Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
escarpment in a series of tight turns through hills and canyons. It's the same road the gov-
ernment plans to turn into a highway that will cross the Serengeti National Park, joining the
large city of Arusha with communities on Lake Victoria.
We've already been stopped twice in the small hours, and both times, Simon has had to
crawlfromthebackoftheoverstuffedcarandarguewitharmedpolice,whousedourlackof
papers as an excuse to shake him down for a “fine.” 3 After the second shakedown, the newly
appeased guards made the friendly suggestion that we take an alternate route to Samunge,
through a nearby village called Digo Digo. That route stays clear for emergencies and allows
supplies and VIPs to enter Samunge without waiting in the queue. Unfortunately, the way is
not so well-worn, and we take a wrong turn—rumbling by small settlements and farms, and
sliding in sand and fording rivers before Simon finally admits we're lost.
He crawls out of his car to knock on the door of a mud house. By the light of a kerosene
lantern, a woman gives him new directions and, now confident, we drive for another hour,
joiningbetter roads,andenterSamunge,justasthesunrises.Samungeisstarkandbeautiful;
the soil is a red clay and, perhaps because it's in a river valley, the vegetation seems more
green and vital than the drier highlands nearby. The narrow Sanjan River flows southeast
through the soda flats below, entering the alkaloid Lake Natron. Along the way, it crosses
the rift where two great tectonic plates slammed together and have been pulling away from
each other for the last 40 million years, forming the Great Rift highlands, volcanoes, and the
African Great Lakes, and slowly revealing humanity's origins in the nearby Olduvai Gorge.
Mwasapila's new Eden is less than a hundred kilometers from our most famous early ancest-
ors.
Samunge lies at the base of a three-peaked range of hills that looks like the Southern Cali-
forniachaparral.Mostofthehousesaresmall,framedwithsticks,andfleshedwithmud.Dirt
roads are lined with drab tents and makeshift tarps. The village slowly fills with people seek-
ing medical help, brought by rickety vehicles. The whole scene strangely resembles the set
for M*A*S*H . A disembodied, Swahili-speaking Radar O'Reilly shouts instructions through
a tinny bullhorn somewhere. People are to gather in a half-hour to hear Babu speak.
Simon goes off to inform officials of our arrival. A crowd is forming at a widening in the
main road. People are walking from their cars parked several hundred meters away. Some
lookobviouslyunwell,limpingorshuffling,helpedbyrelatives.Onewoman'sfootistwisted
180degreesfromherankle.Simonreturnswithablearymaninstripedpajamas;heclaimsto
be an immigration official and asks our business. I explain we are journalists who have come
a long way to learn about Babu. “Do you have a permit?” he asks. This is the first I've heard
of any such thing; I tell him no.
He nods and politely directs us to sit and wait at a small open-air café. A young soldier
in green fatigues with a dinged-up assault rifle stands a few meters away. We begin to
hear Swahili over the tinny speaker again, and Simon says it's one of Babu's assistants ex-
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