Kwa heri, Arusha.

The end.

Today is my last day of work. I'm all packed up, sitting in my tie dye boxers while waiting to take a shower, expecting to hear Hunter and the Flint women pull into the driveway any minute to come and pick me up. I can't remember exactly, but I think this is the one year anniversary to the day of when I left Houston to fly to Charlotte -- the beginning of my year in Africa.

It's not over yet, "my year in Africa." It's actually going to come out to around 13 and a half months when it's all said and done -- I land back in NYC August 21. Until then, I'll be immersed in what very well could be the best seven weeks of my time on this continent: Mt. Kilimanjaro from July 5-10; Ethiopia from July 12-August 1; and Mt. Meru, our backyard mountain and the center of the universe according to Buddhist belief, as the kicker our last week.

Center of the Universe Blvd.

And something cool during the beginning of August. Rwanda? Uganda? Mwanza? Tutaona. All I know is that I'll finally be back on the road, where I need to be after so long camped in one spot.

Subtracting two weeks for Christmas, and three for our April tour around southern Tanzania, I spent a year in Arusha, a town-that-is-quickly-becoming-a-packed-and-dirty-African-city west of Kili, east of the Serengeti, and just south of the Kenyan border.

Traffic in Arusha: in this shot, you have accounted for motorcycles, bikes, dumptrucks, safari SUV's, Rav4 styled SUV's, and human traffic (kind of). Not pictured: daladala's, Maasai boys herding cattle on the sides of the road, Maasai women walking their donkeys, a dude carrying a pile of grass (for feeding livestock) the length of Yao Ming laying down. Driving here is an experience. It's like a video game.

The first six months we spent in a village about 20 km outside of town. The next six weeks were a sad story of homelessness and house hunting as we searched for a new home, once it became clear that it was just too dangerous to stay in Patandi. The remainder of our time has been spent in this sick new crib in Kijenge Chini, a neighborhood inside of Arusha itself. Warts and all, A-Town became my home. There were rough patches; a lot of them. And I had my fair share of F this place moments.

Sing it!

But whether you call it Arusha or A-Town Nightmares, it became my home. I spent too much time here, made too many friends for me to leave and say that I don't want to come back one day. I do. But Mungu tu knows when.

I kind of pushed all in in deciding to come to TZ. "You need to think first." That was all my dad had to say on the matter when I dropped the bombshell on him from Belgrade last February, during Month 9 of my trip. A good rule of thumb? When receiving a rare, unprompted long distance phone call from your 23-year-old son who's been traveling aimlessly for the past nine months since he finished college, never expect that the "good news" he supposedly has for you is going to outweigh the "and bad news" part.

"My time in the Balkans looks like it's gonna come to a close pretty soon. I'm coming home in mid April."

"That's great!"

"But I'm leaving for a year in Tanzania on July 1."

The orange country to the east of Italy to the red star in the blue country. Quite a random jump, wouldn't you say?

There were plenty of other words, of course, in my dad's reply, but he could have summed them up with just that one sentence. "You need to think first." He was not happy.

As I stood out on the balcony during that cold February night in Belgrade, just outside of my Balkan home sweet home, the Three Black Catz, I knew that I had done just the opposite of what I "needed" to do. I hadn't put any thought whatsoever into my decision to commit the next year of my life to a boss, organization, country and continent I knew next to nothing of. All I had was Hunter, my best friend from UVa, who I hadn't seen since July.

434 represent

And we were going to be chilling together in East Africa for a year, working, yes, but chilling together in East Africa for a year nonetheless. And I thought that was it was beautiful idea.

Maisha mazuri.

My dad, of course wasn't the only one that had plenty of skepticism about my decision making ability. Pretty much most of the mature adults I talked to reacted just the same. Can you blame them? It's the difference between 23 and 53, or even 33. I understood that. And I also knew that I was taking a big risk. That's the thing about grown ups' advice: it's usually right. I just didn't care. I had been loving life abroad up to that point; money was running low; I didn't want to move back to the US of A just yet. I was trying to live in Tanzania with my boy. Why? Why not?

It was ironic, then, when I found out the English translation of the school where our NGO has placed 32 students since its inception: "Think First Academy."

I love envisioning an Excel graph that charts the peaks and valleys of my emotional state since I got here to A-Town on the 4th of July, 2007. The header: How I Feel About Not Thinking First. First day in TZ -- high; second day -- low; second week -- high; first month -- low; up and down up and down up and down based on the day for the rest of the months until March, at which point the graph essentially plateaus into a consistent feeling of contented acceptance.

I hadn't thought of that phrase until it just flowed forth from my fingertips two seconds ago. I like that way of putting it. Contented acceptance. That's the difference between someone who comes here for eight months and someone who stays for 12. And it's what you need if you're going to be able to live in a place like Arusha, Tanzania.

It's accepting the reality of life in the third world, especially for a Mzungu living in Africa. But more than that, it's accepting reality while not letting it drive you into the depths of cynicism. It's laughing at stuff that others would want to draft UN conventions to address. Or blaming yourself for giving someone the opportunity to break your heart, when you know it's unfair to dangle a huge hunk of cheese over a mouse cage like that. You laugh, and you protect yourself. That's all you can do*.

Example of when to laugh: Africa Time.

The reason that it takes so long to reach this point is because strong principles can't be stripped away over night. They are worn down slowly, bit by bit, like a dull panga chopping away on an acacia. And when they finally realign themselves into this new, adapted mold, the initial period which follows often takes on a feeling of extreme apathy. Sort of a what's the use? mentality. It's incredibly disappointing to realize things about morality that you never thought you would come to agree with. But it's even more disappointing when you realize that this realization in and of itself still doesn't mean that anything is going to change.

Most white kids who come here have a sense of being "different" than the others back home, those who don't get why he or she would want to come to Africa. "They" are "corporate." "They" are "ignorant." Or "provincial," "all the same," "boring." Wanderers and habitual non-planners love these little self-inflaters designed to add some sort of uniqueness to their existence, to give them a higher purpose than those who took the easy route. Hunter and I thought we were different.

I mean, we really like reggae. And we're sooo gonna learn Swahili. And then, if we walk everywhere, and eat the same foods, and learn some slang from Nako2Nako songs, we'll totally be accepted into the community. We won't even need a security guard.

Riiiiight.

This is a dangerous idea to have in your mind if, when you set foot on African soil you are not open to at some point undergoing a drastic reassessment of the way you view the world. The foundation of this state of contented acceptance is the following fact: ukiwa Mzungu, wewe ni Mzungu mpaka la mwisho. If you're a white boy, you are a white boy until the end. And that will never change.

This year has been crazy intense. I learned things I never dreamed I'd learn (Swahili, how an African AIDS clinic smells, driving on the left hand side of the road, the best way to slaughter a goat); things I used to know and have been wanting to relearn (how to shoot a basketball, making grilled cheese sandwiches, the easiest ways to embarrass Hunter); and things I always wished I could learn (patience, understanding, forgiveness), which require daily reminding if they are to be maintained. I got to spend a year with Hunter, now named Mwindaji to me mpaka la mwisho, and hear him serenade me on the guitar all day every day. I got to keep growing my hair out, the longest it's ever been, making me look super suave. And I even got to meet George W. Bush.

All of these memories, all of these stories, and I'm still alive. And I'm still going, too. Maybe the reason I came to Africa in the first place, my job, is over, but the fun part is only now beginning. All of this without thinking first.

The Waswahili have a great saying that sort of sums it all up for me: Maisha ni kama maua, na sisi ni kama vipepeo. Life is like flowers, and we are like butterflies.

Maybe grown ups don't know so much after all.

Kwa heri, Tanzania. Nitakukumbuka sana.

(*For all you douche bag Tanzanian drivers out there who use your brights full time on the roads after sunset, I want to impress upon you the knowledge that temporary blindness given to an oncoming driver could well be fatal for you, too. If that's what you're gonna do, though, that's what you're gonna do. I've accepted it; but I will never, never, be contented in that category. It's like how I feel about people back home not giving the wave. I don't expect that here, but I will never back down in my mission to teach people here like you a lesson, one at a time. If you turn on your brights, I'm turning my brights on too, until you pass by me. Even if you turn yours off, I'm keeping mine on to show you the depths of my mercy: baby pool territory. If cars behind you have to suffer, I apologize to them in advance. Collateral damage is sometimes a necessary casualty of the pursuit of justice.)

Last week, I got to watch my first NBA game of the year. It just happened to be the last for the 2007-08 season. Game 6 was truly a joy to watch. I hate Kobe Bryant, you see.

It fell during the second night of a week-long safari I was on with my family. All the main national parks in Tanzania's northern circuit were on the itinerary, but only one of those ended up having a TV with satellite feed. And it just happened to fall on the exact day that I had been hoping for all along.

The only thing that would have been more fun than waking up before 4 in the morning to watch from East Africa would have been actually going to the game, like my friend Erin did.




She stole the idea for a sign that I surely would have thought of on my own.

It's funny because he hasn't seen "He Got Game." He doesn't get it.

If you haven't seen "He Got Game," either, you won't get that joke.

Denzel and Ray Ray, a.k.a., Jesus Shuttlesworth

I know it's late -- the Draft was last night, after all. But I've only found time now to post this epic story. I almost lost it all, too, when I had copy and paste issues at 7:30 in the morning after having stayed up all night typing down my thoughts in the Running Diary NBA Finals Edition.

Luckily, I was clever enough to think of just taking pictures of the screen, and rewriting in when I got back to Arusha.




And afterwards, I left a comment in the Serena Lodge's "Wildlife Seen Today" book.

Hongera means "Congratulations" in Swahili. And oh yeah, I did not write "Jackass." There must've been a Lakers fan in the house.

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I woke up at 3:53 a.m. on the dot -- time for a shower and a question from a sleeping Elizabeth, groggily trying to ascertain where it was that I was going (the very fact that she didn't remember showed how tired she was). "To watch Game 6, wanna come?" I whispered.

"No," she mumbled back from La La Land. Garland, my little sister, was still asleep. But she had asked me to wake her up at halftime.

There was no way my mother was going to come; I knew that. But my dad? I tried to recruit him because I thought he understood the significance of this year's Finals: Boston-Los Angeles, a rivalry renewed, the first time he'd get to share in it with his only son. For a man who only likes hunting "because of the camaraderie," The Bob surely would want to take advantage of such a prime opportunity for father-son bonding.

Here is a transcript of the conversation that took place just after midnight, or under four hours before I wanted to get up:

Me: "You gettin' up with me?"

The Bob: "No."

Me: "Why not? It's Game 6."

The Bob: "I just have no interest."

Me: "What do you mean? It's CELTICS-LAKERS."

The Bob: "I just don't have any interest."

Me: "Why don't you just untuck it out from under your legs and get up with me?"

The Bob: "I really don't have any interest."

Whatever. I'll watch it by myself. And he'll be sorry when I tell you about how awesome it was.

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4:12 a.m. - AND I'M HERE! Just a tad late, but that shower was a must if I'm gonna make it through the night (slash, morning). I feel bad for waking up the Maasai security guard who was sleeping so peacefully in the TV room when I came in. I mean, it's so rude to wake someone up at work, right?

A Kobe three makes it 7-5 L.A. with 9:13 to go in the first.

No Michael.

"This is what Kobe Bryant has to do. He's the best player on the planet -- in the world, and certainly on this court," comes the voice of one of the ESPN International broadcasters. Let the hit parade begin!

I had a scare when I turned on the TV (Bryant with another three by the way -- that's six points in the first minute I've seen), and the channel that I had left it on before going to bed didn't come up. But after a few especially hard palpitations of the heart, boom, I found it.

The feed is super blurry and distorted, like it's October 2004 and I'm watching the MLB Playoffs on the Internet from Geneva. I can hear everything, and see almost nothing -- the exact opposite of what you want when you're dealing with ESPN International. But I'm not complaining. The odds of Game 6 falling on the one night that I'm going to have an opportunity to catch it on satellite feed were slim to none; like Scott Pollard and Brian Scalabrine, I'm just happy to be here.

The greatest thing about this year's Celtics team, in my opinion, is the fact that they have been able to combine The Big Three (Pierce, Garnett, Allen) with The "Big Fives," my name for the tag team duo of Scalabrine and Pollard. I mean, look at these two. Could you think of a better pair for giving high fives to the good players? Both with repeat numbers in the high double digits. Neither exceptionally chiseled. One clean cut, the other doing his white Rodman thing. And zero P.T. Danny Ainge is a genius because he understands not only the importance of good play on the court, but just as significant, the ability of humorous bench warmers to greet those good players when they're coming to the bench for a timeout. Well done, Danny. Well done.

4:14 a.m. - "How do you break a windshield on the plane?" another of the announcers ponders out loud. What?? Did that happen to someone on the court?

Rajon Rondo just took a Soweto style shot from the low block (Soweto is the name of the court where Hunter and I play in Arusha. Think Phoenix Suns style of play, with players who aren't quite as good as those on the Phoenix Suns). And like a Soweto shot usually does, he missed.

4:15 a.m. - 10-10 tie, 7:36 in the quarter.

"Rondo very impressive early ... and can't get it to fall," as Pao Gasol gets the board. "He's 0-for-4 from the field." First time in history someone who misses his first four shots has been labeled as "impressive early?"

Derek Fisher just looks like such a nice guy.

Four turnovers for the Lakers so far. 6:03 left in the quarter.

Rondo finally gets on the board; 1-of-5 now.

"DE-FENSE! (blurry pounding noise, blurry pounding noise, thanks to the high quality feed I'm getting). DE-FENSE! (blurry pounding noise, blurry pounding noise, thanks to the high quality feed I'm getting)."

I take back what I said about good sound and bad visuals. Now, they both suck. I feel like I'm trying to bump DJ Screw from my '92 Ford Explorer in high school.

Bryant just nailed his third three. "Are you kidding me!" one announcer exclaims. "No, really. These shots he's making are incredible!" For someone whose name means "turtle" in Swahili, Kobe's off to a pretty fast start. (Hi-ohhh!!)

Kobe anavuka barabarani.

Just caught a glimpse of The Turtle talking with the ref while using the ball to cover his mouth, shielding his complaints from the camera. Kobe. This isn't the NFL. It's not baseball. Don't cover your mouth. We all know what your game plan is. It's you.

4:19 a.m. - "With his right leg extended! And he took a little bump! Now that is what you call PURE! P-U-R-E, pure!" -- ESPN International.

Celebrity crowd shots. "There's Stephen Tyler. I don't think I've ever seen him at an NBA game. And here is with a wonderful seat." First off, he looks like a hot woman. Secondly, I like the broadcaster's attempt at hiding his obvious disdain for rich non fans like the lead singer of Aerosmith trying to turn the Not Garden into the Staples Center.

The Turtle so far: 11 points, 4-of-5 from the field, 3-of-4 from three, with five minutes left in the opening quarter. Could be a looooooong night for Boston defenders.

By the way, it's still really blurry.

Boston takes a one point lead on Ray Allen's baseline drive, courtesy of another weak effort by the underachiever of our generation, Lamar Odom. Allen is hurt on the play; he heads to the Celtic locker room as Odom takes two on the other end. 14-13 Celts.

The best third best player in the league

("Right there Ray!" you hear some attendant yell to Allen in the corridor. Could have sworn this was a home .... game.....).

Score tied at 14.

Nice Garnett, the first points I've ever witnessed you score in a Boston uniform.

"Rondo's taken more shots than anyone else on the floor so far." And he's made but the one. You can be sure Cassell is coming in, thereby fulfilling Bill Simmons' worst nightmare.

4:25 a.m. - I admit it. I have a nonsexual man crush on Luke Walton.

Melt!

4:26 a.m. - KG two in a row now. You can't stop the KG Trans.

Took me months to finally get a good shot of this daladala

Tied at 18.

"Back to Garnett, tripled teamed ... (fade away jumper) ... and it's good!" Three in a row. Eight in the first quarter. "And the Celtics, back up by two." 2:40 in the quarter.

4:30 a.m. - Now this one, you cannot blame on the "International" branch. The Sports Illustradetization of all media continues its onward march with the ABC piece on Kevin Garnett and his love of pre-game peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

"The secret is out," the head man in the booth remarks when it's over.

"Hey, the way he's playing in this game, he's gonna change his name from 'The Big Ticket' to 'The Big Loaf'!" the Sterling Sharpe NBA equivalent blurts out.

"Bahaha, you've been sittin' on that one for a while, huh?"

"A little bit!"

ESPN International, ladies and gentlemen.

Did I hear Paul Pierce is now 0-for-5 from the field, by the way?

The Truth is that Kobe is a weak ass bitch

4:31 a.m. - Not that I saw, just heard, (thank you, satellite interference), but KG threw down a monster alley, and the Not Garden is "so loud right now." Boston by four.

Rondo has three steals. Keep sitting, Sam.

Five-of-seven, three boards for KG so far. He's got almost half of Boston's points. Pierce has none. Must be the PB and J.

4:37 a.m. - "This is Sportscenter" commercial with the Stanford tree, John Andersen and a paper recycle bin. A modern classic.

The announcers are talking about the difference in atmosphere between the Finals games that have been played in Boston vs. in Los Angeles. I've been to Staples, and I couldn't see how you could possibly get psyched for a game in a place where it's that comfortable to sit down. It's like a movie theater. A new one. In Games 3 and 4, they're saying, it has felt "like a preseason game."

Which is why L.A. sucks.

End of 1. Boston 24, L.A. 20. Kobe's got 11, KG with 10.

4:40 a.m. - Sometimes, I just don't get on court reporters.

Michelle Tafoya: "Is this one of those games where you want Kobe to take over for ya?"

Phil Jackson: "Well, he's gotta right now..." (What his facial expression is really saying: "What the [expletive] do you THINK, you stupid [expletive]?")

By the way, still blurry.

4:41 a.m. - BIG BABY DAVIS makes his first appearance in the Finals. Yes, Baby. Yes, Danny Ainge.

How many draft spots did he rise just because of the braces? It just makes you think, "And he's got potential!"

It's him on Ronny Turiaf, too! Two of my favorite all time college players.

Stat pops up for Vujacic in the last two games, since his 20-point explosion in Game 3: 3-for-19 from the field. But he knocks down that trey to get within two.

4:43 a.m. - The worst thing about the blurry feed is that I won't be able to see Kobe glaring at his teammates, a la www.38pitches.com's description.

Pan to the Boston crowd on the Odom free throw. As Marilyn Manson would NOT say, "The beautiful people, the beautiful people..." Boston has harsh winters.

Joey Crawford hits Doc with a T. Wasn't this the same ref that was suspended for giving Tim Duncan a completely unwarranted tech during a late regular season game last year? His 31st year in the league, they're saying on TV. And he's a horrible ref. It's time to consider euthanasia.

4:46 a.m. - Pierce with the long three takes Boston's lead to five. And what do ya know, Vujacic responds with a missed three.

Can I motion that Paul Pierce's name be officially changed to "Pawl Pee-us?" Whoever the NYC broadcaster is that keeps saying it that way is making The Truth sound way tougher than he is. And Pee-us is already damn tough.

4:48 a.m. - As I look at Leon Powe's No. 0 jersey, I think of my friend Andy from high school. During a game our senior year at Strake, there was a an opposing player with a zero as the second digit. I don't remember the first digit: he could have been No. 10, 20, 30, no clue. But whichever one it was, this poor player had unknowingly drawn a big red target on his back simply by slipping his jersey over his head that night. Andy is loud. And persistent. And shameless.

Here is the rich white kid private schooler invective he hollered with every ounce of strength during a lull in the crowd noise right before a free throw:

"Hey No. [10/20/30/40/50]!! The second digit on your jersey is equivalent to your relative value as a HUMAN BEING!!!"

Everyone in the gym heard this. My friend Miguel, who is a converted 713er, imitated the reaction of one of the 281er visiting players on the bench just a few rows below us: "Ee-kwiv-uh-lent....?"

But Leon would have gotten it; he went to Berkeley.

(As I was writing that, Big Number Zero scores on a dish from Pierce).

How has Powe not played since his 20-point outburst??

Boston won 24 games last year. Right now they lead by five, with 8:23 left in the first half.

Allen still in the locker room. Did I dream that I heard him make a shot since that injury? And why can't he just heal himself? Jesus was pretty good at curing blindness, or so I've read.

4:53 a.m. - I am guessing the NYC guy is Mark Jackson. We'll see how good I am.

"Today is June 17th. The Celtics are going for their 17th title. And there's Havlicek, No. 17."

I tell you what, Big Baby just doesn't look as cool sans braces.

"I think Bill Russell could block three shots in 15 minutes off the bench now." Maybe Doc would be interested!

Gasol with his first bucket of the night.

4:57 a.m. - Boston's seventh offensive board (L.A. has none) leads to a Posey three, to make it 35-29 Boston. HOUSE WITH THE THREE! Nine point lead. Timeout Lakers. The TV is still blurry.

And still no Sam Cassell sightings!

Me seeing these NBA Playoff video montages during the commercial breaks is actually kind of exciting. These are not reruns for me, after all. It's my first game of the year, remember? "The Finals: Where Amazing Happens." Let's hope so. The sun still hasn't even risen. I want a return on my investment.

Kobe has cooled since his 11 point opening frame. Only two so far in the second. The C's are just swarming him. Or so I hear. The TV is still blurry. At this point I've typing while looking at my computer screen; it is a radio broadcast, really.

5 a.m. - Tafoya is still in the tunnel waiting for Allen to return. She's like Stacey from "Wayne's World" at this point.

Or maybe she wants to play Mary Magdalene to Ray Allen's Jesus

Oh, no, wait, here he comes. Allen trying to do his own Willis thing. Nice try, Jesus (how many of you would have gotten that joke without the preface about Erin?) He had eight points in eight minutes; but are they missing him?

"And the lead is now 11, just past the midpoint in the second."

Pierce rips Kobe, and POSEY WITH THE THREE! 43-29 Celtics. The Lakers are slowly fading away.

I can barely see them.

"Their fifth three pointer of the first half, and Phil Jackson needs ANOTHER timeout. Eleven sytraight points for the Boston Celtics!"

5:05 a.m. - Who is more muscular on average? The NBA referee, or the 40-year-old gay guy?

Allen re-enters with 4:44 left in the half.

Gasol's got the last six Laker points.

Vladimir Radmanovic "fires up a rainbow" that does not go. I will always associate Radmanovic with Kobe for one reason: the words for telling someone to give you a blowjob in Serbian.

"Puši kurac!" (poo shee kue rots) It's the first thing every tourist who comes to the Three Black Catz Hostel in Belgrade learns how to say in Srpski, whether the teacher be Mladen, or Adi, or one of the Black Catz regulars. In February 2007, when I was still in Belgrade, Bryant temporarily stole my heart when it was discovered that he was as familiar with puši kurac as me or Stewy or Kris. (I have since reverted to hating Kobe).

It was only by chance that I saw the newspaper with his giant photo and the words KOBI SRBIN scrawling across in all caps. I had gone to visit Ana that day at work, and it was sitting on the rack right next to the counter. It was one of two times I bought a newspaper throughout my time in the Balkans.

And it must have happened around Feb. 28 of last year, because the newspaper made its way into my box during my Dick in a Box birthday party at the Black Catz

Turns out that the night before, in a game against who else but the Celtics, "Serbian Kobe" had gotten pissed at Delonte West about something, and was caught by the courtside mike clearly saying, "Puši kurac!" in the lefty's direction. Not a single American citizen outside of Chicago, the world's second biggest Serbian city after Beograd, understood what he was saying, but the people of Serbia sure did, and they got to watch it over and over again thanks to the opportune Fox Sports Net camera that caught it (watch his mouth and listen at the 18 second mark).

Pierce with seven assists already. Sam Cassell, meanwhile, is still M.I.A.

5:08 a.m. - "That's how you become a household name." Pawl Pee-us, The Troof! I admit that I always thought him to be a little bit overrated ... until this postseason. He will definitely be Finals MVP if their 14 point lead with 3:40 in the half holds.

Wow, Rondo reminds me of a player at Soweto, kabisa. One-for-seven after the missed lay up. Bill Simmons was right about how atrocious Boston is on the fast break. Still, Boston leads by 13.

YES! "Now it's time for another, World's Strongest Man Minute!"

Before the sun has risen here in East Africa, I find myself watching two roided out guys pushing these 20 foot poles across the ground, connected to a lever or something. I love ESPN International.

5:12 a.m. - How do you guys feel about the black-and-white photos that show different players holding onto the trophy before they actually win it? Has anyone ever heard of the word "jinx"?

Pierce, the one I just saw jinxing it, had a losing record in six of his first nine seasons in Boson. And now he'a bout to become a Beantown legend. Sixth all time leading scorer in Celtics history?!?!?!

5:15 a.m. - I'm saying it now: Boston leads by 15 with just over two to play in the half, but L.A. will lead again in this game. You heard it here.

Jordan Farmar's godfather is Eric Davis? Yet more proof for my "He my cousin" theory. (See: T-Mac and Vince; Sheff and Reggie; VY and McNair).

As Boston takes it to 51-35, the TV reception reaches a new low.

Rondo, with the Soweto move again, only this time, it somehow falls in. "Rondo has had an outstanding first half, on both ends of the floor." ... But didn't he make only two field goals so far? And miss like ten?

Garnett takes Boston up 20 on the sweet, sweet pick and roll, with Lamar bumping him on the release. It's a 23-6 run now for the Celtics, with KG at the line trying to take the lead to 21.

He does. Boston an incredible 13-for-14 from the stripe.

"Blocked by Perkins!" And the C's are rollin. Perkins (H-TOWN!) scores underneath after the defensive highlight; 58-35 Boston. Kobe misses badly on the deep three with six seconds left.

A 26-6 run to close the half. Pierce has got ten and nine.

Again, Tafoya baffles me with her questions. This time, she asks KG why his team appears to be playing with so much energy.

Garnett: "It's the NBA Finals. And we at home! Whatchou expect!"

Michelle. That's twice now. Twice you've drawn the "I really want to call you a stupid bia bia" response out someone on the court. "How did you find this much energy? " Was that really your question?

KG's got 17 so far. Boston, they're resting on a 23-point lead. Maybe I take back this statement:

"5:15 a.m. - I'm saying it now: Boston leads by 15 with just over two to play in the half, but L.A. will lead again in this game. You heard it here."

5:21 a.m. - Going to wake up Garland now. She needs to witness history unfold.

5:26 a.m. - Halftime show. Jon Barry said the word "demolish" twice in the course of his explanation of how the Celtics are playing. He probably did not do too well on Verbal.

I see D. Wade is getting a head start on his broadcasting career. Smart, seeing as he is the next Penny Hardaway.

"You do not wanna miss the sight and sounds of the NBA Finals," Stu Scott says. No, I don't. But with this TV feed doing what it's doing, I am.

5:28 a.m. - The Lebron, "Hey Scott, did you possibly switch chairs with me?" SC commercial may just be my favorite one ever. Wow.

5:29 a.m. - I hear Garland tap on the window outside, as she tries to peer into the lobby to see if I'm actually in there. She is clearly in a daze after being shaken from her slumber, lost and confused as she tries to make her way into the TV room. A 17-year-old girl, not even from Boston, wakes up at 5:30 in the morning to come watch Game 6 with her brother. She is such a badass.

"I wanna remind y'all of just one thing. Everybody wants to win." - Doc Rivers, Motivational Speaker.

5:31 a.m. - Stu Scott just informed me that after tonight, OUT OF 62 NBA CHAMPS, 31 WILL HAVE BEEN BOSTON OR L.A.!!!!!!!!!

(Flashback to The Bob: "I just have no interest." How??)

5:34 a.m. - "That's how you do it! That's how you do it! One more! ONE MORE!" Pierce yelled after Game 4, according to the montage. Now DAT is da troof. I love this man.

Now I just caught a "punked" reference by Barry.

"I gotta give some love to the Marquette grad, Doc Rivers," says Flash. Then the feed cuts out and it's all muted. I wonder what he followed that line with? Did it have to do with the game, Doc Rivers Motivational Speaker's superb pre-game pep talks, or maybe the fact that Wade only finished one year of school?

5:37 a.m. - Garland's take on my transcript of the conversation I had with my father last night before going to bed: "That's lovely. I'm sure he's gonna be stoked to see that on the Internet."


START OF SECOND HALF.


5:42 a.m. - Rondo's baseline J puts it at 60-35.

The C's had more steals in first half than the Lakers had field goals. Did you read that? Did you process it? The Celtics had more steals in the first half than the Lakers had field goals. Not only that, but L.A. did not have a single offensive rebound in the first half ... AND THEY SHOT UNDER 25 PERCENT FROM THE FIELD!

Now that reminds me of Soweto, the court where "boxing out" is considered a foul.

So, Boston has a 24 point lead. And Kobe missed again. And Ray Allen just hit a three. C's by 27.
They are not going to lose.

LAL 36 BOS 63

That's what it says on the screen. The mirror image. Never good when the score reaches "mirror image" proportions.

5:45 a.m. - Oh, and Garland agrees that DFish looks like a nice guy, too. And she voted for the 40-year-old gay guy as being stronger on average than the NBA referee.

The Lakers just look like they've given up at this point. I wonder if Kobe just decides to charter his own flight home, then demand either a) a trade, or b) public hangings of both Vujacic and Odom. And Gasol.

"Still over 21 minutes left in this one." ... as Pierce's drive makes it 67-41.

Radmanovic's three, though, could be a turning point...

.... pause, not! Rondo's and 1 puts the lead back to 26. That happened in the first four seconds of the shot clock. A good offensive team? Or a team that has zero heart on D?

5:50 a.m. - Thirty to 15 on the rebound tally. Guess who has 30. (As I type that, Rondo rips Kobe for his fifth steal of the game, and Allen, Jesus Christ himself, makes it 73-46!!!)

Kobe, with 16 points, is only 5-of13 from the field. Sounds like MJ.




Pause, not!

Yes, Borat. Thankyou for bringing the "not jokes" back. Now, if I could only find a way to do the same for the thumbs up, as cool as Rollerblades in America, still used by everyone in Tanzania.




Kobe will never be MJ. Never.

5:53 a.m. - All right, NYC announcer (still not sure if it is Mark Jackson or not), it's time for you to realize that Danny Ainge didn't just get a "group of guys" to put them over the hump. He got a guaranteed Hall of Famer in Garnett, and another that is pretty damn close in Allen. It was the jack of all trades ... twice ... in one offseason. A turnaround like this one is not happening again this decade. And dat's da troof.

And don't forget about Scalabrine, Pollard or Big Baby.

5:54 a.m. - Ah, the woman's touch. Garland notices that Boston's floor is laid down differently than other NBA courts. And she thinks it's awesome. I agree.

5:55 a.m. - Jim Kelly loses his Hall of Fame jacket on rock, paper, scissors with some random blue mascot on the "This is Sportscenter" commercial. The blue mascot proceeds to stuff the jacket down his mouth. I want to work for that ad company.

5:56 a.m. - And the lights at the Serena Lodge are now on. The sun, however, is still a long ways from up.

Kobe talking to Lamar on the floor. What could he be saying?

I am shocked to find out that Kobe grew up in Italy. Pause, not!

"Okay, if you don't pick up your game, I'm going to have your toes chopped off one by one, then I'm going to go Samuel Doe style on your ears, then I'm going to take a page from the movie 'Hostel,' brought to you by Quentin Tarantino. Got it?"

KG with 21 and 10. Boston up 30.

The first shot of Cassell on the bench shows Sam standing there with a very confused look on his face: "Wait ... doesn't Doc want to throw me in there, just so Bill Simmons can make his obligatory comments?"

6 a.m. - Celtics were 23-of-24 from the line until that Garnett miss.

Allen is all over Kobe.

6:03 a.m. - A good point brought up by the play-by-play man is that this will be the first Boston championship, in any sport, that is clinched in Boston since the last Celtics title in the mid 80s. (Super Bowls are all at neutral sites, and the Sox won at St. Louis and at Colorado).

"And now, ANOTHER, World's Strongest Man Minute!" Once again. For some reason, they're cutting down on these little gems during ESPN International broadcasts. During the Super Bowl and the NCAA title game, it was like every other commercial break. Today, only a few. What's significant about this latest one, though, is that I'm witnessing the Jackie Robinson of World's Strongest Man lift two small cars connected to a dumbbell into the air, many, many times. I have never seen a black contestant. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I've even seen a white contestant not from Scandinavia make an appearance on a World's Strongest Man Minute.

6:08 a.m. - With 13 steals, Boston is now four short of tying a Finals record set in 1975.

And Kobe is apparently trying to help them make history. Right as I started to think of a cute line about KB24, while actually in the process of typing his name, he gets bitched by Rondo. Another steal. Make that 14 on the night. Six for Rajon alone.

(Why aren't they showing more shots of a confused Cassell??)

Largest margin of victory in a clinching Finals game: the 1965 Celtics, who beat L.A. by 33.

"You know the definition of 'regal'? John Havlicek. Can you look any better than that?" the same announcer who coined KG's new nickname, "Mr. Loaf," gushes. My man crush on Luke Walton is nonsexual. Can't say the same for that guy's feelings towards No. 17.

6:13 a.m. - (Real quick: you KNOW Shaq is texting D. Wade on his T-Five deal with the words, "Kobe is a weak ass bitch.")

"As long as Kobe never wins one, I'll always be able to talk shit."

Celtics lead, by a lot.

6:17 a.m. - Kobe on the bench to start the fourth.

KOBE BRYANT, A.K.A. "THE TURTLE," THE LEAGUE MVP, THE MAN WHO WANTED MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD TO PROVE THAT HE CAN DO IT WITHOUT SHAQ, IS ON THE BENCH TO START THE FOURTH QUARTER OF AN ELIMINATION GAME IN THE NBA FINALS.

His team is in the hole, 89-60.

"When I say WEAK ASS, you say BITCH!" Shaq is texting to Flash right about now.

Just found out the identities of the broadcasting crew, and I was right on Mark Jackson. He is the NYC guy. The others are Mike Breen and Jeff Van Gundy (how did I not know that?). I guess this isn't the ESPN International "special" crew after all. This is what U.S. sports broadcasting has become.

But I knew it was Jackson! (It makes me sad that JVG was the one making that "Big Loaf" joke, though. It really does.)

Kobe looks like he's about to cry. He's even wearing his warm ups.

"WEAK ASS, BITCH! WEAK ASS, BITCH!"

Sure, L.A. had that huge comeback from 24 down in the fourth early in the series. That was in L.A., though. This is Boston.

Just saw the first "I came out of the game and I want to remember this moment" hug take place on the Boston bench. It was P.J. Brown (or, as JVG would say if he were given the opportunity, "PB and J Brown.") Whenever you see one of these hugs happen for the home team, you know the "Na na na na" chant is just around the corner.

6:23 a.m. - Kobe still on the bench. I wonder if he's even rooting for them to come back, seeing as that would prove they play better when not fearing the burning glare of Bryant's disapproval should they make a mistake. "If they can't do it with me, I don't want them to do it at all." Just saying, it's a possibility.

6:24 a.m. - "What are they chanting?" I ask Garland, as I cock my head closer to the TV, going into listening intently mode.

"I don't know, something about Kobe."

She's right, I realize. Something about Kobe. And then, I realize exactly what:

"WHERE IS KOH-BEE! (BOOM, BOOM, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM) WHERE IS KOH-BEE!"

Hapa hapa!!

Why didn't ABC install a freaking camera in Shaq's living room for this game??!!!!!!

I see ABC is taking a page from TNT is incorporating its parent company's upcoming summer blockbusters into its coverage of the NBA Playoffs. "There are heroes. There are superheroes. And then, there is Hancock." Shockingly, Will Smith was cast as the lead role in a movie that a) is a summer blockbuster, b) deals with heroes, and c) deals with the salvation of humanity.

6:30 a.m. - "This is one of the all time blowouts in NBA Finals history," Breen says as I finish texting Miguel, who is watching from Houston, about the "Where is Kobe?" chant. Boston 106, L.A. 72, with 7:27 to go in the season.

The first guests at Serena are now awake. And I just noticed that the sun, too, is up.

Oh, and Kobe is back in. I guess he just couldn't take it anymore. It's like the scene in "Saving Private Ryan" when Tom Hanks pulls out the handgun and shoots at an oncoming tank. He knows he's screwed; might as well go out swinging.

JVG brings up a good point, that after Boston went out and got KG and Ray Ray, hovering near the luxury tax, they went out and signed James Posey, who was on that Miami team with Shaq and D. Wade. Breen brings up the Eddie House signing as well. Say what you will about Danny Ainge (I'm looking at you, Bill Simmons), but if you're a Boston fan, you owe him some puši kurac right about now.

6:33 a.m. - "did not see this coming at all, thought it would be the lakers in 5, wow," Miguel texts back.

WHERE IS KOH-BEE!

Anatoroka, pole pole.

6:34 a.m. - "And now, ANOTHER, World's Strongest Man Minute!" The star of this one is named Odd Haugen. Yes, you read that correctly. Odd is 56 years old, and Norwegian. Kind of like the Jamie Moyer, then, of World's Strongest Man. "The first apparatus? The canon ball," the announcer bellows. With a voice like that, I'm just waiting for him to yell, "Snap into a Slim Jim!"

6:36 a.m. - Which SC commercial featuring Scott Van Pelt is better? The "Did you switch chairs with me?" one with Lebron, or the "No, I don't have any socks" one with Melo. Judging on a pure acting basis, you gotta give it to Melo.

6:37 a.m. - "I was so close, but I could never get my hands on it. That's why I wanna touch it." - Doc Rivers, on the NBA trophy.

"That's what she said." - me, on Doc Rivers.

"NA NA NA NAHHHHH! NA NA NA NAHHHHH! HEEEEY HEEEY HEEEEYYYY! GOOOOOD BYYYYYYE!"

GOOSEBUMPS! Is there a better sound in THE WORLD than that song as a sports fan? I'm not even from Boston, but I hate Kobe, so I say no. There is not.

6:40 a.m. - Honestly, it looks like KG is about to faint. He is wobbling all over the place ont he sideline as he subs out for the last time. It's like Ken Stabler taking a field sobriety test.

If you're Bill Simmons, it's time to shut the f up FOREVER about Doc Rivers. I don't want to hear anything, ever again, from the Sports Guy about that. They won the championship. Doc Rivers outcoached Phil Jackson. His pep talks worked.

6:41 a.m. - Look at KG! The reason he is such a badass is because, for him, this is college basketball. He never got to experience that, and he has been stuck in a college basketball mode since he came out when I was still in junior high. He's over there slapping skins with two pimply white fans sitting in the dope seats behind the C's bench, giving them the slap-hug to boot. Those guys are never bathing again. I am getting chills just picturing how he must feel right now.

And Pierce. Paul "Da Troof " Pierce. To be stuck on all those terrible Celtics teams, to be stuck with Antoine Walker, to survive all the way from the Rick Pitino era (RICK PITINO!) .. he will single handedly generate a 450 percent spike in the granting of the name "Paul" to newborn boys in the state of Massachusetts for the next 12 months. And Scott Pollard, well, you can't ask for better seats than that.

Same with Scalabrine.

KG is literally covering his eyes, with 2:18 to go, either from the shock or because he doesn't want the world to see him cry.

6:47 a.m. - "SE-VEN-TEEN! SE-VEN-TEEN! SE-VEN-TEEN!"

Just saw a Delonte West look-a-like on the Celtics bench, clearly a security guard, wearing a security guard hat like it's an oversized New Era. Two sizes too big, covering his ears. It's like a little kid playing dress up policeman. It's not a red Yankees hat, dude. Don't do that.

Twenty-six points on 10-of-18 shooting, 14 boards in the biggest game of KG's career. Yeah, I'd say he's player of the game.

6:50 a.m. - VUJACIC FOR THREE!! FROM THE CORNER!!!

And the Lakers cut the lead to 40.

Paul. The Gatorade bath? With 30 seconds left? Hardwood floors aren't quite as absorbent as football fields. People could really get hurt if they slipped on that. I don't think I've ever seen a Gatorade dunk during an NBA game, and that is probably the reason for it. Calm down.

6:53 a.m. - The 24 second violation with 4.4 seconds left. As Boston is tryi9ng to kill the clock. It's like making NFL teams come back on the field with one second left. I love it.

The Boston Celtics are world champions.

Man, the city of Boston really deserved that. I mean, how long has it been since they had a major championship, seven whole months?

6:55 a.m. - All I can think as I watch KG right now is Borat at the Christian revival. He just yelled something after the word "AHHHH!!" but I couldn't catch it. It sounds like Three Six Mafia on Oscar night. Garland swears she heard him scream, "I'm blind!"

Hopefully Jesus can cure him.

There's more: "Man I'm so, I'm so HYPE right now," he says to Tafoya, who is not asking dumb questions for once. "Anything's possible. ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE!!!" He is more emotional than any other athlete I've ever witnessed. It is incredible.

"Kevin," Tafoya asks, "what does the top of the world feel like?"

"Im CERTIFIED!" he yells. "I'm certified."

Michelle looks like she just wants to hug the big man.

"Whatchyou goin' say now, WHAT CAN YOU SAY??"

Now a shot of KG and Bill Russell hugging. I never realized just how tall KG is. Or just how much Bill has shrunk in his old age.

"I've got my own," KG says over and over. "I've got my own, man. I hope we made you proud." This looks like a grandfather-grandson moment.

Looks like KG was trying to give a little puši kurac to the C's mascot on center court, as he gets on all fours and kisses the leprechaun right between the legs. He could have kissed anywhere else on the entire thing, and he chooses the crotch. Maybe he really is blind like Garland said.

7:02 a.m. - I've seen some amazing sports moments from East Africa this year. This is up there with the Super Bowl and the NCAA title game.

You know you're a badass announcer when the Not Garden crowd chants your name: "Stuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!"

Was that a "boo!" for Stern, though? ("No, they're saying 'Boo-urns! Booo-urns!')

"Someplace, somewhere, Red is lighting up a cigar," the commish says.

7:04 a.m. - Doc's pink collar makes him look like a UVa frat boy.

7:05 a.m. - Stern starts talking about the Finals MVP (obviously the Truth) when the boo birds return. He pauses -- are they booing at me? -- but then he realizes, no, they're calling out "Truuuuuuuuuth," 34's nickname. And you can see the relief on the commish's face. "The Truth," he says with a chuckle -- they like me, they really like me.

Ray Ray Finals record seven three pointers.

The Big Three giving Ainge a noogie.




131-92. Let the party begin ... in Boston.




I've got to spend the whole day driving around the bumpy roads of the Serengeti. But it was worth it.

Itakuwa Safari Njema

We're all here, me, The Bob, LP, Eli and Garlando Magic Parsley. My whole family, together in Africa.

Photo taken in Galveston, Tx., two weeks ago. I was not in Texas two weeks ago. Brings to mind that really cool company NCI. (I think this should be our Christmas card next year. Christmas cards are always so boring and predictable; I want to be the family when I grow up that always does something cool/funny/creative on our cards)

That will be a departure from the norm of the past two years. I've been home a total of 10 weeks since June 2006, and the last time my dad used visiting me as an excuse to travel for an exotic and distant land (Turkey), Elizabeth didn't join them. So I'm pumped. We're doing a safari in northern TZ -- Tarangire, Ngorongoro, Manyara and the Serengeti -- and I'll be chilling for a week.

Of course, The Bob got geared up like a mother for the trip. I go to the airport to pick him up tonight, and the man's got on a brand new pair of Chaco's. "It's official," I said, as I looked down at the black socks he wore underneath them, "I'm never wearing Chaco's again." It was a good run: from the summer after high school, 2002, until now. Sandals aren't it though. He got the hat, the dry fit gear, the pants that zip into shorts, the shirts with excessive amounts of pockets and ventilation systems ... and that's not even counting the purchases he's alleged to have made from SkyMall. Garland, who sat next to him on the flights to Amsterdam and then Kilimanjaro, said he was having a ball using his new "neck pillow," a device from the future that you inflate, wrap around your neck like a brace, and then just doze off without having to lean against anything.

What is it about safari's that make people want to go and buy REI? I mean, you're just sitting, in a car, looking at animals. You're sitting. For like five days. On your ass. You don't need to buy anything for the wilderness; you're just in a car. There is no trekking. No mountaineering. You're having all your meals cooked for you and sleeping in "tents" that are actually canvas houses. For Christ's sake, I've heard they put down table cloths when you eat outside! I've never been on a safari, so I can't say yet, but my prediction is that all the super high tech, dry fit, this-cloth-is-so-sweat-absorbent-you-won't-even-think-you-ever-actually-sweated gear will have been rendered superfluous.

Honestly, I could care less about the safari (we'll see if I'm saying that if my one hope gets fulfilled: that I witness at least one act from the circle of life, like sex, or death, or child birth). I'm just happy to be with all my family. Honestly.

(But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited about being able to show off my Swahili.)

Itakuwa safari njema sana, Mungu akipenda.

The Tsh 50,000 Dog

After begging for a guard dog the entire year, and being told "no" time and time again for a variety of reasons, of course we finally get one during our last month of work.

Henry.

That's how stuff like this always works, I guess. Ndo maisha tu. It's just life. This principle explains why we had next to no friends for our first six months, for example, and why once we finally started to make them, it was just in time to get really attached and build up for a series of tearful goodbyes. A cynic would say "too little, too late." And I've traditionally been a cynic. But something has changed inside of me in the past couple of years. An "all or nothing" mindset has given way to one that is much more appreciative of the here and now -- even if the here and now can't last.

So even though we've been asking for a dog since August, and even though Hunter and I are outie at the end of June, I'm just happy to have the little guy around at all, even if he ain't gonna guard shit.

Henry is the opposite of an mbwa mkali. He's a cute little guy who wouldn't hurt a fly. He's also healthy with clean fur. He is a Mzungu dog, essentially -- on another plane from those ratty strays that roam the streets of Tanzania, in packs, with members that look identical to those ratty strays that roam the streets of every other third world country on the earth. Sam calls those types "third world dogs." Henry is a different.

Maybe instead of writing Mbwa Mkali on our gate as a warning, we should just be honest and write Mbwa Mzuri

The reason for this, though, is Andrea. To call her an "animal lover" would be like saying that Michael Moore is a "cheesburger lover." It is understating things just a tad. Andrea is obsessed with animals, and if you are one, there could not be a better person out there to save you from a life of K9 street hustlin' than her.

Tanzanians don't understand the concept of treating animals like people. We cooh and cah at our dogs like they're babies; Wabongo find this an amusing aspect of Mzungu behavior. We pet them and make sure they're getting a balanced diet; Wabongo kick them and feel grateful if they themselves can get both protein and carbohydrates two times a day. Half the times, people here dont even give their dogs names -- and when they do, like Baba Juma, they'll use the two names interchangeably for either one. And they're not feeding them Kibbles n' Bits, either. Dogs are lucky if they get to feed off of whatever scraps its owners throw out after dinner; otherwise, they've got to go search for their daily bread in trash piles and gutters. And one more thing: they're not "pets" here; they're security guards.

You could therefore imagine Andrea's relief when I told her we were looking for a dog. With us (wink, Wazungu), she could be sure Henry isn't going to end up chained outside with only ugali to eat for the rest of his days.

My Chaco's are the only thing this mbwa is interested in attacking.

Looks pretty fierce, huh? Well he's not. Henry -- that was the name given to him by Andrea -- is actually a giant kuma. Use context clues to figure out what that means. (Hint: Henry does not actually have a kuma; he just is one).

Ask yourself this question: WHAT KIND OF "GUARD DOG" ALLOWS HIMSELF TO BE KIDNAPPED?

The answer: One that is a kuma.

Oh yeah, my hair, too.

That's right, Henry was kidnapped from Andrea's house, just three days before she was scheduled to fly back to Canada, and just two days before she was scheduled to hand her puppy over to us. I still haven't been able to get the whole story; Andrea was gone by the time I found out that he'd actually been recovered. The last I heard from her was a text that said he'd been stolen. The next morning, Hunter and I set off on a weekend bike trip around the slopes of Kilimanjaro with Sam and some of her peeps. When we got back to A-Town Sunday afternoon, the last thing the two of us expected to see in the driveway was the panting face of little Henry, happy to see someone that might pet and/or feed him, as he ran up to greet two strange men who could have just as easily been foes as friends.

We ask for a guard dog all year, and we get a cute little puppy instead. Maisha tu.

Andrea's former roommate Meg, who is still living in the same house from which Henry was abducted, was able to fill me in on the details of what happened a little better, but honestly, I still am not 100 percent sure of what the hell happened. I know that someone came into their compound, took the dog off his chain, and walked out. I know that everyone was too distracted by Jane Goodall's visit to notice (they work for the Jane Goodall Institute, and she was visiting that day, actually sitting inside the house when Henry was stolen). I know that their Maasai askari, who hates Henry, was conveniently late to work that day. And I know that someone came over after a few hours claiming that he was Henry's rightful owner (fact: Andrea found him on the streets a few weeks ago, sick with parvovirus and near death), and that he wanted Tsh 150,000 (about $135-$140) for his return.

Henry was being held hostage.

What would you have done in that situation? Me, I can't say exactly. But something tells me that I would lose my mind. That is something that happens to me from time to time. "Temporary insanity," I suppose. I can only hope that I wouldn't reach for my machete and start chopping off the dudes fingers until he told me where the dog was. Wow. My blood starts to boil just envisioning being in that position. I'm just glad I've never been placed there, because I wouldn't want to see the direction in which my lightheaded rage would lead me.

Andrea, though, who loves Henry like her own child (no, really, like her own child) started to bargain, bringing the dude down from Tsh 150,000 to "just" 50,000.

"Just 50?" was actually the first thought that passed through my mind when I heard that that was the amount Andrea had had to pay to get Henry back. I've been in Tanzania for a long time, guys. Nothing shocks me anymore. Nothing.

Except for two things: that we finally got a "guard" dog, and that he was returned at all.

Henry wants to be an inside dog. We want the opposite.

Henry is a terrible name for a dog. All agreed? We've been looking for something new to call him since Andrea agreed to let us have him before going back to Newfoundland. Something in Swahili, preferably.

"How about Barak?" I proposed. Baraka is "blessing," and I thought dropping the final 'a' might bring Obama some good karma. Lali nodded her head in approval, even though she's not even American. But then I thought about the possibility of a (gasp!) McCain victory in November, and decided it'd be like getting your girlfriend's name tattooed on your forehead, risking a future state of affairs whereby you're reminded of an immense heartache every time you passed a mirror or a tinted window. Barak was no good.

The next idea that popped into my mind was to look up how to say "hostage" in my dictionary: Mateka. That was nixed by Lali; she's gonna be here for the next two years, after all, so she has veto power.

No Barak, no Mateka. What the hell are we gonna call this 50,000 shilling dog?

(Insert lightbulb being turned on above my head).

"Hamsini!" I yelled in a moment of eurkeka. "Fifty" in Swahili.

I immediately set to work writing "The Tsh 50,000 Dog" on Hamsini's collar with Sharpie. Just in case he gets lost one day, so someone will know exactly how much to charge on the ransom. That dude just better hope the next people to live here don't suffer from light headed rage.

Stuck in the gate door. Real scary, Hamsini.

Oy.

Last week, our friends Andrea and Meg came along with Hunter and I for a day trip out to Umaasaini to see our good friend Peter, the Cali boy we met during President Bush's visit to Arusha in February. Peter, who was a student at Fresno St. during that amazing David Carr season, somehow found himself seven years later smack dab in the middle of B. F. Monduli, a town a ways away from Arusha, in the heart of the Maasai steppe. It is the kind of place that comes to mind when kids who grew up during the Lion King generation think of Africa.

Hakuna matata, what a wonderful phrase

Escaping Arusha for a day can do wonders for your soul. Achana na black ehxaust smoke. Achana na street vendors calling you a Mzungu and trying to peddle their cheap, Made in China, "domestic" tinga tinga paintings. Achana na traffic jams. Achana na the sight of British tourist cankles. Achana na the grind. Now you're in Monduli. Nako2Nako's "Arusha Nightmares" seem like a past life. Your body shifts down a gear -- you don't feel quite as strong of an urge to protect yourself. The air here is so clean; it's almost like you can feel that fact in your pores. The quiet; that's another thing about Umaasaini, and about all the rural areas of Tanzania. That background hum, the one also known as maendeleo, "development," is absent.

You look up. The sky above is blue, incredibly blue, and so vast that it seems to envelop the entire universe. You hear the herds of goats or cattle in search only of something to eat, periodically bringing traffic on the bumpy, rain scarred laterite roads to a halt in the process. Crossing your path are aged yet still fierce looking Maasai wazee slowly walking by in a pack, usually of three or four. They are never too far separated from a separate group of those indefatigable beasts of burden, Maasai women, all circumcised, who balance buckets of water or bundles of firewood on their shaven pates, with earlobes the size of the "O" on an Orioles cap hanging halfway down their necks. This is Monduli. This is Umaasaini, the Maasai lands of northern Tanzania.

The school Peter helped start opened a couple of months ago. It took roughly three years of work to make it happen. To say that he's "given up his life" for this mission is not hyperbole. He doesn't make thousands of dollars living in the States; he makes enough to cover his expenses in Monduli, and that's it. They've got just over 40 students -- all Maasai, all from the surrounding areas -- enrolled in two pre-Form 1 classes that are preparing for the big national exam in September, the one that will determine which of them are ready to move on to secondary school, and which ones will be sent back to their boma's in Umaasaini. So the clock is ticking. And the pressure is on.

Each and every one of the students I met that day understands the stakes. And none of them want to go back to their boma just yet.

They all know what kind of life is waiting for them otherwise.

The only thing Peter said to Hunter when we called him from the car was that anyone wearing a red sweater was not to hear a word of Swahili. Kiingereza TU! Just English. Most of the students there didn't know a word beyond the basic "How ah YOO!"/"I em fine, sank yoo sah" /"Goody mohneeng"/"Geev me my muhn-ay!" package until they enrolled in school last April, and with the clock ticking until the national exams, every bit of English matters.

The dunce cap.

But I just couldn't help it. Some of my emotions simply come out in Swahili now. It doesn't matter who I'm talking to. Anyone who has ever spent a significant amount of time in another language zone knows what I'm talking about. And of course, the first time I slip up -- I tell two dudes "Tuko pamoja" (We're together) when I hear they like Nako2Nako -- Peter just happens to be right behind me, and I become the whipping boy.

No less than two minutes later, though, I hear Mwindaji slip up, and like the kid that tattles on his classmate, I let Peter know that I am now passing the dunce cap over to Hunter.

Music Teacher Mwindaji didn't utter another peep of Swahili the rest of the afternoon.




Knowing how to play guitar and having a passion for songwriting like Hunter does comes in handy on days like these. All I could do during music class was stand outside talking to Peter. Hunter got to write a song with all the students and serenade the two lovely girls sitting against the back wall of the classroom.




"Does anyone know what a rhyme is?"

No one was anywhere close to being confident enough to raise their hand and say yes to Hunter's question. He was trying to spur them on in the last verses of the song.

"Art, start, cart..." he said, trailing off as the blank stares showed no inkling of fading.

"Fart," I chimed in from the back.

I don't think anyone picked up on it.




For two periods, one in each of the two classrooms on site, Music Teacher Mwindaji fine tuned a nice little ditty. After that was lunch: ugali and beans, with a slice of avocado to mix in here and there. Ugali is the Ramen Noodles of Tanzania. It's the standard food for poor people -- but since pretty much everyone is poor, it's more like the hamburger of Tanzania, because everyone eats ugali, without exception. All it is is corn flour stirred in water for like 29 hours until it forms a thick paste, thicker than the thickest oatmeal you've ever had. I sometimes call it the "food version of water." There is no taste to this paste. It's just blah in your mouth. Ugali is the best food ever, though, to shove in their when you're trying to put out a fire from a pilipili that was just too kali. It's a 14 on the pH scale, ugali, with absorbent properties that bring to mind those of a sponge. And it doesn't settle well in your stomach when you feel forced to finish the entire plate out of respect for your hosts. Ugali is the kind of food that makes people who disregard the half hour rule drown.

It was on a stomach full to the brim with this stuff that I jogged out to the kickball field.

I'm just glad I didn't tapika all over the place.




Kickball is the shizit, by the way.




Jeff and Jenny, a Canadian couple that haphazardly found their way into volunteering at Peter's school after their plans to do something similar in Kenya were derailed due to the post election violence in January, brought the game to Umaasaini.

And the kids took to it quite quickly.

"We play football, and volleyball," one of the older boys was telling me shortly after the four of us pulled up in the morning, "and kickball."

"Kickball??" I asked, startled to hear that anyone in the entire country had ever heard of it.

"Yes," he said, smiling. "We like kickball very much."

I knew at that moment that we were going to be able to persuade Peter to let us get a game in.

"We like kickball very much."

"Mnapenda kickball zaidi ya chemistry?" I asked them all after we finished playing.

"NDIYO!!!!!!"

Do we need a translator on that one?

Shades of Big Papi

Of course they like it more than chemistry class, which is what we sacrificed for a couple of innings of "everyone bats." Outs were irrelevant, "runs" were called "points," the concept of tagging up was explained almost as many times as it was not understood, and the final score was a mystery to us all. But it beat the hell out of sigfig's and periodic tables.

Checking the runner.

The highlight of the day was undoubtedly the match up between myself and Mwindaji. It was what everyone had paid to come see. The main event.

I'm Jeter. Hunter is Kim. This is Game 4 of the '01 Series, bottom of the 10th.

I went opposite field, tagging a line drive down the right field "line," (there was a very loose definition of foul territory during the game), right past the photographer.




Even with my right sandal falling off the entire time around the bases, it should come as no surprise to anyone who knows the kind of wheels I've got attached to my body that I scored standing up on an inside the parker.

Hunter, too, had a home run of his own, but neither of our at bats could really compare to that of Mzee's, the Maasai askari at Peter's school.

Maybe it was his pre-game snuff that powered him.

Whatever it was, it was working. Because Mzee (pronounced mm-zay, Swahili for "old man") absolutely crushed that soccer ball.

This, is globalization.

If there was a fence, the ball would have gone over it.

Terrible relay. Who taught these kids how to play kickball, a couple of Canadians or something?

With ease.

Not to be outdone, other faculty members tried to get in on the game.

Like the carnival scene from "The Natural."

But none were as powerful as Mzee.

Not even Meg, who gave it her all.






Or Hunter, who was a wall.




But I don't think anyone really cared about the final score. Not on a day like this one, not when they were all just happy to be getting out of chemistry, loving life under African skies.




And thankful for the opportunity that they've been given as the first crop of students ever to go to their small little school out in Umaasaini.

Even if they haven't learned the concept of tagging up.

I really think the only reason George Bush ran for president was for the official White House visits for the champions of the major NCAA and professional sports leagues.


I mean, you know he just circles those days on his calendar. "What's that, Josh? I gotta what today? Oh, that's right, the State of the Youuu.... S., Address, right. Well when are those LSU Tigers comin'?"

George was definitely stoked on the responsibilities of the job as Commander in Chief today, when the Kansas Jayhawks paid their visit to the Oval Office, a treat for which everyone from the state of Kansas should be thanking Mario Chalmers and the Memphis free throw shooters. Inflation, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, steroids in baseball -- all of these things, normally of paramount importance in the Bush White House, were put on the back burner for a few hours, giving the president a much needed break from the rigors of a 9 to 5 job.

George likes when he gets to have recess during work.

You want a guaranteed laugh? Try to mentally envisage the scene from last year's visit from the NCAA basketball champion Florida.

"The president accepted a cap, jersey and basketball from the players and coaches. He gave the ball a firm bounce and it bounded all the way up to his head -- a nice personal rebound from the time last year when he tried the same thing and the ball landed with a thud." - Associated Press, 6/3/08

Wageni wanakuja kwetu...

Soweto during the last game of the day.

"So I'm sitting in a Georgetown bar in the late 80's, havin' a drink, when all of the sudden, in walks this huge, seven-foot tall black guy -- he stretches out his arms and screams, to the whole bar, 'Who wants to sex Mutomboooooooooo?'"

Picture a man this size with a voice that deep screaming something that direct in a place that public.

That was the story as recounted by my friend Ben a few years back; he was retelling it as he'd heard from one of the clone call ins to Jim Rome that morning. I haven't viewed Dikembe Mutombo quite the same since. Hundreds of people have heard the story, now officially third hand, from my own mouth. Only one, Scott, had ever heard it himself.

Tomorrow, if all goes to plan, which is far from a given in Tanzania, Hunter and I will get to meet the man responsible for the Ultimate Pick Up Line. Raised in Mobutu's Zaire, he's now the resident babu in the NBA, though he has seemingly found the fountain of youth in the past two seasons in Houston.

Not many parts of the Congo are Swahili-speaking. But if I find out that Dikembe anaongea Kiswahili, I'm translating his line into my new favorite language, and I'm gonna ask him, "Nani anataka kumtomba Mutomboooooo??"

And to think, I used to feel like shaking hands with George W. Bush was a big deal.

Let's hope that if he is an mSwahili, that he's got a sense of humor at the same time.

Pretty much the entire town has been working around the clock in the past month to get ready for this huge Leon H. Sullivan Summit set to take place in the Arusha International Conference Center this week. It's basically a week long excuse for African American businessmen to come to Tanzania and develop contacts with East African businessmen. President Kikwete is hosting it; "The Summit of a Lifetime." If by that he means "The Chance of a Lifetime for the City of Arusha to Take a Bath," than yeah, I agree. Never have I seen this place look so immaculate. Fresh coats of paint, paved roads, mass inspections of fleets of potential rental cars, and ironically, weekend-long power cuts in the month that has led up to this moment, while they repair their electrical infrastructure, so that the black Wazungu guests won't have to go without it during their stay.

The Arusha Times ran a story saying that Chris Tucker, Louis Gosset Jr. (what ever happened to that guy?) and the Rev. Jesse Jackson would be attending. That isn't going to affect me; I will not be running into any of them all week. What will affect me are the three guests that play basketball.

Because for me, Soweto is where the heart is.

Mutombo is clearly the main event.

But we're also going to get to chill with Golden State's Kelenna Azubuike...

I had never even heard of this guy until I found out I'd be welcoming him to Soweto

... and ex-UConn Huskie Hasheem Thabeet, a native Tanzanian who just declared for the Draft, who I know will speak Swahili.

It is gonna be cool to wasiliana with a future NBA star

I am reluctant to write with so much confidence. I live in Tanzania, remember? Disappointment is the rule; satisfaction the exception. So I don't want to e-jinx myself. But everyone swears this is really happening. And it was in a bunch of newspapers. So I'm taking the plunge.

There have been whispers that Who Wants to Sex Mutombo might actually play with us. I really doubt this, but, if he does, just know that I will be taking it right to the rack, hoping to get stuffed like a bitch, so that I can tell my grandkids one day, "Yeeeeeah, Dikembe Mutombo once gave the finger-wag to ME."

Did I mention he sounds like the Cookie Monster when he speaks?

"F*** that," Hunter said upon hearing my plan, "I'm gonna pull a reverse layup and try and score."