Leaving Arusha behind, driving through market towns and fields of maize and bright, sunflower-filled pastures, I arrive in Moshi upbeat, ready to square myself for the journey south. Surprised to see two weeks pass in Arusha, having glimpsed not a single lion or leopard or loping giraffe, I don’t want to linger long; memories of a month spent worrying over finances in Nairobi are, after all, still fresh. But the fortnight in Arusha was intense: the pile-up of impressions after arriving in a new country, the whirling circus of the Sullivan Summit, the commercial frenzy around the clocktower. I was busy gathering, hording images, devouring tales of woe in the local papers; my senses were constantly engaged, and by the time I left town, I felt curiously spent. It’s something I’ve learned, after nearly a year
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