Vacation (PART 6)

10/18/05

I've lost track of days. I am at Barafu Camp, 14,400 feet in the sky. (Barafu in Ki'Swahili means ice.) At midnight tonight we will start the final ascent, another 5,000 feet up, up. I am eating Cadbury's chocolate that I bought in Moshi Town exactly for this occasion (I also have a Snickers, which I am going to save.) Barranco Camp was possibly one of the most beautiful places I've ever I seen: between its perfect view of Kibo on one side, those two valleys emptying out into that sea of clouds on the other. The full moon rising. I woke up today and felt great. I've been feeling great, other than a few mild headaches that pass quickly and some muscle soreness in my legs and back. Nico and I walked up the 'breakfast wall' (which looks entirely insurmountable, though we surmounted it.) Every time I get tired or wonder how I can go on, a porter passes me, carrying a huge bag on his head. It's all the encouragement I need. Nico and I moved fast, we were the first to arrive at Karanga Valley (other than the porters, who were already there, smoking and listening to their radios.) The Valley is actually a ridge above a valley. Some porters started setting up camp, others (my guys), ate quick and pushed on. Nico and I ate slowly, I laid my sweater out to dry, we talked about the Western Breach and the Umbwe route (which Nico is sure I could handle, and) which some Austrian marathon runner used to reach the peak in just under 10 hours (I met the guide who escorted him from the gate to the first camp.) Nico and I pushed on from Karanga, up into the mist, into the clouds, into that unknown, up and up, walking slow, hours and hours. Barafu is not a camp in the same sense as the others, it's just a huge sprawling rock face with ledges cleared out for tents. It's not as beautiful as Barranco, I'm not sure anything could be, but it's charming in its own 14,400 feet up the air kind of way. I feel like a mountain goat, sitting on this rock on this ledge, over looking this valley, writing, drinking my tea. And the mist is coming in again, a cold wet heavy mist, beautiful none the less, this creepy magical feeling that I cant seem to capture with my camera or words. A white-necked raven flies overhead, so low, and their wings are so loud when they fly so close.

Zanzibar, Saturday night, it's one am.
I've drank four ounces of Wild Turkey 101, a liter of lager, I was in on three different joints… but mostly I feel fueled by that constant base desire to simultaneously create and destroy. I kick start the dirt bike. I ride slowly through Nungwi village, slightly guilty that I am making noise, despite my effort to keep quiet (an impossibility.) I roll in second gear through the sandy paths; I fortunately see the turn that will take me out to the main roads instead of getting me lost in the narrow alleys of this sleeping village. At the main intersection there are two options: turning left will take me down a short dirt road, back to Mnari Beach Cottages, where the security man will hand me a key that will open the door to a room with a big bed with clean white sheets, the nicest I have slept on in Africa, where the sound of the Indian Ocean will lull me to sleep, where it will rouse me in the morning, where I will smell its clean pure salty air and hear it lapping against my door before I open my eyes and see white, white walls and white sheets, pure clean white consuming me whole… And if I go straight, there is another dirt road, this one wider, leading into the dark unknown of a tropical Muslim island, on edge from days of fasting for Ramadani.
"Turn left, go to bed."
I go straight.
"What are you doing? You can barely see ten feet in front of you. You don't know where this road leads. You're not wearing a helmet. This is dangerous."
I shift into third gear and open up the throttle.
"Seriously, it could be anything. A goat could walk out into the road. A sudden turn, a fucking pothole, a bandit lying in wait, anything. Turn around."
I shift into fourth. The white sand bathed in the yellow headlamp is flying by fast, it's bumpy and it's hard to keep the front wheel straight. My visibility is no more than one, maybe two seconds down the road.
"Okay good. This was fun, a lot of adrenaline, a good story. Now slow the fuck down." I shift into fifth; I open up the engine wide.
Full throttle.
I am going fast, as fast as the bike will go. The further I get down the road the more certain I am that it could end.
"Alright Asshole, die if you want, I'm out of here."
I turn off the headlamp and scream.
Tear it down to build it up to tear it down.

But this may all just be a dream anyway, I may not be here at all, I may have never even left LA. I may have got drunk and dropped my camera before I left and it shattered on the ground and now I am hiding in my bed, making all of this up.

The ravens really sound like low flying jets when they come that close. I am back in my tent now and it feels so good to shut my eyes. I am hearing tiny drops of rain falling on my tent.

Now it's raining. And hail. And I need to go piss. This is a conundrum.

Mission success. Rain pants, heavy jacket, Ecuadorian power beanie.

I'm just dozing off when Amos 'hodi'-s in the tent with the first course (soup and toast.) Is it 5pm already? But it's good. I will eat, sleep, stretch and be ready to tackle the summit.

Dinner of pasta and tuna fish sauce. I was wondering what kind of meat they could have kept fresh this whole time. I ate it all. Midnight is going to come fast. It's going to be cold.

I hope I make it to the top.

BACK