Karibu Report by Richard Freeman

Dear Friends and Family – If we were looking for an experience that would challenge us on a variety to levels— going to Tanzania and Rwanda exceeded our expectations. Physically, culturally, emotionally, environmentally, politically—just any –ly you can think of—we experienced it. With this travelogue I am going to try to recount and recap the amazing journey Sean and I have just completed. And more than just tell you what we did, I hope to tell you what it was like to be on the other side of the world—East Africa. Richard W. Freeman November 2011

The Last Day in Berlin

Our last day in Berlin with Nick and Susan started with laundry, moved to floating in a giant salt water pool, roasting ourselves in a blazing hot sauna with a towel waving tormentor, and finishing our visit with them at an Italian feast literally sharing our final meal together—appetizers, a pasta course (I’ve always wanted to do that) and then a fish dish and a beef dish, and of course dessert. Good Italian food in Germany—how Euro. It was hard to say goodbye to Berlin, but the weather was starting to turn cold and you could tell winter, and a very different season of the city—was about to begin. It was hard to say goodbye to Nick. We wish him all the best with the opening of his performance space and his job at Ableton. I think I even understand what his job is now – he bends sound waves for a living—how cool is that. We had arranged for a cab to pick us up on the following morning at 5AM. That meant we got up at 4AM to take a shower and finish our re-‐packing (something we have had a great deal of practice at.) The cab was a little late which made me nervous, but it arrived and in we hopped to start the next wing of our adventure— the flight from Berlin to Kilimanjaro.

A Day in the Air

As I said, we were up at 4AM on October 8th and we arrived at our final destination at 4AM on October 9th. Our fight from Berlin to Frankfurt was quick and painless. Then our wait for our flight from Frankfurt to Addis Ababa was long and dull (though Sean did purchase a solar charger for his IPhone – kind of cool.) It is odd to me to think of Addis Ababa as a transportation hub given how I viewed Ethiopia growing up. (“Finish your food— there are children starving in Ethiopia.” There probably still are today.) We arrived well after dark so all we could see as we approached the airport were the lights of the city. Unfortunately our return flight is at night so that will likely be our only view of Ethiopia. Once we disembarked we loaded on to buses (this bus thing happened a number of times on our trip) and then we were separated from those who terminated in Addis Ababa. They herded us together in the group of people connecting to other flights. We were herded again onto a bus that took us to another part of the airport and then herded to one of the gates for Ethiopian Airlines. The airport was left over from the 1950s with what were once grand corridors and rigid lines, but now looked old and decayed, and had the feeling of a bus terminal rather than a busy airport. Pre-‐printed boarding passes were handed to us as we stood in line with random seat assignments. It all seemed haphazard. I’ve gotten used to airports being places of rigid rules and regulations. They are places where you interact with machines (kiosks for checking in, scanners for security, moving sidewalks for transportation, and screens for information) and all the hustle and bustle happens as hoards of people hurry from one machine to the next. Addis Abba had none of this that I could see. There was no machinery in sight. Just long, wide, dimly lit, marble corridors and porous waiting pens where we sat on orange plastic seats with other tourists and a very few business travelers waiting for our plane to arrive. The time was approaching 10PM and this plane still had to make a stop in Mombasa, Kenya before it flew on to our final destination—Kilimanjaro Airport in Tanzania. We were finally herded once more down a double set of stairs (this was not a handicapped friendly airport) on to a bus and taken to our plane. The most memorable thing about the flight was the flight attendant. She was stunningly beautiful—an exotic blend of what one would expect a beautiful Ethiopian woman to look like all packaged in a very modern/western look. Her form fitting vertical stripe blouse traced the contours of her slender perfectly proportioned figure like a graceful gestural drawing. Not one curve of her body escaped highlighting. Her breasts strained against her buttoned blouse. Her tiny waist gave way to spandex hugging pants that left no question to her well-‐defined legs and pert derriere. Her eyes sparkled. Her teeth were like pearls flashing in sunlight. Her hair encircled her sharper features with a contrasting soft, tight curl.

It was the first time in a long time that I paid attention to the safety demonstration. At 3 AM we arrive in Tanzania and still need to go through customs. Did we have proof of our yellow fever vaccination? Check. You need to fill out the blue declaration form. One pen between us and no real light anywhere. Someone with even normal vision would have had a hard time seeing this form—and my glasses were packed somewhere deep in my luggage—but finally it got filled out with Sean’s gentle direction. Luckily we already had our visas so that was a line we could avoid. Next we had our passport checked and our full right hand scanned and then our right thumb scanned and then our full left hand and last our left thumb. Seemed a little overkill. What were they ever going to do with all of that biometrics? Finally we reached the baggage carousal and picked up our bags—I didn’t see any security anywhere. Maybe it was too late at night for them. The parking lot was five steps away. Armond, our first of many drivers, was there to greet us with his sign “Sean & Richard”—thank heaven. It was time for our first stop: outside of Arusha— Rivertrees.

Tanzania: One Tourist’s Point of View

My traveling friends had told me that I should expect a porter to carry my bag from here on. Even at 3 AM there were many anxious men vying to get a hold of my duffle bag and carry it to the car or the hotel room or anywhere I wanted to go. Of course you pay for this service with a tip. As you all know I work in an industry where tipping is expected. As many of you know I have some rather strong opinions about how irrational that whole approach to paying for service is. Well, imagine an entire country where irrational tipping is the norm. You can read the guidebooks and talk to friends. You can try to figure out what the standard of living is for a typical person in Tanzania (less than $2 a day) and therefore what a good tip might be. You can try to weigh the value between having your bag carried from the car to your room versus having it carried 12,000 feet up a mountain. Or what the appropriate tip is for a guide that drives you around for six days versus the one who walks you up a mountain for five days. Or the waitress who serves you three meals a day starting at 6AM and finishing at 10PM— In a hotel where you appear to be the only guests. What is the appropriate amount? For Sean and I—who changed location almost daily—it meant a lot of tipping. Add to that the fact that nothing has a price on it – “ the price is always negotiable”—and being an American who likes to know what something costs and decide if it’s worth it—I start to stress out about cash (and I brought a lot of it!) In Tanzania there are few banks so you have to plan ahead what your cash needs might be—but American dollars are always preferred. Even in the hotels that were clearly designed for tourists they resist your using credit cards. This is a cash society where things have the monetary value you decide they have. It is also a society where greasing the palm is expected and corruption, therefore, flourishes at every level of commerce and politics. Our safari guide had to stop everyday to “buy a lottery ticket”—which meant a stop at some roadside craft shops that were overflowing with hand carvings of animals (not just African) and thousands upon thousands of paintings of the back view of Massai warriors. Of course this was some “arrangement” that our guide had with the shop owners to bring the tourists by. Kickbacks were probably arranged in the background. At one point he told us that these craft shops were suffering because more and more people were flying into the Serengeti rather than driving. (Maybe they should improve the roads!) After the fact, we read in our guidebook to be sure to meet your porters before you start your trek up Mt. Kilimanjaro. You want to make sure that at the end your guide doesn’t inflate the number of porters just to get more money out of you. For the two

of us we had a guide, an assistant guide, a cook and five porters (of whom we only met three—hmmmm.) There are price differences for those paying in American dollars, those paying in Tanzanian shillings, and different prices for tourists and for residents. You could never determine what the value of anything was. It would, I imagine, make it very difficult to travel East Africa with out a pre-‐packaged (and paid for) itinerary—at least for the first time visitor. We are first world, white, western tourists in a third world African country. This was a fact and there was no opportunity to blend in. The economic relationships have long been established since colonial times when the native African was expected to carry the white man’s burden. The cultural and economic reality of that created a labor pool that is poorly educated and relies on providing low skill jobs (like porters) to keep people employed. Any idea of modernizing would threaten those jobs. The bureaucracy of even something that seems simple—like entering a park—is an endless string of pushing paper back and forth and writing in a ledger that no one will ever look at—your name and age and occupation (this one always made me wonder) and home address. A permit is then issued and given to a guard who takes it to another guard who let’s you through the gate and gives you back the piece of paper that someone will need to check at the next checkpoint when you have to go through the whole process again. We had a lot of time with our safari guide to talk about Tanzanian politics. Tanzania is the 31st largest country area-‐wise in the world (a little less than twice the size of California.) It has a population of over 38 million people (almost half the population is under 15.) This is a country short on doctors, nurses, and teachers. Some schools have two teachers for 500 students. The transportation systems are underdeveloped. Public buses were filled to overflowing. (I will never complain about Muni again.) And, it seems, the Japanese built the best road in Tanzania. The worst road (in fact our guidebook told us the “worst road in all of Africa”) is the road into the Serengeti (the number two most popular tourist destination.) We have a video to prove that our guidebook was right. At one point on the rough dirt road they have piled up mounds of dirt and rocks (more like boulders) that look like they were intended to resurface the road. The piles take up one entire lane of a narrow two-‐lane highway. “Those piles have been there for a year and will be there for two more” our driver laughs. We close our eyes and hope he sees the oncoming vehicle speeding towards us through the cloud of dust. [In Tanzania they drive on the left side of the road so it already takes a little getting used to, but for some reason on the dirt roads the right side always looked more

attractive to our guide. So that meant a lot of lane switching at the last possible second. Traffic accidents are a major cause of death in Tanzania.] On the major roads traffic was dense. The buildings were close to the road. People were walking on both sides and, at times, crossing the two lanes of traffic without so much as a glance. There are many bikes between the pedestrians and the cars and an additional column of motorbikes. Add to that minivans that serve as some auxiliary form of public transit – they are packed full with people hanging out the windows and clutching on to the outside. These mini-‐buses run down the shoulder of the traffic lane and suddenly pull over when anyone flags them down. Then there is the main flow of traffic. Slow trucks and buses spew dark clouds from their tailpipes (and every other part of the car in some cases) as they struggle to make the few hills that road covers. Everyone is trying to pass everyone so blinkers are on all the time showing intention—but not always action—so it is hard to know if and when someone will pull out. The road is a pretty straight shot so everywhere is a passing zone—even when it isn’t a straight shot. The fumes, the confusion, and the occasional cart pulled by a donkey or ox just added to the clutter and sense of dread—this cannot end well. Much of Tanzanian infrastructure has been built through grants from foreign donors. In fact 40% of the country’s budget is from donors. Donors like China are “successful” because they understand a culture where bribing public officials is part of doing business. (The Chinese are disliked by the citizens because they have no regard for workers—there have been several cases where people are hurt or killed on construction sites and no compensation has been offered. This has lead to local protests.) Western governments do not play the bribing game as well and so many projects that are started are stopped midway when a greedy official tries to take more and more of the money. We listened to stories about how during national elections candidates make promises they know the people want to hear, but once in office, the promises go unfulfilled. In local politics there are so many “county commissioners” that it is impossible to tell who you need approval from to build or to do business that you don’t bother to get the permit and either pay off the official when they do show up (we saw police pulling over cars to check documents—“if you don’t have it you just offer them cash to look the other way”) or you face the consequences of having the house you built marked with a red X because you built too close to the road. (We saw a lot of these red Xs on buildings on the road to Mt. Kilimanjaro. “They are planning on widening the road, but it will never happen.”) I guess America isn’t the only country where government is failing.

Respite at Rivertrees

We arrived at Rivertrees—a plantation style compound—at 4AM. Armond, our driver, turns off the main road (the only paved road) into a pitted and rutted muddy road that takes us to a gate guarded by a Massai warrior (it seems that all the places we have stayed are patrolled by the Massai.) A young guy, Isaac, was there to welcome us. He led us through the dark into the open-‐air main house where all the meals will be served. “I can go get you a welcoming juice.” (It seems the tradition is that you are greeted with a moist towel and a glass of juice when you check into a hotel.) “Thank you, but it isn’t necessary. We’ve been up for 24 hours and would just like to go to our room.” Isaac flicks on the lights and suddenly two men who were asleep on the couch spring up to take our bags. “You’re in cottage #1.” We walk a distance to get to our cottage that is filled with solid looking furniture, rich fabrics and mosquito netting. It is really very lovely even in the dark. “Here is your key and your monkey whistle—just push the red button if they come too close. Have a good night’s sleep. Do you want someone to wake you for breakfast?” We spent the rest of that day and one more night walking the grounds, chatting with some of the other guests (one man who had just come from climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro—“the best experience of my life”—and another woman whose son-‐in-‐ law works for the same company as Sean—small world) and talking with the staff. There is a great deal of interest in teaching you Swahili. Thank you = asanti. You’re welcome = karibu. Good night = lala salaama. Hello = jambo. We talked more extensively to one of the waiters—Reuben. He wants to have his own business someday—decorating special events—like weddings. He needs capital to get the equipment (chairs, tables, etc.) for the business. Right now he lives with his family—11 in all—and his wages are one of the primary sources of income for them. He is trying to buy chickens and sell eggs as another source of income. He is aiming to have 50. But his income is not that great at Rivertrees—“they don’t have to pay us much and they charge us for room and board.” He is looking for a better job. I am not sure when he has anytime to look. Each staff works six days a week—living on site and working the whole day. There is a certain pace to the work since there is a lot of staff and not that much to do.

Cleaning, rearranging, hovering—things that seem like busy work. But labor is cheap and we were there on the verge of the slow season—though everyone reported that it was busier than usual since most people were coming to Tanzania instead of Kenya because of the political unrest there. One country’s misery is another’s gain. We asked if we could go into Arusha, but were discouraged from going. “We could hire you a guide, but it is just a busy African city. Nothing to see there.” [Luckily our safari travel would bring us back to Arusha and we would get to experience it then.] Instead we spent a great deal of time packing and re-‐packing since our climb up Mt. Kilimanjaro would be our next adventure. We read a great book—basically the user guide to Mt. Kilimanjaro—that my parents had given me for Christmas. If any of you plan to climb it in the future make sure to borrow this book from us. It gives you history, perspective and a detailed description of what to expect. Our trip to Africa was built around climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. This was what we had spent most of our time preparing for and anticipating. How would we react to the altitude? What would the weather conditions be like? Were we prepared? Had we packed the right things? [A brief note on Sean as a traveling companion: I am all about anticipation. Sean is all about doing. I want to have packing lists and try to play out all the possible scenarios. Sean is about enjoying the moment. Make sure you borrow Sean if you are ever thinking about traveling. He’s better than a guidebook.] When you travel to Africa they suggest that you have everything pre-‐planned and pre-‐paid. So your itinerary becomes gold. Everything has been mapped out. You just have to go with the flow. Drivers show up to take you to the next destination. You just have to be packed and ready to go. The only downside to this was the feeling of lack of control. At times it could be reassuring. At other times it felt a little oppressive. Travel is about trade offs. The driver who was taking us from Rivertrees (Arusha) to the Mountain Inn (Moshi) was going to be late so we had an extra hour of leisure. This was one of the few times when we had to be somewhere at a particular time of day. We had another transition day in a different location—Moshi—before we started the climb. So goodbye to Rivertrees—an isolated spot that transitioned us to our African experience. The place seemed familiar—much of Africa reminds us of Hawaii— catering to a western tourist and giving a hint of what Africa might be like—but just a hint.

Moshi: Gateway to Kilimanjaro

The Mountain Inn is part of the Shah Tour package—which was the agency we were signed up with to climb Kilimanjaro. The Mountain Inn is not a fancy place. It was a way station. The accommodations were rustic, the plumbing less predictable, the grounds were well maintained and the food was less than perfect (though we did have a great meal here when we came back from the climb—really great—and not just because we were back from the climb.) This was, perhaps, an important step in transitioning us to our more authentic African experience. The only other people staying at the Inn were a party of four who had just finished the climb. “Like hiking while you are asleep,” said the father. “Incredible” said the son. “It was a challenge, but you two look in great shape—you shouldn’t have any problem.” I wanted to ask them a thousand questions. I wanted to know exactly what to expect. I realized right then that we had yet to see Africa’s tallest peak – Mt. Kilimanjaro – not even in the distance or on the horizon. Is it always covered in clouds? We must be close, but how close was it? Their hiking clothes were draped over banisters, chairs—part of the ritual of coming off the mountain—washing things out. Moshi’s weather is warm and moist with afternoon showers. I doubted that any of their clothes would dry. That afternoon we decided to walk into Moshi. We had passed the town about 6km back and we wanted to get out of our protected environment and experience Africa without a guide. Plus Sean needed a haircut. We joined the masses moving about on the edge of the highway. Women dressed in colorful prints moving goods to and fro on their heads. Young men sitting on the roadside or on their motorcycles without a lot to do or anywhere to go—dressed in a T-‐shirt with some odd saying or some big company logo (Hard Rock Café seemed popular) emblazoned on their chests and backs. Lots and lots of school children dressed in their monochromatic uniforms. Seas of girls dressed in purple, gray, navy, burgundy, or green skirts and sweaters with the mandatory white blouse. The boys wore matching colored pants, ties and sweaters and the mandatory white shirt. All the children wanted to practice their English as they passed us. “Hello.” “Where are you from?” “Obama!” Some even commented on the “Govern-‐ egger” referring to Arnold. The roadside was plastered with tracks of one-‐story gray brick houses and shops—it was hard to tell the difference sometimes. The “groceries” seemed to have limited offerings (we were in constant search for shaving cream) with alcohol prominently displayed. There were eating and drinking establishments along the way—most of which promoted a major brand of beer or soft drink on their awning and endless signage for one of the three dominate cell phone services. The gas stations we passed were pristine: large, spotless, uncluttered—in stark contrast to the clutter, garbage, and general state of disrepair that everything else seemed to be in.

We made it to the center of Moshi town and started our hunt for a barbershop. We passed by the bank that was guarded by a very young guy in a uniform carrying a very substantial weapon. The town had a few Soviet style larger buildings all of which had seen better days, a mosque, and tiny shop after tiny shop with merchandise that made them seem like concentrated 711s. How could you possibly know where to shop for what? We saw a barbershop across the street with three barbers waiting to be of service. They cheerfully escorted Sean to a chair and started up the clippers. (No scissors, no comb—just clippers.) I’m sure it was rare that they got to cut hair the texture of Sean’s. I, on the other hand, would have felt quite at home. But I had decided to shave my head and beard completely the day before, so there was no need for me to utilize their services. I instead had a chance to hang out on the street and meet people walking by. One young woman in a brilliant cobalt blue shirt and black skirt asked me how my day was. I responded. She waited and finally scolded me that I was to ask her back how her day was. The exchange of greeting seems very important here. I don’t think it is just native to tourist greetings. I get a sense that you always ask how someone is or how their sleep was or how their day went. The answer doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you ask. And conversations end abruptly with no real goodbye. When what needs to be said is said then you move on. As I sat outside the barbershop I noticed the man with a roadside stand next door. He had suffered some accident that had left him without the use of one of his legs. His operated a shoe stand. I’m not sure if he repaired them or polished them. The stand took up nine square feet of space. Everyone waved a hello. He managed to keep himself busy standing in the dirt in his tiny space by the busy road greeting the oceans of people who passed by. I couldn’t image there was much business for him. On a line in front of the barbershop there were crusty cloths (really rags) hanging close to the ground. At one point they came out and got one and used it to wipe Sean’s neck. Luckily it was just used to brush the hair away. The haircut was over—Sean’s took a lot longer than the two other men who had came and left after receiving their buzz cuts. I’m sure Sean paid a lot more for the service. As we started to walk back a man—“I’m from Uganda”—latched on to us and would not leave us alone. “Stop by my shop. Do you need a ride? What about something to eat?” We were the tourists he was going to wear down into paying him for something—even if it was just to go away. I had seen cabs up by the traffic circle so we did a pass around the center of Moshi—a bus station, more and more shops, a

Catholic school—found a taxi and negotiated a price for the ride back to the Mountain Inn. It had started to rain. We were getting picked up in the morning so it was time to do our final packing for the climb. I had printed out lists of what would be going on the climb and what would be left behind at the Inn. Our neighbor, Eszter, had done the climb a year before. She had given us her packing list, but also most of her gear for me to use. Not being a skier I didn’t have much of the head, neck, hand, foot, leg, and body protecting gear, nor the walking sticks, gaiters, down jackets, ski pants, long underwear, sub-‐zero sleeping bag and liner—that were essential for the climb. Wait a minute—weren’t we in Africa? Isn’t that like next to the equator? I’m packing long underwear? At 19,000 feet no matter where you are on the globe long underwear is required. Everything was packed into our big duffle bags (again thank you Dan and Eszter) all freshly sealed in Ziploc bags with labels like – “RF 3 T-‐shirts” or “Sean neck warmth”—plus we had to get our drugs in order. Looking back it appears that we went a little overboard with the drugs and toiletries—but when we went to get our shots and vaccinations for the trip we were given lists and lists of what we should bring. Malaria, altitude, diarrhea, sleeping— those were the prescription drugs – and then more for diarrhea (Pepto Bismol and Imodium—though we were told constipation is more likely to be a problem when traveling), eye drops, chap stick, nasal spray, moisturizer, toothpaste, soaps, contact lenses solution, first aid, sunscreen, toilet paper, wet wipes, Kleenex, ear plugs, not to mention our usual supplements of vitamin E, fish oil, glucosamine, and my daily Aleve. We were prepared. The principle reason we took all these items was because we were told the purity of drugs in Africa was not as reliable as it should be. And, as our inability to find shaving cream anywhere proved, sources for some of these items were few and far between. [Note to anyone mountain climbing—do the Diomox! We had no altitude sickness problems at all. We stared taking it the day before we started the climb and stopped once we were headed down. I was happy not to get headaches or nausea or vomiting. There were plenty of other challenges to face. As my doctor says—“there’s a pill for that”—my advice—use it. ] We had headlamps to pack—with extra batteries—flashlights, sunglasses, contact lenses for Sean—and all the stuff to go with it, reading glasses for me and my bifocals, sun hats, raingear, travel pillow, hiking boots, walking shoes, wool socks, this great hiking underwear that dries fast (a must have for anyone going camping), hand sanitizer, power bars, chocolate, gu, energy drink powders, turkey jerky,

cameras (little, big, and video), Swiss army knife and duct tape (which was very handy to have.) I’m sure I forgot a few things—but we had a list! Clothes for the rest of our African trip were separated into our smaller duffle bags (thanks once more Dan and Eszter) and were left for storage at the Mountain Inn. We were ready to go.

The Climb: Trudging

I’ll kill the suspense right here and now—we made it to the top—not just the summit (Gilman’s Point), but the extra 1000 vertical feet to the highest point (Uhuru Peak.) We earned our gold certificates. Our climb took us on the Mandara Route. There are five different routes you can take—each with different degrees of difficulty, each with different starting points, each with different accommodations (or lack of) along the way, and each with its own schedule. The Mandara Route means you take three and a half days to go up and one and a half days to go down. You travel a little over 20 miles up and then another 20 miles back on the same route. The gain in altitude is around over 13,000 feet (you start around 6000 feet and climb to over 19,000). This route has huts at three places along the trail. The huts were a nice feature, but the Mandara Route is the one that takes the shortest amount of time. We found out that the Norwegians built the huts. (It seems that the Tanzanians rely on other countries for pretty much everything—even for the infrastructure for their number one tourist attraction.) Many people do this route in 6 days (adding an additional day at the second leg to acclimatize to the altitude. I think we might have gone crazy just hanging out for a day – the anticipation was already wearing— moving forward was a better choice for us.) Day One: Mandara Gate to Mandara Hut Ester (not our neighbor) picked us up at the Mountain Inn. We were given a box lunch (yet another large, hard sided thing that we needed to pack – not the most logical packaging.) We were driven about an hour to the Mandara Gate where our trek would begin. One of the things that we didn’t have were rainproof pants (ski pants yes, but not pants for warmer weather.) There was a booth where you could rent equipment at the gate. This gear was not pristine, but I’m very happy that we stopped to get it. We were damp enough and didn’t need to be soaked to the skin during the hike. We met our guide—Robert—clearly a seasoned guide. He looked well worn. A small guy with a lean build and dressed in clothes that had clearly made many a trip up and down this mountain. His most distinguishing physical characteristic was his eyes. My thought is he must be blind in one eye because it never fixed on what he was looking at. This means that every picture we took of him has him looking like some wild mountain man crossed with a fugitive of some chain gang. His personality was kind, but stern. He would get us up the mountain—there seemed no doubt. Our large duffle bags were whisked off for their own trip us the mountain, and the rest of our porters carrying food and other supplies that we would be using over the next five days were on their way up the porter’s route, while we spent some endless

moments making sure all of our paperwork was together. The day was overcast, but not yet raining. The first part of our journey was through the rain forest—lush and warm and damp. Robert set the pace. “Pole, pole” (pronounced poli poli) was the lesson that we had learned from everyone we talked to. “Slowly, slowly.” We fell into line behind Robert. Our rain jackets and backpacks and cameras and sunhats and tried and true hiking boots were our only company. Though there were others on the trail we rarely passed or were passed by anyone—except for this one crazy big older man who I had seen at the gate. I noticed him when I watched him check the bottom of his hiking shoes. The soles had separated from his shoes. I thought I should offer him some duct tape, but he seemed unconcerned. He huffed and puffed his way past us. His guide was sweating and hurrying along to keep up. Did he not get the “pole pole” memo? I wondered if he would make it to the top. It took about three and a half hours to cover the 8 miles this first day, with a stop for lunch. Our lunch spot was where the porter route crossed the hiking trail. There was an endless (mostly men, but some women) stream of porters with bags and boxes and pails and jugs and tables and chairs and tents and food and all sorts of everything being hauled up and down at what seemed the opposite of our “slowly slowly” pace. We saw porters with sneakers or even sandals. We saw porters with little protection from the elements. They carried these huge burdens on their backs, necks, shoulders, and heads while straining forward over the unpredictable ground cover that was the trail. The trail maintenance was minimal. Someone had clearly spent time laying cobblestone type layers to create the bed of the trail many years ago—and then had covered it with dirt to make it easier to walk over. But time and the elements had taken over. The dirt was washed away so only piles of stone were left to stumble over. Tree roots had taken over in places giving you a slippery surface to plant your feet. And the sides of the path had been eroded by the streams of water that must pour down the mountain at certain times of year. Sometimes it was easier to walk in these ruts, though often that was the muddier choice. I was mostly in the middle between Robert and Sean. That kept Sean from surging ahead and kept me from drifting behind. Sean was using the Flip camera (so most of our videos will star me.) I was using our little Canon camera (so most of our still photos will be of Sean – Sean is much more photogenic so that’s probably a good thing.) There is little wild life along the trail. You hear birds here and there, but mostly you are concentrating on where to step. This is no time to be twisting an ankle or slipping and falling. The pace is slow. The breathing is heavy. Your mind is wandering and then bored to tears. No one is talking. All you are doing is walking up the trail.

We arrived at Mandara Huts and filled out more paperwork. We got our hut assignment. Most of the huts are severe A-‐frame structures with room for four—one upper bunk and three at floor level. There is enough space in the center for two people to stand. That’s it. You stow your duffle bag and backpack at the foot of your bed and lie down. That’s about it. This first night, our roommates are the crazy big guy with the bad shoe and a very quiet man from Hong Kong who is hiking on his own. Once you are settled in your hut your cook comes to get you for tea and a plate of popcorn and ginger cookies. This is the standard post trek treat. It is nice to have something warm to drink, but the popcorn doesn’t hold much appeal. All the meals are served in a common dining room that is unheated, damp, dark, with mice running around on the floor. There isn’t really room for everyone who is spending the night (around 60 people) in the dining room. So porters are jockeying for space for their charges. Different tablecloths mark your spot so you soon learn your identifying colors. Our was a sad faded orange strip of cloth that looked very sad next to the bright red plaid cloths of the German hiking group that was part of our wave. The leader of that group has a meeting with the porters who were doing the waiting to tell them what his expectations of service are. He was stern and rigid and more than slightly condescending. From the isolation I felt on the trail we have now entered the chaos of the “city” that the huts provide. If you figure there are about 3 porters for every person hiking the trail – that means there 180 porters—most with little to do but look forward to another day of carrying their burden up another 4000 feet. They were housed in a single dormitory building. I never got a look inside, but it had to be packed full and there was a never-‐ending chatter of voices emanating from there. This is where cultural ideas of personal space are clearly different. After popcorn we have some free time until dinner. But the weather was wet and it was turning cold. There was nowhere outdoors that seemed inviting, so it was back to the hut to settle in and maybe nap. Now I have a question to people who like to camp. What is wrong with you? I get the being in nature part – you know—sleeping under the stars and all. But the logistics and the complications of finding things and the lack of clean anything—just seems uncivilized. Thank god for gore-‐tex and microfibers. How did people do it in the old days of flannel and wool? Did anything ever dry? Or not smell? And what is the appeal of not having running water? And being worried about the microbes that are probably living in the water you are drinking? And I don’t even want to start with toileting? For someone like me with really tight leg muscles and bad knees there is nothing less enjoyable then squatting. OK—to reach the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro this is the way you have do it—but to chose camping as a recreational activity—you have to be crazy.

Our cook—Sunray—calls us to dinner. Each dinner, as well as any lunch we have that isn’t on the trail, starts with soup. Not wildly flavorful, but warm and appreciated. Some bread accompanies it—white and tasteless—but the carbs are going to be important, I tell myself. And then a casserole of chicken and vegetables— over cooked but that’s a lot safer than anything raw. (The rule from the travel nurse—if it isn’t boiled or you can’t peel it—don’t eat it.) I’m pretty sure we broke that rule a few times, but we tried. One of the hard things about each meal was—no water. The water didn’t come until the end of the meal—hot—with a choice of instant coffee (Sean’s choice), tea (I’m allergic) or instant milk and hot chocolate. Mostly I just drank it plain. Yes, plain hot water. I was thirsty, and I knew, at least, that this water was safe to drink. Now let’s talk about taste. It is almost impossible to describe what it tasted like. Really rich mineral water—dark, dirty, mineral water—was the taste. I’m not sure that’s fair. Sean just described it as what one might imagine drinking from a fish tank might taste like. For me—it had more of the taste of water that had been soaking in kitty litter (not used—fresh kitty litter)—a hint of clay. We made the mistake once of filling a clear bottle with some of the water—we should have stuck to our blue or green tinted water bottles. The color was a lovely shade of light brown. Our neighbor, Eszter, had told us to bring Cytomex (a powder like Gatorade) to mix with the water to give it flavor (or mask the flavor) and some extra electrolytes as well. I hate to admit it—but I think we got used to the flavor of the water. After all we kept being told we needed to hydrate. Another Eszter ritual was to request our cook to fill our big drinking water bottles with warm water at the end of the meal. This way you had “clean” water for teeth brushing at night and the next morning—but also a hot water bottle to put into your sleeping bag. Eszter’s idea was warmly appreciated. The meal ended with fruit—usually banana—and a few that I’m still not sure what they were. Not for want of asking—but it seems that our cook’s English vocabulary was limited. If you asked a question the response was either “pole pole” with a smile or “it is good” with an even bigger smile. The other non-‐English response was “karibu” which we have learned can be used in multiple ways. The translation is “you’re welcome” which at first we took as the traditional response to “thank you.” But it is also used as “you are welcome to come in or to join us” so often it was used as a greeting rather than a response. Let’s just put it this way—there were a great deal of cross purposed thank yous and you’re welcomes going on throughout Africa. In a service/tourist setting it is to be expected.

And while we are on the topic of English—our lead guide Robert was not fluent either. Which is fine. I don’t speak Swahili. But I think we would have been a little more comfortable if his language skills had been a little stronger. If we ever got off topic there would be a dazed look from him (which with his wandering eye was even more unsettling) and then he would get back to what he had to tell us and be done. Silent. This was one of the moments I was a little jealous of the other trekkers. Most of the other guides were young eager guys with charming smiles, North Face jackets, and reassuring language skills. I noticed that most of these guys enjoyed charming the women in their groups (so that wouldn’t have worked for us.) They would give briefings and answer questions about history, needs, wants, concerns after dinner. Our motley crew of cook and guide would sit with us at the end of the meal and smile and stare. We would thank them for our hot water. Ask what time we were starting the next day—wake up at 6:30, breakfast at 7:00, leave camp at 8:00—and then be off to bed. Dinner and camp life for the tourists winds down by nine o’clock—at least for us. A final trip to the “bathroom” and then put on your headlamp and grab a book and read until you are tried enough to go to sleep—which doesn’t take very long. Sean brought his IPad so he didn’t need any added light. I was reading the Stieg Larsson trilogy (they got very farfetched, repetitive, and read a little like a police report—so I did a lot of sighing as I read. I’m sure my roommates appreciated that.) It was dark and cold. Good sleeping weather. Day Two: Mandara Hut to Horombo Hut Rain. There is no other way to talk about our hike to Horombo Hut—this day was all about getting, being and staying wet. The cook woke us around 6AM and left a blue plastic pan of hot water at our doorstep. I think Sean actually used this to wash his hair. I had shaved my head before we headed out so that no hair washing was necessary (not that it ever is.) Sean made greater attempts then I ever did to stay clean. I took a baby wipe bath, but that was about as far as I would go – I knew I was about to put on the same disgusting clothes I had sweated in the day before, so I didn’t really think hygiene was high on my list. Teeth brushed and a little filthy water splashed on my face and I was good to go. Breakfast was at 6:30 and started with watery porridge with nothing to sweeten it. Yum—paste. Followed by something that was most likely scrambled eggs (but the color—African eggs don’t have a bright yellow yoke—is very pale—and flavor didn’t really help you understand what it was), some version of cooked meat product

(bacon?) and what became toast. There was some peanut butter on the table so that with the toast became my go to item. We were always served lots of food—piles of food. Two people of any size or appetite could not put away as much food as we were served. The idea was that we would need energy for the hike so we should eat as much as possible. But it was only possible to eat a little of the food before you just couldn’t eat anymore. The flavors, the appeal, and even the desire to eat evaporated quickly. I’m not sure fresh squeezed orange juice and chocolate croissants would have been all that appealing (but I’m very sure they would have tasted better.) Once breakfast was done it was time to start hiking. One last time to the hut to pack up and then our guide would appear and tell us it was time to go. Robert liked to get out early. While the German group was just starting on their breakfast we were suited up and ready to do the “pole pole.” The porters were left behind to pack up the future meals and bring it, and our duffle bags, to the next hut where this whole routine would be repeated again and again. After we had been hiking over an hour our porters would catch up with us and fly past us. They would be there well before we were, waiting for our arrival. On this part of the trail porters and hikers share the same path going up and coming down, so there was a lot of activity. We got a better sense of how much the whole system relied on porters to carry water, fuel, food, your clothing, their clothing, (and for some people—tents, chairs, glassware, and every other conceivable thing someone might demand on a hike.) The trail was not in great shape—it was rocky and rooty. The trail had a rounded feel—like crowned country roads. The shoulders were much lower than the center of the trail. Over the years filler that might have leveled the trail had washed away— leaving all these large “pavement” stones that you tried to step around or over. They did not provide very secure footing. You had to pay a great deal of attention to where your next step was going to be. The porters walked like mountain goats. Since they were carrying huge sacks of things on their heads and necks they had to walk blindly and trust the footing. They could not look down or they would lose their burden. Since they walked so fast they merely tumbled forward, letting momentum propel them in the right direction. They appeared fearless and reckless. The altitude gain had no effect on them as they hurried on their way. And then there was the mud. Lots and lots of mud—which was either slippery and your feet would start to go in a direction you hadn’t intended or so deep and saturated that your foot made that suction sound as you pulled it out of the mire and stepped into the next soft spot. The landscape changed from rain forest lushness to an alpine meadow with few trees, lots of heather, and more streams crossing our path. Our lunch stop this day was quick. The “picnic” spot was very exposed and by this time the weather had

gone from rainy to cold, rainy and windy. Our bag lunch consisted of an overcooked piece of chicken, a hard-‐boiled egg, some dry monkey bread, a banana, a carrot and some of the “local” water we carried. We were on our way again. The hiking was monotonous: stepping in puddles, looking at the vast sea of muted greens and beige, wiping the rain away. The silence was pierced on occasion by the call of a bird—then more silence, muted colors, and stepping—always stepping. My mind wandered to random thoughts. How would I paint this? What was waiting ahead? How was my body handling this? Should I be taking more pictures? And then my mind would just clear and the mantra of the step took over. No sound. No thoughts. Just step. Step. Step. By mid-‐afternoon we reached Horombo Huts—shrouded in mist. Horombo Hut is a larger community because this is the place where those coming down the mountain converge with those going up the mountain—the other two huts, Kibo and Mandara, are used exclusively by people ascending. Going up takes three and a half days. Coming down—only one and a half days—so only the one overnight. The routine here was much the same as the night before. Tea and popcorn. Dinner. And then bed. We had a chance to hear some people’s stories of their climb up—lots of toasting their accomplishments—but otherwise a sense of relief that it was over. In our four-‐person hut this night was the quiet Hong Kong man again, but no sign of the crazy guy. His bad shoes and frantic pace might have done him in. I’m sure the wet weather didn’t help. Just as we were about to turn off the lights for the night our fourth roommate arrived. He had returned from Kibo Hut with his girlfriend who had been unable to adapt to the altitude gain. That meant that they were headed back down without reaching the summit. He did not seem overly disappointed. I would have felt very frustrated to make it that far and not reach the goal, but if you can’t take the altitude you can’t do the climb. Our fourth roommate spent the next hour repacking. I need to take a moment and describe the sound of repacking. It has its own unique soundscape. Everyone has come up this trail with a backpack and a duffle bag full of clothing, supplements, toiletries, and equipment. At each stage of the climb you are encountering different conditions (or potential different conditions—weather and temperature.) If you look at the modern day duffle bag or backpack what they have is compartments—lots and lots of compartments. Each has a zipper. Little zippers. Big zippers. In addition there are a few zippered compartments within zippered compartments—just in case.

Zip. Zip. The clothes that don’t have zippers have Velcro—to seal the water out, to attach one part to the other, to wrap around, or to hold together—lots of Velcro. Rip. Rip. Inside every duffle bag and backpack are Ziploc bags—the added insurance against the wet, a way to keep everything catalogued, and a place for the wet, smelly or muddy to be separated from what might still be clean. Crinkle. Crinkle. It is one thing it everyone is doing it, but if you are the lone occupant of a four-‐ person hut at 9:30 at night in the pitch dark (except for the sweeping glow of your headlamp as you look through your items)—the sound can be very, very maddening. Zip. Crinkle. Rip. Rip. Zip. Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle. Rip. Zip. Zip. Zip. Crinkle. Crinkle. Silence. Sweep of light. Zip. Zip. Rip. Rip. Rip. Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle. Long pause. Crinkle. Long pause. Zip. Crinkle. Crinkle. You get the idea. The anticipation of the next crinkle or zip was the worst. You knew it was coming. Which would it be? Waiting. Waiting. And—zip. He had a lot of disrobing to do. He had a lot of repacking to do. He had to change. He had to repack. He had to be ready to leave early the next morning (and he left very early the next morning—with a few more zips, crinkles and rips.) I understood it. But it was crazy making. Finally the packing was done. Night had come. And sleep was right around the corner. Day Three: Horombo to Kibo Hut This was going to be a different day. From Horombo Hut to Kibo Hut we hiked a slightly shorter distance while continuing our upward trajectory from 12,000 to 15,000 feet. Our Hong Kong hut-‐mate was staying at Horombo Hut for an extra day to acclimate to the altitude. Probably about half the people on our trail chose this option. You do a little day hike, but otherwise you are there to breath in the lack of oxygen and get used to it. I think I would have gone a little crazy (crazier) just hanging out for a day. I was making good progress with the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and I’m sure I could have used the time to read. But I was there to get to the top of this damn mountain and

that’s what I wanted to do. Besides our itinerary was for five not six days – and if there is one thing I learned as an East African tourists—you stick to the itinerary. After breakfast, when we went to brush our teeth, the clouds finally parted enough for us to see our goal—the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Everyone got cameras out. It really did exist. And it still looked so far away. By this time tomorrow we would be on our way down from the top. It was hard to get my mind to understand that. Time to trudge some more. Robert collected us and urged us to get going because the “good” weather wasn’t going to last. You also want to make this part of the hike as quickly (when you are going pole pole) as possible, because you want to rest at Kibo Hut for a long as you can before you are woken up at 11:00 PM and start the hike up to the summit at midnight that same day. The point of this schedule is so that you reach the summit in time to see the sun rise over East Africa—and give you time to hike all the way back to where you were when you started this day (Horombo Hut.) The landscape quickly switched from meadow to alpine dessert. Bleak. Brown. There were endless vistas of nothing but moonscape. As bleak as things had looked the day before, they looked even bleaker now. The path here was wider than it had been in the previous two stages, but that was probably because there was very little vegetation or water to define the path. The air was cool. The climate—often like walking through the clouds (and we were most likely at that level.) And, as I said, when we could see into the distance all we saw was a long path populated with a thin scattering of people and a brown and grey horizon. There was one very interesting spot along this part of the trail—the last water point—or so the sign told us. We passed by it early in the day, but we did stop to rest for a few minutes. There were “toilet” facilities up the hill a bit from the stream—which made me a little queasy when Robert filled his water bottle from the stream. There were a few “picnic” tables as well. But the most interesting feature was a broken down truck “parked” uncomfortably by the stream. It appeared to be in fine shape—its canvas-‐ covered bed still in tact and no rust on the cab or broken windows. It still had a Tanzanian license plate on it. Was this an official park vehicle that had just been left there while some forestry team was inspecting the trail? No. No one inspected this trail. Why was it there? And even more curiously—how did it get there? Yes the trail on this part of the climb was wider and could have accommodated vehicles, but that was not true of the two previous legs. And it certainly couldn’t have come from anywhere above us unless it had been dropped in by a helicopter at some point.

There was a helicopter-‐landing pad at this point. (This was one of two that we saw.) I understood why they might be there in case someone needed to be evacuated (and had the money to pay for it.) Why the truck? It was “parked” on large boulders and didn’t look like it would be able to go anywhere without some kind of major assist. It was an odd site—as if it was some movie set in a horror movie where one stumbled across this camp that had been abandoned just a short time ago. No foul play was obvious, but where were the people? All this scene needed was a smoldering camp fire and I would have been looked harder for the cameras. We pushed on toward the Saddle. This is were you break through an outcropping of worn down ridges and onto the barren plain that will take you to the edge of the mountain. This is the last stretch before things become completely vertical. In the distance you catch a glimpse of Kibo Hut, but now things are getting deceptive. It looks close, but you are really hours away still. Trudge. Trudge. Pole pole. We stopped for lunch on this barren plain at a place protected by just a very few rocks. People have collected the stones up here and spelled out messages next to the path. Some messages are just names. Some encourage you to go on. Some brag that they made it. Lunch is brief and our only company is the East African version of a crow. The mongoose that had been our lunch companion in the past didn’t bother to go this far or high. Smart guy. Trudge. Trudge. Pole pole. By mid-‐afternoon we have arrived at Kibo Huts. They are very desolate. No frills. No A-‐frames. Just a few bunkhouses perched on the side of the mountain. The facilities are the most rustic we have encountered. Our room this time has six sets of bunk beds and two large tables. We are rooming with two Italian guys, a group of six Germans who are somehow related to each other, a single blonde woman traveler who I only see for a brief second when she pops her head out from underneath her sleeping bag, and one other black guy (a rarity in the people hiking—but I certainly didn’t see one white porter.) There is a lot of commotion with the German family. Dad is not feeling well. He has a bad headache and resting isn’t making it any better. Their guide is whispering with one of the daughters. Options and decisions are being explored and discussed. It is time for our early dinner before we try to get some sleep. As I said before we are being woken up at 11PM so it is time to rest up. Dinner is pasta. That reminds me of

the days I used to work at Ken’s in Copley Square and the runners would order plain pasta to carbo-‐load the night before the Boston Marathon. This night I don’t have much of an appetite and the sauce for the pasta isn’t helping inspire me to eat. We have a great conversation with the three people next to us. They are from Norway, retired, two women and a man. They do a lot of hiking and have always wanted to do this climb. The woman next to me has to be close to 70. I keep thinking – if she can do it I’m sure I can. Of course she seems a little nervous about whether or not she can do it. I’m not sure my strategy of trying to beat a 70 year old is a good one for this climb. I look around for any 5 year old children to compete with—no luck. When I go to the bathroom—outside and down a cliff from the bunkhouse—I meet a British woman who tells me that she is here with her daughter. She hopes she can at least make it to Gilman’s Point. She’ll be happy with that. Her daughter is planning on making it to Uhuru Point. I wish her luck. She returns the wish. Everyone seems excited and expectant. What is it that is going to inspire you to push yourself from 15,000 to over 19,000 feet? The fact that you’ve made it this far says something—but you aren’t there yet. Some of us need external inspiration (“I’m doing it with my daughter”) and there are those who will find it within themselves to make it to the top. I wonder about my own inspiration. Where do I find it? Where does it come from? Oh God, just let me make it to the top. Oh great – now I’m evoking God. This is after years of making fun of football players who thank God for making it possible for them to win the Superbowl. I have always thought that if god has time to pick Superbowl winners then God has some pretty messed up priorities. But here I am thinking that God has time to decide who makes it up Mt. Kilimanjaro and will grant me my wish of being one of them. When I get back to the room, the German family is in tears. There has been a decision that Dad needs to go down and everyone is sad. An assistant guide will take him back over the alpine dessert and back down to Horombo Huts where he will wait for the family to join him. You can tell he is suffering, but trying to make everyone else feel better. We all start preparing for bed and for rising in the middle of the night. There is the familiar zip, crinkle, rip as the final choices are made for our final leg. Layers. Lots of layers. The weather conditions have not proven to be our friend. We will need every bit of warmth we’ve so carefully sealed in our Ziploc bags. But first it is time to sleep. Day 4: Part 1 – Kibo to the summit

The light goes on (all the huts have limited solar power—and limited lighting) and the guides come in to wake their respective charges. Time for one more meal—we’ll call it breakfast—before we start the climb. Well if I didn’t have an appetite for pasta—Sunray’s breakfast is even less appealing. And Robert is there to urge us to get ready. Conditions will be challenging and we need to get started if we will make it to the summit for sunrise. (It is 11PM—sunrise is between 6AM and 7AM—we have a lot of walking to do.) The German family, the Italian guys, the blond woman in the sleeping bag and the black guy are all putting on their layers. Woolen socks, hiking boots, long underwear, hiking pants, ski pants, t-‐shirt, long sleeve t-‐shirt, my Ableton t-‐shirt (Sean promised Nick that we would take pictures of us in our Ableton shirts at the top of Kilimanjaro), a fleece layer, a down jacket, a neck warmer, balaclava, my woolen cap, Eszter’s wool cap, liner gloves, mittens, ski mittens—I must have 10 pounds of clothes on. My backpack is filled with food, water, cameras (how can I possibly manipulate them with three pairs of mittens on), a scarf, sunglasses, and Eszter’s hiking poles. We are really doing this. And—this—by the way—is crazy! Robert (our guide), then Sean, then me, then Livingston (our assistant guide) take to the trail. Slowly slowly. Pole pole. The trail—I am told—goes straight up the side of the mountain with endless switchbacks. There is nothing to see. At first it is all just dark: dark soft soil, dark night, dark and somber mood. I am following in Sean’s footsteps. No big challenge—just one step after another. Slowly. I remember what the guy back at the Mountain Inn in Moshi said—“it is like sleep hiking”—empty mind wandering night hiking. I just have to keep moving forward. But somewhere around an hour into the hike that darkness is penetrated by light. Light snow. The ground now looks like salt and pepper. My headlamp shines down on the back of Sean’s boots. Remember—one step after another. Soon the air is thicker—and not with oxygen. The pepper of the soil is now more and more salty. The snow is falling harder and is heavier and wetter. I am so bundled up against the cold that I still feel warm. My body is working hard. My breathing is hard. Step. Step. The snow has turned to ice. Everything is getting covered in ice. The ground. Sean. Me. Our packs. Everything is shining in the light of my headlamp. I am fascinated by how bright everything looks in the small pool of light that is my universe. This is hard. I am tired. I should be cold, but I’m not. Step.

Out of nowhere I stop. I can’t go forward. I collapse inside. I’m done. I stop. Everyone gathers around me. I look at Sean. “I think I’m done.” I’m sitting down in the snow now. “You can do this.” They pick me up, take my backpack off. I look at them. I am at a loss. They want me to keep going. I’m disappointed in myself. What are my options? I see my (Eszter’s) walking sticks. “What if I used those? Would it help?” “Yes.” Someone puts them in my hand. Remember—one step at a time. Time to go forward. I look down the side of the mountain. Far, far below us what looks like a string of Christmas lights is slowly, slowly moving up the mountain. I am disoriented. Am I looking down or out? I can’t imagine where the horizon is. How could those people be that far away? How is it possible that they are underneath us? And then I look up—way up. Far, far ahead in the pitch black there are more Christmas lights, but now they look like twinkling stars. Those have to be stars, but they are moving in a zigzag pattern. How far away they seem. Where am I? We are moving again. I look for Sean’s footsteps in the snow. Step. Step. Time is going by. I am planting my walking stick into the path. I jab it into the ground forcefully. I want a firm hold, something securely fastened, that I can pull myself forward. I feel aggressive. I attack the mountain piercing it with my pointed stick. Stabbing the white ground ahead of me, walking to that place. Followed by the next place—then the next stab. And then the next step on into the night. Suddenly we stop again. It isn’t me this time. It is our guide, Robert. I hear him and Sean talking. He isn’t feeling well. A headache. Is this my chance to stop? Robert isn’t feeling well. Altitude sickness. He shouldn’t go further. I am numb inside. We could go down together. [The symptoms of altitude sickness are severe headaches, nausea, and vomiting. They indicate that not enough oxygen is getting to your brain. It isn’t that the oxygen

isn’t available—it is the lack of air pressure at high altitudes that doesn’t allow you to fill your lungs with air as easily. Less air equals less oxygen. Your body has to cope with or adapt to the amount of air you are managing to take in. With severe altitude sickness fluids build up around the brain or the lungs. This can be fatal. The only solution is to go back down. I never got a straight answer from Robert how bad his headache got.] I see the strain on Sean’s face. He is determined. He wants to go on. He doesn’t want to give up. He will not give up. I don’t want Sean to give up. I don’t want to make this harder on Sean. I want to keep going—with or without Robert. Robert decides to keep going (maybe not the smartest choice.) I have no idea how long we have been doing this. Other people and their guides are passing us. Slowly slowly. The Italian boys look horrible. One is suffering. The single black guy with his clear rain poncho on is lumbering forward. There is no joy in his face. Everyone looks frozen. The mountainside looks frozen. [Men are more likely to fail to make it to the top. Younger men tend to fail to make it top. Women and old folks are more likely to make it to the top. Slowly is the key.] We move on. Time passes. Step. Step. We pass other people. Guides are being encouraging of their charges. People are holding on. There are lots of serious moments and critical decisions being made all around us. Slowly. Slowly. And then Robert takes another break. When we stop it gets colder. There is time to think. Sean looks concerned. I know Sean. I know he is getting mad at the situation. I know his determination. I know he would just go ahead and do fine, but we are a sad little group—our guide suffering, our assistant guide—I notice—has no gloves, I am exhausted. Sean is offering Robert Diomox. We move on. Step. Step. I can’t remember how many breaks we took, but I know each one made Sean worry and made me even more aware of my exhaustion. I can’t look anywhere but down at my feet. I don’t know where I am and if I try to orient myself by looking down at the Christmas lights or up at the “stars” I feel hopeless. Another break. I am tired. I just want to go to sleep. Maybe if I just lie back and close my eyes I’ll feel… “RICHARD! WAKE UP! YOU CAN NOT GO TO SLEEP!”

Sean is yelling at me, pulling on me. “GET UP!” “I just want to lie down. “ “You can’t.” Sean looks at me. I look into his eyes. “I…” “Just keep going.” Sean asks me where our food is. “In my pack—front pocket.” He gives me water from his camelback and finds some gu (gel protein) that we share. It tastes good. Even the water does. Now I know I’m crazy. “Let’s go.” “My mind is defeating me.” “Start counting. Backwards. Or in Spanish. Focus your mind on something.” And that does it. Just like the time my therapist, back when I was in my 20s, asked me if I was planning to have another episode again. Something about what Sean said made me realize that I had a choice and this was within my control. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Each movement forward became a number—eight—nine—ten—eleven—twelve—a touchstone to go back to. Each forceful determined planting of my right hand walking stick—thirteen—and then my left. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Step. Step. Slowly. Slowly. I’d reach one hundred and begin again. One. Two. Three. Four. I didn’t keep track of how many hundreds had gone by. Just that I reach another goal and then begin again. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I counted hundreds of hundreds of hundreds. We took another break for Robert. Finally he admitted he was having a hard time. Livingston took the lead. Robert fell to the back. And now I had a new focus. Robert. I needed to watch for him. Make sure he didn’t fall back. Thirty-‐one. Thirty-‐two. Thirty-‐three. I listened for his footsteps.

But Livingston had a different pace. Robert’s pace was—trudge—a slow, consistent shuffle. Livingston’s was—step/pause—step/pause—oh no—I was aware of each and every step I was taking. The slow and steady had been replaced by syncopation that I was finding intolerable. Twenty-‐four. Twenty-‐five. Twenty-‐six. I had to focus even harder. I had to find my own rhythm within all the constraints. Step. Step. The reflection of my headlamp on Sean’s backpack was driving me nutty. It glared at me. This spot of reflected light piercing my bewildered eyes. Screaming at me to wake up. I tried to drop back a step. But the Livingston pause kept defeating me. My mind was so aware of my tiny little struggle in my tiny little world. Step. Four. Five. Step. Jab the stick. Pause. Step. Light. Snow. Ice. Cold. Step. Six. Seven. Listen for Robert. Don’t look down. Step. Eight. Jab. Step. Slowly. Oh God—will this ever end? The path began to change. The footing was not as sure. There were stones underfoot. You had to be more careful where you stepped and where you jabbed your stick. It felt slippery. The switchbacks were shorter. “We are almost there.” I looked up. There were still “stars” far above us. I don’t trust anyone anymore. The stones became rocks. You had to clamor over things. You had to step up, not just forward. Changing direction after just a few steps. My walking sticks had to help balance me to make the next step and the next. We turned a corner around a dark wall of rock. We were at Gilman’s Point. There was a sign that told us so. It was still dark, but now the darkness was blue not black. Perhaps a hint of the sun starting to show itself in this desolate white barren place that we had struggled so had to get to. It had been over six hours and we were at the “summit” (Gilman’s Point is considered the summit—you’ve made it to the mountain top—but it isn’t the highest point on the top of the mountain—you still have another 1000 feet up to go and another hour of hiking to get there.) But we had made it. I was so happy. I was encrusted in ice and happy. I finally got a good look at Sean. He looked happy too. And frozen solid. It was like something out of a Batman comic where his enemy Deep Freeze had sprayed everyone with a gun that entombed everyone in sheets of frozen ice. That was what Sean looked like. You would need an ice pick to chip him out of his case. Robert had collapsed as soon as we reached Gillman’s. His headache was horrible. I sat with him and told him he needed to go down. We had made it. He had gotten us up here and now he needed to take care of himself. Livingston could take us the rest of the way.

I’m pretty sure Livingston wasn’t all that happy about that. But we wanted to go on to the very top. We took a few quick photos and moved on leaving Robert sitting on a rock in the snow. At this point the path follows the inside of the crater rim, flattening out so the going seems easier. I suddenly had energy. There were other hikers around, all exhilarated that they had made it this far. The next signpost to reach is for Stella’s Point. I’m not sure who Stella was, but we took this an opportunity to share a Power bar. I think the sunrise must have happened by then, but it was hard to tell. The snow was still falling and the wind still blowing. The world looked white, not blue. It was basically white out conditions. People who had climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro talk about the inspiration of seeing the sunrise over the plains of Africa and feeling the sun on your face after an arduous climb during the night. Hope. Beauty. Accomplishment. Our view was white. The view of the glaciers of Kilimanjaro obscured. We think we saw them at one point. And as for seeing the sun—that wasn’t going to happen until we were well on our way down. Livingston told us it was time to move on. Remember—he had no gloves! After Stella’s Point the trail becomes steep again. You see rocky outcropping above and ahead of you and you think that is where you are heading, but just as you reach it you see another point just a little higher and ahead. Is there no rest for the weary? Besides the outcroppings that seem to sprout offspring before your eyes are the coats—the vermillion, hot powder pink, or aqua pastel blue North Face gor-‐tex coats that dot the white canvas landscape. They stream ahead of you in lines of four, five, up to eight and then fade into the white mist. As you get higher there are more and more ribbons of vermillion, pastel blue and pink that move like caterpillars across the mountain top all converging on one place—Uhuru Point. (Just for the record I have on Eszter’s—I obviously own no clothes of my own—dark blue down jacket. Sean, too, has on a blue-‐gray windbreaker. Somehow we missed the memo on what color to wear!) Uhuru means “freedom” in Swahili. We are at 19,341 feet. It is somewhere around 7AM. There are two or three other groups surrounding the sign that tells us where we are. The sign is caked with ice and long daggers of icicles hang menacingly from its crossbar. If this is a place of freedom, then it is there only to mark the end of the war each person fought to get to the top. If nothing else I feel relief if not truly free. The camera is chipped out again from my backpack. The battery is about to die. So we take a few quick pictures—including the ones of us in our Ableton t-‐shirts for

Nick. There are other people waiting in line for the chance to immortalize their accomplishment. I am on top of Africa’s highest mountain. It is a strange place for a boy from Orono, Maine to end up. I am somewhere I never thought I would ever be. Have I ever felt that as keenly before? And I am waiting for the epiphany. And I am still waiting for the epiphany. Still waiting. I was so sure that I would now know—something—something about my life, my direction in life, perhaps what I should be doing with my life, some new insight, some keen awareness about myself that only great altitude and lack of oxygen could tell me. Waiting. It is cold and white up there. People strive to get there to be there. Getting there is the payoff. And then, you have reached your goal, and it is over. And it is time to go down. Back the way you came. Was any of that an epiphany? Don’t tell me I still have things to learn and things to accomplish. Any chance you might want to clue me in on what those things should be? Is anyone listening? Hello. We have been climbing and hiking for seven hours and ahead of us are seven more hours of hiking. It is time to start the second leg of this journey on this—day four— of our adventure to Kilimanjaro. Day Four: Part 2 – from the summit and back down again (to Horombo Hut) This was the part I was most dreading—or to be more specific—my knees were dreading. The guidebooks talk about how quickly the decent happens. What took three and a half days to climb up only takes one and a half days to go down. You have more oxygen. You have gravity. Everyone knows going downhill is so much easier than going uphill. Unless you have my knees (or the knees of a few of my friends)—all that braking motion has to be absorbed. Years of running, waiting on tables, walking (?)—has worn them down: sharp stabbing pain behind my kneecap, dull pain in the tendons, and the front of my thighs just screams at me—“what do you think you’re doing.”

Add to that my tired old feet (I seem to have no padding on the bottom of my feet anymore—no fat—so I am literally walking on the bones, as well as my ugly deformed toenails from years of rubbing against the range of my ill fitting work shoes, and my occasionally uncomfortable hip joint, and my lower back (but that might just be my kidneys failing), and don’t forget about my arthritic neck—yes—I do seem like the perfect specimen for athletic endeavors, aren’t I? Sean and I went on hikes to train for this. We climbed most of the mountains we could find in the Bay Area. But it was hard to replicate going up 19,000 feet and the thrill of coming back down in just a day and a half—ouch. Here we were. Here we go—down. No other choice. The decent from Uhuru Point to Gilman’s Point was fairly smooth. The day got brighter and the slope was gradual. We finally have a chance to look around and take in some of the scenery (or as much as one can see through the snow and cloud cover.) That’s when we peered into the distance and thought we saw the glaciers. The feeling on the mountaintop had changed. Exhaustion and thrill have been replaced by decent. Like leaving a theatre after the performance is over—everyone is heading toward the exit. OK—it wasn’t that bad, but the feeling was there. We passed by people still working their way up to Uhuru Point. We crossed paths with a string of seven people. They each had: walking sticks, the vermilion North Face jacket, small matching backpacks, and hoses into their noses. On cue you heard the release of puffs of oxygen from the small tanks they carry on their backs. Was that cheating? We passed the Italian boys still struggling to make it to the very top. Did we look that bad just under an hour ago? The vague notion of—why did we do this—is still floating around my brain. There were women who had guides clutching to their elbows. Slowly. Slowly. It looks like a person post surgery learning to walk on their own again. All they needed was the IV drip and to lose the vermilion jackets. So much effort and such focused determination—willpower was the most key ingredient in making it to the top. These—for the most part—were ordinary folks doing something extraordinary. When we reached Gilman’s Point Robert had long since descended. The trail was about to get difficult again—rocky, unstable footing. Sean finally broke out his walking sticks. They were frozen solid. There was no way to untwist the joints to get them to extend. They were useless. Carried all the way up, and now all the way down, for no reason at all. “Can I use one of your poles?”

Sean had been suffering from Achilles tendonitis. He too had been concerned about how his legs will do on the downward journey (though I don’t think he ever expressed it.) Your mind tells you to get going. Get down. Your mind tells you to watch out. Be careful. It is a long way down and there are many, many steps to go and each one counts. After a few treacherous encounters with slippery, shaky rocks we made it to the endless switchback section. On the way down you don’t do the switchbacks. There is a change in the way we approach this section—and it is not all for the good—though it does make the descent a lot faster. The ground here is scree—volcanic soil that has the feeling of fine powder snow— soft soil that you can just sink into. Livingston heads straight down—no switchbacks—just straight down the hillside. You slide your way down with long glides, pushing the soft scree ahead of you and hurtling down in an out of control cascade. One long stride flows into the next—the momentum building—speed picking up. This is, of course, terrible for the mountainside and erosion. Hundreds of people sliding down the mountain every day cannot be a good thing. The guidebook told us the responsible thing to do is to try to retrace the switchbacks, but by now they have been obliterated—scored by the feet of our fellow hurtlers. I’m pretty sure this is not a good choice for Sean’s Achilles tendon, but it sure feels better on my joints— soft slide rather than hard impact. The sun was now out. I’m not sure if the weather improved or if we were at a point where we were below the worst of the weather. The sun was warming the soil and the salty white is giving way to the peppery scree black. Everything was heating up including us. The exertion and the sun made all of our layers unnecessary. The air was still cold, but our personal space was warm. Do we stop to disrobe? Sean finally needs to stop. He has obviously overheated. He is also not a big fan of the sliding down. It isn’t like skiing downhill in powder snow because there are some rocks along the way. You don’t want to be flying down and come to a sudden stop. Sean is not having fun. I don’t know what I’m having. All I know is that this is different from anything else we have done on our feet in the last few days. And different is—in my tired mind— good. I am becoming aware of the view. For the first time on this journey I can see for miles and miles. I think I can see Kibo Hut way below. I can see other mountain tops off in the distance. I can see the alpine dessert stretching out for miles and

miles. I have perspective. The world is huge. The journey will still be far. I can see it. It is obvious. I pass by the British lady who was here with her daughter. “I made it to Gilman’s. My daughter is still on her way to Uhuru. “ There is pride in her voice—pride in both of their accomplishments. She is being careful where she steps. Her guide is right at her elbow. She is beaming. We pass another woman who I saw during the night struggling to get to the top (didn’t we all?) She is holding hands with her guide (one of the more charming and good looking ones, by the way) as they slide down the mountain together. She is giddy. There are a surprisingly few people on this downward path. Were we really that late getting to the top? Were we really that slow going down? Or were that many people just hanging out on the top? After what must have been hours we meet one of our porters. He greets Livingston and then goes over to Sean and takes his backpack. We have to be getting close to the Huts. How far would this guy have journeyed just to meet us? In another twenty minutes we are back at Kibo Huts. The porter had gone ahead and Robert and Sunray are there to greet us. It is around 11AM. Robert directs us to go change into our regular hiking clothes and then come to the dining area for some food. I don’t remember what the meal was—breakfast? Lunch? “We need to nap.” “Only for a little bit. We need to keep going?” Sean looks irritated. As we head back into our bunkroom one of the guys who must run Kibo Hut asks us how long before we leave. “There are other people coming up who will need your space.” No rest for the weary. Fresh mountain meat is on their way up. In our bunkroom the single black guy is passed out on his bed. He is not in good shape. I don’t think he made it to the top. The German family has clearly cleared out—down to join up with Dad who went down the night before. I wonder if they made it all the way up. I don’t remember seeing them. The single blond woman is also gone. No hint to her final fate. The Italian boys are still on the mountain—that I know. They will not have any time to rest.

We managed to nap for 45 minutes. It is noon. It is time to keep going. The weather has improved—at least the misty shroud has evaporated. The sun is out but the temperature is still cold and there is a wind blowing across the alpine desert road. Sean had read in the guidebook that this can be a serious challenge if the wind blows too strongly. A new challenge—goody. Within a short time (although I am having a hard time telling time at this point) we are traversing familiar territory and our pace is brisk. The guides are no longer in the lead. Livingston and Robert are behind us. Sean is in the lead and setting a pace that is very familiar. Sean, by genetics I think, is a frontrunner and I have always been the Chinese wife happily keeping my ten steps behind. Sean and I don’t chat a lot when we hike, run, or walk for that matter. Sean is more about getting to the finish line. I am more about making it to the finish line. It’s a big difference. I am now struck by how much restraint Sean must have exerted to do things pole pole. There is time to take some pictures from the trail. And you can see things – like horizons. Porters are whizzing past us. Their burdens must be lighter – the food eaten, the fuel burned. We pass by a few of our fellow trekkers. I get a sense that many of them are feeling their blisters or bruised toes. I am so thankful for my excellent hiking boots. They served me well in New Zealand and are continuing the good work in Tanzania. This has to be, by far, the most critical piece of equipment when hiking. The desert makes its turn at the Saddle. Down. Down. Past the abandoned truck – we pause for lunch here. This is my first chance to really talk to Robert. “How are you?” “Fine. The headache was gone by the time I got down.” We talked about what he had learned about the other hikers. He thought the 70 year-‐old Norwegian lady had made it to Gilman’s. The conditions had been a big challenge for most people. Usually 85% if those who attempt the summit make it. Unofficial results reported by Robert were that only 50% made it this day. I made it. I’m sad that so many others didn’t. Back on the trail—except for porters passing by in both directions I don’t see anyone else. We are alone again walking through the alpine meadow. More green color, more vegetation, and a few birds accompany us. Robert and Livingston are still behind us. They are talking. And talking. And talking. I want them to shut up. I want to go back to silence. I want to be alone with my thoughts. Maybe that epiphany is just on the edge of my brain waiting to be born. I

try to close the gap between Sean and I. Robert and Livingston just speed up. I stop to take pictures. They wait. We eventually pass our former hut-‐mate—the man from Hong Kong. He smiles and waves. We wish him well for tonight will be his turn on the mountain. I wonder if his acclimatizing day will help him. Hours later we arrive—once again—at Horombo Huts. We get our hut assignment—Number 18—we were in Number 17 on the way up. We are the first to arrive so we get our choice of the four bunks. Sean choses bottom center. I choose the one behind the door. We have been walking for well over 14 hours. It is time for a nap. Sunray must have come to wake us up for dinner. We take a little time to clean up as best we can. I search for something dry or clean to wear among my Ziploc bags. I settle for dry and kind of clean. In the dining hall we are staring at our last dinner. Sunray had asked us what we wanted. We told him to keep it simple—plain chicken and plain rice. I’m not sure what was in front of us, but it wasn’t chicken and rice. Sitting next us was a young couple from Australia. They were on their way up. It was refreshing to talk to two people excited about what was ahead as opposed to being exhausted by what was behind. And they were funny. Mountain climbing was his passion. She went along because—well—she loves him. In a sweet way she got to complain about the crazy things he had made her do and tell funny stories about each adventure—climbing mountains in Java with “traveler’s stomach”—while he sat there beaming—clearly in love with this dynamic woman who was willing to follow him to the ends of the earth. Their plan for Kilimanjaro was different. They had worked out with their guide to go from Horombo Hut to the summit in one day—and then back down to Kibo Hut for the night. That’s a lot of elevation gain in a single day, but it had the advantage of hiking up to the summit in daylight. If they got good weather (and have good lungs) then it would be a spectacular hike. They would miss the sunrise view—but we missed it too because of weather conditions. Looking back I think my initial response was jealousy—why didn’t we do that instead of hiking in the dark—but thinking about a 7000 foot gain and wondering how many hours that was going to take (would they even make it to the top in daylight)—I realized that it was just a different version of crazy. I didn’t see the German family. I didn’t see the blond woman. I didn’t see the black man. I did see the Italian boys—they looked shell shocked. I didn’t see the Norwegian lady. I did notice a younger Asian woman arguing with her cook over what she wanted for dinner. (Was there really any choice? There was no

supermarket nearby they could run out to. I wonder about people’s expectations sometimes.) It felt really cold to me during dinner. I was tired. It was time to go to sleep. We went back to hut 18 expecting to find our new roommates, but the hut was still empty. In fact, no one else joined us—we had the hut to ourselves. We both slept so soundly that I can’t be sure someone didn’t arrive in the night and leave early the next morning—but I’m pretty sure I would have noticed any zip, rip, crinkle during the night. Day Five: Part 1 -‐-‐ Horombo Hut to Marangu Gate This was it: our last day on Kilimanjaro. Amen. We got our last wake up, our last blue plastic pan of warm water, our last visit to the toilet, our last breakfast (double amen), our last time packing our duffle bags, our last time rolling up our sleeping bags. We saw the Australian couple starting their climb up. I wonder how they did. Our former roommate—the guy from Hong Kong—must have been at the summit. It was a beautiful day. We could see the top of the mountain. What a difference a day makes. I packed my rain jacket into my backpack, but I wasn’t going to need it. We started our hike a little after 8AM. We had to cover two sections of the trail that had taken two days to go up—Horombo to Mandara—and then Mandara to the gate. We still had a ways to go. We traveled down through the alpine meadows with its soft hills brushed with sage colors—down through scrubby plants and occasional dots of white or yellow flowers. We heard the birds once more singing to us—actually more like screeching at each other. We saw the view: the vast blue sky smeared with brilliant white clouds, the endless horizon broken with sudden eruptions of giant mountains off in the far, far distance, and streams flowing with their muddy water under our feet and touching our rocky and uneven path. We still had to be careful where we stepped. We had to keep an eye on our footing. The path hadn’t improved in the past day or two. But the rain had stopped and there was finally a chance to look up and out and breathe. Robert and Livingston continued to follow behind. Talking constantly—who knew they had so much to say.

At one point a porter passed us with what looked like a weirdly constructed bicycle on his head. How could anyone carry something like that on his head? Later we passed by other porters resting on the side of the road (and smoking pot – an understandable coping mechanism—and listening to American pop music on their transistor radio) and there were two more of those bicycle things. We studied them more closely—they looked more like the iron skeleton of a wheelbarrow—a really long wheelbarrow—maybe more like a medieval form of stretcher. “Those are what they use to get people who are injured down the mountain.” Robert told us. “They are very dangerous. Porters often slip or trip and the injured person ends up tumbling onto the rocky, muddy path. You have to be really injured to take a ride in one of those.” They really did look like some torture device. By 11:30AM we had reached Mandara Hut. I hadn’t remembered it looking this nice. It seemed newer. The toilet facilities were so much nicer. All the downward trekkers were gathering on the lawn—ready to have their final picnic lunch. The weather was warmer. The sun was out—and in fact felt very intense. I noticed a young guy of southeast Asian descent. He had been at Kibo Hut the night we had headed up to the summit and I think I had seen him on the switchbacks. The reason I noticed him this time was that he was hobbling. He had clearly sprained his ankle. I heard him thanking his guide for his help as he used his walking sticks to as crutches. I couldn’t imagine hiking any leg of this journey injured—but what would be the other choice—the iron stretcher? I once more looked down at my muddy hiking boots and thanked them for being so kind to me. Sunray had prepared lunch for us—another meal of cucumber soup and some sad stew that most likely included anything that was left. It seemed that we were the only ones to have a sit down meal. Everyone else was outside having a picnic in the sun. We were in the dark, dank dining hall with our sad little orange tablecloth eating our overcooked meal. Sunray and Robert sat with us and watched. “It’s good?” asked Sunray expectantly. We smiled knowing that there was no way to answer that question and no way he would truly understand what we said. And then it started to rain. Everyone’s picnic was ruined as they rushed to take cover in the dining hall. I’d like to think that Robert was so attuned to the weather that he knew rain was coming. He certainly had more experience on this trail than any of the other guides. I wonder

how old Robert was. The life expectancy of a man in Tanzania is 42. Robert looked like he had upped the average a few points all on his own. “The rain won’t last.” Robert reassured me. He was right. We were finally on the final leg—back to the gate and back to civilization—back through the rainforest—brilliant green and lush. Tall trees with moss covering the shaded side lined the path. We were re-‐entering the world. It was surrounding us and taking us back into its fold. The light fell in shadows and highlights. The stark, harsh landscape—the sense of exposure—was gone. The path took more twists and turns. I would lose sight of Sean now and then. The footing was still dangerous and I was getting tired of it all. We passed a big crowd of people heading up. They didn’t give way to let us pass they were too busy talking to each other. How rude. “Good luck with the altitude” I sneered in my mind. A different anticipation took over. We were almost done. I was trying to remember the trail from the beginning. I wanted to recognize the end. I wanted to know when I was almost there. That wasn’t working very well. There were waterfalls and bridges to cross. I didn’t remember any of these. We walked by our first lunch spot where the crow and mongoose had hung out close by. This was the spot where the porter’s trail separated from the hiker’s trail. The end had to be close. How long had we walked on the way up before we stopped for lunch? More green. More trees. More leaves. More shadow and light. More and more and more walking. I tried to take in the scenery. I tried to catch up with Sean so we could talk. I tried to fill up my mind with what I had learned. (Still waiting for that epiphany.) Instead all I could think about was one step after another. Being careful not to trip or fall or twist. This is the part of hikes or races where most injuries happen – at the end when the finish line is in sight. You stop thinking about where you are and what you are doing. You just think about being done. I was back to one step at a time—again. It was mesmerizing and depressing at the same time. I saw some rooflines over and behind some of the greenery. Are those out buildings near the gate?

We passed two young boys—one trying to get us to take a picture of his lizard—the other was saying “chocolate, chocolate” over and over again. How far from the gate would these boys have traveled to try to get something from the tourists? We passed by what looked like a family—grandparents, children, parents—out for an afternoon stroll? They certainly weren’t doing a five-‐day hike. No backpacks and the wrong shoes. We had to be getting close. We crossed a more substantial bridge over a more substantial waterfall and stream. I took pictures of Sean, Robert, and Livingston. This had to be the last one I would get on the trail, didn’t it? The path seemed to be leveling off. Yes. That had to indicate the end. And then the path dropped down again. The steps seemed bigger. My feet, ankles, and knees were tired. I wanted to look at my watch, but, besides telling me what time it was—it would not tell me anything about where I was or how much longer. Suddenly the path ended. We just stepped out of the rainforest and onto pavement. Ahead were signs that stated the rules and warnings of the park. To the right were the buildings where we had registered. We were done. Day Five: Part 2 – Aftermath When you finish you have to “sign out” of the park. Was anyone really cross-‐ referencing the people who had signed in just five days ago to see if anyone had been left behind? More pointless bureaucracy it seemed. But this was to verify (I guess our guide was empowered with that responsibility) that we had made it to Gilman’s Point and to Uhuru Point so that we could be awarded the correct certificate—the gold one!!! Sean went to the store next door and bought a Coke—something cold that didn’t have to be boiled before you drank it. I listened to the people ahead of us who were signing out—a British man and woman. “I sent them a text telling them that we made it.”

“What did they respond?” “I only got one response from Eddie. He said—good for you.” I thought that sounded about right. I felt like I had accomplished something incredible and I wanted everyone I knew to know exactly what I did. I wanted everyone to pat me on the back and tell me how amazing I was. I wanted the external validation (still do—otherwise I don’t know why I would be writing this massive travelogue.) But I also felt the disappointment of the British couple—“good for you”—just didn’t cut it. How do you express personal triumph? How do you share the experience? My mind started to wander—as it often does—maybe it wasn’t all that special. What had I really done? Walked up a mountain. No technical skills required—just trudging. No one was holding his breath waiting for word that I had survived. Everyone had just gone on with his life while I had dragged myself up this mountain. I looked over at Sean. He was beaming with his Coke in his hand. “Want some?” Robert (our guide) asked if I had a pen. I dug my only pen out of my backpack and handed it to him. “It’s my only pen. Don’t lose it.” “I have to sign your certificates.” The certificate is a pre-‐printed document with a “gold” border around the edge. The park official signed it and our guide signed it and it has a unique number on it. They even fill in how old you are and when you summited. What they leave blank is the space to fill in your name. You get to do that yourself. I’ve been trying to figure out the symbolism of this. Everything else is validated except you. You have to do that yourself. I had a sip of Sean’s Coke. It was cold and sugary and processed. I was back from my five-‐day adventure. We walked down the steps from the registration booth and headed to the parking lot. We had some equipment to return, so Sean did that. Ester, the woman who had driven us up to the gate, was waiting by the car to take us back to the Mountain Inn.

Lined up behind the car were our porters and our guides. It was time to “thank” them. I had prepared for this moment and had cash portioned out to hand them as we thanked them for taking us up the mountain. The porters reached for the money, but were scolded by Robert and Ester and told to shake our hands first. These were the guys who had just spent five days carrying the essentials that had sustained us and gotten us to the top of Kilimanjaro. It was the first time we were meeting them. I wondered what they were thinking. We tipped Sunray (the cook), Livingston (we upped his pay since he took us all the way to Uhuru), and Robert. They all deserved what we gave them. I hope it was enough. But it was an unsatisfying end. Here we had shared this—what for us was a once in a lifetime experience—with them. For them it was a job. It had a financial payoff. I begrudged them that clarity. They were done with us and ready to meet the next tourists willing to pay lots of money to walk up the side of a mountain. We were headed “home”—to a cold beer and a warm shower. Sean and I were quiet on the way back to Moshi. There was some small talk with Ester. She’s never climbed Kilimanjaro. I kept looking back to get some perspective on where I had been. I couldn’t even see the mountain. Civilization obscured the view. After an hour we were back at the Mountain Inn. The staff was there to greet us. This was a ritual they had been through many times before: porters to carry our bags, the front desk manager to retrieve our stored luggage, a woman (Annie) offering to do our laundry and clean our boots. We headed to our room and started to unpack. We were gross: smelly, dirty, unshaven, and tired. We separated our clothes into piles—things for Annie, things to rinse off, things we would clean ourselves. Sean got to work hand-‐washing underwear and socks. I counted out clothes with Annie-‐-‐ 12 shirts, 2 pants, and our boots. The shower was there—waiting. Now I like a good shower—strong stream and hot. The Mountain Inn’s shower was not going to give me that experience. Lukewarm water kind of spitting at you was about the best I could hope for. This was the kind of shower where you never feel like the water gets all the way down your legs before it evaporates. As much as I appreciated having a shower, it still wasn’t completely satisfying. But I was clean by the time I finished—and that counted for a lot. Our room and the porch area outside were covered with damp clothes—from ski pants and down jackets—to woolen caps and glove liners—and lots of underwear and socks. It was going to take a long time for anything to dry in this damp climate. I

spent most of the rest of the day and the following day chasing every patch of sunshine I could find. The shower was done. It was time for the cold beer. We headed to the dining/bar area of the Mountain Inn. There were six local guys watching a soccer match on the big screen television. Sean and I sat at the bar and ordered a Kilimanjaro beer. This was one of the aptly named beers we sampled in Tanzania. The Belgian and German colonial influence had had a good effect on their local beer making. It was late afternoon. I zoned out watching the soccer game. I think Manchester United won. Dinner that night was wonderful. Our other meals at the Mountain Inn had been passable. Overcooked pork chop or chicken or fish with fries—preceded by a slice of “pizza.” But tonight it started with slightly spicy crisp appetizer and the entrée was chicken masala. Juicy strips of chicken cooked in this tangy tomato sauce, served with simple white rice—it tasted so good you can’t believe it. I’m not sure if it was just timing that made it taste so good, but—man—it tasted so good. After all the tasteless overcooked meals we had had and the filthy water—it was wonderful to enjoy food again. There was only one other couple staying at the Mountain Inn that night. From what I overheard they were on their way up the mountain the next day. I was ready to give them advice, but they never sought it. They were young and in love. They would do just fine. We were at the Mountain Inn for one more day. Annie brought back the clothes she had washed. They were kind of dry, but we just added them into the mix of all the other clothes that hung around the room. We went for a walk along the main road in search of shaving cream. We were directed down the road to a sleepy little grocery where the matriarch sat behind the counter and one of her younger descendants followed us around the store as we searched the shelves: canned goods, soda, some cleaning supplies, some personal items (even disposable razors), and liquor, but no shaving cream. This was clearly a luxury item. We met a guy whose business was cleaning cars—inside and out. He was very friendly. “Do you want to take a picture of me to show people how hard we work?” His business consisted of a water hose, a bucket, a sign, and him. He had three cars he was working on. It was a lazy day for us—watching our laundry not dry. Our next task was to sort though everything we had brought and repack for the rest of our African trip. The idea was to pack all of our winter weather mountain gear and ship it back to San

Francisco. This would cut our luggage from four to two bags and mean that we didn’t need to take our long underwear with us as we traveled around places that were just south of the equator. But we wanted things to be dry. So we read, had another beer, watched some more soccer, and waited for the clothes.