From Osaka to Arusha

I arrived in Doha, Qatar at 5:30 am, the sun hot and wavering over the flat endless horizon. The airport revealed the richness of the country with its outer walls of white and Mercedes-Benz shuttle buses. I imagined grand cities rising out of the desert somewhere beyond what my eye cuold see......

Airports have always been great people watching places and in this one I found myself in the middle of unrecognizable tongues and cultures so new my tendancy to bow at everyone felt at once very out of place. Alreadly, I was changing. Already, I was shedding one skin for another.

Once in Nairobi I hurried through immigration, gathered my bag and cello (both of which had made it safe and sound) and headed out to find the bus that would take me to Arusha, Tanzania. Thanks to my friend Liza, who had personally booked four seats at the back of the bus for me and my cello and had repeatedly made sure everyone know who I was, when to expect me and what I would be carrying, my name was known by everyone from the man working the "African Ventures" ticket office at the airport to the bus driver himself, who although I felt by the stares of the rest of the passangers that it wasn't a welcomed courtesy, made sure I got my four seats at the back of the bus. Later I learned that it was quite a miracle that it all went so smoothly as reciepts are usually scribbled on scraps of paper, unbooked travelers are as welcomed as those with reservations and drivers even swap without informing their boss, not to mention the fact that I was a white woman with "first time in Africa" scribbled all over my face.

But even before I got on the bus I had an interesting taxi ride and saw both giraffes grazing next to the airport and all the evidence of poverty and industry creeping out from the edges of Nairobi. As we waited at the bus stop (a gasoline stand at the edge of a rumbling highway), the taxi driver and I spoke of the "developing" Kenya and Obama. He pointed to a passing bus with Obama's picture painted on the side of it and I assured him that my absentee ballot was in the mail. Then I heard my name and turned to see a man at the car window and a bus parked behind him.

Seated next to my cello laid across three of the four seats (they had lifted and pushed it in through the back window) I settled in for what would be a fantastic, albeit bumpy ride. How do I recap all that was seen? Herds of zebras, undulating hills dotted with the shadows of clouds both high and low, trees with twisted limbs extending out to flattened palms of green, and a purple sunset worthy of any Out of Africa set. When I spotted my first Maasai he was standing tall, wrapped in rippling red, the National Geographic perfect picture. So, what can I say? The pictures that form our image of East Africa are not far from the truth. If anything, they give us a good first glance. Yet it is the smells of a wind foretelling rain or of spiced meat over a fire, or the voices overheard at road-side canteens and the music lazily trickling from boombox speakers which gives depth and substance to an experience. These details were not lost to me for when in India I had already absorbed the more distracting larger shocks, like pothole ridden roads traversed by bus car, bike, pedestrian and animal alike, along with the general sense of chaos and unpredictability. In fact, I felt very much at ease, bumping up and down at the back of the bus, taking in the view and recognized that I was quite lucky to have a bus with glass in the windows and plush padded seats.

Only twice did the bus stop. Once for a bathroom break and once at the Kenya-Tanzania border to get the appropriate VISA's. Once again, I was in luck because as I stood there confused as to where to go after I had had my passport stamped by the Kenyan authorities a man from my bus offered to escort me across the border to the Tanzanian side. He said to me, "Whatever you do, don't look or talk to any of them." Not fully understanding what he meant I followed him at his heels through what was a blur of men with outstretched hands and moving mouths sputtering nonsense silence. Before the implication of it all could register, the path became clear and the man pointed me in the direction of the Tanzanian Immigration Office, shouting, "Now you are safe! Not like over there!" I took one glance over my shoulder and briefly saw a swarm of bodies wandering aimlessly in that grey area that defines one country from another. Once I had my visa in hand, I was glad to get back on the bus, and rode the rest of the way in the fading light of the day. The sights of Arusha in twiglight conjoured up old memories of India, and when I gratefully laid for the first time in the bed of my new home, both new and old memories formed an indistinct swirl in my mind and quietly evaporated into my dreams.