How in the world does one begin a narrative that describes something — all things, really — so incredibly different from one’s comfortable, accepted, day-to-day reality? I’m not sure, but I’m going to try.
SATURDAY — Raleigh to Detroit to Amsterdam to Kilimanjaro…
SUNDAY — 26 hours, 8 time zones, 7840 miles, and an uncountable number of airplane meals later, we disembarked onto the tarmac in the dark (out of what turned out to be the most *massive* plane I’d ever stood beside!). We spent a few minutes in an extremely hot, crowded customs line, followed by a lovely, cool, breezy (and extraordinarily dark — no streetlights here!) van ride to our hotel. Our driver, Carol, is from Moshi and works for Kilimanjaro Christian Medical Center (henceforth to be known as KCMC), which is the ‘hub’ connecting all the smaller hospitals (like Machame Lutheran Hospital, which is where we are); he’s seen lots of Duke-affiliated folk come through the area and speaks excellent English, so he was able to answer a lot of our preliminary questions. I asked about a runners’ sign hanging over the road — turned out the Kilimanjaro Marathon had been run just that morning. (I asked who won — even here, it was a Kenyan! :))
Carol dropped us off at our hotel, which was called Midlands. We were told to be ready for pickup at 7:50 the next morning to go to KCMC and meet Vera, one of our primary contacts here in Tanzania who has been ‘smoothing the way’ for us on this end during our various preparations.
MONDAY — We pulled our groggy selves out of our mosquito-net-draped beds in time for the hotel staff to serve us a 7am breakfast on the porch — typical light Tanzanian breakfast fare of hard-boiled eggs, oranges, and bread with butter and marmalade. It was lovely to sit there in the cool morning breeze, seeing the country in the daylight for the first time, staring wide-eyed at all the unusual plants and colorful flowers that covered the property. We got really excited when we realized that we could even see the peak of Mt. Kilimanjaro, which is apparently pretty unusual, since it’s normally behind a cloud cover. We snapped pictures, finished eating, and waited for Carol.
And waited.
And waited.
Turned out that this was to be our first lesson in “Tanzanian time”, the concept of which is very “loose”, in sharp contrast to American culture. In short, very little is done on a fixed schedule here; nothing is set in stone. We’d been warned that this would be the case, but hadn’t expected to be introduced to the phenomenon quite so soon. We read our Kindles on the porch, exchanged a comment or two about how we could have stayed in bed, giggled when we overheard Chris Brown blasting from a nearby home — “Not exactly what I expected to hear in Africa!” said Erin — and kept waiting.
We waited for nearly three hours (which is long even by Tanzania standards), when Vera finally called the hotel and instructed the owner to just put us in a taxi to KCMC, which he did. We couldn’t stop grinning as we bumped and bounced our way along the rutted red roads on this first morning — I can’t speak for Erin, but it was *exactly* how I’d imagined Africa to be. Dark-faced women in colorful clothing balancing bundles of bananas on their heads, men riding bicycles or walking along the side of the road, wide-eyed children with school uniforms and close-cropped hair staring at our white faces in the backseat. So different from anything I’d ever seen, and yet exactly like my mind’s eye — as if we’d been dropped into the middle of my imagination.
We arrived at KCMC, met Vera, paid our registration fees, and met most of the Duke affiliates who are currently working at KCMC. “When you walk down this hallway, you’ll feel at home,” Vera said with a grin, and right she was; the Duke offices were lined up all in a row. The hospital had a very open design, with open breezeways at the ends of the hallways so that air could circulate freely; despite the lack of air conditioning, it was quite cool inside. Then she took us out into the town of Moshi to get some necessary errands accomplished — we both needed Tanzanian shillings ($1 = 1500 TZS, more or less) and Tanzanian cell phones, and we also needed to go to the immigration office to get our passports endorsed. We stopped by a store owned by a friend of Vera’s, a woman named Irene who makes skirts and dresses from good-quality fabric (we plan to buy a few… :)) as well as the office of the company that we’re hoping to use for a safari — they don’t have any groups signed up for any of our potential weekends yet, but we’re hoping they get one, because it would make the venture considerably cheaper!
We insisted on buying Vera lunch — she was an absolute lifesaver during this first hectic day. Erin and I had been half-hoping to try some local food — ‘ugali’ (a doughy substance dipped in sauce) or ‘palau’ (rice with a sauce of chicken and spices) — so we had to hold back giggles when Vera enthusiastically suggested, “How about pizza and French fries?!” So that was what we had, at a large restaurant called Union Cafe — prices are more in line with what we’d expect to pay at home, but it was a nice quiet place where we could sit and rest and talk. You can buy fresh local coffee beans there (um, yes please), and I also noticed that they have wireless Internet, albeit not free, so I suspect that I’ll be back in the not-too-distant future.
Coincidentally, Erin and I did get our ‘palau’ and chicken and rice that night when we had dinner at the hotel — seriously some of the most delicious food I have ever had, and capped off by a mango that I swear to goodness must have dropped from the tree five minutes before we ate it. I’m still dreaming about that mango. Definitely never going to be be able to eat them the same way again at home.
TUESDAY — Vera and Carol picked us up (on time!) and we rode up to Machame, which is where our rotation site, Machame Lutheran Hospital (MLH), is. The drive was stunningly picturesque; the rainy season is just beginning here, so a lot of farmers were out hand-planting their maize and beans. Those gigantic fields, dotted with bent-over workers, backlit by mountain ranges and Kilimanjaro… it was like something off a postcard. Machame is at the base of Kilimanjaro (the park gate is just 4 km from the hospital), so we had to climb a long steep grade in the van, and the higher we got, the denser the foliage became. I’ve never seen so many banana trees, interspersed with smaller coffee plants and other random flowering trees and shrubs that added bursts of red, pink, yellow, and purple to the general splendor.
And then… we entered the gates of MLH. It was late morning, so there were a lot of people milling about the entrance. Everyone stared as our Duke-labeled van approached, and more than one person called us ‘mzungu’ (“white people”). This is a common label here — even the children will invariably shout “Mzungu, mzungu,” when they see us — and I have to continually remind myself that Africans don’t have the same historical concept of racism that we do in the States and that they genuinely don’t mean to offend.
Our first stop was “Mushi Patron”‘s office; Mr. Mushi is one of our ‘bosses’ while we’re here. We met Asha and Maria, the Swedish students who are sharing the other half of our guest house (technically, there are six of us here right now, since there are two more Americans from Nebraska in the other side, too; Erin and I have our half to ourselves so far), and the four of us followed Mr. Mushi on a tour of the hospital. It’s designed similarly to KCMC, with open breezeways, but much smaller, and laid out in a figure-eight pattern. The two inner courtyards are filled with red-flowering trees, and the men and women of the Maasai tribe tend to sit there on the grass in the sun with their colorful robes and dramatic piercings, which adds to the overall picture. As far as facilities, there’s a busy HIV clinic, a maternal/child health unit, a labor & delivery unit, a pediatric unit, an ICU (with eight beds), separate surgical wards for men and women, and a new orthopedic wing that the administrators are exceptionally proud of (the hospital performs quite a bit of orthopedic surgery).
After the tour, Erin and I moved our luggage into our half of the guest house and went down to the hospital canteen for lunch with Vera and Carol before they left. Meals are a flat rate of 1500 TZS (about $1-1.50), which is hard to beat. We ate a sort of banana stew, which I probably wouldn’t order again if I had another option, but which wasn’t too bad; boiled bananas, some lumps of meat, a bit of sauce, and some greens and beans to add to the plate at one’s discretion. Definitely a ‘local’ food native to the Kilimanjaro area; Vera says it would be hard to find even just up the road in Moshi or Arusha.
We took a couple of pictures with Vera and Carol in front of the hospital (apparently these photos are a tradition with Carol since one of them made it on the cover of a Duke publication; he was pretty happy about that and joked with us that we needed to “make him famous” again), and then they left. We did some organizational work on the apartment (no easy task, let me tell you — this place is pretty filthy), then bought bottled water at the canteen shop (confession: I’ve drunk from the tap several times with no ill effects, but when it’s this cheap, why not be safe?) and went for a walk up the road to a fruit stand and bought a whole pile of fruits and vegetables — four bananas, four mangoes, four tomatoes, two oranges, and the biggest, ripest avocado I’d ever seen in my life. Grand total: $2. I couldn’t believe it. We ate at the canteen again for dinner (potatoes in some kind of meat sauce), and experienced our first power outage; apparently they’re a regular occurrence in the evenings. We’ve been warned that “it always happens right when you’re trying to do something, like cook a meal or take a shower!”, and that’s been true so far; the power has gone out every night we’ve been here. The level of blackness that happens when the lights go out in Africa is so deep and impenetrable as to be almost frightening; fortunately, we’ve never been caught without our flashlights. (Of course, then you have the insects to deal with — but, yeah, pick your poison…)
WEDNESDAY — Our first full day at the hospital! Days here begin with devotions at 7:45, which students are expected to attend. The service is mostly in Swahili, so we can’t glean much, but the singing is absolutely magical. I’m going to do my best to get an audio recording of some of it, because I honestly don’t know how they do it — they sing various harmonies and rounds without seeming to even try. One woman will echo a line alone, or a whole group of deep-voiced men will carry a melody… the variations are always unexpected, and always perfect. On this first day, Erin and I had to go up front and introduce ourselves; the pastor then led the group in rubbing their hands together to warm them. He counted, “Moja, mbili, tatu!” and the whole group clapped their hands slowly three times. This is apparently their ‘welcome’ procedure, rather like how we in the States might applaud. It was unfamiliar to me, but I think both of us felt very special. :)
After devotions, we had morning rounds, which on this particular day turned into more of a discussion-slash-argument between two of the higher-ups over a case from the day before that hadn’t gone well. The other two Americans were assigned to work in the HIV clinic with a German physician that Erin and I knew by reputation (we’re already looking forward to our turn), and the two of us were assigned to GYN surgery. Admittedly, I was sort of disappointed by this; I know we’re here long enough that we’ll get a chance to do everything eventually, but (a) I’d just finished a surgery rotation and was looking forward to doing something different, and (b) there are so many things here that I *am* intensely excited about (labor & delivery, pediatrics, HIV clinic, maternal/child clinic, palliative care home visits, etc.) that I was a little bummed to be assigned to surgery again on the first day.
However, the silver lining was that the States version of the OR was fresh in my mind, so comparisons were more jarring than they might otherwise have been. On the surface, things look much the same in a Tanzanian OR — a surgeon, a first assistant, an anesthetist, a scrub nurse, and a circulating nurse. However… then you look a little deeper and realize that the suction apparatus is a simple rubber hose (no tip) attached to a glass canister, which is switched on and off at the surgeon’s command. (The hose actually came apart at one point and sprayed blood on the floor, causing both Erin and me to nearly hyperventilate.) Nothing is disposable — the gowns, caps, and masks are made of regular fabric (and thus all swelteringly hot). Instead of normal shoes with shoe covers, the staff changes into either flip-flops or tall rubber boots (the kind NCers wear on rainy days). There’s often a fly or two lazily circling the room. No one wears eye protection, and gloves are frequently ignored (which becomes uncomfortable when they expect *us* to do something without putting on gloves first, because they just don’t understand why in the world one would need gloves to stick tape onto a patient’s bandaged incision or move a tray of used instruments into the autoclave room…). Sharps containers consist of cardboard boxes inside plastic garbage pails. Patients are extubated extremely quickly (Erin saw one patient who was swiftly extubated and disengaged from all monitors, then couldn’t be roused; the anesthetist was literally slapping the woman in the face and suffocating her with a towel in an attempt to get a response). And, one of the most disturbing things: the anesthetist has to *manually* ventilate the patient throughout the entire operation (!), and she doesn’t always do this consistently; we actually saw her briefly walk out of the room a couple of times (then come back and give the patient several quick breaths… um, for good measure…???)
I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but I actually came perilously close to passing out (sweating, shaking, tunnel vision) during the second case, and had to make a hasty exit. That has never, *ever* happened to me in the OR, not even during my pre-PA shadowing days — but I suppose a suffocating fabric face mask, tall sweltering rubber boots, and no air conditioning, combined with too light of a breakfast (that mango and banana seemed like such a delicious idea at the time…) could reasonably be expected to do me in. We’re going to try to hunt down some eggs this weekend and make a big batch of hard-boiled eggs for our breakfasts so that we’re not stuck with fruit and oily bread.
We got lucky with food tonight; a sympathetic canteen employee apparently decided that the two ‘mzungu’ girls should get a full meal, so instead of the plate of plain rice and unappetizing lumps of meat that we were expecting, we got something called ‘nyama’ — white rice with a meat-based sauce containing onions and tomatoes — as well as a plate of salted tomatoes and cucumbers, a plate of pickled cabbage, and bananas for dessert. We went for a walk afterward to buy more bottled water and to try to find our way to the market, but had no luck with the latter; still, it was a good workout, especially the steep uphill climb back to the hospital.
THURSDAY — After devotions and morning report today, the director of the hospital started pimping the nursing students with a relatively easy question — “Where does the upper respiratory tract begin and end?” After a few misses, someone finally gave the correct answer of “nostrils” for the beginning, but nobody could get the other answer. The director eventually turned to me and Erin with raised eyebrows and said, “PA students? From Duke University? Where does the upper respiratory tract end?” Well, way to bring the pressure by attaching the Duke name! (We correctly answered “at the carina”, but I’m curious what kind of precedent this is setting — he smilingly warned us that there would likely be more questions tomorrow…)
We were assigned to spend today in the orthopedic clinic, which was pretty interesting. The doctor who runs the clinic is a slightly stooped, gray-haired, jolly spitfire of an orthopedic surgeon who is thrilled to be at Machame in the new ortho wing after spending many years at the overcrowded, undersupplied KCMC. We saw a lot of fractures that were weeks old and had never been properly set — the two that stick out in my mind were a four-year-old boy and sixteen-year-old girl, both of whom had had forearm fractures weeks ago and were just presenting to clinic for the first time today. Fortunately, the prognosis was fairly good for both of them; their range of motion was only partially limited, and the surgeon was optimistic about their bones’ ability to remodel. There was also an eleven-year-old boy with flat feet and malrotation of both taluses (tali?) about whom the surgeon couldn’t be quite so optimistic; he said that this deformity could have been easily repaired in infancy, but not in a child this age. His English is just as heavily accented as everyone else’s, and he was flying from patient to patient so quickly that we didn’t get much information about the treatments he was using, but he was a great teacher on the things he did take the time to show us, particularly when it came to interpreting x-rays. (And they do a LOT of x-rays, because it’s just about the only imaging tool they have besides ultrasound. One patient got sent for an MRI, and he’s going to have to go all the way to Dar es Salaam for it.)
Another interesting thing today: our first experience with displays of grief in this culture. While we were in the ortho clinic, someone outside must have gotten bad news about a family member. I wish I could use the more romantic word ‘keening’, but I can’t; this was screaming, plain and simple, and it went on for over ten minutes. I heard the word ‘baba’, so my guess is that it was someone’s father who died. Everyone continued about their business — no hasty shuttling of the family members into private rooms, as would likely have happened in the States — but there were a number of sad glances exchanged among those of us in the room; there was no doubt that everyone knew what had happened. My question to Erin was whether the grieving process perhaps takes a different trajectory here — “get it all out up front”, as it were, and then get on with life a little more rapidly? I don’t know enough about this culture to know the answer to that question, but I can see how such a tradition might have evolved; simply put, these people can’t *afford* to be paralyzed with grief for days or weeks, because they have to take care of their families. This is pure speculation on my part, but I did wonder.
On a happier note, I finally met the two young boys who continually prowl the hallways; one looks to be about six years old and is in a wheelchair (he’s a regular speed demon with it, too), while the other is slightly older and uses a walker. They told me their names are Erikson and Solomon. I’d seen them around a few times and had tried to introduce myself, but they speak very little English; still, they’re friendly as can be, constantly shouting, “Come, come!” and beckoning to us whenever they catch sight of us. I remembered to slip one of my packets of stickers into my white coat pocket today, so we had a good time putting stickers on their wheelchair, walker, and so forth. I seriously can’t wait until I get to do some work with the children and babies here! There’s also an orphanage that we’ve been told we can visit; I’m excited about that, too.
Also, the local market days are Monday and Thursday, so Erin and I walked down the hill to the Machame market site today. It rained this afternoon, so we were slip-sliding over a slick uneven red dirt path that has clearly been traveled by many hundreds of feet — but once we got there, our senses were dazzled. People packed tightly together, interspersed by heaps of red tomatoes, green mangoes, colorful fabrics, and all manner of other odds and ends. We heard “mzungu!” exclaimed from all corners as we walked through, so apparently we made quite a scene. :) We also made out like bandits — five bananas, four tomatoes, three mangoes, three cucumbers, and an avocado, for a grand total of 1200 TZS — about one American dollar. I wouldn’t say we felt ‘comfortable’ just yet — we were wearing our backpacks on our fronts and surreptitiously watching our backs — but we interacted a little more than we have up until now, and also understood a little more (hard to say which phenomenon came first). We were able to ask for and comprehend prices in Swahili, and older women called us ‘sister’ in both Swahili and English — and those from whom we bought were so genuinely appreciative. I tried to break a 5000 TZS note (about $5) at the first stall we came to, and was told they couldn’t do it, which was a sobering realization regarding how much money the vendors make in a day.
In keeping with the theme of “things that disturb me a bit” — the two Nebraskan PA girls just got back from their day with the Outreach Program and told us that when they arrived and asked where the doctors were, they were told, “You’re the doctors!” They saw 60 patients completely on their own, made diagnoses, wrote prescriptions, the whole bit, and are pushing us to join them next Thursday… which is causing me to have one of those awkward moments where I feel like the stick-in-the-mud goody-two-shoes, because I’m just not comfortable with that. Fortunately, Erin is on the same page. I mean, you could argue both sides — these people are desperate for medical care, *any* medical care, and in most cases, a little advice is probably better than nothing (and it’s not like we’re very likely to be sued for practicing medicine without a license in the middle of the African bush). But the fact remains that I’m *not* a licensed provider yet. I’m simply not authorized to prescribe medication or treat patients without supervision, even if it is a desperate situation. Erin and I decided we’d go next week if, and only if, there was a Tanzanian-licensed *physician* there to supervise. Granted, one of the Nebraskans is a full-fledged PA-C rather than a student, but she still technically needs a supervising physician — and she obviously isn’t licensed *here* in Tanzania anyway. (She’s actually a high-ranking faculty member, too, which is even more disturbing…)
In light of all this, I will say that whatever negative emotions I occasionally harbor about how intensely ‘professionalism-focused’ our program is, Erin and I agree that the instinct that has been cultivated in us over the past 18 months is really serving us well here. Specifically, when we see certain behaviors on the parts of (ahem) others, we ‘know’ instinctively whether or not they jive with how we should represent ourselves here, and there’s a kind of security in that framework. I think most of the Global Health participants are savvy enough to suss those things out on their own (if none of the local providers wear scrubs, perhaps you shouldn’t, either…), but seeing people who *don’t* have (and, more importantly, don’t care to develop) that instinct does give one a new perspective on (a) why certain pre-travel orientation activities might be necessary, and (b) why Americans have such a poor reputation in so many parts of the world. Sigh.
FRIDAY — Finally, my turn in the HIV clinic! I worked with Enrike, the infamous German MD that previous students had told us to seek out. Every encounter was conducted entirely in Swahili, which was simultaneously a little frustrating and a really good challenge for my language skills, but Enrike was really good about taking a few seconds between patients to explain the situations more fully and answer any questions I had. We saw about 25 patients between 9am and 2pm; they all come to clinic on a monthly basis to get their prescriptions refilled. I’m appalled by the fact that patients aren’t eligible to start antiretroviral therapy here until they meet certain criteria — having a CD4 count of 350 or less, being pregnant, or having some other kind of severe disease manifestation. Healthy patients with good counts who are doing well just get prophylactic antifungals (and kids get multivitamins, “to get them used to taking pills twice a day”, Enrike explained) and treatment of any acute issues that have occurred in the meantime (we saw an eight-year-old today who got an antibiotic for an infected toe — things like that).
There were two particularly sad cases that stand out in my mind. The first was a 37-year-old woman with a CD4 count of 6 (yes, 6! Normal people are in the four digits) who had a raging decubitus ulcer from a recent stint in the hospital. She was in tremendous pain, and as she left with the nurse (to be admitted for IV antibiotics), she reached for Enrike’s hand and asked, “Am I going to get better?” Enrike had to tell her honestly that she didn’t know. Someone with a count that low isn’t likely to be able to heal a wound like that.
The second case was a 19-year-old girl with two HIV+ children (ages 1 and 3) who simply did not have the resources or coping skills to manage her situation. The kids were missing weeks of medicine at a time, and the girl has no relatives to help her; she’s completely on her own. In the clinic, she broke down crying, asking if we knew of a way that she could give one of her kids to someone else, so that she’d only have one to take care of. What an impossible decision to have to make. All we could do was give her three packets of high-calorie food, three free prescriptions, and cross our fingers.
Other “firsts” for today included first monkey sighting (really, first seven or eight monkey sightings :)), first enormous rainstorm (the rainy season is definitely beginning), and first time braving the gas stove, which means I had COFFEE for the first time in over a week. Starbucks Via for the win.
SO FAR… — There have definitely been a few rough patches along the way, but I think it’s safe to say we’re headed upward now. We’ve (mostly…) gotten over the filthiness of the apartment and the moldy-cardboard smell of the bedding, and Erin jury-rigged the showerhead yesterday so that it no longer has to be held in the hand. The street salesmen in Moshi are still annoyingly (ANNOYINGLY) persistent, no matter how many times you say ‘hapana asante’ (no thank you), but I think we just need to get used to not being nice / engaging in conversation. Some of the food has been less than desirable, specifically the lumps of gristly meat and the various forms of oily bread that constitute a canteen breakfast, but we’re quickly learning what to avoid. However, it’s still difficult to not have a day-to-day schedule and expectations as far as what we’ll be doing, because Tanzania just doesn’t work that way. And perhaps hardest of all (for me) has been not knowing the language. I’ve lived abroad before, but never in a country where I couldn’t speak at least a rudimentary version of the native language. I’m picking up Swahili with reasonable facility — I’ve got greetings, numbers, yes/no, please/thank you, sorry, “how much does this cost,” and some other random words (like ‘embe’, which means… ‘mango’! :)) — but the best I can hope for in terms of comprehension is a word here and there. This feels incredibly awkward, not only because of not knowing the WORDS, but because of the attached cultural expectations that I am therefore also completely in the dark about. I think most people feel wrong-footed when they don’t know what’s expected of them, and there’s definitely a hearty helping of that here, although it’s getting better as we go — the Tanzanians are a pretty friendly bunch, so it’s hard not to start to feel a little more at ease after a while.
Aside from the language barrier, though, a lot of things about this experience actually feel a lot like summer camp: scenic mountain views, animal noises serving as an alarm clock, interesting food combinations, rationing your clothes (so as to do laundry as infrequently as possible), no functioning technology, walking home from the canteen at night with only a flashlight to light the way, etc. So I guess it does feel familiar, in a sense… :)
And there’s no denying that there have also been a lot of unforgettable experiences already. The view from our room is beautiful; there’s a banana grove right outside, as well as a red dirt path where children in school uniforms run past at first light. Roosters call back and forth for a majority of the day (you can set your watch by the darn things — 4:53am!), and although we haven’t seen them, we can hear the chuckling cries of bush babies at night. This country is such an odd paradox — there’s trash lying around everywhere, many of the toilets are simply holes in the ground, and most people smell pretty terrible (just being honest… :)). No one thing is terribly beautiful by itself, but taken together… something about the contrast of the natural beauty, colorful clothes, curious eyes and friendly smiles, combined with the overwhelming evidence of the rundown state of humanity… something about it strikes a chord that I can’t call anything other than ‘beautiful’ just yet. Maybe I’ll find a better word as the days roll on.
The next couple of weeks are undoubtedly going to bring more adventures. We’re crossing our fingers that we can arrange a safari group for next weekend, but even if we can’t, we’ll probably just end up paying extra and going as a duo — because we *cannot* go to Africa and not go on safari! We’re also planning to take a weekend trip to Zanzibar (no, not ‘by motor car’, DPAP! ;)) during the third weekend, which both of us are very excited about — just do a Google Image Search for ‘Zanzibar beaches’ to see why. :)
Before I forget, special shout-out to Lisa Shubert for the nice close shave in the DPAP bathroom the day before we flew out — this hair has been absolutely amazing here, in every setting from the crappy shower to being able to cool down more efficiently upon getting out of that sweltering customs line and feeling my first true Tanzanian breeze. Not to mention, the people here LOVE it; I can’t understand what they’re saying for the most part, but they gesture to their heads and point to mine and smile, and I get the drift. :) Also, Asha, one of our Swedish roommates (who actually speaks fluent Swahili), has jokingly nicknamed me the White Maasai; one of the Americans has gone with Jane, as in G.I. Jane. We’ll see what the others come up with.
Anyway, we’re here in Tanzania until the evening of the 21st, which is a Wednesday; then we take an overnight flight to the Netherlands (be still, my heart!) for two precious days. After five years away, I suspect Erin is going to have to physically restrain me from racking up the credit card debt on stroopwafels and patatjes… :)
