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Energy plans often leave me stumped

I was recently walking home from work when I looked-up to see that my walk had become a little sunnier. The trees lining the road leading to the post office had been chopped down in the name of road expansion; women were hacking the stumps to bits with axes and machetes, stumps elsewhere smoldered to make charcoal, and women walked into the distance with bundles of wood on their heads.

With those trees gone, where will people go to get wood next? This morning – when I woke to the sound of a woman pulling branches out of a tree in my backyard – I may have been given an answer.

Before catching a flight to the US recently, a friend of mine stopped by my house to ask a few questions about his destination. He had fascinating and insightful questions, including whether there are roads in the US like the wavy dirt road to Lugufu (a local refugee camp). I assured him that there are roads like that in the US, but to give him a better sense, I showed him photos I had taken back home. One was of a long, empty highway headed in the direction of Crater Lake. “There is no dust on the road,” he said, “no garbage. Is that primary forest?” “Yes,” I said. “Here, people would use a road like that to get firewood,” he told me, “they would cut down all the trees.”

One challenge is that while people need trees to stabilize watersheds and protect soils (not to mention for carbon sequestration), they also need wood to cook dinner at night. And the short-term need to put dinner on the table naturally trumps long-term concerns. Forests in the Northeastern US once shared a similar fate.

I have often pondered what will happen when the world's oil runs out, even while sitting behind the steering wheel of an idling vehicle. In a similar way, people here must see fewer trees and furl their brows at the thought that they will have to walk farther to get their wood – and know that one day those resources may be ashes, too.

In a faroff land

Mount Urugulu

Today is the last day of my Kiswahili language program. I spent the afternoon session telling a story and trying to incorporate a variety of the vocab and tenses I have learned.

This story is inspired by three things: the mountain near the campus, the large baobab trees clustered around our sleeping quarters and, apparently, prolonged solitude.

"Upo katika kipindi kingine, kulikuwa mlima mrefu ajabu. Kilele cha mlima hakikuonekana kwa sababu mawingu mengi. Niliamua kupanda mlima ili nione juu ya huo.

In another time, there was a marvelously tall mountain. The peak did not appear because there were clouds. I decided to climb the mountain in order to see the top of it.

Kupanda kulikuwa kugumu, kwa sababu kulikuwa na matope mengi ingawa jua lilikuwa kali. Usiku ule, nilipika chakula juu ya moto, lakini pepo ulivuma kwa kasi na moto ulikufa mara nyingi. Nikaenda kulala na njaa na chini ya mti. Nikalala vibaya, kwa maana kulinyesha nusu usiku, na suati za pori ilikuwa kubwa sana.

The climbing was difficult, because there was much mud even though the sun was fierce. That night, I cooked food over a fire, but the wind blew with high speed and the fire died many times. I went to bed hungry and under a tree. I slept poorly, because it rained half the night and the sounds of the forest were very loud.

Asubuhi ijayo, nilipanda tena na kwa bidii. Jua lilikuwa kali, lakini niliendelea. Halafu, nikafika mawinguni. Niliweka fungu la wingu mfukoni la kumpa rafiki yangu.

The next morning, I climbed again and with effort. The sun was fierce, but I continued. Then I reached the clouds. I put a piece of cloud in my pocket to give to my friend.

Halafu niliendelea tena. Ilikuwa giza, kwa sababu mawingu yalikuwa mapana sana. Kwenda mbele ilikuwa vigumu sana. Nilienda kushoto kidogo, halafu kulia kidogo na labda kuzunguka maduara, lakini nikaendelea kupanda.

Then I continued again. It was dark because the clouds were very thick. Going forward was very difficult. I went a little left, then a little right and maybe around in circles, but I continued climbing.

Wakati ulipita. Majani yalianguka kutoka mitini. Halafu, nikaliona jua tena, baada ya kupanda juu ya mawingu. Niliwaona ndege na nilianza kuimba na hao.

The time passed. Leaves fell from the trees. Then, I saw the sun again, after I climbed above the clouds. I saw birds and I sang with them.

Ndege waliruka kaskazi na niliwafuata. Waliniongoza mpaka jiti refu ajabu na kama upana wa tembo. Jiti lilikuwa na matunda mengi. Nilipata majani ya jiti na nikaweka hayo mfukoni pamoja na wingu. Udongo ulikuwa kama mchanga. Nilitumia kijiti na kuandikia jina la rafiki yangu katika udongo. Niliketi pale na nikala matunda matatu. Nikajiambia nitataka kumtumia rafiki hadithi hii.

The birds flew north and I followed. They led me to a giant and wonderfully tall tree [which was] wide like an elephant. The tree had many fruits. I took leaves of the tree and put them in my pocket together with the cloud. The dirt was like sand. I used a stick and wrote my friend’s name in the dirt. I sat there and ate three fruits. I told myself I needed to tell my friend this story.

Kijiti kilachwa na mimi, na udongo pia. Lakini jina lilikaa moyoni.

The stick was left by me, and the dirt, too. But the name resides in my heart.

Hata leo, mimi hurudi pale."

Even today, I return there.

Baobab tree

The mountain shows its face

When life gives you lemon trees

You make lemonade. Lots of it.

My newest new roommate – who selected the pseudonym "Gecko" for the purposes of this site – and I had dinner at a neighbor’s house recently. “My, what nice fruit you have,” I told our hosts, referring to their feast of local fruit. “I wish I could grow fruit like this.”

“You already have three lemon trees!” their youngest informed us; clearly he knew more about my yard than I did.

As it turns out, he was right.

Since then, I have been jumping into lemon trees in my backyard, the source of great amusement for anyone present; apparently jumping is more effective than climbing when it comes to harvesting lemons - my climbing efforts were literally fruitless.

Now I regularly go out back and harvest pockets full of lemons – for me and Gecko, for neighbors, friends, taxi drivers.

The tree is, unfortunately, thorny and claws and bites as I pull down branches, catapult myself up or jump at clumps: scraping me in places that later burn when squeezing the lemons for juice. For a while I sported a scar across my forehead, but I considered it a small price to pay for lemons on demand.

Last night Gecko and I decided to make lemonade. I jumped and grabbed, my technique quickly perfecting, filling my pockets with sweet-smelling fruit. Using a lemonade recipe, I made syrup out of sugar and water, then added juice from 5 lemons, diluted it with bottled water and served it with ice.

The verdict? It's good enough to keep me jumping.

Green (but ripe) lemons and homemade lemonade

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

One small step for man...

...one giant leap for blogkind.

This weekend I hiked a transect through a remote region of Tanzania with scientists who were assessing the soils and streams in a local watershed. I wanted to share with you some of the lessons I learned during our hike through this beautiful and unique part of the world:

People who wear a size 10 ½ shoe should not depart on a multi-day hike with only one pair of size 10 shoes (these ones have killer tread - perfect for the landscape here - but the largest size I could find in town was a ten).

The hotter it gets, the less nature tolerates straight lines.

Sometimes the heaviest things rise to the top (this photo was taken over a mile above sea level).

Magical forests really do exist. We found this one above the rocky outcropping in the previous photo.

I can make sand by rubbing my thumb and fingers together over a piece of sandstone or quartzite. (I liked to think that I contributed to the future shores of the Tanganyika Ocean... the Lake today is spreading much like the Atlantic Ocean did when it began rifting millions of years ago).

Sometimes the most beautiful things in nature are the ones that don’t quite fit-in.

Restoring the landscape in the area where I am working is ultimately possible, since many of the soils are still in tact.

The hotter the hike, the better the sunset. This one was worth every step it took us to reach the lake.

Tree of life

The fig tree at the end of our driveway was alive with activity this morning. You could hear it buzzing from a dozen meters away, seeming to pulsate with life. Along the tree's profile you could see bees flying in and out of the branches like fish around a coral reef: curious about what was beyond the tree's protective branches, and suddenly gripped with fear and turning to high-tale it back.

Birds swooped all around, catching the bees who wandered too far. It seemed the ripe fruits on our tree were providing a feast for all sorts of creatures this morning. Hopefully the bees will leave a couple of figs for me.

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