Immediately Breaking the Rules

"Whatever you do, don't have sex, don't get a tattoo, and don't go into any water." Before I left for Africa, my friend Elizabeth passed on some medical advice that her doctor friend gave her before her trip to Rwanda. "Ok" I agreed, thinking none of those things were likely to come up. Four days later I found myself wading thigh deep through a mud-bottomed river trying not to think of leeches, piranhas, or the myriad bacteria seeping into my pores.

Why was I immediately breaking the rules? Not by choice. I was in Moshi, the region around Mount Kilimanjaro in northern Tanzania. There are numerous "wazungus" (white folks) in Moshi, and they take turns hosting a monthly event called "The Hash". The Hash, I was told, is an expatriate tradition around the world in which expats regularly gather together in a foreign country. The Hash used to be about hanging out and drinking until someone got the brilliant idea to get some exercise. So Hash participants take turns creating a running/walking trail outside the city limits by marking a course with piles of flour. Serious runners run quickly like a bunny to the next pile of flour and show the slower walkers where to go by forming sticks into an arrow on the ground that points in the right direction.

I was assured the walkers were all about just strolling, talking, and taking it easy-- so I agreed to go. But I soon found myself trudging, breathing heavily, and cursing the day I was born.

The person who created this particular hike had decided to lead runners and walkers straight through the brush where bushes grow needle-like “leaves”. I hiked over logs and under branches. I walked through tall grass, jumped over small streams, and pulled endless rocks out of my sandals. I listened to strange bird calls and watched the setting sun light up unfamiliar trees. At one point I heard a fearsomely sharp, quick howl and stood stock still until I spotted a monkey high in a tree. Jet-lagged, hot, sweaty, and tired, my entire existence boiled down to finding the next pile of flour.

After 9 kilometers the sun was low in the sky and I just wanted to be done with what I was now thinking of as “the wretched Hash”. Thinking less than pure thoughts, I wearily rounded a corner to discover that the only thing between me and the finish line was a muddy river surrounded by trees and brush that made it impossible to pass through anywhere except to wade through the water.

“Crap” I said. I looked behind me and knew I was too tired to retrace my steps backwards for 9 km, and I certainly wasn’t keen on wandering around the African bush by myself at dusk. So I rolled up my pants, pulled off my dusty sandals, and did what a traveling woman has gotta do.

At the campground at the end of the walk, about 25 wazungus clutched bottles of beer and huddled around bags of salty snacks. “White people are crazy” I muttered to Ben, our African driver who was waiting under a tree bemusedly watching the wazungus trickle in from the hike. He laughed but was too polite to agree.