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It is late morning. I’ve been on the road for several hours now. The bus left the forested highlands of Arusha under a blanket of cloud and drizzle. We passed into drier woodlands, hilly and punctuated with thorn trees and tourist lodges. Even early on a Sunday morning, the iconic khaki-colored Land Rovers used by nearly every safari company threaded in and out of these gates.
The view out the window gave way to golden plains and dry waterholes speckled with acacia trees. The round mud walls and thatched roofs of traditional Maasai homes started to appear on the landscape. We lumbered past herds of colorful cattle and herders wrapped in bright red blankets. The distinctive nests of weaverbirds appeared in the trees, hanging pendulant from the tips of the branches like so many woven lanterns.
Later, we entered the land of baobab trees and thornscrub. The soil was sandy and light. We passed through villages where the buildings had neat brick or cement walls capped with sharply peaked metal roofs. Many homes and businesses have verandas with angular columns—a communal space sheltered from the piercing sun of the dry season or torrential rains of the wet season. A place to shuck corn and pigeon peas, sit with friends on a Sunday afternoon, or craft products like woven baskets or beaded jewelry.
Down the road, the soil turned red. The deep, rich russet color of bricks. The vegetation became more lush, the land more hilly.
We have now passed Lake Manyara National Park and are skirting Tarangire National Park—a place I hope to return to as a visitor before long. Since Arusha, we’ve been tracking east and then gently bending southeast. Now, we are making our first big turn to the west. We pass a striking marsh and begin to climb almost immediately. The air is becoming damp and chilly again, the skies heavy with rain clouds as we wind into the hills of the Manyara Region.
The bus, heavily laden with freight loaded at various stops, is trundling through the countryside effortfully. Farms are spreading across small dells, homes are tucked among the farms or perched on knolls, and groves of banana and senna trees dot the landscape.
Though this is an “express bus,” with typical Tanzanian courtesy, passengers can request special stops. We’ve detoured into local markets to collect cargo of agricultural products or parcels, and paused to let passengers off in places where no bus stand exists. We’re stitching together highways, dirt roads, and deeply pot-holed local thoroughfares as we weave across the country, and some of the views are pretty impressive.
Passing through Maasai lands, with traditional mud homes in the distance.
The legume crops looked beautiful under the storm-light in the Manyara Region
The terrain changed dramatically as we climbed through the hills in the Manyara Region.
As we neared the Singida Region, the bus ride offered some striking vistas.
Though I'm often surprised by the natural and cultural beauty of this country, I'm even more frequently caught off-guard by the kindness and generosity of the Tanzanian people. I haven’t seen another mzungu (the common term for a white-skinned person or visitor) since we left Arusha, and I’m certainly the only one on this seven-hour bus ride. Yet I’ve been met with nothing but gentle curiosity and politeness. I’ve chatted with a neighbor, been asked by someone sitting on an aisle seat to negotiate the purchase of snacks out of my window at one of our stops, and generally been accepted as someone who speaks Swahili so I must belong here. This is an incredibly rewarding feeling—worth more than any certification or test score to me.
As I prepared to leave my host family’s home yesterday, my host mom and I made one last morning hike together. We bought fresh eggs from the bibi (grandmother/elder) who lives up the hill on our way back, and then my host mom sent me off to run home the long way while she took the shortcut, as has become our custom.
When I reached the house, it was buzzing with people and their various morning routines. We laughed because I had to delay my post-run shower multiple times as other family members or the neighbor who helps with the cleaning swooped in on our only bathroom. My mama started to apologize for the wait and I assured her, “hakuna shida; ina nyumbani yenu” (literally, "there is no problem, this is y’all’s home").
Without missing a beat, she replied “yetu” in the patient but emphatic voice she uses when she is correcting one of my frequent errors. But this time, I was pretty sure I had used the right form of the possessive term. We use yenu when excluding ourselves but speaking of a group of people who are present.
“Kweli?” (really?) I asked, probably with a confused look on my face.
“Ndio, yetu,” she repeated, turning to me. “Say this is our home, because you are part of this family now.”
To join me on this journey, you can follow along with new posts in the Field Notes blog on this website or LinkedIn. I am in Tanzania on a Critical Language Scholarship for Summer 2026. My research is currently supported by the Center for Human-Carnivore Coexistence, a P.E.O. Scholar Award, and a Center for Collaborative Conservation Fellowship. I am actively fundraising for the next phase of my research, and welcome referrals to funders who are interested in supporting work on global challenges including human-wildlife conflict, poverty alleviation, biodiversity conservation, and the impacts of a changing climate on all of these issues.
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