Vacation (PART 3)

10/15/05

Kilimanjaro, day one. Machame Camp. Eating popped corn, drinking tea, wearing tennis shoes, warm up pants, a Hanes sweatshirt and a wool watch cap. Warm. Tired. I feel strong. Today was, quite literally, a walk in the park (although a steep one at times.) I'm eating off a pink and white checkered linen cloth, set on the ground. I am sitting on a rock. According to the map, the elevation is 9000 feet. This may already be the highest I've ever been. There is 10,000+ feet remaining to the summit.

On the way up I talked to my cook Paulo, who is Maasai, but seems to be strongly disconnected with his parents. He has a lot of complaints about the Maasai culture, all of which I had heard before, but not from an actual Maasai. I talked a bit with my guide Nicodemus, and a few people from America. But mostly I walked in silence. The majority of the day, the path led up through a rainforest, not one quite like Ecuador's, but a rainforest nonetheless. When we stopped for a water break, I saw colobus monkeys jumping from one tree to another. The forest was very beautiful, and it didn't turn into the moorland until just before we reached camp.

I was surprised to see people smoking. Mostly porters, but also a trekker, some guy from Germany or France or Switzerland (I sometimes have trouble distinguishing the accents.) I wonder if he'll make it to the top. I was surprised to see so many candy wrappers littered along the path, I picked up about 50 in the first 3 hours, and finally gave up when my pockets were full. I was especially surprised when a porter's cell phone rang about 15km up (mine stopped working after the first two hours.) It's definitely a new world.

I met a guy a guy from Texas, James, at the hotel last night. James seems like a good guy, if possibly a Bush supporter (which I say not because I asked, but because he's from Texas and was wearing a polo shirt tucked into khaki shorts.) But James had a good heart. He gave me this pair of warm up pants, offered me socks and power bars and even a fleece jacket. This is his first time in Africa, he's here just for the trek, and then he's back to work. I was surprised how affected he was by walking through the market in Arusha. I walked through the same market on the same day and didn't even think twice about it (except for maybe 'are they selling these boots for less than I bought them for in Kisii? No? Good.' And 'Yum. Mango. I want one.') But James was really affected, by the poverty, the overcrowding, by the street children. I think that it was his first real glimpse of world number three, which, for better or worse, I guess I have become a bit used to. But I'm glad that James saw what he did. Some people in his position would have gone straight from the airport to the hotel, from the hotel to the park gate, from the gate to the peak, from the peak to the gate, from the gate to the hotel, from the hotel to the airport… only seeing Africa from the passenger seat of a Land Cruiser, not really seeing it, smelling it, having it come up from behind you and grab your shoulder and say, 'Hey Mzungu, you need taxi? Trek? Safari?'

The porters carry unbelievable loads. Not only are they carrying their own gear, all our tents, and all our food, but they also carry all the trekker's bags. And they don't just strap them on their backs and carry these expensive quality packs as they were made to be carried, they put them inside other bags and carry them on their heads. And I'm tired from today, and I was carrying maybe 20lbs of cameras and water and food, and some of these guys were carrying 100lbs plus! Illegally of course, the park says they should carry no more than 60lbs.

I hope I make it to the top of the mountain. Mama Mozzah Mauly, the director of my trek company (who was only 29, much younger than I expected) said, "Please make it to the peak." Which I found to be a strange thing to say as I walked out the door of the office to start the trek.

(Before I forget, Perrine.)

Soup, bread, potatoes, cabbage, beef and veggie stew. Eating and writing by the light of a candle, burning a top an unopened can of baked beans. What a shitty time for my headlamp to run out of batteries. It must of turned on in my pack and been on all day.

In Stone Town, Zanzibar, the fish market, killing time, waiting for ma's plane. I'd been walking all morning, and it was hot, so hot. I was getting sun burnt; the sunscreen was in my bag, all the way across the town. I needed water. Why was no one selling water? The fish market smelt bad. I walked through, avoiding touts, taking in the sights. I saw a guy selling fresh fruit juice. I had tried some sugar cane juice by the harbor the night before, it was amazing, mixed with ginger and lemon, and I figured this would be good too. I gave him 100/=. He took a clean glass off his table and scooped it into a bucket filled with juice and ice. I realized that this was very unsanitary, drinking water and ice in the fish market… there's no way it's filtered. But I was so thirsty, I took the glass and I drank. It was good, so good. I don't even know what fruit it was, it may have been a combination, but it was sweet and ice cold. I handed him back the empty glass. He took it and dipped it into a bucket that I didn't see before, down and to the side of him; the water was literally a dark brown. He dipped the glass in there twice and then shook it off. He set it back down on the table. Clean. My jaw dropped, my stomach turned. I was certain I would get salmonella.

It got cold. Now I am in thermals and gloves and sweatshirt and beanie and still 10,000+ feet to go. Yikes.

Ma and I and two Africans were on Abraham's boat in the Indian Ocean. Abraham was this nice guy, late twenties, running one of the resorts in Nungwi (the northern most beach on Unguja - Zanzibar Island) for his parents. He was educated in England. He had given us his boat to take out swimming, snorkeling. It was time to get back to shore to join a group riding a dhow back to Nungwi, watching the sunset along the way. There had been promises of Konyagi (papaya gin.) The 'skipper' goes to start the boat. No response. He fiddles with some wires. Still no response. He opens up the engine casing, fiddles with more wires, still nothing. I give him my phone, he calls Abraham. Abraham will save us. We wait. Abraham comes, riding gallantly on his buddy Chris' speedboat, knight on his steed. Skipper throws a rope to Abraham, who misses, Chris brings the boat around again. The rope is thrown again, this time it is caught. Abraham ties his boat off to Chris'. We are ready to go. But Skipper can't get the anchor up. Suddenly Chris, who is blonde and broad shouldered, dives into the water. He is under for maybe half a minute, and then he swims to the surface holding the anchor, holding it above his head like a trophy. He is trying to impress the two girls in his speedboat. One is fat and has those terrible, 'I'm on a tropical vacation' braids. The other is pretty, and does not have silly braids. Chris gets back in his boat and pulls us to shore.

Nico just came to my tent with the mission briefing for tomorrow. It is apparently a short hike, but very steep. We go, "More pole pole."

Ma had just arrived, taken a shower, started to unpack (the bag she had carried on, the one she had checked hadn't arrived) and decompress. We took a walk through Stone Town, wandering into bazaar alley, and she saw a purse she liked. It's made from wire and Fanta bottle caps, it's actually pretty cool. The tout was instantly all over us. "How much?" "45." Meaning 45000/= or $45. I laughed and we started to walk away. "No, don't leave, how much will you give?" I look at the purse; it is cool, different, handmade. Ma seems like she wants it. "10 bucks. Final price." "No. I can't do ten. Come on, 35." We walk away, he comes running after. "Okay. 20. Do 20." He was desperate, strangely desperate. I realized the $10 was probably more than it was worth. "Listen man, 10 is the final offer. Take it or stop following us." He took it. But she only had a $20. A guy nearby had change. Thinking back on it, we probably could've got the thing for $5. But $45?!

I wonder if ancient men made it to the top. Before clothes and all that (how many leopard skins does it take to stay warm in subzero conditions?)

In Forodhani Gardens I started talking to a local guy who said he was from Nigeria. He said he stowed away on a boat to reach Zanzibar to avoid persecution. He said his family was killed in some sort of political upheaval, something about oil, and he seemed to be blaming me by extension. He said he had done time in jail for coming to Zanzibar illegally. Then he spouted a whole lot of Jesus this and that, said how he could easily get a job if he became Muslim, but that he couldn't turn his back on Jesus. I listened. The next night, walking with Ma, we ran into him again. Now he was saying he was sick, had malaria, couldn't keep anything down. I told him to get some Quinine, they sell it everywhere, dirt cheap, but he said that No, he needed some other kind of medicine, something you inject. I realized that he was probably a junkie (heroin is apparently a major problem on the island), maybe not from Nigeria at all. But there's Ma, offering to buy him the medicine. And there's him, saying we just need to follow him into some back alley to some pharmacist he knows. We only have 2000/= on us anyway, we're trying to go to the internet café (500/= for a half hour), so I'm not exactly sure what she's thinking (actually I do, she just hasn't become numb to people constantly asking for money. Constantly.) But I do know that we're not going to start following this guy into some dark back alley. So I give him 1000/=, which according to him would be enough to buy the meds. But then he's going, 'No man, you need to come with me, you need to inject me, you're the doctor.' He actually said that, that I needed to inject him, that I was the doctor. I explained carefully that No, we weren't going to go following him into Stone Town, that we gave him what we could spare, and that was the best we could do. We walked away. Later, when Ma had finished writing her emails and I was checking mine, she was sitting outside and he came up again. He apparently started in one some new angle to try and get money, and she told him point blank to leave her alone. Then he started trying to come in the store to harass me, and she apparently said something like, 'you better not be going in there to bug my boy,' and he took off. She's a quick learner.

The sky isn't black yet. Still blue. A deep dark blue. Almost black blue.

We ate sushi on the beach. You would think that with all the amazing seafood they had on the island there would be amazing sushi. But it was just tuna and shrimp and an attempt at a California roll. Oh, but it was still amazing. And ginger sauce? And wasabi?! Amazing.

I wonder how far up the mountain I will be seeing cigarettes, hearing mobiles.

I haven't been able to rid my bag of the rotten fish smell. It is upsetting. I've had this bag since I was eleven. If the Buffalo Express from Dar to Arusha is the cause of its death, it will be a shame. Maybe Kili will somehow purify it.

In Forodhani Gardens, eating fresh crab and lobster and shrimp and kingfish that had all been cooked over an open charcoal fire. A fight between two touts broke out right next to us. One guy looks like he's high on drugs, the other looks like he needs a fix. Neither is over 5'6", neither weigh more than 150lbs. They are, apart from being vastly amusing (Ma calls it 'dinner theater'), distracting us from enjoying our amazing seafood. I asked them (politely) if they would move their fight over to the next picnic table. They did.

Someone's mobile just rang. I am on a mountain in Africa, in a tent, writing by candle light, and 100 yards away, someone is talking on their mobile.

Walking through Stone Town, lost in its back alleys. I love finding those places that the other tourists don't. People there were looking at me funny; I'm not supposed to be there. Good. I walked by an Indian guy sitting on a 600cc sport bike. A Suzuki. It's the first sport bike I'd seen in Africa. Good for him. He is young, he is proud… he's just sitting on the bike, posing. The alleys are so narrow that you couldn't ride that thing faster than 10 miles an hour… and the majority of the roads on the island are dirt, how impractical is a sport bike? But to each their own. I walked by an old Muslim mama. She is a perfect picture, sitting on a chair in that narrow alley. I needed to take that picture. I smiled and said hello, she mumbled a greeting, I walked on. I got to the end of the alley. I stopped. I needed that picture. It was amazing. Award winning. She was a vision. I needed courage to go back and ask her. But she may say No. But that doesn't matter, it wouldn't hurt to ask. But there were people all around, they were staring at me. But who cares? Where was my courage? Okay, found it. Like diving into cold water, the first step is hard, every step after gets easier. I walked back down the alley. She saw me coming. I smiled, I greeted her again, she smiled, responded. Good. I offered my hand, she shook it. Good. I asked her, in Kiswahili, if I can please take her picture. The words came out right. Good. She says No.

The candle will burn out soon. I bet I'm asleep by 9pm. What else is there to do in the cold darkness?

I watched two fishermen setting their trap at the bottom of the ocean. They would dive down, get a big rock or chunk of corral, move it into place, come up, get air, go back down and move another. After about ten minutes they had the infrastructure to hold their woven trap in place. After they were gone, when the trap was set, I dove down and tried to figure out how it worked. It seems simple, it is hand woven out of bamboo or something, and it has two big compartments to hold fish, and little one-way doors to let them enter and not leave. The one thing I didn't see though was bait. Do the fish just swim in there to find out what it is? I guess I might…

That moon is bright.

I hope I make it to the top.

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