eight

august 9, 2006

Julie vs the Volcano

Well, I'm going. 180 days of half-assed, semi-serious preparation and
concentration. Countless hours of pilates and ashtanga yoga. Endless
practice hikes in various climates with a weighted backpack strapped
to my back. Monotonous climbs up and down bleachers. Attempting to
climb an inactive volcano that's15,000 feet above sea level has a way
of making one feel small. It's me against the altitude.

I have a secret strategy to take me straight to the summit. I am
planning to channel all of my inner anger and pretend that each step I
take is like crushing the heads of all the naysayers and every person
that has ever caused me pain or sadness. There's enough people on that
list to take me up in record time. That certificate will be mine. All
mine I tell you!

The way I see it, there are about three plausible scenarios that could
happen to me while I'm away. The first scenario includes a tragic
misstep along the trail of the Rongai route. This will result in me
having to use my overpriced $4 survival whistle, but no one will hear
my pleas for help. Because I'm trapped in a remote area, only top
geologist or topologists with high tech tracking devices will be able
to find me. Since Tanzania is quite poor and their rescue efforts can
be a bit lax, someone else might be taking over this blog and the
first sentence will probably be "...and no one ever heard from Julie
again." Instead of being frantic about my disappearance, Vanessa will
gleefully ransack my apartment to claim the Miu Miu shoes I promised
her in case anything should happen to me.

In the second scenario, I meet and elusive and suave man whose rugged
good looks bear a strong resemblance to Harrison Ford. This beautiful
stranger will be named Jed. Jed and I will successfully reach the
summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro and share an initmate moment away from the
other members of our group. Because Jed is so smitten with me, he
follows me to Zanzibar where we explore the spice markets of Stone
Town and relax lazily on the beach. I rebuff all of Jed's advances
because quite frankly I'm just not that into him.

Spurned by my rejection, Jed seeks revenge by planting opium in my
suitcase. At the airport waiting to depart back home, I am
unceremoniously arrested and thrown into a Zanzibarian prison.
Luckily, the prison is very similar to the prisons in Belize, and I'm
able to go home on weekends. I become the best selling artist at the
prison gift shop, and my sea shell sculptures are hailed around the
world as one of the great masterpieces of the new millenium. Amnesty
International will fight for my immediate release, but I refuse to
leave and finish my sentence until the very end. Unfortunately through
all this, Jed escapes unscathed, but karma catches up to him in the
end.

My favorite scenario also finds me in Zanzibar. I fall madly in love
with the local shaman named Akash. I immediately vow never to return
to America. Together Akash and I open up Zanzibar's first ever
holistic/mystical center and bait shop. During the day, Akash heals
the indigent while I demand them to practice their asanas. Once the
poor and unfortuante feel the benefits of positive thinking , Akash
forces them to to buy a kilo of live bait for which we ask about 3x
the asking price of everyone else in town.

At night we passionately focus on making babies. Neither one of us
actually cares for babies. If one should happen to pop up, we calmly
pluck it into the sea much like Elora Dannon form the movie Willow.
Since Akash and I are highly enlightened beings we feel no sadness or
shame with these actions. We know that the mermaids of the sea will
care for the abandoned infants. It's a quiet life for the both of us,
and it suits us just fine. We both know there's more to life than
Nobu. Together Akash and I live happily ever after.

Should none of these scenarios come true although I see no reason why
not, I'm still going to have a fabulous time. From mountain climbing,
dolphin safaris, and shopping in London, it doesn't get much better
than that. I plan on returning with sarongs for everyone!

See you in September!

august 21, 2006

Day 3

It's Day 3. All I can think about is how climbing this mountain has made
me incredibly angry torwards everyone. There is no sense of
accomplishment. Definitely no spiritual epiphany. All I can think about
is how I am going to murder each and every one of you upon my return.
Scoff if you must, but I've given serious thought how to weaponize my
hiking pole. Feel free to enjoy the Tanzanian treats I bring back for
you!

How has it come to this? Well, I haven't had a shower for 4 days. Every
time I figure out the 7 hour time difference, frineds and family are
either home sleeping, sitting comfortably at a nice desk at work, or
enjoying a nicely mixed cocktail. Meanwhile, I'm schlepping up this
mountian. Don't even try to give me, "But Julie, you wanted to do this!
or "Julie we warned you tha you wouldn't like it!" Shove it!

It's not that I don't like it or I'm not having a good time. It's just
there are somethings I could do without. Everyone in this group has
ginormous teeth. We're talking so large that they can't even close their
mouths. I'm obsessed with this. I fear for their significant others that
have to receive fellation from those mouths. This is all I think about
while climbing.

No time for creative energy or profound thoughts. Basically, I tell
myself to put one foot in front of the other. Although today I
brilliantly wondered who named vaseline "Vaseline". Granted petroleum
jelly doesn't sing, but is vaseline any better?

I'm one of the few Americans in this group. The rest are British. If you
didn't already know, the Brits eat some nasty shit. Like buttered bread
then dipped in soup. Yesterday for lunch, we had this scary dish simply
called "beef". While I wouldn't touch it, the Brits dug in happily.

There are two Yale law grads from Darien, CT also in the group. Do you
know about Darien, CT? If I already know you and you are from Darien,
please don't eve let me find out. The friendship will instantly be
terminated. For those not in the know, Darien is a very posh community
that breeds snobbery and superiority and long winded explanations to the
simplest questions. The two girls are in a seperate group, so luckily
contact is minimal.

Although I'm in Tanzania, I spent the night in Nairobi, Kenya. Within in
minutes of my drive to the hotel, the smug married driver shamed me for
being a spinster. No such luck of meeting "Jed" on this leg of my
holiday. Everyone here is on their honeymoon.

If this entry seems unseemingly bitter, it's probably because it was
written 4500 meters above sea level. Mountain sickness works in
mysterious ways.

august 21,2006
Adversity

Summit day are the two worst words ever to be strung together. I
warn you if your holiday includes a summit day be afraid. Very
afraid. Summit day is the last true day of adventure which
commences in actually reaching "Uhuru's Peak" or the highest
point of Mt. Kilimanjaro.

After a full 6 hour day of hiking and a strange dinner of
vegetarian goulash, we are put to bed at 7pm and will be
promptly woken at 11pm to begin the climb to the summit. I sleep
maybe 2 hours at the very most. Samwel, our chief guide, enters
my tent for our one to one chat like Tyra Banks on America's
Next Top Model. "How do you feel?" "How did you sleep?" he asks.

I'm scared shitless to be perfectly honest. The reason why
summit day starts at midnight rather than the more palatable 8am
is because if you saw what you were actually going to climb and
how steep it was, you'd run for the valley and never look back.

We file into the mess tent, all with the same shocked, fearful
expressions on our faces. There's no turning back now. Our group
bundles into our fleeces, down jackets, and about 10 other
layers of clothing. Samwel leads the way singing Tanzanian songs
as he goes.

It's pitch black outside and I can only see a few meters in
front of me. Slowly out of the darkness emerges the other groups
also ascending to the summit. Pole Pole means slowly slowly in
Swahili. Because of the lack of oxygen and climatization
factors, there really isn't much of a choice. It's quite somber
and very similar to a death march. I feel like I'm walking
torwards death.

The trail snakes upwards. It's practically vertical, but I try
to convince myself that there is some flat land to offer my
calves some relief. It's not true but whatever gets you up the
mountain. My brain does not function properly. All I can think
is right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. Every so often
I'll throw in an "I can do it" for motivational purposes. It's
so cold and steep. If I look up and see the other groups in
front of us, it only solidifies that it's a long hard road to
the top. We're nowhere near that point. The magical voice of
Samwel helps to keep us going.

One of the huge dangers of summit day is the effects of the
altitude. In our pre-summit briefing, Samwel warns us about
nausea, vomiting, headaches, disorientation, etc. Besides
freezing all the way down to my toes I feel ok. Louise suddenly
turns of the trail and begins to uncontrollably vomit. It;s
scary.

Eventually we reach one check point and then the second. I feel
so nauseaus by the Hans Meyer cave that I eat as much as I can
in the hopes of calming down my stomach. I'm so weak at this
point that chewing slowly hurts my jaws immensely. I start to
doubt that I will mak it to the top.

It's time to rock and roll slowly snaking our way up. It's still
dark and there's no way to know how long we've already been
walking. i just know that we're closer to the bottom than the
top. The cookies and chocolate I gobbled down have no effect. I
start to feel wobbly and out of breath. I ask Niglas for the
anit-nausea pills, but it's too late. I've already vomited. I
feel terrible and very scared.

I've been taking diamox since day 1 which is an anti-mountain
sickness pill. There are 2 schools of thought on the
controversial white pill. While some strongly advocate it's use
in preventing AMS, others believe it is worse because it simply
masks the symptoms and one could be a lot sicker than previously
thought. So here I am. 2 1/2 hours form the summit. My group has
continued on without me. It's just myself and Niglas. I've also
vomited about 4 times already which is also a serious AMS
indicator. I'm worried that I could have cerebral or pulmonary
adema, and that continuing on could actually kill me. Do I keep
going or trun back?

Niglas cares for me like a helpless infant. He pats my back.
Gives me water and says encouraging things. At times he even
holds my habd. I realize that this is as close to a boyfriend as
I'm ever going to get.

2 1/2 hours from the summit. 5 days of hiking. 6 months of
training. The certainty of reaching the peak has drained from my
body. I imagine recounting this defeated scenario 100x. Each
time emphasizing how close I camt to the top , but the altitude
did me in. Definitely not a story ot be so proud of. Certainly
my health is more important than any old certificate. It's
beyond freezing and I'm hunced over my hiking pole. The idea of
sleep and my nice warm sleeping bag does seem like the quitter's
way, but also kind of smart if not incredibly appealing at this
point.

Niglas gently pushes me to keep going. Pole pole. Inch by inch.
Right foot, left foot. I drag myself up the mountain gasping for
breath. Every so often Samwel catcalls to see my progress.
Niglas whistles affirmatively. Each step is a struggle. There's
still so much farther to go. It's so painful. I think at one
point I actually lose sight and all sense of reality. I'm just a
machine in motion. I listen to the music of Niglas' footsteps to
make each next step. I will keep going until I simply can't
anymore.

Soon 2 1/2 hours become 2 hours. 2 hours become one hour, and
eventually I can make out Gilamn's point. This is the most
physically and mentally excruciatingly painful thing I have ever
done in my whole life. I'm never doing this shit again.

The point is near and I manage to gather some sort of second
wind. I'm determined but it's still not easy. My body is shaking
in pain. My calves are aching and my thighs are weakening at the
thought of an even steeper incline. Climbing uphill and over
rocks takes over every amount of energy I have. I see the rest
of the group celebrating at the top. In a few minutes, I'll be
there too.

Like a dramtic ending scene out of any 80's movie, I pull myself
towards Gilman's point. I made it! I can totally claim the green
certicate. Congratulations and hugs are all passed around. The
sun is now rising and there's no greater feeling in the world.

Of course, Gilman's point is for wimps. The truly hardcore go
the 2 extra hours all the way to Uhuru's peak which is the
absolute highest point. i didn't think it would be a good idea
to continue pushing myself to the linmits, but I overheard
Arjoun mentioning since he was already here and never coming
back, why not go for it? The worst thing that can happen is we
turn back.

Pole, pole I tell Niglas, and off we go to the summit. It's
deceptively easy at first. There's flat land and downward hills.
The descenders encouraging remark that I;m almost there, but
they are liars. Like a fool I believe them, but we're not even
close.

The real summit is one tough journey. I struggle for every
breath and barely make progress. My face is forzen. My feet are
no longer feminine, but I still keep going. Pole, pole.

I'm getting closer and closer to the sign that makes it
official. I realize that I'm about to achieve my goal of
climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro before I'm 30 (of course I added the 30
part about 2 years ago). Tears spring to my eyes because how
often does one achieve such a momentous goal. There's truly no
greater feeling in the world. I've earned that golden
certificate which I intend to frame and place proudly on my
narcissism wall. I also intend to make a small copy to carry
with me every where I go. Please also look forward to every
sentence I utter starting with "This one time at Kili..."

I have to add that it was way more painful one day of
snowbaording than a 6 day trek up Mt. Kilimanjaro. For all
that's said and done, I'm going to start looking for a new
mountain to tackle!

A porter advises me that there's an ATM on the otherside of the airport.
There's not. However, there is another change booth which accepts credit
cards! At least they would accept credit cards , but today their
connection is down. Again, I'm dismissed with a mere shrug of the
shoulders and a look that seems to imply "Fuck you Mzungus". I do not
accept this news with great dignity. Without cash, I'm stranded in
Zanzibar indefinitely and that's not feasible. I have flights to catch
and shopping to do at Topshop! I repeat the scenario to the airport
agent with rising hystericalness. Because the situation is totally out
of my control, hot angry tears began to stream down my cheeks.

It's pretty clear now that we live in a mysoginistic world as the porter
and the ticket agent roll their eyes as if to say typical female. They
half-heartedly attempt to calm my tears by saying cutesy Swahili
catch-phrases. "Hakuna Matata" "No tears in Zanzibar" "Only smiles
please". Because it wouldn't be in my best interest, I somehow mange to
resist every urge to tell them the shove hakuna matata up their ass.
These men have an incredible talent to seem incredibly helpful and
accomodating yet patronizing all at the same time. I ramble on about how
they should actually like do something like helping me as they promised.
It's really not one of my finer moments.

I suddenly realize that I do have cash on me, but it's in British
pounds. I ask the man now designated to be my knight in shining armor if
that was acceptable currency. My knight in shining armor suggests I
exchange the pounds for dollars. He finds the exchange rate, and even
though it's not quite $200 I have enough dollars and shillings to make
up the difference with about $5 to spare. There's also a problem of the
$25 departure tax, but my so-called knight insists on handling one issue
at a time.

I am escorted to the Kenya Airways office, where I'm held captive like a
prisoner of war. I tearfully sit in the dank office while clutching a
fistful of bills waiting for this ordeal to be over and be safely on my
way to Nairobi. Men walk in and out and obviously snicker about me in
Swahili. I'm so not amused. It feels like my anticipated "Jed" scenario
has come true, but is totally the bizarro world version.

My knight in shining armor makes motions that I will get on the next
flight and receive a refund from my original ticket. There is a big show
with the head honcho making calculations and slowly delaying the whole
transaction. I just know that he is reveling in the agony this is
causing me. Finally money is exchanged (even though I didn't receive my
change), and I'm granted a boarding pass. I now had exactly 6,000
Tanzanian shillings (about $5 give or take) and a stack of useless
plastic to my name and 36 hours before I could get to a real bank with
an ATM.

Time to deal with the departure tax predicament! My knight in shining
armor completely ignores the drama that just played out before us, and
asks if I had any moeny to pay for the tax. Like a maniac, I remove the
shillings from my pocket and scream that this is all I have and there is
not anymore. Even though my flight is scheduled to depart in less than
an hour, he helpfully suggests that I go into town for more money. The
town that is two hours away of course. What is wrong with this man?

There is another song and dance in order to pass me through the next
obstacle. There are more cries of hakuna matata, but I just want to go
into a corner and sob hysterically. So much for feeling invincible!

Because I was traveling to London, my knight in shining armor was able
to declare me "in transit" which meant they could waive the tax for me.
Whew! He walks me to security and I thank him by giving him the absolute
last of my cash to show my appreciation for his help. After I pass
through security and arrive at the gate, I consume massive amounts of
tranquilizers in order to calm myself down. Curious on-lookers ask about
the scenes they pretended not to gawk at, and shared similiar stories of
the corrupt bullshit that happens in Zanzibar. This appeases me only
slightly.

So Rafiki...for future reference please stay away from Kenya Airways,
and never book coastal flights to to beautiful corrupt third wold
islands on-line. Hakuna Matata!

                 august 30, 2006

Fucked in Zanzibar

Eventually all good things must come to an end. Even the mighty get
their comeuppance. Last week was my turn, and I was ever so humbled.
After I succeeded in climbing Mt. Kilimnajaro, I traveled to the
tropical island paradise that is called Zanzibar to recover and relax
from climbing Africa's highest mountain. I enjoyed three blissful
days simply toiling on the beach and taking long luxurious naps on my
veranda. Now it was time to say good bye, and slowly make my way back
to the states.

My driver picked me up as scheduled, and off to the airport I went.
In this age of modern technology, I booked my return ticket to
Nairobi on-line no problem. Kenya Airways confirmed my ticket and
gladly took my money. I had the paperwork to prove it! All I had to
do was show up and go through the typical formalities. I was quickly
whisked to the front of the queue, and anticipated nothing but
speediness. I should've realized something was wrong when the ticket
agent wearily glanced at my paperwork as if it was a "Lost" plotline.
She must speak to a manager. I can see the heavy debate and the rock,
paper, scissors game of who would be the unlucky one to give me some
bad news.

A dark suited man grimly detailed about how my return plane ticket
was now deemed invalid. The problem is one should never use new
millenium technology in a country that still functions in the Dark
Ages. He mentioned words like corporate office, not applicable and
refund, but basically it boiled down to beaucratic bullshit or
blatant corruption (depending on your prediliction of course). The
good news was that I could purchase a new ticket for $200 cash. No
credit cards accepted, but it would guarantee me a seat on the plane
and enable me to catch my connection to London.

Not in any position to argue and figuring I would just deal with
Mastercard later, I attempted to get the cash to pay for the ticket.
Well, there aren't any ATM's at the airport which officially makes
this situation a bit stickier. The woman at the first change booth I
visted didn't accept credit cards and sneered at me to go into town a
mere 2 hours away to find an ATM. Let's not forget that I have very
limited cash which would make paying for a taxi a problem too.
Helpfully, she shrugs her shoulders and dismisses me with much
attitude. Customer service is alive and well in Zanzibar.