~Africa~ Just the name evoked exotic and colourful images in the mind of this Canadian girl. Stepping off the plane at Dar es Salaam, the reality and humidity wrapped around me like a damp shirt. Everything seemed speeded up and loud as we made our way to the cheap hotel. This place was on a dusty side street with a sprawling frangipani tree that guests had to duck under to get to reception.

My husband Mike and I entered the simple room and lay on the wooden beds. We did not speak for a few minutes. The street sounds were like a cacophony of life. Horns, cars, dogs barking, school children chattering walking arm in arm from school and muted music all blended into one constant, curious stream. The wonderful mix of smells wafted into the window. Charcoal, tea, gas fumes blended with the sweet scent of flowers.

A month earlier, Mike and I were living on lake Memphremagog in the eastern township of Quebec. I remember him taking a phone call one afternoon, pacing while he spoke. Never a good sign. He finally hung up and came to sit down on the porch.

"Do you want to go to Africa?" He asked me with a smile and my life changed course abruptly

There was an American owned ostrich farm in Arusha Tanzania that needed help. The Zimbabwean that had been running it, was a shady character, building up his hunting company instead of the farm projects with money the Americans sent him monthly.
Now they were suspicious and wanted Mike to figure out what was going on. Affairs and communications were in quite a complicated tangle.

We stayed in Dar for the first month as Mike met with lawyers and we planned our grand entrance to the farm.

Gomba Estates was a fertile 1,600 acre farm at the base of Kilimanjaro. Throughout the years, it had eventually morphed into an ostrich farm. Long ago, it had produced rice, sisal and coffee as the rows of old shade trees in rows attested. It was fertile land and homeless squatters had creeped in, planting more banana trees every year, sneakily gaining a few more yards each time. Their herds of grazing goats and cows expanded along with their multi-coloured tarp houses.

As we drove up the long dusty road, hundreds of ostriches gazed out impassively from the paddocks.

The burgundy metal gates swung open and I had my first glimpse of an African farm.

Mike delivered the letter from the Americans, basically kicking this guy out and putting us in charge.
Workers of all ages milled around, suspicious and curious in equal measure of these bold guests.
The main house was a stately Dutch Cape style design with a thatched roof and wrap-around porch. Kilimanjaro with her frigid ermine stole, rose before us, her bright snow contrasting with the heat.
Her little sister, Mt. Meru, stood green and creviced, her famous east side blown away, marring the symmetrical perfection. The Masai Mara spread out forever to the south.

As days went by, we settled into a busy life on the farm, learning everything from scratch. I had never seen an ostrich or wildebeestes or a camel before.
Now they were in my yard.

Having a maid was nice, though it took me some time to get used to. She knew everything and I was learning. Amina stayed with us for many years, and she amazed me with her devotion and loyalty to us.

Once the foreman was gone, we had control of the office and ledgers. I began the task to see where this farm was really at. I soon found out that this guy owed money to every shop in town and workers wages were well behind. There was even an unpaid bill from KLM for shipping a dead body back to South Africa.