Girls don’t seem to have the same level of desire to wake up at 4 a.m. for something as globally significant as the Kansas-Memphis national championship game.

A source.

Especially ones from neither Kansas nor Tennessee, who are not basketball fans. Jamie and Erin, the two girls who were staying in Tait’s house last Monday night – the house with ESPN International, and with a host that was out of town -- fit this mold.

“You don’t even care about either of the teams?”

“Not really.” I’ve missed not one, but two college basketball seasons in a row now. That’s like missing half of a professional athlete’s entire career. To say I’m out of the loop with college hoops is an understatement. “I would have preferred UNC-UCLA.” Because of familiarity.

Erin looked perplexed. “Then why are you getting up for this?”

Because of why I used to wake up to watch every game of the 2004 MLB Playoffs from Geneva, why I woke up for Game 3 of this year’s World Series from Tanzania, and ESPECIALLY why I woke up for the Super Bowl last February to see David Tyree make me giddy: because you never know when you might witness something that will be a source of goose bumps for the rest of your life.

As Larry David would say, “Kansas-Memphis is a source.”

I kept a running diary so I could show Erin why.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

4:17 a.m. – I’m awake, I’ve got a little espresso – (Asante, Tait, wish ya coulda been here) -- and Hunter merely shifted his bed from her guest room to the pillows on the floor of the living room. I feel bad trying to force him to stay awake. If the excitement of the championship game can’t do it, I don’t know what can.

Check out these stats for Kansas: 13 Final Fours, two titles. No ring since 1988 with Larry Brown.

And Memphis: three Final Fours and two title game appearances. Zero rings. In fact, no team from the state of Tennessee has ever won the Tournament. Now that is incredible.

4:18 a.m. - Bill, you can finally go to Oklahoma St. with your rep in check: “The last coach of Kansas not to get to the Final Four was William O’Hamilton in1919, so Self has got that monkey off his back.”

Kind of like a Bizarro UVa.

4:20 a.m.- I wish I was Jim Nantz. Or shall I say, “Mr. Marpril.”

What a great American.

March Madness, directly followed by The Masters. The man lives for this block of the year. Honestly, what does Jim Nantz do between mid-April and mid-March? Can anyone confirm that he actually does work during these months? Except for his shift at the Olympics, I think he probably just collects unemployment 11/12 of the year.

Unfortunately, we don’t have Jim Nantz, nor do we have Billy Packer. This is ESPN International. As long as Sterling Sharpe doesn’t make a cameo in the booth, we should be good.

The starting line ups (hometowns as I caught them from the arena’s loudspeaker):

Kansas Jayhawks (36-3)

Darrell Arthur (Dallas)

Darnell Jackson (OKC)

Russell Robinson (NYC)

Mario Chalmers (Anchorage)

Brandon Rush (KC, Mo) … does he count as a “Kansan”?

Coach: Bill Self (141-32 in five years at KU)

Memphis Tigers (38-1) (Elite Eight back to back years)

Robert Dozier (“Labonia, Ga”)

Joey Dorsey (Baltimore)

Chris Douglas-Roberts (Detroit)

Antonio Anderson (Lynn, Ma)

Derrick Rose (Chicago…No. 23!!)

John Callipari (Forever the UMass coach to me)

So I’m glad there’s not a single person from either school’s home state on either team.

4:24 a.m. – Memphis is shooting 70 percent from the line in the last five games of the tourney, and that’s a huge improvement over the regular season. KU is just 65 percent for the tournament.

Memphis grabs opening tip. Dorsey banks it in for the first two points. They have not trailed yet in this tournament.

I know nothing about either of these teams. This is my first game, remember? I remember some names, and The Bob told me all about “the freshman, Derrick Rose,” which sounded pretty badass.

That's a pretty bold move to be from Chicago and wear No. 23.

My dad also told me that Memphis is gonna kick KU’s ass, and that Rose, who torched D.J. Augustin in the Houston Regional Final – which The Bob was unable to attend due to a flare up of the gout -- is even better than Douglas-Roberts.

4:26 a.m. - “The best free throw shooter Kansas is at 78 percent.” – on Brandon Rush, as he misses his team’s first shot from the line.

4:27 a.m. – “Here’s Rose. Here’s Dozier! (Swish from the key). Silky smooth.” Memphis is looking great, 6-3 lead.

4:29 a.m. – Sasha Kaun? Is that really this Kansas guy’s name? It just makes me think of some Chechen separatist.

4:30 a.m. - “I don’t remember a national championship with this many athletes on the floor.” Nice.

Four minutes in, and you can still see the nerves on the part of the Jayhawks, who are facing a team favored by two, but that is swarming all over the court.

“Everybody who plays Memphis is rattled.”

Couldn’t have put it better myself.

4:32 a.m. – 15:36 to play in the first half. First time out of the game. Memphis up 9-5.

Brad Shamm (sp?) and Fran Franchilla (sp?) are the announcers on the international feed. Sure beats Sterling Sharpe.

4:37 a.m. - Why am I not surprised that Callipari picked up Rose, a badass from the Chicago public leagues? Four words: the movie “Blue Chips.” Callipari is Nick Nolte; Rose is Penny. There is zero doubt in my mind that Derrick’s mom, too, got “a new house, with a LAWN!” as a reward for her son signing with Memphis, which is where Anfernee Hardaway played as well, back when it was called Memphis St.

Lil' Penny

Chris Douglas-Roberts (henceforth known as “CDR,” both because it’s easier to type, and because that’s what the announcers are saying) has a tattoo on his right shoulder that looks like he got mauled by a Memphis Tiger with ink-filled needles for claws.

Which you can not see in this picture, but trust me.

4:39 a.m. – All I wanna see is the token red head, No. 54 for KU, take off his warm ups. Let’s see those pasty white, good GPA-getting arms, just one time.

“The Memphis players are so long, they deflect passes.”

That was pretty close to what The Bob also told me on the phone before the game started: “Everybody on Memphis, ya know it’s like they say, ‘They’re not tall, they’re LONG.’ Every dad gum one of ‘em has arms down to their knees.”

And yet, Miguel, who texted me the start time, is picking KU.

4:41 a.m. - No. 1 for Memphis has the name “Kemp” on the back of his jersey. Seeing as the man who made that name famous once served as the centerpiece of an SI feature story on pro athletes fathering children out of wedlock – what was it, six kids with four women or something? – I’d say that mathematically, the odds are high.

With 12:05 left in the half, the game is tied at 13.

“Kansas looking for its first lead of the game … oh what a feed, what a wraparound!” Collins makes a great pass from the baseline to Kaun, but the Chechen turns it over on the travel.

Still, Memphis has never trailed in the tournament.

4:44 a.m. – Nice, first Sportscenter commercial! Wait, it’s the Richard Simmons one again, which we saw five or six times during the Super Bowl.

“Type those stories, type those stories! Check those sources, check those sources!”

Still, it never gets old.

“KU is 5-of-11 from the floor, Memphis, 5-of-12,” in the first eight and a half minutes. Even Steven.

Sharron Collins and Derrick Rose, a battle of Chicago point guards. Again, the Penny Hardaway “Blue Chips” analogy. This is getting a little creepy.

4:46 a.m. - Rush puts KU up for the first time; it’s 15-13 with just under 11:00 to play in the half.

4:48 a.m. - KU opponents are shooting 35 percent from the field in the tourney; only 22 percent from three. I love teams that play defense.

“Right now, it’s Memphis that’s a little rattled,” after a 7-0 KU run makes it 18-13 with 9:42 left in the half. Miguel’s looking pretty good right about now.

Mario Chalmers has got quick hands. My goodness. Just stripped Rose for the easy lay up, then swatted the next ball out of bounds on the penetration.

No. 4 on Memphis, Aaron Miles – wait, did they say Aaron Miles? Are we talking about the wrong team? -- is a biiiiiig boy. “He’s AT LEAST 370 pounds,” Shamm says. “At least.”

How often do you hear of a player being listed as “at least”? Don’t they know? Do they not have interns whose job it is to hand them scraps of paper with this type of information printed on it? Or are they just assuming that he’s in a consistent state of weight gain, and assume that their six-month old, Memphis Tigers media guide must be out of date.

Memphis is so ghetto. There hasn’t been a single time down the court without some kinda behind the back dribble.

4:53 a.m. - “And now, another World’s Strongest Man Minute!” Wow, I’m lucky.

ESPN International sure does know how to keep you entertained during the commercial break. Right now, I’m watching a 60-second highlight clip of a bunch of 1970’s era ‘roid heads bending pieces of rebar over their heads/necks. The espn2 graphics are a great addition to the original footage, too. Kind of a past meets present thing they got going.

Question: whose job was it to go through this old footage from the 1972 CBS archives and add in those espn2 graphics?

Another question: aren’t there any products that you could market internationally, instead of "World's Strongest Man Minutes?" Products that basically dominate every inch of the earth? Like Coca Cola, or … Coca Cola?

In case you’re curious about the winner of that “World’s Strongest Man Minute,” it was Lou Ferrigno, around 35 years ago.

4:54 a.m. - CDR doesn’t even register that a hand is in his face; if you give him an inch, he’ll take a bucket.

And how much more badass is it to watch a scrappy left hander than a smooth right hander? It’s hard to find a smooth lefty – Sam Perkins’ don’t grow on trees. They just seem to always be able to will the ball into the basket. I’ve never seen one who has a shot I’d want my kid to imitate, especially The Bob. Their release is too hasty.

Also, I feel like lefties should always wear the no. 7.

BOOM! Memphis goes up two on CDR’s three, making the score 26-24.

“After you get CDR, you need CPR!” screams one of the announcers. (I cringe).

Those are the kinds of non-spontaneous puns that simply insult our intelligence when veiled as a spur of the moment urge.

4:56 a.m. – Chalmers with the excellent baseline cut and dish to the Chechen Sasha Kaun, waiting in the lane for the dunk.

“You get the feeling that every play of the game is gonna be critical when you get down to the last five minutes,” Fran says.

CDR makes another three, with people in his face. “Oh, what a good game!” Shamm screams. Thirteen for the junior All American already, which is half of Memphis’ total output. Game tied at 28 with 4:30 to play.

“Dorsey says he’s got an old man’s game.” CDR, that is. As in, scrappy, left handed.

5:02 a.m. – I was gonna sit this game out on the running diary after I realized how much harder it is to follow basketball while constantly typing than baseball or football. But the thought of completing the trifecta on the year – staying up all night for a World Series game, the Super Bowl, and the NCAA title game, and recording my thoughts – made me continue.

I love that I live in an age where I can travel halfway across the globe, but still be able to watch the big sporting events, so long as I’m willing to wake up early enough. Because I'm willing.

5:04 a.m. - Seriously, CDR does not jump.

5:05 a.m. – On Brandon Rush: “This is a guy that suffered an ACL injury in late May…and he’s playing the best basketball of his career. He’s really helped his NBA status. He’d be a mid-first round pick if he came out this year.”

Well thank God at least ONE Rush can make it. JaRon, who played half a season at UCLA before getting snubbed in the draft, is only good at throwing it all away. And Kareem … what ever happened to Kareem Rush? After he got cut by the Bobcats, I never thought I’d see him again … until, that is, I turned on the TV one day in Belgrade to see him playing for a team with Cyrillic characters on the fronts of their jerseys.

He’s like the Bizarro Vlade Divac.

5:05 a.m. - “They’re doing as good a job on Rose as anyone in the entire tournament.”

“How ‘bout Kaun!” (the Chechen grabs the rebound, much to the delight of the announcers). Something tells me that’s not the first time someone has yelled that at the TV screen; you always feel like yelling, “How ‘bout [blank]!” when [blank] is an overachieving white boy.

If every play is important, Arthur’s baby hook to put Kansas up five with 1:20 to play in the half will be the possession we should all look back on. KU got about three offensive boards and a steal before he finally put the ball in the hoop.

5:08 a.m. -- 33-28 KU, 1:02 to play; Callipari calls timeout.

“If you’re Kansas right now Brad, you’re feeling pretty good.” Slash, Miguel.

The Jayhawks are shooting 14-of-27 from the field, and they’re winning the battle of the boards, 19-10. And they’ve got the ball.

5:09 a.m. – I gotta give a shout out to Mandy, my former roommate in Patandi, who goes to KU. She left us a Jayhawk basketball towel, originally white, now the color of an Alabama mud puddle. What a year she’s had. Not only that freak football season, but an appearance in the title game in the sport at her school.

That’s nothing compared to the Florida kids, though, who got to experience back-to-back basketball championships and the national title in football within a one-year period. That was almost as prolific a run as “Philadelphia”/”Forrest Gump”/”Apollo 13” Tom Hanks.

Fun fact: “Both of these coaches were young assistant coaches for Larry Brown at Kansas in the 1980s.”

“Memphis got a break there.” A long rebound after a heave by Rose with four on the shot clock. Memphis is getting smothered up top. No wonder other teams are shooting so poorly from the field against Kansas in the tournament. All they’re doing is dribbling around the three point line or forcing penetration kicks.

5:12 a.m. – HALFTIME

“And how about the Kansas Jayhawks? What a job, what balance. And they lead the Memphis Tigers at halftime of the championship game, 33-28.”

5:15 a.m. – Uh oh! Another “World’s Strongest Man Minute!” This time the world’s strongest man is the legendary Vidas Blekaitis. He is pulling a train car with a rope attached to his waist.

Showcasing his dynamism, Vidas also excels at carrying really big shot puts.

“Extremely explosive,” the announcer for “World’s Strongest Man” screams. You’ve gotta think he tried out for that same position on the new “American Gladiators.” I notice that Vidas has quite a bit of shoulder hair.

“Vidas Blekaitis is no caboose in this event!” Hi-ohhhh!

“Unbelievable, Vidas Blekaitis! He didn’t want to stop!”

I feel for the announcers who had to put in their dues for the MetRx World’s Strongest Man competition. I really do. I wish them luck in life.

5:15 a.m. - PLAYS OF THE WEEK! Ryan Zimmerman!

It’s the second time I’ve seen this now. The first time it came on, last night as Hunter and I were watching ESPN to see what time the game would start, we both lept up from the couch at the same time. Erin was startled.

“He was in our first year dorm in college!” I explained, excitedly.

“Really?”

“Yeah, we lived two doors down from him.”

She didn’t seem that impressed, but she still raised her eyebrows to pretend.

It was a clip of the walk off homer Zim hit in the first ever game at the Nationals’ new stadium.

“In the first game of their beautiful new ballpark, Ryan Zimmerman, with a game ending home run!”

How cool is it to hear Jon Miller say that about a kid I used to watch Jon Miller broadcasts with during the 2002 Giants World Series run?

Zim was clearly pumped as he rounded the bases. As for that wholesome boy image he’s got going for him, I don’t think we need a professional lip reader to translate the words that came flying out of his mouth as he raced down the first base line: “F*** yeah!”

Hunter and I both yelled it right back at the screen at the exact same time.

"F*** YEAH!"

5:17 a.m. – Nice, Hakeem. Hall of Fame. Congrats.

Dick Vitale wins my vote for “Canniest Resemblance To His Madame Toussaude’s Wax Statue While Still Alive.” I mean, if someone brought you a basin of hot water and a razor, you could shave using his scalp.

No, I love it, baby.

Pat Riley was drafted by the Dallas Cowboys?!?!?!?!

5:24 a.m. - Yes, Bill Russell, you can win ten championships, but you still pick your nose from time to time. I saw you. We all saw you.

At the half:

KU: 52 percent from the field

MEMPHIS: 38 percent

Arthur (KU): 10 points

CDR (MU): 13 points

5:25 a.m. – “Another World’s Strongest Man Minute!” Never gets old.

This time it’s two men running through a shallow pool carrying barrels. The announcers, my favorite part of the whole string of 60-second ads, are giving strategic tips, as if they’ve competed in a World’s Strongest Man before.

One of the behemoths is in a Speedo; the other is in some extra tight bike shorts. The winner in this round is a man named Jarik Dimik.

Not too many ‘roid heads named “John Smith” in World’s Strongest Man Minute’s, I’ve noticed. Maybe because all the American meat heads get paid more to hit baseballs and quarterbacks than to pull giant barrels through a swimming pool.

5:32 a.m. – Just saw a stat that says Self is 69-9 in his last two seasons. And he just beat the crap out of UNC to reach the final.

Damn, I bet they miss Roy Williams in Lawrence. Not.

Why would Self even consider the move to Oklahoma St.?

“At the end of the day Brad, I do not see him leaving the storied KU program. I do think he’ll be in line for a raise.”

I agree.

MAN I LOVE THE SOUND OF THE BAND IN COLLEGE BASKETBALL. That is why I wake up for this stuff, Erin.

5:33 a.m. – SECOND HALF

It’s the first game in which Memphis has trailed throughout the tournament. The last time I did a running diary of a sporting event I stayed up all night to watch, I wrote that same thing about the Patriots. We all remember what happened then.

Dozier with a quick dunk, followed by a KU turnover. Suffocating defense on CDR leads to a dish to an open Anderson, who sinks an NBA three. And just like that, it’s all tied up.

Memphis had the first five points of the half before KU even got the ball past half court.

5:36 a.m. - “Ed Hightower has been one of the very best officials in college basketball for a very long time.”

And, he dyes his hair.

5:37 a.m. - What are the odds Mario Chalmers isn’t boys with Trajan Langdan and Carlos Boozer? The basketball community in Anchorage can’t be that big.

They’re really starting to run now.

“Here we go!”

(Dunk makes it 38-37 Memphis).

“Dozier!”

“Rose has got a big grin, ear to ear.”

“Put your seatbelt on.”

I love sports. This is why I wake up for stuff like this, Erin.

5:40 a.m. - Joey Dorsey picks up his third foul with 16:00 to play, hacking the Chechen.

“That’s a problem Memphis doesn’t want.”

“Kansas back up by one, 15:30 to play. This, is championship stuff.”

5:41 a.m. - “Now it’s time for another, World’s Strongest Man Minute!” I hear the enthusiastic British voice announce during a commercial break. And still, it never gets old.

The latest clip shows just one man this time, as he is walking in a giant circle with what look like Robin Hood era barrels of ale rested on each end of a long pole. He is Latvian, say the announcers -- still not American, say my inner thoughts. The flags of a bunch of Scandinavian/Baltic nations are flapping proudly in the wind.

He collapses after traveling 810 degrees around. “Oh my goodness, what a finish!” But it actually looks kind of serious. He’s not getting up. “The medic should be there as quickly as possible,” says a suddenly somewhat subdued “World’s Strongest Man” announcer. And then that’s the end. That’s where they end the commercial.

Hold up.

Was he….. okay? Did Little John live? Did he go into massive organ failure? Throw out his back?

Who is the man who signed off on this commercial going to air? It’s a highlight; is there nothing better they could come up with? It’s just not a good idea.

But at least the background music somewhat distracted me from how the Latvian was keeping up in the few seconds it showed him in severe pain, crouched on the ground. It sounded like it was made by one of those cheap programs you put on your PC to make hip hop beats.

As a side note on these “World’s Strongest Man” shows: I love how completely arbitrary all of their accomplishments are. How are we supposed to know that 810 degrees on the Robin Hood barrel walk is good or just mediocre? How are we supposed to know how fast we could drag really heavy stuff through a shallow pool of water? Can you say that this generation is “tainted” because they use the Clear, while the old school crowd had to resort to boring old dexabolin (I just made that word up, it sounds like an old school type of steroid).

5:43 a.m. - Why is ESPN International’s broadcast of the Champions League “not available in Israel?” Just Israel. Nowhere else. What does that mean?

Is UEFA protesting the wall, the Israeli government’s policy towards Hamas, the continued construction of illegal settlements in the West Bank, or is it just an anti-Semitic organization?

5:43 a.m. – Nice Sportscenter commercial with the text messages and Teddy the Cockatoo dunking a basketball. Never seen that one. We don’t have TV normally in Tanzania.

5:44 a.m. – Back to the actual game.

“Excuse me, I’m going here.” It’s the second time the play by play man has spoken in the first person to describe a move made by one of the players on the court.

5:45 a.m. – Hunter awakes from his slumber on the floor, only to move directly to the couch … where I give him a minute before he falls back asleep.

Memphis is shooting just 38 percent from the field with 13:45 to play, and down one. Terrible.

5:46 a.m. - Now they’re down three, after the Darnell Jackson baseline jumper.

“Douglas-Roberts, like Inspector Gadget! His arm grew about three feet on that play.” Please don’t say stuff like that.

Rose and CDR just play together like they’re on the playground. It’s fun to watch; it’s infuriating to watch.

5:49 a.m. – Ya know those omnipresent, black-and-white, “Most of us go pro in something other than sports” NCAA commercials? They’d be 20 times cooler if you could see the old white judge get up and throw down a dunk, don’t you think?

5:52 a.m. - “Kansas has done a better job on Rose than anyone else in the entire tournament.”

Hunter is asleep again, by the way. Looks like he’s been so for a while, like, say, since 5:46 a.m.

What was even the point of him taking a nap? I had the same problem last year in Belgrade during the Final Four games; even with a fresh pot of Turkish coffee, I couldn’t keep my eyes open through either game.

I wanna see “at least 370 pounds, at least” guy -- Aaron Miles, was it? -- come back in.

BRANDON Rush. “Used to be just thought of as a jump shooter.” Not on that move.

KU by three with 9:00 to play. Great game.

5:55 a.m. – The Chechen is all over Dozier in the paint, but the Memphis big man still finds a way. “Oh! And he got the roll!” Gives Dozier a chance to tie it at the line. He’s a 67 percent free throw shooter, though.

Brick.

MU has missed last three free throw attempts, and they’re down one. Remember that stat – it could be important later on.

“Again Memphis looks for the lead.”

5:57 a.m. - Rose! The NBA three from the top of the key. Memphis goes up 49-47 with 8:08 left in the national championship game.

Self calls KU’s second timeout.

The token red head is still wearing his warm ups.

Stats flashed across the screen for three pointers:

KU: 1-for-8

Memphis: 5-for-13

This is the last year the college three will be this close; next year it moves back a foot. Which is a good thing.

“In terms of the trapezoid lane – I know we have a lot of people all over the world listening – I don’t know that it will [be introduced to the college game].” Good to have people talking directly to me, NGO workers in TZ included as “people all over the world.”

5:59 a.m. - Shot to the Memphis bench: every single player is black. Shot to the Memphis fans: every single one is white. Ladies and gentleman, the United States of America!

6:00 a.m. - Rose won two of the three match ups with Collins in high school, when both starred in the Chicago public school leagues. And now they’re playing against one another in the NCAA championship. What are the odds! (This is maybe the ninth time we’ve been reminded of it, so I figured I’d write it again.)

6:03 a.m. - “Do you miss the hard hitting action of American football?” a cheesy “MAN!” voice asks to the backdrop of the hard hitting action of American arena football. “It’s got all the intensity of NFL football and twice the speed!”

ESPN International can throw all the ads it wants at me, but I’m never going to be interested in Arena Football.

6:04 a.m. - “Boy, here he goes.”

Nine in the half for Rose, 12 in the game. He’s picked up five quick points in the last few minutes. You can’t stop him; you can only hope to contain him.

Memphis by four with just over 7:00 to play.

“Both teams know they’re gonna win,” Fran says. You tend to trust former coaches more than career broadcasters on statements like that. “They don’t think they’re gonna win; they know they’re gonna win.”

I love sports. For stuff like that. Both teams know they are gonna win. Not think. They are going to win the national championship. This is a culmination of not even just one season, but a lifetime of hard work. And the ultimate prize is right there for the taking.

This is why I stayed up, Erin.

6:05 a.m. - “Hunter, you might wanna watch this, it’s a really good game. Six minutes to play, four point game,” I say at maximum whisper volume.

John Callipari is rubbing that hair do because he saw an opportunity to take a six point lead, and Kemp did not connect. I wonder if the oil gets on his hand when he does that.

Does he look at all alike?

“He did not like Kemp’s judgment leading that break.” Hmm …. a Kemp, with bad judgment. Shocking.

CDR waiting to check back in with less than 5:30 to play.

HUGE board by Dozier on the forced three by Rose! Rose, AND ONE! Six point lead with 5:10 to play, and Rose has got one shot coming.

6:08 a.m. - Rose “has basically said, ‘It’s my team,’” in the tournament. You pressure CDR, and look out for the freshman.

6:09 a.m. - “Three point play the old fashioned way, and now it’s a seven point Memphis lead with five minutes to play!”

MU’s biggest lead of the game.

CDR back in the game with the high dribble.

Hunter is asleep again. He doesn’t deserve to watch a game this exciting.

6:10 a.m. – DERRICK ROSE !!!!!

“OH NO NO NO!” one them yells.

“YES HE DID!” the other shouts out.

“Thats the highlight reel shot of the night.”

"Maybe the shot of the tournament!”

THIS IS WHY I WOKE UP AT 4 A.M., ERIN! As the buzzer sounds, the freshman banks it in from three.

“Derrick Rose, in the second half. ‘A child shall lead them.’” (Is that some sort of reference to Jesus Christ?)

57-49 Memphis. It sucks not being allowed to yell.

6:11 a.m. – “Strikeforce” on ESPN. Some sort of UFC competitor. Bring back the “World’s Strongest Man Minutes.”

6:12 a.m. – The birds have started chirping.

Butt shot of the refs at the scorers table. Am I giggling because I’m delirious, or because it is funny to see Hightower place his hand on the other guy’s lower back as they bend over, only to really go over the top when the third official comes up and places his hand on Hightower’s back?

6:14 a.m. – Turns out Rose’s foot was on the line. No three. 56-49 Memphis. Seven point lead.

Free throws are now crucial. Arthur puts in the first to cut lead to six, then the second to cut it to five.

“We’re a long way from done here.”

3:30 to play.

Two-three zone to slow down the penetration of Memphis … risky.

ROSE! What a player. Almost put the dagger in with that three that rimmed out, but Dozier with the board, again. (AGAIN). Taggart ends up putting it in, and it’s Memphis back up by seven.

Dozier with a huge block, and it seems like the Tigers may be running away.

“They’re startin’ to boogie on Beale St.!”

KU is already in foul mode. That means the game is winding down. Disappointing. I wanted a close finish.

Seven point lead with 2:13 to play. One and one time.

“Rick Barnes did this in the game last week, and Memphis was near perfect.”

Dozier is 68 percent from the line, but 0-for-1 tonight. Makes first on the one and one.

“It’s not how many, it’s when.”

Huge. Makes ‘em both. Callipari’s team is up nine with just over 2:00 to play.

6:18 a.m. - Arthur cuts it to seven. KU has one time out remaining.

Memphis is taking Dorsey out to keep the free throw shooting up.

6:19 a.m. - Steal by KU on the inbounds! And the three!

“Oh my God, WAKE UP HUNTER.” I’m trying not to yell; Jamie and Erin are still sleeping down the hall.

“Now it’s a two possession game!”

Four point lead with 1:40.

6:20 a.m. – CDR, over 80 percent from the line in the tourney, sinks both for Memphis. Self did not want that foul.

The lead is upped to six: 62-56, Tigers.

6:22 a.m. – 1:23 remaining.

Dorsey has fouled out for Memphis. Hurts defensively, but he is only 40 percent from the line. And it’s all about free throws now.

“Remember what we said at the very beginning:, in the NCAA Tournament, KU has shot 65 percent from the line. Although tonight, they are eight of nine.”

Now nine of ten, after Chalmers’ shot. He cuts it to four with 1:21 to go.

Here comes Memphis.

“Bill Self is mad because you don’t wanna foul Douglas-Roberts.”

Antonio Anderson had the ball -- he’s 65 percent from the line, the man you want -- and they didn’t get him. CDR, on the other hand, is perfect on the night from the stripe.

Until now -- he just missed first end of the one and one!

“He’s been so good in this tournament!”

Arthur makes it a two point game!

“Two, point, championship game.”

I’m pulling on my hair; I still can’t scream!

KU almost steals it at mid court. That would have sent me over the edge.

6:24 a.m. -- Time out Memphis. They need it. 0:44 to go in the season. A solid 19 seconds on the shot clock. Callipari has watched his team squander a seemingly insurmountable nine-point lead in less than a minute and a half.

It’s 62-60. KU just might end up winning this thing.

“Everybody all over the world who follows this tournament, we’re happy to have you with us, in Africa, in….” I stopped listening, and just pumped my fist.

“Did you hear that shout out?” I turned to ask Hunter, whose eyes were open as he laid prostrated on the couch. He barely acknowledged me.

“The longest 40 seconds of the Memphis Tigers’ lives.”

Collins stripped by Rose! Collins stripped by Rose!

That’s how they do in Chi-Town.

Now CDR at the line for two. He has the chance to make it a two possession game.

Misses the first.

MISSES THE SECOND. That is three in a row after starting 4-of-4.

“Ohh, he didn’t have any legs in that one.” Who is this guy, Nick freaking Andersen!

But Memphis gets the rebound! Dozier, of course.

Somehow CDR grabs hold of the ball and slams it to the floor in frustration for such“Douglas-Roberts furious at himself, and then he turns around to look at Hightower and say,’I’m sorry, don’t call a technical on me.’”

Wow, had CDR given the hair-dyeing Hightower a chance to call a tech on him, that could have been Webber-esque. CDR would have needed a little CPR on himself if he’d screwed that up – hiohhh!

6:29 a.m. – Token red head still in warm ups. He is not getting in the game, I’ve conceded to myself.

Rose is now at the line with ten seconds left. He’s 2-for-2 tonight.

First shot rims out. I mean rims out. Memphis has missed its last four, maybe five shots from the line. Still up two. 10.8 seconds to go. KU out of time outs.

Rose sinks second shot. Tigers up three.

This is the game, folks.

“They’re trying to foul him!” But the ref’s don’t call it!

OH MY GOD! WHO WAS THAT ! WHO WAS THAT! WHO WAS THAT! CHALMERS! THE ALASKAN! OH MY GOODNESS! THAT IS WHY I STAYED UP, ERIN! OH MY GOODNESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Chalmers!

6:32 a.m. -- Memphis takes their seats on the floor for a break before OT. You can see the dejection in their faces. Kansas is going to win this game. OH MY GOODNESS.

“It’s not how many..”

“It’s when.”

“It’s when. And it cuts both ways.”

FREE THROWS, BOYS. FREE THROWS.

“Obviously, KU has the momentum, the emotional edge.”

6:33 a.m. - “Overtime in the national championship!”

KU takes the two point lead early in the extra period.

Memphis is going to miss Dozier, the man who grabbed every big offensive board tonight. He fouled out in regulation.

“Brandon Rush shouldn’t be here. He should be in the NBA, except for an ACL injury.”

6:35 a.m. – Kansas is going to win this game.

It’s light outside.

“This is the first championship overtime since 1997, Arizona and Kentucky.”

“Miles Simon, Mike Bibby, Lute Olsen and Rick Pitino.” Ironically, that Arizona team knocked off the heavily favored Kansas Jayhawks in that year’s tournament. It was arguably the best team Roy Williams ever had in Lawrence.

“They’ll be talking about this one just as long.”

6:37 a.m. - “CHALMERRRRRS, to Arthur!” There’s something about the alley oop that is just fun for an announcer to saw.

KU is now up four. Memphis hasn’t scored since that Rose free throw at the end of the second half, the one that gave them the three point lead. FREE THROWS.

6:38 a.m. - Jackson lays it in for the six point lead.

Memphis looks completely deflated. Half of overtime is gone. 69-63 Kansas.

6:39 a.m. - “The specter of that dark cloud, the free throw shooting, looming over their heads from the end of regulation.” - Fran

6:45 a.m.– “Douglas Roberts has no legs under him.” Misses the wide open, left handed lay up. And he is left handed. “Douglas Roberts is exhausted.”

“And he should be, Brad. He gave his heart and soul tonight.”

Hunter was fully awake at this point. “Gave his heart and soul and he lost the f***ing game,” he said. I agree.

6:49 a.m. -- “Memphis has 38 wins, Brad, the most in NCAA history.”

“Ohhh, Dorothy!” Another scripted line. Way worse than the CPR comment.

“That’s gonna do it.”

“Dorothy, we’re in Kansas again!” The funniest thing was that Brad tried to say the Kansas part the first time, but Fran cut him off accidentally. And so he got it the second time. “For the first time in 20 years! Rock, Chalk, Jayhawk!”

THIS IS WHY I WAKE UP FOR THIS SHIT ERIN!!!!!!

It hurts to watch the Memphis players, it does. They had the game. They lost it at the free throw line. THEY LOST IT AT THE FREE THROW LINE.

6:51 a.m. -- Oh! Red head is named ‘Kleinmann.’ He has a name.

6:52 a.m. – (Chalmers) “There’s the man of the hour. Or as they say in football, ‘the man of the match.’” So that’s definitive proof we’re getting the international feed over here in East Africa.

As token red head hugging Danny Manning, Bill Self comes up from behind and gives him a really hard shove on the back: “Go get me a Gatorade!” style.

6:55 a.m. - Nice, Bill. Take it to Roy, then take them where Roy never could. Nice.

So here is the question, as we’re nearing 7 in the morning here in Arusha. Are we gonna get to watch “One Shining Moment?”

6:57 a.m. – Duh duh duh! Duh duh duh! “THEES, ees SPOHTS-CENTAH!”

Ugh. British voices on Sportscenter.

Wait a minute. You’re cutting away?!

The answer is no, there will be no “One Shining Moment.” And the lead story is on Liverpool football.

Satellite TV can only take you so far.

After almost nine months of our common law, sans sex de facto marriage, Hunter and I have gone from the Wazungu Wawili to the Wazungu WaTATU, baby. The third amigo, our favorite pale Pennsylvanian, is here for two weeks.




It's the first time all three of us -- TK, me, Mwindaji -- have been together since the last day of college in May 2006. And not much has changed.




TK is still awkwardly tall. And he's still silly. And I'm going to write a great story about his visit when it's all said and done, just for you, Martha.

(And he's sooooo cute, too!)




Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!

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A few photos of late.



A problem you don't often think about back home -- people trying to siphon the gas out of your car -- solved.

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Derikiiiiiiiiiiiiii! I love this kid.



I mean, how could you not?

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Ain't no Air Jordans in Monduli. Just Goodyear. And Michelin. And every other tire that can be made into a sandal.

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Slavic girls are just a tad hotter than these Maasai babes.

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Hunter makes a friend.

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Mount Meru, posing as Mount Kilimanjaro. Some people say they've never seen snow on the top until this week. Global warming, shmobal warming.

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For anyone worried about our safety after having read about all the crap we've had to deal with these past few months with thieves, being forced to move out of our house, etc., please allay your fears. Olfo, our new security guard who we're almost positive stole Tom's shoes two nights ago, is ready.




Now, if I could only explain to him that you're supposed to load the arrow on the other side of the bow.

On second thought, maybe it's better that he remain ignorant on how to shoot his mshale, seeing as I'm about to fire his ass.

I Vote Max.

For my to-be-determined Balkanzania reunion in Montreal.

Élise, a.k.a. Lion of Judah, I know you're awake. And I know you're still using this blog to combat insomnia. So I know you will see this.

Max, who stayed with us back in our second month in TZ, and who reappeared in Arusha last Friday as part of a 60-person Tour D'Afrique bike ride from Cairo to Capetown, deserves the spot as your roommate next year. I give him my official endorsement. He says while you are first on his list, he feels he's about third on yours. I'm hoping some words of recommendation from me will propel him up the ladder.

If/when I visit Montreal, where I plan on getting you, him, Vincent, Mathieu and Joel together for one big reunion, and I'm ready to sing.

"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIlllllll est des noooootres, IL A BU SA BIERE COMME LES AUUUUUTRES! Duuuuuuuhh, duh, duh, DUUUH, duh! J’ai oubliez tout de mon français kutokana Kiswahiiiiiliii!"

Merci!

TWENTY TWO IN A ROW, and counting.

"Rafer Alston scored 31 points and hit eight 3-pointers, both career highs, and the Rockets beat the Los Angeles Lakers 104-92 to stretch their streak to 22 and claim sole possession of first place in the Western Conference."

Rafer Alston?!

To win 22 in a row, you need stuff like that to happen. But you also need a little bit of karma coming out of East Africa.

Could've told you something special was in store before the Lakers game even started: check out the good omen I found awaiting me at Green Hut yesterday, a few hours before tip off.




Just doing what I can to help.

Toothpaste, right?

That's what I thought, too. Until about 1.5 seconds after I put the toothbrush in my mouth. It didn't take long for me to realize that something was terribly wrong.

(Insert gagging noise here, followed by excessive rinsing out of the mouth with parasite filled tap water.)

What was wrong was that, in my haste to brush my teeth as we were running out the door two nights ago, I grabbed a tube of something that wasn't toothpaste at all. That was made evident by two things that went down shortly before I started gagging:

1) The mystery paste didn't foam up, at all.
2) The mystery paste didn't taste very minty fresh.




Not many tubes of zinc oxide diaper rash ointment do, I suppose.

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Before you judge, let me just say that this could have happened to anyone. But especially to someone in our position.

For over a month now, Hunter and I have essentially been homeless. The house search that was supposed to take a week, tops, is now in Week Six, and it's not showing any signs of abating. In other words, the search has not proved as fruitful as we had anticipated, back when we closed up shop in Patandi and bailed on our lease at the beginning of February. What started as a temporary set up in a local bed & breakfast in nearby Usa River slowly devolved into a permanent encampment.

But an encampment doesn't quite denote a home, does it? Which is why I hated that bed and breakfast. For a night or two, it would've been fine. For a night or 40, it sucked. With the women who run the place constantly all up in our bidness -- simply by nature of the fact that they were there, nothing else -- we were essentially guests in our own home. Guests with a whooooole lot of luggage.

Every single thing that we own, and that our NGO owns, was being stored under our two single beds, and in our closet. It was like a warehouse in Room 3. Aside from our own personal effects, 100 percent of the inventory fell under the "Stuff Donated for the Kids" department: soccer balls, jump ropes, shoe polish, soap, t-shirts, toothpaste, and, as I learned two days ago, diaper rash ointment.

Had I seen this photo, it might have tipped me off. Just maybe.

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"Hold up, real quick, I'm gonna brush my teeth before we go."

Hunter, Meghann, and Meghann's Kenyan friend Lali were all waiting on me. It was Jamie's last night in TZ, and before she headed off for a month in the Punjab, everyone was getting together at Nick Pub for a little going away party of chicken and chips.

The toothpaste on the sink had been teetering towards the edge of doneskies for days at that point -- earlier that morning, it had officially been kicked. Remembering this, and remembering the yellow plastic bag I personally stored under my bed during the move from Patandi -- the one that held eight brand new tubes of excess toothpaste meant for our students -- I blindly moved my hand around the warehouse until I felt it: the crinkle of the bag, the feel of the unopened toothpaste containers. Bingo.




It was a matter of bad luck, nothing more. Heads or tales style bad luck. Had I grabbed it from the other direction -- actually seeing the label, rather than a bunch of meaningless words printed on the back -- this story never would have been written. But it is being written, because I didn't see the picture of a mother caressing her sleeping child until the damage had been done.

But in my defense, did I really need to look? I'd handled enough toothpaste tubes in my day to know what a toothpaste tube felt like. And this, my friends, was toothpaste. Definitely toothpaste.

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"Hunter!" I yelled in a hushed, yet urgent tone, not wanting to draw the attention of Meghann or Lali. "Hunter!"

He walked into the room. "What?"

"Dude." Panic reverberated in my voice as I handed him the Desitin. "I thought it was toothpaste!" I hissed.

There are moments in life that you just never forget, no matter how old, gray and wrinkly you become. Something tells me that this was one of those moments for Mwindaji.

"HO-LEEEEE SHIT!" His jaw dropped. Then he started cracking up. "Oh my God! You brushed your teeth with that?!"

I hadn't even known exactly what it was until I'd finished gagging, at which point, panic stricken, my eyes frantically sought out the "Warnings" section of the very label that hadn't tipped me off as I got up off my knees and walked into the bathroom. What I found made my body run cold:

"Did I swallow it????"

Poison Control Center?!

There ain't no Poison Control Center in our neck of the woods. Last week, when I was taking one of our students, Rosie, to the St. Elizabeth HIV clinic to get her CD4 count checked, they didn't even have a Band Aid to give her after sticking her six-year-old little arm with a mondo needle that sent a rivulet of blood dripping onto the ground -- HIV-infected blood. If they don't even have Band Aids at an AIDS clinic in Africa, how do you expect me to find a Poison Control Center as I froth at the mouth on the verge of death by diaper rash ointment ingestion? I mean, isn't zinc oxide bad? Isn't that the stuff you put on your nose when you go skiing?

"Dude," I told my supposed best friend, who instead of sharing in my concern that I might be on the verge of death, was still laughing uncontrollably. "I'm really freaked out!"

"You'll be fine," he assured me, not even knowing whether or not I'd actually swallowed anything. "Don't worry."

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But I was worried.

"Yo, I know I'm probably just paranoid," -- Hunter was unlocking the gate so we could get out of the driveway, and he was clearly amused by my panicked state -- "but I'm bringing this stuff with us just in case I go into cardiac arrest or something on the way. And also," -- I pulled the card out of my back pocket -- "I brought this Med-Evac stuff. It's right here." I motioned to the back pocket of my Carhartt's.

Looking back, preparing to be life flighted to Europe because of a toothbrushing mishap seems a bit much. At the time, though, I wasn't thinking so rationally. "I just swallowed baby diaper rash cream, and there isn't a Poison Control Center on the continent." That's what I was thinking.

And don't think that I don't hear you laughing. What would you have done in my situation, tough guy?

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The entire ride to Nick Pub, I was counting every heart beat like it was a gift from God. Not that ever breath isn't a gift from God when you're not thinking you've just poisoned yourself; it just seems especially precious when you are thinking that.

"This is how I'm gonna go out," I castigated myself, silently. Still freaked out by the "do not swallow" stuff, I wasn't swallowing. At all. For 30 minutes. "'R.I.P. Bayless Parsley. 1984- 2008. Death by baby rash diaper ointment poisoning."

Beat -- thank you. Beat -- thank you. Beat -- thank you. Keep on coming, baby. Beat...

Not quite the stuff that "Braveheart" is made of.

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I never told Meghann and Lali. Mainly because I was already getting enough grief from Hunter, and I was still kind of worried. Every little pain in my chest equaled an, "Oh my God! What was that!" in my brain. But I did tell Jamie. And only because she was leaving.

I figured it'd be a great gift to send her off with: a story that can make you spontaneously combust into hysterical laughter is certainly a gift that keeps on giving. How foolish it was to think it could have been "our little secret," though. Soon, Sam and Tait were on the scent; they wanted to know what all the commotion down at the end of the table was about.

Sam, fever stricken and trooping it just to be there, almost spit out her food. Tait, who was perfectly healthy, had a little less crazy reaction, but not by much. And Jamie, a nurse back in the States, shook her head in horror at the list of ingredients.




"Oh my God, zinc oxide?!" she exclaimed, jaw agape. "That's like the stuff you wear when you go skiing!" (I knew it). "You put this in your MOUTH?!"

"It looked like toothpaste!" I yelled for the billionth time.

"I know, but still..." her eyes continued to scroll as her voice trailed off for a hot second, coming back to life with the next revelation. "Oh gross, barbadensis, too."

No idea what barbadensis is, but it definitely doesn't sound good.

Sam grabbed a hold of the tube to have a look for herself.

"Oooh, 'goes on smoothly!'" she read from the label.

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It's been two days, and I still haven't brushed my teeth. I finally got around to buying a new toothbrush today, though. And some toothpaste, too.

Don't worry, I checked the label three times before I paid for it.

The face of a man with an "anal fissure."

"I wonder if Barry would let me borrow some of "The Cream." Two birds with one stone I guess..."

Uhhhhh........

"Anal fissure"? What ever happened to strained ligaments and turf toes? You start letting players like this...




... into the league, and that's when you begin to read about "anal fissures" on ESPN.com. And how one of them may keep our brand new, Japanese second baseman out of Opening Day, in what would be his first game as an Astro.

Say what you will about Craig Biggio's declining production in the tail end of his career. At least he was tearing ACL's and MCL's -- not his scoofy, like good ole Kaz Matsui.

The Real Life Air Up There

Now this is the kind of Tanzanian orphan I think we should be trying to save.




If I could play Jimmy Dolan, I would.




Only God knows what might have happened had this kid from Dar es Salaam been born in Arusha ten years after his real birthday, February 16, 1987. A kid that tall definitely would have been a regular at our court in Soweto, and a kid that tall definitely would have caught my eye.

And UVa would have been making room in admissions for one very tall, very athletic Mbongo baller about seven years down the line.

Hasheem Thabeet -- born in Tanzania as Hashim Thabit Manka, only to change it to the Americanized version soon to be called out by David Stern at the NBA Draft -- would have qualified for our sponsorship program had our NGO existed when he was growing up in Dar es Salaam during the 1990's. The TZ government defines the word yatima, "orphan," as any child who has lost at least one parent. Whether or not this semantical tweak is a marketing ploy (the more "orphans" a country has, the more attention it gets from Western NGO's) or a reflection of cultural differences, I don't care. Hasheem Thabeet, whose dad died during his childhood, would have been the greatest yatima in the history of the ACC.

The man is a giant: 7'3", 265, with a wingspan of 7'5". At the time that the NY Times article Mr. Booth sent me went to press (I had never even heard of Thabeet until then), he had more blocked shots (127) than nine Big East teams. MORE BLOCKED SHOTS THAN NINE BIG EAST TEAMS. And he's using his talents to send UConn into the Tournament ready to make some noise.

Man, could we have used this kid at Soweto. Hunter and I play on a guard-heavy team that knows nothing of rebounding or defense. It's fitting, I guess, that we're called the Kings; circa 2002 Kings, of course.

When I first arrived in TZ back in July, my uncle Kenny emailed me to say that Penders was looking for a big man in the Patandi region to help with the boards, preferably 6'8" or bigger. Jeep made the obvious "The Air Up There" joke when he saw the photo of me with my Maasai admirers at the Bush appearance.




And even I had someone ask this dude how old he was, and whether or not he'd ever played basketball.

(He's 28, and he's never played. Too little, too late.)

But I just didn't realize that I was too late. My real life Air Up There'er had already made his way to Houston, where he played high school ball at Cypress Christian, and then onto Connecticut, where he's following in the footsteps of two other big men from H-Town, Jake Voskuhl and Emeka Okafor.

As if he wasn't cool enough in my eyes -- a future NBA player who speaks fluent Swahili -- Thabeet played high school basketball in Houston. Nimechelewa.

How do you explain the essence of an entire people? I'm not sure it's possible. But nitajitahidi -- I'll do my best -- with a few stories about life in the land of the Wabongo.

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Meghann came into town this week, and getting all our ducks in a row for the big library opening at FK Academy was numero uno on the agenda.

Until you learn how to say, "Niache bwana, mi sio mtalii," you're gonna get this dude trying to sell you TZ flags every, single, time, you see him.

The actual construction we're leaving to Alan and his boys.

No wonder Alan said he "hadn't been sleeping at night" until we told him the opening was March 30, not March 1. This picture was taken two days ago, the day he thought it was supposed to be ready.

But girl stuff, like getting the materials together to make giant pillows for the chill out area, we can take care of on our own. That's why Meghann wasted no time in wanting to pick up some kanga's and vitenge, the colorful native cloths used by woman as skirts and by men as Sunday best shirts, which you can get for between TSh 3,500-4,000 (around $4) on market day.

Mama Big Apple, our old neighbor from Patandi, sporting her kitenge as a skirt...

And the special George W. Bush kanga's printed up for Dubya's visit to TZ two weeks ago

Saturday is the siku la soko in our old village, which is why we headed to the Tengeru sokoni.

I hate the women who sell kanga and vitenge more than I hated brussel sprouts during pre-K. They occupy a special antechamber in my heart, the same rat-infested shit hole I reserve for all the masela in our old village who used to steal from us with such impunity, it was as if they viewed our Mzungu spaceship house as one of those "Take 1" containers of pennies they put above the penny-pressing machines at Six Flags. With most Tanzanians, I give the benefit of the doubt when they try to hustle me -- life is hard for the sufferah's in Africa; what would I do if I were in his situation?; I'm just a white boy, and white boys typically mean money, so how could I expect him to do anything but screw me over?

Not with the women who sell kanga and vitenge. They get no slack from me. I can honestly say that they are bad people.

"Kabla hatujaanza, tuongee kuhusu bei," I said, making sure we agreed on a price before this woman -- licking her chops at the sight of three Wazungu standing before her, ready to spend their money -- unfolded and refolded a cornucopia of textiles in an attempt to find the right ones. Negotiating becomes a lot more emotional if you do it after this 10-minute process, I've learned.

"Sawa," she said, smiling, as if that was gonna work. "Elfu nane."

Elfu nane, as in, "8,000." As in, about eight bucks. As in, more than twice the real price. As in, I must be a freaking dumbass.

As in, that's how every negotiation begins when you're a white man in Africa. You start with "You must be a dumbass" price, and the more Swahili you spit at them, in theory, the more the price comes to resemble the bei ya Mtanzania. But it usually never gets there, no matter how fluid you are in their language.

"Elfu nane?!" I shrieked. Did I laugh, too? I think. But maybe I'm confusing it with my reaction earlier that afternoon. I know I laughed -- loud -- when the used cell phone hawker on the sidewalk in town had told us, after a four-second hesitation so he could think of just how badly he wanted to screw us, that the Fisher Price piece of crap Hunter was holding in his hands could be ours for the low price of TSh 70,000. Meghann had just seen a sale at Celtel for a brand new phone that had been marked down TSh 4,000 to its sale price of TSh 43,000.

"Elfu nane ni kichaa," I said, insinuating that she belonged at Bellview. "Jaribu tena."

After a few seconds of back and forth, her plastic smile not getting any less inauthentic, we agreed on a semi-fair deal of 4,000 a pop.

The unfolding/folding routine commenced. Meghann chose four kanga's that tickled her fancy. I offered to give the woman TSh 15,000 straight up for all four. She stared up at my forehead, clearly lost in thought, calculating whether or not she'd be making any money on the deal, for about two or three seconds. Then she agreed. The plastic smile didn't leave her face, and it was still fake as hell.

In Tanzania, when something seems like it's signed and sealed, it almost never is. I should have known this woman was gonna pull some shit. After all, she sells kanga and vitenge at the Tengeru market. Remember what I said about these women? There are no exceptions to this rule.

"She thought I had three, but then she realized we got four, for 15,000," Meghann said today, recounting her version of events. My version of events has a gaping hole in it, from between the moment she agreed on a price, to the moment that I started calling her a liar in the middle of the sokoni. "So when she found out I had taken four, she started taking them out of my purse."

That's why her plastic smile never left her face; the woman thought we had done the math wrong or something, that we were going even higher than the price we'd agreed to at the outset. I would have loved to have been inside her brain during that thought process: This Mzungu is gonna pay me 15 g's for THREE kanga?? That's about .... that's a profit! A big one!

And I would have loved even more to have been inside her brain when I started getting physical.

I've had bad experiences with these women before. More than once, I've gotten what I like to call "light headed rage" -- a common affliction for me in Tanzania. Light headed rage means your heart pounds; your blood surges; and your temper prepares for liftoff. Only bad things happen from there. Once, after watching me lose it in Swahili on an old woman trying to charge me TSh 5,000 a pop for about eight kanga, my Zanzibari friend Ras Muniyr got embarrassed and left the scene. Later, he told Emily that "Hatari is dangerous."

Little do they realize this picture was taken on Opposite Day.

Hatari, which really does mean "danger," is my name in Tengeru.

These women are always thieves in the figurative sense; but this was my first time seeing one of them play the thief in the literal sense.

I couldn't believe it. I turn my back for ten seconds to negotiate a price on another kitenge I especially liked as a potential shirt, and the woman had literally grabbed all the fabric out of Meghann's hand, going on about something in Swahili.

"What happened?" I asked Meghann, observing a scene that looked far from the end of a seamless business transaction.

"She says we owe her an extra thousand," Meghann said.

"How much did you give her?"

"Fifteen."

As in the price the woman had agreed on after looking me in the eyes with that fake, plastic smile. Light headed raaaaaaage........

"Nipe elfu!" the woman cried. "Bado elfu moja!" She wanted TSh 16,000 -- four grand a piece.

"Hapana!" I yelled, making a move towards her. "Umeshakubali!" You already agreed!

"Hapana, hapana," she shook her head, and her body, too, all the while clutching at the kanga's we thought we had just bought. "Elfu kumi na sita," she demanded. Sixteen thousand.

"MAMA!" I screamed. It's like the Swahili equivalent of "mam." "Niliposema kwamba nitakupa 15,000 kwa yote, ulikubali. Au sio??" I asked, knowing that she knew she was full of shit. "Nipe kanga!"

"Hapana." The plastic smile, amazingly, was gone.

Light headed raging, I just grabbed a hold of what she was grabbing hold of, the pile of cloth, and started to pull.

Is this really happening? I thought. Am I about to start a fight with a 40-year-old woman in the middle of Tengeru's market day, in front of my boss?

I had already given two pretty hard tugs when I let go. The path I was about to go down wasn't leading anywhere pleasant. You've got to nip light headed rage in the bud, or else you're brewing trouble for yourself.

I couldn't steal back what she'd stolen from us. But I could still let her have it verbally. Like Becky's kanga says, "Maneno Maneno Yavunja Moyo" -- Words Words Breaks the Heart.




"Umeshakubali, na UNAJUA!" I yelled. "Wendo MWONGO kabisa!" You are a complete liar!

"Haaaamna," she denied. "Haaaamna."

"Ndiiiiiyo," I mocked. "Ndiyo. Wendo mwongo. Na Mungu anaangalia KILA kitu." God watches everything.

She didn't like that line too much.

"Nilete kanga," I demanded, motioning for her to give us our stuff back; she was still holding onto the money Meghann gave her. "Nilete!"

She refused.

I yelled again for her to give it back. Again, she shook her head. Everyone was staring at us. Memories of her stained teeth and her plastic smile were long gone at this point.

"Fine," I said in English -- when I get really flustered, I find it hard to avoid breaking into English filler words -- "nilete pesa." I wanted my money back.

Somehow, she didn't see that one coming. Maybe because she figured I knew I wouldn't be getting a better deal from any of her fellow cartel members lined up on this dusty road, all colluding on prices to keep the white man down.

"Nilete!" I persisted. Blood was rushing through my veins.

Grudgingly, the woman got the TSh 20,000 note out of her pocket and asked for change. We handed her a fiver; she held onto her kanga's; and I swiped that cash out of her hand like an elephant being offered peanuts at the zoo.

I told her friend next to her -- the one I'd been negotiating with on that fly looking kitenge when all the commotion started -- to screw off, too.

Then, we proceeded to go right down the line and buy 10 kanga/vitenge for TSh 40,000 -- four thousand a piece, the same price the woman had tried to extort out of us ten seconds before. I smiled as Meghann handed over the money. Our nice old friend was getting to watch someone get the exact same money -- more, actually -- that she had tried to get herself, only to fail in glorious fashion.

Here is how this story explains a damn thing about Tanzania: people here would rather get NOTHING than bend a smidgen with Wazungu. It doesn't matter if you speak Swahili or not. If you're white, they feel they're being cheated if you refuse to pay a tourist price. And so they get nothing. A measly thousand shillings -- less than a dollar -- ain't shit for me, but it's a lot for that woman. And she lost out on it because she thought I was a bitch.

Well, she's wrong. In her neck of the woods, my name is Hatari.