I’ve always lived life on the edge, though not because I go looking for danger. Somehow, just getting out of bed seems to provide endless opportunities to test my limits. I’ve never broken a bone, but concussions, stitches, sprains, strains, and bruises have been part of my life for as long as I can remember. I’ve mastered the art of tripping over my own feet while standing still, finding the only hole in the garden, or even—on more adventurous days—falling out of cupboards. My mom swears it’s because I’m a typical Sagittarian.

Since moving to Moshi, I’ve discovered new ways to push my limits—though in the process, I’ve also found something unexpected: a community that steps in without hesitation, whether it’s helping with my kids, running out of meetings, or just showing up when I need it most.

My first real test came not long after we arrived. After a tough run, I turned the corner toward home, where three dogs always lounged in the road. They’d been around longer than we had, enjoying life outside a neighbor’s broken gate. I had passed them many times before, but this time they came after me. The three bigger dogs surrounded me and bit me on the leg and bum while their sickly puppy looked on. I screamed until someone came out and the dogs finally scattered.

Phil was away for work, so we called a friend, who dropped everything. He looked after my kids, dealt with the doctors, and helped us find the right medication. What followed was weeks of uncertainty while we waited for the dogs to be collected and tested—and to see if I would develop any symptoms.

As I lay on the bed at the local clinic, I had to laugh a little. The scene felt straight out of “old Africa”: nurses in white dresses, instruments wrapped in green sterilized cloths. It was a far cry from the polished Hilton Life Hospital we were used to back home. Still, I was treated with dignity and constantly reassured. The rabies and tetanus shots had to be bought over the counter at a pharmacy and then carried to the clinic for the nurses to administer.

One injection fell on a Sunday, when the clinic was normally closed. They told me to be there at 10; in true African time, the nurse arrived closer to 11. I sat on the veranda with a mother and her son, waiting for the fridge outside to be unlocked so my injection could be taken out. When it was finally over, I left with a signed paper in hand. By the time I went in for my last shot, the staff actually celebrated with me. It was then I realized—I had gained not just medical care, but a community I could trust.

Fast forward a bit, past the usual bumps, bruises, and even a sourdough bread burn, and I once again needed help. After a Friday morning coffee with a group of moms I’d recently met (all with kids the same age, from all corners of the world), I decided to make watermelon ice for the boys. What could possibly go wrong?

Quite a lot, apparently. While blending, I managed to slice my finger on the hand blender, spraying blood everywhere. Lightheaded, I called Phil—who immediately dropped his meeting, jumped on a bodaboda, and came home. Once again, I found myself at the now-familiar clinic, greeted by friendly, familiar faces.

When I explained what had happened, the staff exchanged looks that said, “Really? Again?” The doctor had a quiet chuckle at my stupidity before remarking, “First the dogs, then the blender—God only knows what’s next.” This time the sympathy was limited (fair enough—stupidity doesn’t deserve much sympathy), but I was treated quickly and kindly. After an x-ray in a simple, no-frills room with an old machine, the verdict was no major damage—just a good scrub, some skin stick, and instructions to rest.

Meanwhile, another friend collected my boys—and hers, who was meant to be coming over—from school, fed them, and took them all to taekwondo. No hesitation, no fuss, just pure kindness.

That’s what I’ve found here in Moshi. My community is different—it’s made up of friends, colleagues, and parents, all working together to support each other. I’m forever grateful for people who, without really knowing me or my family, are willing to drop everything to help.

Hopefully, my guardian angel decides I’ve tested the limits enough for now—and that from here on, I can stick to just minor bumps and bruises.

Living the dream

I’ve always been an outdoor person. I grew up on a farm with two younger brothers, and most of our childhood was spent outside—barefoot, muddy, and endlessly curious. We were always on an adventure. We chased rainbows in search of pots of gold, climbed into bushpig holes for school projects (yes, really), got thoroughly lost in mielie fields, and waged imaginary wars against the terrifying agapanthus flowers. Our world was wild and wonderful, and often filled with friends and cousins who joined in the chaos.

Family holidays were much the same—fishing trips, game drives, and the occasional camping expedition, but always grounded in togetherness, adventure, and the great outdoors. When I was 16, my dad and I walked through the Kruger National Park on foot. It was magical—one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life. That walk sparked another dream: climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. Ever since, my dad and I have spoken about it, half-serious and half in awe. It always felt like one of those things that lived in the “one day, maybe” category.

But yesterday, as the clouds lifted and the snow-covered summit of Kilimanjaro revealed itself, I sat in silence, staring. The mountain stood there, towering and majestic, and I couldn’t believe that more than two decades after the first dream, I’m here—living at its base, watching it emerge and disappear with the clouds.

It feels surreal. That old dream doesn’t feel so far away anymore. Now, it feels possible. Maybe, just maybe, it’s about to come true.

Our first month in Moshi has somehow flown by at a snail’s pace. It’s hard to believe we’ve only been here just over four weeks—it feels like we’ve packed six months of life into that time. As exciting as this adventure has been, it hasn’t been all smooth sailing. Anyone who has moved towns, provinces, countries—or entire continents—will understand the rollercoaster of emotions that come with it.

The boys were at school for three short weeks (honestly, I think they’ve spent more time on holiday this year than in a classroom). They loved their little school, and we were welcomed with open arms. My big boy has fully embraced the new culture around him—he’s completely fascinated by the Maasai, especially the men and their distinct way of dressing. Every time he spots one, he lights up and waves as if he’s just seen a celebrity.

My littler shadow has taken a bit longer to settle. He was happy once at school, but the morning goodbyes were tough. And, just as he was finding his rhythm, the holidays began. Classic timing.

Despite the short school stint, the boys have made friends and are slowly adjusting to a very different way of life. One of the biggest differences? Here, homes are always open for kids to come and play. It’s been a refreshing change after years in South Africa where COVID really put a damper on playdates and birthday parties. The boys are still learning how to navigate social play in a more casual, unstructured environment—sharing, negotiating, making up games without jungle gyms and themed activities. It’s been a learning curve, but such a good one.

As for me, I’m still finding my feet. Some days I feel incredibly grounded, surrounded by a budding village of support. Other days I feel a bit lost, wondering what I’m doing here and why I thought I could manage it all. But I know this is part of the process—adjusting takes time. I’ve learned that on hard days, putting on my running shoes and hitting the pavement does wonders for my mood. When I feel better, the boys seem to settle more easily too. There’s a lesson in that, I think.

One thing I wasn’t quite prepared for? The rain. When Philip left South Africa for Moshi in March, the boys and I stayed behind for another eight weeks—and it rained for about 90% of that time. The garden was a swamp. Clothes wouldn’t dry. It was wet, wet, wet. Then we arrived in Moshi and, believe it or not, it’s been raining here almost every day too. Mostly in the evenings or early mornings, but still—mud, puddles, soggy shoes. The good news? It’s not cold. The temperature hovers between 18 and 24°C, and we’re definitely not missing the biting South African winter.

Our adventures so far have mostly stayed close to home, with one much-needed escape to Tanga for some vitamin sea. Otherwise, life has been about settling in, meeting people, and easing into routines. The growing South African community here has made Saturdays feel a little like home—rugby, braais, and good-natured debates with American friends about why rugby clearly beats American football. (We’re still working on converting them.)

Navigating Moshi itself has been an experience. The markets are vibrant, chaotic, and bursting with life. Driving our big Toyota Hilux through the maze of people, bajajs, motorbikes, and the occasional wandering chicken has been both terrifying and thrilling. I was told if you could drive in KZN you could drive anywhere in SA—but here? Add in no traffic lights, minimal signage, and a first-come-first-served system and you’ve got a whole new level of chaos.

At home, we’ve found peace in unexpected ways. Birdwatching has become a favorite pastime. We’ve been lucky to spot a pair of palm-nut vultures—rare for this area—and they now visit regularly, squabbling with crows and soaring above the garden. At night, we keep an eye out for hedgehogs scurrying about, and during the day, squirrels race through the trees while monkeys swing by in noisy troops. The garden has become a haven—for the wildlife and for us. A quiet, green bubble where we can breathe.

Despite the bumps in the road, we’ve reached a turning point. We’re living a dream that we’ve held close for years. It’s not a fairy tale. It’s slow, messy, and real—but it’s ours. Each day, this place feels a little more like home. And I can finally start to picture us here for the long haul.

I’ve always enjoyed running. Not in a sleek, gliding-Gerda-Steyn kind of way, but more like an elephant stomping around a marula tree. Graceful? Not quite. But there’s something deeply grounding about it—especially here, where the trail demands your focus. There’s no time to spiral into thought when each step needs your full attention. And honestly, that’s part of the therapy.

Since moving to the side of a mountain, I feel like I’m starting from scratch—again. The usual aches and breathless climbs are back, but the altitude (and gravity) works in my favour… as long as I’m heading downhill. Still, every run brings a small boost of confidence, a reminder that I’m moving forward—literally and figuratively.

Trail Encounters

Out here, the runs aren’t just about pace or distance. They’re about people. I’ve settled into a few familiar routes where faces have become friendly nods, and I’ve even picked up the occasional running companion. One of them is a young man I often cross paths with—me in my high-end running gear, him in worn Crocs and dusty work clothes. And yet, there we are, side by side for a few hundred metres, him often unknowingly pushing me to run harder than I ever plan to.

He once invited me to karaoke over club music—not quite my style—but what he said during one of our quick sprints stuck with me. With a wide grin and zero breathlessness, he said, “Running is the closest thing to real freedom. You can go as fast or as slow as you like, wherever you like. Unless you’ve been in prison, you’ll never understand what that really means.”

That hit me. No, I’ve never been in prison, and I don’t intend to, but in that moment, I caught a glimpse of what he felt. Running can be liberating. The kind that cuts deeper than fitness goals or finish lines.

Wild Beauty, Real Africa

Running here is never boring. It’s colourful, chaotic, and sometimes heart-breaking. You’re always aware—of people, of traffic, of life rushing around you. Bajaj’s (tuk-tuks) and boda-bodas fly by with little regard for pedestrians. You learn quickly: you’re at the bottom of the road hierarchy, a moving target on two legs.

And then there are the moments that remind you—this is Africa. Once, I saw a dog hit by a bike and fly across the road. Another time, a smell on the wind nearly made me lose breakfast. But the flip side? Unmatched support. Old men cheer from roadside “coffee shops” yelling, “Run baby, run!” Passer-by’s clap and call out encouragement, strangers celebrate your effort like you’re in a city marathon.

Sights and Sprints

You see things here you’d never spot from a car. An entire house worth of furniture balanced on a tiny Chinese motorbike. A forgotten golf course that’s more grassland than greens. A bridge hidden beneath the trees where the river sings louder than your thoughts. Banana plantations tangled with children’s laughter from nearby classrooms.

One day, I saw a bajaj stall at the base of a hill. No panic. His friend in another bajaj pulled up behind, stuck out his foot, and gave him a push—barefoot power steering at its best. Together, they conquered the speed bumps and the bend in the road, laughing all the way.

From Elephants to Gerda

Running has become more than a hobby—it’s a moving meditation, a micro-adventure, a way to reconnect with my goals and let go of the noise. It’s the reason I keep coming back, even after long breaks and sluggish starts. Maybe this will be my last “start again.” Maybe I’ll finally build toward the goals I keep tucked away in my mind.

For now, I’ll keep pounding the trails—elephant-style. Because even if I never glide like Gerda, I’ve found freedom in the run, and support where I least expect it. And that’s more than enough reason to lace up and try again tomorrow.

Last Saturday, I decided to brave a solo mission to the local Memorial Market—a buzzing, chaotic hub of clothing, shoes, and homeware. It’s not the kind of market you stroll through leisurely. It’s alive with loud music, voices calling out from every direction, chickens darting between stalls, and people absolutely everywhere. In a word: chaos.

My goal? Curtains for the boys’ bedrooms. Blue to match the Paw Patrol room and green for the camo-themed one. I’d been in touch with a lovely local lady who had helped me with our bedroom curtains previously. She has a stall at the market, had sent me photos of her available stock, and all I needed to do was go collect and pay.

While I was at it, I figured I might as well have a look for something for the living and dining rooms too. But I’ll admit—I was nervous. I’d only been to the market once before and wasn’t sure I’d be able to find her again in the maze of stalls. But I had a rough idea: drive straight through the middle, take a turn up the road, and she should be on the left. Thankfully, she was expecting me—and I stood out enough from the regular crowd that I wasn’t too hard to spot.

“Habari dada, karibu!” was the warm greeting I received. We chatted, she made a few adjustments to the curtains, and I took the opportunity to explore.

With a few items in mind, I strolled around. Over the loudspeakers came the constant chorus of “Mambo! Habari! Karibu! Looking is free!” It was a slow morning, so any small sign of interest was met with enthusiastic persuasion. After about 30 minutes of wandering, I decided it was time to head back and collect my curtains.

Easier said than done.

I headed in the direction I thought was correct. I walked up through the narrow lanes, but somehow got stuck in a loop. I passed the same stands so many times that the stallholders eventually stopped trying to sell me anything—probably assuming I was just another lost mzungu who wasn’t going to buy. I did stand out a bit, so by the third pass they’d shifted their attention to other customers.

Eventually, with a combination of luck and sheer stubbornness, I made it back to the curtain stall. Curtains in hand, I now had one final challenge: finding the car. I put my head down and powered straight ahead, refusing to stop, smile, or get distracted. I ended up in a completely different spot from where I thought I’d parked—but there it was. Victory.

For some, this might seem like a simple errand, but for me it was a small, hard-won triumph. I love markets, but I can easily get overwhelmed in busy spaces. On our last visit, I leaned heavily on my husband to navigate. And let’s be honest—I can get lost in my own back garden. So, finding my way through the maze of energy, people, music, and movement all on my own? That was a big win.

Sometimes it’s not just about getting the curtains—it’s about proving to yourself you can.

We don’t tend to do things the easy way. My husband and I have always taken the long route—literally and figuratively. It’s messy, often bumpy, but it’s always full of lessons, and that’s exactly how we wanted this journey to be. Not just the destination, but the getting there—the good, the hard, and everything in between.

Our move to Tanzania wasn’t just a change in scenery. It meant uprooting the boys from the only world they’ve ever known—their routines, their friends, their family. We knew there would be moments of resistance and heartbreak. We expected it. But expecting it doesn’t make it any easier when it arrives.

Our first Tuesday here hit hard. The boys were exhausted from the travel, emotions were running high, and by mid-morning they’d fought for what felt like the hundredth time. After another shouting match (yes, one I contributed to—definitely not my proudest parenting moment), Ethan ran and hid under his bed. His camouflage duvet makes it “invisible,” and for him, it’s the perfect hiding spot when the world feels too big.

I let a few moments pass. Then I heard the sobs—those deep, gut-wrenching cries that shake you to your core. I peeked in and found him curled up, clutching a photo his cousin had given him—the two of them, laughing on top of hay bales, frozen in a moment of joy. My heart shattered. I couldn’t fit under the bed, but I reached out, coaxed him gently, and when he crawled out, I held him in the kind of hug that says more than any words could.

We needed a shift. A reset. So, we piled into Dad’s bakkie and drove into town to find something—anything—for dinner.

That’s when the magic happened.

As we drove, the clouds began to part, and through the grey, stretching across the farmland and bush, was a single, bright rainbow. Just hanging there, unapologetically beautiful. Ethan’s eyes lit up. He leaned forward and said softly, “God sent a rainbow to tell the world things will be okay.”

And just like that, we were okay.

That little sliver of colour turned into a symbol—a reminder that through the hardest transitions, beauty still breaks through. It was our sign that we were exactly where we were meant to be. The tears dried, the moods lifted, and we all smiled together for the first time that day.

Our African adventure is far from smooth. But we’re not here for smooth. We’re here for real. And sometimes, all it takes is a rainbow to remind you that even the hardest days have hope hiding in them.

photo thanks to @ziggyq_ found on Instagram and was just to special not to share.