I know you are probably waiting to read all about the animals, see the pictures of leopards, elephants and giraffes, and watch the videos of lions eating something they just killed (yep-that’s all coming in future posts!). Some of you might be wondering what is taking me so long to share all this with you.
I was wondering about it too. I had planned to blog all summer, eager to share all the cool stuff, but then I didn’t. It’s only now, after Africa, while sitting on the edge of a cliff in Italy on the Amalfi Coast (listening to donkeys braying)…that I realize what’s been in the way.
See, I’ve been feeling a deep reluctance to write, almost an aversion. Until today, I couldn’t put my finger on why. It’s been an utterly spectacular summer with so many phenomenal experiences that it’s hard to wrap my mind around it. I watched a leopard eating its kill from less than 10 feet away. I watched baby elephants suckle, got “challenged” by a juvenile male elephant, sat in an open jeep while we drove through hundreds of migrating zebra and wildebeest and more, so much more. So why have I been reluctant to talk about it and share it all with you? Shouldn’t I be bursting with eagerness? You’d think! So would I.
Today, I forced myself to try . The following post began as I imagined, and then the feelings came out, the reasons for my hesitation to share, an internal conflict that I just couldn’t shake. I didn’t realize it, but there was something I needed to say first, before all the rest. I’ll let you read for yourself how this post started…and what needed to be said.
The two weeks I spent in Tanzania with AGC were a dizzying and delighfully rich whirlwind of experience. There’s so many mind-blowing moments that I can’t wait to share, it’s hard to be patient enough to write. I’m also divided between sharing the travel details, phenomenal animal sightings, and useful travel tips…and sharing my personal developments, realizations, and growth. I guess I’ve decided to combine them both together, since they feel pretty inseparable anyway.
Getting to Tanzania involved too many flights and too many hours in planes, mostly due to one late flight causing a chain reaction of Yuck to occur. Thirty two hours after I left Barcelona, I finally set my exhausted feet on African soil. Surreal is the only word I have for the feeling – changing terminals in the Dar es Salaam airport to friendly, similng locals shouting “Karibu! Karibu Sana!” or “Karibu Tanzania!”
Assuming it meant hello, I happliy shouted, “Karibu!” back, enjoying their enthusiastic welcome. My response was met with mild confusion, a smile, and a “hakuna matata” shrug of acceptance.
I would later realize that “Karibu” means welcome in Swahili. “Sana” means very much. When locals greet you with “Karibu Sana Tanzania!” they are saying you are very welcome here in Tanzania. An American replying back with “Welcome!” would be odd…thus the confused looks. The proper response is “Asante Sana” which means thank you very much.
Although I had finally “arrived” in Tanzania, I had a 6 hour wait in Dar es Salaam before I could take my final flight into the Kilimanjaro airport. The contrast here between terminals is striking. I arrived in the international terminal, a modern facility not too different from those at home in the US. But my connecting flight was through the domestic terminal, a 5 minute walk and a world away. After successfully brushing off the barrage of taxi touts trying to snag a customer, I headed over to the domestic terminal planning to find a comfortable café in which to spend my 6 hour layover.
I arrived to find the standard bank of metal airport chairs lined up neatly…outside a building that had seen better days, with two airline walkup windows as the only customer access points. I thought, “that’s new”. Unfortunately, this bank of outdoor seating in the humid heat is the main waiting area for local flights, until you are within two hours of your flight. My fantasy of coolly (double entendre intended!) waiting in a café and people watching dissipated as I sat my weary body on a metal seat and mopped the sweat from my forehead. After a few moments to take a breath and get myself composed, I went to the window for Precision Air, paid an extra $20 for my bag, and searched for an atm to grab local cash. The middle area had a shabby, square, free-standing building with a mini-mart/tourist shop filled with trinkets. On the backside I found a very sketchy-looking atm. Rickety and dilapidated, with incongruous flashing lights…I decided not to get my data stolen and headed for the waiting area. With all of my belongings stacked around me, I surveyed my surroundings.
Most of those nearby were local families waiting for planes with bags and satchels, giggling children, and a mix of tired but excited expressions. But, not far away, lurking here and there, were men that seemed a little too attentive, with assessment in their eyes, seeming to gauge the savviness of their prey. As tired as I was…there would be no napping, no dropping of guard, no ease for me. While I chatted with other families, I gave direct glares to these lurkers saying, “I see you, I SEE you, don’t mess with me.”
What I didn’t realize was that these two things would become pervasive themes while in Africa in ways I hadn’t predicted.
First, the constant clash of discrepancy between tourist comforts and local people. The vast divide between the fancy, modern comfort of the international terminal and the barely-maintained, hot, bareness of the domestic terminal is the status-quo for Africa (at least in my observation). For the two weeks in Tanzania, the week in Zanzibar, and then the 10 days in Zambia…I would come to find this great divide deeply disturbing. Fancy tourist chalets catered to tourists with eager staff seeing to every whim of a want then, tucked somewhere behind the tourist façade, the staff’s own quarters. Sometimes it was brick, sometimes traditional stick and mud, but always lacking in all the lavishness found just a few meters away. Just as a point of reference, the “lavishness” includes electricity, running water, and sewer in many cases. I know this divide exists everywhere between the elite class that’s being served and the poorer class that earns their way by catering to the elite. This divide is even more harsh and stark in “third world” countries.
Most of my fellow tourists seemed ever-so-comfortable with it, especially the white people with Brittish accents (I can’t tell if it’s South African, UK, or Australian – it all sounds the same to me). They had an air of entitlement that I found nauseatingly infuriating. These are not my people. I didn’t grow up expecting things that I didn’t work hard to earn myself. I didn’t grow up feeling superior to others for superficial reasons that have nothing to do with character or personal contributions. And I still don’t. I’m from parents who grew up in similar poverty. I’m from working-class, bootstraps folks who value hard work and who know how to be grateful for the opportunity. But I also lived somewhere that rewarded hard work and where rising above your station is part of the culture. I also must say, my pale skin aforded me additional priviledges that made that path smoother and more accessible.
But, in Africa, I saw people working hard, excruciatingly hard, for what seemed like small rewards and little opportunity to rise any higher. I saw others benefitting from that hard work and showing little gratitude or appreciation. I saw human beings being taking for granted and treated like amenities. There were too many moments where I saw a staff person smile and cater to ridiculous requests when, as a bystander, I found myself wanting to punch some uppity noses just to wipe the entitled smirk off.
As you will see in future posts, I met many truly delightful local people during my time in Africa. They are hard-working, kind, and thoughtful. I often found accepting their services difficult and guilt-inducing, because there was a distinct feel of status difference. I’m not sure how to describe it except that, in Africa, service is tinged with subservience. The upper-class people being served behave with such superiority and those who serve them have an edge of desperation to their service. It’s as if they fear displeasing someone so deeply (probably because a complaint means losing your job), that they accept the abuse and mistreatment as long as they can work…and they do it with a smile.
You might think I’m exaggerating, but let me give you an example of the “elites” and their ridiculous air of dissatisfied entitlement. In Zambia, with every possible want provided before you could even realize you might want it…a Swiss couple tromped around with their noses high in the air, looking displeased with everything. They made demands, they were never happy, and then they told the staff how utterly dissatisfied they were with everything, how they…felt like second class citizens! WOW!! I mean, I can’t stress enough how utterly catered-to we were, down to being met after the safari drives with welcome hellos, cold drinks, and a refreshing towel with which to wipe our faces. During the bush walks, a staff member carried a backpack so that we could stop and have “tea/coffee” with cookies. Night game drives had “sundowners” where, having asked your drink choices ahead of time, your guide took out a little table in the middle of some amazing spot, covered it with a tablecloth, mixed each person’s drink, and then got out containers of snacks. After dark in the camps, you can’t walk unescorted because…animals. So, when you need an escort, you clap. Yes, you clap your hands and someone appears out of the darkness with a flashlight and a smile, walking you to your room while asking about your amazing day on safari. And this doesn’t even cover it all – everything was simply phenomenal.
So, what more did these people want? What more could have been done to raise the service to “first class” for them??? It’s mind-boggling.
The second issue is a direct consequence of the first. Whenever/whereever you have two groups so disparate in status, comfort, and wealth…there’s an undercurrent. Some of the have-nots want to even the score a bit, at the expense of the haves. For some, it’s harmless invasive service with the expectation of compensation, like the overly helpful guy at the airport that forcibly pushes your luggage cart despite your protests, and then demands to be paid. For others it’s pickpocketing, scamming or any number of nefarious tactics…like the lurkers and touts at the airport. It’s understandable. I imagine what it must feel like to serve people who seem to have it all, imagining their lives of ease and comfort, all while struggling every day to meet basic needs. For some, it means a buildup of quiet resentment and a desire to take some of that for yourself, especially if “earning it” is impossible. How long would it take me, in those shoes, to do the same?
But where does that leave me? Intensely uncomfortable, guilty, sad, and on-guard. My home culture also has a strong value of “don’t be a chump”. As in, don’t pay too much for anything, don’t get taken advantage of, pinch every penny, and never let yourself be bamboozled. Add in my general anxiety and fears related to “what happens if I get robbed while on vacation?” and you have a potent mix of wariness and defensiveness.
Here is the reason for my reluctance. I can’t share the dreamlike fantasy of Africa and all of the wonders of this trip, without first acknowledging the realities and feelings I’ve expressed here. I know, it’s not very entertaining and most people would rather watch a funny video on Tik-tok. But it needed to be said.
Well said, my friend.
Thank you 🙂