going to be doing this alone. I rolled-up my sleeves and stood at the ready. When I heard air, then the water, gurgling in the pipes, I got to work.

I soon found the bugs' secret lair and annihilated it in a progrom I call "shock-and-eww." Confident about the thoroughness of my cleaning, I returned to food preparation at home. And when we lost water the next week, well, I repeated the whole process over again.

I sometimes forget that in Kigoma you're never alone. I walked into my kitchen the other night and discovered a noisome odor that could only be one thing: dinosaur poo. More specifically, the white, liquidy guano too often secreted in our attic by Monty, the non-pet resident monitor lizard (who hasn't paid a shilling toward rent).

So I checked the ceiling and there it was: the telltale white stain situated over the drying rack next to the sink, the dishes from which I had just stowed in the cupboards.

So what sponge does one use to clean monitor lizard poo off otherwise clean dishes? If I ever find the dish it landed on, I'll be sure to let you know.

Vegetarian gold

For those who love adventures, the Kigoma market is a necessary destination. It is designed something like a pyramid inside, or perhaps as illogically nonlinear as a hieroglyphic: a network of tight, tortuous passageways flanked by stalls where people sell wares. They try to get your attention and you pause briefly to smile and make eye contact before returning to the task at hand: survival.

Wooden boards give way, roaches scurry and men dash toward you with weighty bags on their necks. Laundry dries over tomatoes, holes are notched into a pile of rice for a board game, and water drips from the edge of a tin roof which stops just over the walkway.

The placement of each foot requires the analysis of where a foot currently isn’t, the general direction you are trying to head and which dangers (nails, gaps in the platform, a stream of unidentifiable fluids) pose the highest threats.

Sometimes you choose wisely. And on other occasions, you hope for the best.

As with any labyrinth, each twist seems to take you further from your intended destination. But once you figure out the sequence of lefts and rights, you can find the heart of the market: replete with monstrous avocados, piles of passion fruits, pineapples dangling on strings and circular mounds of peas, which are sold by the handful, like abstract stipple art.

Sometimes, buried within this assortment a treasure can be found. The vegetarian’s equivalent of gold: massive carrots. Or rather, the assemblage of many carrots into one awe-inspiring mass.

24-karat gold? Try 24-carrot goldmine!

The transaction is quick. You slip the carrot into your bag and begin the odyssey out. Right then left then left then right… or was it right then left then right then right?

And what if a giant boulder seals-off the market’s exit before you escape? Of course that never happens, but it never seems totally out of the realm of possibilities, either - because in the Kigoma market, you are never quite sure what will happen next.

As for the other rule of adventure stories (falling in love with an eastern European or Soviet adversary), well, for now the carrots will do.

Rain, rain fly away

Last weekend, Dar es Salaam was subjected to long, drizzly rains interspersed with cloudbursts which even drove an Oregonian like me to covered patios. Traffic moved at a snail's pace, each vehicle taking turns to cross the intermittent pools straddling the road. A cemetery was marked by a solitary cross rising above the waterline. A driveway snaking its way to a presumably well-off house looked like a river, eddies and all.

That night, after drying off, I sat on a friend's couch reading a book about adventures and misadventures of anthropologists and ecologists in Tanzania. I heard a faint flutter of sound behind me and turned to see 30-40 termites around the light I was reading by, a modest affair to be sure. Then I noticed termites flying around a safety light outside, looking remarkably like snow - climbing and falling - as they fluttered around the beam; rather apposite given the Holiday carols I was playing at the time.

As I returned to my book, something struck me. I had been hearing the sound of rain for thirty minutes or more, but as I looked at the termites outside, there was no sign of rain.

I turned the music down. What was that sound?

I did what many in Tanzania have done before me. I put my book down, ventured into the foyer and braced myself for the inevitable.

Hundreds, perhaps a thousand inch-long termites swarmed the back porch light, and many had made their way through the ill-fitted glass doors to the inside; termites swarmed in column inside and out.

I skittered around the storm to get up the staircase and switch-off my bedroom light, wanting to avoid a similar swarm there.

As I returned to my book, the drone of the termites subsided, and again I became aware of a new sound: this time of the pounding surf of the Indian Ocean.

Or so I hoped...

Just in time

I was in Oregon last month for a wonderful combination of work and play. When I left my family's home in the early morning hours, one of the last things I noticed was Orion hovering above and tipped on his side, as though frozen mid-stride - running somewhere, perhaps late for a plane as I was.

And when I returned last week, I looked to the sky to see if he was still running, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead Hercules was there, reclining on his back, sinking into the west - his season expiring - seemingly exhausted from several days of travel, sleeping upright and airline meals. I soon sank into a similar pose, this time in the east. It felt good to be back.

Now, one week later, a blanket of clouds has been pulled over the constellations holding court above - the gods and demigods hidden from view, but still there, somewhere.

The rainy season has begun. And with it, the sky is disappearing, bugs are reappearing, orange blossoms are in bloom and fragrances abound.

This is a magical time of year in Kigoma, complete with fanfare (cicadas by day and fruit bats by night). Nature seems to be rejoicing the return of the rains; I am excited for their return, too.

Star-spangled spider

This not-so-little critter slept on the balcony outside the room I occupied while in Dar over the July 4th weekend.

Friends told me she was harmless, but I bolted and locked the door just in case.

Ants in my pants

Siafu stand guard while their colony is in transit

I made the mistake of admiring these ants recently; the mistake was that I did so before joining a prayer circle.

I joined hands and bowed my head. But before I could begin praying, I found that I was being preyed upon.

Three siafu ants (apparently a sacrilegious bunch) chomped into different parts of my left leg at the same time; perhaps a coincidence, but I have heard they communicate via chemical signals and attack their prey in a simultaneous shock-and-awch manner.

But I had bigger problems on my hands, or rather, my leg. One siafu was headed up my leg toward what I considered dangerous territory.

You see, I have taken meditation classes, which I felt applied to this moment and more generally to prayer. They say the deepest meditation is done through discomfort, joint pain, loud sirens, etc. They teach you to meditate through the pain. But those people haven't met siafu ants.

I politely rubbed my legs together. My hand instinctively veered toward my inner thigh, creating distress for the elderly gentleman with whom I was holding hands. I flinched, but I didn't break hands. Instead I chemically communicated with the Pastor, who wrapped-up the prayer - allowing me to spin in circles while slapping my thigh.

My only hope is that someone said a prayer for the ants. They won't be praying or preying again for a while.

Not exactly Charlotte

No really, you can have the tree

I thought the above spider was remarkable and strange as it dangled from a tree. I had a strong zoom on my camera. We were the perfect distance, really.

Last week, I was studying outside and heard a loud, short bird call, unlike any I had heard before. I set down my books and headed to the tree where it was perched. The bird was near the top of the tree, it's underside camouflaged with the tree's leaves, even with the light shinning through them. I needed a better angle.

I backed-up, but other trees blocked my view. I tried to spot it from below again, but there were too many branches in the way. I decided to circle the tree one last time, head toward the sky, with nothing but birds on my mind.

Then it hit me. Or rather I hit it. A spider's web right in the face, stuck to my hair, trailing down my sweater.

As I picked and pulled at strands, I began to wonder whether I had collected the web alone, and not perhaps a spider along with it. Then I noticed him: a foreboding spider like the one above. Perched on my shoulder, tapping a leg and wondering why I had wrecked his web.

Suffice it to say, the conversation didn't last long. Pretty soon he was airborne and I was nearly airborne myself.

I have circled a couple trees since then looking for birds, but now I look to see what is in front of me, too. I am guessing the spiders are keeping an eye out for me as well.

Clay castle

There were red-tailed monkeys dancing in the trees above a friend's office recently. I admired their agility and was grateful to live in a place where such wonders exist.

Then a very different wonder formed before my eyes. A mysterious column emerged from the underbrush and wafted into the canopy like smoke from a chimney, starting narrow and billowing as it rose. But this wasn't smoke. It was termites.

My friend and I slipped into the forest and one of nature’s marvels unfolded before our eyes. A termite mound was alive with activity - winged termites emerged from dozens of holes, their wings compressing as they crawled into the light, each termite directly followed by another and lifting off without a moment for sentimentality. Their systematic, orderly movements were a little surprising – reminding me more of assembly line footage than spectacles I have witnessed in nature.

Then I became aware of something else: a rhythmic, pulsating patter which seemed to emanate from the mound. Was it the sound of their wings beating rhythmically inside?, I asked.

My friend corrected me: That is the soldier termites who are protecting the flying termites from the invading army ants, he explained. As I would learn, army ants are notorious for (among other things) raiding termite mounds, and soldier ants pound their head on the outside of the mound to inform troops inside that reinforcements are needed.

Sure enough, I saw a circle of soldier ants encompassing the base of the mound and seemingly protecting it from attack. Army ants crossed the path at my feet.

Holes into the mound will be sealed soon, my friend explained; termites would efficiently lock-down their castle for the night. Indeed, few winged termites surfaced. A clever defense was underway.

Complex social roles of ants were happening at my feet, inches from my nose and at the tip of my finger as I pointed at new discoveries. Twilight encroached quickly and we began to struggle to make sense of the scene before us; soon we stepped out of the forest, curious to know how the drama would conclude. Curious to know how it began.

Only a few termites fluttered in the air as we walked back past the office. Those who escaped successfully will have the chance to mate and begin a new colony. Others were no doubt consumed by swooping birds and maybe, just maybe, the monkeys dancing above.

I forgot to mention the ants in the closet

I had a phone call last night with my future hopeful roommate. The conversation was later described by a friend as "the weirdest flatmate interview ever." Here are a few bullet points from that conversation:

• The water heater is broken again, and the guy who knows how to fix it has a kidney stone and is in South Africa getting treatment. I can get it fixed when he returns.
  
• Only two burners work on the stove, but I can get that fixed, too. I've been reluctant to call the man who I know is able to fix it; he ran off with some of my money last year.
• The oven has seen better days, but it's hygienic.
  
• The house technically has two bathrooms, but functionally it's really 1.5. You'll understand what I mean when you see your bathroom.
  
• Bugs have largely been eradicated, and not without risk to my personal health and sanity. There are no rats, but we do have lots of geckos, which are harmless unless they get too close to your toothbrush (salmonella).
  
• There is no TV, but we have a bookshelf made out of an old fishing boat (on loan from a friend). We are also next to the road, which is its own source of drama.
  
• We don't have pets, but there is a monitor lizard in our attic (his name is Monte). We also have giant ants which clean their whiskers and are otherwise reminiscent of cats.
• None of the clocks in the house work, but punctuality isn't exactly an issue here.

At the time, I thought I was making the house sound quite favorable compared to many homes in town. But as my friend later pointed out, my potential roommate is still in the states, and issues of this nature are not often discussed during these calls. Let's just hope I didn't scare her away...

Don't eat me - I'm a vegetarian

Four trees

When I took Hunter’s Safety, they taught me not to point a weapon at anybody. I was therefore surprised when our guide in Katavi National Park climbed clumsily into the back of our vehicle with the barrel of his Russian Kalashnikov riffle swiveling in all directions, at various moments steadying on me and my fellow passengers.

“Are we going hunting?” I asked with casual American sarcasm. “No, this is for the walking safari,” he said. I took this to mean that he understood that the only way I would be getting out of the vehicle while in the park was at gunpoint.

Or so I thought. But before I knew it, I was piling out of the Land Cruiser and onto a plain full of hippos and other creatures that are faster than me. I tightened my shoelaces and tried not to show fear - not sure if hippos can sense fear like everyone says, but pretty sure my Spanish friends could.

In front of us was a river. Beyond the river were a hundred hippos at least. "Isn't that the creature everyone says is the number one killer in Africa?" one friend asked. "They sure run fast," another observed. I swallowed hard.

But between us and the hippos was something far more disconcerting: about a dozen crocodiles fought in the water below the embankment on which we stood, a couple less than ten feet away. “Boy, I have to stand back pretty far to get a good shot with this telephoto lens,” I said, beginning my retreat. Our guard pulled out his camera phone, snapped a few shots and texted them to his friends. I took it upon myself to be responsible and alert of our surroundings, checking all 360 degrees for danger and occasionally the sky above.

We were scheduled to take a longer walking safari that evening - you know, the time when most predators wake-up and start hunting. By this point, I was a little skeptical that our guard wouldn't pull-out his cellphone instead of his Kalashnikov if lions began to circle. I decided to have a heart-to-heart with him out back. “I think we should have a second guard tonight, you know, it’s a big group.” “Nah, we don’t need it.” “But don’t you ultimately think that’s up to us to decide? We’re willing to pay the extra $10 for another guide.” “Nah, I’ve done this before, we’ll be fine.”

He couldn’t be persuaded, his ego bolstered by his second-hand riffle which, if maintained as well as the National Park's bandas, would be more useful for hitting the animals with than shooting them.

The walking safari that evening really was lovely. There is something about the Tanzanian landscape that you can only experience on foot: the aromas, the crunch of the grass under your feet, and the bugs you would never see from the seat of your car. I was totally enchanted. And somehow the whole experience felt relatively safe, in part due to the fact that our guide had us walk no closer than 100 meters to the forest, so that we could see the animals charging toward us in the seconds before they attacked. “Walking near the forest can be dangerous,” he said, “very dangerous.” I was happy to see him taking such precautions.

And then it started raining. And soon thereafter, it started pouring. “Follow me!” he said, running toward the trees, throwing all precautions and rules aside. It was suddenly every man for himself in the rain. He led us along the edge of the forest, and this led us to a road which led into the forest, which then led us to our vehicles, into which we quickly piled.

Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones who wanted in from the rain. Tsetse flies filled our Land Cruisers, and somehow managed to cling to the outside of the vehicles as we careened through the forest. They bit us on exposed skin and also through our shirts. We were smacking the windows and swatting the air furiously. “It’s like a horror movie,” one friend said. “Tell the guide to start shooting at them,” another suggested. “He says he only has five bullets,” yet another replied. Oh great, now he tells us.

Every moment of the trip was incredible. The bandas in which we slept were in the National Park, and I would wake to the sounds of hyenas howling and hippos munching grass nearby. And that is the best part of any safari: you never know what you will see or hear and when. You can turn a corner and bam: there are fifteen elephants. But around the next corner, there may be nothing at all. And you can go hours without seeing anything, only to wake in the night to find that the wildlife has found you.

Hippo at dawn

Morning stroll

Herd of hippos

It's hard to believe they can get so big by primarily eating grass

Before the rains came

A beautiful metallic scarab (dung) beetle goes on the defense after
a friend flicked it off a backpack

Pretty bird

Now you see why their necks are so long

Relic of the dry season

A spotted hyena spots us

Crocodiles having a good time, crocodile-style

Crocodile food

Can you find the chameleon?

Eye of the crocodile

Indicator species

tableau of cicada and spider

By some accounts, the wet season began on Sunday. Perhaps the best indicator of this is the huge influx of insects we had in my house on Friday night – if not in quantity, then certainly in size.

The evening began with me sitting down to a bowl of curry I had made while watching a favorite HBO series of mine. I was about to take a bite when I realized that something large and very loud was spiraling in the air toward me. I jumped up, ran into my room and shut the door behind me, listening as the creature – an unidentified flying insect (UFI) – ricocheted off walls, the ceiling and light fixtures. I cautiously stepped out of my room with Raid in hand once the racket stopped, searching the walls, floor and every surface for the creature from the deep.

At about the same time, my roommate came home (bless him), and we searched the house together. “What did it look like again?” “It was about this big [exaggerated size] and he looked like he needed to go back to flight school.” “Oh my God!” my roommate exclaimed. He had just found a gargantuan spider on our floor.

When I take pictures of insects, I should have to worry about whether the red-eye reduction is on or not. Suffice it to say that this spider was large, hairy and had compound eyes that seemed to follow you wherever you went.

I called it a night soon thereafter, retiring to my room with candle in hand, realizing that the UFI had never actually been captured. I put laundry in my closet, folding the tolerably dirty shirts and placed them on a shelf. Then I heard the sound again, the sound of the UFI. And this time it seemed to be in my room.

There are moments in life when you want to disappear so bad that you think it is almost possible – when you think “God, if you’re out there, beam me up, pronto.” This was one of those moments.

I grabbed my flashlight and walked around the bed, not able to see anything with my flashlight through my mosquito net. Then I realized the sound was coming from outside. And there it was. My UFI bouncing off the screen, looking like a giant flying pinecone with beady red eyes. Bounce, bounce, bounce. I realized that there was only one reason he wanted in, and that was because of my lights. I blew-out my candle, turned-off my flashlight and crawled under my mosquito net, comforted by the false hope that nothing could get in there with me.

The UFI turned out to be a cicada; my roommate somehow trapped the one indoors after I went to bed, and we released the spider and cicada together the following morning.

“Should I release them here?” he asked while standing on our front porch. “Maybe a little further,” I said.

Birds and the bee(tle)s

This beetle landed on my knee the other night. If I were to tell you I acted calmly about it, I'd be lying.

To my relief, he wasn't interested in me at all, but rather in the lady beetle elsewhere on the floor of our friend's house. We brought the two beetles together and I watched with three biologists as sparks flew and nature-did-as-nature-does. I knew the birds and the bees really do all the things we say they do. But beetles? For some reason I was surprised to find that they reproduce just like everything else.

Bug photos

I have been learning a lot about bugs here. For example, last night I learned that you shouldn't touch a jumping bug on the forehead with your pen - even lightly - because they might hit you in the face. And you most certainly shouldn't do it again, because then they might hit you in the eye.

Here are the photos of a few of the incredible bugs I have encountered in the past 2.5 months. You can click on the photos for a clearer image (although the images are still compressed for size).

a Maiden Fly resting on a stem

a Maiden Fly close-up

a beetle crawling across my shoe on the beach

a bizarre little zebra-striped bee digging a hole in the sand

a bug a friend found in the water

a dead beetle I discovered near my office

a scorpion on the floor of a friend's house where I had been walking barefoot

an insanely well-camouflaged stick insect on the ground
(don't ask me how I spot these things)

There are more great bug photos to come. Stay tuned.

Flora and fauna

I wanted to share with you the images of some of the plants (and one insect) I photographed around my house this past weekend.

Plumeria, or more commonly called Frangipani

This tree drops the most fragrant and beautiful pinwheel flowers. My roommate and I use them to clean the dipstick when checking the oil level in JGI's Land Rover in the morning.

Pink Plumeria

Plumeria tree behind our house, with the clothesline I use to dry my socks in the foreground

Hibiscus bush flowering along our driveway

A mango tree in front of the house where I am living; I am told that many of the blossoms will become ripe mangoes for me to eat

The back corner of my house, with a stand of trees

A plant near our front patio; it reminds me of the crotons sold back home

Pink flower blooming along our driveway, with our front patio in the background

Unusual insect who had an unusually good time trying to evade me and my camera