here, some pics: 1 from up in the hills, karate near the compost piles, and a couple from the goat roast party....

Nate- Feb 26 1957-June 16 2005
today i was in AH church- once we settled into the pew i remembered that that minister will be making a sermon, and i looked to my father next to me and said- 'uh oh dad i think we made a big mistake !'- he, not-knowing my thinking, agreed with a nod and said 'maybe'- but to my great surprise the whole experience was fantastic. the 1st hymn we sang was Bethoven- joyful joyful we adore thee- I thought of Nate =how Nate loved classics alongside loving alt-punk and so forth that people more expected of him- the unexpectedness of Nate- as we were singing that hymn- all about joy and thankfulness of god and the triumphant song of life- I was thinking this is the perfect hymn to have sung at Nate's funeral- then i was thinking how can i say that - it's all about joy joy joy-not at all a comfort recognition of the tragedy or fleetingness hymn for a time when we've just lost the one we adore- yet I kept thinking no! this song is perfect - it's not at all a funeral song but Nate was all about that joy - I sometimes leaned on Nate to carry that vision of joy and triumphance for me. I thought at his funeral we could all be singing that song because now it was up to us to carry it for each other- you know I said some 'whatever' things at Nate's funeral- it's only after this much time that I think i've come to the point where i could make a speech that would be a proper tribute to Nate. I was reading and rereading that hymn all through church trying to understand how i could think it was an appropriate funeral hymnn- i kept thinking no! impossible! it's of no comfort- and yet the words kept bringing up Nate for me.
Meanwhile, lately i have come to the conclusion that i don't believe in grief.

back in the u.s. so i'm uploading some photos! thinking i'll go back to the past posts and add pics= above is myself with Sommy,one of the agriculture trainers; friend, Solomon; a massai woman; outside a bar near the border of malawi; and friends Elly and Fay inside a bar in Arusha

ah ha- i am in the airport in Dubai, en route home from Tanzania- i was just in Zanzibar- I was reading Scibbling the Cat- in that book the writer says you shouldn't just be able to fly from africa and step off the plane the next day in the us- it's too many worlds apart for that. No problem for me- I started from Zanzibar on an all night ferry to Dar es Salaam- in the middle of the night we were gripping our mattresses to hold ourselves down in the rough seas - I with my eyes squeezed tightly shut to fend off threatening sea-sickness- on the lower decks people were getting sick all over the place- especially children- then we arrive at 6 am in Dar and run to catch a 6-30 am bus to Arusha- that should be an 8 hour ride but instead due to breakdowns is a 12 hour ride. next afternoon, a bus to nairobi (5 hours) and now the 1st of a 3 leg flight from Nairobi through Dubai, Hamberg, then JFK- when I arrive JFK i will have felt like I've traveled from someplace afar. I am worrying a bit about thrombosis- isn't that where you get deadly clots due to sitting for two many hours on end too many days in a row? So here in Dubai i have been walking up and down the corridors- with my heavy labtop in my backpack. there is an amazing looking $24 middle eastern buffet in a lounge full of sheiks and so forth- I had just decided to splurge and go for it but they don't take credit cards so instead i found a place on the floor in the hall to sit and use the free internet connection.

I have been thinking about chickens again. Last January one forlorn morning I was on my way to nowhere when I spotted a truly impressive Massai character with red dyed braids down his back, and full get up, walking with a westerner also in Massai wear with long hair- struck up conversation- Massai’s name was ‘Merinyo’ – ‘warrior’- They had a traditional medicine project in their village. Seven months later- last week I finally visited.

Merinyo’s slicker friend Langai came to escort me- the westerner was back in switzerland.
We took public transport- a dilapidated Landover that takes the Massai to their villages starting on paved road, continuing on open countryside. When the Landover had me and all the Massai packed in like tuna fish, we took off. Four of us to the front seat- the driver reaching between us to shift gears. The driver bragged that he had announced he’d depart at 3, and here it was -3- with us departing. I thought he’d said he’d depart at 2, so offered cheerfully ‘Africa time!’ He looked at me like I’m a fool and said ‘Not ‘Africa time’!’ 20 minutes later on the outskirts of town we pull into a mansion. Driver jumps out leaving the engine running. After quite a while Langai reaches over to turn off the engine. He’s just spotted the driver leaving in a taxi with the priest- owner of this Landover- apparently they have some sort of errand to run.
I conversationally remark to Langai how it’s funny; were a driver in America to leave a transport packed full of passengers with no explanation the passengers would get angry- Langai says ‘even here it’s not good’ – I am thinking it is like we are so many goats packed in, without need for room or explanations. 50 minutes later our driver is back- I have forgotten to ask what he was doing, and we’re off! We reach the turn off from the paved road an hour later, drive a bit into the brush, and come to a halt. Langai tells me the conductor –in charge of selling tickets and collecting money- sold all possible places to sit in the truck, and so is coming by dala dala -he’s not allowed to ride on the roof in town. Langai says it’s like an old Swahili saying: “be careful you don’t sell all the seats or you’ll have to ride on the roof” I think the conductor was having a few beers in town as we wait for close to an hour. - we’re out in the flatlands with big sky and dry, open landscape and are firmly back in ‘Africa time’ now. Our conductor finally appears, hops on the roof, we all get back in and set off.
People here pass around live chickens as though they are umbrellas, not animate. One guy for example was riding his bike holding the handlebars and also with his last two fingers holding a chicken. The funny thing too is how amiably the chickens tolerate it all. I was thinking on that truck we were packed in like goats but it also reminds me of chickens- appreciation of our animate-ness reduced to something like cargo.
That said, I loved the ride. The traffic police were surprised to see me riding in the ‘massai truck’. Traffic police - whose job seems to be to flag down vehicles, remark on their un-roadworthiness, and accept a small bribe to disregard it.
When we got out to Massai-land there is something beautiful about the way of life. Family clusters scattered across the countryside- a ‘patriarch’ and his 1st wife and their children in one ‘boma’, his subsequent wives and their children each in their own boma, the bomas forming a big circle. Around that circle a brush fence for protection. in the center of the circle another circle with brush fence to keep the livestock. We had dinner when we arrived after dark in the boma –dark warm womb-like mud hut- with Langai’s father, 1st wife, Merinyo, fellow warriors, and children. Much warmth and laughter in the boma- Obvious harmony and mutual enjoyment between men and women. It’s easy to hear nothing but stories of oppressed Massai women, but I think it’s not that simple.

here's something from back in march


So my home: I was relaxing one evening when the mouse scurried in - my scream sent him back out. Everyone here is amused that I am troubled by a mouse. (surely daphne you can accommodate a mouse?) But I plugged up the hole with a face cloth and haven’t seen him since. One night a cat came in through my window and landed on my head on top of the mosquito net- I jumped - but fortunately cat had the wherewithal to jump back out the window. My other pets are little lizards which scurry around up high and knock little pieces of cement down from the tops of the walls. I’m very happy for the geckos to be with me. Then I have a small population of little harmless ants. I don’t mind them at all as they are just wandering around, not infesting food. I’m close to living outside as I have two doors and can sweep ants and crumbs easily out. It’s an easy home to maintain as it’s about the size of most American bathrooms, and per tradition here I put down a nice sheet of linoleum on the floor. Everything wipes up or sweeps out easily. I’ve got a cast iron wok and wooden spoon with which to cook.
Outside my door it’s the dirt road, getting muddy now as the rains are starting again, where a lot of tour operators are. One is Jamal, who’s around a lot, nice guy, I see him most evenings and we can share a cob of corn, or as last night, fried cassava and fish from an outside stand- that’s a cheep dinner for here- about 20 cents- and a popular one in the rainy ‘low tourist’ season. There’s one shop run by a young woman carol. She has a fridge with beer and soda, so her shop becomes also a makeshift pub. This is supposed to be a tourist area; it’s full of budget hotels, but there are very few tourists partly because it’s rainy season, but I’ve never seen a huge tourist presence anyway. But there are usually five or so around.

was just out in massailand for a few days- it's amazing how they are and how they live but it was hard to have much of a conversation and there was not a lot to do! when i at last pulled out my camera the kids just flocked to me - all eager to have their picture taken- for some of the kids eager is an understatement- we spent a long time and all my camera batteries on various photo opportunities- I'll make them a CD - for me it was great just to break the ice- we tired of shooting in the boma -house- and went out into the cattle and goat yards to include them in the documentation- That's not at all the most interesting thing i could write about the massai, a tribe romanticized not only by western tourists, but also by the other tribes here- but it was the highlight of human interaction