Number the Stars

Number the Stars


What would you think of while walking along the streets of Copenhagen and boating along the canals? One of the things that I thought about was Hans Christian Andersen, especially when passing Det Kongelige Teatret (The Royal Theater) near Nyhavn where he spent so much time. And I thought about Number the Stars, a Newbery Award book by Lois Lowry published in 1989.
Set in Denmark during World War II, the story is one of personal courage and national strength. Denmark surrendered to Germany in 1940 and endured a five year occupation. In 1943, the German occupation tightened its rule, and it is the events of this year that are the focus of Number the Stars. When walking on the Osterbrogade in northeast Copenhagen, I could easily imagine Annemarie and her friend Ellen running down the sidewalk, followed by Annemarie’s pouting little sister, Kristi. And when I saw Amalienborg, the royal castle, I thought of the story of King Christian X, the beloved King of Denmark during those troubled times. And later, in the town of Roskilde, I again brushed tears off my cheeks when I stood before his tomb. There is another story of King Christian X which I hope you will find in the library and read. It is called The Yellow Star and is a picture book which was donated to the library by a parent (who is also one of our favorite library subs) in honor of one of her children’s birthdays. But back to Number the Stars.


Lois Lowry tells us this story of hope through Annemarie’s eyes.


“King Christian was a real human being, a man with a serious, hard face. She had seen him often, when she was younger. Each morning, he had come from the palace on his horse, Jubilee, and ridden alone through the streets of Copenhagen, greeting his people.”
Annemarie “remembered a story that Papa had told her, shortly after the war had began, shortly after Denmark had surrendered and the soldiers had marched in overnight to take their places on the corners.”
Papa recounts to his daughter Annemarie a conversation between a Danish teenager and a German soldier which he overheard.
“Who is that man who rides past every morning on his horse?”
“He is our King,” the boy told the soldier. “He is the King of Denmark.”
“Where is his bodyguard?”
The boy looked right at the soldier and he said, “All of Denmark is his bodyguard.”


In 1943, when Germany tightened its control over Denmark, King Christian X sank his entire Navy in Copenhagen harbor rather than let the German military appropriate the Danish ships. Of course I was thinking of this when I took a harbor cruise, and saw several gray navy ships docked in the harbor. In the book, Kristi is told that all of Copenhagen was celebrating her fifth birthday with fireworks. In reality, many parents did tell their frightened children stories to calm their fears, the most common being that the King was giving the people an evening of fireworks.

Also in 1943, when Jews gathered at the synagogue to celebrate the Jewish New Year, they were warned by the rabbi that they were no longer safe in Denmark. “The rabbi knew because a high German official had told the Danish government which passed the information along to the leaders of the Jewish community. The name of that German was G. F. Duckwitz, and I hope that even today, so many years later, there are flowers on his grave, because he was a man of compassion and courage,” writes the author Lowry in the Afterword.

Annemarie’s best friend Ellen Rosen is Jewish, and Annemarie’s family helps the Rosens escape the German soldiers who, as the rabbi had anticipated, came for the Jews of Denmark that night. The bravery of the Johansen family, based on the real-life heroism of the Danes, required a courage that is hardly imaginable. Yet the citizens of Denmark protected and saved their Jewish friends and neighbors, sending them across the 30 miles of the Kattegat (the straight between Denmark and Sweden) to safety in Sweden, which was a neutral country, hidden in fishing boats. The fishermen risked all, and you are just going to have to read the book to discover the amazing trick they used to fool the German dogs that the soldiers used to sniff out stowaways. In the book, it is Annemarie’s Uncle Henrik, a fisherman living on the coast near Copenhagen, who takes Ellen’s family to Sweden, illustrating how nearly all of Denmark’s 7,000 Jews escaped the Nazi terror.




Later, while at the Dansk Jodisk Museum (The Danish Jewish Museum) (http://www.jewmus.dk/?language=uk), I learned that 48 Jews, mainly those that did not heed the rabbi’s warning, were captured and sent to Theresienstaat, and fortunately, most returned. After the war, the Jews who sought sanctuary in Sweden also returned to their homes, which their neighbors and friends had kept up for them, anticipating their return.

Lois Lowry’s Afterword in Number the Stars is full of facts that inspired her to write the novel, like the incident I quoted above. As a fan of historical fiction, I am interested in what (often) little fact prompts an author to pursue extensive research and to create a story that expresses the emotions of another time and place. Though not in the book, I remember hearing Lowry speak, and she said that her Danish friend, to whom she dedicated the book, had this particularly vivid memory from the time of the German occupation. What she recalled were the tall, shiny, black boots that the soldiers wore. When you read the book, I bet you too will be struck by the evil that those boots represent, and that you too will feel the fear that Danish children felt when they saw German soldiers in their high black boots standing on the corners of their streets.

Sicily

Let’s call this little jaunt to Sicily my Spring Break. Never mind that the weather was locked into winter, and that the Sicilians talked nonstop of what a cold, wet and miserable winter they were having. Never mind that it was colder in Sicily than it had been in London, and I had to break out the long underwear, which I really had packed for my travels in Scandinavia. Never mind that snow fell on the hills just above Palermo on the last day I was in Sicily. Every day it was cold, but not wet, and the umbrella stayed in the suitcase. And nearly every day, the skies were blue, the bluest of blue. And the waters of the Ionian, Mediterranean and the Tyrrhenian Seas sparkled.
My visit to the Palazzo Chiaramonte, built in 1307, off the Piazza Marina and just off Giardino Garibaldi and across from the enormous ficus tree that is 150 years old and Palermo’s oldest tree, thus a tourist attraction, was memorable for a variety of reasons. The guard at the door insisted on taking me on a tour, and spoke the loveliest English, heavily accented and flowery. He was profuse in his apologies for the poor tour information, but in fact, his passion for the building and its history and his careful attention in pointing out details and bringing the past to life, along with his pride in Sicily, made this the most interesting “guided tour” of my stay. Hanging on one large wall of the restored palazzo was “Vucciria,” a painting by Renato Guttuso. The open air market in Vucciria is no longer in existence, and Sicilians look to this painting with patriotism as it memorializes a part of Sicilian life. Then, around a corner and down a few steps I came to a room that had been used during the Inquisition (1601-1782) when the building was used as the headquarters of the Inquisition in Palermo, and included the prison. Written on the prison wall was the word “couraggi,” courage. There were also words that translate into “my soul (animo) is imprisoned.” And there were two murals still visible of St. Nicholas. And on display was the large bell which was rung to announce an execution, which would then take place in the plaza, which is now the garden with the ficus tree. It was chilling, seeing and touching these memorials to such personal pain and tragedy. The Palazzo is now the seat of the Rectory of Palermo University, and upstairs, in what was a chapel, a conference on diabetes was in progress. The guide was not going to let me leave without seeing the paintings from the Norman period on the wooden ceiling, which are an encyclopedia of medieval tales and imaginary beasts, so we sneaked into to back of the conference proceedings, and spent our time looking up, while the attendees continued to give their attention to the speaker and his power point presentation.




Throughout Sicily there are ancient ruins, and many are striking. The Teatro Greco, or Teatro Antico, in Taormina was notable for the scenery. The town of Taormina, set on a knife’s edge rocky ledge, with the sea on three sides and the village of Castelmola directly above clinging to the rocks, is as scenic as it gets, especially when you add views of Mt. Etna, snow-covered and smoking. Evenings, before and after late dinners, the one main street was filled with people out and about enjoying their evening stroll, or passeggiata. What a great way to visit with friends and so some people watching. One day, a day with clear skies, I took the funivia (cable car) down to Mazzaro beach and took a boat ride around the cape and into Naxos Bay. The high cliffs and the grottoes below with azure blue water were stunning. As drawn to the sea as I am, it was wonderful to be on the water and to be looking up at the cliffs and beyond, to Mt. Etna. The day I went to Mt. Etna, however, was anything but clear. The entire mountain was engulfed with fog and clouds. There was snow at the spot where one can take a gondola up, but there was no point in that, as snow was falling, and the visibility was zero. Instead, I walked around the Silvestri Crater, sliding along the volcanic ground, and unable to see two steps ahead. It was eerie. And it was a bit scary, being on an active volcano.
As successive invaders conquered and settled in Sicily, the victors put their unique stamp on the existing buildings. In Taormina, the Greek theater was reworked to comply with Roman standards. In Ortigia, the island part of Siracusa, the cathedral was built on the site of a temple to Athena and the Doric columns from that temple are used in the duomo, and are of structural value, not just decorative. And there is an altar (ara) from about the 6th century BC built by Sicily’s first settlers, the Siculi. It is the only surviving piece from their civilization.

In Agrigento, towards the end of the main street Via Atenea, I visited the Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Greci, once again built on the site of a Greek temple to Athena. A man popped out of a doorway across the street from the church and unlocked the gate and gave an enthusiastic tour. Here also, the 5th century BC Doric columns are visible. When the Saracens were dominate in the area and discouraged the Christians from worship, the church literally went underground, and the present church is designed so that visitors and worshippers can see through the glass floor down to the carved cross. The garden planted above to disguise the site remains a lovely garden. Inside the present church you can see frescoes from the Byzantine time and a wooden, painted ceiling from the time of the Normans. Time and time again in Sicily the buildings showed evidence of the successive waves of invaders, who each built upon the existing buildings, upon existing sites. Useful, strategic, holy, or scenic places are valued by all.


Being in Sicily was like being in Greece in some ways, at least when walking among the fantastic Greek ruins. Some of the most impressive Greek temples and stages were built in the Greek cities on Sicily. But then, when dinner time came around, I knew that I was in Sicily. My favorite main course was spada – sword fish – and I had it cooked many ways. And the house wines were each unique. One was remarkable in that I knew immediately that it came from the slopes of Mt. Etna because of its ashy taste, which was strong and a perfect match for the meal. Try a Nero d’Avola if you ever get the chance. And where else but in Sicily can you have juice from blood oranges? Or the overly sweet cassata, a cake that words cannot describe? Or the roasted chicken, discovered in a small takeout pizza joint , that is now my gold standard for chicken? And while places and food are reasons to travel, a travel experience can only be successful if the people you meet laugh with you, are kind and gentle. And Sicily scores off the charts in that category as well.

There was the bus driver of the #1 bus down from the city of Agrigento to the Valle of the Tempi who nodded and indicated he would drop me off at the ticket area. But when I eventually walked to the front of the bus and shrugged my shoulders in a questioning gesture, he rolled his eyes and apologized for forgetting. My mind was someplace else, I think he said. Go sit down and I will stop on the “ritorno.” Then, on the way back up the mountain, when I knew we were passing the ticket booth and I jumped up, pushing the stop button, he laughed, stopping just past the bus stop sign (fermata), and smiled at his joke.


Then there was a memorable late lunch, when not much is open. My friend and I found a kebab shop open, and ordered inside, bringing out our food to eat on the tables out front along the sidewalk. At the next table was a family group enjoying a large meal. Soon, the workers at the neighboring shop closed their doors and joined in. Next thing we knew, the father of the family served us a heaping plate of shellfish and pasta. A worker, recently from Africa, passed by and was urged to join in. Then two American sailors sat down, and they quickly became part of the very international group. What fun.





Generous with their time and with their smiles, the Sicilians surely found a spot in my heart. Like any good travel adventure, what I saw and what I learned opened my mind and I marveled at how history unfolds and tells its tales. And like any good travel adventure, my heart grew a little larger (to use Dr. Seuss’s words) too.

Travels in Sicily "If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change."

Even in Sicily, the quest for the perfect chip continued, but with limited enthusiasm on my part. The best I found on the island was, with nothing else even a close second (probably because I only asked for chips twice), “Fonzies,” a Cheeto-like twisty with a powdery parmesan cheese flavor. But there were other quests to occupy me as I traveled through Sicily.

Published in 1958, after the author passed away, The Leopard by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa (1896-1957) is a Sicilian classic. I had read it, and read it slowly in order to savor the elegant language, the vivid pictures it created in my imagination, and to linger over the theme of how families reconcile their traditions to times of intense political and social change, the ideas that most grabbed hold as I read. I was amazed, when at BookExpo 2008, Thomas Friedman, in reading from his then soon-to-be-published Hot, Flat and Crowded, quoted from The Leopard. Set primarily during the early 1860’s during Garibaldi’s time and the creation of a unified Italy, including the annexation of Sicily, the patriarch of the family, the Prince of Salina, Don Fabrizio, known as “The Leopard,” comments, “If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change.” It was this line that Thomas Friedman quoted.

The idea of a literary pilgrimage to places associated with Lampedusa and to places reminiscent of the book lodged in my imagination, and so I, in good Romantic tradition, wandered through the streets of Palermo with the novel in my hand, reading descriptions of the Palazzo Lampedusa as I looked at the facades of crumbling Baroque palazzos and toured the Palazzo Mitro, open to the public and restored to what was the time of Don Fabrizio, and complete with the feeling of “slightly shabby grandeur.”

In the stables of the palazzo were carriages of all sizes, and so it was easy to choose one, and then imagine the Prince riding in it through the narrow streets of Palermo. The real palace of Lampedusa, himself an aristocrat, was demolished by an Allied bomb on April 5, 1943. Lampedusa is buried in the cemetery, next to, but not in, the catacombs, at the Capuchin Monastery.

There is, of course, a movie based on the novel, starring Burt Lancaster, and the final scene, a grand ball, was filmed in a palazzo on the Piazza Croce dei Vespri, which turned out to be just steps from my hotel on the Via Roma. Even while relishing the fabulously decorated ballroom, Lampedusa communicates Don Fabrizio’s tenderness and longing for a past he knows must end, and there is a sense of foreboding that change must follow this last gasp of a fading Sicilian aristocracy. In the novel, the Prince sees the Sicily of the past, and knows that he is a part of that. But he also knows that change is inevitable, and looks to his nephew, Tancredi, to lead Sicily into the future, which indeed, he does.

It was with a certain excitement that Tancredi wine was served at my last meal in Sicily, and I was able to toast Lampedusa, who really had been my guide and companion and had shown me Sicily through his eyes.

Because I had read The Leopard, I knew Sicily was an island ruled by a succession of civilizations, each building, literally, often tragically, on the previous. (Here they mostly are: Geloans, settlers from Crete and Rhodos, Greek, Carthaginian, Roman, Byzantine, Arab, Norman, Swabia/German, Angeline, Aragonese, Bourbon, Italian.) I expected vibrancy, yet nostalgia. I was not surprised to see old buildings in various stages of collapse and, conversely, in various stages of repair. Though I did not go to the interior to the restored town of Santa Margherita di Belice (the model for the town of Donnafugata in The Leopard), Lampedusa’s descriptions of “the real Sicily” jumped readily to mind as I traveled around the island by bus and train. As I took in the high blue skies and deep blue seas, shepherd s minding sheep on steep but green hillsides, towering, distant Etna, and the jagged mountains, I was glad I had Lampedusa’s words to help me describe what I was seeing. As Don Fabrizio comments, the land is “comfortless and irrational, with no lines that the mind could grasp.” Even as I wandered around monuments from Magna Grecia, I felt “the immemorial silence of pastoral Sicily.”

And I marked what Don Fabrizio said. “If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change.”

12,197 miles from home

My frequent flyer miles email update informed me that my trip from California to Arusha put me 12, 197 miles from home. It never felt that far....




When my son visited, Silla, Gerard and Brian were eager to meet him. They shared a favorite book of theirs, Tin Tin in America.











Miss Charisma, Miss Margie and Miss Faith, the librarians at the Usa River campus of The School of St. Jude, welcomed me to the library staff. They are awesome librarians, hard workers, wonderful with the children, and were very kind to me.









Do you see what these boys are reading?Books from the Magic Tree House series. The children in the fifth grade were reading Harry Potter, the first graders loved Dr. Seuss, and the sixth graders were reading biographies and especially liked to read about Nelson Mandela, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.and Jane Goddall. Second graders liked Cinderella and Mufaro's Beautiful Daughters.














Every morning, our little red bus was the first to arrive. Mr. Forehead met the students and walked them to the playground. Each child had a big smile for me every morning.









And this precious first grade girl was the first student to board the bus. She always sat right next to me. She was a cuddler, and liked to hold my hand.















Each day, the routines at St. Jude's became more familiar and more comfortable. In fact, it felt like home.

A Leap of Faith

When people travel well, when they make a leap of faith into the world and they find themselves indelibly changed, we are better people than we were before, with a larger, more satisfying world view. It feels good to evolve that way.

-Jeff Greenwald

Oldupai Gorge

Oldupai Gorge
No, that is not a typo. The Olduvai Gorge is properly named “Oldupai” Gorge after the Maasi word for the local spiky sisal plant that grows there. However, when archeologists and anthropologists first began working there, and in nearby Laetoli, in 1931, Oldupai got written down incorrectly, and the mistake stuck.

The hand-lettered sign stuck in the sand alongside the dirt road to the Serengeti says “Olduvai Gorge” with an arrow pointing off to the right. Today, you cannot go down into the protected area of the gorge, but a ranger points out spots of interest. It was at this spot in 1976 that Dr. Mary Leakey discovered footprints, and determined that they were footprints of three hominids who walked upright across ash three million years ago. These are thus the oldest records of humans, these footprints preserved in ash. Dr. Leakey’s discovery is not on display, but a mold of it is in the small museum on the site, and even from this copy it is easy to understand the great excitement she must have felt when she found these footprints.



It might be corny, but the trip to the gorge felt like a pilgrimage to a sacred spot, and being there gave me a deep feeling of homecoming. I was proud of those three ancestors of mine, walking so proudly over the ashy ground, heads held high.

Zoo News

The Secretary Bird
Imagine my surprise when I saw that the February 2009 issue of Zoo News had a Secretary Bird on the cover! I saw Secretary Birds in the Serengeti. "Why Secretary?" we asked. Wouldn’t you ask the same question? The feathery cap looks like a quill pen, apparently, and a quill pen is associated with writing, as a secretary would do. What I liked best was that the bird hunted for snakes and lizards. I only saw it walking on the ground, not flying. If I had seen a snake, my heart would have likely stopped. The hotel information at the lodge built into a rocky kopje in the Serengeti advised that there was a resident python in the rocks around the pool. I never walked the path without looking very carefully and with my heart pounding a little faster than usual. No pythons for me, I chanted under my breath. I would have been glad of a Secretary Bird nearby.

Steven's Many Questions

Before I left, Steve had lots of questions about education in Tanzania. I had no answers, but promised I would see what I could learn. The questions were relevant and interesting, and generally involved higher education, focusing on teacher training. Once in Arusha, I noticed several schools that were colleges and universities of "teacher training." The students going in as we passed by in the bus in the morning were older, and had spiffy, dressed-for-success uniforms. There are also some business colleges, and the tallest building in town, perched on a hilltop, belongs to an accounting school. Of course there are universities in Tanzania, primarily in the large cities and towns, but several professionals that I met had gone to Kenya for higher education courses. The teachers at St. Jude’s are among the best of Tanzania teachers, and most have had education courses beyond their high school years. And the school offers professional growth opportunities as well as three mentor teachers from the West to offer support, guidance and inspiration.

But Steve had more questions to ask. "What will these students do when they finish school?" It turns out that this same question is on the minds of the adults at St. Jude’s. The secondary school opened this year with the Form 1 students (7th graders), both continuing St. Jude’s students and newly admitted students. These students wear a different uniform and have a separate, but contiguous, campus. There is much talk and excitement about how to teach them well so that they will be prepared to be the future of Tanzania. This is not idle talk, nor is it overly lofty. We can’t help but wonder if a future president is now swinging on the playground, borrowing a C.S. Lewis book from the library or drumming on stage during the weekly assembly. I asked several fifth grade boys what they wanted to do when they finished school. One was eager to be a pilot and fly large passenger planes. One wanted to be a businessman, with his own large business. Another wanted to be a soldier, which I found interesting since I rarely see soldiers on the streets. One boy just shrugged his shoulders, but the other boys said, "That one, he wants to be president!" "Do you think it is possible?" I asked. "Oh, yes. It is possible. He is very smart and capable," the boys answered, and the boy himself said he studies hard and he hopes in the future he can be a "leader." Isn’t it wonderful that these children, who just a few years ago would not have dreamed school was possible, are now working towards bright futures?

The first president of newly independent Tanzania, Julius Nyerere was a teacher himself, and studied in Europe. His policies concentrated on education and health programs. 10,900 primary schools opened under his leadership. Of course, this was costly, and he relied on economic aid from overseas. Tanzania has just recently moved out of the top twenty poorest nations on earth. Yet despite the poverty, the nation is a "bastion of stability" and that gives great cause for hope.

In a shop I noticed a poster/calendar that had as a title "Presidents of Africa" and I asked about the poster. I was hoping there was one for sale, but that was not the case. But, the half-hour conversation that followed was very interesting. The shop owner pointed to the last photo. It was of a smiling man, facing the camera, who held up a fist. "That fool only wants power. Such a fool," said the shop owner. You can probably guess who it was. The countries were arranged alphabetically. Yes, it was Mugabe of Zimbabwe. The owner continued by explaining that in Tanzania there was no tribalism. "Tribalism," he said, "is the cause of many problems in African governments. But not in Tanzania." His opinion was that Nyerere did not favor his own tribe during his rule, and many others had told me that, as a policy of his socialist government, he had redistributed land, mixing up Christian and Muslim and believers in local religions.

So, in this stable country, there is much hope that indeed poverty can be ended through education, which is the motto of St. Jude’s. But compare the educational opportunities of St. Jude’s students with others in the country. Only 50% of students finish primary school. There are not enough schools, nor trained teachers, to accommodate all the children. And most of the primary education is in Kiswahili. Even in some "English medium" schools, where English is the stated language of education, English is not used enough to allow the students to pass the entrance exam into secondary school, which is given in English. And even if a student qualifies, there are not enough schools and teachers, once again, to accommodate all the students. Only 3% of students complete secondary school.

Beginning in 2002 with three students and one teacher, and a $10 donation, St. Jude’s has grown to a school where over 1,000 students are receiving an excellent education. These are Tanzania’s brightest children. Only 1% of students who apply and take the entrance exams are admitted. They are screened to be sure that they are truly impoverished, and not just pretending in order to attend the school. Many times in the town of Arusha, when I said I was at St. Jude’s, people would ask how they could get their children into the school. There were rumors that all secondary students could attend, not just the poorest of the poor, but those were just rumors.
All Tanzanian students take exams after Standard 4 and again after Standard 7. St. Jude’s students have consistently done very well.

I have always been proud to be associated with Country Day, as a teacher and as a parent of two graduates. And I am just as proud to be associated with The School of St. Jude.

I know that I think alot about Steve's questions. The answers to them are incomplete. That I know. Also, I know that I will keep looking for answers.

The Serengeti

Just a few pictures from the Serengeti.

The Birthday Boy

He had one request for his birthday. "I know that this whole trip is a birthday present, Mom. This whole amazing trip. And I am really grateful and excited. But there is one, just one thing I would really like to do. If possible. " My son Sean’s voice became tentative. " Do you think we could sail on the Indian Ocean?" "Sail? On the Indian Ocean? Off the coast of Zanzibar?" I asked a quick series of questions. But before Sean could answer, I said, "Sounds like a great idea!"

Place names have always been magical for me. When I was in the fifth grade, my teacher Mr. Quigley drew a square foot on the floor of the classroom in chalk. He then asked sixteen students to come to the front of the room. They were all to stand within that square foot. "That is the population density of Java, in Indonesia," said Mr. Quigley. I don’t know what anyone else thought, but I was intrigued and vowed I would one day visit Java. On the day I arrived on Java fifteen years later, I was wide-eyed. And utterly amazed that there were not sixteen people crowded together on each square foot of the land. I cannot say that I was in any way disappointed, but certainly I was surprised!

Well, Zanzibar is one of those places for me. And nothing was going to keep me away from that exotic island now that I was so close, and sailing on the Indian Ocean, off the coast of Zanzibar, seemed like a dream come true for me. The wonderful thing is that we really did it! In an outrigger dugout canoe, or dhow as it is called in Zanzibar, we sailed off the beach at high tide towards the waves breaking gently on the reef. And the captain handed off the tiller to Sean. A birthday wish come true.


On February 22nd, Sean’s 23rd birthday, the morning dawned bright and clear. Sean dressed in his new safari clothes, purchased from REI just before he left for Africa, and stepped out of the room on to the porch and watched the day begin from the escarpment overlooking the Great Rift Valley. (Both escarpment and Great Rift Valley are, like Zanzibar, magic words for me. I could hardly believe that I was there.) We drove towards the Serengeti National Park, stopped at Olduvai Gorge, and into the Ngorogoro Crater Conservation area, stopped at an overlook with the crater below us, and continued on into the Serengeti. Our driver guide Kassandra pointed out the gazelles and impalas, the baboons and hyenas. We looked through our binoculars and took pictures and marveled at the vastness of the Serengeti and the closeness of the animals. We pulled off the main dirt road and followed a track to an area of low hills. We could hardly breathe. There, spread out at the top of a grassy hill was a cheetah. Knowing that Sean’s greatest wish was to see a cheetah, I smiled and said, "Happy Birthday!"


When we continued, we drove to the Simba Kopjes, and at a small rocky outcrop, curled up in the hollow of a rock was a lioness and a male lion. The male looked up as the lioness slept on. After lunch, we headed back out on our game drive, and Kassandra drove over to where there was another safari jeep stopped in front of several trees. We watched in amazement as a leopard walked down the tree trunk, and walked through the grass until we could no longer see him. After five or ten minutes, he reappeared, and climbed up another tree. He took his time finding a final perch at the end of a branch, stopping several times to plop down on a branch, his tail hanging down in distinctive curl. We probably watched for half an hour. Time loses its forward motion with something that awesome in front of you!
What a birthday! A cheetah, lions and the illusive leopard, rarely seen.

The Big Five

Safari is the Kiswahili for journey or travel, and by common usage and extension, a journey into the wild in search of animals is now commonly referred to in English as a safari. And there are not many things as exciting as heading out on safari, unsure of what will be found, what you will be able to see, ever hopeful that just under the next tree will be sleeping lions, or just surfacing in that shallow pond will be a Nile crocodile, or that slightly sagging branch is concealing a leopard.
Safaris are big business in Arusha, and Leopard is one of the larger companies. Since it was recommended to me, and my email to them was promptly answered, I proceeded to book our safari with them. And not once were any of us on the safari disappointed. The Land Cruiser never broke down, not even a flat tire slowed us up – and we saw plenty of tires being changed along the roads. Our lodging was good, even on the luxurious side some nights. The weather was perfect, the sunsets better than Hollywood could produce. Our driver guide seemed to be able to conjure animals on demand. As we drove under the gate that proclaimed we were entering the Serengeti National Park, my son Sean announced, "More than anything, I hope we see a cheetah," and soon, Kassandra stopped the car and we were looking at a cheetah. As we drove through the Serengeti, with the pop top up, scanning the grasslands and trees and occasional rocks and slight hills, Kassandra would pull up and look through his binoculars and say, "Yes, I thought so. Look over there." And there would be warthogs, down on their front legs munching away, or a fish eagle perched on the top of a tree.

Some people are fond of lists. I suppose, if you have been reading this blog, you would say that I do some list making. Going on a safari could turn anyone into a list maker. There are even published lists with little boxes next to the animals and birds and plant life so you can tick off things as you see them. It is kind of tempting. But I found that the animals were so beautiful, so powerful, so beyond moral judgements that checking them off seemed futile, even insulting to the grandeur of the moment. Even the smallest birds have a startling and rare beauty. The sun bird flashed neon bright colors, surprising us.

I never tired of the scenery. Rudyard Kipling writes in The Elephant’s Child of the "great, grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever trees." And it was such fun to see a fever tree! It is a type of acacia, and also called a tortilla acacia because of its flat top. There are more than one hundred types of acacia trees, including the wait-a-bit acacia because it snags you as you walk by and the umbrella acacia, which looks just like an umbrella. One of the leopards we saw was in a yellow barked acacia, and the other was in a sausage tree, named because of its fruit which looks like sausages hanging down. And then there were candelabra trees, looking like huge cactus, but not.

The grasslands of the Serengeti stretch into the distance, and I found I never tired of the scene. Looking out towards the horizon you can see topi, wildebeest, heartebeast and kongoni grazing or posing majestically on a terminte mound. Or an elephant group appears out of the grass, walking steadily towards you. I didn’t expect to see ostrich, but there they were. We watched as a mother cheetah dragged a reed buck which she had attacked down into a dip in the plain and then stood watch as her four cubs finished it off. It was good she was on guard, because not too far away were several lionesses with their cubs, and lions are notorious for stealing other animals’ kills. Hyenas make me nervous (not as nervous as snakes), but I had to laugh at the scene outside my window one morning. Walking past the sign, certainly meant for the hotel guests, that read "Do Not Walk Past This Sign" was a hyena! Add that to my list of pictures that I didn’t get!

Our last stop on our safari was the Ngorogoro Crater, and we drove down a narrow and winding road into the crater. If I had known how narrow and winding the road out was, I would have saved my fears for that. Most of the animals there are permanent residents, as the crater walls are too steep for access, and the animals are more easily protected from poachers. We hoped that Kassandra’s eagle eyes would spot a black rhino, one of the hardest and rarest animals to find. There are said to be eighteen of them in the crater, and as it turned out, we found eight of them. Kassandra first spotted one because the rhino was running, leaving a trail of dust in his wake. Who knew they could move so fast? They are solitary, except for a mother and her child. So, not that we were checking things off our list, but it was satisfying to have found each of the "big five," so named because in times past hunters hoped to shot these trophy animals – elephant, buffalo, lion, leopard and rhino.


Yet, as well as these magnificent beasts, other animals brought us great joy. A Kari bustard fluffed up his feathers in a display rarely seen. A male elephant used his trunk and tusk to peel the bark off a tree, eat it, and then continue to knock the tree over. The impalas and gazelles leap gracefully, the flamingos flying overhead by the hundreds change the color of the sky for a while. And staring into the eyes of a lion is something that touches your very soul.

Which Dalla-Dalla Would You Take?

There are so few exceptions that I feel that I can say that anything with wheels has a name written in bold, bright, distinctive lettering across the top of the front windshield and across the back window. I even saw wooden push/pull carts and peddler carts with names. Big lorries with two trailers, cross country buses, smaller intercity buses (called coasters), taxis, private cars and, most interestingly to me, the small intracity buses (really vans) called dalla-dallas have protective or inspirational names written on them.

It became an engrossing activity to notice the names and slogans on the crowded (25 adults plus children are stuffed in) dalla-dallas, and here are just a few.

Masai Warden, Asante Yesu (Thank You Jesus), Max Cool, Cupcake, Black Sea, Red Sea, This Car Protected by the Blood of Jesus, Brothers, Kings, Lord of the Kings, Juventas (a soccer team?), Chelsea (definitely a football-soccer-team!), Malcolm X, Haleluya, Hollywood City, Brothers, Mercy and Justice, Inshallah, Lloyd Banks, Whatever Is...Is, Safari, Obama, God is Good All the Time, and my favorite dalla-dalla operating on the route from school into town, which, after a less than pleasant slow, bumpy, stop-for-gas and stop-for-bags-of-rice ride in another one (to remain unnamed), I actually would wait for - God is One.

What bus would you take? What would you name your car? As I bumped along, I wondered about these things. I used to have a license plate frame that said "Destination Unknown" which was taken from a song from the movie Top Gun. Maybe not such a good name for a passenger bus. Now my license plate frame says "It's All Good" and that is not a bad slogan, not at all.

The Search for the Perfect Chip

The envelope was slipped under my door in my absence and when I returned to my room, it was a welcoming surprise. So after I took care of some chores and settled in with a drink and a bag of local "crisps," (ingredients: Potatoes; oil; salt) to open the brown envelope, I discovered a nifty and happy surprise! My friend Margi had responded, as only she can, to my email and picture of a colleague munching on a local Tanzanian potato chip/crisp. I had assured her in the email
that the search for the perfect chip/crisp would likely not end in Tanzania, but I was valiantly munching on despite the slim odds of success.

Margi had enlisted her first graders in the search. I can just imagine the classroom, with bowls of chips, (labeled, of course) on the tables and the tasters giving each chip the thoughtful appraisal required. She sent me the graphing exercise to document their efforts, proving that barbecue beats out sour cream and that, as expected, the new enlistees have wide-ranging tastes.

With oily hands (remember, I was munching on chips as I was reading), I carefully and seriously read each child's "Recipe for the Perfect Chip."

I can only imagine a salty taste. But quite a few of the recipes involved chocolate and ice cream. Sean, Gabriella, Danielle, Jackson, Chase (who commented, "test on dad and mom") and Jenna (who included "seaweed and gramcracars") were in this category. Nate started off well, requiring "60 potatoes" and concluded, "dip them in chocolate." Alan included oreos. Emmie flavored hers with "venila," which , having just returned from Zanzibar, the island of spices, , I gave careful consideration. Another sweet version was concocted by Charlie, who used doughnuts as a base, along with cookie dough. There were several fruity varieties. Lauren's recipe included apples ("I will make my sister test it.") as did Jake's, who priced his at $699. Katie included salsa, along with moderate amounts amounts of vinegar, salt and lemon, and Juan's recipe called for "7 tbsp of hat sauce," to be added after the first step in the preparation, "wash, peel, slice the potatoes." Sarina's chips had the great advantage (in my opinion) of including "gwackamole." Yum. Elli's recipe and preparation was straightforward and included, "you fry in the pan" adding sour cream and salt. Yes, I like the frying part.

And the recipe that I can't wait to taste, and has a real chance at being my personal favorite, was Gabriel's. To a lover of spicy foods, this chip is tempting. Just think! The ingredients included "2 cups red sauce" and "100 teaspoons of all the spicy red sauce in the world." And, gratefully, no chocolate.

I am sorry that I missed the chip tasting day at home. (Did Nicholas miss the day, too?)

But just reading about it was mouth-watering. So descriptive were the recipes that I could almost taste them, and I certainly preferred them (even the chocolate ones) to the ones I continued to munch on.