When I woke up, memories of Tanzania were swirling through my mind. Perhaps it was the sound of birds outside my window. Maybe it was the sound of rain pattering in the trees. Whatever it was, I couldn’t stop thinking of one particular place that we camped. I can’t even really remember when we camped there. It seems like it would have been near the beginning of our Northern Circuit that took us within spitting distance of Mount Kilimanjaro, maybe even the first night of that trip.
We stayed at a camp near a river, run by an Englishman. There were toilets and showers, but they were sort of scary and full of spiders since they were only partially enclosed. Camp was a pretty loose term, anyway. It really only meant that the underbrush had been cut, there were a few chairs and tables available, and you had to pay someone to stay there.
The river was a bit murky (because of mud, not pollution). There were crocodiles, maybe even hippos, but some people decided to take a swim anyway. Dr. Arensen, against his wife’s better judgment, allowed the swimming. Barb sat at the end of the dock staring into the water as if she could ward off any crocs through concentrated willpower alone. As if Barb didn’t have enough to think about that weekend (what with 20-something stupid college kids to look after), Jeff, her oldest son, was visiting our group with his fiancée, a woman his parents had never met before.
It was a good start to a wonderful journey. Maybe one day I will be able to return.