Mount Meru

We climbed ten thousand feet in less than forty eight hours, camping twice along the way. Five minutes before sunrise, Darlene and I gained the summit and Marco joined us as the sun rose over Mount Kilimanjaro in the distance. We were the first to summit that day just ahead of a massive group of Slovenians, who just missed the sunrise but immediately commandeered the tiny peak, ill-tempered.

Upon touchdown in Tanzania three months prior, we really believed we would climb Kilimanjaro, bag Africa’s highest peak, bask in the bragging rights and, coupled with the Serengeti, we’d do Tanzania right. We did do Serengeti, though we kinda went in the backdoor. But we never thought we’d be on the summit of the other mountain, staring across at the snows in Hemingway’s yarns.

Then again, nothing in Tanzania went the way we expected. And it was all for the best.

After three months in Tanzania we’d learned that the more you planned, the less you saw. Preconceived notions will prove you a fool and only by walking slowly with eyes wide open do you start to really see Africa.

Our climb was cheaper, more aesthetic, and less crowded unless you count the giraffe and buffalo. Our traveling companion surprised us with a rare form of HAD, high altitude diarrhea, “guys, I had to use rocks.” Our mandatory armed ranger came down with malaria and had to be evacuated, leaving us to follow the fresh buffalo tracks on our own. These were circumstances out of our control, but our social faux pas came in the process of tipping, an extravagant affair in full documented view of our entire staff, which consisted of a main guide, an assistant guide, six porters, a cook, and our aforementioned armed guard. A ridiculous affair but so full of inexplicable decision making that one can only describe it as consistent.

Thats Africa. Consistently unexpected, except in expecting the unexpected for all sorts of reasons that we’d never come up with on our own but ultimately boil down to flawed simplicity. And in the end, I smile knowing that no other country I’ve ever visited has challenged my place in the world quite like this east African nation.

Grace Palmer Oct. 1, 1920 – Jan. 20, 20

My grandmothers house was immaculate and full of treats, but not too many, just always the right amount. The lawn was always mowed and we tore divots playing outdoors on summer afternoons. There were bedrooms for me and my sister and beds made up snug and tight without so much as a wrinkle. She kept us well fed and polite and the carpets were always clean for us to lay and play games on. At my grandmothers house, I felt safe, clean, and at peace.

In the room I stayed was a desk so full of stationary that I thought I won the Hallmark lottery. There were so many different sizes and colors and pens for every occasion and under her watch I drew to my hearts content. I received many letters and cards on that stationary, always assured by her pen that she loved me, heart and soul.

Experiencing peacefulness is a gift from my grandmother and a cornerstone of who I am. In this calamitous world full of uncertainty, one truth I could count on was that my grandmother loved me, heart and soul.

When I would see my grandmother over the last couple years, she always held my hand and recharged our bond. As I travel this world, I find peace imagining I am holding her hand and experiencing it with her. Finding her a postcard or composing little notes or even going somewhere on her behalf. In the Vatican City, standing in Saint Peters Cathedral, it was by thinking of my grandmother that made the experience more valuable. I believed she would appreciate walking those halls and that made me cherish it more. I looked more closely on her behalf and I felt peace.

In the forested hills outside Istanbul stands a modest home where Mary, mother of Jesus, was brought and looked after by one of the disciples of her slain son. Years ago, on a particularly warm autumn afternoon, I found myself with a rare moment alone in the room in which she prayed. In that magical context of history, as one is encouraged to do, I found myself speaking aloud to Mary. Hi Mary, I’m Jay, you probably don’t know me, I live really far away and have been a bit busy lately, but… but what I found myself settling into was a word or two about my grandmother and how it was for her that I made the trip to these hills and this home and that I thought Mary should really hear about her because I love her heart and soul.

I think my grandmother and I have different views on heaven, but I am sure she has found hers and I hope that Mary remembers my visit. As for me, I will continue to travel this world, carrying memories of loved ones with me, carrying her memory with me. I believe the soul is the memory of someone you love. And so I will recall her memory and let it enrich my experiences as it remains with me, her soul, in my heaven.

Serengeti Dreams

Five minutes into the park we saw a young lioness tearing apart a Buffalo. If you have never seen a grown lioness stretch and flex her massive figure, let me just note they are sculpted power. It left an impression.

Safari guides have a network of communication to inform each other of the animals presence, which is done entirely in swahili so as to surprise their clients. I learned all the swahili names for the animals in advance and it became a source of amusement between our guide and myself, because I knew that chui kwa mtoto was a leopard with baby and were were on our way to find one. I didn’t ruin the surprise for Darlene or our two swedish friends, Anna and Lina and the guide and I shared some laughs.

On the other hand, I also knew that the words simba, tembea, hapa, and sasa, when all used together in a single sentence meant lions were heading our way, toward camp, right now. It was getting dark. Our guide prepared to sleep in his land cruiser and the camp staff in a caged banda, but it was the clients that stayed in the little exposed vinyl tents. I should mention this safari was another “good deal” because we had a friend with a friend in the business.

Before crawling into our tents, a herd of six buffalo came grazing behind the banda. Everyone huddled inside until they were gone. The affable mzee, Daudi, explained that yes, as I had heard, there were three lions tracking these buffalo. He imitated a lions call so we would know it. No more then ten minutes later we heard this sound again, but this time he was pointing, hapo, there. If you hear the baboons, he said, imitating their calls, it means they are alarmed by lion. Then he demonstrated the hyenas cry, explaining that hyena follow lion. We started taking in all the sounds, registering them, and realizing that no sound was the best sound. Miraculously, we actually fall asleep.

Darlene woke at one thirty, do you hear that? No, I was asleep, mercifully. It’s getting closer, she said, and she also moved closer gripping my arm tighter. My attempts to fall back to sleep were denied. Clearly, she wanted to share this experience. All noises lead to lions, I reminded her, but she was way ahead of me on that one. Within ten minutes the baboons were howling and we could hear Anna and Lina’s anxiety in the neighboring tent. We never asked what to do if a lion starts sniffing at our door. The staff only advised no food in the tents, but hamna shida, the animals are accustomed to them and wont bother us.

That night, under the Serengeti sky in a little vinyl tent at the end of the road, we heard with absolute distinction, the rise and fall of hooves, the snorting of breath, and the cracking joints of six grazing african buffalo. We could hear grass from the patches between our tents, being gripped, torn, and eaten as we remained frozen solid in the dead center of our tent. Darlene categorically identified every sound, hyena, baboon, anxious swedes and the complete lack of aide coming from the staff. We remained wide awake until morning.

I was the first to venture out at the crack of dawn, luring our driver from his car, anxious to get the day started. Duadi pointed out the tracks of a lioness and a hyena that had passed thru our camp. Tracks also clearly showed that we had been smack dab in the middle of where the buffalo roam.

Before breakfast we set out in the land cruiser to take in the life of the early dawn. No more than a few hundred yards from our camp, we saw the six buffalo and three stalking lioness. We astutely noted that these three powerful ladies had no kill and must be a bit hungrier than yesterday. If we could have bought them a buffalo to curb their appetite, we would have and before we camped again that night, I dug out our headphones, though in retrospect those nights were full of sounds we will cherish forever.

Happy New Year

We took a dalla-dalla to Lake Manyara. A dalla-dalla is any form of vehicle, usually a minivan, into which they can cram about twenty people. That’s the legal number, but as they say in Tanzania, there’s always room for one more. And no, it’s not any different than any other minivan, it’s simply CRAMMED with people, they literally sit atop one another and hang out the sliding door, which is not often closed. But it’s cheap and gets one around. Usually. Actually, ours broke down halfway and after waiting at the side of the road for twenty minutes, we finally crawled into a smaller one and resumed our journey.

At the lake, we rented mountain bikes to tour the local village, Mto wa Mbu, which is literally translated as Mosquito river. It’s an unfortunate name as the area is beautiful with tribal culture and mosquito free in the heat of the day. We pedaled jeep road and single track thru banana plantations, sampled banana beer and capped it off with a ride thru the wide open grasslands bordering the lake.

We were surrounded by zebra and curious wildebeest. Gazelles sprinted around us in sport. There are giraffe, but we didn’t see any that day. At one point I stopped riding and watched in awe as four zebra galloped a half circle around me before they made their way off to the lake, which is so full of flamingos, it glows pink. The pool where the river meets the lake is so full of hippos one could not count them all. We kept a respectable distance, but were close enough to watch them emerge and wander the grounds. As a treat to ourselves, we took a bus home, splurging on the extra thousand shilling, or eighty cents. It was a fantastic way to finish up 2009 and we’re giddy with anticipation for 2010.

The Gift of Knowing Good Health

I'd taken to riding in the Land Rover with the tanzanian staff. It started on the second day in order to beat the mobile clinic to the village and capture video of it's arrival, but from that moment on I kept my spot in the car. I preferred the intoxicating laughter as the staff amused themselves in rapid fire kiswahili. I didn't understand a lick of it, but Amiri translated bits and entertained me in english as well. I spent the mornings strolling the village before work began, occasionally raising my camera or greeting the locals.

I've been to some pretty remote spots, but this was exceptional. Roads forged simply by driving the terrain. Tracks led off in multiple directions as we tried to ascertain the paths of least resistance. It was afternoon and I'd been invited to do a home visit for a patient unable to walk the return trip. Turn right at the shrubs here, go thru the break in the fence there, there were six of us, including two men that weren't among the one hundred selected for treatment that day. Their knowledge was our map and on the return, they wanted to take me to maji moto, a small bubbling natural hot spring in the middle of a vast flat salt plain, surrounded by joshua tree-like mounds of granite in the distance.

The following day, one of the men returned to the clinic and was admitted. I greeted him in the morning and took his portrait. That afternoon I greeted him again, this time welcoming him to the lab, Darlenes signature flowing across his lab slip. I prepared a slide for malaria and test tube for brucella as she prescribed. In the corner of the lab, a makeshift studio forms and I snap portraits and the drama troup drums in the background, surrounded in dance. Educational slideshows, talks and skits entertain, as do their brief encounter with their own images on my camera. Well beyond electricity, this landscape is one where firewood is precious and living is hard, but the spirit is strong and I sincerely hope that every one of these strong faces can know the feeling of good health.

Ngorongoro

For those who don't know, I have a minor obsession with the rhinoceros and from our back porch I can see the Ngorongoro Crater, which is full of them. For weeks I've stared at it's rim over morning tea and evening beers. Naturally, I needed to look inside.

Tourism in Tanzania is very expensive. It costs fifty bucks a person to get into a park, two hundred bucks to get a vehicle into the park, and then you need to hire a guide at going rate, and when all is said and done you need to tip the guide. But a friend of a friend knows a ranger, just “tell the park guards that you are from the ecological society.” We also signed a document stating we were East African residents, the text of which we only discovered later.

This didn't save us much, but as a ranger's guest, it bought us the right to go off road. So when we saw a huge male lion wander off into the brush we were able to run our little Land Rover right in after him. My door, coincidentally didn't really shut and rattled delicately on its hinge. It also bought me the freedom, provided no one was looking, to get out and take pictures, but though he looked well fed, I stayed in the vehicle to see the lion.

If you can imagine Crater Lake, the Ngorongoro is bigger, warmer, and with a lot less water. It's sparsely forested in spots, but otherwise flat enough and big enough to host the 2010 World Cup, all games played simultaneously.

Along with three of the other big five, we saw eight rhinos scattered thru the park. The black rhinos are endangered so we gave them respectable space. “That's M7, male seven over there. His mother is F7, female seven, off in the distance.” My pleasure at seeing those magnificent and peacefully grazing tanks is beyond my ability to articulate. But as we stayed and watched I chose to think of them informally as Roslyn and Jeremy, though I kept that to myself.

Back in the Classroom

I have always been an impatient, fidgety student with daydreams unconducive to the classroom, yet here I sit, in the classroom. Swahili holds greetings in high esteem and as we sit in the children's chairs in this one room schoolroom, our teacher, Mwana, fires greeting after greeting at us so we fluidly respond and return the courtesies, again and again, with dynamic aplomb as my elementary notebook floods with ink.

Our class is held at the university by the market and we can practice pleasantries and placing orders at lunch and every question introduces a whole new chapter in grammar. How many noun classes do there need to be? And what the hell is a noun class anyway? As a reprieve, I take out my PADI dive book and work on the first three chapters, preparing for the following days quiz. Non stop learning, shouldn't I be on vacation?

During our free time we navigate the local market. I am fascinated by its color and energy, most specifically the meats and fish. It's rather disgusting, but I want to get as close as possible without stepping in the blood or accidentally brushing up against the discarded goat heads or entrails. I want to ask a million questions, but for now, our greetings and wide-eyed awe are enough to break the ice and pull us further in. We are forever students, as it should be.

Swahili Time

We spent two months in Morocco and never found a single working clock. Everything operated Insah’Allah. On the equator, Tanzania receives twelve hours of sunlight year round and the swahili clock was developed to measure the hours from sunrise to sunset, then sunset to sunrise. Hour one each morning is one hour after sunrise.

The historic clock towers proudly display times that you might think are wrong, but when you look at ferry schedules and adjust to swahili time, you realize otherwise. While diving, the safety checks include synchronizing our watches, but relying on the instructor, we simply go thru the motions of looking at our wrists, as if time matters, and really, as we later kick back at sunset, our feet in the sand, our beers in our hands, and the sun sinking low, there is no need for any more accuracy than that. We are right on time.

A Bientot, James Claxton

There are over fifty countries in Africa and we know for a fact that one of them doesn't want us. But there's fifty more to choose from and a one week respite in Paris seems the perfect segue from Morocco to, ah, whichever country lets us in.

So all along the Seine, we fancied ourselves writers and artists in bookshops and cafes, strolling the sculpture gardens of Rodin's Hôtel Biron studios, browsing galleries, and partaking an afternoon carafe of wine to relieve the feet and bemuse embassy bureaucracies. In the evenings we spilled out over the flat with a bottle of wine, three expats, in league with dreams of travel and language. So good to see an old friend.

Several times a day, we climbed seven flights of stairs to a hall of small studio flats, rooftops overlooking rooftops. Years ago these were the servants quarters, accessed thru a door at the back of the inner courtyard. Today, it was our haven and we became excessively familiar with the creak of every winding step as the elevator was reserved for residents and only accessible thru the central courtyard of the main building and not our backdoor.

Much to our amusement, we discovered that if you left the flat, descended the seven flights, and went looking for a patisserie, a right instead of a left took you straight to the Pigalle district's signature landmark, the Moulin Rouge. It was an honest mistake, but suddenly, going for a pastry took on a whole new, wonderful red-light meaning. I offered to go on a croissant run at least once a day.

Au revoir, James Claxton. When I think of you, I will think stairs. Seven spiraling flights worth.

Slow and Silly

Chefchaouen's old medina is painted top to bottom in blue and white and rests on the slopes of the Rif mountains. If you hike thru them you'll find monkeys in the summit forest and a funny thin leaved plant tucked between the rows of tomatoes and peppers and as a result, the entire city is completely stoned.

Closer to Spain, the language pool increases by one and Darlene has intermixed her french and spanish with remarkable ease, "combien ça coûte for una habitación?" But one ubiquitous word rises above them all, "hashish?" No, non, la, emphatically no.

Not since Cuba have I experienced such vacant service. On the small caribean island, they were just bored and on the dole, paid regardless. In the Rifs, they're just, plain, stoned. Every menu, salad and tea is a long time in the coming. You can't change restaurants, it's everywhere. We even had to tally our own bill, they just couldn't remember what we ordered or the prices.

And in the evening, passing by the doors of all the pensions and hostals, are the giggles of tourists. But for all those Moms out there, worry not, we've seen Midnight Express and prefer to enjoy the long, slow meals for what they are.

WrightCode, Fes, Morocco

At four a.m. I awoke with a start. The call to prayer blared thru the tinny loudspeaker on the minaret by our rooftop accommodation and the light was on in our room. It was so bright I thought it was the sun. In the center of the room, Darlene was standing on the bed furious for a mosquito, “he got me five times!” Luckily, I drifted back to sleep.

That afternoon I got online to help launch a new website for Pixelface Graphics in Portland, Oregon and Darlene talked to Tess on a video conference over the internet. We are in the medina across from an old medersa where there was a seventeenth century clock powered entirely by the flow of water from pot to pot to turn the gears and advance time. The clockmaker passed years ago, as did his art. Today, an old man sits in the alley with a basket of hay half full of eggs as donkey carts pull crates of produce thru the one lane maze of streets.

New meets old on quite the canvas, this medieval city is intoxicating.

The Sahara

It was a local bus, it stopped everywhere. We approached the Sahara and the military presence increased in every town, inching our way toward Algeria. Finally, a taxi dropped us off in the middle of the desert, a ghost town. We were fifty kilometers from the border.

In a small garden courtyard, over a pot of tea, I negotiated hard, a camel for my girl, a night in the desert. A deal was struck and my guide and I walked alongside Darlene, regal on her camel. From high in the dunes, we could gaze over the black Sahara and into Algeria.

That night, after a fiery sunset, the moon rose over our camp, a valley in the dunes, a lone date palm, and a grumpy caravan of camels. Two cots pushed together, we slept in the open air, under a pile of wool blankets.

All quiet on the eastern front.