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. 

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…