A Day in the DRC.

The Democratic Republic of the Congo's greatest gift - and its inescapable curse - has always been its abundance of natural resources, estimated at around 17 trillion dollars. 

Our guidebook states "the city is starting to attract a small trickle of hardcore travellers." One part boredom, one part claustrophobia and one part insanity had led us to an impulsive decision to gather a crew for the weekend to explore the town on the edge of the DRC, Goma.

Joseph Mobutu, who dubbed himself (and get this) Sese Seko Kuku Ngbendu Waza Banga (the fearless warrior who will go from strength to strength leaving fire in his wake) took power in government in 1965 and created a new level of government during his time; a government that ruled by theft (theftocracy). In 1997, he left, and the under-reported Great War of Africa followed in his wake; 9 countries, 5 million dead. The Mai Mai, a militia group that believes holy water protects them from bullets, took the famous words uttered after the Jewish Holocaust ("never again") and twisted it into a disturbing Congolese translation of "till the next time."

"It's not that democratic, it's barely a republic, but it is... the Congo," said a close friend on the situation.

Before we left, we checked in with Fidele;  a kind, thoughtful hotel manager with an easy and contagious laugh about the situation across the border. He lived and went to school in Goma (you can speak your mind over there, said the soft spoken man) and was going three times a week trying to get his broken computer back. After receiving his blessing and taking his phone number, we crossed into no man's land.

The energy changed, as we applied for our visas on the other side of the border crossing. After paying $35.00 for the visa, I was hassled by a customs agent who wanted a bribe because I didn't bring my yellow fever vaccination with me. After an extended discussion in French where my friend translated, I settled on 22 dollars, a price I wish I should never have paid for entering. He shook my hand, and the money disappeared into his pants as he smoothly lifted his belt and simultaneously scratched the bushy moustache that resided under his crooked nose. His eyes watched me with cautious dislike the entire time.

A money changer materialized out of the crowd to offer us a 'fair' rate for our American notes. As more of a novelty than a necesity, I exchanged $15.00 USD and began to count the money he gave to me. Watching me carefully, the changer sighed and simply handed me the rest of the money. I finished counting and held the rest of my hands out. He reached into his pocket and handed me the 'forgotten' 1000 Francs and walked off, whistling. The money was fascinating, especially the 500 Franc note which displayed shirtless Congolese miners, using picks to dig into the earth, a large outline of a diamond overshadowing the workers in the background.

We began the walk into town along a dusty street littered with strewn trash, speeding cars and rampant street sellers gawking at us. Though the hot, equatorial sun was beating down on us, I felt a shiver up and down my spine. This was not a good place, and it resonated a deep warning within me to be on alert. Motor taxi's pulled up dangerous close, pushing us backwards until we screamed at them to stop.

The 2 kilometer walk into town was eerie, with the unfamiliar constant drone of UN planes whizzing through the sky, and large troop trucks filled to the brim with soldiers, dog-tags glittering in the hazy light. We made our way to the center 'square' of town, which was marked by a destroyed monument and concrete circle, complete with scattered open drainage ditches filled with trash and sewage. We found our recommended restaurant with the attractive 'no weapon' sign, ate and emerged again to find that the world had all changed.

Despite it being mid-afternoon, the sun felt as if it was gone, hiding behind clouds, giving the street an incredibly sinister vibe. One of the girls we were with was being eye-fondled by a local on a motorcycle and when she pulled behind me and told me what was happening,  I turned around to face him. He eyes burned with pure hatred as he mouthed the words, "Fuck you" then sped off on his bike. The mere experience left me shaking.

I live by certain rules while traveling. They have been learned through experience, from earthquake zones to robbings, dark alleys and unsavoury drunks from all walks of life and all corners of the globe. These rules have rescued me from dangerous and potentially deadly situations before. The cardinal rule? Follow your instinct. And my instinct was shaking it's wise head. No. No. No. I berated myself for putting ourselves in such unnecessary risk. What were we there for? What were we trying to prove by being there? There's nothing romantic or exciting about escaping to this country for a day. This country is in war. This country is dangerous. Any pretense that we would be safe had quickly left.  I no longer felt safe, and my body refused to relax until we began our trek again to the border.

As we neared the border, I saw an MSF (Doctors without Borders) truck rattling it's way into the town, white flag raised high with concerned members inside squinting as they stared ahead at what seemed like an invinsible threat. I stopped and watched, and contemplated my life. I've always wanted to work with this organization, in places like this... or so I thought. Five hours had left me with a dark, brooding feeling of insecurity, stress and fear. What, I thought, would 9 months make me feel? Would it claim my soul? With these rambling notions rolling in my mind, we backed our way across the border and felt instantly safe, familiar... home.

The cortisol, which was coursing steadily through my body began to slow down, and I at once, felt exhausted, and contemplative. Watching the now darkened Congo recede in the rear-view mirror,  I realized I needed a drink and I needed to re-think my future. I retreated from the Congo, thankfully safely with our friends in tow,  four hours after we had arrived, leaving the country with far more dark questions for my future than I had answers.

The Sun Falls But Will Rise Again

The sun has disappeared behind Mount Kigali, but somewhere on the distance retains buoyancy over the horizon. The peak of the mountain is the eminant color of a fleeting sun, a wash of yellow with a white aura, resembling a vanilla frosted chocolate cupcake.

Scan your gaze higher into the sky and the transition is subtle and abrupt at the same time. A pallette of incredible blues; beginning at a soul stirring light blue fusing into a deep-dark-powerful navy blue. The lights in the distance shine, almost as if floating on the distant mountain, attempting to defy the impending dark nights that engulf this sleepy East African city. It's my favorite time of the night, as the cascade of blues is a gentle reminder of the quiet beauty of the sky, while also serving as a stabbing reminder of how much of it you miss when your heart resides in the city lights.

The night prevails, for now, in Kigali.

The Masaii Mara

Looking back now, I realize the vacation actually began in Masaii Mara, a world renowned National Park spanning 1510 square kilometers west of the capital city of Nairobi in Kenya. Here we did what everyone dreams, thinks, imagines of doing when they visit Africa... go on a safari.

Our excursion into the wild existed in a haze of two nights and three days, with three long game rides occuring either with the sun rising at our backs, or falling at our feets. We held no qualms about stereotypes and loudly sang The Lion King theme so many times to the same giggling effect. As we learned though, in the wild,  it's not all singing and stampedes.

Animals don't come out to greet you; you have to work for it, using an old and long forgotten method of searching for the beasts in the tall grass, amidst the silence and through the haze of the heat. There were plenty of times where you could feel a large presence, but not be able to see it. The most unsettling part was knowing that whatever you were looking for was watching every move you made.

The lion we saw was in fact, scary. Immense, intimidating and strangely cat-like, he didn't like the plethora of jeeps that lined up to get a glimpse. As an overambitious man in an open-topped jeep found out, still a threatening beast. He growled, a dark, deep growl from the bowels of his lungs and tensed his already compact body into an efficient killing machine. It wasn't so much he changed positions as much as he compacted himself and flexed, making him smaller but far more deadly. We drove away and I didn't look back, the incident leaving my spine to instantly shiver at the lion's capabilities.

We spotted a rare black rhino on the distance and chased it down along the potholed filled off-road track, almost feeling the tremor it's thundering jog was creating as he ambled away from us. Elephants meandered in a large pack, looking like old, thunderous men in dark grey, crinkled suits.

The environment always competed with the wildlife for bragging rights, as at the end of the game drives, the clouds would augment and reshape their essence to form different configurations, while the surrounding clear air would form blues and purples of the most magnificent hues.

The sun, would battle for last rites dodging, shifting and shimmering into the night, leaving a long, lasting light for some time after it disappeaered below the horizon, lending a backdrop to the sky's everychanging and darkening palette.

The safari was an assault on the scenes, treating us to the visual delight of nature and wildlife in their natural, incredible setting. As we retreated to the camp for our last night on the reserve, we came across a lone Girraffe ambling out toward the arching sunset, as if knowing that we would forever remember the moment as he began his adventure towards the shimmering horizon.

Stoop Till You Drop

The barge mistimed it's stopping ability and crashed into our boat gently, bringing a warm spray of Ocean into my lap. The driver leaned over and said in a throaty voiced that exuded calm, "Hakuna Matata, man." No worries. At all.

Lamu exists as an enigma in East Africa. An island town, only available access by boats, the whole stone-city is navigated by donkeys. There are three (count 'em) cars on the island, as the rest of the place is navigated by bicycle, feet or donkey. The donkeys were muscular, timid and plodding creatures, one hammering me over, almost into a baby kitten, as he turned the corner. He didn't break stride. 

In Lamu, we 'stooped.' The rules of "stooping" aren't really rules at all. In fact, I can't even be sure that those who stoop know what it consists of. Which is a little maddening, knowing that Lamuians are born with an innate warning that must vibrate when one is becoming too excited, or walking too fast.

Slow. Down. Sit. Down.

Stoops, square chunks of fading and crack concrete, exist in arbitrary locations throughout the narrowed, grey streets of Lamu and perch upon narrow gutters that constantly flow with the whitish-blue water that drain from the town to the sea. As with tradition, our walking tour guide, Zera, an old persuasive Muslim man with an eye for making a quick buck and a relationship with everyone on the island, told us to sit on fomed planks of concrete complete with arm-rests. Apparently, he explained, the families of Lamu in the past used to gather in these narrow alleyways, out of the heat of the sun to watch the day turn into night.

Alternatively, you could chew 'Mira,' the local stimulant that literally took eight hours of non-stop chewing (think cow and cud) to induce even the slightest effect. For my compatriots and I, a sore jaw and a lot of laughing was all that we could accomplish.

Idyllic to the point where one day my only problem was deciding whether I should have a mango or orange-mango juice for breakfast. I spent three days in Lamu, and on the last day, a wanderlust traveler with a heart for Haiku (5/7/5 syllables) poems , wrote me the perfect one summing up the Kenyan coastal town perfectly. It read, simply,

Stoopers of Lamu

Chewing Mango and Mira

Beware the Donkey

India (the Ocean)

It was the wind that caught my breath; the same wind that has been carried around the world on the sea; the wind that whispers of adventurers and dreamers; of lovers and loves lost. It's the wind that takes our wildest dreams and gives them flight.

I threw myself down hard, cold concrete steps onto the warm, crunchy sand that lay before the Indian Ocean and was greeted by the feeling of heartsickness; the same, powerful, fleeting essence of missing something. The search for truth, was somewhere on the other side of this Ocean, I could feel.

It was dark blue, littered with seaweed, ragged green rows of sharp, prickling daggers. I knelt down and grabbed a handful or warm semi-formed sand, and pressed it with desire to my other hand. To the right, I realized with a start, was an 8 foot camel, staring down at me, with a glint in his eyes.

This, I thought, getting up and moving out of the way of the beautiful creature in front of me... This is the closest I have felt to home since I left.

This... is the Indian Ocean.

The Roof of Africa: Climbing Kilimanjaro

I crawled away from the group assembled at the summit on the top of Mount Kilimanjaro, the roof of Africa. My breathing was coming in short, ragged, gasp-like bursts and the headache that exploded through my brain multiplied in intensity. Doing an army crawl, I nestled around a large rock, inhaled a knife-like gasp of air and propped myself up just as the sun exploded over the horizon in a dazzling array of pinks, yellows and oranges.

"It's beautiful," I thought to myself, as I forced my mind to thank my parents for everything as I gave up, closed my eyes, and drifted into an oxygen-deprived ending. I gave up on life, and let myself go.

Issa, my guide, was screaming through the haze of people at the top in the early morning. He pushed them, through his own altitude sickness to comb the entire mountain-top, thinking that I had fallen off the edge. Frantically, he searched around a rock in the corner, and saw me, sleeping as peacefully as a child. He dropped to his knees, ripped off his gloves and began shaking me with his strong arms gripped to my ice-covered jacket.

I didn't move an inch. The shaking continued as he pulled me close to his ear as he screamed, "RAVI, YOU ARE GOING TO DIE." My limp body didn't respond. The sun, meanwhile in the background, was rising steadily, shining with a fiercely bright glow for all the mountain-top to see.

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Mount Kilimanjaro is Africa's tallest mountain, a giant, stretching to 5895 meters tall. Hundreds of trekkers a year attempt the summit, and according to the guidebooks, most do. It was this inclination that led me to believe that the climb would be little more than a hike; I've climbed lots of mountains before, I'm in relatively good shape and live in Kigali, which is at altitude itself. 

"I literally have nothing, but I would like to climb the mountain," I said to Jackson, the tour operator as he appraised me in shorts and sandals. "I don't even have socks," I said. He smiled, and I saw dollar signs flash momentarily in his eyes, as he pulled out a price list for the slightly-used equipment. "I'll see you at your hotel at 7am," he said with a genuine smile.

The morning arrives and I grab my pack and settle into the massive 4X4 Jeep when I'm introduced to the crew. Sidee is a slender-faced youth, known for his quick smile and bright, piercing eyes. He is the Porter for the crew, usually carrying the brunt of the load up the mountain. Beside him is Sele ("like Pe-le, the famous soccer player," he kids), a trusting Tanzanian with short dread-locks and a decorative chain around his neck. Ayubu is also crammed in the back-seat, but I never really figured out what he did. A little bit of everything, I suppose. One night, I defected from the mountaineers and spent it with the guys, and found out that Ayubu was as much comic relief as he was necessary. A great spirit.

In the front seat sat Issa, my guide of almost thirty years old. That summer alone he had been up the mountain more than 20 times. He and I would get close over the 5 days, and we would probe each other for the similarities that made up our lives. We trusted each other from the outset, and talked about our hopes... and fears for the future.

Day 1 was solitary and only saw a handful of trekkers coming back with speed walking efficiency down the mountain, while Issa and I ambled down the pathway, together, but alternating moments of solitude and conversation. The looming mountaintop that seemed miles away made me instantly pensieve, lost in my own thoughts. Could I climb up... there? Every time my mind wandered, I tried to bring it back here, to now, to the mountain. "Pole-Pole," he would say almost a hundred times a day, as if to himself.

Slowly, Slowly.

The end of the day led us to camp one, 2800 meters above sea level. The silence was deafening, almost frightening at times. The wisdom is in the trees, said Jack Johnson, not the glass windows. Theres so much the wind and silence have to say, I spent the night in thought of how I always run out of time to share with the world outside.

The food is made under the watchful eye of Sele, adding spices and salt, almost randomly to his creations. "You need strength to reach the top. I think you will," he added, fiddling with the dial of his archaic hot plate. White bread starts off most meals, with a choice of jam or peanut butter followed by cucumber soup which is then taken away and replaced with vegetable soup of the same stock and a main course of large potatoes and vegetables. Little did I know, this was the start of a month long experiment with vegetarianism.

Issa sat down while washing down the sodium with water and said, water helps acclimitization because here, the oxygen is so thin and water is made up of 2 parts hydrogen and 1 part oxygen. You get air, from water, he continued. Brilliant. I don't think I would have ever put that together.

Day 2: Thin Air (Breathe Deep)

We left the camp first, catching the Colabas and Blue Monkeys sleeping with their tails hanging below like short vines, as they caught the last moments of sleep. Acclimitization is proving to take it's toll. It's hard to eat to bursting levels, drink so that your walking in the brush as much as you are progressing and going slowly. Always. Slowly. Today, we climbed to the middle base camp, stomping grounds for those who attempted the summit from the days before as well as those who are on their way up. Those on our way up gathered around after supper to hear the struggles and hardships of those who summitted, and many left leaving feeling far more nervous than ever. The top was hard, they say, causing panic in the potential summiters. I broke from the group, and spent time with my crew, not wanting to be subject to the potential negativity and doubt that their stories brought. I knew how hard it was... or so I thought. That night, it was cold and I slept with everything I owned neslted to my body.

3 (Day). Kilimanjaro's disappearing snows have been well documented and used as evidence as a continuing case for the detrimental effect of global warning. Issa says that within 15 years, all of the snow will recede and leave this equatorial skyscraper looking like just another piece of rock. Our kids, he says, will never see the whites of the mountain's eyes.

For the next hour and a half, we trudged up the dirt path on the West face of the mountain and stood side-by-side of each other, listening to each other breathe. One in, One out. And repeat. As the day unfolded in perfect silence, our breath started coming in longer and deeper bursts. Our diaphragms expanded and we became more audible as we noticed our bodies working harder to obtain the oxygen we needed. The night was cold, and talking to someone required you to look slightly to one side, lest they become englufed in your visible smoke-like breath.

Day 4: Believe.

3800 meters can mess you up. The next camp, at 4700 meters can send you home. We trudged today to the high camp to begin our summit ascent at midnight that night. I stopped Issa and asked, "does it make sense that all of these tourists fly around the world for this, to climb this mountain?" He fired back, almost instantly, "Why are you climbing it?"

There was no definitive, inspirational, spiritual or conceptual answer to that. I just thought, like most things in life, I was given the choice to climb the mountain or not. I followed an instinct, and it's proved to be right most of the time, so I went with it. I guess I just may never have the opportunity to do it again. As Dad taught me, when an opportunity presents itself, you have to take it. It's the search I think, that holds the most promise. The idea that there may be some surprises or lessons to be gleaned from this mountain, from yourself in this.

To The Moon (The Summit)

The Kibu huts are located at precisely 4800 meters, where the landscape dramatically shifts away from lush, green forests to red, giant rocks. Rocks that look lie a giant placed them there, in a feeble attempt to play checkers at the top of the world. It's the people though, that have changed the most up here. Oxygen is at a premium and cracks are showing in some of the crews arriving, as the trekkers shuffle themselves from the toilet and back to bed, eyes filled with nothingness.

My moment of realization came when, squatting over a key-shaped outhouse, I thought it would be just fine if I crawled in and slept. My mind stopped it's rational side, leaning towards the goofy and grinning.

We sleep for three hours after supper, and awake to the gentle rapping on the door. The briefing is simple, 7 hours to the top, we won't stop, we won't go fast. We'll reach as the sun is coming up and then come straight down. Any more time up there is suicide.

Bags and gear are packed in a fury, zippers are locked with loud efficiency and a ball of subdued excitement fills the air. Izza looks at me through the glare of his head-lamp, and without a word we begin. His eyes showed no emotion in the least. I did the same, trying to distance myself, partition my mind from my body, in preparation of the impending crippling altitude sickness.

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My eyes opened to the world again. YOU ARE GOING TO DIE, Issa repeated. I thought I was dead. A second chance, on life. It all came crashing back, the constant reminders that your body is in trouble, a headache tore through my skull and exited in the middle of my forehead, creating lurching movements. My breathing was broken and shallow, as if my lungs had given up on the effort. My lips were dried, burned and cracking, but the water was too far to reach. And now we had to climb for another 8 hours back to camp.

This, as I collapsed again and began crying on the top of Africa, was the hardest physical moment of my life. I cried uncontrollably. My mind and my body had thrown in the towel.  

Why can't you just let me lie down? Issa was persistent and allowed me the space I needed to fight it out with myself. Within minutes, we had to grab a woman who was delirious from falling down a thousand foot cliff, and it all came rushing back. You Might Not Live.

It was in that moment I chose life.

As we descended down the mountain, away from the sickness and the staggering headaches, I pulled a large American bill out of my pocket and put it into my guide's hand. "You saved my life," I said. "Without you..." I trailed off, voice cracking as the 16 hour hiking day was coming to a close.

"It's my job," he said. "They would have taken away my trail license if you had died anyways."

We both laughed hearty and long, arm over arm as the sun dropped in the distance behind us. I looked back, shook my head and jogged to catch back up with Issa.

I'm alive.

Life is perfect.

Bright Lights and Low Tide.

Like a child in the night, 
        new to the city's darkness,
             I was born again and set free 
                  to run wild down each street 
                       only to find that none would take me home. (B. Knox)