Portrait Series: Zach in Africa

White fur. Black stripes. Medium size. Curious body hair. Deep in the Serengeti, the zebra stands out in a world filled with many things that stand out.

Unsurprisingly, Zach prefers safari's to zoos. Awwww! he coos. He can't help but admire the herd of his favorite animal grazing casually in front of our safari car.

Zebras have been his thing for as long as he can remember, a fact memorialized by the zebra tattoo on his leg. He loves it's awkward horse-donkey shape, it's racecar striped fur, and even the letter Z it's name starts with. He loves how they live. Out in the wild, not totally safe from danger, but calm and content. The zebra stands out, but the zebra fits right in.

Light skin. Blue eyes. Medium size. Curious body hair. Earing. Bracelets. Zach too stands out in Africa. But like the zebra, Zach, in his own way, fits right in.

He gazes at them with awe, admiration, and perhaps, a touch of envy. I suspect if Zach had his way, he would escape the confines of our safari truck, rip off his clothes and fend forage and frolic with his adopted herd.

He’s the first to greet me at Tanzania’s airport. He grins warmly, knowing the gravity of the adventure he's roped me into. Nobody else could have gotten me to fly across the world to be here of all places. But I know that if Zach invites you on an adventure, you don't ask questions.

You go.

Zach’s many adventures could, and if I have my way, will fill many books. But for some reason, of all the places he’s been to, Tanzania is the one place he absolutely had to return to. I'm here to discover why.

Turn it up! Zach tells his friend, driver, and local fixer Hamadi on our way to town from the airport. They jam to hardcore gangster rap. This is Zach in one of his many elements. If you want to ever guess what Zach is doing at any given time, your best bet is to imagine him driving around town, windows down, spliff lit, spitting Lil Wayne lyrics. Real g's move silent like lasagna. Africa is easier if you like hip hop.

In my last life, I was a drug dealing gangster rapper in Houston who got shot while trying to turn his life around, Zach informs us matter-of-factly. I was re-incarnated to right old wrongs.

Hamadi drops us off in Moshi. By no conventional standards is Moshi pretty. The streets are chaotic. Most buildings are cheaply constructed or run down. Fumes and dust clouds clog the already hot and muggy air. Horns blast. Insects pester. Street crossings are treacherous. But to Zach these are more features than bugs. He prefers real and raw over the sterilized simulations of most world capitols.

Zach knows Moshi well. He likes to linger longer than most. Unlike many mzungu (gringos) that come here, Zach has no mission. He isn't here to preach, convert or save. He doesn't think people here need saving. He's more likely to convince you that we, in our mindlessly modern, consumption obsessed, hyper isolating rat-races are the ones who need saving.

In Moshi, Zach isn't here to do, but to be. He’s happy inserting himself into the flow of of daily life. We have a day to wander before the others arrive. We have no plans, appointments or any specific ambitions. Zach knows that in Moshi, adventure finds you.

Daytime Moshi buzzes. Everywhere people hustle to get by. Everyone sells everything everywhere. We stroll by people selling shoes, electronics, second hand clothes, dried fish, and food stalls. Mothers carry babies on their chests and baskets on their heads. Shrouded women tend fruit stands. Teens tinker on tilted tuk-tuks. Vehicles big and small whizz by in all directions keeping us on permanent guard. The call to prayer hums periodically. Silence is rare.

Like the zebra, Zach, stands out here. Many approach us. Most angle for money. Some to satisfy curiosity. Men grill corn and skewered meat. Little uniformed boys and girls giggle, wave, and high five us on their way to school. To the amusement of some and annoyance of others, Zach slots him himself into the flow of teenage workers offloading watermelons from a truck.

Zach finds allies wherever he goes. We recruit Megan, another mzungu temporarily in town along with her mom and fluffy white dog. Ester, a girl selling coconuts, ambushes us with a devastatingly effective charm offensive and invites us over for dinner.

Behind the camera is one of the many places Zach feels at home. Like the zebra, he is no predator, but if he were one, his prey would be the perfect shot. His armory includes a 35mm point-and-shoot, a 1990’s Sony Handycam, and a compact gimbal stabilized video recorder. His patent-pending shoot-from-the-hip snaps capture candid evidence of our scenery.

Zach owns little and cares little for empty consumerism, but he will pounce if the right thing captures his eye. One such item does - sandals often seen on the feet of local Maasai villagers. Zach approaches the seller, an older man in his 40's.

Come try my friend. We will make your size. No problem, the man invites him.

Zach is excited, but doesn't play his cards. He knows that, by nature of being a mzungu, he's a target for his budget - real or imagined. Price lists are rare. Everything is negotiated. No deals, especially when mzungu are involved, close without a battle.

Zach tries on a few sandals, builds gradual rapport with the seller, picks the pair he likes, and prepares for the upcoming scuffle.

You won't like me by the end of this, Zach warns the seller with a sly grin.

The seller pitches his first price. It's not a lot of money in the grand scheme of things. Zach could easily afford it. Most mzungu in Zach's position would pretend to haggle, quickly relent, and pat themselves on the back for playing the role of grandiose patron. The seller would celebrate his score over the gullible foreigner and move on.

Zach is no predator, but neither is he prey. Nor is he here to save anyone. Dollars are earned, not given. It’s the principle, he says. He won’t be gouged or shower anyone with money. Experience teaches him the first price is for suckers. It’s a fantasy price many multiples of what locals would pay for the same thing.

No way! That's way too much! He doesn't take the bait. Zach’s done the market research. He’s knows the prices and his alternative options. Negotiation lessons were not something I was expecting in Africa.

But this is handmade my friend, the seller counters.

No go. They sell these for much less down the road! I know the price. Zach stands firm. But that is the locals price…for you my friend…this is the price, the seller responds seemingly indignant that Zach would demand the local price. Tension rises as he realizes Zach won't be an easy kill.

They go back and forth. Even I start to get uncomfortable. This is my final price, Zach states, or I walk. Smile gone, the seller relents. It's far from the price he fantasized about, but at the end, a sale is a sale.

Zach prediction comes true. The seller does not like him, but the sellers deal-closing handshakes communicates something more - respect. Sandals acquired, our adventure continues.

Zach is no savior, but that doesn’t stop others from thinking otherwise.

Zach?! Is that you?! a local man cries out pulling up on his motorcycle.

Yo what's up man! Zach responds warmly to the man he met a year ago.

I can't believe it....you came back. I'm so happy to see you. The man borders on tears. God is so good! He gives Zach a big hug and points to the sky in gratitude. Zach promises to meet him again before returning home, a promise he later fulfills.

At night we tuk-tuk to Zach’s favorite watering hole, Amuzz. Part barbershop. Part car wash. Party video game studio. Part paintball shooting range. Part sports bar. Part night club. Amuzz is….well…amuzing. Here locals and mzungu mix and mingle. Zach’s happy place is deep on the dance floor in front of the DJ blasting afro beats and hip hop.

But zebras, sandals, hip hop clubs and Esther's coconuts are side dishes in contrast to the main course that summons Zach back to Africa. What compels him lies deep in the horizon above Moshi's modest skyline. Stretching far beyond the panorama of our vision are the slopes of Africa's tallest mountain, Kilimanjaro.

From the top of our hotel, Zach and I behold the mountain whose peak hides shyly behind a great clouded wall. It's unfathomably large, and harder to fathom that we're here to climb that.

What the fuck…it doesn't look real, I say, intimidated.

Zach doesn't say much. He doesn’t need to. To him Kilimanjaro is more Mecca than mountain. Despite having climbed it a year ago he still struggles to verbalize what happened to him. I don't press him for details knowing he'll frustrate himself as if trying to explain color to a blind man. The best he can do is nod, and shrug. It’s the glow he radiates in Kilimanjaro’s presence that says what words can't. I detect awe, reverence, wonder, and a palpable undercurrent of fear.

It's the hardest thing I've ever done, Zach confesses. But I had to come back....I just had to. To the mountain he presents himself as a petty mortal beholding a powerful deity.

Only this time he wouldn't be alone. Needing little effort, Zach has the gravity to convince an entire group of friends and strangers to upend our lives and follow him across the planet to summit one Earth’s most majestic mountains. He is our Apostle of Adventure, the head zebra of our mzungu herd. We are his acolytes following him to this promised land, his home far from home.