For those who don't know, I have a minor obsession with the rhinoceros and from our back porch I can see the Ngorongoro Crater, which is full of them. For weeks I've stared at it's rim over morning tea and evening beers. Naturally, I needed to look inside.
Tourism in Tanzania is very expensive. It costs fifty bucks a person to get into a park, two hundred bucks to get a vehicle into the park, and then you need to hire a guide at going rate, and when all is said and done you need to tip the guide. But a friend of a friend knows a ranger, just “tell the park guards that you are from the ecological society.” We also signed a document stating we were East African residents, the text of which we only discovered later.
This didn't save us much, but as a ranger's guest, it bought us the right to go off road. So when we saw a huge male lion wander off into the brush we were able to run our little Land Rover right in after him. My door, coincidentally didn't really shut and rattled delicately on its hinge. It also bought me the freedom, provided no one was looking, to get out and take pictures, but though he looked well fed, I stayed in the vehicle to see the lion.
If you can imagine Crater Lake, the Ngorongoro is bigger, warmer, and with a lot less water. It's sparsely forested in spots, but otherwise flat enough and big enough to host the 2010 World Cup, all games played simultaneously.
Along with three of the other big five, we saw eight rhinos scattered thru the park. The black rhinos are endangered so we gave them respectable space. “That's M7, male seven over there. His mother is F7, female seven, off in the distance.” My pleasure at seeing those magnificent and peacefully grazing tanks is beyond my ability to articulate. But as we stayed and watched I chose to think of them informally as Roslyn and Jeremy, though I kept that to myself.
I'd taken to riding in the Land Rover with the tanzanian staff. It started on the second day in order to beat the mobile clinic to the village and capture video of it's arrival, but from that moment on I kept my spot in the car. I preferred the intoxicating laughter as the staff amused themselves in rapid fire kiswahili. I didn't understand a lick of it, but Amiri translated bits and entertained me in english as well. I spent the mornings strolling the village before work began, occasionally raising my camera or greeting the locals.
I've been to some pretty remote spots, but this was exceptional. Roads forged simply by driving the terrain. Tracks led off in multiple directions as we tried to ascertain the paths of least resistance. It was afternoon and I'd been invited to do a home visit for a patient unable to walk the return trip. Turn right at the shrubs here, go thru the break in the fence there, there were six of us, including two men that weren't among the one hundred selected for treatment that day. Their knowledge was our map and on the return, they wanted to take me to maji moto, a small bubbling natural hot spring in the middle of a vast flat salt plain, surrounded by joshua tree-like mounds of granite in the distance.
The following day, one of the men returned to the clinic and was admitted. I greeted him in the morning and took his portrait. That afternoon I greeted him again, this time welcoming him to the lab, Darlenes signature flowing across his lab slip. I prepared a slide for malaria and test tube for brucella as she prescribed. In the corner of the lab, a makeshift studio forms and I snap portraits and the drama troup drums in the background, surrounded in dance. Educational slideshows, talks and skits entertain, as do their brief encounter with their own images on my camera. Well beyond electricity, this landscape is one where firewood is precious and living is hard, but the spirit is strong and I sincerely hope that every one of these strong faces can know the feeling of good health.
I have always been an impatient, fidgety student with daydreams unconducive to the classroom, yet here I sit, in the classroom. Swahili holds greetings in high esteem and as we sit in the children's chairs in this one room schoolroom, our teacher, Mwana, fires greeting after greeting at us so we fluidly respond and return the courtesies, again and again, with dynamic aplomb as my elementary notebook floods with ink.
Our class is held at the university by the market and we can practice pleasantries and placing orders at lunch and every question introduces a whole new chapter in grammar. How many noun classes do there need to be? And what the hell is a noun class anyway? As a reprieve, I take out my PADI dive book and work on the first three chapters, preparing for the following days quiz. Non stop learning, shouldn't I be on vacation?
During our free time we navigate the local market. I am fascinated by its color and energy, most specifically the meats and fish. It's rather disgusting, but I want to get as close as possible without stepping in the blood or accidentally brushing up against the discarded goat heads or entrails. I want to ask a million questions, but for now, our greetings and wide-eyed awe are enough to break the ice and pull us further in. We are forever students, as it should be.
We spent two months in Morocco and never found a single working clock. Everything operated 
The historic clock towers proudly display times that you might think are wrong, but when you look at ferry schedules and adjust to swahili time, you realize otherwise. While diving, the safety checks include synchronizing our watches, but relying on the instructor, we simply go thru the motions of looking at our wrists, as if time matters, and really, as we later kick back at sunset, our feet in the sand, our beers in our hands, and the sun sinking low, there is no need for any more accuracy than that. We are right on time.
There are over fifty countries in Africa and we know for a fact that one of them doesn't want us. But there's fifty more to choose from and a one week respite in Paris seems the perfect segue from Morocco to, ah, whichever country lets us in.
Several times a day, we climbed seven flights of stairs to a hall of small studio flats, rooftops overlooking rooftops. Years ago these were the servants quarters, accessed thru a door at the back of the inner courtyard. Today, it was our haven and we became excessively familiar with the creak of every winding step as the elevator was reserved for residents and only accessible thru the central courtyard of the main building and not our backdoor.
Much to our amusement, we discovered that if you left the flat, descended the seven flights, and went looking for a patisserie, a right instead of a left took you straight to the Pigalle district's signature landmark, the Moulin Rouge. It was an honest mistake, but suddenly, going for a pastry took on a whole new, wonderful red-light meaning. I offered to go on a croissant run at least once a day.
It was a local bus, it stopped everywhere. We approached the Sahara and the military presence increased in every town, inching our way toward Algeria. Finally, a taxi dropped us off in the middle of the desert, a ghost town. We were fifty kilometers from the border.
In a small garden courtyard, over a pot of tea, I negotiated hard, a camel for my girl, a night in the desert. A deal was struck and my guide and I walked alongside Darlene, regal on her camel. From high in the dunes, we could gaze over the black Sahara and into Algeria.
That night, after a fiery sunset, the moon rose over our camp, a valley in the dunes, a lone date palm, and a grumpy caravan of camels. Two cots pushed together, we slept in the open air, under a pile of wool blankets.
For this particular climb you go under the phone cables on the way up, but you lower down over the cables for clean rope management. Meanwhile the busses and tourists line up behind you for some blatant showmanship.
Gratuitous as that is, most of the Todra Gorge's crags are further upstream and much more peaceful, some climbing right out of the river-side gardens as local women harvest their crops. The goats will beat you up any climb, but they prefer a much more precarious route over the scree fields that seem foolish to me.
Kester forgot to mention two important things. One, Taghazoute is drier than Zion. And two, the surf doesn't really kick in until November.
