FIFA on the FDR

A wonderful thing happened on the way up the FDR…

Once upon a sleep evading night circa 2 or 3 AM, I made a whole bunch of workout mixes on my iPod.  Thing is, I usually don’t make it down to Dance Mix 5 or Dance Mix 6 during my workouts (as marathons also evade me lately) but on today’s run, I skipped right down to Dance Mix 5 and hit play.  The first song was “Wavin’ Flag” and there, amidst the commuter traffic and smog on the FDR, I was back in the rolling hills of East Africa during the frenzy of World Cup.

I returned from Africa three months ago and I can recall it vividly, but whenever I come back from a big trip, the pace of New York City grabs a hold of my bra straps and woos me with new cultural offerings at the MoMA and the Whitney, a slew of marquee names appearing on Broadway, the best chefs in the world opening signature restaurants, a host of my favorite authors passing through for talks, Central Park runs as the leaves turn, and my darling nephew on the cusp of actually, gulp, walking.  Oh, and there’s that small burden of trying to make a living.

Lately, I’ve been in a vortex of travel pieces, travel blogs, travel pitches, travel itself, and when time permits, the occasional dinner with friends.  Africa became a thing of a distant past.  Which.  Really.  Sucks.  On each return, I promise myself that I will reflect on the life-changing nature of my nomadic life in regular interval; I will stay in close touch with my new travel friends; I will keep the countries I love as close to my heart as I keep the people I love.  And I try.  I really do.

Enter today’s run. 

“Wavin’ Flag” was just the tip of the iceberg, recalling the regularly scheduled Coca-Cola commercials that ran to the World Cup’s anthem—commercials that I grew to love.  “Game On” sent me down a dreamlike road of memories and songs and I found myself back in Tanzania watching Ghana beat the United States (what a fucking game!) and the Zanzibar lounge where the guy next to us rooting for Ghana in the next round was from Astoria!  The aroma of the East River began to melt away, replaced by the salty ocean air outside Forty Thieves, the dive beach bar in Mombasa where Darryl and I watched the Netherlands rock Uruguay and Spain crush Germany with a few really dull Swedes. 

Lyrics to the songs that I knew just three months ago returned, and had I more confidence in my singing ability, I might’ve belted out a little “Waka Waka” right there as I hit the dog park.  With Shakira my running partner, my pace had picked up and I recalled my urgency about catching the finals in the very swanky bar of Nairobi’s Stanley Hotel with new Kenyan friend Brian Jones.  Surrounded by world citizens of all walks, rather than Giants fans of one state, I watched Spain coast to victory while text messaging with Edu and Chris, Barcelona-living friends who sent along pictures of the dancing going on in their streets. 

Talk about one world and one culture—summer of 2010 was all about identifying with those things.  South Africa set the globe afire a few short months ago, and I’ve been so busy trying to make a living, thinking about things like fall boots and maintenance on my apartment, that I clearly needed a reminder about global citizenship, the astonishing beauty of Africa’s open meadows, and the friendship of the people we met along the way. 

If just for 45 minutes on the FDR this morning, I was back in East Africa, living the dream, playing out my role of world citizen dutifully.  Then, Lady Gaga popped my bubble as a garbage truck honked in passing.  But for a moment, it was all about the waving world flag. 

Check it out:

The Official FIFA World Cup 2010 Album:

http://www.listenupalbum.com/

East Africa: The Q&A

I wasn’t sure what to expect before I left for Africa in June.  It was the only continent I hadn’t visited, and the one I was most eager to go to.  Now, having spent 5+ weeks in Kenya and Tanzania, I’ve processed and reflected and can easily say that it one of the best periods of my life.  I wasn’t sure how to tackle this blog post; everyone has so many questions (and preconceived notions) about Africa.  For that reason, I decided to do it as a straight-up Q&A.  If you have more questions, post them in comments and I’ll update my post with answers to them.

Were you sooo hot in Africa this summer?

It makes the best sense to start here, because it’s the most commonly questioned misperception about the African subcontinent.  And the accented sooooo hot is always the same, no matter the inquisitor.  It’s actually quite chilly in Kenya and Tanzania, and that’s because of altitude.  From when we arrived in Njabini, at Flying Kites, through Kilimanjaro (obviously…), and even on safari, we wore long sleeves every day.  Jeans.  Socks.  Closed-toe shoes.  I was underprepared for this climate aspect, lugging around floor-length sundresses and strappy sandals like it was my job.  I was expecting to come back bronzed and beautiful.  Sadly, it wasn’t until Zanzibar that my forearms arms saw the light of day.  Then, I made up for lost time.

What did you eat in Africa?  Is the food good?

YES.  (Capital.  Bold.  Italics.)  First of all, I don’t know what they do to their eggs over there, and maybe it’s because they’re laid and brought fresh to table, no refrigeration or pasteurization but…Africa corners the market on great omelets.  Breakfasts were all included and at a premium.  Even the fried-eggs-over-toast-at-the-very-base Gimwa Hotel were worth seconds (or thirds).  Also at breakfast was tons of fresh fruit – mangoes, papaya, pineapple, and watermelon, served at the beginning of breakfast, rather than the end. 

In the coffee, the milk is hot.  Which makes such better sense.  Why do we serve ours cold, again?  Forget coffee, though, the Kenyan tea rocks.  It’s a chai variety, thick and savory with a bit of spice.  The milk develops a skin on the top as it cools, but eventually that becomes endearing not skeevy.  Okay, maybe a little skeevy…

The soups are to-die for.  Who teaches soup-making as hobby over there, because I must learn.  Again, going back to question number 1, nobody expects soup in Africa because it’s sooo hot, right?  Pleasant surprise.  Cream-based, lentil based, curry flavorings. 

Inland, we ate a lot of lentils, beans, potatoes, and rice.  On the coast, it’s like the lobster lottery.  Lobster (or crab) at every meal.  In salads, soups, raviolis, grilled or broiled as main course.  And these aren’t little ratty lobsters, but meaty portions of tails and claws.  In addition, there were fresh vegetables of all sorts grown in local village gardens.  Venture into the villages and you can eat like a king for pennies from a menu of fritters and broths, as well as vegetables and fruit.

A tip or two about eating out:  Leave plenty of time.  It takes twenty minutes to get salt and pepper, let alone a piece of toast.  Guard your plate.  Once you look finished or have a lull in fork-to-mouth movement, your plate will be taken from you.  Hot sauce goes well with EVERYTHING in Africa.

Tanzania vs. Kenya?

Though they’re so close, sharing mountain ranges and borders, these countries are wildly different. 

When I first arrived in Kenya, I felt like I had a sign on my head that said “I’ve never been to Africa before, so please ignore me.”  Because that’s what they did.  Though after 3 weeks in Tanzania, returning to Kenya felt like homecoming.  I think the Kenyans are less trusting, less apt to open their arms in welcome because of a spotty colonial history and turbulent political system.  That said, since I’ve been in Kenya, the new constitution was approved by a 70% margin, and the future looks a little brighter.

On our first days in Tanzania, we felt a much more welcoming vibe.  Possibly that’s because we had acclimated a bit, and our first glimpse of Tanzania was through the eyes of the hired company taking us up Mount Kilimanjaro.  But that’s just a maybe.  Tanzania was better organized, and my take is that it goes back to the Nyerere presidency from the 60’s to the 80’s.  He unified the Zanzibar islands with the mainland Tanganyika to become Tanzania and, it seems, still has a profound effect on the democracy that exists today.

Gun to my head…Tanzania.  But it’s very close…

What are some little things, possibly indigenous to East Africa, possibly indigenous to travelers in East Africa that you noticed?

Many Africans get confused and say “you’re welcome” instead of “thank you.”  They use phrases like “Obey Your Thirst “and “Just Do It” in everyday context.  Like, on safari, my guide Rajai was always asking “Marie, did you obey your thirst today?” in an effort to make sure that I was drinking enough water.  The fact that this line of questioning took the form of Gatorade’s tagline (and that’s where he likely picked it up) was lost on him. 

Coca-Cola signs are everywhere.  All the bars, the stores in the mud-based villages, the billboards, even the ONE refreshment hut (and I do mean hut) coming down Kilimanjaro have Coke signs to announce them.  Usually the signs feature a woman with an Afro tilting her head back in drink.  Kiosks are even shaped like massive Coke bottles with cutouts for the counters—phallic American symbols of big business.  I wonder when exactly Coca-Cola came into Africa so aggressively; it’s very disturbing. 

I was always dirty.  And I don’t mean use-a-little-hand-sanitizer dirty.  Dirty in breadth and scope.  My eye socket corners, the soles of my feet, under the nails, in my ears, and as a film on my arms.  My hair was sand-colored and un-brushable most of the time.  Anything white is off-limits.  It’ll be beige in no time at all.  My shoes were coated in grime.  Their shoes, the shoes of the Kenyan and Tanzania people, however, were always clean.  People wear lace-up leather shoes, shined to the hilt, as if they just came from a shoe shine…clean.  How?  It was utterly amazing.

When you’re driving through the countryside, there are fields upon fields of flowers.  All kinds—sunflowers, calla lilies, orchids—and thousands of them.  I thought about the florist expenditure that we must spend, be it for weddings, funerals, or other affairs on such flowers.  Yet, there were thousands of them in sun-shining splendor along Africa’s back roads and it made me smile every time.

Speaking of roads.  All are bumpy and unpaved roads.  You’re holding on for dear life through most of your car-time in Africa.  I think I mentioned this in an earlier blog: sports bras on safari – an absolute must, so I reiterate.

Speaking of cars, Kenyans and Tanzanians put baby amounts of gas in their cars at the stations.  For a 90-minute drive, they would get a ¼ tank.  They won’t fill up, because they don’t believe in waste; use as you need it, pay for only what you need.  Forget gas, nothing goes to waste.  Everything gets recycled from the banana leaves to the broken down 1970’s radios and carburetors.  The sides of the streets are littered with men fixing bicycles, refrigerators, lamps, patching tires, reselling furniture.  If it can be reused, there’s a corner on which some weathered man is recycling it.

At lodges and hotels, the staff greets you with passion fruit juice and hand towels (to clean off the dust).  Hotel room mints come in the form of mosquito and roach spray.  Bugs here are as big as your fist.  Mosquitoes are like nowhere I’ve ever been.  In Zanzibar, on the coast, you can barely breathe without catching a few in your lungs, and by morning, your sheets are polka-dotted with blood from rolling over feeding mosquitoes during REM.  Yes, you actually get used to it.

Most of the towns smell like fire.  Much of this is attributed to the fact that refuse is burned for fuel, or because there’s a lack of garbage collection.  New houses within these communities are made of cinder block, though I prefer the mud-dried houses built on a frame of logs and sticks and accented with thatched banana or coco palm leaf roof.

Everyone needs to know a time for everything.  Breakfast, lunch, or dinner primarily, but also if you merely mention you MIGHT go to the market in passing.  Ok, what time?  Might want to take a walk later.  Ok, what time?  Returning to the airport?  When, what time?  When you give a roundabout answer, you then have someone waiting for you at that exact time guilting you into something you only said you might actually do.  It’s a vicious cycle.

Everyone has biblical names.  Little girls named Ruth and Miriam, little boys named Joseph and Jacob.  If it’s not biblical, it a descriptive noun:  Happiness, Mercy, Destiny, Patience, and the like. 

What about the African men?

One thing everyone should know about African men:  most cheat.  My Kilimanjaro guide, Richard, asked me to be his African girlfriend.  “We will email once you leave,” he says to me as we bound down the mountain on Day 7.  “Marie, I love you.”  “Yeah right,” I say, mildly amused.  I mean, who doesn’t want a good 50-something African man with seven children to love her?  “What does your wife think of that?” I ask.  “She knows that I cannot be with one women, it is not natural.”  And so it went…  Biondi, our drive in Zanzibar, brought his on-the-side bird into Stonetown with us.  They canoodled in the back of the van while we caroused until all hours.  I had to knock on the window to get his, ahem, attention to drive us home.  Our driver to Mombasa’s wife was headed to Zaire for temporary work.  He was on the prowl for a replacement.  

So, besides the fact that the African guy isn’t my guy to begin with… well, there’s the cheating.

How was it traveling with someone?  Specifically with Darryl?

Short answer: It was amazing. 

Long answer: I admit I was nervous to travel with someone.  I’ve spent the better part of the last four years traveling on my own.  I tend to be a little anal; I unpack as soon as I check in, I make lists of restaurants and local foods to try from my notes, I like to wrap the blanket between my legs so that my knees don’t touch.  Would I snore?  Would we get on each other’s nerves?  Was she too much of a hippie to my fancy?  When should I tell her I’d never been camping?

Slowly, I realized she was the perfect travel partner.  Where I’m uptight, she’s laid-back.  When she’s travel nervous, I’m calm.  We both like to get our hands dirty and engage in the culture in which we’re traveling and we both like nice sheets when the day is over.  (I admit, I was surprised by this.  She’s a bit of a Jungle Jap, if I’m spilling the beans…) 

Soon, we’d developed into a rhythm.  She always took the bed (or the side of the bed) closest to the bathroom.  I took up more room in the closet.  I expressed displeasure to any staff/clerk/tour guide that displeased me; she benefitted.  She let me try to do things my way only to be wrong.  Then, having patiently waited, we would do it her (right) way.  The best part?  She never said, “I told you so.”   She turns the AC off before we go to sleep; I turn it back on sometime during the night.  My luggage started off heavier.  Hers finished heavier.  So, there.

A kind person, Darryl always wants to give something back to anyone who, like, waves or smiles at her.  Shirts, food, money – she’s always searching her bag for a gift, to show “they mean something to her.”  It comes from a beautiful place, but in my opinion, exacerbates the problem.  “Can’t someone just do something nice for you without you feeling guilty?” I would ask her.  And she would smile sheepishly, and say something like “But the kid outside our room was so cute and I just found this $1 dollar bill from this Rabbi I used to know who told me to pass it onto something worthwhile, and I thought that the kid would be a good person to pass it onto.”  I wouldn’t disagree with her logic, but then I would say something like, “Okay, but do you have $100 dollar bills from the Rabbi for the line of children that have now gathered outside the property fence?” 

Me?  I haggle.  I refuse to be taken for a ride because I’m a tourist.  Sorry, a traveler.  I can’t give to everyone, so I give to very few.  Forget Africa being poor, traveling through poverty with Darryl, I’m now poor.  That being the worst of it, I think Darryl and I are headed for quite a few other adventures.

What was your favorite part?

Spending time the kids at Flying Kites.  Hands down, this was the best experience to bottle and take home from Africa.  It’s a special feeling, impacting the lives of others in a profound way, and ever since I involved myself with Flying Kites and their cause, I’ve felt deeply affected by Africa in a way that’s markedly different from the other continents I’ve visited.  Children, of any age, have always had the ability to inspire me to do great things.  The children of Flying Kites inspired me tenfold.

Would you go back?

Tomorrow.

A Word About the Constitution

 When I arrived at the Nairobi International Airport in early June, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  A travel writer, I’d seen the likes of five continents, but this was my first trip to Africa and I was trying to withhold expectations.  My goal was to merely absorb what I experienced and process later.  Little did I know my time in Kenya would come full circle two months later on a Montauk, New York beach.

I was in Africa on a charity mission—climbing Kilimanjaro for an orphanage called Flying Kites.  Located in a small town about ninety minutes north of Nairobi, Njabini was my first prolonged stop on a whirlwind East African tour.  I came to find that Njabini was representative of the millions of tiny Kenyan towns that dot the landscape of this beautiful country.  Deeply colored dirt roads meandered off the main drag, a street littered with roadside shops advertising beauty parlor services, internet and fax facilities, and every kind of odd and end under the Kenyan sun—recycled transistor radios, patched tires, mismatched flatware, and mended children’s clothing. 

Hailing from New York City, Njabini was refreshing.  The mountains stretched in every direction, the foliage shimmered bright green in the heat of the sun and fields of calla lilies and sunflowers grew in abundance.  Each morning, as I made my way down from my room at the bare bones Gimwa Guesthouse, the townsfolk were walking the streets—children in school uniform, gentlemen in heavily used suits, and women with tall fruit piles atop their heads.  As they passed, the Njabini people would wave at the crazy mzungus—white people—en route to Kilimanjaro who had overrun their town.  They didn’t know what to make of us, but their spirits were so open and curious, it was hard to resist their charm.

On morning three in the Gimwa café, a dusty breakfast room with a snowy one-channel television, posters of Jesus Christ, and an unwritten menu of eggs and toast, I noticed a large, thick booklet on one of the tables.  Curious, I picked one up.  “The Proposed Constitution of Kenya.  6th May 2010.”  I looked around sheepishly.  Did someone drop their…Kenyan Constitution?  Had I just become embroiled in an East African version of The Pelican Brief?  Then, I noticed that all of the Gimwa tables were sporting the same booklets. 

Francis, an upstanding Njabini citizen affiliated with Flying Kites, read the confusion on my face.  “We will vote soon on a new constitution that will bring us closer to a true democracy.  In it, there will be less presidential power and better oversight.  There will be needed reform.”  It was 1963 when Kenya’s last constitution was drafted under a colonialist model.  The dissemination of this new legislation was intended to help the country unite in understanding of the document’s goals.  Concern was understandable; previous votes, like the presidential election of 2007, created devastating aftermath.  Over 1,000 people were killed in riots and massacres, and hundreds of thousands more were displaced.  The majority of the atrocities took place right near Njabini’s Rift Valley.  I glanced around.  Here?  Massacres?

As I sipped some Kenyan tea, I skimmed the 47-page document.  “Did you see the environmental legislation?  Page 12,” said Thomas, one of our fellow Kilimanjaro climbers.  “What about the parts on the limits of presidential power?” remarked my friend, Darryl.  I had never turned the pages of my own country’s constitution, yet here I was in rural Kenya, turning the pages of theirs.  It was a pretty incredible moment, Njabini locals and American adventurers talking about Kenya’s proposed constitution—the introduction of a Senate, a qualifying system for those who wanted to hold office.   Humbled, I was reminded of the bounty of my own civil rights.

As I made my way through Nairobi and Mombasa, I continued to see the booklets on park benches, on restaurant tables, and in hotel lobbies.  Each time, it gave me pause.  I wondered what would happen in August.

Last week, as I perused the papers at a local Montauk beach café, I was overcome with emotion reading the headlines.  By a margin of 69%, The Proposed Constitution of Keyna, 6^th May 2010, passed.  Without violence or contest.  I raced home to the pile of travel notes and research I had accumulated during my five weeks in East Africa and pulled out my own large, thick booklet.  Then, I set aside my newspapers, conjured the smiles of the wonderful people I met in Kenya, and began to read.

"We Love You So So Much"

Four days on a beach in Mombasa leads back to Njabini and Flying Kites.  Only this time, we’re prepared for the Gimwa, our home away from home.  We’re not surprised when it takes two hours to check in, or when the shower drips on our head in the middle of the night while using the toilet.  The very damp towels we’re supposed to use to dry off no longer annoy us and we anticipate the cacophony of early morning roosters and wild dogs.  We even look forward to the curdled skin floating on the chai tea in the café; we know the line dancing music videos that repeat on the one snowy Gimwa television channel, and we’ve come to terms with the fact that Ruth and Mary, the Gimwa servers, aren’t at all happy to see us. 

But the children are.  And that’s all that matters.  They clamor for our attention as soon as we arrive back on site.  Some remember us, some don’t, but they love us just the same.  Before long, we’re trading stories about the mountain, playing nail salon or kicking soccer goals in tribute to the ongoing World Cup.  Ah, welcome back!

There’s a different vibe on this visit.  All of the Kilimanjaro climbers have gone home, a number of volunteers have completed their stays, and Kites founders Leila and Justine have made their way back to Newport.  Even the in-country directors are off-site, pushing forward with a local program called Oasis in Nairobi to unite the surrounding orphanages in practice and standards.  I imagine this is what regular days feel like at Flying Kites.  Lazy, organized, quiet.  The eighteen boarders have all of our attention today—Sunday.  They come out to greet us one by one—Rahab, Moses, James, John, Mary, Benson, Joseph, Sara, Lucy, Lucy Obama, Miriam, Hannah, Ann, Alex, Isaac, Daniel, Rose, and the newest alum, Eve*.

In the month since we’ve been away, a lot has happened.  Eve is now in temporary Kites custody.  The chief of Njabini stepped in on her behalf; her family didn’t put up a fight.  It took a little getting used to, seeing Eve in clean jeans and a baby blue fleece.  No more filthy school uniform, no more cowering in corners along the main Njabini road.  Her smile spoke volumes but it was plain to see that life, albeit a past life, had taken its toll.  In the period of an hour, Eve could go through any range of emotions, usually unprovoked.  She might be happy and giddy, then argumentative and belligerent.  She pushes and she yells.  Then, she cries.  There’s a lot of distrust in Eve’s eyes, but she’s figuring out how to get along with the others.  You can see that she wants to learn; her English is fantastic.  Thinking about how little language she had when we met her in Njabini speaks to her desire to fit in, to learn, and to grow.  I shudder to think of what would’ve happened to Eve had Darryl and I not come to Kenya.  It gets me every time.

As we’re laying on blankets in the sun after lunch Ann, a stunning beauty of eleven years old who has been braiding my hair turns to me and says:

“What did you do to your legs?”

I look down at my legs, unsure of Ann’s meaning.

“My legs?  Why?”

“They don’t look like regular mzungu (white person) legs.”

Bashfully, she gestures to the fair-skinned Bethany.  Then, her gaze turns to Darryl.  I laugh.  

“I went in the sun and I got a tan at the beach.”

“Oh,” she says but she looks confused. 

“What’s tan?” she asks.

I realize she’s never seen a beach and I feel guilty.

When she sees me writing the conversation down, she asks if I’m writing what she said to remember her.  Yes, I say.  I want to remember you forever.  Slowly, she takes my pen and asks to write in my book.  Then, she proceeds to write the rest of our conversation.

“What’s your favorite colour?”

“My favorite colour is red,” I reply.

“What’s your favorite color, Ann?”

“I said magenta,” she writes.

“I want to remember you forever, too.”

I turn away because there are tears in my eyes and I don’t want to have to explain.

Seeing Ann write in my notebook prompts Lucy Obama to beg a turn with my pen.  Daniel has my camera, Eve has my sunglasses, Alex has my sneakers, and now Lucy has my notebook.  It’s hard to keep track.  After scribbling behind the shield of her elbow, Lucy’s head pops back up.

“I wrote you a letter, do you want to hear it?”

“Yes, of course, Lucy Obama!”

She reads:

“Dear Marie and Aunty (I assume this is Darryl)

My name is Lucy.  I live in Flying Kites.  I love you so much.

Baboons.  Warthogs.  Giraffes. 

Dik dik.  Cheetah.  Elephant.  Impala.  Zebras.”

Huh?  Confused, I take my book back.  Lucy is giggling uncontrollably.  She has written on a page opposite my safari notes.  She’s copied all the animals, and all my notes, into her “letter.”  Then, she grabs the book back.  “I love you,” she writes again.  As Rahab takes a turn in my notebook, Daniel shows me the 100 photographs he’s taken during our writing session.  Daniel might have a career as a photographer; his montage of a Flying Kites Sunday evokes the freedom and playfulness of being a kid.  So many years past my own childhood, it was wonderful to see myself through childhood’s lens.  Especially the lens of these children: the beautiful children of Flying Kites.

Rabab keeps it simple.

“Rahab

My name is Rahab.

I am seven years old.

Bye.”

I don’t want to leave. 

We may have been prepared for the Gimwa, but saying goodbye to these sweet, little faces isn’t something I’m ready to face.  “It’s so sad, when everyone leaves,” says Ann, eyes turned toward the ground.  Rose is hysterical, Daniel won’t meet my eye; Eve is visibly upset.  The children who have spent more time at Kites seem used to the transition, but it doesn’t make it easier on Darryl and me.  “We love you so so much, we love you so so much!” sing their little voices in song as we pull away in the Flying Kites vehicle. 

I only hope they know how much we love them in return.

*Name has been changed.

Sun, Sand, Israelis

A rainbow of blues—marine, turquoise, sea foam, sky, and royal—undulate gently to meet the reef.  Defunct rowboats idle along shore.  A concentration of tin-roofed houses opens onto vibrant jungle as you fly north.  From air, Zanzibar’s electric blue border evokes memories of my favorite island: Bora Bora.  I take that as a very good sign.

Haji, our hotel’s driver, meets us at Zanzibar’s small, tropical airstrip.  He’s reminiscent of Popeye, albeit with crystal blue eyes and curious shocks of wiry blond hair crawling up his arms.  After a 35-minute drive through poverty stricken city limit cum lush countryside, Haji turns abruptly onto a dirt road that seems arbitrary.  Next Paradise, an intimate boutique hotel filled with oceanfront palm gardens, oversized pillow chairs, and open-air common spaces, beckons.  As we assess our oceanfront digs, it appears Darryl and I have entered the honeymoon phase of our trip.

Darryl: “You’re going to flip when you meet our new neighbors.”

Me: “Why?”

Darryl: “Um…they have a baby.”

Anyone who has listened to my trials of living next door to a rowdy French family in New York can appreciate this wicked twist of international fate.  On their 10^th anniversary, Jagger (from Bethesda, MD of all places) has surprised Melissa (and their 1-year old) with a trip to Zanzibar.  Two nights with earplugs spent praying for a new-neighbor-miracle elicits response.  Allah, it seems, has answered my Muslim SOS.  In the Jagger family’s stead, he sends Daniel and Shira, an Israeli couple celebrating their five-year anniversary.  He surprised her, too.  Are you sensing a pattern?  Only this time, there’s no child, lots of laughs, and lots of, ahem, “cigarettes.”  Shira and Daniel know how to kick back.  The perfect yin and yang, Daniel is the mayor of Zanzibar—always talking to someone, shaking down facts, compiling relevant information—Shira, on the other hand, just wants to be still or dance to Darryl’s iPod.  By the second day, we’re not only sharing a porch with the Israelis, we’re sharing our trip.

“People must think we’re gay,” we muse openly to Shira and Daniel.

“Well, for a minute,” says Shira. 

“But then I watch you and…no.  Not gay.  I know this.” 

She states this so matter-of-factly that we can’t help but laugh.

Like Zanzibar, Daniel and Shira are easy-going and full of life.  We love their relationship: they ride each other gently; they’re affectionate at the right times without being over-the-top. Darryl and I hope to emulate what they have in our own lives.  Only separately.  With men.  Good-looking, smart, funny men.

Relaxation is at a premium at Next Paradise.  Our days consist of lying out, reading, and taking runs on the beaches to the delight of the local boys.  They tail us and push us harder, giggling in Swahili when we speak to them in English.  After the safari downtime, it feels good to get moving, even if it’s only for daily runs. 

For lunch, we venture into the surrounding village, a simple collection of mud houses.  A Muslim society, men greet us while women work—cleaning, cooking, building houses, and childrearing.  From the village’s only kiosk we dine on 30¢ cassava (yucca) and fritters, doused in a simmered chili sauce.  We’re given the one china bowl (everyone else eats out of plastic tubs) and a rickety bench is hauled out of a corner and dusted off.  “Sit, sit,” our vendor gestures.  We’ve been invited to join the group…a true compliment.  Ducks and dogs roam freely around us, begging scraps.  Men in prayer shawls and Muslim caps chat us up politely.  We look at each other and smile before we buy some papaya and bananas for the road.  Nothing beats this.  Nothing.

Our nights are filled with amazing seafood dinners—lobster, shrimp, fresh crab, and octopus—house made lasagna, and fresh coconut ice cream.  After World Cup, we head back to the communal porch for capfuls of duty-free Finlandia, “smokes,” and good conversation.  Darryl and I realize we’ve made our first travel friends, and damn, we’ve done good…

If I had issues on mountain high, Darryl has the issues at sea level.  The mosquitoes on the coast are insatiable.  Malaria looms large.  I’ve become virtual insect food; my body is alive with hives.  And if I have it bad, Darryl awoke to an Independence Day like no other.  It was my turn to warn her off facing her mirror image.  Her face is awash in red dots, ala Strawberry Shortcake.  Mosquito bites on steroids.  Everyone from our scuba instructor to our server asked what happened.  When she stepped on a sea urchin later that day, we had to throw up our hands in surrender.  In Africa, Mother Nature has proven herself one vicious broad.  “A lo-pard,” as our safari guide, Rajai would say.  Women, especially the vindictive kind, are called leopards in Tanzania.  And the hookers, you ask? Mosquitos.  Quite appropriately.

Zanzibar is best known for its abundance of spices, hence the popularity of the Spice Tour.  Assuming this would be a wasted hour, the spice tour turned into something of a highlight.  From cloves to cinnamon, nutmeg to turmeric, pepper to vanilla, we played a game of what’s what with the plants, stopping for the requisite haggle and purchase of indigenous spices at the end of the ride.  I have the makings of a mean curry on my return.  My place, bring wine, who’s in? 

Onto Stone Town, a small city that looks like my imagined version of Morocco: white-washed buildings, stained glass detailing, elaborate wooden doors and archways.  Against the sterile background Stone Town was a kaleidoscope of color.  Even the women got in on the action, covering their bodies in silk shocks of bright colored robes and scarves: chartreuse, fuschia, tangerine orange, and banana yellow. 

Haji drops us at the food market, a bazaar of vendors selling one of three products—assorted seafood, vegetarian patties, cakes, and breads, or sugar cane juice.  After Darryl gets ripped off by 500% for a sugar cane juice, I get myself into deeper trouble.  In Africa, they take you at your word.  So when I tell a food vendor his seafood is “making me hungry,” he proceeds to follow me around the market yelling when don’t buy anything.  His deep-set eyes are menacing, and he hits me repeatedly with the paper plate that was supposed to hold my food selection.  “You say you are hungry.  You lie to me.  I am not a player boy.  Fuck you, lady,” he rants.  He hits me again with the plate.  When he pushes my shoulder, I find my voice.  We’re now exchanging “compliments,” garnering the eyes of passerby, and when I am able to slip away, it’s with the raised middle finger of an angry vendor following.  An hour later, I see him having the same tantrum with someone else, and can’t help but feel slightly relieved.  We haven’t encountered any ill will on our travels and I would hate for this jackass to muck up our karma.

As we gather ourselves on our final morning in Zanzibar, we’re sad to go.  Like Bora Bora, there’s an idyllic quality to this place.  Zanzibar’s people have a friendly spirit; the island exudes a gentle loveliness that is hard to come by.  Had we known, we might have extended our time to match the Israelis who have another five days to enjoy.

Alas, onward. 

To Mombasa, Kenya. 

Which, all things considered, ain’t too shabby …

Stylin' on Safari

Accompanied by the three babus, Sam (babu Thomas’s son), and Sandy, we head off to Tarangire National Park.  Guides Dennis and Rajai will transport us, and in Rajai’s Rover we speed over some of the bumpiest roads I’ve yet encountered.  I make a mental note to wear a sports bra on all future safari drives.   Spanning 2850 square kilometers, Tarangire was named for the river that runs through it, but because of the dry season, the name seems misleading.  Peppered with huge baobab trees, the thick, knobby trunks of which are plentiful in water, the park’s many baobab bodies are mutilated, practically destroyed: the work of the numerous elephant population.  Quickly, we realize we aren’t in Kansas anymore.

It’s just like you imagine it.  Tens of off-road vehicles scouring potholed, dirt trails that run through fields of tan and emerald, raffia, camouflage, and sandy brown hues.  The flattened acacia tree silhouettes mark the only elevations in these open spaces.  Like in the movies, the Rover rooftops pop up, and standing up (while bracing for dear life) during the rides is the only way to experience the journey.  Since you can’t get out of the car in the parks, the visual of people in floppy safari hats sporting binoculars and Canon camera straps is in abundance.  It’s a “Where’s Waldo” adventure with animals: impalas, dikdiks (yes, really), zebras, elephants, giraffes, warthogs, and baboons are in supply in Tarangire, and the highlight of the day was, as promised, the elephants.  These regal beasts came right up to the Rovers, stomping their feet in mock-charge before showing off their grand, elongated tusks. 

“Let us go find something else special,” Rajai would proclaim after we’d oogled an ostrich for far too long.  And, off we’d go.  By day’s end, our hair was frosted shades lighter in dust.  The corners of our eyes had blackened, and the layer of chalky film on our faces created shadows around our noses, on our upper lips, and under our eyes.  White shirts turned beige, and if you didn’t shut the Rover window at the passing of other vehicles, your sinuses were absolutely done for. 

Maasai Wanderings, our tour outfit, had a tagline that claimed to “rough it in style” and it delivered beautifully.  After Kilimanjaro, I made no secret of my desire for some good digs and some serious pampering.  Our male counterparts were all backpacker types and it followed that the running joke was that they had entered “Marie’s World,” on safari.  Make no mistake, I was proud to welcome them into Marie’s World.  All of our lodges served multi-course meals, stocked wonderful South African wines, greeted us with hot towels and passion fruit juice, and sent us off after huge buffet breakfasts.

Regardless of accommodations, I still stuck out as a city slicker.  I burned myself refueling the fireplace in our Tarangire bungalow; I spent a night (or two) awake in terror when mongooses found their way into our Serengeti mobile luxury tent; ditto the bats.  To everyone’s amusement, my fearful shrieks were breakfast table banter.  After Kili and the Serengeti, I’ve had my fair share of natural living for a while.   

The Serengeti lived up to its fabled hype.  Meaning “endless plain” and clocking in as the biggest East African National Park, our time there was unreal.  In addition to the animals in Tarangire, the Serengeti delivered hyenas, jackals, buffalo, gazelles, ostriches, hippos, and so many cats.  Simbas, or lions, seemed to have gotten the memo we were passing through and, one after another, came out to say hello.  Their camel colored coats slunk through the shadows.  The slow, rocking prance, the menacing roar, and the gaze of rapt attention when interested in the surrounding wildlife, hypnotized us all.

As if daily lion and lioness chasing wasn’t enough, Rajai, in a gesture of ultimate off road safari spotting, brought us up close and personal with not one, not two, but three cheetahs.  The fastest animal on the planet (running up to 70 mph) their long, sinewy bodies were on display as they played cat and mouse with us.  The cheetahs were easily our safari highlight.

The only drawback to the Serengeti was the minor meltdown of my camera’s memory card.  Which led to a minor (okay, maybe a major) meltdown of Marie.  With a few too many Zen-positive believers in my Rover, I had to swallow my tongue repeatedly until Darryl and Tom’s chants of “using my eyes instead of my camera” or “thinking positively and waking up to a working Nikon” became too much to bear. 

“I use my photos to recapture detail in my writing,” I snapped at Tom.  “A camera is an electronic machine, it doesn’t fix itself overnight by channeling happy thoughts,” I spat at Darryl.  Max, luckily, wasn’t drunk on The Secret and got spared.  I sulked, refusing to engage in lo-pard spotting through the binoculars for the rest of the afternoon.  Sandy, the memory card doctor, came to the rescue later that night and commiserated with me.  “There’s nothing fun about working through other people’s vacations, and then having your process fail.”  Thank you, Sandy.  Five weeks, one Bad Marie episode.  Hey, it happens.

The last day takes us down into the Ngorongoro Crater, a 600-meter deep collapsed volcano of 2.5 million years ago.  Here, we’re spotting for rhinos.  Endangered, all are tagged in an effort to breed them back to viable numbers.  While the rhinos are in hiding, the wildebeest are out in force.  These sad-faced sacks look almost mythical, and their migratory parades across the crater inspired some of the best shots my now-functioning Nikon captured during safari. 

As we barreled back to Arusha over the whacked out safari roads one last time, Darryl and I are relieved.  We didn’t realize we’d be, quite literally, sitting on our asses for five days straight.  After Kilimanjaro, such lack of movement wound up being a blessing and a curse, and we’re ready for a little change of scene.  Good thing we have a flight to the island of Zanzibar tomorrow. 

A whole different kind of ass-sitting: the beach kind. 

The Kili Diaries: Days 6 and 7

Day 6: Barafu Camp to Uhuru Peak to Mweka Camp

Hike: 10 miles

Altitude: 15, 331 feet to 19, 341 feet to 10,065 feet

Midnight. 

Elias turns up at our tent.  His usual “How you doing?” disrupts our brief power-slumber.  It’s time. 

Darkness overtakes my vision.  Darryl snaps on a headlamp; I wince, Gremlin-style, and try to come to terms with the task at hand.  I’m coughing again.  The last few hours at 15,000 feet have wreaked new bronchial challenge.  The wind howls, the high-speed flutter of the birds rip audibly by our tent.  It’s near freezing.  I want to tell Elias I’m not doing well.  But I refrain: there’s orphaned children dancing in my head.

The stars are out and I take comfort in their steady company.  Kili’s shocking white tip borders fluorescent against the night sky and she glows on my eye’s Tanzanian horizon.  Stella Point is an arduous 8-hours in the distance, but she plays tricks on my powers of perception.  If I leap really high, I can land squarely on her crest.  Or so it seems.  Six-layers piled on my frame and I’m ready.  As ever.

In those first 25 steps, I know I’ve made a mistake.  Switchbacks over broken rocks and scree are lit by a caravan of headlamps.  I beg my footing to stay true which isn’t an easy feat.  The trail winds toward the heavens—a line of determined, crazy souls out for an evening stroll.  The depth of each step astounds me.  I trip, repeatedly, triggering a chain reaction down the trail.  Such action-reaction isn’t specific to me, and the trail attendants, outfitted like elementary school crossing guards, help to get us back on track.

With each step, I am becoming more and more reliant on my walking poles.  Placement is key, especially in obscurity.  How long have we been climbing, I wonder.  It’s been an hour, I hear someone call out.  Am I already so delirious that I questioned aloud?  No, it seems we’re all just of one mind. I crave my music for sustenance, but our iPods have long since died – a combination of the cold’s affect on the battery and poor judgment on summit-night conservation.

I see my breath in shadows on the air.  It’s labored and thick.  Ninety minutes have passed when my chest begins to throb.  My hand automatically moves to my sternum in press.  Each inhalation pierces; each exhalation burns.  Each cough is a gunshot ricocheting through my core, stinging in aftermath.  I check the trail of slow-moving torches; I contemplate success.  You can’t fail to summit, says a little Marie (white shirt) on my right shoulder.  You are going to die six-days unshowered, says another similar little Marie (black shirt) on the left shoulder.  At two hours, my coughs are becoming more frequent; it’s the fourth time I need to stop and catch my breath.

Richard is with me, per usual.  He’s quiet in concentration.  I believe he’s grown to care whether I make it or not.  He will take personal pride in my summit’s successful resolution and I’m adding his approval into the decision now replacing the dancing children in my head.  I hear a chorus of at-home “I told you so”s that grows loud with an inability to summit.  It’s the naysayers who think I’m crazy for all the unconventionality I’ve added to my life.  I hear my parents, and my very sensible sister, applauding a decision in favor of health.  Gunshot. 

Seven days, six nights, 17,000 feet on the world’s highest freestanding mountain has to count for something, no?  A 17,000-foot altitude is higher than almost every naturally scalable mountain (besides the Himalayas range); can’t I be satisfied?  No.  I will go on.  I must.  Gunshot.  I have to finish with Darryl, who I believe is light years ahead of me.  This is our mission.  We need the picture on top of the summit together.  Gunshot.  I stop again. 

Richard tries to push me.  How far are we?  Still around 17,000 feet, he smiles patiently.  Six more hours, peanuts.  I place my poles into the earth.  My fingers have frozen; my teeth are chattering; I’m incapable of moving forward.  I have to surrender and make peace.  Therein lies my Kilimanjaro lesson.

Gunshot.

Day 7: Mweka Camp to Mweka Gate

Hike: 6 miles

Altitude: 10,065 feet to 5, 380 feet

I awake to a British voice in camp.  Toby.  Huh?  It’s barely 8 AM.  Everyone should just be hitting the Stella Point summit.  I swore I would be awake and greet them on their return, not represent as the lazy bum who didn’t summit but overslept their valiant return.  How the…?  I admit that I’m momentarily excited by someone else’s inability to properly summit.  I’d rather not be the only one.  But Toby?  Flying Kites’ founder?  He was always ahead of the pack, regardless of consequence.  No way.

I emerge from my tent.  The day is glorious, and the sun is shining.  It’s as if after the trauma of the night, Kili has welcomed me back into her embrace.  Mother Nature seems to approve of my decision to turn back at 17,000.  Oddly, I feel really good about my decision, too.  As does my body.  Richard comes over to my tent with antibiotics.  “Two.  Three times a day,” he says, placing the pills in my hand.  “You did very good, Marie.”  He has no idea how much his accolades mean to me.

Turns out Toby hit Stella Point in record time.  “Seven and a half,” he states as he continues to catch his breath.  “There and back,” he adds with a wink.  He’s completely knackered, his nose runs, his color isn’t exactly right; drinking the guide-supplied vitamin water looks like an effort.  “You made the right decision, Marie.  People are dropping up there,” he seems to drift off as he tells me this.  “Darryl?”  I ask. “She’s doing really well.  Like a champ.”  Of course she is.

Different than me, Toby had no choice.  He had to summit; he couldn’t accept defeat.  And I understand.  Last night was the first time I made the humble decision, as opposed to the reckless one.  For the first time, I feel wholly complacent in that choice.  I’m excited, not envious, to see everyone return.  I can’t wait to celebrate them.  Celebrate Darryl.  As if I wasn’t aware before—that girl’s got some serious soul.  I couldn’t be more proud to have spent this week with her.

One by one, they return.  Josh is rushed down first.  He couldn’t adjust to the altitude after summit.  What the brochures don’t tell you is there’s an additional hour hike to the infamous sign once you hit the 19,000.  A big “fuck you” from Kili on arrival, if you will.  Accompanied by Dennis, the rasta guide, Josh is milky white.  He’s swollen, and he needs to lie down.  I’m taken aback by Josh’s condition.  This guy’s a bonafide camper.  He’s spent months on end in the wild: a Boy Scout redefined.  It just goes to show that Kili doesn’t discriminate.  Darryl, Sara, Max, and Tom Mitchell come next.  My girl!  She’s had a few scares, but of everyone, she seems the most centered and contemplative without physical reaction.  Then again, that might just be Darryl’s nature.

Jon and Julianna are next in a larger group supported by Jared and Caitlin.  Both have been throwing up, both have facial edema.  Julianna’s crying; Jon’s body has gone limp, he’s being physically supported on both sides and appears mentally incoherent.  Thomas (Lewis/Clark) is at the back of the pack.  He’s stretched and rested his way up and down and lived to tell.  In those early moments, nobody would “ever” do it again.  For a million dollars, goes the question.  “Nope.”  “Never.”  “Absolutely not.”  As swelling subsides, as the nausea wears off, I’m sure that will change.  Real adventure is never easy.

Hours later, fueled and rested, we begin to descend this giant force of nature.  Isn’t there an airlift or, at the very least, a transport van for the descent?  No matter, we’ve all survived the uphill experience, what’s a little downward hike?  Humbled by my physical self, by nature, by the strength and character of the people around me, I bound downhill.  Alternatively pairing with Jared, Juli, Sara, Josh, and the fifty-somethings, Darryl and I know we’ve made friends for life.  There’s a certain closeness that Kili fosters, a specific vulnerability that’s easily exchanged in those moments on the mountain.  These people have seen me in ways that my lifelong friends have never been privy.

As a wise Jon (Shippee) once said, “a joke, a smile, sometimes a pill…we’ve all helped each other along.”  Ain’t that the truth…  A year ago, Kilimanjaro was something other people knew about.  Now, I’m part of that club. 

Asante Sana.

(For Caitlin)

The wild dogs cry out in the night

As they grow restless longing for some solitary company

I know that I must do what's right

As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti

I seek to cure what's deep inside, frightened of this thing that I've become

It's gonna take a lot to take me away from you

There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do

I bless the rains down in Africa

Gonna take some time to do the things we never have

—Toto, Africa

The Kili Diaries: Day 5

Day Five: Karanga Camp to Barafu Camp

Hike: 2 miles

Altitude: 13, 105 feet to 15, 331 feet

Oh what a beautiful morning.  Oh what a beautiful day. 

Finally. 

Darryl gives my face the once over and I can tell from her non-reaction, I’m to back to early morning basics.  Even the lungs seem to be functioning at full capacity.  Or thereabouts.  I emerge from our tent after Elias, our server, prompts the breakfast call, confident that everyone’s stares won’t evoke terrorized step backs.  Porridge and hot sauce (which I’ve come to love), toast and peanut butter, eggs and a banana, I’m ready to bang out a bit of trail.

We’re headed to our highest sleeping camp today: Barafu.  At midnight tonight, we start the 8-hour, in-the-dark push toward the summit, Stella Point.  As if daytime hiking isn’t challenging enough…  Everyone’s anxious and excited.  The outhouses have taken their toll on our nasal passages, toilet paper supplies for wild, mid-hike bowels are drying up, and I have to admit, I’ve grown tired of missing the hole or losing my balance and wetting my pant bottoms in the port-a-potties.  Not to mention dodging logs of shit which have frozen overnight in campsite corners.  Modern plumbing never felt so far away.

We’re all (well, the eco-conscious ones of us and I’m with Darryl so there’s strict policy on my watch…) keeping garbage bags of our waste and it’s truly astounding how much we’ve compiled.  In addition to a porcelain loo, I’m about ready for a dumpster, too.

The infirm tally of flu-like viruses number at seven (men only, mind you), much diarrhea, and the headaches are starting.  I admit feeling better in my own health, but by Day 5, everyone’s wind and sunburned faces show that we’ve gotten Kili’s memo.  It says she’s fully in charge.  In bold and capital letters.

As we head off for the day, which will encompass the shortest hike distance, I have the added weight of my daypack again.  I’ve been spoiled by illness, but as Richard mutters a solid “Cowboy Up” to the group, I readjust my straps, and we set off.  We’re blessed by weather these past few days – shining sun and a clear view.  We’re so close that it almost feels like you can touch her.  We’re high above the clouds, looking down produces a canvas so breathtaking that even I can’t help but awe over the surroundings.  Kili’s vantage point is, hands-down, one of the best I’ve ever seen.

           

We scale rocks, scuttle over steep inclines, pass babbling brooks, duck under caves, marvel at waterfalls that spout at this massive altitude, and squint our eyes from the potent rays of the sun.  The pace times out to about 2 seconds/step, much slower than earlier days, and my clothes have started to loosen.  Richard is constantly telling me “Margie, Margie,” a gentle reminder to take in water at a minimum of 3 liters per day.  “Good,” he says (pronounced “goot”), as I follow his instruction, “this is peanuts, Marie.”  Right, I snap back.  I nearly forgot.  Behind with Darryl, Dennis happily jams on her iPod.  She gets more satisfaction from their listen, as opposed to her own.

When we reach Barufu camp, we’ve crossed into the alpine zone -- semi-desert, for the laymen.  There’s sparse vegetation and, oddly, small chipmunk-type rodents that scurry around our tents in fury.  We’ve only been with each other for five days, so the Kili-munks briefly remind us there’s a whole world out there. 

Barafu is different from the other camps we’ve visited.  It’s perched on a cliff, invisible from the other side.  The aesthetics are stunning; Mount Mawenzi lies gracefully in the foreground, Kili’s summit in the background.  Natural boulders shield the wind; porters tuck in and around the rocks, their colorful parkas create rainbows against the brown monotony of the cliff. 

We sleep most of the day, for we have to be up for summit at midnight.  “Hakuna Matata,” says Jackson, another one of our porters when I fret my summit climb, setting off an internal chorus of The Lion King.  As Simba and Pumba dance cartoon circles in my head, I’m determined.  One more climb and then it’s all downhill. 

Downhill…in a good way.