When the gate opened a melody slipped out. Mr Nixon gunned the engine and wheeled TIK around to the door of the lodge. There we discovered the source of the sound. A young man hammered on a crude marimba. The wooden slats recoiled at the strikes, offering mellow tones and leaping against rope halters. Human voices, seven or eight in number, added to the plunk-plunk-plunk of the marimba; these, too, were moved to dance. Somewhere behind it all was the prum-prum-prum of a hand-drum. It was festive. It was colorful. It was the welcoming committee of the Farm of Dream.
We hummed (in Swahili!).
Jambo! Jambo bwana!
Habari gani? Mzuri sana!
Aerial view to the Farm of Dream. This image is from the lodge’s website and can be found here.
The Farm of Dream is a lodge nestled in purple hills above the Great Rift Valley. The nearby town, Karatu, is conveniently positioned between Lake Manyara and Ngorongoro Crater. Knobby-tyred rigs like TIK regularly rattle down its mudded street like a military convoy. Karatu’s nickname, unsurprisingly, is “Safari Junction.”
We enjoyed the music, briefly (Vicki encouraged haste as her tummy was doing a rhumba of its own), and went inside. The man behind the desk snapped to the ready. He offered directions to our room, to dinner, and the exit plan for the morning. Two porters appeared at the door with Mr Nixon. They were girls not more than 12 or 13 years old. They insisted on helping with our few totes, either for the sake of a tip or, more likely, out of pity (we were clearly ancient and enfeebled).
I turned from the desk to Mr Nixon, who promised to meet us in the morning. He said he would be sleeping elsewhere.
“The ugali in Karatu is very good. I love coming here just to eat it. I’ll go now and see you at breakfast.” He grinned in his usual way.
I contemplated a protest, but decided against it. It would do no good. I shook his hand and wished him a good night.
I hope you have a room and dinner somewhere nice and don’t have to sleep in the vehicle. Some companies treat drivers that way.
The huts were round and quirky and wonderful.
We followed the girls and bags down the cobbled road. Our thatched-roof hut was in an area of the compound called “Flamingo Village.” I thought about the flamingos we had seen earlier that afternoon on Lake Manyara. Vicki was tired after her own Manyara experience. (You did read “Rookie mistakes” didn’t you? If not, stop right now and read this before continuing. Now you know the whole story.) Needless to say, we didn’t lollygag.
Our hut was round and quirky and as wonderful on the inside as it appeared on the outside. A ceiling of folded parchment (banana fronds?) spiraled up to a central point overhead. By the door was an an entryway and a bathroom of natural stone. The rest of the space was bright and well-lit by batteries of windows. In the center was a canopy bed framed by poles that held drapes of white sheers. These was not entirely for romantic touch; the sheers would be pulled around the bed at dusk for a mosquito-free night of sleep.
Our room was wonderful and quirky.
We settled in. Vicki took some medicine and a needed rest. She had jet lag against her as well.
I washed clothes in the bathroom, rigged a clothesline outside, and hung the clothes out to dry. Then I scouted the place. Behind the main building was the restaurant and a lounge and bar with a TV playing the BBC. Behind that, a swimming pool. Private rooms like ours were in huts organized into clusters. These radiated out from the pool area and were linked by cobblestone roads. The surrounding grounds were tropical gardens, meticulously groomed. It was an odd mix of rustic sophistication. An encircling compound wall held it all together.
The pool at the Farm of Dream. This image, from the lodge’s website, is found here.
When Vicki woke up we went exploring together.
“I need to replace my toothbrush,” she remembered. “Do you think they will have one at the front desk?”
“Let’s try.”
Our new friend said that it would not be a problem. A new toothbrush would be found, but not in the lodge.
“I’ll send a boy into town by bicycle.”
It was Vicki’s turn to protest.
“Not a problem.”
An hour later, she had a toothbrush in hand and some sweaty young lad had three dollars in his pocket.
Before dinner, the musicians offered another concert of voice, drum, and marimba at the poolside lounge. It was accompanied by dancing and some impressive feats of acrobatic strength. There was much jumping and swinging.
“Would you like to try that?” I asked.
“I would puke.”
We ate dinner in the restaurant. Vicki stuck with plain white rice. Afterwards we retired to our mosquito-free sanctuary.
Thatched cottages were scattered about the compound.
There were no insects in the night, but I woke up several times to the sound of barking dogs.
The next morning, as we were sipping coffee at breakfast table I asked Mr Nixon about the dogs.
“Many people here have dogs. They are for protection and alarms. Sometimes the hyenas come down. They kill the dogs. Only the lion is more dangerous than the hyena.”
I found this news of great interest, given the fact that we expected to reach our Serengeti camp later in the day. I could already imagine the lions cavorting, the pythons writhing, and the hyenas giggling in the tall grass just beyond the firelight. In the bush there would be no lodge, just tents in the open. A thin wall of canvas would separate our party from theirs.
We loaded TIK and said goodbye to our hosts at Farm of Dream.
Kwa heri!
If you are a pastor, church leader, or educator who is interested in international travel, let me hear from you. I partner with faith-based groups to craft and deliver outdoor academic experiences. Leaders receive the same perks that other agencies offer, at competitive prices, and without the self-serving interests that often derail pilgrim priorities.
Trips that are being planned for the near future include archaeology tours in the Bible Lands, a Mediterranean cruise, and another African safari. See here for details.