Trying Times in Tanzania

by Rachel Lee (United States of America)

Making a local connection Tanzania

I heard a crack from overhead. Mid-jog, I froze and turned slowly to locate the cause of the clatter. After several days cooped up in the back of a jeep touring the wild landscape of Tanzania, I had enthusiastically welcomed the reprieve of staying at this quaint lodge in the heart of the Serengeti, a large courtyard hollowing out the inside of the structure, allowing for a place to shake out my stiffened legs. Now, a stones throw away from me, hunched readily at the corner of where one strip of terraced architecture connected with its neighboring strip, having dropped from the awning, huffed the narrow face of a broad-chested baboon. We locked eyes. Slowly, I began to edge away backwards. But then, the primate gave chase. As his first clumsy moves gave way to gathering momentum, I sprung to action. Turning, I broke into a full stride, the adrenaline of becoming prey enlivening each step. And still, he persisted. The long loping limbs of an animal raised by open spaces, rather than office chairs, sped up effortlessly, thudding with each strike against the concrete in the ever-shrinking gap between us. I imagined his canines, long and glittering, diving deep into the veins of my neck, each of his razor-sharp talons embedding their way into my flesh. A battle of fur and fang, fear and fury, I imagined it all in an instant, and then I realized that I could not outrun this beast. That is when feeling returned to the palm of my hand, in which I held the short wooden dowel attached to the room key that I had been carrying. “No!,” I shouted aggressively, spinning around in a sudden burst, legs planted in a squat, extending my newfound weapon to the direction of my foe. Startled, the monkey paused, head cocking mildly to the left. Behind me, I heard a door open. “What is going on out here?,” came the lilt of an Australian accent, bringing with it the warm and shining beams of hope. Turning my face slightly towards the voice, I saw it: the little dim lamp on a bedside table, the open-doored salvation of my dreams. Bolting, I fled for safe harbor. Inside the hotel room of my saviors, I caught my breath, giving a moments pause to allow for the coast to clear. When soon it did, with an awkward chuckle, I admitted my undying gratitude before exiting to cautiously make my way across the grounds to the high-ceilinged common area where my friends would be gathered. Beads of sweat still drying on my brow as I entered the airy parlor, a warm fire crackling in the hearth before a sprawl of cozy couches, my friends lounged contentedly around a game of cards. “There you are!,” they exclaimed, “we’ve been wondering where you disappeared off to!” Laughing happily, a friend threw a card down on the table in a triumphant swoop. Hands dipped clumsily into the bowl of salted peanuts to the side of the deck. The crinkle of leather sounded as bodies shifted and sunk more comfortably in their seats. “Just a minute, you guys,” I responded. “I’m going to need a drink.”