Author: Greg

Here’s a little bit of reflection on Tanzania, mixed with some cultural and political commentary (yes, I hear the groaning), ending with a great line from my hilarious sister.

One of the experiences that has stuck with me from Tanzania is the quiet strength of women in their culture. Their physical strength, carrying a remarkable amount of weight on their heads, was surpassed by the strength of their presence and character. The owner of Zara Tours, the company that owned the hotel where we staged for our trek, is a woman and while that was unusual in Tanzania, it was one small sign of progress on a continent that has posed immense struggles for women.

It was also a relief to spend two weeks in a country that had never heard of Mitt Romney, Rick Santorum, or Newt Gingrich. Of course, everyone knew of Barrack Obama and we even saw a small roadside stand that said “Obama ’08” and, at the bottom, “The Hillary Clinton Shop”. It was unclear what the stand’s original purpose was or what the proprietor used to sell in the Hillary shop, but like all things done in “Africa time”, four years later there was no urgency to remove it .

After visiting a relatively progressive third world country, it was startling to return home and hear our GOP presidential candidates, each vying to be the leader of the free world, outmaneuvering each other to strip women of their right to make reproductive decisions, while supporting efforts to grant employers the power to deny insurance coverage for any procedure, prescription, or treatment that they have a moral objection to, including contraception. According to the United Nations, more than 200 million women worldwide who want to use contraceptives do not have access to them. Women in many developing countries walk miles to the nearest health clinic in search of birth control, only to return home empty-handed due to severe shortages. Yet, here in the most developed country in the world, where contraception is readily available, men are campaigning to become President on a platform that  declares outright war on women. As a very smart woman I love has noted, none of the Republican candidates are lobbying to have Viagra banned by insurance companies. Maybe it’s time to take away Rick Santorum’s little blue pill.

All of this leads to an email exchange with my sister, a progressive who happens to live in Tennessee. Our online conversation took place following the announcement that Rick Santorum had won the GOP primary in her home state. You should also know that my sister is one of the funniest persons in the whole wide world and that includes Bev, who everyone knows is pretty damn funny. (Oh, and before anyone gets all twisted in knots over this, I DO know that women vote Republican. Many of them are in their right mind. I also divorced one of them.)

ME: “Santorum? Really? You live among vey disturbed people.”

SISTER: “Um… yeah. Apparently Romney wasn’t religious enough.”

ME: “Since no woman in her right mind would vote for any of the Republican candidates (except maybe those who live under Taliban rule and don’t realize that the Stone Age is over), what really puzzles me is how the GOP kept all of the women in Tennessee locked up and away from the polling places on Election Day.”

SISTER: “They put aspirin between their legs and hence, couldn’t drive to the polling places.”

My sister is SO awesome.

I’ve been asked a lot of questions since returning from a successful ascent of Mt. Kilimanjaro. One of the most “frequently asked” is “was it what you expected?”. In short, yes and much more. While an adventure of that scale doesn’t have to be life-changing for everyone, you can’t help but return a little different than when you went.

There’s much to chronicle about the entire experience and what it took to climb the tallest free-standing mountain in the world. There will be many posts to come about the physical challenges, the moments teetering on the brink of a nervous breakdown, and the stories of a group of people forever connected by a ridiculously high mountain on a continent half-way around the world. But let’s start with the things that one can’t possibly prepare for and that nobody tells you about. I have no shame, so if you’re offended by talk of bodily functions you may just want to stop here and remain in blissful ignorance.

THE GREEN BOX:
While not technically a box, this is what the toilet tent was affectionately named. Basically, this consisted of a square Coleman toilet that sat about 18 inches off the ground with a “seat” barely large enough for the average Hollywood female celebrity to fit on or hover over. The unit had a thin rod used to open the hole and a small water reservoir with a pump to “flush” (a term used in the broadest possible way) the contents. Because the toilet had a limited capacity, we were instructed to restrict the amount of toilet paper used and to avoid filling it with fluid. Solid waste only, please. The toilet wasn’t green at all (a dingy white) but it was enclosed by a green tent structure with a zipper door on the front. The zipper worked well for the first couple of days, but later in the trek one had to strategically place safety pins to create any sense of privacy on the loo. We also discovered that the toilet wasn’t particularly effective at dropping contents into the holding container and required the use of primitive tools. This problem was solved by an agreement that the first “users” in camp each day find a stick to keep in the Green Box. This trek was all about teamwork, including proper tools for poking poo. We were even scolded as a group with a post-meal briefing on proper instructions for using the Green Box, including the advice “if the toilet’s full of shit, don’t shit in the toilet”. Good words to live by, one and all.

Some of you are reading this and asking “who pays to climb a mountain and go poo in a box that requires the occassional poke to operate?” You would understand if you saw the poor excuses for outhouses that the porters are required to use, or even the less palatial facilities provided to other groups. The Green Box may have required some dexterity to hold the broken zipper in place while trying not to fall over like Humpty Dumpty, but it was the Taj Majal of Toilets on the mountain. We are forever grateful to our Toilet Porter who had the dubious and slightly higher-paying job of emptying it (into the permanent and oh-so-horrible outhouses), carrying it, and setting it up every day.

THE PEE BOTTLE:
Let’s just get matters of bodily waste out of the way. First, keep in mind that you’re expected to drink at least five liters of water every day. That’s 169 ounces or 1.3 gallons. Every day. Add science (you pee more at high altitude), side effects from Diamox (a medication to minimize altitude sickness that makes you pee more frequently), and mostly middle-aged bladders that seem to shrink by the hour. It’s a miracle that Mt. Kilimanjaro hasn’t completely eroded in a tsunami of urine. Before meals. After meals. Along the trail during announced breaks. Find a rock, a tree, a bush, or just turn your back to the wind and the rest of the group. One member of our group, Graciela, even brought Depends but we don’t believe she ever actually wore them. And there’s no truth to the rumor that she drove across the country to stalk her ex-boyfriend NASA astronaut.

If you’re a woman, the greatest invention ever is the “Freshette”, a delicate misnomer for what is basically a funnel that mimics a penis, allowing you to pee standing up and without dropping drawers. The first time that Bev used her penis on the trail, she returned from the bushes exclaiming that it was AWESOME and that she was jealous of men MORE THAN EVER. The “Freshette” also provided some romantic moments, like the time when the group stopped for a bathroom break at an open windy spot on the trail and Bev asked me to “go” with her so that she could learn how to deal with swirling cross winds. This is why we’re a great couple. She can teach me how to kill with my thumbs and I can pass along tips on how to pee standing up in a windstorm. Unfortunately, nobody thought to capture this Kodak moment of the two of us side by side, probably because they were in complete awe of our special relationship. But here’s a photo of Bev flying solo with her “Freshette”.

Unfortunately, the bladder stops filling for nobody, regardless of how freezing cold or dark it is outside, nor how much effort it takes to unzip a sleeping bag, stumble out of a tent, avoid tripping over ropes keeping your tent upright, and walking to the edge of camp. The first night on the mountain, one could hear tents opening all night long. It was like a symphony of zippers. During that first night, I tripped getting out of the tent and landed on all fours. My loud exclamation of “oh f**k” was probably heard throughout camp, but nobody said anything because they were all wrestling with their sleeping bags or trying desperately not to go pee for the nineteenth time. This was the night that we discovered the beauty of the Pee Bottle.

The Pee Bottle is exactly what it sounds like. A wide-mouth Nalgene bottle that holds a full litre with a screw-on lid, this vital accessory allows you to go pee without leaving your tent until it requires emptying. Our initial resistance to using the Pee Bottle (really – who WANTS to urinate in the tent and risk spillage?) was overcome by the sheer effort it took to locate your headlamp, get out of your sleeping bag, leave the tent without killing yourself, step into sub-freezing temperatures, and walk away from camp just to pee. And at high altitude, where the slighest effort was completely exhausting. Yeah, hand me the Pee Bottle. No problem. Our Pee Bottle was green so that it wouldn’t get mixed up with our water bottles. This became less of an issue after a few days, when the Pee Bottle smelled, well, like a Pee Bottle. It became one of just many aromas that made our cozy fabric home with a zipper front door so, ahem, special.

FARTING:
Hey, if somebody can make a gazillion dollars writing a book titled “Everyone Poops”, I can write about what happens to your insides when climbing from 4,000′ in a 90 degree cloud forest to 19,340′ with a wind chill aided temperature below zero. We knew that flatulence would be more prevelant at higher altitude. According to Wikipedia, source of all things occassionally accurate, High Altitude Flatus Expulsion (HAFE) is a gastrointestinal syndrome which involves the spontaneous passage of increased quantities of rectal gases at high altitudes. The phenomenon is based on the differential in atmospheric pressure. As the external pressure decreases, the difference in pressure between the gas within the body and the atmosphere outside is higher, and the urge to expel gas to relieve the pressure is greater. The condition is also known by backpackers as High Altitude Gas (HAG). I called it RIP, as in let it rip or Rest In Peace to the poor hikers behind me. Poor Bev was certain that she would be discovered asphyxiated in the tent, cause of death poisonous gas. We were a rootin’ tootin’ bunch and really didn’t care. Besides, after a while it was hard to differentiate between HAG and the smell of the same shirt and pants you’ve worn for days.

BATHING AND GENERAL HYGIENE:
There’s no such thing on the mountain. Unlike campsites in the USA, where fresh water is available at many campsites to wash your face, hands, and maybe even take a dunk in, the only source of water for washing on Kilimanjaro was a small tub of warm water that the porters brought to our tents every morning and afternoon. The tub contained enough water to wash your hands and a bar of soap was available upon request but after the first day, we abandoned soap because it simply created an extra film over the dirt and grime. We all became reliant on hand sanitizer gel to constantly clean our hands and the occassional baby wipe to wipe our faces. Bev was smart enough to pack some oversized 4X6″ “fresh bath wipes” to “bathe” with and we indulged in that luxury more than a few times in our seven days on the mountain, rolling around in our tent to administer a waterless “bath”. Oddly, we felt much cleaner afterwards, at least until we had to put the same disgusting clothing back on.

We managed to brush our teeth every morning and evening every day, even if it required the use of valuable treated water. Others gave up on dental hygiene after a few days, succumbing to the reality of incessant dirt and stink. I figured that even if my mouth tasted fresh for a couple of minutes a day, it was worth it. I couldn’t run a comb through my hair and my beard made me look like an old homeless man, but my teeth would be clean twice a day.

Little things become big moments on Kilimanjaro, including a taste of fresh toothpaste and a Wet One to wipe your face. What a great vacation!