Let's talk about Mary

A couple of weeks ago, Olga came up to me with a burning question:
Olga: Do you think Mary had sex?
Me: Do you mean the Virgin Mary?
Olga: Yes, do you think she had sex?
Me: Yes, but not until after Jesus was born.
Olga: Really? You think Mary had sex! Then why is she called the Virgin Mary?
Me: Because she was a virgin when she conceived Jesus, and didn't have sex until after he was born.
Olga: How do you know that? Did Jesus have any brothers and sisters?
Me: Yes, one of his brothers was named James.
Olga: You know his name?
Me: Yes.
Olga: You really know his name!
Me: Yes.
Olga: But Catholics don't believe that Mary had sex, do they?
Me: No, Catholics have a different view of Mary. They don't like to think of her having sex.
Olga: In my religion, it is a bad thing to be a virgin if you are married. It would be a sin to not have sex with your husband.
Me: Well, I think she had sex with Joseph, but not until after the birth of Jesus. After all, she was a good Jewish girl, so of course she had sex with her husband.
Olga: Really? you believe she was Jewish?
Me: Of course.
Olga: Why do Catholics think different things?
Me: Catholics have a number of different beliefs about Mary, and I really cannot speak for them. Catholics pray to Mary, and protestants don't, because Protestants believe that you should only pray to God.

By this point, I had had quite enough of the sex life of Mary, so I tried to steer the conversation down a different path.

Me: After all, Christianity is a monotheistic religion.
Olga: I always wondered about that. How can that be? I don't think it is monotheistic.
Me: The Trinity is still one God.
Olga: I don't understand that.
Me: It is like the Shema in Hebrew.
Olga: What do you mean?
Me: You know, "Sh'ma Yis'ra'eil Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad." In Hebrew, the word 'echad' doesn't mean 'one' like when you count 'one, two, three'.
Olga: No, it means one like a group.
Me: Exactly. That is the Trinity. One like a group. That is why Christianity is a monotheistic religion, because it is explained in the Shema.
Olga: I never knew that.

From the sex life of Mary, to Monotheism, in one simple step. Of course, any attempt to define the Trinity risks introducing new (or old) heresies, so lets hope that the orthodoxy police aren't reading my blog.

My friend Olga

At work, I sit next to a woman who is about the most opposite personality you can imagine. I'll call her Olga. She is pretty and fashionable, and wears low cut blouses, and high heels. I'm practical and like casual, comfortable clothes, and only wear flats. She is from Russia. I am from the U.S. She is Jewish, I'm Christian. Religion is significant to her merely for it's traditional or cultural elements -- she is just as likely to refer to herself as an Atheist. I'm a born again Christian.And to top it off, of all the Christian churches in the world, she has a particular antagonism to the Vineyard (my church), because a friend of hers was converted to Christianity by a missionary in Siberia. A missionary from the Vineyard. Truth is really stranger than fiction -- even in a soap opera this would seem implausible.

Of course, it took a while for all these differences to reveal themselves, but apparently our co-workers were were waiting with some amusement to see how it would all play out, since they expected the religious difference to cause sparks to fly.

And yet, we seem to be becoming friends. I'm not doing anything special, just allowing her to be herself. I merely make a point of saying 'Good Morning', and I allow her to say confrontational things without jumping down her throat. And most of all, she knows she is allowed to tease me. This amazes her. Sometimes I think she lays in bed at night thinking up things to say to me.

Olga: Religion causes most of the problems in the world!
Me: You think so?
Olga: Oh, now you will think I am terrible. You must be so offended at what I said. This is why people hate me.
Me: I might not agree with you, but you have a right to your opinion.
Olga: Really? you will let me say that?

Now that we are getting to know each other, and she is no longer afraid of me, I'm finding out that she also has quite a sense of humor. She is sometimes like a kid, teasing me just to see what I'll do. The other day she was sitting with someone at her desk, and suddenly spoke a little louder (so I could hear, of course) and said, "Oh, I hope Ann didn't hear that!". So of course I ran over to her desk, and shook my head, and said with exaggerated sadness, "Olga, Olga, have you been saying bad things?" Whereupon she turned to her visitor and explained: "This is Ann. She's very religious, but she's not uptight."

She has been going through the stresses that working mothers experience, and often refers to herself as a terrible mother. And then I protest and say I don't think she is a terrible mother at all. And she is always surprised, because she expects me to reprimand her lack of perfection. I finally said that I thought she was a much better mother than I would be, and she was astounded.

Then there was the day she was sitting at my desk, sharing a story about her daughter. I didn't want to interrupt her, so when my phone rang I briefly answered, and simply said, "Sorry, I'm in a meeting, I'll call you back." She was touched that I had valued her conversation enough to hang up on the other person, but was appalled that I had said I was in a meeting. I asked her:

Me: do you feel that I lied?
Olga: (very primly). That is between you and your Lord and Savior!

Tanzania: Arusha

We meet in the parking lot to get in the land rovers for the last time. Ali, the other driver, gives a very simple but eloquent speech, thanking us for visiting, and reminding us that everything we spend helps the economy, and that most of the staff are supporting families who also benefit from our trip. It is somehow very honest and appealing.

We arrive at the airport. YIKES! I don’t do small planes. That’s why I didn’t choose a trip with flights between camps. And yet here I am. Instead of tarmac, I see a dirt road, which is apparently the runway. What if a zebra wanders across at the wrong time? If a couple of geese can bring down a jet, what would a wildebeest do to a Cessna?

There is actually not room for our trip leader with us on the plane, so he departs on a scheduled flight at 9, and the rest of us take the charter a little later. I need the gap in between to find a restroom, because I’ve finally ended up with a bit of a GI upset, and I’m needing hourly bathroom runs. Our plane arrives, and we wedge ourselves on it. There isn’t even a proper aisle between the seats, just a little slot. I find myself wondering what happens if someone tries to get on whose hips are too wide. Do they have to sit on the duffle bags in the back? I see a zipper above my head, and am momentarily disconcerted to think that the plane zips together, but then I realize it is only the lining. Once we take off, I stare at the instrument panel as if my concentration is somehow keeping the plane aloft. We pass ngorongoro and everyone leans over to look out the window. I try to look without leaning too close, subconsciously afraid I’ll tip the plane over. Luckily the plane and the pilot are oblivious to my silly fears.

We land uneventfully, and find vans and drivers ready to take us to our day room at the Arusha hotel. The hotel has a lovely peaceful garden, but most people are eager to spend every last minute (and dollar) shopping. I prefer to stretch my legs and see a bit of the city, so our trip leader arranges for a hotel staff member to take me on a walk. Emanuel suggests going to the market, which sounds great to me, so we set off. I’m curious about his name, and ask him if it is from the Bible. “Yes”, he says. He is a Lutheran, it turns out.

We stride down the street at a good pace. I’m so glad to have a chance to get my blood moving before the long flights home. When we arrive at the market it is hard to see how big it is, because there are multiple sections, and it is sort of like a maze within a maze. At first I wonder why I’m instantly recognizable as a foreigner, and then I realize that my white skin is immediately eye catching.

Even though most of the vendors don’t really speak any English, they greet me with ‘hello, hello’. The excitement wanes as I murmur a ‘tafadhali’ as I squeeze by, or an ‘asante’ as they move aside. I would love to photograph it all, but I prefer to blend in (as much as I can with my white skin), rather than causing a commotion. Occasionally Emanuel tells me I can take a picture. I’m not sure why he stops at those particular spots, but it gives me a chance to take a few shots. I try to be quick and inconspicuous, and we move on, stepping over people and occasionally crossing ditches that are spanned by uneven wooden slabs.

Some of the people are eagerly desperate. Some are hopelessly apathetic. Both are depressing, and make me feel vaguely guilty, simply for living in a situation with more privileges.

The market has close packed rows, with vendors sitting in the narrow aisles. Boys rush up offering plastic bags to induce me to buy. Vegetables are piled high: tomatoes, carrots, bananas, beans, pineapples, coconuts, cassava. We turn a corner and are in the butcher section, where I see hunks of mysterious meat hanging in the dark, covered with flies. Emanuel identifies hunks of goat for me, and then something dark and shapeless, which is the stomach, which people buy because it is cheaper. I notice a faintly rotten scent and I’m glad when we move on to the next section: rows of plastic jugs of cooking oil; woven baskets in all sizes and shapes, some four or more feet across; containers of cheap colored plastic; huge flat wooden spoons (nothing like the intricate carvings in the curio shops). Then we are back in foodstuffs: grains, some identifiable like rice, some indistinguishable. Some of the grain is piled in huge pyramids – I wonder how you take any without causing a collapse of the structure. One pile is called millet, but it doesn’t look like the millet I’m familiar with – there are lots of little hairy fibrous tendrils. I wonder if that is the source of the awful bitter hot cereal I tried at one of the lodges. I see piles of herbs and spices, which intrigue me, but I don’t quite dare to buy any – it is clear that Western concepts of hygiene are non-existent here, and I don’t really want to bring home a souvenir that keeps giving in the wrong way.

The odors change in each aisle – piles of tiny dried fish are less stinky than I expect, but still make their presence known. The fruit aisles are warmly aromatic, and the baskets and bowls have a clean woody scent.

This is yet another face of Africa. We’ve seen luxury hotels, innumerable curio shops, dusty game reserves, and exotic native villages, but I suspect that the market represents the people who are not supported by the tourism industry. There are way more vendors than there are purchasers, so I wonder who ends up buying the products, or whether they simply sit there day after day.

And finally it is time for a quick dinner, and our trip to the Kilimanjaro Airport. I re-pack, rolling my bottle amarulo in my inflatable seat cushion in the hopes that it will survive the trip in my duffle bag. Our group finds seats together and waits in the heat. Every time there is an announcement, we hope it will be time to board, but it is hard to understand what is being said. I’m amused that the chimes that sound to get people’s attention are tuned to the notes of an old western song, so I teach it to my travel mates:
I’m going to leave old Texas now,
They’ve got no use for the long horned cow.

Finally we embark, and take off for our flight home. My mind keeps recalling miscellaneous thoughts of Africa: the schoolchildren with the brightly colored uniforms – but why do they wear those comical zebra socks? The intersections in Nairobi without stoplights – how does anyone know when it is their turn to go? The incontinent woman in the Maasai village – was this a complication of FGM? Is there any chance she’ll get surgery? Esau (my delightful guide at Gibb’s Farm), teaching me the Jambo song as we hiked; The lame zebra – will it’s leg heal before it turns into someone’s dinner? The lame lion – who has a better chance because apparently the rangers may actually arrange for veterinarian help for him; The crocodile who was so frustrated trying to eat that impala – did he finally manage to dismember it? Esther (my porter at Sweetwaters) saying “African women are STRONG!” And a small boy who was begging alongside the road – his sad face and pleading gesture haunts me still.

Tanzania: Northern Serengeti

Today the plan is to drive north as far as we can, to try to catch the edge of the migration. Normally we would go on a morning and afternoon game drive, but the plan changes so we stay out for the day, to cover more territory, and drive north towards the border.

It is heartbreaking seeing the dry river bed. I know there has been a drought, and that this is the dry season, but somehow the dry river bed brings it home.

A vulture catches Roman’s attention, and we take anther look. And hidden in the grass in the shadowed depths of the dry river lurk the lions, waiting for an unwary visitor to come naively looking for a drink. We can’t decide if we want to see this happen or not, but the situation doesn’t come up, so it’s not up to us anyway. So the vulture is waiting for the lion, and the lion is waiting for the wildebeest, and meanwhile we see the monkeys running away. At the beginning of my trip, I was surprised by how little the various animals seemed to interact with each other, but now I’m learning different things to look for, and there is more interplay than I noticed at first.

We see zebras, wildebeest, Thompson’s gazelles, hartebeest, topi, grants gazelles. Then some male and female lions under a tree, with another male on a rock, all dozing and raising their heads occasionally to look around, and then falling back asleep, with sinking heads and drooping eyelids.

Our boxed lunch today is an improvement from the previous ones. Thank you mbuzi mawe!

After lunch the van ahead stops by a candelabra tree. We can’t figure out why they stopped – we’ve seen those trees before. But we have not seen a lion in a candelabra tree before. I still can’t believe that the guide saw this –Even when I take a picture with the camera zoomed all the way (12x), there is a tiny patch of brown, but that’s it. How in the world he saw this while driving on those rough roads is a mystery.

Finally we reach the edge of the migration, crossing the Grumeti river. We are at a distance, but can see the wildebeest climbing up the bank, and can hear their grunts. In addition, we also see dik dik, bushbucks, cape buffalo, giraffe, elands, warthogs, elephants, steinbuck, klipspringer, ostrich, hartebeest, and guinea fowl.
As we approach the northern border between Kenya and Tanzania, the size and density of the herds increases – massive, endless herds of wildebeest, interrupted by zebras and buffalo herds. We continue until we get to the gate 10k from the border.

As we turn back from the border we are surrounded by wildebeest. There are processions on either side of the road, and another parade up the hill, interspersed with zebra again. In any direction you look, you can see more and more. They seem endless. Earlier in the day they were clustered under the trees or just milling about. Now they are moving purposefully along, near the Golongonja River.

The road here is not nearly as bumpy as the one in the Ngorogoro crater area, but we are traveling faster because of the distance, so the dust is impressive. One of our ladies politely confides that the advantage of having a mastectomy is that you only bounce on one side, and she wishes her sister were here, because as a double mastectomy survivor she wouldn’t bounce at all, so she could sit in the back seat all the time! She definitely wins the ‘when life gives you lemons make lemonade’ award.

When we get back to camp, most people gravitate to showers, naps, drinks (or all three). A few of us eagerly try another sunset walk. This time we end up with a woman whose private guide courteously includes us. I’m not used to having such an entourage, since we also have the camp staff and the guard. The guide (working for Roy’s) is a Maasai, who shares his personal experiences in a vivid and appealing way. We stop by a sodom’s apple bush, and he relates a story from his childhood. The children had to walk 10k to school, and one day one of the girls was complaining of a stomach ache. It got worse and worse until she couldn’t walk. They tried to carry her, but they were too little and it was too far.

“She was crying, and we were crying too, because we didn’t know what to do. Then we encountered a group of warriors. They asked us what was wrong, and suddenly they disappeared. But they weren’t going away, they were looking for this plant--sodom’s apple. They pulled it up and took the outer layer from the root and forced her to eat it. In a little while, maybe 20 minutes, she was better. This I know, because I saw it.”

We are all a little wistful over dinner – it is our last dinner together in Africa. I’m not ready for my trip to be over. In fact, most of us admit that we would enjoy staying on if our schedules (and money) permitted. A couple of people are clearly ready to go home, however. They are the ones who weren’t that interested in the trip themselves, but were accompanying someone else. I keep thinking: our last dinner; Our last night in a tent; Our last lion.

Tanzania: Mbuzi Mawe

We go on a short game drive on the way to pick up the ballooners. Wildebeest, impala, warthogs, thompson’s gazelles, vervet monkey, maribou stork, olive baboons, and lions. A male and female wait under a tree while a second female investigates the vehicles. I can’t help but laugh as I realize that she’s too close to get a good picture. I lean way out of the hatch to try to get a better angle, and don’t realize until later that maybe it wasn’t too smart.

We pick up the ballooners at the wilderness lodge. They are bubbling over with enthusiasm over their experience. I’m glad they had a great time, but I don’t regret not going – it would be too scary for me. At the lodge, the rocks are dramatic, and there is a comical sight because a rock hyrax has positioned himself at the base of a huge rock, and it looks as if he is holding the whole thing up. We also stop at the little museum that has the wildebeest walk – a self-guided tour that explains the migration. There is also an opportunity to stay and watch a movie about the Serengeti, but as one of the guys says “I can watch movies after dark – now I want to see animals!

And then on to another game drive on the way to our next camp. We go back to the Seronera river. The zebras are there again, still running in and out. Now we see hippos at the same time, but they don’t seem to bother the zebras. But a huge herd of buffalo approaches and the zebras run out and wait on the far bank. As we drive through the herd, we revise our estimate upward, from 500 to 1000. We see lots of topi, as well as elephants.

We end up at the wonderful mbuzi mawe tented camp. Dennis asks if we can take a walk and I’m excited to join – I didn’t even know it was an option. The camp arranges it for us. We set out with Ivan and an armed guard. Ivan is actually a physician’s assistant, but does a fine job for us describing the trees and wildlife signs that we pass.
He is deceptively casual when he points out the lion up on the rock. We’ve seen lions much closer, but now we are on foot, with nothing in between us, and it feels totally different. The lion is just a flash of tawny brown against the rock. “Are we ok here?” we ask. Both guard and guide are alert but unconcerned. But then the stakes mount – there are three little cubs! You can barely see them without binoculars. I’m torn between wishing we were much closer, and thinking we should be much farther away. The lion disappears, and I have visions of her circling around us. Ivan tries to be comforting. The last security guard who died was killed by a buffalo, not a lion. I’m not quite as reassured as I’m supposed to be. In actuality, we’re really very far away, but I just don’t have the experience to know what a safe distance is.

In the middle of all this, we are experiencing a glorious sunset. I keep pivoting around to watch the sunset, and then back to see if I can still see the cubs. What an amazing walk!!!

The tents are wonderful. Other than the fact that they have canvas walls, it seems quite a misnomer to call them a tent. Imagine two four poster beds (to hold the mosquito netting), 2 nightstands and lamps by each bed, a ceiling fan, desk, coffee table and 2 chairs. Let’s not forget the bathroom, accessible via a canvas zippered opening in the back: flush toilet, 2 sinks, and a solar heated shower, that was not just warm but truly hot.

The food is very good, and is also nicely served. Luckily they got the baboon out of the dining room before we came to eat.
My bed was comfortable, with a really warm blanket and lots of pillows. But I was roused several times by my roommate loudly snoring. She didn’t do this before. I wonder if she’s sick. It sounds quite odd and uncomfortable. At 6:15 I get my wake-up call – a friendly good morning, with a delivery of hot chocolate. I sti in my 4 poster bed, drinking hot chocolate, and think that I could get used to this.

Day 17 – Oct 26
Over breakfast everyone excitedly comments on the lions that roared all night. I suddenly realize that my poor roommate was innocent of those noises! Good thing I didn’t accuse her! And how amazing that a simple shift in perspective changes the situation from annoying to appealing and exciting. I’m pretty sure there is a philosophical principle to learn here, but I’m eager to get going on our game drive, so I defer philosophy until later.

Today is our last game drive. I don’t feel as if I’m ‘done’ at all. I still have animals to see. I still have skies to appreciate. I’m even ready to breathe more dust and swat more flies, and eat more boxed lunches. Oh, and on the topic of flies, it’s been rather odd. I’ve had a few bites, but I’m basically not getting stung. What’s especially strange is that for my whole life I’m ALWAYS the one who gets stung. Whether it is mosquitoes, or black flies, or no—see-ums, or yellow-jackets, or wasps, they all make a bee-line (no pun intended) to me and bite, even when no one nearby is bothered. And this time it’s reversed. While it is true that I’m taking precautions, I’m still not sure why the bugs suddenly don’t like me. For 30 years I’ve refused to join my family in the Adirondacks because of the bugs and the long car drive, and yet here I am in Africa. This doesn’t make ANY sense to my friends or family, and I can’t really blame them.

As far as the bugs go, I wear neutral (not blue) clothes, and I treated just the collars and cuffs with permethrin before I left home. I’ve been washing with eucalyptus soap, and have been using controlled release deet (but only occasionally). The tse tse flies land on me, give a little nibble (I feel a small prick) and fly off without really biting.

Meanwhile, my roommate is being eaten alive. She has bites on her neck, hands and ankles. The ones on her ankles have turned into huge blistered infected sores. Last night I encouraged her to ask Ivan (the physician’s assistant at the camp) to take a look. He confirms that they are tse tse fly bites, and that the ones with the unbroken skin should be treated with an antihistamine cream, while the open ones need an antibiotic ointment.