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.

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 …

Maasai for Money

As we pull onto the long dirt road leading to the village, a haze of dust kicking up in our wake, Sandy is dismayed.  Uh-oh.  I’ve only seen Sandy dismayed once before, on Kilimanjaro, and it wasn’t pretty.  After repeated falls in Day Six rainforest mud, he slipped (again) outside his tent.  It was a big, whooshing fall that sullied his pants and his spirit.  In retaliation, he began kicking the offending ground, cursing it strongly, while assuring himself (and those eavesdropping in wonder from nearby tents) that he “knew how to fucking walk, even in the freaking, fucking mud.  Fuck!”  I wondered how dismayed would play out this time…

As he gathered his cameras from the 4x4, Sandy, our Rhode Island-based trip photographer, lamented the “fakey-ness bullshit” of the visit we were about to make.  The Maasai, a Tanzanian tribe that sought to leap forward to modern times and capitalize on the fascination that their lifestyle held over passing foreigners, charged for visits into their village.  “It’s all staged, I’m not paying for access.  I’ll just freakin’ watch from the car,” he sulked.  For $20, I wasn’t sure about what I was about to encounter either.  A writer to Sandy’s photographer, I’m always searching for the authentic story.  Sandy, understandably, didn’t want to sign onto on Flickr to find twenty of his June 2010 Maasai photos already posted in April of 2007 by Roy from Nebraska who won his Maasai visit off a Coca-Cola Bottle Cap Sweepstakes.  Fair enough.

I wasn’t sure what to expect either, especially when the Maasai people, outfitted in their red, royal blue, and purple scarves—colors of strength—began to bounce up and down in welcome ritual.  Our whittled group of seven safari hunters dutifully handed over $20 to the chief’s son, agreeing quietly with Sandy.  Hoax.  Stupid Americans.  As we traveled out of Arusha, post-climb, I was fascinated by the circular clusters of mud-brown huts that dotted the passing horizon.  “Maasai,” said Rajai, our safari guide.  “They are a nomadic peoples, Maasai,” he continued.  “If you wish, we can have arrangement to visit them.”  Cut to the scene before me.

Placing a large, flat, beaded chocker around my neck, I was pulled into the women’s circle with Darryl.  The searing eyes of the Maasai women met ours.  I felt my hand being taken by the older woman next to me.  She wore flowing blue scarves, an elaborate headdress detailed her slick, shaved head, and multiple earrings hung from her long, stretched ears.  She smiled as we bounced and jumped.  A different Maasai woman took my other hand; a small child joined our circle.  Then, it was announced that we could enter the village.

Sandy lurked on the periphery as we entered the area encircled by their homes.  I sensed his frustration.  The colors of the Maasai in contrast to the earth tones of the land would make stunning photographs, but he hadn’t yet been convinced of our village’s authenticity.  Initially, we all just listened.  Nomadic, the Maasai stayed in each village for about five years.  The many children running around were a testament to the polygamous nature of the clan.  The chief’s son carried a walking stick that gave him a regal air.  He seemed smug in his role; he was one of the few who would be privileged enough to get a formal education and, possibly, lead a more modern life.  Since men in Maasai don’t live to see ages much past sixty, the level of interest about the trio of traveling babus (“grandpa” in Swahili) was palpable.

As we made our way toward the huts, I heard the hushed flutter of camera lenses.  Sandy was beginning to come around.  He and I were escorted into one of the huts by the head of the household.  We ducked carefully through the doorway and I was momentarily reminded of the half-sized houses of Oz’s Lollipop Kids.  The women build the homes, our guide explained.  The base was made of sticks and straw, and it was reinforced with three layers of—what else—cow dung.  Each hut, which was roughly 150 square feet in size, was divided into two or three “rooms.”  One area was for sleeping, usually on a piece of cowhide for warmth, the other was for sitting and eating.  In the center of the room, a burning fire glowed.  Women, of course, also cooked.  The Maasai diet was specific—cow/goat/sheep meat (only from their own herd), milk, beans, and maize.  The men had the added dietary bonus of animal blood.  “Make man strong to fight lions,” explained our new friend. 

As we sit crouched in the Maasai hut, the flutters increased.  “It isn’t often that you can arrange access like this,” Sandy confessed.  “Pretty amazing, huh?”  Yep.  After the formality of his presentation, our head of household indulged our questions, and before we knew it, we were in the throes of a full-blown conversation.  It could’ve been taking place in a Scarsdale dining room over espresso.  But, instead, it was in a Maasai living room.  After a while, the smoke from the fire began to strangle us.  The Maasai only have a small window, a slit really, that serves as ventilation.  It protects their fires from rain, and their people from predators.  No wonder the babus were a wonder; hut-induced lung disease must run rampant.

After the hard sell on buying a lion skin—a rug for my home, or maybe just a tail for good luck—we emerge into the fresh air, clearing our throats delicately so as not to offend our gracious host.  We are guided to the “market,” an extensive arc of crafts, made by the dwellers of the village.  As wanderers, the Maasai need money to buy beans and maize, and fresh water supplies.  It’s for this reason that they have turned their attention to the bounty to be gained from tourism.  Of course, I buy some beaded bracelets, haggling over pennies on principle.

We make a quick trip to the kindergarten classroom, a one-room building where approximately 25 children sit on low, wooden benches.  Primitive?  Maybe.  But those kids already speak three languages: English, Swahili, and Maasai.  We sheepishly admit that’s more languages than anyone in our American group. 

Heading back to the 4x4, I’m glad we made the effort.  “Hey, Marie!” yells Sandy, as I’m climbing into the back seat.  I turn around to see him running toward me with a Maasai at his arm.  “Marie, this is Lazaro.  He’s the PR guy for the village.  We should all exchange information and try to do something when we’re back in the States, don’t you think?” 

Well, look at that.  Sandy.  Hook, line, sinker…

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.

The Kili Diaries: Days 3 and 4

Day Three: Shira 2 Camp to Lava Tower to Barranco Camp

Hike: 6 miles

Altitude: 12,500 feet to 15, 190 feet to 13, 044 feet

The mornings are cold and misty.  And this morning, particularly, I’m worried.  My little friend, Bronchitis, just loves to jump on the open road with me.  Argentina, Vietnam, New Zealand…now, Africa.  Of course, I’m prepared; my lungs are forever a travel headache, but I’m hoping to swig a Z-pack and feel better very quickly.  It’s clear Kili doesn’t stand for shenanigans on her watch.  Case in point: Eric. 

Max’s son is being taken down after two days of hardship.  Besides Eric, the night provided for a chorus of gags and vomits.  Everyone points fingers at the food.  But Oforo, our head guide, takes great offense to such an accusation.  It’s altitude sickness, and he swears by this.  To be fair, the mountainside meal selection has been surprisingly great – porridges, daily soups, stroganoffs, chicken, burgers, and fried bananas for dessert.  It ain’t Blue Ribbon, but it’s worlds better than mere camping grub.  (As if I really know this…)

I decide to take my bronchial issues like a man (or strong camper girl) and grin and bear it.  Even though today’s a long hike day – over six hours – to the highest point outside of summit, I’m convinced I’ll survive.  That logic holds until after lunch… 

About a third of the way through, the altitude begins to wreak havoc on my psyche.  “Be free with the mountain,” says Richard when I break down in hysterics and leave the group.  I’m so tied up in my physical condition, that I’m losing sight of the big picture.  My daypack disentangled from my back, I set back out “pole, pole” for the rest of the way with a gaggle of concerned guides.  I have to reach the Lava Tower, the highest altitude we’ll hit outside of the summit.  Slowly, I move forward.  Two more breakdowns, many more pep talks, and a descent from the Lava Tower later, I arrive at Barranco Camp.  Everyone’s clapping as I stumble in.  I have fever of 101.6 and I can barely breathe; every other gasp for air collapses into a coughing fit.  Richard turns to me sheepishly and says, “Please…do not cry.”

As if on cue, looking at my surroundings, Kili looming in the background, my chest rising and falling, the tears roll.  I’m almost halfway there.

Day Four: Barranco Camp to Karanga Camp

Hike: 3 miles

Altitude: 13, 044 feet to 13, 106 feet

I guess I was hoping for a miracle.  After taking dinner in my tent and sleeping through the night, I was sure I was going to be fine.  So, when Darryl tells me not to look in the mirror, I’m a bit disheartened.  Then, I look.  And, I’m mortified.  My face looks like I had an allergic reaction to living; it’s puffy and bloated beyond recognition.  I have pus-filled bags atop and underneath my eyes, and thick, crust in all facial orifices.  My hands and feet are swollen, and while I’m down to 99.7 temperature, my head is throbbing and I feel completely confused.  After documenting such ugliness on my iPhone for my sister (a very important step in diagnosing altitude sickness, yes), I call the guides.  They insist it’ll pass and I must go on to Karanga – a two-mile hike – rather than be carried back (on a stretcher!)  down yesterday’s route to Shira for descent.  I’m embarrassed to come out of my tent.  I look like a circus freak, and everyone’s curious for a peek. 

All of a sudden, I can’t think straight.  I’m on the ground next to my tent, and all I can remember are the visual of everyone’s shoes.  I’m crying.  Again.  I can feel the tears streaking down my face, but I have no idea why I’m crying, or why I’m climbing, or what’s going to happen next.  I’m holding onto Darryl and I feel blank.  Which makes me frightened.  Sorry, which makes me terrified.

I don’t quite remember who convinced me, but someone advised me to listen to our guides and go forward, not backward.  So, after a bit of downtime to compose, I begin again.  Isn’t it over yet?  The Barranco Wall looms large, and true to their word, it’s good for me.  It’s a steep mountaineering climb that takes my mind off of my blubbery face and my congested chest and on my foot placement and ability to balance.  Before I realize it, three hours have passed and we’re at Karanga Camp.  It’s been an amazing few days, watching my body fail, recover, fail and recover again.  Unsure how I arrived, I’m just happy to be on solid footing again.   Most importantly, when I look in the mirror at sunset, my facial structure has returned to normal. 

Phew…

The Kili Diaries: Days 1 and 2

Day One: Machame Gate to Machame Camp

Hike: 7 miles

Altitude: 5, 380 feet – 9,350 feet

It’s raining.  

“Good luck,” says someone within earshot of my complaints.  Tell that to the bride, I sarcastically retort in my head.  (I can’t say it out loud yet; we’re still a new group of traveling partners and all that jazz…)  Before we even set off, it’s raining at Machame Gate.  We spend the first twenty minutes unpacking our parkas and negotiating waterproof backpack covers with our new Maasai Wanderings guides.  In.  The.  Rain.  This is going to be a long seven days. 

My secret looms large; I’ve never been on a camping trip before.  But when Darryl asked me to sign onto Kilimanjaro, who was I to say no?  For charity, no less.  So we went to Paragon, and I copied everything she bought.  Sleeping bag liners, a Platypus water bladder (which I mistakenly called a Papyrus), Smart Wool socks, a travel towel, hiking pants that zip off at the knee, carabiners, and a mini-flashlight.  $350 later, I felt hike prepared.

Until now…

Readjusting my walking sticks for the third time, and setting off with Richard, a guide who has spent much of his life making a living off of “Kili,” that first hill was a blatant reminder that I’d never done anything like this.  Machu Picchu, while a checked box on my list, was only an overnight situation.  I was about to scale the highest freestanding mountain in the world.  19,000+ feet.  As a virgin.

I tried to sing “Whistle While You Walk” in my head over and over as we approached the fifth soggy hour in the rainforest – one of five ecosystems on Kilimanjaro.  Jared and Josh, brothers from Rhode Island, tried to make small talk.  I could barely breathe, let alone answer questions about New York City or my work, so I fell to the back of the pack in avoidance.  My boots were muddied beyond personal comfort level; I had sweat through all of my layers and my hair had soaked through my Yankee hat.  I was barely managing the 4,000-foot ascent to 9,350 feet.  Forget 19,000.  And how would I ever clean my new hiking pants? 

When a cramp in my quad struck about 90 minutes outside of camp, I knew I was done for.  How mortifying: day one, quad cramp.  Thomas to the rescue.  One of three 50-somethings on the trip – friends from boarding school – Thomas was Mr. Stretch.  He looked like Lewis (or Clark) with his flyaway white hair and matching moustache.  Thomas bought the Kilimanjaro safari hat from the hawkers at the gate; Thomas was a guy ready for expedition.  Traveling with his son, Sam, his quirky demeanor (and constant limb stretches) kept him at the back of the pack, but when the quad tightening struck, Thomas massaged and stretched me to the point of completion.  “Walk strong into camp,” he pushed me from behind.  And, I did. 

As I entered my damp abode, drenched to the bone, I knew bronchitis was only a campsite away.  But, I made it.  Did Darryl have any idea what she signed up for, I wondered, as I peeled off my many layers.  Remains to be seen.

Day One.  Over.  Praise the Lord.

Day Two: Machame to Shira 2 Camp

Hike: 3 miles

Altitude: 9, 350 feet to 12,500 feet

We wake to another rainy morning, but since we’ll be hiking out of the rainforest ecosystem today, it should clear about midway through our climb.  I’m starting to see why the nickname for our route is “The Whiskey Route” rather than the tourist-friendly “Coca-Cola Route.”  Damn, maybe I drank too much whiskey before enrolling.  The forty-nine porters, four cooks, three tent porters, and six guides, round us up, setting an AM ritual of packing up bags and tents, taking breakfast, filling water bottles, and suiting up for the day’s trek.  Tanzanian park laws stipulate roughly three porters per person to carry food, sleeping supplies, and baggage.  With sixteen hikers, additionally, posse is an understatement.  We’re more like a small, menacing crowd.

Max, one of the other boarding school friends, feeds me electrolytes to help keep the cramping at bay; Jon, the organic Rhode Island bartender, squirts silver into my mouth (a cure-all, I’m told), and I load up on potassium and sodium tablets.  My body is on intake overload but with thirty-seven miles looming large, and a summit simultaneous, I’ll do whatever it takes to get by.

Darryl and I go “pole, pole” (slow, slow) with Matthew and Dennis, two of our guides, today.  The terrain looks like something out of Avatar, a creation of James Cameron’s imagination, and we traverse both rocks and grass to reach Shira Camp.  Matthew has been doing this for fifteen years, he hopes to retire next year and open a supermarket, of all things.  Dennis, a tender 29 they nicknamed "Rasta" for his dredlocks, is just starting out and works to care for his elderly mother and provide his daughter an education.  Porters pass by as we climb, their heads piled high with our belongings, and various items like mess tent benches, water jugs, sleeping mattresses, crates of eggs.  Many listen to the World Cup on transistor radios from the early ‘70’s.  They greet us with “Jambo” (Hi) and “Mambo” (What’s up?).  When you ask them the same questions, they answer “Poa, Poa” (Cool, cool…).  Obviously.

When we finally arrive at camp, way behind the rest of the pack, we hope that our tent occupies prime real estate.  We learned the hard way that slanted ground is not the way you want to attempt sleep.  Moreover, you don’t really want to be around anyone.  There’s a lot of, well, personal sounds happening throughout the night.  Nothing seems off-limits, and it plagues everyone.  Equally.  Luckily Atenas, our tent porter, has taken a shine to us and delivered.  As we set up our life-jacket orange mummy-style sleeping bags for “tent time,” we hope tonight’s rest will treat us better than last’s…

Bring On Africa!

I’ve done this already.  Multiple times.  And yet, the mixed feelings inevitably come.  Kenya, Tanzania, and Mount Kilimanjaro loom large on my horizon, but I’m torn on leaving a very settled New York existence for the pleasures and perils of a travel-break. 

Most of you know my story: a rising publicist within the matrix of the HarperCollins Publishers machine, I left my job in 2005.  No disillusionment with cranky authors, no falling out with top brass, no desire to continue my upward climb.  I just…quit.  Looking back, the urgency and growth that I had long associated with my position had fallen off.  I owned my New York City apartment; I dabbled with the same boy for half a decade.  Change cramped my style, but it was time.  On the cusp of 31, unattached, and unchallenged, I decided to delve into a new experiment: traveling the world.  Solo.

The lack of corporate identity faded to black, replaced by worries about proper hiking boots and rain ponchos, durable yet lightweight wheelie luggage and international visas.  A holy immunization hell awaited me.  Ecuador would be the first stop on what came to be a two-plus year adventure, but in that solitary moment of booking a ticket to Quito, I wondered what I would wear on the plane.  These became my preoccupations.  Night sweats ensued.  The big question loomed: was I prepared?

A month on the road showed me that preparation only goes so far, and you’re never completely ready for life’s many challenges.  I grew to love greeting the dawn each day—often in a new city—with a wealth of possibility at my fingertips.  Shockingly, I embraced living out of a suitcase.  The contents of that well-chosen wheelie bag became the only constant; everything else around me fluctuated like the wind. Spontaneity became my new best friend.  Unpredictability, my new boyfriend.  Oh, how I thrived.

More than two years have passed since I returned to New York as headquarters of my new life.  In that time, I’ve struggled with re-entry.  Redefining the location of your old life in relation to your new one takes work and, at the time, I wasn’t ready to go back to work.  I wallowed.  I did; probably way too much and for way too long, but it takes a while to process two years, five continents, and thirty-something countries in a studio apartment that doesn’t have the best natural light. 

Eventually, though, the sun came out.  Hiding behind bedcovers until 2 PM started to feel silly, and I slowly began to rebuild.  A manuscript here, a freelance travel article there; working with various global charities reinvigorated my soul and drove my passion.  Voila!  New York regained a bit of its rose-colored glow.

This winter, when the opportunity to spend the summer in Africa presented itself, it seemed a no-brainer.  For charity, no less: where do I sign?  But now, five days out, coming full circle in career and confidence, I’m mixed on leaving.  Again.  Thankfully, I have hindsight on my side, and my trip to East Africa ties into my budding role as a travel writer and a responsible tourist.  I always think I’m immune to anxiety on the eve of extended holiday, and my nerves take me by complete surprise when they surface.  Plus, with each new adventure, they change their spots.  Today, they take the form of: Will I be able to summit Kilimanjaro?  My first joint trip in years, will my travel partners and I get along?  Will I have enough time to cover my assignments and bask in the continent I’ve dreamed of exploring?  And, of course, do I have the right hiking boots? 

Luckily, I know the answers will sort themselves out.  They always do.  That’s the beauty of taking a break from real life for a solid dose of a travel life. 

Bring on Africa!

*This blog was adapted from a piece I wrote for a website called Briefcase to Backpack (www.briefcasetobackpack.com).  Check them out!