Just when I thought I was beginning to understand Tanzania, I go to another part, and once again am bewildered, bedazzled, and humbled by this country, this environment, and these people all over again.
Northwest of Arusha, the landscape changes. It is a moonscape: grey ash covers the ground; there are entire fields of rounded stones; little vegetation. The terrain becomes more hilly, more mountainous. This time of year is still hot and dry, and lush vegetation is nowhere to be found; only dried grasses, scraggly acacia trees, low sparse shrubs.
Once you see the volcano, the magma flows that substitute (poorly) for roads and the grey sand that's really volcanic ash start to make more sense. The bus bobs, weaves, and threads its way through the landscape. There are few villages along the way, and even far from houses you see Maasai tending their cattle in the hot sun. Children run up to the bus and beg, and passengers throw them their empty soda bottles or a little change.
The wind here is fierce, especially at night. We leave the bedroom window open because without a breeze it is still quite hot inside, but the wind gusts and whistles, threatening to tear the blanket and sheets off of your body. I switch to a sleeping bag and am able to relax, listening to the wind whip across this flat part of land.
We climbed up the volcano in the dark. About three quarters of the way there, one of my volunteer friends and I decide to rest and then turn back, because from there it only got steeper and more difficult as you approach the rim. We had been climbing up old lava flows, gripping our walking sticks and the pumice-like stone that has the unfortunate tendency to crumble under your grip. Your legs ache more than they ever have before, and the channels we follow have a layer of volcanic ash, making you feel like you're moonwalking, as your steps slide backward and you find yourself making little progress.
So one of the guides remains with us as the rest of the gang continues on to summit. We arrange ourselves in the dark, like mountain goats, trying to find a position to rest in at this impossible angle. We turn off our headlamps and I lie down in a groove, putting my backpack under my head and settling into the ash to rest. Remarkably, the three of us all get a little sleep before waking in the cold and descending, slowly and not without slips and falls in the loose terrain. The evolution of daylight is magnificent; we climbed up in pitch darkness, and now in half-light, we can see the landscape far, far below us, the dark and shadowed patterns of lava flows, the escarpments which mark the edge of the Serengeti.
Marco, our lodge manager, volcano guide, and Maasai warrior, sings as he capers down the mountain. He sings songs in Kimaasai, he raps, he makes up his own songs about us. He points out the flows from the last eruption, which was in 2008 and which he was here for.
The three of us make it down without incident, and wait trepidatiously for the rest of the group. There is no cell phone service in this area, not even up on the volcano, so if anything went wrong we wouldn't know until if or when they come off the mountain. And thankfully, around late morning they come off the mountain, exhausted and covered in grey ash, weary and sore, having made it up to the summit.
In the evenings, from our lodge you can see giraffes passing in the distance, making their graceful way towards water. There are unlikely streams here; cutting their way through sun and ash, they run clear and beautiful, arteries that life is strung out along. Herds of zebras can also be seen in the distance, resting under and around trees.
The next day we hike up a stream to a waterfall; it is the most beautiful and refreshing thing we could ask for. Coconut palms and lush plants grow high where the water erupts from a spring, then cascades through a crevice and then down to a tall and wide tunnel that opens up again, pools and rushing water, some cool and some warm, massaging your sore muscles.
I leave a day early to get back to my dog. Marco takes me to the stand to wait until my bus comes. He talks to me about his hopes and fears, what he's done and what he wants to do. He doesn't want his culture to be lost, but at the same time, he says, he's frustrated when he sees men who have an abundance of cattle - hundreds, thousands - at the expense of other things, such as education or good clothing for their children. It is late morning and the sun is already strong and hot, but Marco doesn't seem to notice. In his eyes are obsidian and centuries.
I board my bus and land a seat in the front, next to an older man who is a teacher and speaks good English. We pass vultures eating what seems to be a lion's kill, then a herd of zebras gallops in front of our bus. A family of baboons moves slowly a short distance away from the road, a baby riding its mother's back. We pass more children, who are selling an ostrich egg. An ostrich egg! And a short while later we pass a huge male ostrich. "The female mustn't be too far away," the teacher informs me. All this seen from a typically noisy bus on a typically bumpy road.
The soil segues from volcanic ash back to the red clay I'm used to seeing where I live. But my mind has yet to depart from that land, full of tall, graceful people in their African tartans, gazing out at the mesmerizing sight of cattle walking lazily ahead of them, hides glistening, slowly whipping up a cloud of ash under their hooves. Plodding, peaceful, beautiful beasts.
Hundreds. Thousands.
