kisumu, western kenya/kampala, uganda, july 4-12

On the day of our departure from Lamu, Kenya Airways finally started flying off the neighboring island Manda so we luckily avoided another bumpy bus ride. We flew via Nairobi to the far western side of Kenya to the city of Kisumu. Situated on Lake Victoria in the Nyanza Province, it is home to the FACES program, a collaborative HIV clinic providing care in one of the hardest hit regions of Kenya. Residents from UCSF often spend a month at the clinic, so we went to Kisumu for me to get to know the program better. The town itself is small but has a sizable "downtown". The clinic moved into a new building three weeks ago. Before that they had been seeing patients in tents and makeshift shacks. My visit went well. First, the staff is cohesive and dedicated. Second, the work they are doing is impressive. The clinic serves more than 5000 patients so every day is incredibly busy. Most all of the patients who need antiretroviral medications actually have and are taking them. The staff does home visits to see ill patients and follow up on people who have been lost to care. They do a lot of educational work. They also have programs in two other areas in the province. I hope to spend more time with them again soon.

The day after I finished the site visit we planned to head to Kampala, Uganda to see another program and see the place we had called home for a few weeks in 2003. So, Nima bought bus tickets and at 12:30 pm we went to the bus station expecting to get to Kampala by 7 pm or so. Well, we made it to Kampala but we got there late, at 12:30...... the next afternoon! So here's the story: we had arrived at the bus station about thirty minutes before the scheduled departure time and settled into the waiting room. We waited and waited and finally three and a half hours late, the bus arrived. No problem, we boarded and sat in the relatively comfortable seats armed with newspapers, magazines, and even head lamps to read at night. The road to the border (about two hours away) was not so bad and immigration went quickly. As we boarded the bus again, the sun was setting and the azan was being called from the the small town of Busia. So we get back on and start driving. The road on the Ugandan side was full of potholes and there was a slight rain falling. We eventually hit traffic and moved along slowly. Eventually the traffic got a lot heavier and we slowed to a stop. After 45 minutes it became obvious that we weren't moving anywhere. Soon word spread that the traffic went for kilometers and nothing was moving in either direction. By now it was past 10 pm. The bus driver turned off the bus and told us to sleep well. Everyone was amazingly calm. We relieved ourselves by the roadside, chatted with our fellow passengers (one of whom works in HIV care in Kisumu), and then climbed into our seats to try to sleep. Somehow we managed to get a few hours of shut eye and by the time the sun rose everyone was awake and ready to see what was going on. Turns out that the road just up ahead was even worse than what we had jiggled on - it was essentially mud. The night before a couple trucks lost control and slid across the mud, getting stuck and blocking the road. Now hundreds of buses and trucks were lined up in either direction for kilometers. By some magic, on a Sunday morning, as we were starting to talk about how many nights we'd spend on this bus, the road workers arrived and after three hours of work dug up enough earth with their giant Caterpillars to create two additional lanes. With some fancy and well organized maneuvering we ended up on our way. So we arrived in Kampala 24 hours after we had first arrived at the bus station in Kisumu, a little tired but also impressed by people's patience, the fast work of the road workers, and not stressed since we weren't on a tight schedule. Actually the night turned out to be pretty fun as everyone bonded, shared stories and food to pass the time and alleviate our hunger.

The streets started coming back to us pretty quickly when we arrived in Kampala. So did the feeling of comfort that we had back 2003. It felt like very little had changed, even the restaurants that we had used as our landmarks were the same. We did note a significant increase in the traffic; the roads were now clogged all day all the time. We grabbed a taxi to the Red Chili Hideaway, a hostel we stayed in for our last two weeks in '03. Our few days here were mostly been about work. I had a chance to evaluate the sites where we rotated through as residents. I had a wonderful visit to the HIV clinic Reach-Out Mbuya. When we worked there the clinic ran out of a small room at the edge of a church. We couldn't do any tests so HIV tests and tuberculosis tests were sent to a nearby lab. We had just a few medications and definitely not any antiretrovirals. We spent our days seeing patients in clinic and at home. Now the organization has grown. They have a nice clinic building, a lab, and antiretrovirals. They continue to have the other programs that make the care they provide special, like home care, a microfinance program, a skills training program for women, an education program for HIV prevention, a school fees program, and so on. It is a place that is still filled with an incredible amount of hope. I saw a few familiar faces.

Nima's work (and mine when I returned) was working on the blog. We finally caught up!! In the evenings we ate good food. A couple of nights we had Indian which we always remembered as being wonderful in Uganda. We weren't wrong. Our favorite place is a small South Indian place called Masala near the National Theater where we had delicious dosas.

So now, as I write this last paragraph, it is just about one hour before we have to leave for the airport and the end of our journey. I can't even believe I just typed that. We'll add a reflection in a few days but before then I just have to say that we have been so lucky and we are incredible grateful.

lamu, kenya, june 29-july 4

After so many days of walking and sleeping in tents we planned to head from Tanzania to the eastern Kenyan island of Lamu. We were seriously stinky when we returned to the hotel in West Marangu at the base of Mount Kilimanjaro. We were really excited to finally shower, and we each had to shampoo and soap ourselves 2 or 3 times to rid our bodies of the stink. It was so satisfying! We arrived at Kilimanjaro International Airport still high from the climb and completely clear of mind. We smiled every time we talked about the summit day.

Our first stop was Nairobi where we had a brief overnight layover. We had read and heard so many sad things about Nairobi, mainly about muggings and car-jacking. Though most often these things are a bit exaggerated we were worried about arriving late in the evening. We had booked a hostel called Africa Unleashed in a quieter part of town. So we hopped in an airport taxi and I confidently gave our driver Jose the street name for the hostel. So he headed out to the road I indicated and we proceeded to start looking (Jose and I looked while Nima remained passed out in the back seat). After a few failed passes we started to ask around. Every time Jose stopped to ask for the place he forgot the name a little and he would pause: “Africa Un…….Unreached”. “Unleashed” we said. But to no avail. Despite asking about 4 gas stations and 20 security guards and Jose constantly reassuring us "don't worry, we'll find it" we had no luck. He was right after all - it was Africa Unreached. We decided to look for another place and ended up in a comfortable room at the YMCA. Of course, by now it was 10:30 pm and we were hungry with no chance of finding food so Jose took us to one of the only open joints around- Galitos, a grilled chicken place that served up food so greasy that the bags were dripping oil before we got home. The taste was nothing to write home about. But we were reassured when we read on their bags that they “searched the world for only the finest ingredients”. We slept well anyways and had the end of our visit in Nairobi topped off by Jose’s kind face greeting us in the morning. He came back to make sure we'd get a ride to the airport even though it was a couple of hours past the end of his graveyard shift.

We arrived at the airport only to learn that our flight to Lamu was cancelled. But Kenya Airways mad a plan; they would fly us part way and we would take a bus for the last 4 hours so we could catch a ferry to the island. There were a lot of disgruntled passengers. I was a little disappointed as I was really looking forward to utter relaxation. But we weren’t in a rush so we figured the bus ride would be a good time to read and chat. It was a bumpy road, okay a downright terrible road making it difficult to read. But the green landscape was pretty and we even passed a few giraffes. The ironic thing was that we had considered taking a bus from Tanzania to Lamu but were turned off when we read about the "AK-47-wielding bandits" that frequent this part of the road. These events are so frequent that armed soldiers board the bus for the second half of the ride to hopefully ward off any attacks. We had forgotten about this until two hours into our trip when we stopped nonchalantly by the side of the road and two men in green fatigues stepped onto the bus. If we hadn’t known, it might have seemed that the bus driver was being nice and just giving these soldiers a ride. But when they took their positions and remained prominently displayed at the front of the bus we had no doubt that these were our armed guards. Thankfully it turned out to be an uneventful journey and we arrived at the ferry point to Lamu.

Lamu island is a small treasure in the Indian Ocean. It is most famous for the fact that its culture and landscape are preserved as they have been for hundreds of years. On the trade routes from India and the Middle East (especially Oman) this region of East Africa became home to a group of people born of the mingling of those cultures with native East African tribes. They consider themselves the original Swahili people, both because the language was born of the fusion of Arabic and African languages and because they are “people of the coast” - the true meaning of the word “swahili”. Much of the island is Muslim and the older town- Lamu Town- is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It still maintains its narrow alleys, whitewashed homes, and colorful markets. The island is also known for its lack of motorized vehicles. Actually there are two cars on the island. One is for the district commissioner and the other is an ambulance serving the donkeys on the island. Donkeys are the main mode of transport for goods and for work done around the island, basically for everything that cannot be reached by boat. Most of the island remains uninhabited and is covered with sand dunes and wild tropical fruit trees. The other main settlement on the island is Shela Village, a quieter space and the idyllic location we called home for 5 nights.

We stayed at a small guesthouse called Banana House run by a couple- Banana is from Lamu and Monika is from The Netherlands. She came to Lamu over ten years ago, fell in love with the island and Banana, and moved there. They have two beautiful young boys who speak Dutch, English, and Swahili. The staff welcomed us with fresh passion fruit juice and a floral welcome sign. The house is gorgeous. The veranda is home to a lovely breakfast nook and a bed swing that became one of our favorite spots while we were there. It overlooks a courtyard filled with flowers, coconut trees, and a towering beautiful Indian Almond tree. At a short distance we could see the ocean where the golden sun rose every morning and the almost-full moon rose every night. We transitioned quickly to the slow pace of the island.

Our floor mate was a Media and Technology Professor from NYC named Myrtle. She is also currently working on her first novel. She told us the amazing true story behind her book. I should probably keep the details a little vague since she is just finishing it up. But loosely it is based on a group of blacks from the American South who lived as free people during the time of slavery. They were often mistresses of or married to Europeans- usually French- which resulted in many mixed-race children. These children lived a life between races and were often deliberately misled about their origins, partly for their own protection. She tells the story of one of these families. We spent a lot of hours of talking over breakfasts and sometimes dinners about politics, culture, and traveling. In our conversation about culture we talked about our own childhoods. Interestingly her life, growing up in the south as an African-American, was so much closer to our own experiences than we would have expected. Many times we finished each others sentences or exclaimed amazement at the similarities.

Our days were spent relaxing on the veranda, exploring Lamu Town, sipping drinks on the porch of the Pepponi hotel, and sailing the waters in dhows. On our first full day on the island we left after breakfast and took the hour long walk to Lamu Town. Moving along the water we saw the nearby mangroves on the adjacent island of Manda, all manner of moored boats rising and falling with the waves, and many men going about their daily work. We explored the narrow winding alleys stopping for a coconut sold from a sack mounted on a donkey’s back. The heat was high, though not oppressive. We stopped at a waterside café for some fresh lime soda and shakes. David, the juice master, sat at our table and taught us to play Bao. Bao actually means wood in Swahili and really just describes the board. There are about a half a dozen games that can be played on it. He taught us one that day and one later during our stay. As the afternoon was winding down we wandered deeper into town. Women, some in hejab, sat on their front porches chatting with their neighbors, men played caroms under a bamboo awning, and children ran around the streets playing with marbles and sticks. We got a bit lost so we decided to head back to the waterfront and follow the beach back to Shela. Not being people of the coast ourselves we did not realize that the tide had come in at full force since it was just about the full moon. We made it part way before the darkness descended. Soon we were shuffling sideways with our back against a compound wall trying to edge our way back home. At some point we reached an impasse and just stood their. Luckily Achmed, a friend of Banana’s, found us stranded and led us through the dunes to the safety of the house.

We had our first dhow ride the next day at sunset. The dhow is an old Arab sailing vessel that has been used for centuries. Most of the ones we saw had a single sail though larger ones can have more. Our captain and his ship mate took us out along the mangrove swamps and in the channel nearby. We learned about the history of the Shela people. They had lived on Manda Island for centuries but due to war with another neighboring island and the salinization of their water they were forced to move. The people of Lamu Town allowed them to move to their island. In exchange the people of Shela gave them half of Manda Island, which is now used by both communities as farm land. Though much of the lifestyle of the village has been maintained, tourism has increased substantially over the last few years. Most of the villagers were happy about that, especially as the fish levels had started to decline because of large scale fishing occurring nearby. But one thing that people bemoaned is the loss of their land to foreigners. Europeans have rapidly started buying up property. Though the villagers were getting a substantial sum of money in their eyes, the overall value of the land is much much higher, doubling or tripling every year. If the villagers had been able to keep the land they would be doing very well.

On another visit to Lamu Town we went to the local museum. More of an ethnographic collection, it traces the Swahili people and the people of eastern Kenya. We saw the history of the dhow, models of wedding ceremonies (traditionally men would leave their homes and live with the woman’s family though this has started to change), and kitchen implements like simple coconut graters that are still in use today. Lamu, like Zanzibar, is known for its wood carving. Artists carve beautiful intricate doors and weathered doors still dot the entries to home throughout the town. At the museum we learned about different styles of carving and one of the beloved wood workers who grew up and lived his life in Lamu Town.

On our last three nights we began each evening at the Peponi Hotel. This small hotel in Shela Village had been closed for low season and opened two nights after we arrived. Its patio hung just at the edge of the water so we could sit and watch the moon start its ascent at the horizon. Every night I enjoyed red wine while Nima sipped scotch. Relaxing after relaxing days. In the evenings after dinner we would settle in back at Banana House on the veranda. Most nights we were visited by Saadi, a young local who arranges all of the trips for the guests. He would sit with us and tell us about his life. He loves Lamu and, like every one else we met, has no desire to leave. He loves the water and is an avid windsurfer, though at the time he was waylaid by a foot infection that he was casually treating with an antibiotic that he heard was effective. He lives a carefree life and considers himself a bit of a freelancer. His first real travel outside of Kenya happened recently when he accompanied a French man on his sailboat as they sailed down the eastern coast of Africa. He loved the trip but hated his return. Upon arriving in Nairobi he was endlessly questioned. Looking at this half-Black half-Arab looking man, they kept arguing that he was not Kenyan and had a fake passport. Poignantly, Saadi told us "People from Lamu are not felt to be true Kenyans. We're people without a country."

Seafood is the staple on Lamu. We had it at almost every meal, from fish soups to shrimp and crab. One day we decided to go on another dhow trip and fish for ourselves. Our captain was Abdullah Bob- a man in his fifties who loves the sea and has has taught many younger people to fish and sail. He took us across the water to a quiet spot near Manda Island to throw out our lines. We did not have fancy fishing lines, just some wire tied to a block of wood. The wind was high and the water slightly choppy so our first location yielded us very little for our planned barbeque on the beach. We moved to another spot and had more luck. Abdullah, our other ship mate, and Nima caught fish- Nima caught the biggest one of the bunch, a decent sized white snapper. We landed on Manda island where we started up a fire, cut up some vegetables, and sat down to a delectable meal of grilled fish, salad, and mangos.

It was hard to say goodnight on our final day, as our months-long journey was coming to an end. Lamu was a beautiful end. I can't wait to go back.

mount kilimanjaro, tanzania, june 26-28

Day 5: 11PM. We were already awake. Hardly slept. How could we? Awaiting was our ascent to the peak of Africa. How difficult would it be? Would we freeze? Would altitude sickness get us? Would we both make it? We turned on our headlamps and slipped into each layer of clothing methodically. Actually most of the layers were already on, as the tent was mercilessly cold. From top to bottom: wool hat, baclava, thermal undershirt, two cotton undershirts, thin fleece, sweater, thick fleece, down coat, thin gloves inside thick gloves, thermal underpants, silk underpants, thick fleece pants, rain pants, thin socks inside thick socks, hiking shoes. We were marshmallow people. Finally at 12:20AM (we moved slowly that night), having carefully stuffed our backpacks full of unnecessary essentials, we were off.

It was quiet. The moon was large but its light, partially blocked by the mountain, was weak. With every step the dirt creaked beneath our feet. Soon joined by the back and forth whooshing of our labored breaths. Those two sounds would dominate the next six hours. Though I tried to push it a bit, Matthew and Richard wisely kept the pace methodically slow. 4700m.....4800m.....4900m. The mountain was getting noticeably steeper and the path began twisting left and right to tame the grade. We passed a couple groups that already looked worn out. Dirt turned into scree (loose gravel). 2AM. 5000m. Couldn't believe almost two hours into this we were only at 5000m. The moon began descending, falling away behind the mountain as darkness became darker. The night sky was transformed into that phenomenal sea of stars, just as we had seen four months before in Malaysia from the top of Mt. Kinabalu. This time we knew right away that the long wisp of white in the middle of it all was not a cloud, it was the galaxy. Our headlamps illuminated the ground immediately in front, while up ahead all was black besides the outline of the summit and the dozen or so bobbing candles of light from hikers above us.

Gilman's Point, on the crater rim, was still 700m above us. We were worried neither of us would make it for sunrise. So we separated: I went with Richard and Madhavi went with Matthew. I told Madhavi that I'd wait for her at Gilman's. Richard, thinking this separation meant I was really strong, went ahead at probably 3x the pace we had just been keeping. He took one look back and saw that wasn't sustainable. For an hour we were doing maybe 1.5-2x the previous pace. We gradually started passing people, and I was feeling confident. Pretty soon, though, it was becoming too much, and I could barely talk anymore. At one point I had just enough breath to eek out: "Richard, slow down." 5300m. The climb was steepening and the scree was loosening. Two steps forward, one slip back, two steps forward, one slip back.

Walking slow was no longer slow enough. Pathetically slow was now required. How slow? Imagine walking at a normal leisurely pace. Now imagine walking less than half that speed, really slow, like you might do with an ailing elder who uses a cane. What you’re now imagining is too fast. Taking breaks no longer helped because the effort needed to take off my backpack, unzip it to drink water (the tube of the camel bag had frozen), re-zip it, and eventually stand up again and swing the backpack on my back would sap any energy I saved on the break. Things had really changed. Now if you dared to push yourself you'd pay the price. It’s like there was this imaginary wall, and if you hit it hard it would knock you down. Soon you fear being completely knocked out. So you stop daring. You just hang on, on the edge of sustainable breath cycles, with a vague threat of nausea. My headlamp slowly died and when Richard would go too far ahead I'd be blind.

5600m. The scree turned into boulders, walking turned into climbing. But it didn’t matter. After hours of head-down foot-dragging determination we were almost there. “Ten minutes, Nima,” said Richard. “Five minutes.” Finally at 4:55AM I stepped up and there it was: the crater of Kilimanjaro. A mysterious wide well of black and grayish white – rock and night snow – barely visible in the darkness. Then I saw the sign: “Welcome to Gilman’s Point, 5687m”. I walked up and leaned on it with forehead on folded arms for a few seconds. I was so relieved and perhaps even proud. But the feelings were incomplete as something was obviously missing. I sat behind some boulders to hide from the ice cold wind and thought about Madhavi. How was she doing? How far had she come? How cold would we get waiting for her and Matthew? “OK, let’s move on,” said Richard. What was he talking about? “No, no, we have to wait for Madhavi.” He shook his head: “We can’t stay here more than 15 minutes – park rules. We'll freeze.” We went back and forth like this for 5 minutes. I just sat and stared at the amazing starry sky, ignoring him and hoping he’d give in or forget about it. I couldn't reach the final summit, Uhuru Point at 5895m, without Madh. In the end, though, I couldn't disagree with Richard that they’d probably take another hour or even two to reach us. Very grudgingly I gave in and we stood up.

I so regretted having separated from Madh. Why did I leave her? Who cares about the sunrise if she’s not there and I don’t even know how she’s doing? I told Richard we should go back down and join them again. Then he mumbled: “Let’s check.” “Kanaaaal,” he yelled. Kanal is Matthew’s African name, but I didn’t know that and I didn’t understand what he was doing. “Ricardooooh, hey hey, jambo!” came from below. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Richard, what was that?” “That’s them, they’re here. So great.” he replied. I was shocked. And soooo happy! Soon, less than 20 minutes after we had arrived Madhavi appeared with Matthew singing in Swahili ahead of her. Richard joined Matthew in this song of celebration. Madh and I embraced, filled with joy.

As Madhavi tells it, Matthew pushed her to her limit. He didn’t let her lose momentum by resting, and they kept plugging away. Madh said she just kept her head down and focused on each step. Along the way they passed 20 climbers, leaving only one to reach us before they did. It was phenomenal. We continued on. As we walked along the crater rim the sky changed from black to light black to dark blue to gradually lightening blue to all the brilliant oranges. As we pushed west to slowly ascend along the southern rim, the beautiful southern glaciers appeared to our left. Madhavi charged ahead, maintaining her momentum, while I stopped every few steps to peak at that sunrise taking place behind us. The views were breathtaking. I had never seen pictures of Kili from the top: the shallow rippling crater, the blue-hued glaciers, the clouds so far below you. None of it was expected. And that made the whole experience as amazing as it's supposed to be: discovery, not just accomplishment. At ~7AM we did it, reaching Uhuru (Swahili for “freedom”), the highest point in Africa. We sat briefly and looked around in all directions, at the glaciers of the north and south ends, the crater and sunrise to the east, and something far away to the west. Of course we took our pictures by the grand signpost of Uhuru. With dozens of people swarming the same sign waiting to document their achievement, Uhuru may have been the peak but it was not the climax. It was a post-script to the true climax at Gilman’s, where we had stood alone in the darkness knowing we'd crossed the threshold.

We started down. First the easy walk back to Gilman’s. Then the long, steep downhill walk and slide on the scree from there to Kibo camp. We couldn’t believe we had just ascended this never-ending beast. From Uhuru it took over 3 hours to get down. All the deficiencies for which we had been compensating all morning now manifested themselves. Sleep deprivation, hunger, dehydration, physical fatigue, very high altitude, and blazing sunlight - it all combined to produce that singular malaise that is exhaustion. And it didn't seem easy to fix. As one of the Chicago guys told Madhavi, “I don’t know whether to throw up or eat first and then throw up.” Plain water had somehow become disgusting, so we added some berry-flavored electrolyte tablets that Vern had given us the previous day. Oh what a lifesaver! That along with lunch and a 30 minute nap recharged us. We packed up and started again, this time down the very gentle Marangu trail. For the next 3 hours we cruised along, feeling cool and light, occasionally singing and even dancing. We reached the campsite, almost 17 hours after we had begun our ascent.

Day 6: The morning after our final night of camping we said thanks to our crew, who performed a Swahili song about Kilimanjaro being a snake that sneaks up and bites you. We felt back to normal, better than normal. The 6 hour descent was easy. We reached the Marangu gate and picked up our certificates.

We said goodbye to our guides and the few porters who were hanging out by the gate. Matthew and Richard had really risen to the occasion on summit day, and we left feeling very good about our team and the whole experience. In the end we did meet some nice hikers, and when we were alone we were alone with the mountain and without the distraction of polite conversation. Summit day was simply unforgettable. We've thought about doing other big climbs, maybe Aconcagua in South America. But Uhuru may be the highest we ever go. And that would be just fine.

mount kilimanjaro, tanzania, june 21-25

We arrived in Arusha late and took a 1 1⁄2 hour car ride into West Marangu, a village at the base of the mountain, where we checked into the pretty Kilimanjaro Mountain Resort. In the morning we were briefed on the climb. We spent the rest of the day exploring the area, walking by huts where mostly men were sitting outside chatting, occasionally accompanied by the local maize beer, while women walked the dirt road with infants on their backs and huge sacks on their heads. To be fair to the men, some of them are mountain porters in between hikes, but it does seem that women shoulder an unusually heavy burden here. We bought a couple last-minute things in the market area, and then I went to a barber and told him to shave my head. Kia and Sia did it and look great, so I figured I’d preempt nature and let my melon breathe a little easier. Climbing Kili seemed like the right occasion too. I wasn’t convinced about the outcome, but Madhavi was happy with it and that was good enough for me. On the way back to the hotel we took a quick detour into a lush jungle gorge with a waterfall. Soon it was time to do some blogging, pack our essentials, and sleep.

We woke early and were quite excited. We had talked on and off for a couple years about climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. Two weeks beforehand, as Kili loomed closer, we started making arrangements and reading all about it: the different routes, views of glaciers, the surprising cold, the difficult summit day in which a significant minority fail to make it to the top, and the insidious risk of severe mountain sickness (with a few deaths a year). So we were a bit nervous too. We met our guide Matthew, our assistant guide Richard, and our eventual favorite porter Frank, and made the 2-hour drive to the starting point of our route, the Rongai. We chose this northern approach because it had untouched wilderness with few hikers and also had a gradual downslope via the Marangu trail (the descent on Mt. Kinabalu in Malaysia was brutal on the joints). Unfortunately we booked too last-minute to get into a group hike with a reputable company, so we had to arrange a private one. We wanted to go with a good company as it seems that too many outfits employ untrained guides, skimp on decent food, and sadly even abuse their staff, not paying porters who then depend completely on tips. That being said, it did initially feel strangely luxurious to be going “privately” along with 2 guides, a cook, and 9 porters! Eventually we were grateful for every one of them.

Day 1: Finally, we were off! Starting at 1800m, the ascent was quite easy this day.
The first couple hours took us past wood-straw-mud homes, locals carrying loads of crops up and down, and children yelling “jambo!” (hello) and asking for chocolate. Children asking foreigners for chocolate or pens seems to be one of the peculiar and untoward consequences of tourism in impoverished places. Soon we were in a rainforest where we stopped to watch colobus monkeys and their giant bushy white tails. We continued through this thick jungle and soon noticed we weren’t seeing locals anymore. In fact, we weren’t seeing anyone else at all. We even sat under some trees for lunch and for 30 minutes no one but our porters passed. The solitude was fantastic.

After four hours we had cleared the rainforest and arrived at our campsite 2700m above sea level in the moorland, an area dominated by bushes and wildflowers. The day had been quite overcast, so we were excited to come out of our tent at one point to see the clouds around Kili’s peak clear, offering a first glimpse of our destination. It’s not really a peak, more like a giant plateau, and on the northern side the receding snow covers only the lip. At the small campsite we were joined by two groups, one with 3 guys who just graduated from business school in Chicago and the other with a couple from the UK and one from Australia. That night we chatted mostly with the Chicago guys, who were quite laid-back and friendly. Our porters called us into the mess tent for dinner. We sat down to a 3-course meal, including fresh mangoes and papaya, zucchini soup, grilled whitefish with vegetable stir-fry, and more that I can’t remember. This was most definitely not what we expected! Pretty much every meal was like this. We felt that appreciation/guilt combo again, but soon enough we’d get over it and realize that, more than in our usual daily life, here balanced nutrition seemed to be essential for maintaining energy. The fresh fruit was especially key, and the mangoes in particular were just delicious, as good as we’ve ever had (Tanzanian mangoes, we later learned, are famously excellent). We slept quite well, as we would most nights.

Day 2: We continued up to a plateau, where we veered east away from Kili. We trekked for 8 hours, which would be our second longest day of the journey. We were still in moorland so the scenery didn’t change too much, but we continued to be surprised by flowers of many colors and oases of lichen-covered trees. Our campsite at 3700m (almost 12,000 feet) was quiet; only the UK/Australia group was there with us. As we approached it we noticed that we were now above the first layer of clouds, the ones that draped the rainforest at all times. The silhouette of our tent on the sloping hill against the undulating blanket of clouds was stunning. This scene would recur from different vantage points again and again, and for me it's one of the unforgettable images of a mountain climb.

At dinner we began to realize something – we might not have the great conversations or develop quite the camaraderie with our Tanzanian team that we had hoped. While we ate they were usually turned away from us and speaking only in Swahili. This was understandable (especially given that most of porters spoke little English), but when we tried to break into the conversation with occasional questions their short replies didn’t invite much more. We couldn't have expected much more from the porters, but we had hoped that our guides would translate and facilitate more. In the end we figured that many people doing private trips aren’t that interactive while those in larger groups are satisfied talking amongst themselves, so perhaps they rarely need to make much effort socially. Regardless, early on we did sometimes wish we had some people to share the experience with.

Day 3: We awoke to the usual: hot water basins to freshen up and hot tea to warm up. We were now pretty high in the sky so it was getting cold, and we knew it would only get colder. So we took this opportunity to wash more than our hands and feet – we went nearly naked for a few minutes and scrubbed where it counted until the shivering stopped us. Today wouldn’t be too tough. Matthew and Richard led us on a 4-hour hike up and down the hills of moorland, which was becoming more barren. To break the long silences we started asking lots of questions and they started talking a bit, mostly about the flora and fauna but it was something. Then I decided it was time to sing. This seemed to coincide with our reaching 4000 meters, so there may have been an issue with low oxygen. Everything from Ramblin’ Man, Paint it Black, Waiting for the Sun, People are Strange, Jumpin’ Jack Flash, and A Day in the Life, to Goin’ to Carolina (changed to “goin’ to Kilimanjaro”), La Isla Bonita, and especially Cecilia. Actually, Madhavi thought of Cecilia (by Simon and Garfunkel) and it stuck, becoming the closest thing to a Kilimanjaro theme song. Approaching our campsite at 4100m we saw giant seneca trees for the first time. Looking fantastically out of place, they’re like a cross between a palm and a cactus tree. The campsite is the end of a detour off the Rongai route, and it put us at the base of beautiful Mwenze Tam, a 5100 meter jagged rocky volcanic mountain that contrasts nicely with Kili. We passed the time playing frisbee with another group's porters, doing an acclimatization hike up Camelback Ridge, and reading. We finally met the couples from UK/Australia, nice people who impressed us with their preparation - they used walking poles at all times because "it reduces energy consumption by 25%". The nights were getting cold. We piled on layers of fleeces and sunk deeper into our sleeping bags.

Day 4: The sunrise was more beautiful each day. Sitting outside between Mwenze mountain and a spring-fed pond, eating tropical fruits and toast, sipping hot tea, we basked in the marvelous orange glow. So serene. And so deceiving. For this day would really become two days and one long night, the most physically brutal 38 hours of our lives. We set off across the vast barren plain ("the saddle") between Mwenze and our destination, Kibo base camp. Vern and Nicole, a great couple from New Jersey whom we had just met at Mwenze, hiked with us. We talked about travel experiences and wine, including how they make their own vintage every year. But the conversations dwindled as we began the gentle ascent to Kibo. We had to conserve our breath in the stingy air.

After a surprisingly long 5 hours across a plain that never wanted to end, we arrived at Kibo camp, 4700m (15,500 ft) above the sea at the southeastern corner of the mountain. The top of Kilimanjaro seemed so much closer than it really was, another illusion arising from enormous scale. It would soon disappear behind the veil of thick clouds that dominated everything that day. Back the other way, the saddle was gray and black and empty. As the sun drifted down, Mwenze majestically rose above the clouds to be beheld. Dinner was early, and afterwards Matthew gave his pre-summit briefing: what to wear head to toe, what to bring, what to expect. He would wake us at 11PM. It was now 6:30PM, and we climbed into our tents to try to sleep.

victoria falls, zambia/zimbabwe, june 16-20

We landed in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe and stood in a painfully slow immigration line where only one person was working the counter. Sadly this country is falling apart as we write: inflation is 4000%, landlords are requiring rent to be paid in groceries, gas and food are running out, and anyone who speaks out is being tortured. From the half-deserted airport, we caught a taxi to the waterfalls. And in this increasingly desperate country we ended up having to roll the dice and entrust our luggage to a taxi driver for we visited the waterfalls. He seemed to be an honest man, though, so I was hopeful.

We entered Victoria Falls National Park, where signs informed us that this was one of the 7 natural wonders of the world. We walked down a dirt path and soon we were hearing a roar and feeling a sprinkle of rain. We continued and there was more rain, and savannah suddenly turned into rainforest. The sky, of course, was crystal blue, as this rain was coming from the mind-boggling splash of water that was crashing from a 35 story fall. The splash is so powerful that it rises up and up, perhaps a hundred feet above the waterfall itself. We donned our ponchos and descended to get our first glimpse of the falls from the "cataract view point". Of course they were beautiful, a rushing white cascade, the whole bottom half lost in mist, and across which a rainbow or two would arc at all times. As we walked further along a cliff opposing the falls, we got progressively wetter. At one point we were standing in a storm of water so intense that it soaked through our ponchos and “waterproof” shoes. So we started back and, thankfully found our trustworthy driver, waiting patiently in a parking lot for us as he had promised over two hours before.

We crossed into Zambia and the city of Livingstone, got another cab, and promptly ran out of gas. So we got out and pushed, our driver dangerously siphoned the gas with his mouth, and some nice kid ran to the gas station to get some fuel for us. The cost of gasoline is drowning people in the developing world. Prices in poor countries without a subsidy are often ~$6/gallon, so many can only afford a few squirts at a time. We checked into Jollyboys Backpackers, a place that Madh' sister Pal recommended, a clean chilled-out hostel that we loved from our first minute there.

The next day we woke early to do some whitewater rafting down the notorious Zambezi River. The rapids were pretty intense, but due to the time of year they were not amazing (like the Nile River was for us years ago), though our overly cautious guide called every upcoming rapid “a class 5”. Along the way we got out and jumped off a 35 foot cliff into the water, which was quite frightening (and unknown to ius a prelude of things to come). Later I tried riverboarding (boogie-boarding a perpetual river wave), but like everyone else I got swept pass the wave and down the river; I swam desperately for dear life while the rescue kayakers sunbathed on the bank. Our raft buddies that day were LeeAnne and Veronica, very nice young women from Southern California who were working for the Peace Corps in Mozambique. They happened to be staying at Jollyboys as well, so we'd have dinner with them every night from then on.

The next day all our plans were hinging on a pending reservation to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. When we sorted that out, we decided to stay in Zambia for three more days. So how would we fill our time? We looked on the walls of the hostel and started choosing activities one by one. We started with the motorized hang glider, where (on separate flights) we sat behind a pilot in this featherweight contraption and a minute later we were flying like it was 1929. The views of Victoria Falls were absolutely thrilling! Seeing elephants from a a few thousand feet high was pretty cool as well. I thought maybe I should take up this hobby until we approached the runway for landing – forget about it!

We were warming up and decided to move into X-Games territory. So that afternoon we rode in the back of a safari open-air type jeep with our lunch spilling all over the place en route to a gorge for a program involving jumping off a cliff in all manner of ways. First we did “abseiling”, better known to us as repelling, which means bouncing down a cliffside attached to a rope above. The hardest part was walking off the edge, but afterwards it wasn’t too scary. Next we were attached to a wheel linked to a rope that spanned the gorge. So we stepped back, ran off the cliff, and slid across the sky. That also wasn’t terribly scary because, like repelling, you feel the tension of the supporting harness all the way.
But I liked it more because I’ve always dreamed of soaring like a great bird, and I think that was about as close as it gets (maybe true hang gliding is better).

And now it was time for the grand finale – the gorge swing. This is when the shit hit the fan. First we watched as young British girls stepped up to the cliff edge… and then off… screaming in terror …and disappearing really really fast into a 180 foot 2.5 second freefall. I shot a video of one of these girls jumping off, and Madh and I watched the replay 20 times laughing in disturbing glee at her terrified shriek and my terrified giggly giggle. Madh’s decision about the whole thing was “no way in hell”, so I stepped up all alone. They strapped me in at the back so that I would fall face first. I inspected every connection, asking the poor workers what all the back-up mechanisms were. The camera guy said he wouldn’t trust any of these dudes. Then one of those dudes ordered me to step forward. As my toes inched to the edge of the platform, I looked down and my heart just sunk. It did not seem to me that taking another step forward was the right thing to do. “Three, two, one…go!” Oh well. I stuck my right leg out and fell off the cliff. “Holy shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!!!!” That’s what I said. And I meant it. You know the big downhill on the famous wooden roller coaster of your childhood where you scream but you’re not all that scared; you’re just trying to have a good time. This was nothing like that. I was crashing madly towards earth with no reassuring support tension, no time to think, and the trees and rocks getting real big real fast. Then just in time and with a rough jerk the rope went taut and I went swinging smoothly above the gorge floor. I was OK.

Afterwards I walked up the hill and met an anxiously awaiting Madhavi. "Nima, how was it?!" "Umm, it was good, yeah." I sounded like Jon Lovitz. Then I snapped out of it and told Madh she had to give it a try, but she had made up her mind: "No thanks, no way, let's go." On the surface she was leaving no doubts to exploit, but I knew that Madhavi (who has more pride than she lets on) would have eventually regretted not doing it. So I ambushed her by enlisting the staff to pile on the peer pressure. She caved. We stepped up together for a tandem jump, this time backwards. We were strapped to the rope and each other, backed towards the edge without being able to see anything below, then on "go" I fell back as instructed while Madh closed her eyes and hesitated for a second before stepping back. Before I knew it I was freefalling with my wife above me! It was definitely more fun than the first jump, and I started laughing out of joy. Madh did too: "That was great! I can't believe it. So fun!" She thanked me for my sneakiness. We drove back to the hostel exhilarated.

The next day we took care of a lot of business, buying plane tickets, booking rooms, etc. In the back of my mind all day was the final remaining extreme challenge: the Victoria Bridge bungee jump. LeeAnne and Veronica did the gorge swing and the bungee jump that same day (crazy). That night they told us all about it, how the jump was great fun with beautiful views of the Falls and not as scary or whiplashing as the gorge swing. "You've gotta do it Nima!" Madh said she'd watch in support. I made the reservation.

In the morning we went to the Falls early to see them from the Zambia side, which was also a stunning vantage point. But the excitement was distracting me a bit. This bungee jump is one of the world's tallest, a 350 foot 4 second freefall. It was hard to imagine falling twice as far as we had just done on the gorge. I signed my life away on the typical insensitive liability waiver - "You may die, and that would not be our fault." Madh and I walked to the bridge. I was the second jumper of the day. I crawled into a cage at the edge of the bridge where I was strapped and locked in a really confusing way: I had no idea what I was being attached to as the bulk of the bungee cord was down on another level. The happy-go-lucky Rastafarian guy doing all the attaching said "It's cool, man. Don't worry, just bungee." This was the ultimate in human trust. I walked to the edge. People tell you not to look down, but I always do. The river I would be diving towards was actually so far below, so far away that the whole thing didn't seem real. I was still scared, though. And I must say that this fear as you're standing there about to do something like this is perhaps the best part. "5,4,3,2,1,bungee!" I jumped off with arms stretched out like an eagle. No weight, incredible speed, and no sound but the whispering air. It felt like 4 seconds, no longer, then the elastic cord starting pulling and once again, I was OK. I bounced up and down a few times as I tried to soak up the incredible scene of the edge of Victoria Falls on one side and the Zambezi everywhere else. But soon the head rush became distracting - they don't tell you about this when you bungee, but every time you decelerate head-first blood rushes to your head and it's pretty uncomfortable. So when that guy descends out of nowhere on a rope and turns you right-side-up, you're really happy. Overall it was pretty damn cool.

Need I tell you what happened back up top? Madhavi was thrilled for me and perfectly satisfied going home now. This time I didn't even push the issue, as I thought the freefall of the gorge swing was as much as anyone needed to experience. Then we watched the video of me jumping set to great adrenaline-style music, and Madh slipped: "God, maybe I need to do this." Soon we were back on the bridge, but we had to wait for like ten people to go in front of us, a couple of them being really nervous. This didn't help Madh, who was obviously more terrified of this than the gorge swing. From any spot on the bridge it is easy to see how far the fall is, and if you start thinking about it you could be in trouble. I reassured her and she was strong. Again, we'd go tandem. We were strapped together and approached the edge - which you have to do with a silly hop because your legs are tied together. I didn't realize this, but Madh was dead set on not looking down so she was staring into the sky which is why she wasn't moving forward too much. Eventually we got there. "Bungee!" We jumped, this time side by side. We celebrated with kisses as our double weight caused us to bounce up incredibly high two or three times.

Afterwards we rushed back to town to catch a bus for the 6-hour ride to Lusaka, Zambia's capital. The scenery was classic savannah Africa, the ground-level equivalent of what we saw from 30,000 feet flying through Southern Africa 2 weeks prior. The next day we boarded a flight to Arusha to embark on a more old-school adventure: climbing Mount Kilimanjaro.

cape town, june 12-15

The days finally started to clear up a little and we had about 48 hours of good sunshine and sometimes clear skies. We decided to take the chance to go to the top of Table Mountain. Though we considered climbing, the temperamental weather made us want to take advantage of the opportunity for some views so we headed up by the cable car. From the top we could see long distances, along the Cape mountain range to the ocean and, on the other side, the whole city. We had a pleasant hike along the top, again admiring the Fynbos, and occasionally getting lost in the clouds.

After a few hours we rushed back to the pier to catch the boat to Robben Island. The ride itself provided spectacular views of Cape Town; again Table Mountain stole the show. We arrived on Robben Island and boarded the tour bus for the first part of the visit. I have to be honest; it was hard for me to get the full sense of the gravity of this place. I don’t know if part of it was that the main cell blocks (where Nelson Mandela was housed for example) were under renovation or because the crowd was pretty big making it hard to hear everything. But, regardless, I was struck by the experience of some of the prisoners - for example, they were forced to toil uselessly at a quarry in the blistering sun, and many are now partly blind from the reflection of the sun off the rocks. One of the guides was an ex-political prisoner himself, and as he described his living conditions and the horrific experiences of some of his cell mates I wondered how the prisoners did not become hopeless. They were all fighting for something greater than themselves, he explained in response to someone who asked that very question. Hearing about their experiences made it hard to believe that the 120 people currently living on the island are both ex-prisoners and ex-wardens. Reconciliation rather than retribution - it is amazing to imagine and definitely not for me to judge.

As our sun luck persisted the next day we decided to rent a car and head south along the peninsula to Cape Point and the Cape of Good Hope. The drive was lovely, the first part close to the shore and through some quaint towns. Our first stop was at Boulders Beach to visit the huge colony of African Penguins, some of the only mainland penguins in the world. We were mesmerized watching them waddle, follow each other into the water, and trip down the large steel gray boulders. Their obliviousness to our presence and their solidarity with each other (maybe we are personifying them a bit) made them all the more adorable. It took quite a bit of effort to peel ourselves away, especially for Nima. Finally, though, we drove down to Cape Point National Park. I had mistakenly thought that this is the point at which the rough waters of the Atlantic meet the calmer waters of the Indian Ocean but actually that occurs a few hundred km east of where we stood. But the Cape of Good Hope is still aptly named because as the Portuguese sailors rounded the Cape the waters calmed and they knew they had reached the southern end of Africa. The sky was clear and the water an iridescent blue. From the cliffs we saw birds catch the wind and soar effortlessly out of sight. We hiked to the Cape of Good Hope in relative quiet with the ocean waves breaking against the beach about 150 feet below. Our favorite view was to the east of Cape Point where Africa’s southern tip seemed visible (though it was probably still too far away). Our drive back to Cape Town was even more dazzling than our drive down. The road on the western side of the peninsula is over 100 years old (though at the time they were using horse-drawn carriages) and skirts sometimes perilously close to the cliff edge. Towns lay nestled into the hillsides, white building and Spanish tile roofs twinkling in the sunlight. The sun was just beginning to set and colored the sky and the water in shades of purple and pink. Our last night with Pal in Cape Town was as good as our day. We headed to the Nose Bar, a local wine bar and laid-back food/cafe joint. Over wine flights we talked about everything, or so it seemed.

Nima and I still had two days left in town. We had a chance to visit another neighborhood called Bo-Kaap. The community is largely Moslem, originally from many different regions in the world. Our guide was a long-term resident; she grew up in the same house in which she is raising her children. She showed us through the area, explaining the unimaginable increase in the prices of the homes and early gentrification. She explained how everyone in the community knows and supports each other. Every person greeted her as they passed. Also everyone knows when a community-member has died. First there is an announcement from the loudspeaker at the mosque and then neighbors inform each other. While we were there, there was an announcement of the death of a gentleman that used to live in the neighborhood before Apartheid.

Bo-Kaap remained fairly intact over the years, even to some extent during the years of Apartheid though some residents were moved out. Our guide, as she explained this, proceeded to quiz us on the intricate definitions of race used by the Apartheid government in order to illuminate the illogic of the whole process. “What is Cape Malay? How would a Muslim from India be classified? How about a Muslim from North Africa? How about a non-Muslim with the same skin color from the same country in North Africa?” and so on. People could petition to change their race. Absurd.

During our visit, I was struck most by a woman whose home we went to for tea and snacks. About 45 years old, she is incredibly exuberant and engaged. She has recently become an entrepreneur, teaching local cooking to tourists. We spent about an hour and a half with her but it was after we left that we heard her life story. As a young woman she had fallen in love and married a young priest. Her family had been excited. She was a bit shunned by the community because they felt that her husband was quite a catch and that she was not quite worthy of him. He turned out to be quite a jerk. His abuse of her took on different forms and she withdrew into herself. Even after he left her, she was not able to get out of her shell. But seeing her potential our guide had asked her if she would be willing to host exchange high-school students from around the world. After a relatively short time, she started opening up again and is now the woman who we met - energetic and spirited.

Our final day in Cape Town was guided by our plans to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. We did not have our trip quite in order but we knew that we were a bit short on gear and that South Africa was our last chance to stock up. We had quite a day of shopping for layers upon layers which we were later very happy for. It seems that time slips away from you when there is a list of things to do. But luckily a couple of hours before the sunset we were done and we had time to spend outside in the wine country area again. We asked a random woman if she knew any good place to hike. She told us nonchalantly to follow the road until we hit the mountains. We drove and were shocked to find one of the loveliest areas we have ever hiked in. The mountains were towering jagged gray rocks jutting high into the air and peeking out every now and then from the clouds. We walked in a slight mist along the lush green valley as it approached the canyons beyond the park. It was a great way to end our visit in Cape Town. Off to Victoria Falls.

cape town, june 8-11

We arrived in Cape Town in the early evening on a Friday into the thick of the energy on Long Street, where young people were having drinks on the beautiful New Orleans style verandas lining the street. We made our way just a couple of blocks down to a lovely restaurant called Mama Africa’s, a place we would return to a couple of times during our week in Cape Town. The food was definitely tasty and we made good veggie choices based on the recommendations of our kind waitress. But the atmosphere, with a live band every night, an unpretentious dance floor, and a laid back pleasant crowd, is what drew us back. Our week was packed with visits throughout the town and along the peninsula.

Cape Town itself is stunning. In some ways it reminded us of San Francisco, a city nestled along the ocean with beautiful surrounding cliffs and a laid-back atmosphere. Cape Town though is bigger and has the aptly named Table Mountain. When the clouds cleared and the mountain came in to full view for the first time we were struck by its beauty and great size - a 3500 foot mountain rising up in the middle of a major city. Our first day was a bit rainy, as many of the subsequent days were (not unexpected in the middle of the winter) but we ventured out to the Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. An immense area at the southwestern base of Table Mountain, the Gardens are a beautiful tribute to the amazing flora that is unique to the Cape area. A specific plant “kingdoms” called fynbos dominate the environment, though sadly, many species have been lost with environmental degradation and introduction of alien species. Part of Kirstenbosch’s goal is to preserve and try to reintroduce them to the natural environment. We walked through the gardens for hours seeing so many plants we had never seen before. They also have a scent garden, with both nice and some not so pleasant smells, that is intended for blind people. They also happen to have a great audio tour so we learned a lot along the way: cycads are cactus-like plants that haven't changed in 300 million years, many fynbo seeds require fire to germinate (an adaptation to the seasonal hot winds), etc.

The next day we woke up early to head off on the requisite South African wine tour (another reminder of the Bay Area). The wine lands are lovely, with rolling hills and distant mountains. Some of the vines still retained their fall foliage so the landscape was colored in greens, reds, and golden browns. We had a particularly pleasant wine guide and group of tour mates. The guide taught us a few pearls about wine, including that wine originated in Iran (Nima actually guessed this answer right),
that white wine grapes like cooler temperatures, and that screw tops are better than cork (partly for the properties of cork and because cork trees are being overused). He did also talk a bit about the current political state of South Africa such as high unemployment, President Mbeke’s support of their neighbor Mugabe, and the overall misinformation about HIV that has been perpetuated by the higher ups in the South African government. Mainly though, he was unpretentious and wanted to us to just enjoy the views, the wine, and the food (chocolate, cheese, and olives- who could ask for a better combination). We did not find a particular wine we really loved but gained some appreciation for the South African pinotage grape. By the time we returned to Cape Town we were satisfied and a little tired so a nap was definitely in order.

We napped in a new hotel (though the hostel was nice, it happened to be in the most musically energetic part of town- read 'loud'- so we moved). The place we stayed in was called Daddy Long Legs. Self-described as an art hotel, each of its 13 rooms was designed by a different local artist. Because we made reservations so late we were forced to move between three very cool rooms. Our favorite was the first, called Photo Booth. Two walls of the room were covered with 2x2 squares of fantastic black and white pictures of people or parts of people, we think about 3500 of them. Each was beautiful on its own but as we stepped back further we could see that the pictures formed two larger faces- one the artist, the other his father. The last room we stayed in, Palimpsest was reminiscent of an attic room with all of the owners favorite possessions- 1960s record covers, plenty of books, an old typewriter, old formal gowns, and a relaxed spirit.

When we awoke from our nap, we were joined by my sister Pallavi. After running into her at the airport in Johannesburg (!!!!) we had made plans to meet in Cape Town. This was a luxurious treat that we had not anticipated which made the few days we had together all the better. Our first night included a rather mellow dinner and a lot of sleep. We woke the next morning ready to make the most of our short time. We headed to the pier hoping to arrange a tour to visit Robben Island, the site of the notorious prison where Nelson Mandela and hundreds of others were held as political prisoners. Blustery winds made it so no tours were running so we walked around the pier and had a nice breakfast before heading back into town. We went first to District Six- a place that, before Apartheid laws forced separation of people based on race, was one of the most diverse areas in South Africa. The neighborhood had a strong sense of community and it was a thriving center of jazz and art. After the end of Apartheid, many former members of District Six came back together and created the museum. They have petitioned for and won land for many people who were displaced. Families who used to live there are slowly returning home. After a visit to a nearby 300 year old castle we headed back to our neighborhood where thanks to Pal we stumbled into a fantastic Indian restaurant serving dosas and idlis. The place definitely did not take itself too seriously with its pinkish walls and glossy Bollywood style posters advertising the restaurant. The spice and flavors were a welcome taste for all of us.

johannesburg, south africa, june 6-8

After an overnight stop in Addis Ababa, we were on the plane to South Africa. As Madhavi knows so well (and fortunately doesn’t mind at all), I love the window seat. I’ve never had a problem telling the antisocial aisle seat snobs to get their asses up so I can pee for the 5th time. But mostly I enjoy the oft-stunning view from miles high, which I used to just take for granted. So now we were flying over Southern Africa for the first time, and I noticed that the land has a distinct brown-black parched appearance. This was distinctly different from very green Uganda we remembered from four years back. And I peered at this landscape for hours and hours on this long flight, reminding me that unlike the depiction of the continent provided by those pathetically distorted Mercator projection maps that we all know from our school days, Africa is actually really really big.

In Johannesburg airport, Madhavi and I were standing at a counter when behind us a female voice yelled out “Oh my God, Madhavi!” and Madh turned her head and in a shocked giggle replied “Oh my God!”. This was a really fun moment for me because I knew this would be good but I hadn’t turned my head yet and Madh hadn’t said the person’s name, so I had a second to try to imagine who this could be. Well, I drew a blank and just looked….it was Pallavi, Madh’s sister! We were all amazed. We knew that Pallavi, in the middle of two years of world travel, was somewhere in Africa, but we had been unable to contact her to coordinate a meeting. It turned out she was only transiting through Jo’berg (the more common local name for this city) but we did plan to meet again in Cape Town.

Madh and I went to the popular northern suburb of Melville to check into our hostel. Fortress might be a better term. The gate to the driveway was padlocked and the rest of the lot was walled and topped with barbed wire. After being let through the first security gate, we proceeded to pass through no less than three more locked doors to reach our sleeping quarters. We chose this hostel because its just a few blocks from lively 7th street, but when we asked the manager how to get there she looked at us funny and said “I’ll call a cab”. So we sat in the back seat for the 500 meter ride, perhaps the shortest of our lives, until we were safely deposited at a secure intersection marked by patrolling guards in neon yellow vests. Within the three block safety zone we chose a cozy French restaurant that night and a modern Thai place the next night, and both times we took taxis back and forth. Crime is devastating South Africa. In day-to-day life it seems to be more feared and discussed than HIV. It was sad to see.

On our only full day in Jo’berg we went on a walking tour of Soweto, the enormously important Black township that spearheaded the resistance to Apartheid. Our guide was Charmaine, a spunky 20 year old woman who exudes energy and cool the first second you meet her. She wants to become an entrepreneur and seeks to learn as much as possible beforehand, so though she did so much teaching our conversations were often a nice exchange as well. We started in Kliptown, the famed neighborhood where 40 years ago over a thousand Black, Indian, and “Colored” (the term still used for those of mixed background) leaders met for several days to write the progressive Freedom Charter, a landmark counter-apartheid document modeled after the U.N. Declaration of Human Rights. Standing by the Charter Monument with Charmaine we discussed race relations in contemporary South Africa. She recalls growing up being taught simply that “White people don’t like you” and as a teenager harboring hatred for Whites. Now she doesn’t think that way but she maintains that it is easy to distinguish the colder attitude of Afrikaaners (the centuries old Dutch-predominant settlers) versus that of other Whites. She commented that Indians “like to stick to themselves; I think it’s because of culture.” As we strolled down a dirt road beside tin roof markets, I commented that many shops seemed to be owned by Indians. “Not many, all of them,” she replied. This was not an isolated phenomenon. In all the African countries we visited, Indians tend to own the small businesses while Whites control the large corporations - in the former British colonies of Southern and East Africa, the Whites are often Brits living in the UK.

We crossed the railroad tracks and entered the poorest neighborhood of Kliptown, where the homes are shacks mostly lacking running water and electricity. Along the first road we passed by a church group that was standing in a semi-circle and, following a woman’s lead, singing with wonderful harmony. Down the street Charmaine and Madhavi were laughing as they watched me standing there unable to stop staring and snapping my fingers. We didn’t know this was just a foreshadowing. Charmaine took us into the courtyard of a small building where dozens of elementary school-age boys and girls had gathered. We walked inside and learned about this organization called SKY (Soweto Kliptown Youth) that runs after-school programs for local children. Suddenly our conversation with a SKY counselor was interrupted by the most beautiful sound – the children were singing! We walked out and just watched as this spontaneous chorus rang through the air. The vocal melodies were so uplifting. These were the songs of freedom that Madh and I had fallen in love with years ago through a wonderful documentary about music in the South African struggle. Charmaine had rarely seen this herself and enjoyed it as much as we did. She said very young children and some politically minded youth know this music, but post-apartheid it is slowly receding away as music such as American-style hip-hop becomes popular. A few girls took turns doing some brilliantly improvised dancing and pretty soon the whole scene was just euphoric. It had to stop, I guess, and afterwards the kids sat quietly while the SKY counselors put on a very creative 20 minute play about a conservative father and a daughter in love.

Though nothing would be as dramatic, we did see much more that day. From a tower we got a view of all of Soweto, including another set of railroad tracks that divided two tribes pitted violently against each other during Apartheid days but who now live in peace. From that vantage point Charmaine quizzed us: “Can you tell which hills are natural and which are man-made?” She explained that the golden trapezoidal hills were huge dirt piles from the famous Johannesburg goldmines, the source of most of the world’s gold in the 20th century and an indirect cause of apartheid. We explored a village of huts representing many indigenous African architectural styles where statues of Mother Nature and a four-headed God were featured and a local sculptor showed us his thematic work. Charmaine taught us about the fascinating military style of African general Shaka Zulu. We walked along the streets where an uprising of high school students in 1976 sparked the irrepressible South African resistance, and we continued to Mandela’s childhood home before finishing the day at a memorial for the first child killed in the ’76 uprising.

The next day we went to the Apartheid Museum, which is a smartly designed industrial style building with over 30 sections that we wish we had had 8 hours to see. The beginning was memorable: there is one entrance for "whites" and one for "non-whites" and the one you pass through is based on a card you're given at the ticket booth. Other highlights included: history of gold in Johannesburg, how it caused rapid urbanisation, slum conditions, and eventually economic depression-induced scapegoating of Blacks; the wall of 130 Apartheid era racist laws; the sabotage phase of Black resistance in the early '60s which landed Mandela in prison for a quarter century; the sounds of crowds chanting in protest amidst police sirens that blared poignantly from TVs throughout the late '70s and '80s sections; and perhaps most especially an exhibit about a brilliant Black photographer and documentary writer named Cole, whose images of the torture of gold mines and descriptions of apartheid humiliation hit hard and true.