Attack dogs, beer and New Years

The call to prayer from the mosque in Ngaramtoni, Tanzania, floats over the dusty and dark fields and groves of banana plants. Mount Meru looms in the distance, nothing more than a blue outline after the sun sank away. The mosque stops and the only sounds are crickets and occasional daladala honk. Then evening prayers from the sisters at the Medical Missionaries of Mary compound start, sweet songs in the hot night air.

The sounds are hypnotic, so different than the mayhem that gripped this unknown village on New Year's Eve.

My celebration was more sedate. Filled up a backpack with cans of Castle Lager from the BMW Grocery, then sneaked them back into the MMM compound. This is one of the few places in Africa I can relax, with a 10-foot fence topped with broken glass and razor wire, attack dogs roaming the sprawling grounds after dark and three separate locked doors between me and the outside world. Not to mention a feisty bunch of sisters whom I wouldn't want to catch me with a beer or 12. The sisters can also be motherly, like Sister Angela's recent order for me to stop writing in the sun and relocate to the shade.

They have a small guest wing for $10 per night - cleaner, safer, cheaper and quieter than anything you'd find in nearby Arusha. And there's a stove that blows up when you try and cook popcorn. Well, I don't think it can explode twice after I previously stayed here over the summer.

And as 2008 drifted into 2009, I lay in bed waiting for sleep that wouldn't come for hours. In Tanzania, like much of Africa, one doesn't venture out after dark unless you're interested in pushing your luck. Most people, however, were a five minute walk away in Ngaramtoni. The drunken racket was unlike anything I've heard: an otherworldly roar of shouts, screams, drums, thumping music, honks, chanting, conversation that didn't let up until 5 a.m. The noise was laced with constant gunfire and explosions.

The smell of sulfur and smoke quickly overpowered the dust blowing through my open windows. Most everything was already covered by a layer of dust. The air was stifling.

The compound's attack dogs joined in the din. Growls, barks and howling that went on for hours. That, of course, elicited the howling of what seemed to be every dog in the Mount Meru region.

The next day, I wouldn't have been surprised if parts of the town were destroyed, by the sounds of the celebration. But everything was normal. Just deserted. And the compound was quiet. Again.

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T