Selous Mbega Camp

On the Riverbank of the Rufigi River is a simple safari lodge called Selous Mbega Camp. It is named after the game reserve it borders (which was named after Frederick Selous) and run year-round by a Tanzanian born man of German ancestry named Sasha and his father.

We took the Mloka bus here (see later posting) and it was on the way there that we made the acquaintance of Mr. Marumbwe (Dr. M was Hung's nickname for him). When we arrived we learned that we were to be the camp's only guests. Since the camp was running at half staff because it was the rainy season, it meant there were only 10 or so staff members taking care of just Hung & I's needs. Mr. Marumbwe served as our unofficial host, joining us for each of our full-board meals, and thus had the opportunity to make a big impression.

A 50ish well-educated Tanzanian, he was a member of the Makonde tribe (having been born and raised on the border between Tanzania & Mozambique) and was a no longer actively practicing Muslim. At each meal we would discuss our day (or our & his plans for the day), but our conversations soon branched off into politics- US and African. It was during these discussions that we got a small glimpse of the cruelties enacted during the 17 year long Mozambiquan civil war (1975-1992) which immediately followed their war of independence over Portugal. As Mr. Marumbwe recounted, refugees would wade across the river and be taken in by Tanzanians, often rescued from grisly states of humiliation and torture.

On a full day game drive and an afternoon boat safari with our guide Mr. Mpogo we saw common water buck, sexy warthogs, giraffes and more giraffes (a family of more than 30 at one point!), impala, elephants, zebra, hippos, and countless wetland birds like the colorful rola and the sacred ibis.





One day, instead of siting game, Hung and I decided to stretch our limbs and walk into the small village of Mloka which lay only 1.5 km away. As we set off, what transpired was truly puzzling to us: our breakfast attendant upon hearing of our plans, rushed ahead of us calling to Mr. Mpogo. Mr. Mpogo then insisted on accompanying us on our walk. Hung & I both bristled at this, first because during the day a danger of animals did not seem warranted. Of course, what do we know, and the camp was obviously concerned about something, but it almost seemed like they were worried about us going to the village. We had been there when getting off the bus, and more importantly had been already travelling in Tanzania a bit, so we knew a little swahili and the general environment of village life. We saw no harm in wanting to see more and thought to visit the small eating shack that stood with the rest of a clutter of small buildings where the bus let us out to eat lunch.

We insisted on going ahead with our walk, in part just to get exercise, and Mr, Mpogo, who had been rustled away from fixing his truck, trudged along the road with us, dodging the muddy ruts left by a morning rain. The situation was quite ridiculous. Finally Hung used my discomfort as an excuse to convince Mr. Mpogo to let us proceed unaccompanied. We went on to the village with Mr. Mpogo making a plan to meet us there in a short while. We walked slowly down the road, perfectly unmolested except for the bright sun rays. On the way into the village we passed what looked to be a fisherman, and upon encountering the first few humble huts we tripped the "Mzungu alert" - small groups of children shrieked "Mzungu!Mzungu!" and ran toward us and just as quickly away. The adults looked up or stuck their heads out but otherwise went on with their business. We stopped to rest in a patch of shade by a vending shack run by a woman. Hung bought a coke that we shared and she kindly brought out her chair from the shack for me to sit on.

We continued into the heart of the village, passing boys playing checkers, and women doing their hair, pounding cassava and tending small patches of sesame seeds and corn. We sat down for some chai at the local hotel (small restaurants are called hotels while shelters are referred to as guest houses), and stayed for some time watching the downpour that began just as we walked in. Its hard to describe the sensation of being such an object of interest. The profound communication barrier was occasionally pierced by an expressed need (usually ours - more tea, sugar, a light for Hung's cigarette) or overheard snatches of swahili referencing our presence. Hung takes it all in stride, but many times I feel an acute sense of self-consciousness, almost like I can see myself from the outside.

Eventually Mr. Mpogo did come to collect us and take us back to our camp, which started to seem like a prison now that we knew we were not "allowed" to go freely off the premises. Hung felt the experience was a bit like being in an episode of the Twilight Zone, and started to call Mr. Marumbwe "Dr. M." We left the next morning.