Monday, October 1, 2012
Mt Kili Trek Via Lemosho Route Day Four
"Yo, VIP, let's kick it!
Ice ice baby;Ice ice baby
All right stop
Collaborate and listen
Ice is back with my brand new invention
Something grabs a hold of me tightly
Then I flow that a harpoon daily and nightly
Will it ever stop?
Yo, I don't know
Turn off the lights and I'll glow
To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal
Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candleDance
Bum rush the speaker that booms
I'm killin' your brain like a poisonous mushroom
Deadly, when I play a dope melody
Anything less that the best is a felony
Love it or leave it
You better gain way
You better hit bull's eye
The kid don't play
If there was a problem
Yo, I'll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it"
Ice Ice Baby by Vanilla Ice
Everyone reacts to elevation differently. Genetics is one component. The strategies employed to cope with high altitude is another component. At 12,500ft, my body was tolerating the elevation with little symptoms. I made a concerted effort to stay hydrated and eat full meals loaded with rice and pasta, in spite of my diminished appetite. Today's itinerary would be challenging. We were scheduled to hike 7miles from Shira Camp II to Barranco Camp (13044ft). Easy enough right? Wrong- Over the next 7miles, we would first ascend 2100ft to an elevation of 14600ft over a 3miles distance. After lunch, we would descend from the lava tower (14600ft) and hike the remaining 4miles to our campsite at Barranco. We would still traverse through the upper moorlands and into the low Alpine desert. The intense radiation, high evaporation rate, and considerable swings in temperature (ranging from 36F to 96F) yield sparse vegetation and scarce water supply. Nonetheless, the terrain would be the most manageable variable to contend with for the day
I nervously set off on the day's trek but held back from showing it. Call it what you will-cockiness, arrogance or bravado; but quite frankly, the utility in expressing my feelings at that moment was lost on me. If anything, keeping my nervousness under tight wraps and focusing on my steps helped constructively channel my underlying excitement and terror. Step.Step.Step.Step. We made steady progress, and I kept my pace in the middle of the group. Without my functioning i-pod, images of sandy Malibu beaches, my warm bed, and a myriad of other randy thoughts flooded my mind. The harder I tried to stop thinking, the more random thoughts and images ravaged my consciousness. I was relieved by the onset of a mild case of hypoxia as we ascended to a higher altitude. Usually, I'm serious and reserved; but at high altitudes, I'm a bit goofy and prone to laughing fits. My poor trek buddies endured my awful rapping performance of Vanilla Ice, Madonna, and even Sir MixAlot. I was graciously spared a muzzle, and we all had a good time laughing and singing.
Until now, 14500ft was the highest elevation I sacked. I developed my altitude tolerance through months of intense physical training and high altitude summit attempts. As a result, I grew accustomed to my reactions at that altitude and fine-tuned my coping strategies. However, anything above 14500ft was unknown territory. How would I feel? What symptoms will I experience? At what point will I hit my wall? So many unknowns and navigating this environment is like sensing my way in the dark, trying to reach for a door. When you open the door, it opens into a room filled with the brightness of knowing which quickly grows dim and then pitch dark again. For the irony of knowing more, may yield the realization you know less. And for some of us, the walls we face is the most authentic mirror of ourselves. For some of us, it is the moment we stare plainly at ourselves, witness our vulnerabilities and confront our limits. Some walls and closed doors should be respected and remain closed. Others, however, must be opened. To possess the discernment to recognize which ones to push through and the ones to respect come with experience and wisdom. It is a lifelong pursuit; and at this juncture, I still have much to learn.
.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Mt. Kili Trek via Lemosho Route Day Three
"The heat is on, on the street
Inside your head, on every beat
And the beat's so loud, deep inside
The pressure's high, just to stay alive
'Cause the heat is on
Oh-wo-ho, oh-wo-ho
Caught up in the action I've been looking out for you
Oh-wo-ho, oh-wo-ho
The heat is on, the heat is on, the heat is on"
The heat is on lyrics by Glenn Fry
The dawn is creeping in, and I slowly open my eyes. My body aches and my head feels a little light from the elevation (11500ft). I unzip my sleeping bag and sit up. In a few minutes, the porters will stop by the tent with morning tea. I reach for my backpack; it is still a wet mess. I empty the contents-camera, identification, maps, GPS, and i-pod. My electronics are dead, and my papers clumped like a paper mache. I can't help but curse under my breath as I realize that I have to endure the rest of the trip without music or e-books. My mind runs a million miles a minute, and there are very few other tasks more difficult for me than sitting still and focusing my mind on nothing. Losing my music and e-books just upped the ante on the trek's mental challenge.
I finished drinking my tea, got dressed, and exited my tent. The air is cold and the ground slippery from the frost. The moorland habitat is reasonably barren, flat, and sparsely punctuated with shrubs. The campsite is exposed to the harsh elements-wind, rain, and frost. Also due to the elevation and low atmospheric oxygen, the sun's rays are intense and bright. I make my way to a boulder and take a seat admiring the summit. The peak is domineering, with its steep ridges and snow cap crown. I know in a few days I will stand at its peak; but from this vantage point, the summit appears almost insurmountable.
Coleman, our guide, makes his usual rounds to the tents to check on us. I see him making his way toward me.
"Good morning Yolla. How you sleep?" he asked
"Jumbo Coleman. I slept fine." I replied
"Good. Breakfast in 30 minutes. Light day today. We leave camp late and go to Shira Camp II (12500ft) for 5miles." he remarked.
"Good. How's the weather? Rain or sunshine?" I asked
"Probably no rain. Probably no sunshine today" Coleman remarked. To my mild annoyance, I would resign myself to accept a few things about our guide begrudgingly. When questions surfaced concerning matters of the weather and time, he always left room for the unknown. No matter how hard I tried to pin him on a number or the mathematical probability of such occurrences, he deftly evaded my attempts. In the end, I planned my daypack gear based on my observation and assessment of the weather data.
Breakfast was served around 8:30am, and we sat around enjoying our porridge and scrambled eggs at a leisurely pace. We were in no hurry as our gear and clothes were scattered around the camp and hanging on tent lines to dry. It wasn't until a few hours later, that we finally packed our gear and took off on our 5mile trek.
The porters hired to carry gear loads for expedition teams are remarkable with their strength and dedication. For local Tanzanian men, working as a porter is a lucrative yet dangerous job. A beginning porter's salary starts at approximately $7/day. Each porter is expected to carry gear and equipment up to 50lbs, depending on his experience and fitness level. A porter can start his career as early as 13 years of age, and when he does it is usually with little to no specialized alpine gear aside from his clothes and donations. These guys are the first to leave camp and the first to reach the next campsite to set up tents and prepare food before our arrival. Since the trails are typically narrow and the men move fast, it is customary for trekkers to step aside to allow the porters to pass. As is often the case, their hard work and effort can be easily overlooked or unacknowledged. I made it a point, as I've done on my previous expeditions with porters, to say hello or acknowledge in some shape or form every porter that passed me by daily. After all, I relied on them for logistical support, food, and setting up shelter.
As our team was trekking along, I would jubilantly yell out "jumbo" to each approaching porter. Doing so accomplished two objectives, it broke the ice with our porters, and it politely signaled to our trekking group to stand aside and make way for our porters. I detest the annoying customary practice of yelling out "PORTER" and found my method a more friendly alternative. To my delight, the practice was unconsciously adopted by others on the team. I was pleased to see the porters quickly reply back "jumbo" and many responded by teaching us clever, fun replies and trail songs in Swahili. For example, "poa kadeeze comon deezy" (cool, as a banana ) or my favorite "poa kadeeze comon tango" (cool, as a cucumber).
We reached Shira Camp II in the early afternoon and made our way to the mess tent for lunch. Fried chicken and soup were on the menu. Famished and tired, we dug into our meals. A member of the team commented on the tireless effort and hard work of our porters.
"Yeah, but I bet they are tired of hearing us say "jumbo" every time they pass us by," the younger British male trekker smugly remarked as he stared straight at me.
"I disagree. I think the Porters appreciate it and in fact, showed no hesitation in responding back to us or teaching us new words. " I retorted quickly and with unwavering certitude.
This was one of those discussion points I wasn't going to concede or remain silent. I don't know why, but it felt important to me. My firmness of opinion did not go unnoticed as he quietly relented. It pleased me to no end when I quietly noticed him adopting the "jumbo" practice later throughout the trek. He earned my respect, particularly on summit day when he extended the "proverbial hand" to me at a time I needed it most. What struck me as most interesting was this particular teammate, and I couldn't have been more different in interests and politics. But, through our time and experience on the mountain, we learned about each other and realized we had more in common than previously thought. Who knew?
Inside your head, on every beat
And the beat's so loud, deep inside
The pressure's high, just to stay alive
'Cause the heat is on
Oh-wo-ho, oh-wo-ho
Caught up in the action I've been looking out for you
Oh-wo-ho, oh-wo-ho
The heat is on, the heat is on, the heat is on"
The heat is on lyrics by Glenn Fry
The dawn is creeping in, and I slowly open my eyes. My body aches and my head feels a little light from the elevation (11500ft). I unzip my sleeping bag and sit up. In a few minutes, the porters will stop by the tent with morning tea. I reach for my backpack; it is still a wet mess. I empty the contents-camera, identification, maps, GPS, and i-pod. My electronics are dead, and my papers clumped like a paper mache. I can't help but curse under my breath as I realize that I have to endure the rest of the trip without music or e-books. My mind runs a million miles a minute, and there are very few other tasks more difficult for me than sitting still and focusing my mind on nothing. Losing my music and e-books just upped the ante on the trek's mental challenge.
I finished drinking my tea, got dressed, and exited my tent. The air is cold and the ground slippery from the frost. The moorland habitat is reasonably barren, flat, and sparsely punctuated with shrubs. The campsite is exposed to the harsh elements-wind, rain, and frost. Also due to the elevation and low atmospheric oxygen, the sun's rays are intense and bright. I make my way to a boulder and take a seat admiring the summit. The peak is domineering, with its steep ridges and snow cap crown. I know in a few days I will stand at its peak; but from this vantage point, the summit appears almost insurmountable.
Coleman, our guide, makes his usual rounds to the tents to check on us. I see him making his way toward me.
"Good morning Yolla. How you sleep?" he asked
"Jumbo Coleman. I slept fine." I replied
"Good. Breakfast in 30 minutes. Light day today. We leave camp late and go to Shira Camp II (12500ft) for 5miles." he remarked.
"Good. How's the weather? Rain or sunshine?" I asked
"Probably no rain. Probably no sunshine today" Coleman remarked. To my mild annoyance, I would resign myself to accept a few things about our guide begrudgingly. When questions surfaced concerning matters of the weather and time, he always left room for the unknown. No matter how hard I tried to pin him on a number or the mathematical probability of such occurrences, he deftly evaded my attempts. In the end, I planned my daypack gear based on my observation and assessment of the weather data.
Breakfast was served around 8:30am, and we sat around enjoying our porridge and scrambled eggs at a leisurely pace. We were in no hurry as our gear and clothes were scattered around the camp and hanging on tent lines to dry. It wasn't until a few hours later, that we finally packed our gear and took off on our 5mile trek.
The porters hired to carry gear loads for expedition teams are remarkable with their strength and dedication. For local Tanzanian men, working as a porter is a lucrative yet dangerous job. A beginning porter's salary starts at approximately $7/day. Each porter is expected to carry gear and equipment up to 50lbs, depending on his experience and fitness level. A porter can start his career as early as 13 years of age, and when he does it is usually with little to no specialized alpine gear aside from his clothes and donations. These guys are the first to leave camp and the first to reach the next campsite to set up tents and prepare food before our arrival. Since the trails are typically narrow and the men move fast, it is customary for trekkers to step aside to allow the porters to pass. As is often the case, their hard work and effort can be easily overlooked or unacknowledged. I made it a point, as I've done on my previous expeditions with porters, to say hello or acknowledge in some shape or form every porter that passed me by daily. After all, I relied on them for logistical support, food, and setting up shelter.
As our team was trekking along, I would jubilantly yell out "jumbo" to each approaching porter. Doing so accomplished two objectives, it broke the ice with our porters, and it politely signaled to our trekking group to stand aside and make way for our porters. I detest the annoying customary practice of yelling out "PORTER" and found my method a more friendly alternative. To my delight, the practice was unconsciously adopted by others on the team. I was pleased to see the porters quickly reply back "jumbo" and many responded by teaching us clever, fun replies and trail songs in Swahili. For example, "poa kadeeze comon deezy" (cool, as a banana ) or my favorite "poa kadeeze comon tango" (cool, as a cucumber).
We reached Shira Camp II in the early afternoon and made our way to the mess tent for lunch. Fried chicken and soup were on the menu. Famished and tired, we dug into our meals. A member of the team commented on the tireless effort and hard work of our porters.
"Yeah, but I bet they are tired of hearing us say "jumbo" every time they pass us by," the younger British male trekker smugly remarked as he stared straight at me.
"I disagree. I think the Porters appreciate it and in fact, showed no hesitation in responding back to us or teaching us new words. " I retorted quickly and with unwavering certitude.
This was one of those discussion points I wasn't going to concede or remain silent. I don't know why, but it felt important to me. My firmness of opinion did not go unnoticed as he quietly relented. It pleased me to no end when I quietly noticed him adopting the "jumbo" practice later throughout the trek. He earned my respect, particularly on summit day when he extended the "proverbial hand" to me at a time I needed it most. What struck me as most interesting was this particular teammate, and I couldn't have been more different in interests and politics. But, through our time and experience on the mountain, we learned about each other and realized we had more in common than previously thought. Who knew?
Monday, September 17, 2012
Mt. Kili Trek Via Lemosho Route Day Two-Part II
"Move yourself.You always live your life
Never thinking of the future
Prove yourself.You are the move you make
Take your chances win or loser
See yourself. You are the steps you take
You and you - and that's the only way
Shake shake yourself
You're every move you make
So the story goes.Owner of a lonely heart
Much better than owner of a broken heart"
Owner of a lonely heart by Yes
All afternoon the rain poured. I was soaked to the bone right through four different layers of clothes down to my undergarments. Thankfully my feet, strapped securely in my military grade hiking boots, remained bone dry and warm. The rain was unrelenting; the temperature was dropping drastically, and our team had a few hours left before reaching our final camp.
Pelt.Pelt.Pelt. This couldn't be happening, I thought to myself in disbelief. As luck would have it, it began to hail. Each hailstone was roughly the size of a Nerds candy pebble and showered us with rapid-fire speed. Cold, soaked, and tired, now my exposed hands and skin were pelted with tiny hailstones, and it felt like a hundred different rubber bands snapping my skin at the same time. It hurt. It is an unusual mental state when you face a physical challenge and realize that the only way towards relief is through it. There was no turning back to our previous camp, and the only way to get to the next stop was forward. One.Two.Three.Four...I began reciting numbers quietly to myself. It was an inane, mindless activity but what I needed to turn my mind off and stay focused on moving. The continuous trekking kept my metabolic rate high and my body heat temperature steady in spite of the piercing numbing sensation.
After another hour or so, the hail and rain subsided, and I began to feel a sense of relief. I was drenched to the bone, and my daypack was heavy from the excess water weight. In spite of my predicament, I managed to keep pace and stay right on the heels of our trek leader. We stopped for a short break and waited for the rest of the team to catch up. The guide eyed me up and down.
"How you feel Yolla?" he asked
"Fine," I answered quickly. I didn't want him to think I was a softy.
"Just a little wet?" he remarked with an approving smile
"Only a little" I answered proudly. Denial can be healthy in certain situations, and this was one of them.
"We get to camp in 30minutes" he answered reassuringly.
Our team regrouped, and we set forward for the final leg of the trek. Without the rain and hail, I now had only to contend with the cold freezing wind. One.Two.Three.Four... I stayed focus on the numbers and moving my limbs. After what seemed to be 45minutes, I noticed in the short distance a camp with army green tents and I felt a wave of elation wash over me. I quickly got my second wind and trekked speedily to the camp. My teeth were chattering, and limbs were convulsing with shivers. I jumped into my tent; hurriedly opened my duffel bag; and thanked God everything in it was bone dry. I barely managed to inflate my sleeping pad, roll out my down sleeping bag and quickly peel every wet layer of clothes off me. I jumped into my bag, zipped it up to my head. My body began to thaw, and my eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, I was proud of myself for enduring the ordeal and completing the day. But heck, I had another six days of this?! I sure as hell better learn something about myself.
Never thinking of the future
Prove yourself.You are the move you make
Take your chances win or loser
See yourself. You are the steps you take
You and you - and that's the only way
Shake shake yourself
You're every move you make
So the story goes.Owner of a lonely heart
Much better than owner of a broken heart"
Owner of a lonely heart by Yes
All afternoon the rain poured. I was soaked to the bone right through four different layers of clothes down to my undergarments. Thankfully my feet, strapped securely in my military grade hiking boots, remained bone dry and warm. The rain was unrelenting; the temperature was dropping drastically, and our team had a few hours left before reaching our final camp.
Pelt.Pelt.Pelt. This couldn't be happening, I thought to myself in disbelief. As luck would have it, it began to hail. Each hailstone was roughly the size of a Nerds candy pebble and showered us with rapid-fire speed. Cold, soaked, and tired, now my exposed hands and skin were pelted with tiny hailstones, and it felt like a hundred different rubber bands snapping my skin at the same time. It hurt. It is an unusual mental state when you face a physical challenge and realize that the only way towards relief is through it. There was no turning back to our previous camp, and the only way to get to the next stop was forward. One.Two.Three.Four...I began reciting numbers quietly to myself. It was an inane, mindless activity but what I needed to turn my mind off and stay focused on moving. The continuous trekking kept my metabolic rate high and my body heat temperature steady in spite of the piercing numbing sensation.
After another hour or so, the hail and rain subsided, and I began to feel a sense of relief. I was drenched to the bone, and my daypack was heavy from the excess water weight. In spite of my predicament, I managed to keep pace and stay right on the heels of our trek leader. We stopped for a short break and waited for the rest of the team to catch up. The guide eyed me up and down.
"How you feel Yolla?" he asked
"Fine," I answered quickly. I didn't want him to think I was a softy.
"Just a little wet?" he remarked with an approving smile
"Only a little" I answered proudly. Denial can be healthy in certain situations, and this was one of them.
"We get to camp in 30minutes" he answered reassuringly.
Our team regrouped, and we set forward for the final leg of the trek. Without the rain and hail, I now had only to contend with the cold freezing wind. One.Two.Three.Four... I stayed focus on the numbers and moving my limbs. After what seemed to be 45minutes, I noticed in the short distance a camp with army green tents and I felt a wave of elation wash over me. I quickly got my second wind and trekked speedily to the camp. My teeth were chattering, and limbs were convulsing with shivers. I jumped into my tent; hurriedly opened my duffel bag; and thanked God everything in it was bone dry. I barely managed to inflate my sleeping pad, roll out my down sleeping bag and quickly peel every wet layer of clothes off me. I jumped into my bag, zipped it up to my head. My body began to thaw, and my eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, I was proud of myself for enduring the ordeal and completing the day. But heck, I had another six days of this?! I sure as hell better learn something about myself.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Mt. Kili Trek via Lemosho Route Day Two
"Ain't nothin' gonna to break my stride
Nobody's gonna slow me down, oh-no
I got to keep on movin'
Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride
I'm running and I won't touch ground
Oh-no, I got to keep on movin' go"
Break my stride lyrics by Matthew Wilder
It is 6 am. I'm wide awake and full of energy, thanks to an early night's sleep. I can't say my entire night was undisturbed. I did wake a few times from weird dreams which are all too familiar at elevations above 8000feet. The dawn was cold. I was cocooned in my sleeping bag like a young obedient caterpillar. In a few minutes, I hear footsteps outside of my tent and a gentle greeting.
"Jumbo. tea or coffee?" inquired our trek porter.
"I'd love some tea with no sugar, please. Asanti Sana (Swahili: thank you)" I replied
I slowly rest the steamy mug on my lips and draw my first long sip. Ahh, that was good, I thought to myself. I relished the sensation of the hot tea flooding my mouth and cascading down my throat into my flat belly. Taking hot tea in bed? Hmm, I can get used to this sort of service.
I snap myself out of my wistful reverie of daydreams and retrieve from my daypack the day's itinerary. On the agenda is a 5mile trek over 6hours amidst a 2000ft elevation gain to Shira Camp 1 (11500ft) The trail would traverse through the remaining rainforest and then open onto the health landscape. My mindset shifted back to execution mode. Entirely doable, I thought to myself. I finished my tea, got dressed, and headed to the mess tent to eat and meet with the rest of our trekking team. At 8 am, our team was off to the trails.
The rainforest receives an annual rainfall of up to 80inches, and the air is humid and saturated.Kilometer after kilometer of lush, dense foliage; tall camphor and eucalyptus trees shading plants and insects from threatening equatorial rays; and bearded moss hugging tree trunks. Everywhere I looked, tree ferns littered the clearings some even growing to a height of 30ft. Walking through the rainforest reminded me of scenes straight out of the movie Jurassic Park. The rainforest was ageless and magnificent in its awe-inspiring natural beauty, and I was fortunate to be a visitor for that time.
As I walked along the trek, I had an opportunity to talk and become better acquainted with members of our group. We were an eclectic bunch of trekkers from all over the western world bringing diverse backgrounds and experiences on this journey. We talked and shared our past trekking experiences. Out of the eight, I clocked the most altitude alpine experience, whether it was the total number of days spent backpacking or altitude. At first, I didn't think much of this as I freely shared backpacking insights and thoughts on my past experiences. On the Mt Whitney trek undertaken the previous year, I was the most junior trekker on the team. My teammates and trek leaders showered me with best practices and advice. I was a sponge and did my best to take in and apply their experienced counsel as I most appreciated it. Not so on this trip. Sharing my best practices and experiences had the unintended impact of creating distance between myself and my fellow trekkers.
Being different is not a new experience for me. As a proud American, traveling abroad to third world countries naturally brands you with life experiences, perspectives, and skill sets that are unique. Thankfully, age is the soothing balm- for with time comes the salve of growing comfortable in your skin, accepting your uniqueness and making fewer apologies for it. Being on the mountain with a team is a unique experience. You are responsible for yourself and others, as everyone's safety and well being become acutely interdependent. I instinctively liked this group of trekkers, and we appeared to all want to summit as a team. The guide on our trek was highly expert and well suited to sharing best practices and leading us. So I knew I could take a backseat and if the situation called for my skills and I was needed, I would step up to the task. So, I focused on enjoying the trek, the team, and refrained from discussing my past hiking experiences or discussing topics related to backpacking that would highlight my knowledge or expertise, unless otherwise asked.
It was a little past noon when we arrived at our rest stop for lunch. The clouds were rolling in, and the temperature was beginning to cool. We piled into our mess tent and hungrily started chowing down on our lunch and tea. We spent an hour and a half eating, talking and laughing with one another before we hitched our packs onto our backs. The fog began to descend upon the camp, and I was growing concerned that perhaps it might rain. The good news was that I prepared and packed all the necessary rain gear. The bad news was that all of my rain gear was wrapped in my duffel bag, on the back of my porter who already left to Shira Camp I. I was shit out of luck and with no other recourse but hope. I quietly prayed a brief prayer to the Heavens-
"Dear God; please don't let it rain until I get to camp" yours, Yolla
Our team took off trekking. I plugged my earphones into my ears, turned on my iPod and blasted 80s jams with the intention of distracting me from the ever-increasing ominous weather signs. Pit Patter Pit Patter...light drops of rain fell from the sky. Oh, a little drizzle- no big deal I thought to myself. But minute by minute, the rain began to fall more steadily and faster as we ascended the trail. It was as if the heavens decided to piss on us and we were caught in a full torrential downpour.
"Great work Ms. Experience, all that so-called planning and my rain gear is in my duffel bag. Brilliant. Ok. I can do this." I thought to myself
I stuffed my iPod in the internal pockets of my weather-resistant jacket (not weatherproof) hoping to shield my electronics from the rain. The rain was pouring fiercely, and as we gained in elevation, streams of water came rushing down the trails, flooding the trails with muddy waters, and making the terrain treacherously slippery.
To be continued...
Nobody's gonna slow me down, oh-no
I got to keep on movin'
Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride
I'm running and I won't touch ground
Oh-no, I got to keep on movin' go"
Break my stride lyrics by Matthew Wilder
It is 6 am. I'm wide awake and full of energy, thanks to an early night's sleep. I can't say my entire night was undisturbed. I did wake a few times from weird dreams which are all too familiar at elevations above 8000feet. The dawn was cold. I was cocooned in my sleeping bag like a young obedient caterpillar. In a few minutes, I hear footsteps outside of my tent and a gentle greeting.
"Jumbo. tea or coffee?" inquired our trek porter.
"I'd love some tea with no sugar, please. Asanti Sana (Swahili: thank you)" I replied
I slowly rest the steamy mug on my lips and draw my first long sip. Ahh, that was good, I thought to myself. I relished the sensation of the hot tea flooding my mouth and cascading down my throat into my flat belly. Taking hot tea in bed? Hmm, I can get used to this sort of service.
I snap myself out of my wistful reverie of daydreams and retrieve from my daypack the day's itinerary. On the agenda is a 5mile trek over 6hours amidst a 2000ft elevation gain to Shira Camp 1 (11500ft) The trail would traverse through the remaining rainforest and then open onto the health landscape. My mindset shifted back to execution mode. Entirely doable, I thought to myself. I finished my tea, got dressed, and headed to the mess tent to eat and meet with the rest of our trekking team. At 8 am, our team was off to the trails.
The rainforest receives an annual rainfall of up to 80inches, and the air is humid and saturated.Kilometer after kilometer of lush, dense foliage; tall camphor and eucalyptus trees shading plants and insects from threatening equatorial rays; and bearded moss hugging tree trunks. Everywhere I looked, tree ferns littered the clearings some even growing to a height of 30ft. Walking through the rainforest reminded me of scenes straight out of the movie Jurassic Park. The rainforest was ageless and magnificent in its awe-inspiring natural beauty, and I was fortunate to be a visitor for that time.
As I walked along the trek, I had an opportunity to talk and become better acquainted with members of our group. We were an eclectic bunch of trekkers from all over the western world bringing diverse backgrounds and experiences on this journey. We talked and shared our past trekking experiences. Out of the eight, I clocked the most altitude alpine experience, whether it was the total number of days spent backpacking or altitude. At first, I didn't think much of this as I freely shared backpacking insights and thoughts on my past experiences. On the Mt Whitney trek undertaken the previous year, I was the most junior trekker on the team. My teammates and trek leaders showered me with best practices and advice. I was a sponge and did my best to take in and apply their experienced counsel as I most appreciated it. Not so on this trip. Sharing my best practices and experiences had the unintended impact of creating distance between myself and my fellow trekkers.
Being different is not a new experience for me. As a proud American, traveling abroad to third world countries naturally brands you with life experiences, perspectives, and skill sets that are unique. Thankfully, age is the soothing balm- for with time comes the salve of growing comfortable in your skin, accepting your uniqueness and making fewer apologies for it. Being on the mountain with a team is a unique experience. You are responsible for yourself and others, as everyone's safety and well being become acutely interdependent. I instinctively liked this group of trekkers, and we appeared to all want to summit as a team. The guide on our trek was highly expert and well suited to sharing best practices and leading us. So I knew I could take a backseat and if the situation called for my skills and I was needed, I would step up to the task. So, I focused on enjoying the trek, the team, and refrained from discussing my past hiking experiences or discussing topics related to backpacking that would highlight my knowledge or expertise, unless otherwise asked.
It was a little past noon when we arrived at our rest stop for lunch. The clouds were rolling in, and the temperature was beginning to cool. We piled into our mess tent and hungrily started chowing down on our lunch and tea. We spent an hour and a half eating, talking and laughing with one another before we hitched our packs onto our backs. The fog began to descend upon the camp, and I was growing concerned that perhaps it might rain. The good news was that I prepared and packed all the necessary rain gear. The bad news was that all of my rain gear was wrapped in my duffel bag, on the back of my porter who already left to Shira Camp I. I was shit out of luck and with no other recourse but hope. I quietly prayed a brief prayer to the Heavens-
"Dear God; please don't let it rain until I get to camp" yours, Yolla
Our team took off trekking. I plugged my earphones into my ears, turned on my iPod and blasted 80s jams with the intention of distracting me from the ever-increasing ominous weather signs. Pit Patter Pit Patter...light drops of rain fell from the sky. Oh, a little drizzle- no big deal I thought to myself. But minute by minute, the rain began to fall more steadily and faster as we ascended the trail. It was as if the heavens decided to piss on us and we were caught in a full torrential downpour.
"Great work Ms. Experience, all that so-called planning and my rain gear is in my duffel bag. Brilliant. Ok. I can do this." I thought to myself
I stuffed my iPod in the internal pockets of my weather-resistant jacket (not weatherproof) hoping to shield my electronics from the rain. The rain was pouring fiercely, and as we gained in elevation, streams of water came rushing down the trails, flooding the trails with muddy waters, and making the terrain treacherously slippery.
To be continued...
Monday, September 10, 2012
Mt. Kili Trek via Lemosho Route-Day One
"The city is a flood
And our love turns to rust
We're beaten and blown by the wind
Trampled in the dust
I'll show you a place
High on the desert plain
Where the streets have no name"
Where The Streets Have No Name lyrics by U2
It's 7:30 am on the morning of my trek. I still have yet to meet my trekking guide or mates. I make my way to the hotel courtyard at Springsland Hotel in search of my trek coordinator. He's standing attentively with a clipboard and pen in hand directing the guides, staff, and clients.
"Excuse me, Where is the meeting point for the Lemosho Route hiking group?" I asked
"Lemosho route. You are with Coleman. Have you checked in with him?" replied the coordinator.
"No, I returned from safari late last night and missed the debriefing meeting," I answered.
"Oh, you went with Atanas on safari," he remarked with a knowing smile. It was evident to me the hotel staff knew of a solo woman traveler on a multi-day safari trek. From the looks of it, I was the subject. I knew I had to be extra attentive.
"Hakuna Matata. Wait there, and I'll let him know you are here," he answered reassuringly and scurried off.
As I waited patiently, the courtyard was a beehive of activity. The guides, trekkers, drivers were organizing bags, loading the buses, shouting directions, and chatting loudly and excitedly.
"Are you Yolla?', asked a calm, confident, unassuming Tanzanian man.
"Yes," I replied.
"I am Coleman. I'm your guide. Welcome to Springsland. How was your safari?" he asked.
"Hi, Coleman. Nice to meet you. The safari was excellent." I replied confidently.
"Good. Is your bag ready and have you met other group?" he inquired
"Yes, my bag and gear are packed. I returned from safari late last night and missed the meeting."
"Hakuna Matata. Your group will meet here. Stay here." he advised.
"uhh, ok," I quickly retorted.
I hung around patiently in the courtyard amusing myself by snapping pictures of the pretty tropical foliage. Within a few minutes, I was joined by other group members. There were a total of eight trekkers in this group. One retired couple from Australia in their late 60s early 70s; four friends in their late 20s, of which three were from the UK and one from NYC; one middle-aged married man from Chicago; and myself. It was an eclectic group of trekkers representing all ages and generations. I immediately struck up a conversation with my fellow Americans. We chatted about where we had been, our past trekking experience, and this upcoming trek. Our discussion was a familiar and comforting balm in an environment that felt so foreign and exotic.
Thirty minutes had finally passed, and our trekking team finally boarded the bus and headed to the foot of the mountain. The birth of Mt. Kilimanjaro stems from the early formation of the Rift Valley, approximately 150-200MM years ago. Mt. Kilimanjaro is the highest African mountain and one of the highest volcanos in the world. The volcanic activity is located at three summit points-Shira, Kibo, and Mawenzi. All three summits are above 5000meters. Only Kibo remains inactive whereas the other two peaks are extinct.
The origin of the name Kilimanjaro remains a mystery. Whether its etymology is of Chagga or Masaii origin, its root is hotly debatable. In Swahili, Kili means "small hill," and njaro means "white or greatness." Combined, it would translate to " small white/shining hill." It is an ironic nomenclature for the world tallest free-standing mountain. It is, however, more plausible than the Arabic interpretation. In Arabic, Kili means "to eat"; man means "from," and jaro refers to "neighbor." In sum, Kilimanjaro would translate "To eat from your neighbor." Although Tanzania has a long history of Omani/Arab influence, I'm confident this was not the name interpretation East African natives had in mind to describe their most prized national monument.
We drove past acres of coffee and banana plantations fertile and pregnant from the heavy rainfall and rich, ferrous soil. The kids and local farmers stood by the roadside waving at our bus as we sped by. After 2.5hours, we stopped at the Londrossi Gate to register our names for the trek and then shuttled to the end of the dirt off-road. Excited and focused, we exited the bus, strapped our day packs on our backs, and began the hike to our first camp at 2829m (9281ft).
And our love turns to rust
We're beaten and blown by the wind
Trampled in the dust
I'll show you a place
High on the desert plain
Where the streets have no name"
Where The Streets Have No Name lyrics by U2
It's 7:30 am on the morning of my trek. I still have yet to meet my trekking guide or mates. I make my way to the hotel courtyard at Springsland Hotel in search of my trek coordinator. He's standing attentively with a clipboard and pen in hand directing the guides, staff, and clients.
"Excuse me, Where is the meeting point for the Lemosho Route hiking group?" I asked
"Lemosho route. You are with Coleman. Have you checked in with him?" replied the coordinator.
"No, I returned from safari late last night and missed the debriefing meeting," I answered.
"Oh, you went with Atanas on safari," he remarked with a knowing smile. It was evident to me the hotel staff knew of a solo woman traveler on a multi-day safari trek. From the looks of it, I was the subject. I knew I had to be extra attentive.
"Hakuna Matata. Wait there, and I'll let him know you are here," he answered reassuringly and scurried off.
As I waited patiently, the courtyard was a beehive of activity. The guides, trekkers, drivers were organizing bags, loading the buses, shouting directions, and chatting loudly and excitedly.
"Are you Yolla?', asked a calm, confident, unassuming Tanzanian man.
"Yes," I replied.
"I am Coleman. I'm your guide. Welcome to Springsland. How was your safari?" he asked.
"Hi, Coleman. Nice to meet you. The safari was excellent." I replied confidently.
"Good. Is your bag ready and have you met other group?" he inquired
"Yes, my bag and gear are packed. I returned from safari late last night and missed the meeting."
"Hakuna Matata. Your group will meet here. Stay here." he advised.
"uhh, ok," I quickly retorted.
I hung around patiently in the courtyard amusing myself by snapping pictures of the pretty tropical foliage. Within a few minutes, I was joined by other group members. There were a total of eight trekkers in this group. One retired couple from Australia in their late 60s early 70s; four friends in their late 20s, of which three were from the UK and one from NYC; one middle-aged married man from Chicago; and myself. It was an eclectic group of trekkers representing all ages and generations. I immediately struck up a conversation with my fellow Americans. We chatted about where we had been, our past trekking experience, and this upcoming trek. Our discussion was a familiar and comforting balm in an environment that felt so foreign and exotic.
Thirty minutes had finally passed, and our trekking team finally boarded the bus and headed to the foot of the mountain. The birth of Mt. Kilimanjaro stems from the early formation of the Rift Valley, approximately 150-200MM years ago. Mt. Kilimanjaro is the highest African mountain and one of the highest volcanos in the world. The volcanic activity is located at three summit points-Shira, Kibo, and Mawenzi. All three summits are above 5000meters. Only Kibo remains inactive whereas the other two peaks are extinct.
The origin of the name Kilimanjaro remains a mystery. Whether its etymology is of Chagga or Masaii origin, its root is hotly debatable. In Swahili, Kili means "small hill," and njaro means "white or greatness." Combined, it would translate to " small white/shining hill." It is an ironic nomenclature for the world tallest free-standing mountain. It is, however, more plausible than the Arabic interpretation. In Arabic, Kili means "to eat"; man means "from," and jaro refers to "neighbor." In sum, Kilimanjaro would translate "To eat from your neighbor." Although Tanzania has a long history of Omani/Arab influence, I'm confident this was not the name interpretation East African natives had in mind to describe their most prized national monument.
We drove past acres of coffee and banana plantations fertile and pregnant from the heavy rainfall and rich, ferrous soil. The kids and local farmers stood by the roadside waving at our bus as we sped by. After 2.5hours, we stopped at the Londrossi Gate to register our names for the trek and then shuttled to the end of the dirt off-road. Excited and focused, we exited the bus, strapped our day packs on our backs, and began the hike to our first camp at 2829m (9281ft).
Saturday, September 8, 2012
My meeting with the Masaii
The Masai play a unique role in East African culture and the natural ecosystem. As one of the last remaining warrior cultures, the Masai have held steadfastly to their long tradition of dress, culture and pastoral lifestyle receiving international attention and turning it into a popular tourist attraction. Nowadays with the positive influences of modernity and education, it is increasingly common for Masai men to leave their villages to pursue an education and profession in business and tourism. My guide is an example of what he calls a "Modern Masai." Noting my interest in the Masai, my safari guide invited me to visit a local Masai village at the base of the crater. It was an invitation I could not forgo.
Our safari jeep pulled up to the Masai Enkang (village). A middle-aged Masaii warrior tribesman approached our vehicle and greeted my guide. They both spoke in Maa, the Masaai traditional language. My guide motioned to me, and I assumed they were discussing my interest in meeting their people and touring their village. We spent a few minutes discussing the "visitor fee" and settled on a negotiated price of $50USD. It would remain to be seen whether the negotiated fee was a fair price, but my interest in witnessing firsthand this highly publicized culture justified the economics for the moment.
I exited the jeep and was escorted to the entrance of the Enkang. The village men and women came out from their huts and formed two groups. A male choir leader began to chant a songline and jump up and down. The group responded in acknowledgment and danced in unison. My guide pointed out that this was their "welcome song." After three minutes of chanting and dancing, the men receded to the background and the tribeswomen came forward to dance and chant similarly. Watching the villagers dance, I was reminded of the similarities in chant and dance steps with the traditional Lebanese Debke dance I've witnessed my aunts and uncles perform. Both dances have a chanter/leader, and the echo/group and the men and women jump and dance in unison. The dance rhythm and motion are electrifying.
After the dance finished, I was invited into the village. The village housed 120villagers and two main family tribes. I followed the village women to the hut of my Masai guide/tribesman. The circular hut was 15-20ft diameter and approximately 6feet high and constructed of interlocking branches and cemented with cow dung and mud. The hut has no electricity or running water, and the primary source of warmth was a fire pit with glowing embers burning lightly in the middle. The family patriarch introduced me to his wife, daughter, and mother-in-law. I was curious about the women and their lifestyles. I asked a few general polite questions about the women and their daily activities. My previous research and limited understanding of Masai culture indicated that it is a patriarchal society, polyandrous, and the women are tasked with homemaking and child-rearing duties. Despite the language barrier, the women were courteous and welcoming.
After a short while, he escorted me to the village school hut. Inside the kids were seated behind wooden desks facing a blackboard. The numbers 1 through 100 are etched in white chalk. An eager six-year-old boy sprang from his small wooden desk and ran to the chalkboard with a stick in hand to lead his classmates in the recital of the numbers. The recital was, and I applauded.
As we exited the school hut, the family patriarch led me to the village center and makeshift marketplace. The center showcased the beads and handiwork of the village women.
"You see this" pointed the patriarch
"This made by my family. What you like?" he asked.
I surveyed the beadwork- a medley of bright-colored beads arranged in intricate patterns and strung together with iron wiring and string. I found a bracelet assembled with beads of turquoise, yellow, blue, and black.
"I like this. How much?" I responded.
"Oh, very nice. $20USD", he remarked.
Remembering well my childhood lessons in middle eastern marketplace bargaining tactics, I expected he would quote the high mark first. Ideally, we would negotiate our price in the middle. I knew full well the most I would pay for any item was $10USD and I was not averse to leaving the negotiating table a few times if that is what it took to close the deal.
"$5USD" I responded.
"No no too low," he remarked with a grimace on his face.
"This is made by my family. what you like?" he asked pointing to other accessories.
I looked around and found another bracelet.
"this is nice. how much for this?" I asked.
"very nice. I give you two bracelets for $40USD", he replied.
What $ 40USD?We were headed in the wrong direction with this negotiation. OK, time to get to the bottom line price, I thought to myself.
"$20USD only," I remarked.
"$20USD for the bracelets". I pulled out the $20USD and assumptively placed it in his hand to close the deal. He excused himself and exchanged a few words in Maa with his fellow tribesman. He returned and accepted the offer with a smile.
He escorted me to the village entrance, and I thanked my village guide for his time. Atanas, my safari guide was waiting for me by the jeep. I hopped into the vehicle, and we headed into the jungle for the rest of the safari tour. As we sped into the distance, I reminisced on the experience. One foot in the Old World and the other in the New. I felt immense gratitude and appreciation for the freedom and opportunity I have here at home in the US, especially as a woman.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
In the Jungle
"(A-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh)
(A-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh)
In the jungle, the mighty jungle
The lion sleeps tonight
In the jungle the quiet jungle
The lion sleeps tonight"
The Lion King by The Tokens
The Ngorongoro Crater-Serengeti-Masaii ecosystem houses over 20-25 thousand large animals and its lush, magnificent landscape formed over 2 million years ago. The ecosystem is defined by the western wall of the Great Rift Valley; the western boundary of the Crater adjoins the Serengeti; and Mt. Kilimanjaro, Mt. Meru, and Loolmalsin lie in the East. Flat-top acacia, candelabra, lion paw trees and shrubs grace the plains offering animals a cool shade to rest from the equatorial dry heat or provide stealth cover for a hunt.
The safari jeep speeds through the plains at 65-70mph/hr. I stand up and hold on tightly to the railings; the cool, dry wind blows over me as the wheels kick up a trail of dust in its wake. I selfishly have the jeep to myself.
"Madam, is driving too fast?" inquired my safari driver-guide
"No Atanas, the speed is fine," I responded reassuringly. I'm lost in a moment of total freedom and peace with nothing but miles of Savannah plains punctuated with Acacia trees and golden shrubs.
"Atanas, will I see the Big 5?'
"Good chance Madam. Only Leopard hard to see during the day. Which do you want to see most?" he asked.
"I want to see the lions. I cannot leave Africa without seeing the lions. Can you show me the lions?" I asked imploringly.
"Hakuna Matata. I take you to see the lions" he responded confidently, and we trailblazed into the distance. True to his word, over the next few days, I witnessed the majestic cape buffalo, elephants, rhinos, herds of wildebeest, zebras, gazelles, hyenas and countless more glorious animals in their natural habitat.
Off to a short distance, our jeep slowly approached two beautiful ostriches engaged in some form of animal communicado.
"Madam, see the dark feathers. He is male."
Oh, did I see this male ostrich. He was beautiful-a tall, dark, and elegant bird. His black feathery plumage; lean featherless, muscular legs; long tall outstretched neck. He was refined, and he strolled as if he knew it. His focus and strut were aimed directly at the object of his desire a short distance away. The female ostrich was walking confidently in front of him, staring straight ahead of her and hypnotically flapping her plush wings every few seconds.
"You see, the female moving her feathers, she is calling the male. She is in hot." In heat, she was, and I caught a brief glimpse into the world of animal seduction.
We turned the corner of the dirt road towards the west and came upon a pride of lions lounging near a pond. The two male lions rested languidly next to each other without a care in the world, a few feet away lay their harem of four lionesses. One lioness was crouching on all fours attentively facing eastward. Her body tense and gaze intensely focused on her target directly in front of her some 50yards. Her target was an innocent warthog grazing on some shrubs. Inch by inch she slowly edged towards her mark, but the warthog is entirely oblivious to the impending danger. He takes a second break from his meal to lift his head and survey his surroundings. I quickly turn my attention to the lioness who immediately lowered her head and body ever so close to the ground ducking for cover. It's a close call, and the unsuspecting warthog returns to his meal.
For over 30minutes, we observed this dance of approach and cover. The lioness inches slowly to close the distance between her target and position herself to move in for the kill. Suddenly, the startled warthog raises his head and gazes in the direction of the lioness. He immediately realizes his impending danger and takes off squealing and zigzagging in the opposite direction. The lioness lunges into her sprint trying to make up the lost ground, but she was too late. Lunch will just have to wait for her.
(A-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh)
In the jungle, the mighty jungle
The lion sleeps tonight
In the jungle the quiet jungle
The lion sleeps tonight"
The Lion King by The Tokens
The safari jeep speeds through the plains at 65-70mph/hr. I stand up and hold on tightly to the railings; the cool, dry wind blows over me as the wheels kick up a trail of dust in its wake. I selfishly have the jeep to myself.
"Madam, is driving too fast?" inquired my safari driver-guide
"No Atanas, the speed is fine," I responded reassuringly. I'm lost in a moment of total freedom and peace with nothing but miles of Savannah plains punctuated with Acacia trees and golden shrubs.
"Atanas, will I see the Big 5?'
"Good chance Madam. Only Leopard hard to see during the day. Which do you want to see most?" he asked.
"I want to see the lions. I cannot leave Africa without seeing the lions. Can you show me the lions?" I asked imploringly.
"Hakuna Matata. I take you to see the lions" he responded confidently, and we trailblazed into the distance. True to his word, over the next few days, I witnessed the majestic cape buffalo, elephants, rhinos, herds of wildebeest, zebras, gazelles, hyenas and countless more glorious animals in their natural habitat.
Off to a short distance, our jeep slowly approached two beautiful ostriches engaged in some form of animal communicado.
"Madam, see the dark feathers. He is male."
Oh, did I see this male ostrich. He was beautiful-a tall, dark, and elegant bird. His black feathery plumage; lean featherless, muscular legs; long tall outstretched neck. He was refined, and he strolled as if he knew it. His focus and strut were aimed directly at the object of his desire a short distance away. The female ostrich was walking confidently in front of him, staring straight ahead of her and hypnotically flapping her plush wings every few seconds.
"You see, the female moving her feathers, she is calling the male. She is in hot." In heat, she was, and I caught a brief glimpse into the world of animal seduction.
We turned the corner of the dirt road towards the west and came upon a pride of lions lounging near a pond. The two male lions rested languidly next to each other without a care in the world, a few feet away lay their harem of four lionesses. One lioness was crouching on all fours attentively facing eastward. Her body tense and gaze intensely focused on her target directly in front of her some 50yards. Her target was an innocent warthog grazing on some shrubs. Inch by inch she slowly edged towards her mark, but the warthog is entirely oblivious to the impending danger. He takes a second break from his meal to lift his head and survey his surroundings. I quickly turn my attention to the lioness who immediately lowered her head and body ever so close to the ground ducking for cover. It's a close call, and the unsuspecting warthog returns to his meal.
For over 30minutes, we observed this dance of approach and cover. The lioness inches slowly to close the distance between her target and position herself to move in for the kill. Suddenly, the startled warthog raises his head and gazes in the direction of the lioness. He immediately realizes his impending danger and takes off squealing and zigzagging in the opposite direction. The lioness lunges into her sprint trying to make up the lost ground, but she was too late. Lunch will just have to wait for her.
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