Bill Fitzgerald
The hills slope steadily across our distant horizon, a washed out greenery fading into the pale blue sky. Between the bluery and where I sit there is a plane of flat light green high grass dotted with acacia trees. It seems empty but we know better. Seven lionesses that we saw hanging like fruit from a great Marula tree earlier today are most likely on the prowl, dipping beneath the grass preparing to pounce. A dotted hyena slinks it’s way among the river, waiting for a baby zebra or impala to wander to the edges of the stream to drink. The Serengeti is preparing for night to fall. A cloud, once puffing high into the African heavens, is slowly beginning to be painted over by a dark oily blue. In Haiti, they say that behind mountains there are are more mountains. Here is one mountain, painted by a long thin brush, stretching as wide and far as our eyes can see. It is beautiful, but a sense of isolation is imminent as darkness sweeps into the plains. The fear of Malaria and improper treatment for the infectious diseases that run rampant through densely populated African cities is intermingled with the uncertainty from our manager as to when the next shipment of tools and hotel supplies will come. We are in the middle of nowhere, yet all of the residents of this lodge are doing everything they can to fill up the space that we have. A little boy grins wide as he blows out five birthday candles. “Asante!” he yells, Illuminating the gently beating heart of the Serengeti. I am writing, overwhelmed and uplifted, with too much to say and express then even my pen can. Yet I am in my place.
Mwanza is rugged. There are no pale blue mountains fading into the distance here. The city is made up of hilly fingers that curl out in the inlets of Lake Victoria. Waves flow towards me now. It is known as the “city of rocks”, because of the massive boulders that make up the foundation of the hills. The city center is a steep slope, littered with thatched roofs and small clay, cement, and metal frames. The walls look crinkly and like they are prepared to all topple over, even from a distance. Music is blaring. The air is cool with a soft breeze.
Down at the bottom of the slope is the city’s high rises and hotels. Though it is mid day- night is sweeping into the city of Mwanza. Westernization is fast approaching and arrives with the setting of the sun, which has shown bright and starry over this Tanzanian inlet for far too many years to it's liking. Like clockwork, it falls upon this African city as it has done to so many before. So much abuse; so much sunlight lost to darkness.
“Cheese flavoured” is stick-erred across the front of massive Dorito signs; as if Tanzanians would expect a block of cheese when they pop open the bag. “You wouldn’t have imagined that you were in the same city if you had walked around Mwanza ten years ago,” my Dad’s colleague, Rob peck said. A combination of Arab and Indian culture coupled with random Kanye signs and large U.S. casinos are striking in the face of an impoverished African culture. Western banks are amidst the hotels and casinos at the bottom of the slope; they extend their long tendrils into empty pockets to realize that they are empty, and decide to reach for the hearts and spirits of so many with so little instead. Within the hold of this blinding grip: a willingness. A willingness to hold on to tradition; to hold on to the the beauty and strength of the Masai Warriors, who walk fearless and tall and red through the streets. To hold on to the fresh swing of Swahili as it is spun from shop fronts filled with bright oils and beads. “Ah Caribou, William, Caribou!” A willingness to hold on to the light.