Met Jane Goodall yesterday. Her only words to me: “You’re the new baboon researcher who got robbed!”. I nodded and smiled stupidly and she moved on.

Despite all diligent efforts, I have still to make it to Gombe. Free of Dar I skipped my way down to the Kigoma TAWIRI office to proudly present my permits for entry and the man behind the desk, friendly enough with a pencil-thin mustache, informed me that I was missing the TANAPA permit. No on had really said much about this gem, but it seemed unnecessary given that the Tanzania Wildlife Research Institute (TAWIRI) had given me clearance. But no. Now I need the Tanzania National Parks to acknowledge my worthiness. So I have passed the last two days sitting outside offices, hoping for emails and phone calls and practicing my Swahili greetings. And hanging out with Jane.

Jane Goodall was a hero of mine back in the day. In middle school I had a neurotic fish named after her who spent most of his time parked behind the water heater. However, meeting her, I was a bit non-plussed. She’s older now–considerably so–with a dry sense of humor and the air of a woman who knows exactly what she wants and isn’t really into bargaining. But she’s just a person with a nifty British accent. And I know one of those in Minnesota. I was allowed to tag along on an evening of important guests and fed juice and cookies on a gorgeous overlook of Lake Tanganyika. A few wazungu and a boatload of Tanzanians, the backbone of the Jane Goodall empire in Kigoma (though one does get the sense that it’s not really about Gombe anymore), we stood around and chatted as the sun plummeted behind the water, night hitting mid-sentence as it often does in Africa.

But Jane is not my only foreigner of note. I am once again typing away on the iPad of the white-toothed Marc of Room 9. Marc is an interesting sort of fellow. He’s garrulous and smart and perhaps a bit bigoted. He worked 30-odd years as an architect in Washington state and then decided to stop, sell his house and all his possessions, give away what he couldn’t sell, and fly to Africa. That was 7 months ago. Since he has been through Egypt, Zambia, South Africa, Mozambique, Malawi, and Tanzania, stopping when he feels like it (this is his second time in Kigoma, two weeks so far…he may stay for a while but only if the bar down the way stops pumping bass long into the night (it’s booming away as I type now)). His bag is admirably light: three shirts, three pairs of pants, underwear (I imagine, though I didn’t pry), a few toiletries, and an iPad. I asked how long he plans to travel. ” Oh, I think I’ll go for another year or two.” Shrug. He might hit southeast Asia next. But he’d like to find a dentist first.

And me, I head to Gombe (fingers crossed) on Thursday. Entries will likely be light there (or non-existent) until I get a laptop, but, trust me, they will be STELLAR (or not). In the meantime I wait, thumbing through self-important prose by Paul Theroux when night falls and I’m a little too creeped out by The Shining to hover over my kindle under the shadows of my mosquito net.