Shaking my Organs

Again, posted by Susan

Let this chapter be called “shaking my organs.” (sorry my camera battery was dead from Nanyuki to Moyale, so words will have to suffice for imagery in this account)

At precisely 9:15am last Saturday Morning, I found myself in a dusty parking lot on the main road in Isiolo Kenya haggling over the price of my convoy transport to the border. In the end it was agreed I would pay 1500 shillings (about $20) to ride in the front seat of an extremely overloaded Mitsubishi cargo truck. Indeed I was lucky not to be sitting on the outside in the blazing sun on top of about 5 tons of used clothing that was being hauled to the Ethiopian border. Also I was lucky to have found a truck that happened to be leaving just as I was pulling in (some guys told me travelers sometimes have to wait days before finding a convoy). It seemed a solid vehicle to me, I had a comfortable seat in the cab, and I couldn’t have been happier. Besides me and the driver up front, there was one Ethiopian guy, one Somali, and one seat that was shared between the three crewmembers. Everyone was happy as we set out north on the paved road out of town.

First stop was five minutes down the road, not yet out of town, at the standard police check/pay-off point. Sure enough, the driver instinctually passes over his license with a 100 shilling note tucked inside, and after a brief friendly chat with the cops we’re on our way. There is another 2 or 3 more blissful minutes of me eating bananas and the truck cruising down the tarmac, when all of sudden it ends. Not my bliss per se, but the pavement. Just like that, 10 minutes into our trip, the reality begins to dawn on me. The truck slows to what will become its regular cruising speed of about 20 miles per hour for the duration of the trip. At this point I didn’t know the exact length of the road to the border, but I thought to myself, man is this it? Is this what it’ll be for the next 24 hours? I was told we would arrive at the border by Sunday morning, so I figured I could deal for a full day and night.

Then a couple of very revealing things occured. First thing is: I pick up the day’s paper which is sitting on the dashboard in front of me. I flip through and happen to find a public interest story in the middle of the paper entitled, “On the Road From Moyales.” The story describes the deeply neglected state of the road upon which we’re traveling as well as the desolate nature of northern region of the country. The author describes the regions suffering economy and the kenyan government’s continued rhetoric but lack of action on paving the road. There was in fact a protest march organized last month in which nearly 200 residents of the border town of Moyales, including the author of the article, walked the entire 510km of the this road that I am now driving on. Now it begins to become clear; 510KM is the total distance, we’re traveling no more than 25 maybe 30 km/hr, at this rate walking might actually be faster.

And just like that, no sooner due I close the newspaper and settle in for some organ jarring wash-board craziness, does the driver pull the vehicle over and the crew jumps off and starts throwing tools down from above. We were less than an hour into it and the first mechanical failure had occurred.

To make a very long story short for all of our sakes, I will summarize from here on out.

• 4= number of 1-hour stops made to repair the trucks failing suspension. Driver and crew carved blocks of wood with a machete and hammered them into spaces between the struts in order to avoid continual bottoming out
• 5= number of 1-hour repair jobs for flat or leaking tires (3 were on our truck and 2 were helping out fellow vehicles on the road)
• 4= total number of hours stopped in roadside hovels for driver and crew to flirt with drink-selling women
• 10= estimated number of kilograms of locally cultivated stimulant plant (called mira or chat) that driver and crew chewed throughout trip
• 12=approximate number of other vehicles seen traveling on the Isiolo-Moyales road during the duration of my trip (total trip hours=40)
• 4=number of Landcruisers seen speeding by with empty seats for me
• 5=number of police checkpoints requiring various forms of bribes and document showing to pass
• 2=total number of hours spent waiting for police to accept bribes and open gates
• 15 or more=total number of times driver forced us to listen to the only two cassette tapes he had on board, which incidentally were both initially quite enjoyable Arab-Ethiopian guitar music
• 2=total number of stops for actual sit down meals (both of which consisting of rice, rancid tasting meat in tomato sauce, and stale oily chapatti-bread)
• 5=number of packages of sweet biscuits I ate
• 4=number of sodas I drank out of desperation
• 2=number of cigarettes I smoked for similar reasons
• 1.5=total number of hours driver chose to stop vehicle for sleep (3-4:30am on Saturday night)

In the end, it really was not the hours of organ rattling, dust sucking, mind numbing, bouncing upon the heavily wash-boarded road that made me uncomfortable. I was in fact ok with and even morbidly enjoying the extreme physical discomfort. I learned to sit straight and put a piece of clothing under my ass. I didn’t mind sacrificing sleep, food, and physical comfort for the privilege of traveling with my eyes wide open through one of the most beautifully austere landscapes I have ever seen. The great northern Kenyan Rift Valley is absolutely breathtaking (again too bad the camera was dead). There are only scattered settlements along the road. At times we passed some tribal folks herding animals in a place that seemed so barren and remote I thought no person could possibly survive. And indeed the pleading expressions on people’s faces as we passed them expressed more than a hint of desperation. One particularly older looking Masai gentleman pulled enough pity from our driver that he actually threw him his half full bottle of water out the window of the moving truck.

When we did stop in these remote outposts, I always seemed to stumble upon someone who spoke a bit of English. From these fleeting encounters, mostly with businessmen as the tribal peoples did not even speak Swahili let alone English, I had several conversations that were quite uplifting. Then in the final four hours of the journey, we passed a terminally ill vehicle on the road and picked up a few of its passengers. One was a Moyale Kenya resident who happened to speak English. I spent this itme chatting with him which made me realize one crucial thing: it was actually just a lack of human communication that made the journey truly challenging. Prior to those final hours, I had had a few futile conversations with the Ethiopian guy in the cab, but in the end, it was only the word Mzoongu that I kept hearing over and over. Mzoongo this mzoongu that. Out of everything the driver’s arrogance and lack of respect to me and his crew was what made the whole thing truly exhausting. I guess it just goes to show how much people can suffer physically if they’ve got the emotional needs covered.

In the last stretch before Moyales, after the driver had pulled the vehicle over for the fourth time in as many hours, I made the easy decision in my mind to hail down the first vehicle that passed and pay whatever was required to take me the final two hours to Moyale. Sure enough, a nice Land Cruiser comes zooming up to us and not only me but the other 8 assorted passengers from our truck all decide to jump in. Just as we were pulling off, one of the crewmembers from the truck runs up and jumps on the back. This guy, whom they called Musa, was an especially crazy, mira chewing dude who was actually the only one on the truck that I really liked because he was always trying to make me laugh while avoiding any of the tire changing work that the other crew members did so diligently. The driver of course just sat around and watched.

So Musa jumps on the back of the landcruiser and we’re just about to speed off when the asshole driver comes running after us yelling stop. Musa and the driver begin a volatile argument, that only ends when the driver of the landcruiser says Musa must get off because he hasn’t paid. The driver is happy with this, until I volunteer to pay Musa’s fare. Of course there was a little well earned spite and respite involved in that final interaction.

And off we zoom down the same rutted road but now at speed twice or three times what we’d been doing in the Mitsubiushi. Again my ass hurt as I bounced wildly on the wooden benches in the back of the truck. But this time I knew we’d get there, and indeed quickly we did. One more hour and we pulled in to the joyfully dilapidated old town of Moyale, Kenya. The clock was just about to strike midnight as I checked in to the 2 dollar a night roadside hotel. I set my alarm clock for 6am and went to sleep thinking excitedly about crossing over bright and early into the Ethiopian promised land.

My 24 hours in the Boma

My 24 Hours in the Boma

On Friday morning Daniela split for Arusha Tanazania and left me all by my lonesome for the first time Africa. Gone were the luxury hotel rooms. Gone was my energetic, feisty, fluent Swahili speaking friend. Oh woe to me, I would actually commence my journey in true Sidarthic style. Fortunately Daniela did not completely me abandon me. I considered the absolutes of fending for myself but would remain guided and supported no matter what the dark corridors that I occasionally travel. In fact from last week right up to this present moment, the help of my fellow human beings has surfaced in the most profound and timely ways, making me wonder if indeed life is itself one big guardian angel.

To begin with there was Peter Wa of the Baraka school who picked me up at 9am on Saturday morning and drove me out to the Masai village near the school. This was organized in advance. I was to stay for a full twenty four hours with the Masai, something Daniela seemed to think would make a man out of me or something. Indeed whatever the benefits, I would have some serenity of nature and highly extraordinary cultural exposure, both of which would give me clarity for the coming adventure.

When we arrived at the school gate, Peter introduced me to Taire (sp), the Masai cattle herder moonlighting as Baraka school security guard. In fact it was literally the other way around. Taire spends the daytime working security at Baraka, so he sent me off with his son Josep to follow ze cattles, all day. And follow ze cattles is what we did, all day.

The landscape around the school is seasonal desert, dotted with low scrubby trees, assorted bushes, and cacti. It's rolling and hot. in the morning Josep and I walked and herded for three hours. When I was on the verge of passing out, he took me into a nearby boma (hut) for two glasses of fresh milk and an oversized pile of steaming hut ugali (corn mush). Incidentally, it occurred to me later that these are the only two foods that I ever saw any Masai people eat. Also they drink cow's blood which was apparently not normally available, though readily offered to me when I mentioned it.

Herding cattle around the desert all day would seem to the outsider unfathomably boring. And for me, I went through a bit of that, but in the end of the day as the sunset and we began returning ze cattles to the pen, I felt clear, wise and ready for more. I think it really helped that I was able to carry around Josep's lion killing spear all day. The spear was grounding and let me imagine the full extent of the cultural historical reality that is embodied in the warrior's traditional tools.

I know next to nothing of the true Masai way, and it is indeed changing. For now, the cattle herding warriors continue to hold the spear, dress the dress, and live the life. Josep said he most certainly wanted to be in school but that was not an option, and so he would continue to herd and when time allowed enroll in his next level of computer literacy courses.

Who am I to suggest otherwise? I parted ways with Josep, who was required to sleep with a remote herd of cattle in a pen away from the village. Once the cows were milked and shots given, Taire walked me up the hill to his village boma.

Boma means circle and is both the literal and physical manifestation of life in the Masai village. The Boma is a circular formation of thatched roof, mud walled huts. In Taire's village, his mother and father occupied the biggest and nicest hut. Other Bomas housed Taire and his brothers' wives. My basic understanding is that the men kinda rotate huts, spending an equal, or unequal time with their various wives. It's definitely more complex than that, but in a nutshell, the Masai are polygamous and each wife has her own dwelling.

At night the cattle are herded into the very center of the circle, where they remain protected by the perimeter of Bomas and sleeping people until daylight, when they're taken off to graze once again.

My night began with a photo session with the children and teenage warrior boys (unfortunately my camera battery was nearly dead and would not be recharged until I arrived in Ethiopia). After admiring the cattle and talking more to the children, we retired into the boma to take our evening meal. The meal would have been again straight ugali and milk, but I happened to mention to Taire that I liked vegetables. He quickly harvested some kale from the nearby garden and had it stewed up nice just for the two of us. I felt thoroughly guilty chomping away on my delicious green ruffage while the rest of the family had only sticky mush.

After the meal, Taire's mother woke up from an extremely drunken stupor. (In the dark smokeyness I hadn't even noticed her sleeping on the bed next to me) She surprised me with the degree of her depravity. Taire's youngest sister Susan explained to me that she was a severe alcoholic who made her own corn moonshine and could not be helped. I was utterly blown away by Susan's maturity and ability to not only deal with but compassionately care for her sick Mom. Meanwhile Taire did his best to handle the ravings. He told me she was very sick. Eventually everyone reverted to singing along with her half sobbing, half praying tradtional chants. In the dark smokey clutter of the mud hut, filled to the brim with brothers, sisters, father and mother, the family dynamic was in a way so disturbingly beautiful it moved me to tears. But maybe that was just the smoke in my eyes.

Finally, we lay down to sleep atop a bed made of sticks lashed together with string and covered in cow hide. Contrary to my half joking preconception, I ended up sharing a bed with Taire and not one of his wives. Sleeping was a bit difficult with the uneven logs jutting into my shoulder blades, the thick smoke, and the near continuous drunken banter of Taire's mom who was sleeping four feet away from head.

Morning did come and I awoke happily with the dawn. Taire and I walked 30 minutes back over the hillside to the Baraka school where Peter picked me up to drive me back to Nanyuki. Before leaving I thanked Taire and gave him 1500 shillings, equivilent to about $23 and probably half his monthly salary. Money is the token gift in this part of the world, but it sure means a lot to people.

Anyways, we zoomed back to town, just in time to catch the 7:30 taxi to Isiolo. I was advised that there would be a convoy leaving at 9am from Isiolo for the 500KM haul to the northern Kenya/southern Ethiopia border town of Moyales. Needless to say I was my usual eager naive beaver, anxious to catch the truck and commence the real adventure. To learn more about how deeply unprepared I was for the full physical and mental tribulations involved in this leg of the journey, please stay tuned.

Further ruminations on the mounatin and its ramifications

Above is a deceivingly serene shot of Daniela in the midst of our first day anti-acclimitized slog taken at around 7PM (after 8 hours and 9,000 feet of elevation gain). The mountain was just starting to sock in and the rain beginning to fall. Below is a more representative shot of me and my dismal state of mind

Now it's been a couple of solidly relaxing and gastrointestinally comfortable days back in Nanyuki town and my demeanor is notably less agitated. In fact, I'd say I've almost let it all go; the mourning for the dead dream, the self recrminations, and the lingering angst toward everyone involved in the ill fated mission. I think I neglected to mention that a further complication to the climbing trip was the scambled state of my bowels which crept up on me the day before we left. This was obviously the result of my initial openness to African street foods and generally eating any old fried food, octopus, bbq beef, and the like.

But alas I have returned to my slightly more discerning and happy self. One big push that sent back toward the happy belly state was yesterday's lunch. Before the safari, Mr Wa, Daniela, and I drove about 15 minutes out of Nayuki to dine at the Trout Tree restaurant. This place is named as such because (1) it is a trout hatchery and (2) it is a restaurant built in a tree. The tree is a 125 year old fig tree that is the centerpiece of the entire operation of 15 some odd trout pools all gravity fed and operating smoohtly. Colobus Monkeys swing through the trees above while happy eaters enjoy various delicacies made of the most delicious trout I have ever tasted. And I'm not just saying that. Needless to say, we all left feeling entirely satiated. The special and unique feeling that Daniela pointed out was that we actually felt full and good as opposed to full and sick. In the photo below, Peter Wa and Daniela stand contentedly in the entranceway to the treehouse restaurant. Two trout ponds are swirling below and monkeys are swinging in the trees to the right.


Right now, everything is settling. Daniela is leaving to go back to Tanzania tomorrow morning and I am heading out to stay with a Masai family in their "boma." This the circlular aray of round thathced huts in which one man houses his several wives. Yup I'm going to live with one of the wives for the night. Get your mind out of the gutter -- this is strictly a cross cultural experience and besides Daniela tells me most likely she'll be closer in age to my grandma. In the boma at night also lives the young cows and goats. We all, humans and livestock, sleep in one bed, or at least that's the impression I've been given. Alas, there's only one way to find out what the actual reality will be. After I get back on Saturday morning, I'll take the matata bus to Isiolo and start the long haul north to Ethiopia. And just like that, another phase of this journey will have begun at the very moment that the current one becomes comfortable and deeply appreciated.

Taking Pictures of Animals

For example:
As you see, this is a giraffe eating leaves from a tree. This is exactly what giraffes are supposed to do. And while in africa, the exact thing humans are to supposed do is go on a safari and take pictures of giraffes, as well as elephants, hippopotamuses, and other such creatures of great stature. So I did like all good mzongu white tourists and got myself driven out to the bush in a land rover. It was the best mini safari ever for someone like me who has no real wildlife agenda. Daniela simply asked Mr. Wa if we could combine a short local safari with a visit to the Baraka school, which is already basically in the bush. So we pitched in money for the diesel juice and headed out yesterday afternoon around 4PM. When we pulled up to the school, I asked if the 6 foot high electric fence was to keep the animals out or the students in. Daniela said both of course. Daniela was a bit sad to see the skeletal condition of the school, as she hadn't been back since it closed in 2003. For me it was all wild and new.

We bounced down the road for an hour, passed a couple of 90,000-acre, white owned ranches, and finally entered into the tall grasses and scrubby trees. The first scene encountered was the giraffes grazing alonside their shorter and stockier zebra companions. Then there was a small elephant hiding in the bushes. I snapped the shot below just as it was scurrying off.

Next we saw many gazelles and impalas. There were also baboons, countless dik-diks and several water buffalo hiding in the bushes. Our final and most anticipated destination was the hippo pond where indeed we saw hippos, swimming in the pond. They made funny noises and snorted to express their general displeasure at being photographed. I took a short video which I will try to upload at some later point. The safari was good, and now I can check off that aspect of the obliatory african tourist experience.

I feel blessed to have seen and interacted on a very superficial level with these majestic creatures roaming free in an equally majestic landscape. I also feel blessed that Mr Wa has very good brakes on the land rover because as we were zooming around a dark hairpin turn on the way out, an elephant twice the size of the one in the above picture appeared twenty feet in front of the truck. We all screamed instinctively and the truck skidded to a halt five feet behind the enormous rump of the great beast. This was by far the most exciting vehicular incident of my oddeysey thus far.

Mt Kenya, teaching mountain schooled me

Daniela and I pulled into Nanyuki in the late afternoon last Wednesday. Ominous rain clouds surrounded the peak. it rained large pellets of water over the tarmac and muddied the town. we both fretted that the weather would make climbing impossible. Our fears were put aside by a few reassuring words from local guides saying "no don't worry it only rains below 3500 meters and it never snows for more than a few minutes above 4000 meters". ahhh rest assured and so we did. slumbered happily that night at the equator hotel and set off in the morning for the forest gate of mt kenya national park.

Mr Peter Wa, Daniela's friend and former colleague from the Baraka School picked us up at 8:30 sharp and drove us up the 20 km of deeply rutted road to the park gate. we paid the seemingly exorbitant quantities of $US and hauled our 60 and 70 pound packs onto our shoulders. here we began asking some crucial questions. first why did we choose to haul in all our own food, cook stove and fuel when guides, porters, and cooks are readily available for as little as 15 dollars per day. yes we began asking the obvious; was it pride or a just a desire for accomplishment that kept us from paying someone else to carry these ridiculous loads. the questions gradually faded as we slogged and slogged.

instead of starting the hike at the 8000 foot park gate, we decided to have Mr. Wa drive us the additional 9km to the beginning of the hiking route. This means our first day began at 5ooo feet in Nanyuki town and would theoretically end at nearly 14,000 feet, Shipton's Camp base for the north face standard route. Only at 5pm that afternoon after we had been lost for two hours and finally back on route for the five-hour mud soaked climb up to base camp did I actually consider this to be an extremely poor plan for acclimatization. In a nutshell, I got sick, very sick.

It was 8PM and we were still 2 km out from Shipton's camp. I informed Daniela that I could go no more and would have to pitch the tent in the middle of the trail. This we did. The exhaustion of the ten hour day and the splitting pain in my shoulders and sacrum from the poorly distributed 70 pound pack was overwhelming. I gave up and could barely muster enough energy to pitch the tent let alone fire up the stove and cook dinner. Somehow, Daniela was feeling great and with her encouragement we managed to do both. In the tent, my headache destroyed me and kept me up all night. Or maybe it was my hyper resting heart rate or the fact that I had to pee every 30 minutes from the diamox. but then I would have still been happy in my mind about the prospects of climbing if it hadn't been pouring rain all night, everywhere but especially above 3500 meters.

In the morning the mountain had a fresh 6-12 inches of snow from 4000 meters right on up to the summit. Turns out, the guides had either been telling us what we wanted to hear or indeed winter had begun on Mt Kenya (both were later confirmed as true). I woke with the worst groggy heart pounding head aching depressed demoralized kind of lethargy, needless to say not too optimistic about the prospects of getting on the route and climbing. Then the sun came out, which along with Daniela's chipperness managed to encourage me to pack up and hike the remaining 2 kms to Shipton's camp.

Shipton's was a scene. We ended up staying for four nights and saw many groups come and go. For two straight days it rained and snowed at a steady clip until finally on Saturday afternoon, the mountain massif consisting of gorgeous orange pillars of volcanic rock came bursting through the mist and remained pitted against stark blue sky until we knew for sure that the system had moved.

We spent Saturday afternoon reconning the approach and first two pitches of the climb. A party of three Spaniards and two Kenyan guides was also preparing for the north face route. We spoke with them in the evening and confirmed that we would all go together. 6 people total on route. We woke up at 3am and hiked the hour long approach to the base of the climb. The Spaniards, Paco and Raul, and their Kenyan guides Dickson and Vincent were right behind us. As the first light shone from behind the east peaks, we stacked the ropes and prepared to set forth.

The route followed a series of gullies, chimneys, and hand cracks, all of which had been filled the previous day with freshly fallen rain water. Today, liquid water was no more and in its place was yes lots of solid ice. On the lower half of the route, pitches 1-7 were climbable because they were mostly low angle and scrambling, but starting with Firmin's tower, the rock steepened and snow got deeper. What would have been 5.8 and 5.9 cracks and chimneys became sketchy grade VI mixed climbs. By the time we came to terms with this reality, we were 8 pitches up and exhausted. Temperatures never made it above 35 Fahrenheit but it was sunny so I could go until my hands were numb. After a long traversing pitch of foot deep snow and chaucy low angle rock I was fed up. I made the final lead up to the base of the crux pitch of the tower, then made the call.

I hollered down to Daniela who was more than happy to agree that the summit dream was dead. We were both exhausted but quite reluctant because it was only 2:00pm (still 2 more hours of climbing remained plus 3 hours of rappel even if we moved quickly). The decision to turn back and "quit" the climb was clearly the only one. The Kenyan guides had averted the normal route and attempted to bypass Firmin's Tower but even so could not in good judgment lead their clients through the sketchy mixed terrain. When I saw them throw their ropes down from across the amphitheater, I knew we had no choice but to follow suit.

After 8 stomach churning raps, mostly full length 60 meters, we were back to the base of the route and it was only 4:30PM. I felt entirely defeated and cheated. The worst part of the scenario was that I felt somehow I had not tried hard enough. If only I had at least attempted the crux pitch, I could have always backed off and lowered myself. There were many factors telling me that it was impossible to make the summit, but if only I had pushed a little more. There many factors telling me that I couldn't have pushed any more, yet somehow the calls of self deprecation grew louder.

As we headed back down to Shipton's, Daniela and I talked it through. I tried in vain to process the whole mess of my thoughts, but no matter what I said, the shitty feeling grew increasingly intense. Negative thoughts about my abilities and hers reverberated endlessly. Back at camp, dinner was an inedible pot of undercooked rice and vacuum sealed indian lentils, needless to say not the most refreshing of meals for a soar body and sour mind. Curses is all I could think. I went to bed with that pounding message of defeat and again the headache was back.

Where to begin

My trip has just begun. I don't know anything for more than a passing moment. nothing is as it as it seems. The beginning has just begun. This is just the beginning. Let me be clear. Sometimes you think you're awake but actually you've only dreamed to be waking up. You realize in a dream that you're dreaming being awake. Then the next moment you are awake, but only hold onto this thought for a split second. Waking thoughts and sleeping dreams are no different. Out here I am thinking in dreams and it's all coming true.

some tips to jog the sleeping memory:
ask the first person you see to help you find your friend from long ago, in a strange new old town called Nanyuki
The Boys of Baraka are not as they seem in the Oscar nominated film
Mt Kenya, north face standard route is nothing of the sort
white land owners in Kenya are called settlers and own it all, farming vegetables for export under acres of sodium oxide lights to create twenty four hour growth cyles and working conditions for the WORKERS
safaris are fun for an hour, see the giraffe eating leaves from a tall tree, hippos swimming in a pond, and nearly crash the land rover into an elephant strolling down the road ahead in the dark.

Dar to Arusha to Nairobi to Nanyuki

Whoa!! Two days, over 1000 kilometers in rickety buses taxis and minivans, loved every minute of it -- almost, and now it's all worth it. We've got two 60-pound packs all packed and ready to go on our backs, the weather's looking really good, and Daniela's friend from the Baraka school is scheduled to come pick us up at 8am tomorrow morning to drive us the final 30 kms to the Mt Kenya park gate/trailhead. It's been an arduous approach to say the least.

At first I felt a bit reluctant about leaving Tanzania after only a week. The people and the land were so sweet to me, but of course I realize this same longing to stay will probably arise many times again. The longing to stay is like the lingering taste of a supremely satiating meal, such fullness yet wanting to return for more.

This morning we drove through the Masai land north of Arusha with Kilimanjaro hovering above for a solid two hours. we passed masai boys herding goats through the stark plains of dry grasses and trees. I felt a bit odd and voyeuristic as usual, rolling at high speeds through this unique landscape, though at times -- and especially once we passed into Kenya -- it looked much like southern Utah. Instead of Mormons, there were tall Masai warriors with spears and women with shaved heads and dramatic bead earrings hanging from super stretched earlobes. So intriguing the idea of drinking cows blood/milk smoothies and living in round thatched huts, after we get done climbing on Mt Kenya I might head out for a quick homestay in Masai village around here.

Tomorrow Daniela and I take off for a week on MT Kenya, which should be the highlight of my life. Amazing granite, glaciers, friendly local guides and most likely very few other Mizwengos (Swahili for gringos). Will take lots of pictures to make up for my lack of photos thus far.

Before I go, I have to give today's example of just how poignantly things seem to be working out on this trip. So we arrive in Nairobi today on our minivan shuttle from Arusha, after the five hour drive through Masai land. My ass is quite soar from the bumpy roads and my stomach is making many noises and other happenings due to both hunger and the food we ate for breakfast. Point is I was happy to arrive but a bit on edge because one, Nairobi is known as Nai-rob-me and two, we had to quickly catch the next shuttle up to Nanyuki. The Arusha shuttle driver couldn't drop us at the correct locale so we had to take a a short but pricey taxi over to the right spot. We get there and Daniela jumps out to begin haggling for the shuttle price. She completes this mission and I head off to go find a bathroom. When I come back she is talking with the shuttle bus passenger collector, who's second job happens to be none other than a climbing guide on Mt Kenya. Sure enough, he speaks good English and we get to talking while waiting for the rest of the passengers to show up. he offers to walk me over to the bookshop where I can buy the best Mt Kenya map and climbing route guidebook. I had heard this was possible but assumed since we wouldn't be staying in Nairobi for more than 20 minutes we would have to get by without map or book. Next thing I know, I'm jotting along next to this supremely jovial Kenyan climber dude through the intensely busy streets of Nairobi, and he's giving me all the beta we need. After the book store, we bought a few samosas and made it back to the shuttle just in the nick of time, before the passengers began to revolt against the driver and get mad at Daniela for having to wait for me.

What more can I say, time is not cheap, and the owner of this internet cafe wants to close up, but I'm feeling so so lucky to be out here on this amazing mind bending journey, I wanted to share a bit before we head out and say thanks!!