Tom, our mchizi from UVa, who has been living in South Africa almost since college ended, a member of the Peace Corps down there, left TZ almost three weeks ago. His two-week visit went by in a flash. It was the first time I'd seen him since we said goodbye in May 2006; I was sad to see him go.

He might have been even more upset to go. Despite his best efforts, which included hammering out an episode from the front seat of our car his second to last day in Arusha -- he covered his head with a kitenge to block out the sun, being really courteous to the four of our students who were getting a ride home from school for the month -- he wasn't able to complete the objective he set upon arriving: watching every single episode of "The Office" currently available on DVD.

He didn't even make it halfway through Season 3.

But he did succeed in painting a non-connecting stache/beard onto Vumilia's face, just so he wouldn't be the only one.

It's like the negative film roll edition of TK ... in every way.

But I was happy knowing that we were also able to complete the much anticipated Nairobi-Moshi Rd. Pub Crawl before we parted ways once more.

It'd been a while since I saw the real Hot Dog Man in action.

"I mean, I have to wear the suit," he said. Tom was talking about the suit. With those words, the night became known as Hot Dog Man: TZ Pub Crawl Edition.

The hot dog suit has a long history. Too long for me to explain in proper detail. Suffice to say that all through college, Tom was known far and wide around Grounds as Hot Dog Man; but he never got the kind of international claim that I received during my three my appearances at the World Cup as Hot Dog Man: World Cup Edition. That remains, to this day, the greatest Hot Dog Man appearance of all time.

But the TZ Pub Crawl was pretty damn good as well.

Tanzania is not a place you go for the cafe scene. It's not Eastern Europe. Every single place has the exact same menu: ugali, french fries, white rice, fatty pieces of beef, some freshly killed chicken, greens, beans, blah. They all have the exact same, Coca Cola issued sign board, with the exact same, slightly italicized black font, all capped letters spelling out the name of the establishment, which is about the only thing that makes one roadside joint distinct from the others. Except, of course, for the pub/bar delineation.

Most of the watering holes on the Nairobi-Moshi Rd., a.k.a. "The Road of Death," the stretch of road that connects Arusha to our old village in Tengeru, and to our two schools in Usa River, are called [Blank] Bar. But some are called [Blank] Pub. Five, to be exact. And it was these five that formed the basis for the First Annual Nairobi-Moshi Rd. Pub Crawl.

Four of us went on the pub crawl in total. (A fifth, Katie, came along, but since she didn't adhere to the one Safari/one Konyagi shot minimum per pub -- in fact she had zero Safari's and zero Konyagi's, she didn't really complete the task). I made t-shirts for everyone -- four used American hand me downs that I bought that afternoon at the Tengeru sokoni and a little time with the Sharpie took care of it.

Hot Dog Man was clearly the star of the show. But for the supporting cast, there was Hunter.

(his photo got erased, and I don't have time to re-upload it, but you know what he looks like).

And Andrea, a girl who's been working in Arusha with cute puppies for a few months.

And me, the genius who thought of this idea in the first place, the scout who tracked down all the existing pubs on that stretch of road, and the organizer who invited/cajoled/manipulated everyone into participating.

I added "1st Annual," implying that this event will continue in the future. It will not.

Our first stop was the New City Garden Pub. It was about 3:30 in the afternoon.

"This is FOR SURE the first time this has ever happened," I kept saying, as if my repeating it would turn the declaration into a definitive fact.

"Oh, definitely," Hot Dog Man would always affirm. "A pub crawl? In Tanzania? With someone wearing a hot dog suit??"

"Unprecedented."

"There's no way, yeah."

"Yeah."

This is how I make myself feel important in life. Like I've really made my mark. Yeah.

I briefly mentioned the rules of the pub crawl. It was a one Safari minimum, or, for those members who didn't want to just fill themselves up with 5.5 percent, sketch Tanzanian beer that is called nondo ("steel") on the streets because of its high alcohol content, one shot of Konyagi (I'd rather drink rubbing alcohol) per pub. Normally, if I take down three Safari's (the bottles are way bigger here than in the States), I am chillin. The thought of taking down five made me giddy with excitement for what was to come.

Nothing to see here, just a 6'5" white boy in a giant hot dog suit and his blonde girlfriend walking the streets.

"I'm gonna impose a two Safari minimum on myself," Hot Dog Man said once we'd made it to Pub No. 2, Manchester Pub. In college, he was the kind of guy who could drink ten nondo's and be straight. Two years in South Africa with very little silliness, however, made me skeptical that guy, who we called "TK," was still alive.

"Dude," I warned, "you can't handle this kind of stuff like you once could. I'd calm down on that."

"I can do it, Bay-less," he said, with a hint of irritation. Not a hint. He was irritated.

"No, 'TK,' you physiologically cannot."

He narrowed his eyes, ever so slightly. Definitely irritated.

"Well we'll just let the Safari's be the judge of that."

When I say "crawl," I really mean "long walks on the side of the busiest highway in northern Tanzania, when just being white makes you stand out, to say nothing of the attention you get while walking with a 6'5" pasty Mzungu in a hot dog suit."

I got some really artsy photos of Hot Dog Man, too, just for you, Martha.

It's art because you can, like, see him through the glass.

Pub No. 3 was the last one we entered before the sun set.

Livin' in the past. How pathetic.

But it was at Pub No. 4, Arusha Pub, where things really started to get rowdy. We had to take a dala dala to get there. It was already dark.

Hunter was hustling the masela in pool; Tom was becoming TK; Andrea was falling asleep on people's shoulders; I was getting hounded by the owner of the place, "K.K."

K.K. is the one who looks like the black cousin of the assistant coach in "The Waterboy."

"Karibuni sana! Karibuni sana!" K.K. kept yelling when we first arrived. In Tanzania, it's almost seen as an honor when Wazungu show up anywhere. Funerals, weddings, parties, local bars, and local pubs, too: you are shown the red carpet more often than not. "Welcome to Arusha Pub! I am owner!"

K.K. is one of those Tanzanians -- and they are plentiful, trust me -- who likes to touch you when he talks. And by "touch," I mean grab, hard, and shake, even harder. I can't believe I didn't have arm full of finger tip sized bruises after Pub No. 4.

"You, me, we should work together," he implored, shaking, spewing his alcoholic breath into my face from but an inch away. "We do business. You come to my office; I take you to show you dini. Do you know madini?" He was talking about minerals -- TZ is chalk full of them, which explains why it is the current darling of Chinese firms. "We go, we make partner, we get madini. We become rich men!"

"Sounds good man," I'd say, always praying in vain that that would be the magic formula for unlocking his vulcan grip on my shoulder. Or at least for inducing him to move his face back a bit when yelling into my own, competing with the thumping bass beats of the Sean Paul CD filling his pub with music.

"Eh." It was like the movie "Congo" every time he'd say that. "Eh." And then a blank stare, deep into my eyes, as if he was waiting for me to make my next move. But I never did. I just stared back into K.K.'s yellowed, blood shot eyes. "Eh."

"Feel as if you are at home!" he commanded, looking menacingly around the place. K.K. was missing a few teeth, I noticed. "Do not feel a scared." And with that, he pulled up his shirt -- the handle of a gold plated pistol rested in its holster.

As long as K.K. is my boy and not my enemy, I thought, I wouldn't. Must be nice to K.K.

When the power went out, he sensed that I might be scared of the dark. So he took the gun out and placed it in my lap.

"Feel at home!" he slurred. K.K. was really drunk. Drunker than Hot Dog Man, who was busy making strange noises and pointing at Andrea: "Eeeeee!" If K.K. actually had to use that gun, I wouldn't want to be anywhere near that home. The Memphis basketball team shoots better from the free throw line in the last minute of the championship game than K.K. could shoot after that many Safari's.

"Dada! Safari nyingine!" K.K. was insistent that we keep up with his pace.

This whole time, I doubt he let go of my arm for more than five seconds more than a couple of times -- and one of those was only because I escaped to go play pool in the back, Hunter having finally lost after two or three games of hustlin'. And his breath. Oy.

Finally, it was time to get the hell out of there. We'd been stuck in Pub No. 4 for what felt like five hours. It was definitely over two. And it was really dark at this point, not just "dark." We shouldn't have started at 3:30.

We had to take a cab to the fifth and final stop, Royal Pub.

At this point, I was on Safari No. 7. Hot Dog Man was on 11 or 12, no one really knows, especially him. Our cab driver, Burhani, was confused as to this strange American custom that we were having a really hard time explaining, seeing as my Kiswahili gets progressively worse with every nondo after that three-spot which, as I already said, is enough for me to be chillin' kabisa.

"Kama kutembea kwa watoto, kutoka pub mpaka pub." If you spoke Swahili, you'd be laughing at that attempt at a description: "Like walking for babies, from pub until pub." Oy.

The pub crawl technically ended then, when Burhani took us to our final destination, Masai Camp. The lack of the word "pub" be damned; we were trying to dance.

(and by that, I mean that we were trying to see Hot Dog Man dance).

The Safari's had been the judge. And I was wrong: TK was not dead.

He was as weird and socially ... unique as he'd ever been.

He even made a friend.

A lady friend.

And whaddyaknow? He even drew a crowd.

Shocking that people would stare at a love that was so pure.

"Dude, at one point during the night, I was doing like weird shit," Tom said the next morning, when he was asking about TK's exploits in the hot dog suit from those who may remember things a little better.

"Nooooo," I said, doing my best fake surprise voice. "You? Hot dog suit? Twelve Safari's? Weird?"

He continued as if I wasn't there. "Like, I'd go up to circles of people dancing, and I'd just stand right in the middle of them and hold out my arms," he said, putting on a display so we could get a better visual. And a visual we did get. You should try to picture it yourself.

"That's how my [Phillies] hat got stolen," he explained. "Someone just came up and ripped it off my head."

Those bastards. Where was K.K. and his gun when you need him?