Wednesday, December 26 – Into the forest at Gombe Stream

We walk up the beach to the Park Headquarters after being awakened by baboons romping on our roof. We meet with the Park Warden and offer gifts – a snorkel set and a leatherman. He is new to this park and to Bill and Kristin. We find Sharif on the beach. A friend of B and K’s for many years. He invites us to his home where we relax and visit for. We talk about our families, Gombe, and Sharif’s collage ambitions. There have been fewer poachers since more park rangers have been placed along the boundary. Sharif has a wife who is currently staying with her family outside Kigoma as she is expecting their second child. He hopes to get into town in time for the birth. He also hopes to further his studies by attending an American University. Their home looks pretty similar to homes here except that there are monkeys in the trees outside. It is sparsely furnished and decorated but is cool and clean. There is glass in the windows, unlike our accommodations on the beach. The back leads to a courtyard and a flush toilet in a separate building. Sharif speaks remarkably good English and I enjoy listening to him banter with Bill and Kristin about the park and their adventures.
Midafternoon. We head into the park for the first time, following a trail behind Sharif’s house. I take it in – the smells, colors and sounds. I stand and stare. I walk in the back of our troop of four because I want to stop and look so often. There’s almost too much to register all at once. Familiar yet like nothing I’ve seen before. Tall palm trees with vines hanging. Dense undergrowth lush and green. The sounds hundreds of bugs make. A trickling creek. Birds everywhere. We follow the creek up to where Bill first camped when he arrived here in 1992-allowed at that time to actually camp inside the park boundary. We stop to examine caterpillars and dung beetles, mushrooms and ferns. We wander up the creek bottom for about an hour. At the top of our first step climb, we hear chimps calling from across the ridge. Fine motivators for tired hikers. This is the Mitumba group, a neighboring group of chimps to the Kasakela family living close to B and K’s hut and whom we hope to visit soon. The Mitumba group is not as habituated. Up and down. Up and down. Ridge. Ravine. Ridge. Ravine. The terrain is steep. Memories are shared at various stops along the way. Here is where the cobra was. Frodo displayed here. Broken-leg guy had to be carried off the mountain down this trail. I’m sure I have ‘experiencing face’.
We rest along a creek bottom and dip our bandanas in the water to cool our hot faces. It is picturesque. Shady jungle vegetation. Crystal clear water. We drink and talk about our day so far. We all take pictures of each other.



Bandanas dripping. Smiling faces. We spook a troop of red-tailed colobus monkeys who curiously chose to sail over us through the tree tops instead of scooting away down the hill. Another ‘movie’ image. Some even pause to stare at us as we stare at them. Loud chatter. Shaking leaves.



Jane’s Peak. This is where she waited so patiently day after day as she attempted to habituate the Kasakala group, named after the valley we are now looking in to. It starts to rain. Again a welcome event. Cool and clean. Cameras hurriedly tucked under plastic rain slickers. Chimps call from the valley floor. They are really here! One sounds angry or scared. Vocalizing vehemently. Screaming over and over. Settle down to quiet. We listen and gaze at the great valley spreading before us. The sun breaks through and presents us with a perfect rainbow on the ridge above. It is getting late. We discuss options. We all agree to head down the ridge to the hut instead of diving into the valley to try to see chimps before it gets dark. I am happy with this decision. I don’t want to hurry the experience. I can still hear chimps calling as I walk along. I savor the sound and think about the days to come....

Christmas Day – Gombe Stream National Park

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” we sing as we enjoy the tropical warmth. A classic Christmas breakfast is about the only indication that it is really Christmas day. We dine on Cowboy tatters, cheese eggs, fresh fruit, Cocoa Puffs (a small box of which I carried all the way from home for Will as a Christmas Day treat), fresh coffee, French toast. Our ‘Chuthers’. The setting is all that has changed. Will is wistful, however, for tradition. No tree. No snow. No extended family. No pile of presents. It is different. His lament is soon forgotten when a spear gun is discovered in Bill’s loft. To the lake. It’s time to catch Christmas dinner. Wet suit and fins. Living a different dream. Start a new tradition?!



A day on the lake for everyone. Swimming, snorkeling, playing, relaxing. Two freshly butchered chickens are delivered from the village. They look like road runners. Straight into marinades. I replicate a Hawaiian Shoyu chicken recipe (a favorite of Will’s, a recipe from Brian’s mom). Kristin bakes the other chicken in a clay pot with wine and butter. Five small fish are successfully speared and two large Koohey (a local fish) are purchased from a passing fisherman. An afternoon of unrushed cooking and preparation in Bill and Kristin’s semi-outdoor kitchen, screened in to keep out the baboons. Efficient and functional. Fresh squeezed citrus and Konyagi. The fish are grilled to perfection in a fire ring on the beach. We feast on the beach after sundown. Not bothered by the baboons who have all gone to bed.

Monday, December 24 – Kigoma, Tanzania; Gombe Stream National Park

Breakfast of mango and papaya. Cashews and Chai Borah tea. Bill drives us back down the hill to town in our ‘Gombe Stream’ truck. More shopping – butter and hot dogs. Skewers of beef. Flip-flops for Will. Kerosene. No fish is available….’full moon is bad for fishing’.



To Takari – a Jane Goodall Institute compound where our boat awaits. We meet a bunch of people. Names aren’t a strong point for me. I can’t keep everyone straight. There’s Mary, a baboon researcher. Shadrac – a chimp researcher, I think. I send greetings to him from mom and dad who visited here a few years ago. “Habari/Nzuri” a million times. The famous boat ride. Is this too a movie? It looks like I pictured it because I’ve already ‘seen’ it on video so many times. So surreal to be seeing it ‘live’. Civilization quickly left behind. Thatch huts. Torn-sailed dhows. Wooden canoes. Earnest operators. Arms uplifted in waves of greeting. We motor past tiny villages. Houses right on the beach. Clay brick with metal roofs. Some are grass. Deforested hills ascend from the shore. We discuss erosion and ignorance. We see the same thing at home in Oregon. ‘Gombe Stream National Park’. A small sign marks the boundary. Lush, forested hillsides offer clearer distinction. Baboons are sitting on the beach. Someone points out a ‘Wazungu’ Tree – stark white bark stands out against a deep green backdrop. The park is twelve miles long and two miles deep along the eastern shore of Lake Tanganyika. We are all smiles. ‘Welcome home, Bill and Kristin!’ Their hut. An icon. We settle in, pleased to learn that there is room for Brian, Will and I in Jane’s house – a linear stone dwelling with 3/4 wall rooms. Open air. Screened around the periphery. Utilitarian. No glass. Dinner of samosas, chapattis and beef kabobs carried from town. Fresh avocado and mango. Cool beer. It’s all perfect.

Sunday, December 23 – A day of travel

Up at dawn (about 6:00am here year-round since we are only about 15 degrees south of the equator). A taxi to the airport to catch our 9:00am flight back to Dar es Salaam. Detour back into Stonetown and The Clove to collect our ‘Cougar’ Cheese (a tin of sharp, cheddar cheese given to all of us by Mom and Dad when we left home). Brian fortunately remembered that we had accidentally left it in the refrigerator there.



A day of travel. Tiny 10-seater prop-plane back to Dar. One last glimpse from the air of the atoll where we lunched during our snorkel cruise. Flawless landing. Two hour wait for our Precision Air Flight west across the country to Kigoma. Kristin and Bill’s friend, Sham, meets us at the airport and delivers luggage he had been keeping for them since a previous visit. We leave with him our duffle bag full of fabrics and spice. Treasures from Zanzibar. Four hours to Kigoma, Tanzania. VAST mountains. Seemly undisturbed. Then I notice all the clear cuts. They are everywhere. Spider web roads connect small villages. Red, red earth. Farm plots without the grid. Rounded peeks. Steep. Kigoma airstrip is red earth packed hard. ‘Karibu Kigoma’ the sign welcomes. We are really here. Chaos in the tiny room that serves as baggage claim. We begin stuffing our luggage (every piece accounted for) into a waiting cab. We quickly realize that we’ll need another as collectively, we still have a lot of luggage. Half a dozen children crowd us with hands out. Big smiles. “Money, money,” they implore. Their first (only?) English word? They seem satisfied with seeing their digital images on Will’s camera. Another stereotyped image jumps into my mind….white guy in neat clothes sporting the latest in groovy optics surrounded by the outstretched hands of children in ragged clothes. I am again embarrassed. It is difficult for me to contemplate their future for long. What is their life like? What will it be? We are ridiculously privileged with our middle-income American lives.



To the market we go. We are up against the clock to get all the provisions we need and get to Gombe by midday tomorrow. Vendors are already closing as we arrive but reopen when they see us. A ‘store’ the size of our kitchen (i.e. not big) offers almost every dry good on our list. Amazing. Eggs are packed in sawdust in a cardboard box. We’ll wash them later. Single offerings of most items make selection simple. Our list includes tea, catsup, powdered milk, baking powder, Red Bull (for Will), boxed juice, rice and vinegar. We leave our purchases to be tallied and boxed. I follow Kristin into the produce market. The boys are off on other errands. Mind-boggling narrow pathways between wooden tables stacked high with fresh fruits and vegetables. Some looking better than others. We select potatoes, garlic, shallots, carrots, and raw coffee beans. Ginger root in woven baskets. Gunnysacks of flour and dry beans. More spices. I am introduced to Kristin’s friend, a vendor they’ve frequented for years. He pulls out an enormous plastic bag of turmeric when I inquire. I buy more. I head to the vegetable tables. When I start looking at peppers, the woman selling them moves them aside and brings out perfect specimens from under her table. The same for everything I examine. I don’t have a way to tell her I’m just looking. Kristin joins me and relieves me of my awkwardness. We buy three large woven baskets to carry the abundance of produce we finally select. Thunder and rain comes quickly and with gusto. In no time, the red clay paths between the tables are flowing with runoff. The women invite us under their shelter. We are marginally protected by pieced together scraps of corrugated metal roofing and blue plastic tarps. I laugh at the rain pouring off in from of us. Sheeting off the metal like a curtain. A cascading waterfall at the corners of the tarps. The torrent in the walkway is forcing the water up into the stalls. At our feet, the water is rising into the sheltered space we have taken refuge in. The rain keeps coming down hard. Time to get out. Heavy baskets. We creep along a narrow stone path hugging the very edge of the building. We run, slip, slide, laugh. We are soaked in seconds. It feels great. The air temperature has cooled down nicely from the usual 80 something. Refuge again sought. This time under a wide porch with a concrete floor. Better protected. A dozen meters closer to the street. A local person had the same idea and is now leaning up against the wall watching us. I picture the boys waiting for us in the nice enclosed truck up on the street, their mission having been to go out to The Takare Project and check out a truck from the Jane Goodall Institute where Bill works. The rain matters less now since we are soaked. I scamper back to fetch our 3rd basket, left waiting on the produce tables. Back with Kristin we break into the bananas, consciously offering one to our fellow strandee. Tanzanian etiquette. Don’t eat in front of others without first offering some to share. We smile at each other and enjoy the moment. Discovered by Brian and Bill who come around the corner looking for us. Will is wisely waiting in the truck. All the shops are now closed. The rest of our shopping must wait until tomorrow.



We drive up the main street to a café. Soaked but not uncomfortable, we eat local fish served whole. Fine pointed noses and small wicked teeth. Grilled to perfection. Spiced spinach and fresh cooked beans. Coke in recycled glass bottles. Will digs in using his fingers to convey his food. All those fresh camp-cooked rainbow trout at home have prepared him well for this experience. Lodging that night is at Antoine’s house. He is another chimpanzee researcher who works with Bill and Kristin. He has flown home to England for the holidays. The well-kempt house is ours to use during our stay. We stay up late drinking South African red wine and talking about our day.

Saturday, December 22 – North Coast Zanzibar, Sunset Bungalows

Our snorkel cruise thwarted by high waves, K, B and I opted to lie under a thatched shade hut on the beach, none of us overly disappointed. Brian rallied and attempted windsurfing with marginal success – just enough to claim having wind surfed on Zanzibar. Samuel and Paulo joined Kristin and me and our conversation from yesterday continued. Kristin, being fluent in Swahili, was much better able to converse clearly, though we agreed that we had done pretty well yesterday thanks to Samuel’s English. It turns out he speaks four languages – Swahili, English, Italian, and the native language of their Masaai village. All this from a 22-year-old with hardly any formal education. We learn that he and Paulo are half-brothers, their father having two wives. Samuel laughs when I ask if they are married. No wives yet! During our conversation, Paulo’s cell phone rings. It is so incongruous to see a person dressed spectacularly in traditional Masaai robes pull a cell phone out of somewhere and go off to converse. Brian returns from his sail and joins us. Samuel asks if we remember the song from yesterday. We sing the song for the video camera and play the clip back, laughing. We exchange addresses and phone numbers. What are the odds of seeing them again?
The rest of the day was much the same. Lunch in a shady, semi-outdoor restaurant, relaxing walks on the beach. Bill and Will return from their dive. They have seen sharks and barracuda on the reef. They share yet another connection to each other. At times, I think they are each other’s incarnation.
Dinner that night was lobster for Bill and me. Various fish or chicken dishes for the rest of the group. What luxury! Lucouss succulent chunks pulled out of the shell. Caught fresh hours ago, not flown across the country. Will has been doing extremely well finding plenty to eat though tonight he enjoys a big plate of fries. Home is everywhere.

Friday, December 21 – Sunset Bungalows, North Zanzibar

We join the flock of wazungu tromping to the trough. Mooo. Stupid white people. We must look like fools. Sign your name. Order your eggs by number. 1=fried, 2=boiled, 3=scrambled, 4=omelet. Three pieces of fruit. 2 pieces of toast. Everyone’s serving looks the same. Africafe instant coffee. A BIT of a let down after all the fresh local food in Stone Town. We are glad we bought our own fruit along the way. A white couple at the next table ask where we got the mango and papaya and are outwardly disappointed to learn that it was no where near here. We stroll south down the beach. More hotels. More wazungu. African employees. We are used to being approach by ‘solicitors’ by now. ‘You want spice tour? Massage? Snorkel cruise? Buy my crafts?’. Two Masaai say ‘Jambo’. I smile but say nothing. Brian confidently responds, ‘Habari!’ to which they respond, ‘Nzuri’, followed by “Mombo”/ “Poa”. I’m so proud of Brian. He has done a much better job of internalizing the Swahili niceties. I just keep saying, ‘Jambo’ or nothing at all and then get embarrassed. The Masaai boys are young and classic. Melodic jewelry around their necks, layers of beads at wrist and ankle, polished wooden walking sticks, finely braided long hair pulled back off slender dark faces. They each have long daggers stuck in their belts. Tall and fine boned. I am curious. Fascinated. The cover of National Geographic standing in front of me saying hello. I want to ask my questions. We stroll together, the four of us. One of them speaks broken but clear English if I concentrate. He asks us questions about our cities. Our climate. Our occupations. Our travel experience so far. I am glad he is so curious about us. I take a chance and am immediately reinforced. My carefully phrased questions are answered one by one. They come from outside Arusha. Attended school as only as children. Their father raises cattle. They don’t like fish and are surprised when they learn it is a favorite for me. What kind of fish do you have? Brian explains about salmon and trout. Tuna but not the same species. Their father is not happy they are here. They have each been given cattle. Why don’t you want to stay home? Their father cannot understand their desire to see new things. They are both here because they want to be. Their employer is good to them. They get fair wages and a place to sleep. They are both night watchmen at a resort down the line. They like the wazungu here and the Tanzanians who also work here but think the Zanzibari people are ‘lazy’. Don’t know how to work. They introduce themselves as Samuel and Paulo. Obviously not their given names but ones adopted more recently. I am unable to determine their real names. Samuel asks coyly about our social ‘rules’, “Are there black people where we live?’ To Brian, “If you were not married would it be OK with you to marry someone black?” I get the impression he is trying to glean what his chances would be of finding a white wife. I don’t ask. He smiles and nods happily when we both agree that it doesn’t matter to us. “It’s what’s inside a person that is most important”, Brian explains. We caution that not everyone in the US feels this way. Samuel suggests we walk back. Along the way he starts singing. He teaches me the song. He and I sing together. He is obviously pleased. “You are Masaai!”, he jokes. I am obviously pleased at well. High five. Clasped hands. I am so glad to have met him. He starts speaking in a falsetto voice. I ask him why. ‘Low voice scares wazungu’. He acts out running away, cringing. Then laughs. He says people respond better to the high voice. He likes to talk to people. He is very curious. I’ve just lived the dream. Moving to better understanding of another. Not feeling so self-conscious or embarrassed. We agree to meet again tomorrow. “Asanti Sana”. We are both visibly happy.
A relaxing afternoon. Pictures downloads in our cool rooms. Napping. Processing. Eventually, Brian and I walk to a tiny café we spotted on the drive in. No wazungu. Only Africans. Real food. We are welcomed. Fish curry. Fresh baked beans. Rice. Orange Fanta from a bottle opaque with refill lines. The air is hot. Inside the open-face plastered shelter is even hotter. No breeze. We chat up the ‘server’ (a term I use loosely here because I didn’t’ realize he actually worked here for most of our conversation). He is from Moshi on the mainland. His is not happy he is here. He came here because he needed the work. A different perspective shared openly. He doesn’t appear to resent the white people here though he works in a café that caters mostly to the local workers. I get the feeling our presence here is unusual. I’m so appreciative that we are so accepted. Welcomed. These are such good people.
Bill and Will find us after a day on the ocean diving. Will orders fish and chips. It turns out to be Barracuda served whole. He eats heartily. I can hardly believe this is the same conservative eater I left home with.
Children in grubby clothes walk by, singing. They are smiling and laughing. It is a holiday. Still Idi. No school. The celebration will last 2 more days. Trucks go by one by one piled with sand. Pineapple. Tourists. The bumpy dirt road is very busy.
We close the day with a rousing game of beach volleyball, the net placed precariously close to the diner’s at the Bikini Restaurant. We are soon joined by a Caucasian family from Zimbabwe who turn out to be as brilliant at beach volleyball as we are. We cheer when a volley lasts more than two exchanges. We all end up in the ocean (about 50 meters away) for a late night dip after having worked up quite a sweat. Laughing and soaked, we retire to our cool Bungalows.

Thursday, December 20 – Sunset Bungalows at Kendwa Rocks

Brian and I walk the streets of Stone Town in the early morning light. Our friend, Said, is still sitting on the stoop outside. Night watchman. 12 hour shift. Friendly and polite. We say
our goodbyes as he will be undoubtedly be gone when we return. We are leaving Stone Town today.
It is Idi, a Muslim holiday. Families are strolling to the mosques, dressed in their finest. A young Muslim man sees us watching and voluntarily takes the time to explain what is happening. Idi is a celebration, which happens after Ramadan and coincides with the pilgrimage many take each year to Mecca in the Holy Land. After prayers today, he tells us, everyone will meet at the fields along to waterfront for a feast. There will be much visiting and a present for each child. Everyone will be wearing his or her best. Though it is a Muslim holiday, I notice that there are many Indian families also dressed up lavishly and strolling the streets. Idi is four days of no school and no work for most. Reason enough to celebrate.
Back at The Clove and all packed up. Our taxi arrives right on time. Another arrangement made by email before I left home. We travel the same road we took north toward the spice farms. We stop for fresh fruit at a roadside stand. Will and Kristin amuse the many children living there by taking photos and sharing the results. An experience for all.





Beautiful, perfect smiles. Laughing eyes. The bright colors of fine dress clothes. A lucky moment. Back in the van we travel on. The driving is again white knuckle. Wide eyes. No restraint. A stop at a spice farm for more vanilla and saffron. Bill drives a hard bargain. ‘Not good quality. Your prices are too high’. He is right. A vendor gets in the van with us and directs us to another farm where the saffron is pristine. We buy all they offer. 1500TSH/bag.
Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride continues. A rolled van down a bank prompts Kristin to request more caution from our driver. He obliges her for about 5 minutes. The land we travel past becomes more arid. Clay brick and thatched-roof huts. Classic. Cliché. Real. Electric wires string them together. I take it in. I think about all we are learning. I am proud that we are all able to move past the stereotypes and form a new understanding of people different from ourselves. We have all commented on how exceedingly friendly everyone has been. We have been welcomed without question by so many people. The population of Zanzibar is 90% Muslim. I love the realization that this is now what my association with ‘Muslim’ will be. Will appears to have had similar thoughts based on his comments about the people here. Age 15. A life-changing experience for us all.
We are amazed when we arrive in tact to The Sunset Bungalows at Kendwa Rocks. We are not prepared for the abundance of wazungus (white people) here. The only local people we see are the employees. We all notice and comment on the change in atmosphere. A far cry from the joyous hubbub of Stone Town. The guests here are quiet and look somber. Serious. Privileged. I am embarrassed to be one of them. The staff does not seem too happy either. This worries me. I want to ask them if this is all OK with them. I don’t want to be associated with the other guests but I am by color and station.
Our dwellings are classic huts in the sand off the beach. Tall beds. Mosquito netted. Air Conditioned. You’ve got to be kidding! It feels great, I must admit. It is quite hot outside.



We eat lunch at the ‘Sunset Restaurant and Bikini Bar’. No modesty here. Such contrast. Guests in scanty swimsuits eating their lunch. It is odd to see so much skin after spending 5 days surrounded by people in long all-concealing robes.




These Beach cabana's are simply amazing. They are constructed with small diameter logs that are often lashed together. Some have amazing trusses that span great distances, some are two stories. they are within 100 yards of the water and seem to have been around for a while, Must not get to many storms.






Bill and Will show their new documentation and arrange a dive. Brian and I walk up the beach. It is unreal. Deep blue depths. Turquoise shoreline. White sugar sand. It is breathtaking. Masaai people stroll along. They look like props. Traditional dress complete with long walking sticks. Abundant jewelry. How did they get to Zanzibar? I thought they were from the Serengeti. Do they want to be here? What do they do here? Pose for pictures? Are they real?
Along the shore a bluff reaches down. Slightly overhung. Lava? No, coral. The whole island is ‘built’ on it. The incoming tide prevents us from going around the point. Back near our huts, we grab our snorkel gear and test the water. Choppy waves limit visibility. Our buddy fish have already found us! We eat again at the Sunset. The curry is good but the prices are high. There are other eateries along the line I want to sample. Relax. Enjoy the beach.