Tanzania with nun connection and hyena in front of the tent E-Book

Karin Dümke

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 782

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

"Tanzania with a nun's connection and a hyena in front of the tent" is a story of curiosity, an almost insatiable thirst for adventure and cultural clash. The picture of Tanzania that Karin Dümke creates takes the reader from luxurious lodges to a former mission on Kilimanjaro and diving trips to Zanzibar. The reader meets superficial tourists as well as devout local nuns and people who love Tanzania like the author herself, but also historical figures such as Ernest Hemingway, Karen Blixen and Emily Ruete. The book also offers a vivid portrayal of the rapid changes, both positive and negative, in a country that is far removed from us, and not just for tourism. Anyone who gets involved will want to pack their bags and fly to Tanzania.

Leseprobe

Tanzania 1, luxury safari 2001

How do you behave after a heavy blow of fate? For example, after breaking up with your partner after a ten-year relationship? First of all, of course, you sink into grief; anything else would not be normal and would at least testify to a certain superficiality of the ended relationship. But then?

All the amateur psychologists in your circle of relatives and friends have one unanimous suggestion: comfort yourself, think only of yourself, do something good for yourself, spoil yourself with things you love. So with what? Women tend to have the self-destructive, not to say stupid, trait of putting their own interests aside for the sake of their love and getting excited about things they would have hardly done without "him". Anyway, I was that stupid. So what did I give up for him back then?

Two great passions immediately come to mind. Horse riding, which I had been addicted to since I was a child, and my longing for Africa, more specifically East Africa, the Serengeti, Kilimanjaro, i.e. Kenya and Tanzania. He was afraid of horses and never wanted to go to East Africa. Egypt, Seychelles, yes, but preferably Asia and always (also) to go diving. Of course, also to visit the respective country. He didn't have to persuade me to go diving, I had discovered this passion all by myself before him. Fortunately, that's why I still dive today. We practically got to know each other underwater during our diving vacation. Like so many others of my generation, Professor Bernhard Grzimek instilled in me a love of the African steppe landscape as a child through films and television. As an eight-year-old, I wanted to help Mr. Grzimek save the animals in Africa. I even wrote him a letter about it at the time. He even replied. But the suggestion that I should first do my A-levels in ten years' time and then studyto become an MTA (medical-technical assistant) was so far away for me that I eventually forgot the plan.

So East Africa, Kenya or Tanzania. I was in Kenya once over twenty years ago, around 1980. The three-day safari and the dives from the beach hotel on the coast were great, but even then it felt like ninety percent of the tourists were German and not the most pleasant of our compatriots. Kenya was already a tropical budget destination. I also have another passion, which is to never speak German on vacation. Where else are you supposed to practise your language skills?

Tanzania it is! At least one long week on safari in the bush, and how do I get my next passion, my own sporting activity? Diving or horse riding? At the time, I didn't know anything about horse riding in Tanzania. The climate also seemed too hot for this sport. So diving it was! Now everything was clear, enjoy an extensive safari and, as Tanzania also has a beautiful diving island, Zanzibar, add two weeks of diving. All of this, of course, in the luxury version for the pampering, otherwise the grief would not be properly combated, even if all my savings were lost in the process. That's how I want to do it and no other way. Almost euphoric from the decision alone, I rush to the travel agency and book a sinfully expensive luxury trip to Tanzania de luxe.

I learned that Tanzania is more expensive than Kenya anyway, if only because there is no mass tourism there yet.

Tanzania was socialist until the fall of communism and was heavily supported and influenced by the GDR and the Soviet Union. Until 1990, even the border with Kenya was closed. I remember that we were not allowed to travel from Kenya to the Tanzanian national parks on Kilimanjaro, although we were very close to the Serengeti in Amboseli Park at the time. Flying from West Germany to Dar es Salaam, on the other hand, was possible.In any case, Kenya is about seventy years ahead of its southern neighbor in terms of tourism experience, with all its negative and positive side effects, such as better infrastructure through road construction, better logistics, higher economic returns through tourism, many more and better hotels, especially on the coast. Mass tourism is also particularly visible there. On the other hand, there are already regular minor and major terrorist attacks in Kenya, as well as more robberies and thefts against tourists, and occasionally even the robbery and murder of tourists.

In Tanzania, on the other hand, the roads are catastrophically bad and to date there are only two longer stretches that are paved throughout, from Arusha to Dar es Salaam, around eight hundred kilometers, and from Dar es Salaam to the Selous National Park, around five hundred kilometers. One hundred kilometers takes at least an hour, more likely an hour and a half, as the asphalt is hardly ever repaired and only 100 kilometers per hour are allowed anyway.

The rest of the roads are sand tracks, which are often impassable for long periods during the rainy season. Of course, it is much more expensive to bring goods and food to a luxury lodge in the bush; this is mainly done by single-engine mini-planes, which also bring the tourists. Tanzania is one of the poorest countries in the world. Nevertheless, it is still very safe there and the people are warm, hospitable, even loving. I certainly felt as safe as in Abraham's lap, and not just because I had booked pure luxury. I later had the same experience in simple private accommodation. I finally set off in mid-July.

Arrival in Arusha - Kilimanjaro International Airport

It's a bit embarrassing with the luxury. I'm the only one picked up directly from the plane on the tarmac. An elegantly styled employee of "Leopard Tours", "the"four- to five-star agency for safaris in Tanzania, wearing dark beige trousers and a crisp white shirt, not only greets me at the plane, he takes my hand luggage, walks straight past all the queues with me to the visa counter, immediately gets the stamp in my passport, which he already has in his possession, and walks through passport control with me just holding up my passport. The officials all seem to be involved in the "safari de luxe" and wave us through the queues. The looks of the other arrivals are not all friendly.

It is already pitch dark outside. So I can't see anything of the landscape as the smartly dressed guide drives me to Arusha in a minibus. The streets of Arusha are bustling with activity. People sit in illuminated, tiny food stalls eating dinner. One mini-restaurant next to another with plastic tables and chairs. It looks very cozy and inviting to me and reminds me a little of the night markets in Bangkok, Hong Kong, Singapore or Kuala Lumpur, all of which I really enjoyed with my ex-husband. One of the few things we both had in common was a great curiosity about foreign countries and cultures and great pleasure in tasting unfamiliar culinary delights. We were never shy or had any serious reservations. Fortunately, we also never had any unpleasant experiences. That's why I would like to sit down here in Arusha straight away.

But unfortunately we drive through Arusha to a combination of lodge and farm, the "Moiovaro Coffee Plantation Lodge", where I'm staying tonight. It's already 9 p.m. and I've already had dinner on the plane. So they take me straight to my bungalow. Tomorrow morning at six o'clock I'm off to the domestic airport, where all domestic flights are handled by small planes. My bungalow is simple, but large and functional. Now I suddenly feel very tired and exhausted. This is caused by the fact that I was picked up by a cab at three o'clock this morning in Munich for the trip to the airport. It's about two hours later here than in Munich. Unfortunately, I can't fall into bed like thatbut have a big mental task to do. I have to unpack and reorganize my suitcase and hand luggage. I'm only allowed to take soft hand luggage on the bush safari. The suitcase stays at the agency in Arusha and contains the luggage for the two subsequent weeks in Zanzibar. As I always carry the most valuable parts of my diving equipment, such as the regulator and optical diving mask, in my hand luggage, I have to take that out and put the essentials for the safari days in the canvas travel bag. When you're in the state I'm in at the moment, it's a real action. Nevertheless, I also decide to prepare a list for such cases in the future. I'm finally finished and can fall into bed.

Unfortunately not for long. I only get an early morning coffee and three cookies on the restaurant's wooden veranda. That's wonderful for the moment. Unfortunately, it's still pitch dark. So I can't see anything of the lodge. My guide from yesterday is already waiting with the minibus and we drive to the domestic airport. I say goodbye to Leopard from Leopard Tours. Yes, actually, that's still his name. So, see you in eight days.

"Domestic Airport, Arusha

The airport is a wooden boarding house with a wooden check-in desk that looks like a teacher's desk. But there is a baggage screening machine. As I'm about to go there, someone nudges me on the shoulder from behind. I turn around. A corpulent man with a friendly grin asks me if I have any lighters with me. He may have seen me smoking a cigarette on the waiting bench. I think: "What's it to you?" But he explains to me that it is forbidden to have lighters in your luggage. They would take them away from me at the security checkpoint. At that time (2002), this was not yet common practice in Europe. I should give him the lighters. He would then walk around the outside of the wooden booth - there are no fences there - and bring them to the plane. Nobody would notice and the pilot wouldn't care, he smokes himself. I dig out the three lighters I've brought with me and give them to him. Everything goes like clockwork. I go through security, where they even want to take away my pens. I explain that I have to write a travel report and can just about avert this. I walk across the tarmac to the small single-engine Cessna. A pilot, no one else is there, takes the travel bag and stows it from the outside under a flap on the belly of the plane. The corpulent man is already there and hands me my three lighters. Of course I give him a small tip. We part, beaming as friends. Lighters are one of those things that are hard to come by in Tanzania, and when they do, they work for two days. The pilot invites me in and explains very formally: "We are now taking off for Lake Manyara International Airport, please fasten your seatbelts." We taxi onto the runway, which is even asphalted here. I am the only passenger. Little do I know that this will be the first time, but not the last, that I am the only luxury passenger.

"Maji Moto" at Lake Manyara

Flying in these small planes in Africa is a dream. You fly so low that you can see herds of wildebeest, zebras, buffalo, elephants and even individual animals on the ground. You also have a wonderful view of the savannah, the rolling hills of the savannah, rivers and lakes. I pinch myself because I think I'm dreaming. It's like the movie "Out of Africa". Back in Kenya, I was onlytravellingby minibus on the sandy tracks. Now I've arrived in my dream country.

We land far too quickly at Lake Manyara International Airport. Just a sandy runway and a tiny little wooden hut covered with palmleaves. About forty meters away, there are four tall poles on which a large palm canopy rests. On it hangs a sign with the inscription AGIP in large letters, under the roof is a solitary petrol pump - the petrol station at the airport. But what is it? Next to the "airport building" is a khaki green Jeep with beige leather seats. It looks very classy. Next to the jeep, on which "Maji Moto Lodge" is neatly printed, there is a table and a safari folding chair that looks like a director's chair. On the table is a masa blanket striped in various shades of red. On it are coffee, tea, cookies, toast, butter and a kind of porcelain picnic crockery, while on the floor is the matching, typically British luxury country-style picnic basket. Salem comes towards me with his arms wide open and introduces himself as my driver, guide and caretaker for the next few days at Lake Manyara. He is very personable and just as chic in color as the jeep. He explains to me that I haven't had breakfast yet, that everyone here who has anything to do with me knows all the points on my route and that, as it's already nine o'clock, I have to have breakfast first. I am told to sit down at the table. There is a small gas stove next to the jeep. Two fried eggs and bacon are already sizzling in the pan on top. Just the way I like it. The pilot has already said goodbye and taken off again. There is only one person sitting on a kind of bench in front of the "airport building" with the palm roof, no one else for miles around. Salem is serving. I enjoy breakfast like a real "landlord". When I ask Salem if he won't have breakfast with me, as I would normally only need a fried egg, he says indignantly that it's not appropriate. Besides, he's already had breakfast and I'm hungry. Yes, that's true.

After Salem has neatly stowed everything away again and I am full, satisfied and blissfully happy in the jeep, we set off in the direction of Maji Moto Lodge. It's funny, I'm not at all embarrassed by the luxury of this morning, it's wonderful. It's either because of Salem's motherly nature and warmth, orI'm already spoiled by luxury. It's supposed to be quick and it's the easiest thing in the world.

From the airport, which is located on the Tanzanian plateau, we suddenly descend a few hairpin bends through dense forest. At a bend in the road, we have a spectacular view of Lake Manyara. We are at its northern end. We continue downhill for quite a while. We drive down the steep rift valley. At the bottom, we have to stop at the entrance gate to the national park. While Salem completes the formalities, I realize that it is a lot warmer here than up on the plain. This is also the reason why almost all the European settlers settled on the plateau from the outset. The temperatures are much more pleasant there. In winter, the days are also hot, but the nights are surprisingly cold at between zero and ten degrees. I will soon feel that too.

The drive to the lodge takes four hours, mostly directly along the lake. This is, of course, the first safari drive, a so-called game drive. Salem often stops when, for example, elephants, giraffes, impalas, a whole herd of baboons or warthogs appear. Since the first stop, I've just been standing there with excitement because I can see better and further. Behind every bush and every bend, another animal that only exists in Africa can now appear. It's so exciting. I'm full of adrenaline, dopamine and serotonin. It's the same feeling as on a dive. You never know what will surface one or two meters later. If the visibility is thirty meters, for example, then a new meter opens up with every stroke of the fins.

The lake is around fifty kilometers long and stretches along the lower edge of the rift valley in a north-south direction. It is usually six to seven kilometers wide. The national park is a relatively narrow band between the lake and the high edge (three to four hundred meters) of the Rift Valley, which we drove down on serpentines. Its special features are the groundwater forests and lions that like to hangin the trees. Normally, lions don't like to climb. About a kilometer before the Maji Moto Lodge, Salem stops again and shows me a "Maji Moto", which means "hot spring", bubbling down the wall of the Rift Valley, steaming and flowing in front of our jeep as a small rivulet over the sandy track towards the lake. You can clearly see and feel that the earth's crust is quite thin here. I hold my hand in the water - warm as a bathtub.

We finally arrive at the "hot water" lodge late at lunchtime. At first you can't see anything. The sandy track runs through a green forest. Then we come to a wider sandy area. Salem stops the car and takes my luggage. We follow a narrow path bordered by green bushes to the right and left above our heads. The path opens up. We see a huge, wide, white tent that is only two meters high. Twenty-nine black men and one white man are standing in front of the tent. All but four Maasai, who are wearing their red-striped cloths, are chicly uniformed. The white man shakes my hand and introduces himself as the manager, another holds out a bowl of water and a towel. He wants me to wash my hands. The manager explains to me that these thirty people are there just for me, that I am the only guest in the lodge and that tonight a special dinner has been prepared just for me, for the "Queen of the Night". First we have a small lunch. Then I am accompanied to my tent by a "warrior" massai. My luggage is already there. After a siesta, I go on a late afternoon game drive. I am again picked up by a "warrior" for the stalk. I am never allowed to leave the tent alone or go there alone from the restaurant because we are in the middle of the wilderness and all the animals that live here roam freely through the camp.

The word "only guest" shocks me at first and I look at everyone's faces, embarrassed and embarrassed once again. But everyone beams at me and Donard, my waiter from now on, and the chef Vitalis escort me from the receptiontent to the restaurant tent. The restaurant tent has no walls and opens out onto an open sandy area with a view of the lake. There is a large fire bowl and two huge stone-carved barbecue areas. There are beautiful, rustic wooden chairs with white safari-style seat cushions everywhere. After the light lunch, a little chicken and a tasty salad with flatbread, and Vitalis' warm smile, my shyness has already disappeared. I feel like the Queen of Sheba. A Maasai leads me along a rather long and narrow path, every now and then I see a white tent roof shimmering through green leaves. After about ten minutes, the Maasai shows me my tent. In front of the tent is a kind of covered veranda with a table, an armchair, a tall tin can with an umbrella and a white lacquered wooden lounger with a thick white cushion. A doormat lies in front of the veranda, with a long spear stuck in the sand next to it. The Maasai himself only carries one spear and explains in broken English that this one is representative of "do not disturb" when it is stuck in the sand outside. Otherwise it is leaning against the tent wall inside. In an emergency and for self-defense, however, I should always just use the whistle on the bed base and he will be there in a minute. Vitalis, who speaks English quite well, had explained to me that the Maasai never work in service, as it is beneath their dignity. They are warriors and only work to protect the guests and staff. The Maasai explains that he will pick me up at six thirty for the game drive and wishes me a good rest.

Earlier he had opened the first long zipper that closed my big tent and now I step inside. Did I say big tent? No, it's a huge tent! "This is amazing," I think. But I just don't know what else I'm going to encounter on this journey. My luggage lies on a wooden chest, next to it is a desk with writing utensils and a lamp, but the room is dominated by a bed measuring two by three meters. It fills the entire middle of the room and is covered with an elegant graybedspread, with at least twenty smaller white pillows lying like scales on the headboard. The bed is of course designed as a double bed and has an equally huge mosquito net suspended from the center of the ceiling. There are usually no single rooms here or anywhere else in the tropical world. Incidentally, the tent is designed for standing and is more than two meters high. The Maasai said "rest". How can you rest with all this excitement? This is all new and unbelievable. I also have to unpack my travel bag. The two cosmetic bags catch my eye first. So I look for something like a bathroom. Behind the headboard of the huge bed, I see a second zippered tent wall and open that too. Yes, how could I have doubted that a bathroom was missing? Straight ahead is a wall-high mirror and a zinc washbasin in front of it. To the right, a curtain concealing a shower and a wooden grate on the floor for the water drain. Next to it is a separate small room with a toilet. On the left, a bar with clothes hangers and a few wooden shelves for additional luggage. On the washbasin console are shampoo, shower gel and body lotion, naturally from Yves Saint Laurent.

I unpack as quickly as I can and then, dressed as I am, throw myself backwards onto the king-size bed with my arms outstretched. It's wonderful here! I could happily stay like this for an hour and just let it all sink in. But I know I won't be able to do that. A few minutes later, I hear Donard's wake-up call "Karin, wake up". I can see him through the tent wall because it's light outside, but he can't see me. It must be the other way around when it's dark and the light is on inside. That goes through my mind. I decide to make a mental note of it. I watch Donard as he pulls the "do not disturb" spear out of the sand outside and very carefully, without looking into the tent, pushes it through the zipper I left open, along the ground and into the tent. I suddenly feel at home and totally protected, as if every day lookslike this one. I shout to Donard that I'll be ready when the Maasai comes to pick me up. He retreats, whistling contentedly. I always wear my "safari uniform" during the day anyway, khaki-colored linen trousers, khaki-colored T-shirt, sturdy leather mountain boots and I'm as good as ready. I freshen up a little in the bathroom, hang my binoculars around my neck and put on my wide-brimmed brown leather hat. There's also a lanyard around my neck with a large leather wallet hanging on my chest. It contains all my cash, dollars and euros, which I expect to need on the trip. You can't do much with credit cards or traveler's cheques in Tanzania, and absolutely nothing in the middle of the bush on safari. But you do need cash for tips and the odd souvenir that you buy from the Maasai or at the lodge, and in my case occasionally for cigarettes. Thus equipped, I am sitting on the white divan on the veranda when the Maasai picks me up right on time. Punctuality, by the way: I have never met a local here who kept me waiting for just one minute. If that happened, it was other tourists.

I trudge after "my" Maasai through the sand to the parking lot, where Salem is already waiting for me in front of the jeep to help me up the high steps into the car. I immediately do away with this service by showing him that I can swing myself up to the top row at the back, which rises about one meter fifty from the ground, with two steps over the tire. That's what you're used to when you have to get on horses regularly. So that's settled. From now on, I'm independent when getting on and off. Of course, I now sit right at the front next to the driver - after all, I'm the only guest.

Salem takes me back along the track we came up. Then we turn right towards the lake. A surprise lurks behind every bush. I'm usually standing with excitement, holding on to the frame of the windshield with one hand and often holding the binoculars in the other.Salem is an avid birdwatcher and is particularly interested in birds of prey. That's why I often have to take the binoculars when he tells me that a sea eagle is sitting in a tree two hundred meters to the left. He can see it without glasses, unbelievable. We see lots of giraffes, most of which appear individually and look down at us a little arrogantly from above with their soft, brown eyes with Hollywood-like lashes. A huge herd of buffalo stands in the water up to its belly and eats algae. When they turn their heads towards you with the thick bulge between their horns, these cape buffaloes look incredibly strong and frightening. We take a break at this sight. Salem drinks a Coke, I drink a "Safari" beer. There are two types of beer in Tanzania, Salem explains. The "Safari" and the "Kilimanjaro" beer. I decide to try the "Kilimanjaro" tomorrow. It tastes good. What a luxury, with this view, leaning against the radiator of the jeep, I enjoy a delicious beer. I hope Salem enjoys it just as much, even though he's probably experienced it here a hundred times with guests. I ask him about it. He assures me that even after a thousand times it is still an experience for him to show his wonderful homeland. When we are back between the green bushes, Salem suddenly slows down considerably before a tight bend and signals to me with his index finger to be as quiet as a mouse. He drives around the bend at walking pace. We are already in the middle of a herd of elephants. He says he's heard them, they've heard us too. I didn't hear anything at all. But he's not quite sure whether they'll tolerate us. Salem switches off the engine. The herd, which consists of people of all ages and sizes, from babies to bulls, slowly passes us on the narrow track to the right and left of the jeep. Salem keeps putting his finger over his mouth. I can feel that he's a little queasy too. I almost hold my breath so that the animals, which I could touch with my hand to my left without leaning out, don't sense how excited and anxious I am. We have to endure this tension for a long time until they all pass at a snail's pace. That must be what it's like when someone climbs a vertical wall in the mountains without a rope and then finds a larger crevasse where they can relax a little. Salem explains to me that it would have been enough if just one animal had disagreed with us blocking the way. If it had started wagging its ears or even trumpeting, then they would probably have all suddenly run off and flattened us, including the jeep. I can't believe how cautiously they crept past us - such powerful animals don't need to do that. I am totally euphoric as the almost unbearable tension slowly dissipates. From now on, I love elephants.

When we get back to the lodge, the same people are standing in front of the door as at the first reception. Only the white manager is not there, so colonialism after all? "My" Maasai takes me to "my" tent. I take the first shower in my luxury tent, actually the first ever in a tent. I enjoy hot and cold water, lots of terry towels on the shelf, wonderfully nutmeg-scented shower gel, body lotion with a lotus scent, a white bathrobe made of waffle piqué linen. I feel wonderfully cared for and, as of this afternoon, protected by the wild animals.

At twenty o'clock, the Maasai picks me up with his spear and leads me through the bush to the bar with a flashlight. I imagine having to walk this long way alone. No, I don't think I'd even feel comfortable doing that in daylight. Donard, Vitalis, Salem and the manager are already waiting, the manager takes me for a drink. I choose Scotch on the Rocks in memory of Ernest Hemingway, whose books, especially those about the African landscape, I love, in stark contrast to his behavior towards women. The manager explains that unfortunately he doesn't have that much time to join me for dinner. He is very busy in the office. I ask him if Salem could eat with me, I would like his company. The manager looks piqued at first, but then asks Salem. Thedoesn't want me to eat alone. That settles it. Donard leads us both towards the beach. There is a very large circle marked out with torches. In the middle is a solitary table, set almost Victorian style with silver cutlery, splendidly flowered china and candlesticks for two. So Donard has known for a long time that I'm opting for company. Incidentally, he's deadly smart in a white livery tonight. I like him, he's one of those people who can see into the soul. I will soon realize that there are many people in Tanzania who can do this and that I will love the country and its people. Donard serves the starter - a delicious carrot and orange soup. I didn't dare say beforehand that I didn't like soup. Luckily, because it really is remarkably good. At fairly short intervals, I hear a deep snort, as if someone or some larger animal is exhaling loudly in satisfaction. I ask Salem if he can hear it too, because in the dark behind the torches you can see absolutely nothing. He says suspiciously boldly that it might be antelopes, but there's no need to worry, no animal would enter the circle of torches. The main course is "Chicken Indian style with rice and ginger relish", also very tasty. Indian food is very popular in Tanzania. We got to know it through the many Indian immigrants who came here to work in railroad construction. Many of them stayed. I remember Hemingway telling about an Indian kiosk owner who also had two tables and a few chairs in front of his little shack and cooked excellent food. They often stocked up on supplies there. It was very close by, near the hairpin bends we were driving down. Salem and I tell each other about our adventures of the day, especially the close encounter with the herd of elephants. His English is well spoken.

Suddenly the Maasai, who has been standing guard at the edge of the torch circle the whole time, switches on his flashlight. It is very large, about thirty centimetres in diameter.He swings it towards the lake, illuminating the entire stretch of beach between our elegantly laid table and the lake. This strip is about thirty meters wide. What happens next is the absolute highlight of the day's excitement. In the beam of light we see a large herd of cape buffalo, around sixty animals, resting there, hence the panting I heard. But as soon as I realize what it is, they jump up and gallop past us very close between our candlelight and the lake. The trampling of their hooves on the sand sounds like an earthquake. It all happens incredibly quickly. The Maasai extinguishes his lamp again and they immediately stop and lie down again. You can hear the plops as they drop down. I am blown away. Dessert is served - fresh pineapple with vanilla cream. The whole time we continue to enjoy our meal, you can hear the quiet, contented humming and snorting of the buffalo. So they can't have been too panicked. Perhaps they already know this little game. So that was the "special dinner" for the "Queen of the Night".

Salem and I have a good chat. He tells me that he is a half-breed, his father is a Maasai, his mother a Chagga. He inherited his good ranger and tracker skills from his father and his feel for the soil and observing animals from his mother. He loves digging in the earth and is passionate about growing vegetables in his garden at home.

It's getting late tonight, at about twenty-three o'clock "my" Maasai takes me to "my" tent. When I finally lie in my huge bed after the usual "preparations" in the bathroom, I listen to the sounds of the night's animals through the thin tent wall. I wish I would never fall asleep to enjoy this dream of the African night and that the dream would never end. Unfortunately, I soon fall asleep and wake up wonderfully refreshed at five o'clock. Five o'clock because the Maasai, who supposedly never does menial work, lights the hot water boiler, which runs on charcoal hereand is set up outside, next to the tent. Donard explains all this to me later. The Maasai are awake all night anyway. That's why he can easily stoke the fire early in the morning so that I have hot water in the bathroom at six o'clock. Then he goes to sleep.

I go to the toilet quietly and carefully in the dark so that nobody notices that I'm already awake and bump my knee on the luggage rack, which makes a loud clattering noise. Now it doesn't matter anyway, I switch on the flashlight. Then, after switching it off again, I lie down again to listen to the early morning. At five thirty, I hear Donard call out: "Karin, wake up." I wait to answer until he calls out again, "Karin, wake up, early morning coffee", simply because it's so nice. When he has unzipped the outside of the zipper, I admit it to him, honest as I am. He places a tray of fragrant coffee and a few small cookies on the huge bed. He grins broadly and says: "I know you've mastered the art of indulgence. We love these guests, because that's what you're here for!" Then he retreats and disappears silently into the bush. What wonderful and clever people there are here. How wonderful, I enjoy my morning coffee. I remember the various vacations with my ex.

For many years, he always carried a mini coffee machine, a timer and a bag of cookies in his suitcase, which woke us up every morning with the smell of coffee. No matter whether we were in the tropics or skiing in the mountains. Nevertheless, vacations with him were not always a real pleasure. I realize that things are even better without him. With these memories gone, I am now fit to go to the bathroom.

At six thirty, the Maasai picks me up for breakfast. We start our game drive at seven o'clock today because you see more animals early in the morning, they are much livelier and more of them go to the lake to drink than later in the heat of the day. Then many of them hide in the bush. The air is wonderfully fresh, the red sandy ground still smellsfrom the humidity of the night dew, the birds sing more cheerfully and louder than later. The air is clear because it is not yet so dusty. We enjoy the drive at walking pace and see elephants, giraffes, impalas, herds of baboons, warthogs and buffalo. Today Salem has brought two packed lunches for lunch. We stop with a view of the lake and sit on the cooler. In the pack are two ham and cheese sandwiches, a boiled egg, an apple, an orange, something like a cake bar and a cardboard box with a straw that says "Sunkist" and contains something like orange nectar. I drink the box empty, but then quickly move on to "Kilimanjaro" beer. Of course, we drink water from these horrible plastic bottles all the time on the road anyway. But there's no other way. You can't even drink from the "Maji Moto" spring. Over the next few days, I learn that these packed lunches, at least in Tanzania, have almost identical contents everywhere and regularly taste like nothing at all. That's why I don't love these all-day trips with picnics so much in the future. Of course, this has nothing to do with my enthusiasm for the animals and the magnificent landscapes. When you watch these wonders pass you by all day, you basically don't need to eat anything. After a break with flamingos and plenty of use of binoculars at the lake, Salem asks me if I would like to do another loop through the bush. I summon up all my courage and admit that I would love to enjoy the late afternoon in the daylight in my tent and on my veranda. I've never had anything so beautiful. Besides, the tent is far too good to just stay overnight. Unfortunately, I have to leave here again tomorrow. So I ask him if we could go back to camp already. Of course, says Salem, I'm the only guest and they'll do anything I want. But he wants to reassure me that there are still some wonderful surprises in store for me on my trip.

No sooner said than done, I spend the rest of the daylight in and in front of my princely tent - after all, you have to do manicures sometimesand you can't always write a diary in bed with a flashlight. I memorize as many details of the tent as possible because I will probably leave it in the dark tomorrow morning. Now I finally notice that there is still a reed-covered roof over the huge tent. It is supported by strong wooden beams embedded in the ground. These luxury tents are barely visible in the bush, even from the air. Even on my walks to and from the tent in daylight, I didn't see any of the five other tents that were supposedly there.

When Donard arrives with the afternoon coffee, I'm still sitting outside on "my" veranda. He places the tray on the small side table. That evening, I'm not eating with Salem in a fire ring on the beach, but on the uncovered patio section of the restaurant. The table and armchairs are made of incredibly heavy, solid wood. The rustic style fits perfectly into the dense bush. The starter is a kind of mini pizza topped with tomato, salami, oregano, mozzarella and basil. The main course is antelope ragout in cream sauce with tagliatelle, and for dessert we have tiramisu, an Italian menu. Salem tells me that we should set off again at seven tomorrow morning if I want to really enjoy the drive through the national park again. We have to be at the airport by midday.

Of course I agree and go to my tent quite early today to pack everything up and enjoy the pain of saying goodbye to this dream place on my own. I try to stay awake as long as possible to listen to the animals of the night. At around two o'clock, I wake up to a brutal noise. It rumbles and crashes around my tent. It sounds like breaking branches and trunks and muffled footsteps. Elephants! Even a greenhorn like me can recognize them immediately. They are so close that you could have expected them to crash into the tent at any moment. I am amazed that I don't expect this for a moment. Then there are loud shouts and human roars and curses. TheMassai are probably driving the herd of elephants onwards. Strangely enough, I am completely calm, just listening and not thinking about danger for a moment. The herd had just taken a fancy to the leaves around my tent. Just like our jeep on the narrow path today, they wouldn't touch my tent. I was dead sure of that, I can't explain it. At some point, the spook was over and I fell back asleep peacefully.

Donard brings me my early morning coffee in bed one last time. I go through the routine in the bathroom with a heavy heart and find that two nights in this dream environment are simply far too short. At six thirty, a Masai takes me to breakfast, another boy carries my bag. Salem and I eat breakfast quickly and in silence. We all stand outside the jeep again to say goodbye. I had thought about how to handle the tipping. There's no way I can put something in everyone's hand. Nobody can really ask for that, can they? But Donard, my personal Maasai and the cook get a bit more. I look anxiously at the other faces to see if I can see anything like disappointment. After all, this is all new to me. But I can't ask anyone how to behave properly. No, on the contrary, they all give me a friendly nod and shout: "Come back one day." How I would love to! We set off through the bush at seven o'clock as planned.

Three giraffes immediately appear and look down at me reproachfully. Buffaloes, baboons and elephants form a line along our sandy track. Salem says they all want to say goodbye. A huge cow elephant comes towards us from the front, flapping her big ears back and forth and trumpeting briefly. This is actually attack behavior, but she quickly turns away and concentrates on the next tree with green leaves right next to the track. This time it was just showing off. She raises her head and stretches her trunk high into the air to pluck leaves. She rises up on her hind legs and opens her mouth, which usually looks so small under her trunk, wide in order to get the greenery right in with her trunk. I have never been able to see the inside of the elephant's mouth from this perspective. It seems so huge to me, as if it could swallow a human. I quickly take a photo.

We drive on slowly, and Salem discovers huge lion paws in the sand on our track from yesterday. Five minutes later, we see the big lioness chasing after a herd of wildebeest in the direction of the lake in a long open space. But she just can't get close to the slowest wildebeest in the herd. So she gives up. It's Sunday, she doesn't want any stress and perhaps she's not hungry enough. It all takes place sixty meters away. Salem and I are thrilled by the Sunday matinee.

We leave the national park, drive up the long switchbacks from the East African Rift Valley to the plateau and are soon at Lake Manyara International Airport. Salem presents me with one last "little table" with coffee and fine English tea cookies. There is no plane to be seen. Salem explains to me that we are waiting for a Land Rover from the Ngorongoro Crater Lodge, my next destination, and that I will then be taken on a flying change with my luggage. We would be at the next lodge in just under two hours. So a flight is not necessary. A now unsurprisingly stylish Land Rover with an equally stylish driver, who also looks better than Salem, is already approaching. But I can tell at first glance from his eyes that this Lukas is a completely different person to Salem. There is already a couple from London in the Land Rover. I have to change now. Salem and I hug each other tightly. He comforts me with the words: "The next lodge is amazing, the most luxurious and the most expensive in Tanzania."

I would make eyes and immediately forget the "Maji Moto campsite". No, I say, I'll never forget the last three days. Salem knows exactly that I'm not familiar with this kind of luxury, let alone used to it. He is so cleverand wise. But I'm also a bit wise and I can already tell that this Lukas is neither clever nor has his heart in the right place. Salem laughs and nods. We hug again. He quickly explains to me that I have my heart in the right place and that all good Africans recognize this immediately, no matter where the person comes from or what language he speaks. I should entrust myself to Africa, most of his compatriots would recognize my soul straight away and help me in every way. "I already know that," I say, nod and turn around quickly.

I jump into the Land Rover before I start crying. They come secretly as I turn around for a long time and look wistfully as Salem packs up the 'little table' and they both get smaller and smaller.

"Ngorongoro Crater Lodge" on top rim of the Ngorongoro Crater

From the gate to the Ngorongoro Crater National Park, the sandy road to the lodge runs almost all the way along the top rim of the crater, where the lodge was built. There is usually thick fog up here. The thermometer drops to zero °C and below at night. This is no wonder, the rim is between 2200 and 2400 meters high, the surrounding area and the crater floor are around 600 meters lower. Due to the dense fog, you can rarely see down into the crater, but the bushes and trees up here are densely covered with long hanging mosses like in a real cloud forest.

It's still raining, but Lukas nevertheless stops at a gravestone, which is barely two meters away on the slope. You can barely make out the writing in the rain. As we are reluctant to get out of the car, Lukas reads out the names Michael and Bernhard Grzimek. He explains that they are both highly revered in Tanzania and that their memory will certainly behonored. The London couple have never heard the names before. So they ask me to tell them who they are. They've come to the right person. It gives us an opportunity to get to know each other better. It's also really nice, as I realize now, to talk to other guests.

So we are fully occupied until we reach the lodge. I tell them about the Frankfurt zoo director who had a well-known and popular television series in Germany in the 1960s and early 1970s, in which he had an animal from his zoo or from his private home into the studio in almost every episode, where he used to take in young or sick animals from the zoo, much to the annoyance of his wife. On his travels around the world, he fell in love with the East African savannah and the Serengeti in particular. There was already a national park in the center of today's Serengeti in the 1950s. At the end of the 1950s, he and his son Michael fought for the corridor of animal migration from Kenya to Tanzania and the free movement of wild animals from the Masai Mara via the Serengeti and the Ngorongoro Crater to the Ruaha National Park in the very south of Tanzania. Father and son researched the regular migrations of the animals and carried out systematic counts of the individual species using a small airplane. Time and again, politicians threatened to block the annual migration of the animals, which always follow the rain, i.e. the water, with border fences or wide asphalt roads. But the Grzimeks were successful. Today, no one would think of stopping the animal migrations. The entire area has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Another decisive factor was the growing tourism in Kenya and, from the 1990s, also in Tanzania. The huge Garden of Eden attracts visitors from all over the world and became world-famous not least thanks to the book and the Oscar-winning film by father and son Grzimek "Serengeti must not die". When Michael crashed in a small plane in his mid-twenties during the filming of the movie, he was buried here on therim of the Ngorongoro Crater and Bernhard immediately decreed that he wanted to lie next to his son later. He died in 1987. Of course, Bernhard Grzimek also knew and was a guest at the luxury lodge that we are now going to visit. He mostly lived in Tanzania, but in a relatively simple way in his bush camp, where he carried out his research.

We reach the lodge before lunchtime. Our luggage is taken to our bungalows. We are first taken to the restaurant in the main building.

Main house with restaurant

The first thing we do is walk through the foyer, a kind of salon and library. The reception manager explains that this is where we will have our aperitif in the evening before dinner. Our heavy safari boots float over carpets several centimetres high. There are wing chairs and sofas upholstered in fine fabric scattered around the room and a flat table with all kinds of spirits - only the most expensive brands, of course. There are elegantly bound books on the wall, a huge crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling and, of course, an open fireplace.

We continue into the dining room with its large arched ceiling. Here, too, there is an open fireplace at the end of the room. In the middle of the room hangs an even larger crystal chandelier, which also hovers over the center of a long table. Around the table are chairs with high backs and heavy brocade upholstery. Victorian, yes, I think Queen Victoria would have felt right at home here. I feel overwhelmed at first and try to bring our dusty travel clothes into harmony with the surroundings. We are invited to lunch at a smaller table right next to the floor-to-ceiling panoramic window. At this very moment, the sun has managed to tell the rain and fog that neither of them have any business being here. We can therefore take our first look at the Ngorongoro Crater from the table, while we are handed silver bowls of soap and a towel to wash our hands. They have probably taken into account the fact that the first time a guest looks down from the rim into the 300 square kilometer crater, they cannot possibly ask for a washroom. All three of us are blown away. I can see from the couple from London that this cannot be their usual setting at home. We enjoy a cold lunch of avocado, orange fillets (skinless, of course), egg quarters and oak leaf lettuce. This is accompanied by thin slices of roast beef with horseradish cream, warm, freshly baked mini sandwiches and an exquisite selection of petits fours with coffee or tea for dessert.

Now I'm eager to finally see "my house". "My personal Maasai" takes me there, but not before we are told not to go outside without an escort. I step out of the house behind the Maasai and see a zebra standing in front of me on the grass at the edge of the crater, less than ten meters away. Behind it I see more, until they are no longer visible due to the slope. We walk towards the first bungalow, it's mine. Bungalow is a joke name for it.

Guest houses

On the one hand, the houses are built from clay with a wooden terrace of at least thirty square meters and beautiful, natural wooden railings. The furniture on the terrace, such as the table, armchairs and wooden loungers, is correspondingly rustic. I can see from the path to the side that all the windows extend from floor to ceiling with only narrow strips of clay in between. In other words - a panoramic view. The entire front facing the crater is certainly twenty-five meters long. The whole thing stands on wooden piles like the pile dwellings in Unteruhldingen on Lake Constance. A long chimney, also made of clay, protrudes from the topof the house.

On the other hand, the description in the catalog read: "By using only natural materials, the bungalows are embedded in their natural surroundings like 'native houses' and are barely visible." This is simply a lie; the almost four meter high windows, the width in the direction of the crater and the almost ten meter high chimney seem surreal and almost futuristic to me. The locals' huts either have miniature windows or none at all. I have to pinch myself.

At the comparatively inconspicuous side entrance, which is reached by climbing a few steps, "my Maasai" hands me over to "my personal butler", who is only available to me for twenty-four hours a day, which of course I cannot spend here completely. After all, we spend most of the day looking at the even more stunning surroundings.

Incidentally, as in "Maji Moto", this is a huge problem. You feel torn between the two. Of course you want to get out into the wilderness, that's why you're here, but you also want to be able to sufficiently enjoy this insane luxury that the accommodation offers. Now, for example, I only have an hour to explore my kingdom and unpack before I'm taken back to the jeep that will take us to Oldovai Gorge.

"My" butler is called Celestin and is in his sixties. He is very friendly, but with the stiff formality befitting a British butler. The amount of teaching material the British have scattered around the world is truly amazing. My favorite, however, is the extensive English breakfast that is served almost everywhere in the world today. It's a comfort in the United Kingdom too and balances out the rest of the English cuisine wonderfully.

But back to Celestin and my Maasai at the Ngorongoro Crater Lodge. No, they don't radiate the warmth, cordiality and homely feel-good atmosphere that I experiencedin "Maji Moto". Perhaps because you expect distanced nobility in their charisma from the superior side. Perhaps because they have to serve an extremely decadent range of guests here. It's hard to bear without a cool distance. The butler has certainly received professional training.

But I still haven't inspected "my" house. What I am now confronted with and Celestin briefly shows and explains to me cannot really be described at all. You have to see it. I'll try anyway!

Bedroom - Boudoir

My eyes get bigger and bigger. My heart is beating up to my neck at this scenery. I enter behind Celestin. To the left is an open fireplace. There are two large family umbrellas next to the fireplace utensils such as wood and pokers, which of course no guest is allowed to touch here. Celestin pulls aside the dark red velour curtains and I look into the crater. This moment alone should never end, the view is so impressive. In front of the window is a typical English antique desk with a floor lamp, writing paper and a gold fountain pen. I'm going to write my diary here - a writing space could hardly be more inspiring. On the opposite side against the back wall of the house is a three by four meter bed with a dark red silk bedspread. At least twenty cushions are scattered decoratively on it. Celestin calls the size "queen-size". In any case, it's the biggest bed I've ever seen. To the right and left of the bed are antique English bedside cabinets with nostalgic reading lamps. The furniture is probably made of cherry wood, if I'm not mistaken. Above the bed hangs an abstract tapestry the width of the bed in white with a dark circle in the middle. Another Victorian crystal chandelier hangs in the middle of the room. The crystals here sparkle on all the chandeliers as if freshlydrawn from the spirit bath. The entire room, says Celestin, is sixty square meters. The bathroom we are about to enter is just as large.

Bathroom

Of course, it also has panoramic windows and, separated by a tiled wall that runs parallel to the window front further back in the room, two large showers. The floor and walls are covered with beautiful, colorful tiles arranged like a mosaic.

So you can't look into the crater when showering. Instead, there are two huge mirrors and two princely washbasins with golden taps on the back wall of the house opposite. So here you can admire yourself in the shower, if there is any reason to do so. It occurs to me spontaneously whether I am still young, slim and attractive enough and I grin and come to a positive conclusion. I will be able to enjoy the first shower here tonight before dinner. But time will be far too short again.

Bathtub

If the description of the room has been successful, you should now have realized that there is still a large open space between the window front and the tiled wall of the shower that has not been described. The reason for this is that the pinnacle of decadence must now be depicted, to put it casually, the highlight of this lodge. The obligatory crystal chandelier hangs in the middle of the open space. The floor gleams with polished wooden floorboards. Just below the chandelier is a free-standing, nostalgic white, curved bathtub that stands on golden, ornate feet. The higher head section of the bathtub is naturally located where you have the best view from the tubinto the crater. I immediately realize that I have to take a bath here in daylight tomorrow. Of course, the bathtub is the first thing that catches your eye, but I have to turn it around for dramatic reasons. The fittings are ornate. Gold and silver are mixed here. The shower head handle (yes, the bathtub also has a shower attachment) is made of white porcelain. Next to the bathtub is a tiny but sturdy step for easy access and on the other side is an antique side table. On this table is a large vase with twenty-five white roses. Bath pearls, bath foam, body lotion and soap, this time from Ralph Lauren, are scattered decoratively around it. How prudent of me to have Ralph Lauren's "Safari" perfume with me. What's that? There's also a golden ashtray and an empty champagne goblet. This is so good for my smoker's heart, which is chronically tormented by the people around me. A fluffy, snow-white bathrobe and two fluffy, snow-white towels hang carefully and casually folded over the edge of the bathtub. In front of the steps are fluffy, snow-white bath slippers.

"Quiet place" or "throne with an imperial view"

Behind the bathroom, there is another inconspicuous door in the wooden paneling of the wall. I open it and find myself in a small toilet room. You sit there, discreetly hidden from the rest of the suite, but with a view of the crater and the crater lake, which is currently quite large.

I take a deep breath and then look helplessly at Celestin. He shows no mercy and points to his watch. In half an hour, the Maasai will be there to take me to the Safari Land Rover. So I quickly unpack my suitcase, freshen up and get out of this wonderful place.

Olduvai Gorge (today Oldupai)

We only drive about an hour to Oldupai Gorge. The name Olduvai was a mishearing by the first white people who came here. It comes from the species of agave that grows abundantly in the gorge and is called "oldupai" by the Maasai. From the crater rim, we descend again to the plateau, where there are many herds of cattle, sheep and goats, most of which are herded by six to twelve-year-old Maasai children, boys and girls. Apart from their herding sticks, they carry nothing with them in the completely shadeless heat; there is not a boma in sight for miles. Lukas hands out bottles of water and cookies to us, the British couple Jennifer and Michael and myself, which we are allowed to give to the Maasai children. They are very shy, look at us deadly serious, but immediately drink thirstily from the water. It doesn't look as if they are used to these gifts here.

Somehow I feel numb this afternoon. I'm still full of the impressions of my suite at the lodge, and here I meet Maasai children who have never seen anything like this, not even the inside of a simple little safari tent. Hopefully they never will. If they see it and have to go on living the way they do, I could even understand if they become terrorists. If they are good people, and the majority are, then they will come to Europe as refugees across the Mediterranean. Of course, they must think all white people are millionaires. They are children herding animals in the heat on the plain without shade or water, let alone with a rucksack containing a nutritious snack. But surely one or other of these children's fathers works as a guard in such a lodge. Of course, all the employees, regardless of tribe, talk about the things they get to see at the lodge. I imagine this and feel ashamed for the whites, because at least in Tanzania there are still no black managers in the luxury