MUZUNGU in AFRICA

Journals of My Adventure During August 1996

Muzungu, a Swahili word which means “a man who moves endlessly, never resting.”  In recent decades, many African tribes have been, both benevolently and malevolently, visited by white men.  The  ‘pink-skinned’ strangers came into a village, did whatever they were going to do, then moved on.  Because whites never stayed, the word became transmuted into a new meaning:  “white man.”

Why I decided to go to East Africa.

“Why Africa?” was the first question Marcy asked me when I mentioned my plans.  I’m certain that the roots of my desire to go to Africa reach back to childhood, watching television programs of Tarzan or Rama of the Jungle.  Like every young boy of my era, I grew up wearing cowboy, or spaceman garb at every opportunity.  All three of these lines of adventure had one common thread running thickly through them, that is the chance to be on the move, exploring new territory where few had gone before them.  Underneath my daily business clothes, I can always imagine that I have, concealed cleverly, a silver-colored plastic ray gun that shoots alternating red and blue rays of light, and a worn red cowboy kerchief tucked in an inner pocket of my jacket

So many mysterious adventures always took place in the most primitive continent.  William Holden mastering the jungle in many movies or Cornel Wilde in Naked Prey all made me as a boy, think of the so-called dark continent as an almost unobtainable quest.  Even Bob Hope and Bing Crosby added to my wonderment of this part of the world in the movie, The Road to Zanzibar.   So exotic, so mysterious, so inviting, I had to go.  I couldn’t refuse.

Stories of Dr. Leakey’s explorations and other fairly factual accounts appeared in almost every issue of National Geographic during the fifties and sixties, abundantly filled with photographs of unabashed bare-breasted women frolicking through thickets.  The idea of being there tantalized every boy as much as the possibility of space exploration.  So the seeds were planted.

I guess everybody has dreams of going too far off distant places.  In that respect, I am the same as anybody else.  My hedonistic difference is that I stubbornly refuse to grow up and follow some of my childhood dreams.  So it was with this trip.  In February of 1996 when one of my friends asked me “Where are you going next?”  The words “East Africa” just spilled out of my mouth.  That day, as I sat eating a tuna sandwich on rye bread, working at my desk, I realized that to make this trip is probably possible. Europe is possible, Canada is definitely possible, but East Africa?  I thought I’d see how far I could get to by just making up some plans.    

Now as a fifty-year-old adult, I am supposed to have more reality-based reasons to do things.   Sometime in July of 1995 I was watching a travelogue about the Serengeti and a few other parts of Africa. While animals have never been a major part of my travel plan, I thought about how primitive and simple life must be in this part of the world.  From this dream began my desire to visit this region.  Talking with a well-traveled friend from the Santa Monica Youth Hostel, talking to my travel mentor at a travel book store in Santa Monica, and reading several books, all added mortar to the building blocks of the realization that I could really do it! I fancy myself as an adventurer of sorts.  In all honesty, I’m not willing to cut the path to a never-been-explored site, but I am willing to be second down that path, and smooth the path out for others to follow. 

At the very beginning of 1996 I knew I would be stepping on a plane going to East Africa. I laid out my plan of how I’d like to schedule my time.  I figured out which month to go by examining weather patterns, reading about seasonal changes, high and low tourist periods, and the migration of animals.  Next, I contacted a few travel agencies that specialized in African tours to see where they go, why, and when.  The prices they charged seemed much higher than what I thought I should have to pay according to the information printed in the travel books about East Africa.

The tourist offices proposed two-week tours priced between six thousand and eleven thousand dollars, excluding the flight cost. They safely prepackaged and preplanned everything, but I knew I would not be happy on such tours, this is not how I enjoy traveling. I had to plan this on my own, which meant a lot more work and thought before going there. Visa requirements, medical preparation and inoculations, a budget and funding were all things I needed to carefully plan. Slowly, deliberately, with plenty of time available yet, I began assembling everything. 

By the time I purchased a journal in late June, many of the things I needed to do were already handled or well underway. It wasn’t until the end of July that I made my first journal entries. I knew I had to write SOMETHING down in the journal, because the first words committed to paper are always the most difficult for me.   I started with a general plan, subject to change based on nothing more than a whim. At this point (not having left yet) I expect to cover areas in this approximate order, shown in the chart that follows.  I will try to call or telegram once each week if possible, but I may be in a  primitive area for an extended time so I’ll do what I can do.

July 30, 1996  Tuesday     Sherman Oaks, California

The moment I am scheduled to depart approaches, yet all that must be done is not yet finished.  I haven’t completed packing.  I have not purchased Marlboro cigarettes or ballpoint pens, which are always useful for trading.  Nor have I bought a bedroll, which is necessary to assure me that I will have a clean place to sleep.    A bedroll is simply a large sheet folded in half, and then sewn to create a large pocket in which I could sleep without fear of insects or slithery animals crawling in with me.  Most importantly, I must get my passport back from the Tanzanian Embassy in Washington.

The Kenyan Embassy, in Beverly Hills, returned the approved passport in three days, Oman, in Washington, D.C. took four days.  Uganda doesn’t require a visa stamp.  Each of these places asked for money and a post-paid return envelope to enter the stamp. My big problem was saved for the last.  The Tanzanian Embassy in Washington claimed that they had no pictures (I think they took the ones I had sent them and added them to some bizarre collection somewhere).  I had some more pictures taken then brought them to the post office and express mail them to Gertrude, the woman I had been in contact with at that embassy. 

I called two days later, and she told me that the visa was being processed.  Still, no passport was returned and time was getting short before the trip.  I called the embassy and she couldn’t find it.  I called again and again trying to be a polite thorn in their side until the passport is returned.  I kept calling until I spoke with her supervisor, Mr. Robinson.   He said he has it there and will send it out today.  Since I leave in two days (today is Tues. and I leave on Thurs.) I let them use the credit card number for shipping it by Federal Express next day delivery.  The number is 112-5869-695.  I called Fed Ex at (800) 463-3339 but now they have no record of the package.   I called the Embassy at (202) 939-6125, Gertrude answered saying she’s certain it went out.  I received it later that day.

August 1, 1996 - Thursday, LAX, Los Angeles, California

“3:45 p.m.” my watch says.  So it starts -- a new adventure more thrilling and mysterious than any trip I've planned before.   Africa, Black Africa, is the big adventure behind a smaller excursion I hope to take into Oman. 

A number of people called to wish me well and to have a safe journey, including my brother Steve, and my sister-in-law, Sue. Marcy's brother, Ross, and Paul & Karen also called.   My parents and my adult children spoke with, or called me yesterday, but not today.  I know my parents, Al and Golda, are worried and think that there is no good reason why I must go to a place where there is constant turmoil, which is easily discovered from stories printed almost daily in the newspaper.  My children are jaded, and nothing I do, and no place I go, surprises Carol and Mark anymore.   They prefer a vacation of relaxation and luxury; I’m not headed for that.  Sarah, who prefers the safe haven of home, was in disbelief that I would WANT to go to such places.  My wife Marcy was espcially worried and saddened by my intention to travel without her.

Not having fully completed the first third of the flight to Heathrow, I have an opportunity to reflect on the minor mishaps during this flight already.  I know why I am having all these negative thoughts:  I'm on a nonsmoking flight!  Over nine hours without a puff -- ouch!  I really tried to be too clever again.  Realizing that for the last five years or so all domestic flights are "nonsmoking," I would pay the extra dollars to arrange an International flight from LA to London!  Isn’t that clever?  Smoking is usually allowed on international flights.  The travel agent never asked, "Nonsmoking or smoking?" 

Not until I boarded the plane was the issue of smoking mentioned.  The red light glared at me overhead.  Almost as if it were sticking its tongue out at me as it constantly read, “No Smoking.” I would soon discover the entire airplane was a No Smoking zone.

So here I sit, after consuming a spicy shrimp dinner with rice, carrots, and green beans prepared especially for those flying in Economy Class.  Beset by an overwhelming urge to light up a cigarette, I accepted a graciously offered cup of coffee by the plump, middle-aged stewardess.  She smiled as she set it before me.  In return I gave her my most fake grin, because I was so annoyed by being unable to smoke.  Later I began to wish I could apologize to her.  It’s not her fault I cannot smoke, but I needed to blame someone.

I was prepared for a lengthy journey, so among the items I brought for flight comfort I included my black slippers, a liter of mountain water sealed in a plastic bottle, a small, oblong roll of burgundy-flecked salami, a large leaf of sharp white cheddar from New Zealand, and a small yellow and white cardboard box of salted wheat crackers.  While everybody else in the "Coach" section waited two hours for meal service, I had eaten a full meal already. That doesn't mean I refused the meal served -- on the contrary, I ate that, too.  I was hungry and eating occasionally made me forget I couldn’t smoke.

The seating arrangement is a little more comfortable than I had during the flight to China.  I have plenty of room to move my legs.  I changed seats so I wouldn't have a window seat, opting instead for the pleasure of stretching my legs alongside the open aisle between the rows of seats.   I had to do this to release the pent-up gas in my stomach.  I have tried to exercise caution so I’d do no damage to fellow passengers as I moved, trying to find a long-term position of comfort.  Only rarely did I thrust my head backwards to pummel the backrest, trying to find the most comfortable position, and failing miserably.  The black lady sitting to my rear has never smiled yet, as I glance toward her, since every movement I make affects her comfort, or lack thereof.   She doesn’t realize that this is as still as I can sit.

Although I sat less than twelve feet from a lavatory in front of me, I was curtly advised by a young dark-haired stewardess, that the loo to the rear was for “coach” passengers.   The walk was quite a distance from where I sat and unlike the one near my seat, it had a line of impatient future occupants.   I joined them for a while and mimicked the impatient “aisle dance” that they had been doing.  Meanwhile my anger and resentment were building as I watched the toilet in business-class remain unused.  I learned to hate business-class people.

My watch says it will be midnight in eleven minutes, so my first day has passed.  A forward seated passenger lifted the curtain that had covered his porthole-sized window, and peeked outside to see the first strands of morning light.  We have rushed to greet the Sun as its rays reveal the mottled blue carpet, stained with smokey white billows,  rolling beneath us.

The flight, scheduled to land nine hours after departure, hasn't but two hours left in this NONSMOKING flight.  I have eight and a half hours to wait in Heathrow/London before I leave for Muscat, Oman.  Now I'm tired.  I still have two long hours before I'll land in Heathrow 8/2/96 3:40 p.m. Pacific Standard. My watch is still set for L.A. time.

The airplane to Africa should leave at 20:30 local time, still two hours away.  I had enough time to go to Harrod's Department Store and look around.  I stopped in a small British pub within the cavernous walls of the huge shopping complex of the Heathrow airport.  The young waitress, dressed in a frilly British version of a dirndl, brought a large frosted mug of ale with fish ‘n chips.  The thick blue-rimmed stoneware platter held a mountainous serving of deep-fried, golden cod and the other half of the plate was piled high with french fries. Yellow oil pooled in shallow circles, shimmering on the hot white dish.

Throughout the airport, everywhere I look menial tasks are usually assigned to Indians.  There were only a couple of Brits sweeping the floors or cleaning ashtrays. I saw a sweatshirt that might look good on Steve or Ross from St. Andrews Golf Course, which is the first golf course, created, but the seventy-dollar price-tag stopped me from buying even one.  The sign above the money-changing booth read: