and cheap. He started running, but the shoes were a few sizes too big and slowed his progress. He could not have been more than twelve or thirteen years old. The soldiers yelled at him in English, then Swahili, and then in a language I did not recognize. When he did not respond but kept on running, one of the mechanized men pulled the trigger. I watched the boy fall to the ground. I was the only other person on the street. The shooter tilted his gun to me, the witness, as his tank drove by. I wanted to vomit.
When I began to breathe again, I did not know what to do. I felt the butt of the gun against my cheek, and knew better than to cross the street. The tanks had passed. The boy was dead, bleeding out on the sidewalk. I made my way slowly back to our room, and found Adé waiting anxiously.
I walked in, and he jumped up. His face was overcome with fear. Where had I been? Another guest at the hotel, a Dutchman, had told him about the protests at the university. Troops had been sent in to quell the “disturbance.” I should
not
have been on the streets, he said, should
not
have left without him. I nodded and told him, shaking, about the boy, and he folded me into his armsand held me, again. I felt all of his concern, but also a creeping numbness. I could not imagine a day when Adé would turn against me, but I could, for the first time, imagine something far worse: death, imprisonment, or cruelty at the hands of a foreign government. Dictatorship and secreted civil wars created a terrible isolation for the people who lived within their unfolding. I saw a hideous and surreal picture of reality with no escape. Adé would not mistreat me, but I had not considered the state. And suddenly I felt less than I had yesterday, and far less than I had the week before. I was losing something. I was going dark.
ALMOST A THOUSAND dollars and three calls home to both of my parents for more cash later, Mugo finally told us that Adé would get his passport. We could pick it up, he said, in six weeks. Relief flooded our bodies, and we ran almost immediately to the train station. We could get to the blue hills without a passport, and see the Great Rift Valley from beds that folded down from the sides of a deluxe passenger car. We could find the Ngorongoro Crater and see buffalo and giraffes. We could go to the Serengeti and look out at the arid plains. We could even get to Arusha and Zanzibar, the island of spices, without a passport. We could leave Mugo and the dead boy on the street.
But the sound of the shot followed me. It was freezing inside the crater, and we had no clothes to keep us warm inside the tent we rented on the rim. It was startlingly beautiful, but we had no words and no warmth to express the majesty of what we saw. The Maasai were there, too, standing in groups and perpetual timelessness, staring at us but speaking only when I began buying their beaded jewelry, and even then, we did not understand each other. I ended up with bags of their creations—necklaces, belts, and pendants for friends back home—only to find a few days afterwe left the crater that none of it could be worn. The smell of cow dung permeated the beads and the wire on which they were strung. The reddish grease the Maasai smeared on their bodies stained everything it touched. By the time we crossed over into Tanzania, I had to let go of all the beautiful jewelry because I could no longer breathe with it in my bag or on my body. I did not want to throw it away, so I left pieces of it at bus stops and restaurants, a sack of earrings on the train.
In Arusha, we searched for hours to find a guide who would take us into the Serengeti for the least amount of money. We found a man named Daniel, who was keen to talk to anyone who might listen to his story. His father had died and made him chief, but he did not want to be chief. Of his village or town or tribe I did not know, but I couldn’t blame him. In his jeans and T-shirt and cowboy hat, he looked
When I began to breathe again, I did not know what to do. I felt the butt of the gun against my cheek, and knew better than to cross the street. The tanks had passed. The boy was dead, bleeding out on the sidewalk. I made my way slowly back to our room, and found Adé waiting anxiously.
I walked in, and he jumped up. His face was overcome with fear. Where had I been? Another guest at the hotel, a Dutchman, had told him about the protests at the university. Troops had been sent in to quell the “disturbance.” I should
not
have been on the streets, he said, should
not
have left without him. I nodded and told him, shaking, about the boy, and he folded me into his armsand held me, again. I felt all of his concern, but also a creeping numbness. I could not imagine a day when Adé would turn against me, but I could, for the first time, imagine something far worse: death, imprisonment, or cruelty at the hands of a foreign government. Dictatorship and secreted civil wars created a terrible isolation for the people who lived within their unfolding. I saw a hideous and surreal picture of reality with no escape. Adé would not mistreat me, but I had not considered the state. And suddenly I felt less than I had yesterday, and far less than I had the week before. I was losing something. I was going dark.
ALMOST A THOUSAND dollars and three calls home to both of my parents for more cash later, Mugo finally told us that Adé would get his passport. We could pick it up, he said, in six weeks. Relief flooded our bodies, and we ran almost immediately to the train station. We could get to the blue hills without a passport, and see the Great Rift Valley from beds that folded down from the sides of a deluxe passenger car. We could find the Ngorongoro Crater and see buffalo and giraffes. We could go to the Serengeti and look out at the arid plains. We could even get to Arusha and Zanzibar, the island of spices, without a passport. We could leave Mugo and the dead boy on the street.
But the sound of the shot followed me. It was freezing inside the crater, and we had no clothes to keep us warm inside the tent we rented on the rim. It was startlingly beautiful, but we had no words and no warmth to express the majesty of what we saw. The Maasai were there, too, standing in groups and perpetual timelessness, staring at us but speaking only when I began buying their beaded jewelry, and even then, we did not understand each other. I ended up with bags of their creations—necklaces, belts, and pendants for friends back home—only to find a few days afterwe left the crater that none of it could be worn. The smell of cow dung permeated the beads and the wire on which they were strung. The reddish grease the Maasai smeared on their bodies stained everything it touched. By the time we crossed over into Tanzania, I had to let go of all the beautiful jewelry because I could no longer breathe with it in my bag or on my body. I did not want to throw it away, so I left pieces of it at bus stops and restaurants, a sack of earrings on the train.
In Arusha, we searched for hours to find a guide who would take us into the Serengeti for the least amount of money. We found a man named Daniel, who was keen to talk to anyone who might listen to his story. His father had died and made him chief, but he did not want to be chief. Of his village or town or tribe I did not know, but I couldn’t blame him. In his jeans and T-shirt and cowboy hat, he looked
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