Kipilefti

I spent the weekend in Bulongwa with Jess and Bret. I’ve been seeing one or both of them every other weekend with some regularity, and it’s a good interval. I walked over, headphones covering my ears, a strange veneer of America over the landscape and greetings of Tanzania.

Both of them showed me the places where they get their water, now that the rainy season is over. Bret’s is a steep but manageable hike down to a mountain stream (I carried 25L or so of water back up, stopping a few times to catch my breath; he carried 40L). Jess’s is a terrifying descent down a slippery, pine-needle-covered slope. I’m spoiled by the spigot right behind my house, no matter how dirty the water is. Then again, they both have fireplaces in their houses and doors that latch.

I took the bus back Sunday evening. We waited until I was sure it wouldn’t come, and then it did. Sitting in a window seat, barely noticing the Tanzanian woman leaning into me from the seat next to me, I watched the slanting sunlight cast long shadows, turning the mountains gold, and remembered standing on a mountain in Maine a year and a half ago with friends, watching a similar sunset.