INSIDE

Travel

By Margot Griffith

It’s midnight in Dar Es Salaam when my plane touches down. The heat hits like a blowtorch, and with every footfall I feel the irresistible pull of Africa. I’m heading for the small town of Iringa, a 10 hour bus ride from the sweltering coast, into the highlands of Tanzania. At one mile in altitude, the weather in Iringa is balmy. For the third year, I am here to teach psychology in a small university. My students are welcoming and eager to learn. But they are the privileged few. My real work extends beyond the rarified world of the university, to those in the streets and villages, who look to volunteers for help. On the dusty streets of Iringa, I am no longer a stranger. East Africa has become my home for several months a year. What I learn here, time and again, is that life in Africa is honed down to moments of courage.

I learn about courage from young Maasai women, married to men three times their age, living in dung huts, raising children. They make beaded jewelry to sell to tourists visiting one of the most primitive places left on earth. Tanzanian doctors, trained in the United States, require courage, too. After seeing our life style, they know they must return to their country. And they do return, to help raise the quality of health care and promote AIDS awareness.

I learn about generosity from villagers who, thrilled with the presence of a visitor from North America, shower me with gifts they can’t afford, and a meal of beef stew. Beef stew is a staple and is best when cooked a long time. It is said the cow has walked across Africa and it’s the worst stew I’ve ever loved.

I see a flicker of hope in an English language school, where young Muslim women in black shrouds and young Christian women in white blouses are studying together. A pocket of peace in a volatile world.

The greatest lesson in courage comes from the street kids of Iringa – the AIDS orphans. A group of nine children have banded together. By day they beg in the sprawling outdoor market, by night they sleep in an abandoned building. Their hope comes in the form of a small Tanzanian woman – a pastor without a pulpit. The kids find Imelda in the market and she can’t say no to them. Bedding, shoes, clothing, somehow Imelda pulls it together. She finds them a home in the Lutheran orphanage, they’re enrolled in school. But Imelda isn’t finished. Her big plan is to show these kids the animals of their country, and so she asks for my help. I borrow the university’s battered Toyota Land Cruiser, and we set off for Ruaha National Park. It’s a mere 80 miles away, but it takes four hours over washboard roads. Few from Iringa have seen the animals.

The government provides small bandas (huts) on the banks of the Ruaha River, with five beds in each. We manage to claim two huts. Imelda has clout, it seems. We settle in. Our game drive will begin at sunrise tomorrow. Sunrise and sunset are always the same on the equator. By six-thirty at night it’s dark. We lie on our backs around the campfire by the slow moving Ruaha River. Hippos are snorting nearby, readying to come ashore to graze. They are short tempered beasts, and extremely dangerous. We’ve got to get to the safety of the bandas, but not before we find the Southern Cross. The kids are shocked that stars make patterns.

The morning dawns clear and cool and we begin our drive. Before long, a family of elephant lumbers into view. One tiny elephant, days old, receives constant affection from family members – a poignant sight to these orphans. Giraffes come gracefully into sight, long necks swaying among acacia trees, each one’s markings unique. They too have babies, six feet tall, with legs like sticks. They are called “twiga” in Swahili. The language makes sense. We see scores of zebra, gazelle, water buffalo, wart hog. We won’t see rhinos, their tiny numbers obliterate that hope, but we may see lions.

They elude us as we wind through one infinitesimal corner of Ruaha’s 4,000 square acres. The chances are slim, and we have already seen so much. But the kids want lions. Imelda has told them about the king of the animals.

We head for camp and the long trip back to Iringa. On the last bend, they await us. Lions. Out of the long, green grass they saunter, two males with full, tawny manes, and a female. They are magnificent, enjoying their morning stroll before the contest for the female’s affection begins. They are healthy, with clear gold eyes and gleaming coats.
“Sssshhh,” Imelda whispers. “Don’t startle them.”

They are nonchalant, displaying their sure superiority. The flick of an eyelid, a rumbling growl, warns us not to move an inch. The kids, shivering with fear, breathe their muted awe. Imelda breathes a sigh of relief. Prayers are answered, and for today, her work is done.