Nearing the finish line

"And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."
-t.s. eliot

My mom still had the radio in the car set to 101.3, hoping to catch my interview the day before with Mark and Steve of KUUL-FM. To her surprise she heard, "And now we will talk to Donna Triplett, the grandmother of Brian Triplett who we interviewed yesterday." She turned the volume up and listened to my grandma chat about my travels. One of the radio guys said she sounded like a typical grandma. The other host said she sounded like the sweetest grandmother in the world.

The best part of the story: When my mom called my grandma to tell her she had caught the interview on the radio and to congratulate her, my grandma responded, "I didn't know that was on the air. I thought they were just chatting with me." My grandma became a local celebrity without even knowing it.

So I'd like to take this time to thank my family for being there for me throughout these past eight months, even if it's had to be through e-mails and surprise phone calls. Not only couldn't I have done it without their support, I wouldn't have done it without their support. Thanks for understanding I had to go check out the rest of world to confirm the Midwest is the best place on the planet.

Thank you also to my friends who have done their best to keep in touch with me. I know it hasn't been easy. I'm also very thankful for all the new friends I've made all around the world in 2007. I hope to see you all again some day.

I love you all.

-brian

Curb my Enthusiasm

After spending a summer interning for the L.A. Times entertainment section, I've always been a little numb to the excitement that typically comes along with celebrity encounters. At the Sundance Film Festival, I spent most of my time on the slopes and in the hot tub rather than trying to party with JT. When I stopped in my tracks to stare at Kate Hudson, who was shopping on the east coast of Australia, I did so because she was an extremely hot girl adjusting her thong -- I was completely oblivious that I was drooling over a star until someone informed me later down the road.

I get more anxious to meet people I respect for what they do rather than who they are. Example: I'd rather chat with the writers of my favorite show Entourage than the cast.

When I saw Larry David -- half of the brains behind Seinfeld and star of HBO's Curb Your Enthusiasm -- at a bar in Edinburgh a couple nights ago, I knew I had to try to chat with the comedic genious. I had attended my first ever soccer match earlier in the night and headed for beers with the boys right after, so I was more than a bit tipsy when I walked by him.

"Hey Larry," I said. "My dad and I watch your show together and both love it. It's a bonding experience."

"Thanks," he said, not seeming to annoyed with the attention although the good-looking 20-something blonde next to him was likely a bit more interesting.

"So what are you doing here?" I asked, as if we were old friends who coincidentally ran into each other in Scotland.

"I'm playing golf. What are you doing here?"

"I'm been traveling around for almost eight months. I'm staying with some friends, checking out the festival."

"That's great. Where ya from?"

"I'm from Iowa."

"Iowa?" he said in the same condescending tone he does on his show.

"Yeah, I went to school at the University of Iowa for journalism. I'm a writer as well, so I just wanted to say I respect your work. Sorry to bother you."

"You're not bothering me. No problem. Take care."

I dialed up my dad on the car ride home to tell him about the encounter, just like a 16-year-old girl calling her friends after meeting Justin Timberlake.

The following day I headed north to St. Andrews to check out where golf was born. Bryan, who along with his wife is taking care of me yet again while in Edinburgh, mentioned I might see some celebrities roaming around. Not more than two minutes after he said this, Larry David and I crossed paths, staring at each other as if to say, "Didn't I chat with you at the bar last night?" The only difference was, I knew I chatted with him at the bar last night.

"How's it goin' Larry?" I asked.

"Good," he said, with a little laugh at the coincidence.

"I bet he thinks I'm stalking him," I said to Bryan as we walked away. "Maybe he's stalking me?"

Life before death

"You promise me I'm not going to die?" I asked Jordan?

"I promise you that you will not die," she said, doing her best to comfort me, yet justifiably taking this far less seriously than I.

"I just feel like I'm going to faint, and I think that if I faint I'll die," I said, ignoring her promise.

If I stood up, I would vomit again. If I lay down, I would pass out. I wanted neither. I wanted nothing but to feel normal again. I wanted to enjoy the most beautiful beach I've ever stepped foot on that taunted me from a football throw away. But instead of basking in the Zanzibar sun, I sat on the step outside the tiny restaurant kitchen with my elbows on my knees, my face in my palms, suffering from one of the many options floating around my overreacting mind: Extremely unfair hangover after a relatively calm night of drinking? Malaria? Food poisoning from the fresh snapper the bartender caught with his bare hands in the Indian ocean and grilled up at 12 a.m. to satisfy our munchies? Some African disease I don't know about that makes you believe you are going to die even though you likely just have food poisoning?

Fact: I was being a big baby. Fact: I didn't give a shit. Fact: I wanted my mother.

Despite my pessimism about my chances of survival, the symptoms screamed nothing life threatening. What had me freaked out was the thought that if this 'whatever it was' took a turn south, I had no idea where or how to find a doctor since I was a 45-minute drive from the nearest town. And even if someone with a stethoscope and thermometer appeared out of nowhere, I was on the thinly-populated side of an island off the coast of Africa. Not exactly the campus of Harvard Med School.

I stood up and used all the energy I had to walk the 10 feet to the bed of bamboo in the kitchen staff lounge. Before I could put the pillow in a suitable place, I had to run out the room so I wouldn't make a mess. I didn't make it more than a quarter of the way to the outhouse before I knelt beside a flowerless flowerbed and projectile vomited. There couldn't have been another passion fruit seed in my stomach from the morning's breakfast. I added a bit of color to the naked landscape with chipati, toast, fruit salad, coffee, midnight snapper, and a few servings of my dignity.

After I gathered the courage to stand up, I noticed two Maasai men staring at me from 10 feet away. For those of you who have never been to Africa, think National Geographic photos. Think warriors. Think beaded bracelets, red and blue cloth outfits, and stretched earlobes.

When they were certain the show was over, the men walked up to me with quizzical expressions. They wanted answers.

"I've been puking all day....uhhh....vomiting....(I put my left hand by my mouth and spread my fingers out like a firework as I moved it away as if playing a round of Pictionary)," I replied, as if talking to a two-year-old despite the fact these men speak perfect English. "I've never felt this strange in my life."

"Would you drink special Maasai medicine, or would you be afraid to?" one of the men asked.

How do you tell a man who possesses the skills to kill lions without modern weapons that you are scared to take a little local Pepto-Bismol.

"Um...yeah...I mean no...I would appreciate that," I squeaked out. "I would love some. How much would it cost?"

"No, no. You do not have to pay. We just want to help you. We will return shortly."

While the Maasai went to their village to gather what was synonymous to magic potion in my mind, I retreated to a sandy area nearer to the outhouse. With nothing left in my system, physically or mentally, I lay as still as a dead body, letting sand stick to the side of my face and ants use me as their playground.

The men returned within a few minutes, not leaving me much time to ponder whether or not it was a good idea to accept strange medicine from a tribe who, according to Wikipedia, "Believe that they own all the cattle in the world," and have a diet consisted of, "meat, milk, and blood from cattle."

My doctors with holes in their earlobes the size of quarters squatted down beside me as I sat up, noticing a small tea cup in one of their hands with what looked like a double shot of watered-down blood

Not allowing my hesitation to last any longer, one of the Maasai handed me the cup. "Take it all at once," he instructed.

One of the worst feelings in my opinion is drinking something that tastes much different than you anticipated. Like taking a drink from a carton of orange juice on accident when you expect it to be milk. But I had no way of knowing what dance this would do on my taste buds, especially since I neglected to smell it.

On a dare in college I once took a shot of well tequila, Tabasco sauce, and a raw egg. "Can't be any worse," I thought as I downed the potion.

Much spicier than I thought, although I can't say I formed a mental prediction aside from 'blood from cattle', which I've never had the opportunity to try. I hiccuped violently, and then once more. I could picture some sort of chemical reaction I learned about in fifth grade taking place in my stomach. Bubbles, steam, green flames. The Maasai began massaging my belly in clockwise circles, to, I assume, let the potion work its magic. Jordan apologized, saying she "had to do this" as she snapped a picture.

Once I confirmed that I was not going to die or turn into a frog, I thanked the men. They said I could take some more later if I needed to.

"I think one dose should do the trick," I said, and lay my face back in the sand while the Maasai walked away.

I still felt like death, but at least I had a story to tell if I lived.

"What are you laughing at?" Jordan asked.

"The kid from Iowa getting his belly rubbed by two Maasai warriors in front of an outhouse on an island off the coast of Africa," I said. "Just another day."

At a loss

It's important to note that these blog posts do not reflect my entire trip. They are simply small windows providing a glimpse into certain days and certain moments. The negative and the positive experiences are not equally proportioned. I realize sometimes I come off as a complainer, but the truth is sometimes the challenging times are just more fun to write about. I realized this is an important thing for me to note when I received several messages from readers offering to help me get out of Africa following my last post. The truth is that my trip has been filled with ups and downs, all of which will hopefully be told in a book some day. Thanks!

I was all geared up to write something positive about my time in Tanzania, until this happened. I was ready to write about the great experiences I've had here, but this is all that's on my mind. I was very anxious to share many of the 600 photos I've gathered on my camera from my five weeks in Tanzania, but unfortunately for you and for me, someone decided they needed that camera more than I did yesterday morning on a crowded bus to town.

I never gave pickpocketers enough credit. I thought they only existed in the movies. So imagine my surprise when I reached for my camera in my right front pocket and found nothing but lint. I'm not much of one for material possessions anymore, so it's not about the camera, it's about all the time I spent taking the photos. Now I will not be able to share my encounters with lions and rhinos and zebras and giraffes. I will not be able to show you the friends I've made here or the children I've made smile.

I'm trying to come up with something positive out of this and remain mature, because it's not the end of the world. They say pictures are worth 1,000 words. I suppose as a writer my challenge now is to come up with the right 600,000 words to describe what I've seen.

Race through the streets

"Ready to feel blue again?" I asked Jordan, referring to her remark about feeling like we have blue skin the way people stare at us.

"This time it will be like having blue skin and water skiing naked through the streets," she said as we began our jog through a tiny Tanzanian village where they see a white person as often as a change of season.

If America is the melting pot we learned about in grade school, then an African village is a box of regular fries and I am the curly one that somehow made its way in. The villagers can choose to dip me in ketchup or throw me in the trash, but either way they know I don't belong.

As I ran I tried to stare straight ahead at nothing but the air, but it was impossible not to know that every pair of eyes was directed right at my light skin. The bolder locals feel the need to make some sort of reaction, either whistling, pointing, laughing, pointing and laughing, tapping their friends on the shoulder to make sure they don't miss this opportunity to see a "mzungo" doing some strange activity that is a bit like walking but slightly faster. It was like one of those dreams where you arrive to work without pants on, only real. I admit it can't be a bad thing for a white, middle-class American to feel a bit out of place for once.

To be fair, many of the people I've gotten to know throughout my three weeks in Tanzania have embraced me like a family member. Many locals start up innocent conversation. They attempt to connect to the world they imagine I come from, on more than one occasion telling me I look like David Beckham. It's the people I don't get a chance to know who look at me like an alien that gets to me.

Children stare with wide eyes and dropped jaws as if I'm the boogieman or some character they've heard about in stories they were certain was a myth until he came running by in his Nike trainers. "Pepe," some scream out, assuming I should have some candy since that's what they're told the white people will bring. In America we teach our children not to take candy from strangers. In Africa, it's encouraged. The adults don't have as much of a sweet tooth. They just ask for money. I don't have either to offer, so I am of no use to them. I am all for helping people in a time of need. But when it's a life of need it becomes a bit more confusing. I am sympathetic and defensive at the same time.

I wished I was in better shape so the group forming behind me wouldn't be able to keep up. I can hear the footsteps and laughter, but I forge on. Cultural and language barriers sometimes make it confusing to determine when someone is sincerely interested in your business or just plain mocking you. There was no gray area here. I stopped in my tracks, turned around and began running in my hecklers' direction, sending children screaming into bushes, wishing they hadn't messed with the boogieman.

"Good morning," a little boy says, although it is 6 p.m. This innocent attempt at conversation eases my tension for a few steps until a teenager on a bicycle heads straight for me, making some strange 'meow' noise -- an odd choice in my opinion -- forcing me off the road and into a field. This is the moment I choose to stop running.

I'm certain all humans have a limited capacity for cultural experiences. Me, after seven months on the road in 18 countries, I'm over my limit and my body is starting to reject it. As I walked back to the guest house, a group of teenagers pointed and whistled. I snapped. "Ooooooo, a white person, let's all stare," I yelled back. Of course I regretted it a few seconds later, but I couldn't help it at the time. I'm all for throwing yourself out of your comfort zone and experiencing new cultures, but sometimes you can have too much of a good thing. I once heard about someone dying from drinking too much water.

***

I came to Africa under the impression I would spend some time volunteering for an organization that helps orphans. I have not laid a brick for a school or been led to a group of children to organize a game of soccer. I've been asked for money and more money despite the fact I've explained I'm fresh out of school and in debt. I've met disctrict leaders who assume I'm here to finance projects based on no other information than the color of my skin. They slide their visitors' books across the table to have me sign for whatever reason and thank me for my contributions which I haven't made. I want to help, but with my ideas and energy, not my checkbook. I suppose when you see the mailman, you assume he's got mail for you. White people don't come to a village in Tanzania because they enjoy the scenery.

It's not the rats running through the ceiling or the spiders bigger than my ear crawling on the walls or the buses that make you feel like you're involved in a large game of Twister that have brought me as close to a breakdown as I've gotten on this trip. It's the feeling of not being wanted. "What am I doing here?" I've found myself questioning on an hourly basis. It's not fair to those around me. I'm not my usual curious self. Had they encountered me in my earlier days of travel we would be sharing stories over beers. Now it seems like there's no choice but to recharge my batteries and go back to the world I know.

I try to make the most of my days, but for the first time I don't know how. I read, run, write, and think, but then there is still more than half the day remaining. I can choose to stay in the confines of my room or walk the streets and deal with the stares and laughter. I can no longer practice the openmindedness I preach. I feel as if I've discovered all I can in this place, at least for now. The only question I have remaining is, "Am I a bad person for wanting to get the hell out?"

***

After a few deep breaths and a bit of meditation this afternoon, I concluded that I will look back on this experience and smile someday. I told myself I am here and nowhere else and if I can't enjoy what's right in front of me, I am not living the right way. I have two more weeks and one challenge - to make the most of my time in Africa. Who knows when I'll be back?

As we left the village I was handed another visitors' book out of nowhere. I have no idea what purpose this served, just like all the rest of them. Instead of rolling my eyes, I began smiling. I scribbled my information and closed the book. I'm sure a few people will be curious about why David Beckham was in town.