KUNA MBWA MKALI

Originally, Hunter and I were going to be living in a house in Arusha, replete with a gate, a gardener and an askari, the Swahili word for "security guard who sleeps all night and doesn't really protect you." Plans fell through when our boss was told she was getting a major Mzungu price, and out the window went my dreams of being able to say, "I have a gardener."

House shopping was on the top of our list when the three of us arrived in Tanzania on the 4th of July. When we finally picked a place, we were no longer going to be staying in town, but up the road in Tengeru -- but it didn't come with a gardener, and no askari, either.

Not that we've even needed one so far -- no askari could have saved us from the schemes of the 11-year-old next door neighbor punk who ripped us off for $500, and all instances of trouble with machete-wielding thugs have been restricted to someone else's problem (but we have gotten to witness someone else's problem as it unfolded in the form of him getting beaten with the blade of a panga). But you never know when someone else's problem will become your own. It may be cute and all to hear two Wazungu speaking Swahili and meshing with the community, but we've got bull's eyes painted on our backs that wouldn't come off in a monsoon of turpentine.

No matter what we do, Hunter and I will always be two Wazungu standing out like sore thumbs in a community of people who feel as if we owe them something. So we take measures to prevent those types of misunderstandings. When we go get beers at Jerusalem Garden, Hunter carries a machete of his own. When I have to make the short trip down the path to get some Cokes at night, I shove three keys into the gaps between my fingers, ready to remove someone's eyeball with one quick jab if they get frisky. Any time we're walking at night, town or home, we're ready to rumble.

Envision something for me. Picture Erin Spelling moving to South Central Los Angeles and building a billion square foot home with a big gate and lots of expensive gadgets inside ... but failing to put an ADT sign in the front yard. He also decides not to put any pit bulls or German shepherds around the property, either. That's a pretty good analogy to our situation.

We've got locks, and we've got our street cred to protect us, and that is about it. We are eating, breathing sore thumbs because of our skin color and because of where we live: "the Mzungu Spaceship." This brick-walled, metal-roofed structure, replete with local luxuries such as electricity, non-dirt floors and running water, seems as if it fell from the heavens and just plopped right down in Patandi. It has a gate, and it's got a few broken bottles cemented on top of the wall that people would likely hop over if they wanted to break in, and it's got us and all our valuables.

Because I'm sure Murray is having a heart attack right now on account of our security situation, let me explain why this seemingly dangerous situation is actually the best option.

Why I don't like the idea of an askari:

• because I trust very few people in Africa as it is -- a random dude we pay to guard us is just as likely to unlock our gate for would be robbers, if they cut him in on the booty
• because many of them are wasted every time I see them
• because I don't trust men who wear ski masks in 70 degree weather (Africans make me look like an ice fisherman with their aversion to the cold)
• because, like I said, the word askari actually means "security guard who sleeps all night and doesn't really protect you."

Why, until two days ago, I was so enamored with the idea of getting a couple of dogs to protect us:

• because Mama Lema, the owner of the school we teach at, has a pack of them that will attack even her own son, Abel (but like every other Tanzanian I've ever met, Abel brought it upon himself by treating dogs like his own personal punching/kickboxing bag)
• because Baba Juma's two dogs go ballistic at least two times every night, barking so ferociously that I can actually feel the foam building up at the corners of their mouths, as I wonder what poor guy might possibly be in danger of getting flat out mauled at the doorstep of the Mzungu Spaceship
• because I love dogs!

Why I am no longer a proponent of guard dogs:

• because of what happened two nights ago.

"Baba Juma just sent me a text and said that Mama Lema's dogs killed somebody last night outside of her house," Hunter said as I was still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, standing there in my boxers about to take a bucket shower. "They need people to help identify the body."

"WHAT??" And I'm awake.

The same Mama Lema who owns our school had a dog that killed a man. The same Mama Lema who has that wild pack of dogs keeping watch over her even bigger spaceship, also plopped right in the middle of our village, but not owned by Wazungu. Mama Lema's dogs killed someone two nights ago, just a stone's throw from our house, and no one really seems to be that concerned about it.

"Was he trying to steal something? Was he breaking in?" I had a thousand questions for Biti that morning, and if I wasn't already late (thanks, empty water tank), I would have asked them all. "What was he doing??"

"Alikuwa akipita tu," she said, filling in the blanks of my first two queries with a "No," and answering the final question completely: He was just passing by.

"He was just passing by?! And the dogs killed him?"

"Ndiyo," Biti replied, not seeming to be as upset by this fact as I would have expected. "They say the dogs bit off his eyes," she touched her right eyebrow and winced, "his ears," a hand to her ear lobe, "his lips," she touched her mouth, "and his..." Biti looked around before she demonstrated the final piece -- or missing piece -- of the puzzle. "They even ate ... pumbu," she finally managed to squeak out, pointing towards her private parts.

Chalk it up for THE WORST way to die: Mauled by a pack of guard dogs and losing your balls in the process.

In America, Mama Lema would go to prison. In Tanzania, she had to deal with an annoyance. Such is life for the rich in Tanzania. I wonder if the poor guy's family can even afford a funeral.