Reunion.

Can't believe its been 5 years since my last update on this blog. An activity that used to consume most of my  time had been reduced to nothingness.

- Obligation to write a few lines which kept my writing going
- Keeping my mind active and entertained in a positive way
- Meeting some cool people through blogging.
- Writing anonymously helped me to vent out without remorse.
- Productivity hadn't improved in the last 5 years

Unfortunaltely, I stopped blogging because I felt that all my wonderful writing was going in vain when Chetan Bhagat was publishing crappy books. So could I. But try as I may, I couldnt compete with that guy and slowly Facebook caught up and satiated my craving for a written word and instant gratification. Now a bit jaded by the sappy updates from my friends on facebook and jealous relatives thinking that I lead a charming life, I am hoping to phase out of FB a bit and give blogging another try. Also, I hate 'likes' on FB. Write something idiot!

Meanwhile an update on the last four years-
1. Got a dog (Jeeves) in Pittsburgh in December 2009- Cute black Lab who kept us entertained and made us proud with his capability of learning new tricks. He was a such a star!
2. Left the dog back in Pittsburgh because he has a medical condition that couldn't afford him to fly back with us to India. Very saddening but got adopted by a friend and Jeeves now leads a good life.
3. Yes, we returned to India on July 2010
4. Because my mom got the dreaded Cancer. I was heart broken.
5. Transfered with same company to work for Bangalore Airport. This kept my mind occupied.
6. Spent time in India shuttling between work and hospitals. Was tough and draining.
7. Mom gave up and passed away on November 21st 2011. Finally she got relief from the torture in the name of Chemo.
8. Dad contracted Pancreatic Cancer and succumbed to it on January 4th 2012. My dad had suffered a while because of other ailments. Emphysema. So his death didnt come as that much shock to us. But I also felt so alone.
9. Took some time getting over the above.The memory of them dying in front of me haunted me every night. Work helped. Friends helped. Hubby helped. Travel helped. I had to move on.
10. Did some amazing treks in Nepal and India- Annapurna Base Camp, Everest Base Camp, Indrahar pass. Fell in love with Hampi.
11. Bought a piece of land in Bangalore and started construction of our house.
12. Moved to Delhi on September 2013. Wasnt too happy about it.
13. Discovered Delhi through William Dalrymple. Became a fan- of both the writer and the city
14. Published two articles in India Today- Travel Plus. Quite kicked about it.
15. Adopted baby boy. The BEST thing to happen yet.

Life may have been challenging...but there's one thing I can say - There was never a dull moment. Except when I read Chetan Bhagat. Confession- I even read that Anu Aunty book and that 'If God was a Banker' book. *spending time on Facebook seems cool in comparison*.

Oh hi!

This blog has become that friend that you postpone calling because you need at least an hour to catch up and you never ever find that hour. How awkward!

If that friend were to be on facebook, he/she would have seen this on my profile- Moving back to India with my company working on Bangalore International airport.

Thank God for facebook, I don't have to update my blog.

Costa Rica, Do you really want me?

Came across this while whiling away on travel sites. Nomadic Matt and Gap Adventures are giving this trip away and I am entering the contest in the high hopes of white-water rafting in Costa Rica this spring. Here's my entry-

Costa Rica, you say? No thanks, I say! This isn’t the case of sour grapes even though it has been established in many years of my existence that I am not to win anything, not even a game of Pictionary. So with lady luck definitely on the side of another loser, I can be less skeptical and more honest. I am entering this contest because it gives me a chance to update my blog. It also gives me a reason to stand out from the rest of the pleading contestants. I don’t have stories of a troubled childhood, which definitely will make me deserve this holiday. I am not a single mom with quintuplets whose babies are stuck in Costa Rica. No sir, I am not even an adventure extremist who can live on slugs or cross the river on a raft made out of chest hair. I do not have much chest hair to boast of.

To qualify my first line, Costa Rica hasn’t really sent me those magnetic vibes like, say, New Zealand or Botswana has. Whenever someone looks at me with glee and goes,’ Guess where I am going next? Costa Rica!’ he can be certain I am not scheming to eradicate him out of abject jealousy. Beaches, volcanoes, islands, hiking, rafting, rainforests and green spotted frogs all sound like something out of my very own dream, but I was never intrigued by Costa Rica. The more I dwell into this issue, the more I am perturbed about my indifference to this apparently lovely country. I’m concluding it to the lack of country knowledge and my general apathy towards a certain demographics that don’t like traveling too far from their comfort zone (America). These people give bad press to the countries they go to- like Costa Rica. Why go to Faristan when Costa Rica is so close? Or maybe it is too green for my untrained urban eyes. Now if I were planning on checking off countries, Costa Rica would be somewhere I’d see myself spending a few hours on a weekend trip after visiting neighboring Nicaragua, Guatemala, Mexico and Belize. But I am not that kind of a traveler. I become a ‘ShamWow’ when I go to a new country as I feel the need to soak it all in. Only the sights and sounds, not their entire water bodies (For this free advertisement, ShamWow better send me someplace cool.)

When I heard about this contest, the first thing that went through my mind is, Wow, here’s one competition I can participate and not worry about winning. Otherwise I am a sore loser. I have fantasized about winning such trips, but I never entered any of them for the fear of losing.

I will admit to a few things that may be relevant. I am a person who would like to keep the earth as is and experience the world. I would like to travel everywhere if I could (even Costa Rica), preferably all the time like Matt. I love people who travel and I admire Bruce Poon Tip for what he has accomplished in his lifetime. As my role models, you probably will want to award me with this trip, but I understand if you are put off by my lack of enthusiasm for Costa Rica. But if you feel compelled to prove a point and make me fall in love again, I will grudgingly go.

He proposes, she disposes.

Angelina, a friend after my own heart, has turned 40, and unfortunately the knight in shining armor has been scared witless and has probably choked on a spear (of asparagus). The boys are there, yes, but no boyfriend. One failed marriage under her belt, she’s rightfully skeptical of everything the spells men, boys, and grandpapas. As much as she puts forth a brave face in front of family and friends and declares she cares ‘two hoots’ for the institution of marriage, she does feel a strange sense of melancholy every time she spends time with her friends who seem content with their respective families, even though Angelina’s heart cringes when she sees Katie, her wild best friend Katie, flipping pancakes and throwing birthday parties for her kids, baking the cakes from scratch. Shudder! If only she could find a husband who’d be there in the cold wintery nights to cuddle with, cook food, one who would indulge her unquenched travel obsessions to exotic countries, and the one who might engage in deep romantic conversations that involve Theory of Relativity. Did I mention she has a doctorate and moonlights as a professor, apart from serving in committes that control the fate of Pittsburgh?

Living in Pittsburgh, there are only two kinds of people she encounters, the Pittsburgh native who can’t fathom leaving Pittsbugh or the people in transit who in their right mind wouldn’t want to live in Pittsburgh after their degree from CMU is complete. An average Pittsburgh man has two sets of clothes and both are the black and gold Steelers jerseys. The nicer one he wears during the super bowl game and the other one is worn proudly everyday. If all the people in Pittsburgh were to line up their Steelers Jerseys around the earth, I think it will go around the earth twice. But the only problem with proving such a fact is once the line of jerseys inches closer to the Western Pensylvania border, I doubt anyone from Pittsburgh would want to move further along the globe even if it is to make some well deserved world headlines. People here do not like to travel away from their comfort zone which includes two houses from their own home in that block. Moving zip codes is almost unheard of unless two people get divorced and everyone in the suburb knows the cause of the divorce. Pittsburgh people might leave the lovely city in search of jobs or whatever insanity, but invariably they come back to their hometown. Being so engrossed with their sports teams; it becomes exceedingly hard for Pittsburgers to devote time for any other activity other than lying on the couch and regarding the television with fondness.

So it is a miracle that our worldly wise Angelina even found a boyfriend in the vicinity. In some weak moment she would get attracted to some dude’s looks or bank balance, only to realize after a week that she needs someone who would take the Steelers less seriously and her feelings more.

Softly cooing into his ear, she wanted to know what was the last book he read.

‘In high school, I guess. Why do you ask?’

She dumped him.

The next one didn’t want to travel to Bolivia with her.

‘Why go to Bolivia when you can be in Pittsburgh? If you really want to go to a foreign country, how about Canada?’

She dumped him.

Being a hardcore liberal and vegetarian to boot, the last boyfriend tested the limits.

‘What are your hobbies?’ she asked casually trying to get to know him after some great sex.

‘Well, watching football and hunting.’

Worrisome indeed. But she attested that everyone is entitled to their own hobbies and like every woman she knew she could change him. She figured that the hunting rules are much simpler to comprehend. You shoot and, boom, your target should cease any activity it was performing by dying. That is much more than she knew about football.

‘Hmm.. Hunting? You have a er.. gun?’

‘Yes, three in fact. You should see my babies. Do you shoot?’

‘Yes, with a camera. I have three lenses. You should see my babies. Heheh. I just got back from Botswana and the camera really helped in capturing some of the animals.’

‘Yes yes. It’s in the Caribbean, right? You took pictures of dolphins?’

She decided to be polite and move on to some topic that involved Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. He seems to show some excitement by asking if they play in some bar on East Carson Street. So she tried to change the topic back to his original love.

‘So where do you practice, ermm…this hunting?’

‘On Montour Run trail. I hunt deer there.’

She dressed up quickly. A month later she left Moon Township (where she ran everyday in the Montour Run trail) and moved into the city where there are no woods. Needless to say she dumped him that night itself.

After many such car wrecks, her family decided to show some concern to her lonely state and decided to hook her up with people they thought would definitely work considering her desperate state. Till now her family didn't interfere. Her aunt took her aside and said, ‘I’ll introduce you to Roger. He’s been divorced thrice with 8 kids and is probably paying more alimony than what Bill Gates earns. He lives with parents, but the good news is that he has driven them insane, so they might end up in an asylum soon. You may meet him next week when he is released on bail.’

Now I’m wondering if I should introduce Angie to Karthik.

Gandhi lived here

January 24th 2009- Johannesburg, also fondly known as Jo'burg is roughly located on the Northern central part of South Africa. A few hours away from Krugger National Park, Drankensberg mountains, and the country of Bostwana, its location is quite coveted. The biggest surprise as we land in Jo'berg is how progressive the city looks. The transportation system is in par with the US. We just rented a car from the airport and took off with a GPS. Though unlike America, we get a tiny car that rivals the Maruti in India. Hilly and almost picturesque, we see cute little subdivisions that dot the slopes. Just like Lagos, white people don't seem to be on the streets walking. Blacks are everywhere, walking with umbrellas, either going to school or cleaning the streets. As a brown person, I guess I could choose which camp to be in. Most black people were working menial jobs and most white people were shopping at the malls. Did I tell you things are very cheap in South Africa. Cheaper than the US and much cheaper than Nigeria. BTW, Nigerians are regarded as scum in every part of Africa other than some parts of Nigeria itself.

South African art is quite pleasing to the eye. But then there are somethings that the eye can't see. Deep down in every South African's psyche is the strange feeling of actually walking in an (apartheid) free country. I couldn't get my head around the fact that 4 million minority whites ruled 20 million blacks. To do this with such brutality and for so long right into the 90s….is something I can't even imagine. Can you imagine how it must have been for me to actually stand on the ground where so many people fought for their rights- to able to go to schools, to get health care, to be able to live in areas they wanted, to walk freely with their heads held high, to live in peace and above all to be treated as humans in their country, the country of their ancestors?

In our tour of Jo'burg, we passed through a highly affluent neighborhood called Houghton. During the Apartheid Government, this locale was primarily a 'white-area' and any blacks trespassing would be arrested without interrogation and put in prison for 6 years. Even now, as South Africa heals, we don't see many black people here other than staff. The houses here are grotesquely huge. Unfortunately we couldn't admire these homes due to high compound walls, with electric fencing as heightened security measures for a once paranoid white population. Some of these houses are now being converted to offices.

Hillcrest was another White-Area, but it was the only area that blacks were allowed to come to and the only place where they could meet the whites if they 'had' to. Present Jo'burg is seeing a lot of black people moving into this area and the whites slowly moving out. We do see signs on abandoned stores that show some evidence of the past. 'Non-Whites not allowed' or like the photo above.

Our next stop at Soweto (South Western Township) was quite an eye-opener. In the 1900s there was an outbreak of bulimic plague and many blacks started getting affected by it. Using this as an excuse, the British council moved ALL the blacks and Indians to Soweto to be used as 'evacuation camps'. Soweto is 10 miles away from the white city. With more gold being found in the area, more blacks came from every where to work in the mines. The Soweto slums increased in size to 1 million people. Many uprisings against whites took place here. Many freedom leaders grew up here as did much of the African consciousness. One most noteworthy person is Nelson Mandela. Winnie Mandela (Nelson Mandela's ex-wife still lives there in a division in Soweto called Beverly Hills-slightly nicer neighborhood, hardly the Beverly Hills of Southern California). Nelson Mandela's house in Soweto is on the same street as Desmond Tutu's. So Vilakazi Street is the only street in the world to house two Nobel laureates.

Seeing the prison that housed both Mandela and Gandhi was quite a stirring moment. And there, said someone, is the Gandhi statue. Yes, I do see the signs saying Gandhi square, but that guy is not Gandhi. I was certain. Then it struck me, quite profoundly! Gandhi was not always old, slouching with a stick talking a long stride looking at heaps of salt in the horizon. He was also a young barrister smartly dressed with books tucked away in his hand, a stern face that would take no racial nonsense, not in India and definitely not here in South Africa where he was flung out of the first class compartment in the train for not being white. He stood up for the atrocities shown to his country men in South Africa before he left for India to lead the country to freedom. It is also said that he didn't really care much for the black people and considered them savages. Interestingly, our good old man is branded racist among the blacks of South Africa and they was some resentment for this statue to be unveiled in the first place. This could be attributed to awareness at that time and brainwashing of the Indians in South Africa against the Blacks (which I believe is still prevalent). Later in India, Gandhi stood up for the cause of untouchables and no 'rasict' would have done that. Anyway, I think Gandhi started the first passive resistant movement in South Africa and got the Black people motivated to begin their political movement.

So Yay to our Gandhi!

In the corner, there's a Zulu Muti store 'Museum of Man and Science', that sells every conceivable ingredient for the traditional African healers to perform their medicinal skills for any ailment ranging form common cold to hepatitis A. The store sells star fishes, snakes skins, lion teeth, bones of assorted animals (or maybe humans too..i didn't ask) and of course intestines neatly folded. There were drums and spiders. I bought souvenirs for all of you from here, but they ate each other up. Expecting to see a Zulu guy with face paintings and spear, I walk into the store to get a closer look. 'You don't look Zulu at all' I say to a few folks that look more Indian than I. They laugh and say they are from Madras, at least their great grandfather was. They were so excited that I spoke fluent Tamil (hah, at least I could trick them into believing that) and were very happy to have met fellow Tamilian. I think I had more similarities to that stuffed monkey in their store than them. Indians seem to have permeated all sectors in South Africa, even as freaky as above. Being third or forth generation Indians, they speak very little of their mother tongue, but are fluent in Afrikaans and other local languages. Just as I was leaving their store they wanted to know if Aishwarya Rai is Tamil. I say she is from Mangalore. It took me a while to assuage their sorrows.

Drakensberg (Mountain of the Dragons) in South Africa is the home to the Zulu warriors, who have for the most part abandoned their spears and taken up to farming. I was very disappointed to see Zulus in pants riding bicycles. What was not disappointing was the stunning scenic beauty of their home in the mountains, a backpacker's paradise. Beautiful and lush green mountains are found just a few hours south of Johannesburg. We hiked up to a few caves at Big Castle Mountain to see some bushman paintings. Nomadic bushmen used to roam around in these mountains only 500 years ago. They are said to have traveled all the way from West Africa in the BC to East Africa and finally to South Africa in the later stages. They are just 4 feet tall, nomadic hunter gatherers and talk in the famous 'click language'. See Gods Must Be Crazy movie. A few tribes still thrive in the Kalahari Desert though many of them are lost to colonization, civilization and the lure of better lives in the cities. One of the people we met was a bushman and when she spoke in that 'click' language, I was stunned to note the kind of sounds a human body could make. All day I tried to bring out that guttural click and in the end I managed to hear my bowels groan.

South Africa seems to have it all. Capetown was awesome in its own beachy way. The vibrant culture, the wonderfully friendly people, the wildlife, the natural beauty, the natural resources (gold and diamond mines), the art, the history…No wonder the British couldn't leave. I didn't want to either.

No Shower without Thunder

When mankind plunges into amnesia just because they all bumped their heads on the same rock, I would want them to regain their entire memory only to have forgotten one thing- baby showers! Yes, that would make me very happy.

I went to one baby-shower during those days when my thinking was confined and my exposure limited. Hoping to see a naked pregnant lady getting into a shower while guests looked on, I was in for a rude shock and am still paying shit loads of money in therapy. What confronted me was a fully clothed glowy type pregnant person who seemed quite smug and hassled at the same time, ’Thanks guys! So sweet of you to do this for me.’

I had already done the congrats bit before and since I had to say something, I lied,’ You look great.’ In fact in reality she looked like a python that swallowed an auto-rickshaw.

After settling that awkward bit, I just about sit down to eat the nipple shaped cookies when the hostess (a friend of hormonal pregnant lady, equally hormonal and obsessive about making sure everyone has a terrible time) decides to kill whatever little joy by announcing games. Right under our noses, are 6 diapers that are disgustingly soiled to depict various stages of stomach malfunction. In fact, the hostess proudly informs us that it’s not human excreta, but different chocolates melted to look like the real deal. ‘Look at the various poop in the diapers on this tray and please write down what chocolate you think the baby had for dinner. You are allowed to smell and taste.’ This is a sure shot way of keeping all the other women in the room very prompt with their birth control pills.

Melted on a diaper with little raisins and peanuts peeping from the shapeless brown mass, however much you want to believe it is chocolate, you end up swallowing some of your puke. If this makes Guantanamo Bay sound like a massage parlor, wait till you hear more torture that I had to endure.

Then there is a game where you have to guess the correct circumference of the mommy-to-be’s stomach. ‘Diameter of the earth’ was the wrong answer and so was ‘I’m not sure’. More appalling is how some women will try to cheat by asking me, ‘Would she be at least 6 times my size?’

Then there is the dreaded gift unwrapping at which point there is the mandatory ‘Awwwww’ for each gift from us onlookers. I also have a problem with this word ‘Awwww’, but not so much that I would write a whole post on it. [It would suffice to say, I grew up on Shakti Kapoor going 'Awww' at every nubile damsel he wanted to rape on the silver screen.]
‘Awww, it’s a cute little toy train. You must have missed my gift-registry that was typed twice in the invite,’ she croons while shooting murderous looks at me. ‘Well, I just wanted to get rid of this dumb train that you gave me for my wedding.’ I said while creating more wrinkles in the fabric of the event.

After that terrible experience, I had a huge success rate of avoiding baby showers all together. I fell terribly ill, ran away to New York, had out of town guests visiting…and somehow managed to stay out of the excitement of digging my nails into my skull while playing ‘baby shower’ games.

This time my luck wore out and I got invited to a shower where my friend knows only three people and the person throwing the shower postponed, preponed etc, just to accommodate those three people, including poor me. At that point, after 15 emails, I threw my hands up and said with resignation, ‘Alright, show me the well.’

The hostess in all zeal sent us ideas for games. ‘Who wants to volunteer for conducting the games? I went to this baby shower where they had the measure the belly game. Or this other game with baby diapers, its gross…but we can do it…’ My faculties started failing me instantly and I hated myself for being surrounded by pregnant people. It isn’t their fault, I know…but they are the root of this misery. What probbaly started off as a well meaning congregation of experienced women teaching a few things about raising a child to the expectant mother and giving nice gifts, has now turned into a nightmarish ritual of cheesy décor, terrible games and a very awkward atmosphere which expects single women, never-been moms and men to attend. Why in the name of Lord do we Indians have to do this? Our traditional bangle ceremony is so cool...some little prayer, bangles, loads of good food and no games! West, please look at the East in this aspect.

So I am big time trapped and dreading this upcoming baby shower. I have volunteered to help with the games with the intention of making it bearable for me. I am seriously considering strip poker. Worry not, pregnant lady will be excluded from game!

On the road to Timbucktu

March, 2009

If losing your baggage is on your travel to-do list, please refrain from doing so in West Africa. In almost all situations it isn’t your fault, unless of course you feel your camera and the various lenses are more important than an extra set of clothes that you could have packed in your carry-on luggage. So there I was in the market in Bamako, haggling for underwear from a wicker basket with my translator Sekou Camara waxing eloquence in native Bambara. At that point, I failed to comprehend who was more hassled; me, who had never worn anything that was covered in a four inch layer of dirt or Sekou, who probably never ever bought lingerie for any of his three wives. After taking care of that awkward detail, we proceeded to buy the rest of the ‘outerwear’. Sekou, who had an idea what I would care to wear, took me to a section of the market loosely known as ‘Dead Toubab’s Closet’. Toubab meaning ‘White Man’. These clothes are donated by the west and are sold in the streets as 'dead white-man’s clothes' because Malians are convinced that nobody in their right mind would discard their clothes unless they are in the grave. One of the many eye-openers I would witness in the world’s fourth poorest country.

So from a huge pile of T-shirts ranging from second-hand Tommy Hilfiger to Levis, I chose a green T-shirt that said, ‘MARDI GRAS PUB CRAWL’. It came with some gentleman’s body odor (is all, I hope) as an add-on bonus. I found a fabric for a native skirt, which was basically a colorful wrap-around that was to be tied around the waist. After a day of frolicking around in my skirt all over Mali, I was politely reminded that the slit should be on the left to signify a lady of decent standings. ‘I am sorry, where I come from, we don’t wear skirts.’ I tried.

We boarded the Bani bus to Segou on this 100 some degree afternoon (It gets hotter in May). Just before embarking on this four hour journey, Sekou asked me to buy myself a hand fan. ‘I have a book to keep myself busy,’ I assured him. I wish I had listened to him and bought two. Now this bus was supposed to be Belgian import and the Belgians didn’t design it for Malian conditions. The A/C had stopped working eons ago (to save on diesel) and the windows were sealed shut (for A/C efficiency of course). To make sure the passengers didn’t die of suffocation, the officials had punctured a few holes on the roof of the vehicle for inadequate ventilation. The whole scene reminded me of a frog in a bottle. Very soon, I started to feel dizzy and very uncomfortable. If not for the umpteen stops the bus made (for checkpoints, prayer sessions, food breaks, toilet breaks, god-knows-what-else-thanks-to-language-barrier), I would have definitely perished in this very unglamorous way.

Outside the bus, poverty was in open display everywhere and even in the capital city of Bamako, infrastructure is limited to the main roads and a few brick and mortar structures that are used as government buildings, hotels, shops and restaurants. Most of the buildings were made entirely of mud and held together by sticks and tin roofs. Garbage was being burned in every conceivable open space and many plastic covers survived the cremation process. Some kids rummaged the vast fields of garbage for treasures such as a used plastic bottle. What they needed was a good waste management program. Fortunately for Mali, the population was under control and they didn’t produce much trash as the reused almost everything. The scenery was really nothing much to gloat about…just vast stretches of brown and some dirty green (occasional baobab and acacia trees). Every check-point greeted us with a surge of hands of young women thrusting grocery on our faces. You could buy anything from a choice of water-pouches, boiled eggs, carrots, meat, cakes, peanuts, juice, apples, bananas etc.

This was my second trip to Mali on this Engineers Without Borders Project and the tragedy of the most friendliest country hits me each time. More to come..

Crime, Sex and Book Clubs. Lagos, Nigeria.

Alpha's diary- January 19th, 2008

With a population of 24 million, crime rate hitting the roofs, corruption and huge environmental concerns, I guess I can say I am feeling completely at home. From the sky, this sea of a city looks flat except for the occational cell phone towers that rise higher than the modest sand-color settlements. While driving us to our home from the airport, the driver says that if you don't know the 'blood-language' of the locals, you would be termed as 'goats'. 'You know that they do with goats right? They slaughter them.' I just hope to learn the blood language sooner than later.

Huge population of Christians in the south of Nigeria, this part of the country is not really conservative by any standards. I wonder why I brought only long skirts and kurtis while women are walking half naked. 'Oh, she is a prostitude,' said Dennis, the driver. I saw another skimpily dressed woman and expressed my concerns about a city laden with sex workers. 'Oh no, can't you see, she isn't one. She looks like a Goddess. The last one we saw was my ex. Hence I call her that. That bitch, she slept with me and now says she is pregnant.' [I could write a book on this driver and his shenanigans]

English speaking and trying hard to make a living, the city is distinctly poorer than many Indian cities I have seen. We live in a real nice part of town called Ikoyi Islands. The place has fairly new roads (paved) with open drains. This is due to the fact that the governor is our neighbor. Nigerian food is definitely not the greatest I have eaten and the sentiment is shared by all. They eat pepper soup and interesting bread that needs acquired taste. They eat this bread for breakfast (a whole loaf) with water. I am sticking to my honey bunches of oats. They live on cassava that is eaten in the form of gari (cold and flowy) or eba (hot and lumpy). Jolof rice (tomato rice), fried plantains is something I liked. I don't eat meat and they have a variety of suspicious looking (and highly suspect smelling) meat dishes.

I am spending my time exploring the city on foot. It's not that unsafe as people had scared me. Yes, in the nights you sometimes could be looking at a barrel of the gun and handing all your valuables. But that is in the night. Even our Nigerian driver pees in his pants if he has to drive at night. Daytime, its fine, especially in the neighborhood when we live. I sometimes ride on the 'okada', a two-wheeler public transport that gets you from place to place for a dollar. So you hail an okada like you hail a taxi, he hands you a helmet (safety first always) and expertly weaves through the traffic, sometimes crashing to the asphalt as we avoid a mini bus with more people than there are in Pittsburgh and its suburbs. Most of these bikes interestingly are Indian makes like Bajaj. People are not overtly friendly like the Malians, but are friendly enough if they trust you. Once they do, they are loud, funny and very friendly. There is a general mistrust among the expats…and its both ways. The resentment is due to the fact that even after colonialism, they feel that they end up being subordinated to the wealthy Expat community. You will not see an expat walking alone on the streets. They get carted by cars everywhere and do their shopping in Dubai. They socialize with other Expats and this is but natural. Most of the crime in Lagos is towards the expats by the poorer locals. Just for a few bucks, they apparently kill.

Interestingly I went to this book store where I got chatting with the book store owner and Tundum (her name, I just like saying it) hooked me up with the African Book Club of Lagos and today I was in a room with 20 women, all expats. As much as that was not the Nigeria I came to experience, it definitely helps me gain some perspective on what the 'oyibos' (white people) think of Nigeria. And also get me to read a lot of African Literature.

A little bit of India in Africa

Last four months I spent in Africa. I met strange people, ate stranger food, walked into juju markets of Nigeria, lost baggage in Mali, danced and sang with Nubians in Egypt, got lost in the medinas of Morocco, dined with Zulus of South Africa, made eye contact with the Mountain Gorillas of Rwanda, relaxed in the beaches of Ghana, cheered for the lioness as she pounced on the wilder-beast in the vast Serengeti plains, and managed to completely avoid winter in Pittsburgh. And here I am, kicking myself for not seeing Ethiopia, Namibia and Bostswana. Life is calling me an ingrate!

I may or may not get into all the details of my trip in this blog, but you shall hear snippets for a long time to come. I met lots of Africans and this was their reaction to India:

Nigeria
'Man! You Indian people never part with your money even though you sleep in golden beds. If we get one Naira (equal to $1/150) from an Indian, we throw a party. By the way, if you didn’t get it, we don't like Indians.’

South Africa
'My great-grandpa was Indian; from Madras. Is Aishwarya Rai from there? One of these days, I would love to see what India is like. We Indians have thrived here from generations, keeping our culture alive. If you think Cape Town is infested with Indians, go to Durban. Can I offer you some chai? '

Mali
'India? Hind? aaahh! (glazed far away look) Where ever you are from, your skin color and hair is great. Wish all Malians could have brown skin and straight black hair.' (touches to see if I am real)

Tanzania
'Indians control all big businesses and keep to their own community. They never let their daughters marry localites and are forever suspicious of us. but you both are very different and friendly.'

Egypt
'You know Amitabh Bacchan? You look like heroine! What eyes! What body! Be my wife. I will give your husband 1000 camels in exchange for an Indian bride. He can have my fat sister too for free. '
[I plan to go to Egypt everytime I need ego boosting]

Ode to Ignatius

‘We’ll have a driver, cook, maid, laundry-boy and even a gardener’, said Pi in order to entice me into following him to Lagos, Nigeria. What he didn’t mention was there was also a pool-boy for the private pool in the backyard for the bungalow. Fume away, fretter all you want, you lesser beings in Western countries who clean your own bathrooms. I was dying to be waited on by my own Men Friday.

Our pot-bellied chef, Ignatius, walked in majestically with a white coat and a chef’s hat. Mentioned he went to chef school. My gastronomic cells jumped in glee. I learnt very soon that Ignatius couldn’t cook. In fact, Ignatius and the word ‘cook’ should never be in the same sentence. But he cooked nevertheless. He had all the signs of a person who wanted to do the right thing – as in cook a decent meal. But he failed every time he tried. His food tasted like something, but we are yet to ascertain what. Some say donkey tastes like that. Even his fried items tasted like cardboard soaked in oil. What he was adept at was making something terrible out of perfectly good ingredients (oil and flour. How? How?). He mixed up coffee and tea; salt and baking powder. After he cooked, the kitchen would look worse than the garbage truck filled with road kill. On top of that, he was a little slow for a human being. It took him three days to comprehend that we were vegetarian.

‘No meat.’
‘No chicken madam?’
‘No, Ignatius.’
‘Oh. I understand madam- o. I know one lady vegetarian. She dey eat no chicken.’ He said in perfect Pidgin English.
‘I am glad you have encountered such species.’
‘Tomorrow I dey make pork chops madam with white sauce.’

What ensued was an hour class on vegetarianism filled with drawings and actions. I gave him a cue cards and cheat sheets. ‘Nothing with eyes.’ He nodded his bulky head. He went shopping muttering 'no eyes..no eyes' and came home with Carp.

‘Ignatius, we don’t eat fish. I told you no eyes.’
‘They cut the head off. See.’
ARRRRGGGGHHH!
‘Oh, madam! You say no chicken, I dey understand. No pork, I dey understand. No beef or mutton, it is very hard. What I dey cook if I dey no cook fish. You come to Nigeria to starve?’

I spend the next two hours showing him how to cook dal and cabbage with whatever I could scrap from the kitchen. Everyday after that, we had decent food except for the fact that dal and cabbage started seeping out of our nostrils every time we breathed. ‘Ignatius, please put a stop to this. If I have one more meal of dal and cabbage, I will combust in my own fart. Ask Alpha madam to give you some recipes. ’ Pi warned and left to work.

So while I was busy working on some project and looking more important than I needed to be, Ignatius waddled up to me, sweating and breathless (he always managed that look even if he was watching TV on the couch),’Madam, Pi sir told me to ask you for recipes.’

Patience wearing thin, I wrote down good Indian recipes and even showed him how to make a few things. Considering he was being paid, I had no intentions of doing the job for him. No one finished my design report for me when I taught chefs how to cook. ‘Ignatius, you better improve, or else!’ He had signs of panic in his eyes and stuttered something about making a decent meal for dinner after he is done grocery shopping. Palak paneer was laid out.

Relishing it, Pi commended my training and said he would congratulate Ignatius the next day. I beamed with pride for my new ward.

That is when I saw empty packets of MTR ready-made palak paneer in the garbage.

[Part of my 4 month stint in Africa after taking a break from work. Now I'm back in Pittsburgh]

Back to being me

Hello there!!! Anyone still lurking? This feels like coming back to a house you abandoned because life handed you a mansion of experiences in exchange for this little hut where you saved memories. I couldn't stray away too long as a familiar sense of happiness dragged me back. On a very bad day, I read my blog and it made me want to be more like Alpha. I just realized how much money I saved by being my own shrink.

Should you run?

For all the years I have known myself, I have wanted to do many things like being able to sing, dance etc.

But I never wanted to run. I hate running. I can't run. I had mixed feelings regarding people who run- pity plus indifference. ‘Tsk tsk, whatever dude’. Sane people run when chased by dogs.

‘Congrats!’ I effused to my friend who completed the Marathon.

‘You can do it too,’ obligatory punctuation followed.

‘Why should I run? No marathon shit for me! In the end what have I achieved? Breathlessness? Naah! ’ I tried to sound positive and sensitive to what he had achieved.

‘Try a half marathon,’ my friend would besiege assuring me that I could definitely do it considering my fitness level and so on. As pandering as it was to my ego, I couldn’t see myself indulging in such a mindless activity.

‘Half Marathon? Yikes! Why would I ever do half of something when I can very well do the full? I would rather run a 5K than something that is called ‘half’ of something. So demeaning!’

‘Call it a 13.1 mile race then.’ He was postively giving me a headache.

‘Bah! It doesn’t just sound cool. I would rather bump my head on a railroad track.’ I despised running.

Just a day (24 hours) after this conversation, I signed up for the half marathon on some whim proving that I can't stand up for what I stand for. I had discovered runners high. I couldn’t stop running and couldn’t explain my predicament to the other non-runners.

Between my training sessions, I had to make a two week trip to India. And I had to run.

The first day my mom was shocked to see me up at 5 am, tying my shoe lace. The last time I woke up at 5 am was when …ermm.. there was no such recorded incident. It was required as it gets too hot after 6 am. Before she could stop me, I was out of the door running in the community feeling on top of the world. This would be great. Being used to run in long stretches on a trail along a river (in my backyard) with squirrels and deer scrambling past, in Bangalore I was encountered with roads that led to other people’s gates. I would have to make an abrupt U-turn just to face another dead end. I was running in a freaking maze- in the dark, bumping into the same house again and again. Out of nowhere, seven neighborhood stray dogs congregated and ran after me. There suddenly seemed to be a point in my running...and running fast! I somehow found my way and bolted into my house, breathless, just after scaring the living daylights off an aunty walking with Nikes and a head scarf. I just barely managed 15 minutes and had enough for the day.

My mom was wringing her hands in fury, ‘What is wrong with you? Why are you running like a mad woman? What will people say? We have to live in this neighborhood you know. You didn’t even have breakfast. What if you fainted?’

Day 2- I decided to run outside the gated compounds of this colony to keep my sanity and my mom’s name intact. So I snuck out early and ran along Bhanerghatta road towards this Shiva temple I knew to have a long secluded road. As I ran, people stopped what they were doing and their eyes followed me till eternity or till the awkwardness stopped (whichever came faster). I almost got run over by a few autos. Avoiding running over some kids sleeping on the ground, I leapt into a garbage dump. If I was training for hurdle race, this would have been so worth it. The secluded road did give me a few jitters when strange people appeared out of nowhere. But I managed a good run that day inspite of the locals wondering what ‘Goddess’ got inside me. I got back home to a livid mom.

‘Where were you? Its 2 hours since you left! I sent your mama in search of you. Stop running. Or if you have to, you better not go before the sun rises! It’s not safe.’

Day 3. Out of despair, I called up a few elite runner friends in Bangalore and got their advice on options. ‘We usually drive to Turali (which is 1 hour away) and then run along this beautiful stretch uphill. Sounded good to me. Plus I would have human company.

‘Can you pick me up from my place?’

‘South Bangalore eh? Then we’d have to wake up at 3 am.’

‘Holy Bambolee! I don’t think I can get permission to leave home that early. You see my mom is more used to me staying out till 3 am. She is having a hard time dealing with this. Plus the watchman would think I am eloping. Too much drama. ’ I was bummed and thought about Pittsburgh fondly when I could run in abandon anytime I wanted.

Day 4. My mom piled on pooris and aalo subzi on my plate and insisted I eat before going off to the gym. The gym, we decided, would be ideal given the situation. I sauntered off whistling towards the community gym letting my mind wander over the feeling I was going to get after the workout. There were at least dozen men in the gym and the swimming pool just sitting around in their hunches staring at me, some brushing their teeth with neem twigs. I smiled and they all just froze mid activity. They were caretakers and not gym users. I walked into this empty gym with rusting equipment. I opened the windows to let some breeze in and walked over to the treadmill. Hmmm….no treadmill. I looked around in vain and went out to ask one of the guys about the mystery of the missing treadmill.

‘Woh andar hai memsaab’ (It is inside)

‘Accha, Dikhta hai kya?’ (Is it visible to naked eye?)

The guy (who is apparently the caretaker or manager of the gym) walked in and scratched his head.

‘Kya bola apne?’ (What did you say?)

‘Treadmill on which you run.’ I did some running action to drive the point.

‘Agar aap kehte hai, toh nahin hoga.’ (If you say so, it probably isn’t here) ‘Aap dumbbell kar sakte hain memsaab’ (You can do dumbbells)

‘What do I do now? Can’t run outside, can’t run inside.’ Crestfallen face met puzzled face of Bahadur Singh.

Bhagna zaroori hai? (Should you run?)

PS: In spite of the Universe trying to conspire against me, I finished the Pittsburgh IKEA Half Marathon on Sept 6th in 2 hours 34 min. I wasn’t the last person to finish. There was a 10 year old. Yippee! Now if I had dogs following me, I would have had much better timing for sure.

Extraordinary people can't be related to

Say Godzilla decides that he wants to have some Indian today. He carries you off and places you on the buffet tray in Taj Mahal Indian restaurant. Definitely a worrisome proposition. You need help. Whom would you turn to?

a. Superman, the guy who paid too much for his chaddi and now needs to show it off.

b. Priya, the girl who flunked in Social Studies- just like you.

If your answer is b, you must be a white Republican suburban hockey mom! Just because you dimwits relate to Sarah Palin, doesn’t mean she can save you from the Godzilla. Go have some paani-poori with this woman and please vote for someone capable. [hint: Obama]

This advertisement is paid by the polar bears, moose, wolves, pigs, gays and people who would like to see less of the bleached wax statue called McCain on TV for the next four years. I might be forced to watch the E! channel (excuses excuses).

Smile Please Madam

We went to a friend’s house to congratulate them on their newly wedded status. They showed us their wedding album. It was a tastefully done coffee book with pictures that didn’t garishly shock, but rather sublimely blend. The pictures showed the bride and groom laughing into each others eyes looking lost in love and there was a picture of their silhouettes walking on the sands of Kovalam beach hand in hand. At the wedding ceremony the people were not even looking directly at the camera. The photography was brilliant and the lighting natural. The album brought a tear in my eye. A tear of abject jealousy and self pity.

‘That sucks!’ I said swallowing back more tears. ‘No, I mean it really sucks’ I tried explaining to the visibly perturbed hosts. ‘Not your album, but ours.’

‘Oh, come on…I bet it is awesome. We must see it sometime when we are your place.’

Both Pi and I cried in unison, ’Nooooo!

I shuddered thinking of the photos and the cameraman from hell (or rather Triplicane). On the album cover was my face, almost murderous, and around the photo was a message in golden letters ‘Heven shower blissings on the happy coupple.’ Next to mine was Pi’s face with his eyes closed…hoping no one could see what he saw.

If he hasn’t burnt them already, Pi guards the photos like a crazed watch dog. His figure not being a perfect ten during those days, made him protest vehemently against the cruel treatment given to Brahmin bridegrooms. ‘Sorry, you can not wear a shirt and the poonal (sacred thread) over that. You will have to go bare-chested.’ they said.

‘Can we wait for a year longer to get married? I could go to the gym or convert to Christianity.’ he begged.

Unfortunately no one even considered it; Pi had to pose without a shirt. I believe the constipated look on the guest’s faces was actually shock mingled with sympathy for me.

So there he was consciously half naked exposing chest hair to open fire and there I was telling him how his tummy was making the priest jealous as I poured some ghee into the flame. At that time, the the cameraman would call out loudly, ‘Madam, look here madam. Can you smile please? Tilt head towards him please and point that little pinky towards the Jupiter if you don’t mind. And while you are at it, could you move to the right so we can get the mapilai’s (groom) love handles in our frame.’

When Pi tied the mangalsutra, the camera guy made me shake hands with Pi and pose. *Click* At first I thought it must be the first kiss equivalent of Indian weddings, but later when he made my brother shake hands with Pi after my brother poured puffed rice into the flame, I was a little confused.

Some things perplex me to date. First, why should there be a videographer in a reception? Second, why is there a band on a stage singing ‘Gemini Gemini Gavani Gavani?’ Third, why should there be a reception at all?

On Pi’s insistence, who was now more comfortable in his Sherwani, I decided to stop making faces at the cameraman. ‘It’s alright. Just deal with it today. Cooperate with him so you look good in the pictures.’

‘Madam, don’t grin. Please look here. Smile saar. Saar, look here saar. Aiyoo Saar, here here!’

‘Ok, who hired this moron!’ Pi was livid.

Video guy would pull people who were in the middle of greeting us and rearrange them beside us and make them stand straight and look directly into the camera while he rolled his video camera to take action shots. The camera guy clicked a still picture to accompany the action shot just in case we missed who presented that plastic tea cup set.

Ohm… Ohm… Ohm! Slow breaths. There will be an end to this. All I have to do is believe in it.

I protested against the filmy poses and he finally gave in. If I lived to tell this tale, I want to retain some dignity. Not a single wild horse was going to make me hold Pi's cheek with one hand and throw my head back in coy abandon. I told him not to bother with any graphics and just do a simple album and video. 'No frills pa.'

‘Aiyoo, how is that possible madam? For all that money, you will have to get all this only no?’ I considered handing him all my jewelry to disappear with the photos forever.

He wanted to do real time computer simulation and dazzle the crowd. It definitely was a crowd puller as we turned around and performed a fake puja to the screen behind us; he morphed the screen with an image of Thirupathi Balaji Yelumalai Venkatesa of Govinda Govinda fame. The audience could see all this and we had no idea what was happening. As we offered flowers to the screen and folded our hands in devotion, the crowd was yelling how close I need to go to the screen to get the flowers falling in the right angle. Next we had to stand with our side profile to the camera. We were being flown to Singapore on this Honeymoon Airlines with our faces sticking out of two windows, one behind the other. Even they were prudent not to get us booked on adjacent seats.

After a few days 3 humungous albums in sets of three and 3 sets of DVDs arrived at the door in a truck. I left my copy back in India giving the airline-baggage-limit excuse. If they ever needed an extra bed, it would come in handy. My mom teared up as she watched the video for he 10th time on the same day. Now I realized who this was for.

Shudder.

I had no courage to watch the video for the longest time. When I finally did in the company of a few drinks and persistent friends, I was pleasantly surprised to see most of our footage replaced with Simran and Surya’s dancing. Then there was the whole computer graphics deal that would put Spielberg to shame. My head splitting into ten and forming a little trajectory into Pi’s eyes. It’s quite possible I actually performed that stunt under those circumstances. I wish he could have turned me into Kali mata with blood dripping from the corners of my mouth and tongue sticking out. Oh well, that wasn’t necessary. From what I saw of myself in that red saree, I came close.

A year later back in India, just as I walked into my parent’s house, I saw a gigantic laminated picture of the both of us looking completely hassled in our wedding garbs, hanging on the wall. The very picture I detested as my hair was all frizzy and Pi was er... fat. Horror of horrors!

‘The nice fellow that he is, Popular Studio guy presented us with two such laminated pictures, for free!’ my mom gushed. ‘The other one is at your in-law’s.’

Kilimanjaro Hakuna Matata

(February 17th)- At breakfast, all of us were so upset that this was coming to an end. The porters sang the Kilimanjaro song and the Hakuna Matata song with high spirits. I can't stop humming it even now.


KILIMANJARO KILIMANJARO KILIMANJARO

KILIMANJARO MILIMA MREEFU SANA,

NA MAWENZI NA MAWENZI NAMAWENZI

NA MAWENZII MILIMA MREFU SANA.

-------------------------------------------------------------

JAMBO JAMBO BWANA,

HABARI GANI? NZURISANA

WAGENI MWAKARIBISHWA
KILIMANJARO HAKUNA MATATA
TWENDE KILIMANJARO HAKUNA MATATA
TWENDENI POLEPOLE HAKUNA MATATA
MLIMA WA KUPENDEZA HAKUNA MATATAA

We gave tips to the porters and they were quite jubilant as it was the day they would go home to meet their families after working so hard for us. One of the porters hollered just as we were breaking camp, "See you tomorrow!" like he would do every day. We laughed. I wanted to say 'Hope not', but I knew that I would miss them even in the comfort of my home, my bed and an attached bathroom. Our Good Earth crew did everything to make us feel comfortable in the harshest situation and for that I will be eternally grateful.

The air in Mweka camp was very festive with most of the campers heading back after a successful climb. By 11.40 am, Pi and I reached the Mweka Gate after 45 miles of walking in the wild and that’s where we had our first tryst with the modern world- clean flushable toilets.

Kilimanjaro in the end wasn't just about the mystical mountain with snow in the middle of Africa. It was about the Chagga people, swahili music, the abundant wildlife, the cheer in the air, the strength of people of all ages who attempt to climb Kilimanjaro, the humility of the best at the face of adversity, the shimmering African sky, the unbelievable vegetation, the hot masala tea, and a pletora of memories that will take me to Kilimanjaro whenever I want to be there.

On Top of Africa!

Mweka Camp (February 16th)

It was brilliant! I was so happy to see the stars and at that point nothing else mattered! No storm! I grinned for an hour straight as I looked to the right at the beautiful silhouette of Mt Mawenzi that we completely missed in the last morning’s storm. Mt Mawenzi is the second tallest peak after Kibo on Mt Kilimanjaro. Everywhere I looked there were little dots of light. The unpolluted African sky with its million stars, the headlamps of resolute people moving in a single file. When you looked up in the darkness, you could mistake the headlamps for the stars, which is well and good. We had a long steep climb. But that didn’t bother me a bit. Instead of being in the tent and counting sheep, I was just happy to be out here, in a place like this, with people like this. This was better than the dream I dreamt about Kilimanjaro. I never felt better than I felt now. I followed Herment and just kept going. Somewhere along the way, Freddie brought out some hot tea in a thermos and we had tea in pitch darkness sitting on rocks. We saw some people returning as they couldn’t go on. It was probably heart breaking for them after having come this far.

We reached Stella point as the sun rose over Mt Mwenzi and the clouds way below us. If I could hold my breath any longer, I sure would have. A sun rise that will stay with me for life. Sat down and enjoyed the moment and then continued on to Uhuru peak (which is the highest point on Kilimanjaro). We were almost there. To the right we could see the Reusch crater and to the left was the Furtwangler glacier. None of the photos that I have ever seen of this place does justice, which is why we went there to testify that. I just can’t imagine what Kilimanjaro would look like without the ice cap. We were there- on the Snows of Kilimanjaro, leaving our foot prints. Sadly, the foot prints and the snows are all transient. By 2020, it is said that this would all disappear due to global warming. But what would remain etched permanently in the Rosetta stone of my mind are these memories. I couldn’t stop taking pictures of this unbelievable sight.

The last strech was the most grueling and killing. I had to keep stopping to take a breather. The dawg was walking like Shankar Dayal Sharma had got into him. Pi had severe headache and was squinting and would sit down every 10 meters. Lee kept moving towards the goal, ‘I just want to get this done with!’ and she kept going with the kind of determination that is so characteristic of her.

The four of us reached the famous marker on Uhuru peak (19,340 ft) together at 8.45 am that day. As I approached it, my weariness withered to give way to a strange kind of sadness. When you know you have reached the top and there is no where else to go, but down. The jubilation was in the journey and not the destination. Somehow for me, seeing the final point didn’t hold the significance it held for everyone else. I know Pi shed a few tears of joy. So did Lee. We spent fifteen minutes on the top of Africa hugging each other, clicking pictures and generally hanging around. Suddenly everyone regained their energy. The power of achieving something was incredible. There were times on this mountain when I felt I couldn’t have come this far. All that was forgotten now; we had done it! The view from the top of Africa was stupendous! I could see years of bragging rights apart from the vast African plains. And mountains that once looked formidable when we were on them, looked like mounds from up here.

We started descending quickly so as to alleviate any symptoms of altitude sickness. We reached Barafu camp for lunch after sliding on loose gravel for most of the way down. Layers were being peeled as we headed down. After we reached Barafu Camp, Professor brought out our celebratory pineapple juice. It was a wonderful feeling to be congratulated by all. Feeling accomplished and in good shape, I decided to venture out and brag to the climbers who were yet to summit. Just then, I had a horrible fall on the rocks (face first). I was lucky to have not broken my skull. I looked like I had a small bar fight with a cut lip, a slit on the forehead, bruised hands and feet.

Leaving the gloomy miserable Barafu camp, we limped down to Mweka camp (10,101 ft). Since we had a late start (with everyone feeling out of sorts) and stopping for Kilimanjaro beer, we reached Mweka camp at 9 pm in the dark after maneuvering some treacherous downhill (slippery granite rocks). I fell three times again and by that time I was aching from butt to head. At one point I just sat down in the middle and refused to move. Somehow after the summit, you don’t expect anything more difficult, but this downhill part butchered me.

We had our final dinner in the mountain after 17 hours of constant hiking without a wink of sleep. It was the toughest, yet most exciting day of my life. Every part of my body was badly hurt, but sleep evaded me and for the first time in 6 days, I was out like a lightening. With the summit in our pockets, I guess nothing really worried me now. I could sleep.

Highest Camp on Kili

Barafu Camp (February 15th)- Steep uphill, but only 5 hours long to Barafu Camp (15,000 ft) which is also called the base camp. The weather was very bad- Freezing rain and sleet all the way to camp. Visibility was at an all time low and so was our spirits. With our gloves wet, our hands were freezing. The climb was unrelenting. Oxygen was rare and we were left gasping for breath after every step we took. It would have been a cake walk in lower altitudes, but at these altitudes everything became hard- even saying ‘Damn!’. So we moved slowly and very quietly. For once I didn’t feel compelled to chatter on. Herment gave a silent prayer of thanks. We saw many others struggling here for a good measure. Chipped and Broken rocks that looked like shale were all over the place and beyond that all we could see was an engulfing curtain of haze. We reached Barafu camp in these conditions and were completely spent. We make the summit push tonight, in the dark.




We saw many people who had just summited and come back to base camp by mid day. They didn’t look too cheery either. We were too tired to even talk to them. Barafu camp was on a desolate exposed ridge with a huge clutter of tents placed uncomfortably on huge boulders. There was garbage strewn in places and toilets in inaccessible areas. To get to a toilet, we had to climb over huge boulders and scramble with our hands. This took every ounce of our strength. And then there was the activity of defecating itself. On top of that we had to drink and eat more to combat AMS and couldn’t avoid the input-output cycle. This was way too much work.


We were told to sleep in the afternoon when the sun came out for a brief time and solarized our tents as we baked inside with our 5 layers. As we started peeling the layers, it started freezing again. If anyone was complaining that they weren’t getting enough exercise, I think they were well taken care of. We were woken up at 6 pm for dinner and made to eat a hearty meal. Herment warned us about ‘Loss of Appetite’ at these elevations. Pi wondered what he meant by that as he hoarded the third helping of pasta. Loss of appetite was one side effect of Altitude none of us experienced. The food was just good. Herment, Freddie and Anthony (the head honchos) all walked into our tent as we were finishing up with dinner and stood solemnly. Hermant began to speak (for he knew English) ‘The moment is here my friends. We are finally going to make it to the summit and you all should be very happy to have come this far. I am sure you are very excited for the final summit push that will start at 11 pm tonight. Does anyone have any concerns?’




‘Will the storm go away?’ I asked like a 10 year old.


‘I think it is better if it rains as the temperatures will be warmer.’ This was Herment’s way of putting my mind at ease and seeing the positive of something as horrid as the weather outside. This time I thought he was mad and so I prayed hard for the skies to clear up. I tried sleeping, but was too damn excited and anxious. We nibbled on some snacks at 10.30 pm, wore all clothing we had including 3 pairs of socks and pulled ourselves out of the tents with our head lamps. The Dawg had a hard time moving, let alone pulling himself out of his tent. Looking like well fed polar bears; we were ready to hit the trail. Barely able to move, our guides led the way. Herment offered to carry my bag as he had nothing on him. This one time, I gladly obliged. I can’t thank him enough for this. Even that little pack with water and rain gear became a huge burden as we crawled higher. Better to conserve my energy than to act heroic, I thought. The Dawg spent the majority of his hike calling me a cheater for offloading my bag on Herment and when Herment offered to carry his bag, he happily obliged.




Ready for the midnight summit push

Valentines Day Drill

Karanga Camp (February 14th)- Valentines day! We acknowledged it by going, ‘Guess what, its Valentines Day.’ That’s as much energy we were willing to part with for this day. I was forced to take a picture with Pi and that was that.



Freddie with his transistor
The Dawg dancing to Swahili music

Herment pointed at a vertical wall next to our campsite that we would be climbing to get to Karanga camp. ‘Its very easy hike today’ he said. I had stopped believing this guy..for a good measure too. Last time he said it was easy, I was willing to trade my life for a day in Hell.

Fearless leader- Herment

So there we were, scrambling up the ‘Breakfast Wall’, which is a rather tame name for something that needed all the four limbs to maneuver. Very scary in parts, almost vertical but mostly fun. Gained altitude pretty quick and passed some lovely valleys walking amidst the clouds. Had to stop and look back to sigh at the pretty sight that we would leave behind. After we caught sight of the Karanga camp (which seemed like we could reach it in 5 minutes), there was still an hour of downhill to Karanga valley and uphill.

Antony helping Lee

Karanga valley was the last source of water. So from now on, porters would carry all the water for the rest of the days. We would be very prudent with our usage. No more water balloon throwing activities.

We had hot lunch at Karanga Camp ( 13,300 ft) and spend the afternoon playing cards as hail and rain pounded our tents. I had a terrible headache that wouldn’t go away, so I took Tylenol. The headaches subsided, but came back with a vengeance at night. The weather calmed down and the clouds parted to reveal Kibo for maybe 10 minutes. I watched with awe the symphony of ice and rock, intertwined in harmony. Even as we neared the peak, I had a sense that Kibo was mocking our unwise fortitude. That night when I came out to take a pee break, I could see the city lights from Moshi and Arusha under me, the stars shining over me and the moonlit peak of Mt. Kilimanjaro. There was a lightening and for a brief second, the place lit up to reveal the other tents in the Karanga Camp. I shivered as I plowed my way into the tent and spent sometime doodling in my little dairy. I switched off my head lamp to conserve the batteries and spent some hours flopping like a seal unable to sleep. With depleting oxygen levels, every activity including eating became hard. I would yawn and spend the next few minutes panting and puffing. Acclimatization was in progress as we spent more time in the mountain. It was definitely getting tougher to remain upbeat.

The peak from our tent and the toilet

Doubts creep in

Baranco Camp (February 13th)- Thank God for the Ziploc, I could sleep better (one full hour)and not make half a dozen trips to the stinky bathroom in the middle of the night. Wish it was simple as ‘going to the loo’. It’s a HUGE process. Unzip yourself out of your sleeping bag, quickly wear your outer layers (inner fleece-outer fleece jacket-down jacket-rain pants-winter hat), zip yourself out of the tent, yank on stuck zipper, wrestle with it for 10 minutes, give up, squeeze yourself out from a 10 inch hole like toothpaste, fall in a heap outside, shudder at how cold it is, collect yourself, orient yourself to the general direction you want to travel, move towards origin of smell, trip over rocks in pitch dark, turn on your head lamp, get blinded and trip again, reach bathroom, remember you forgot to get toilet paper, curse, rewind, play, make way back in freezing rain holding nose.

Ziploc- I owe you my life.

Sometimes, I would be mesmerized with the beauty of the night. The zillion stars that light up the African night, like no other place I have seen. The serenity of the mountain, as it is suddenly seems to belong to me alone. Solitude was a treat in Kilimanjaro. Seeing the rounded peak against the moonlight validated my being there, in the night, all by myself, going to pee.

The morning, just when I was declaring how well I slept, I had some symptoms of altitude sickness. I felt like puking while eating breakfast. The Dawg suddenly came to my recue,’ Hold it in! Hold it in! Do not puke!’ I tried tilting my head backwards, then suddenly I ran outside the tent and emptied the contents of my bowels, Malaria pill included. What the?! How does one hold puke in?

I felt very apprehensive about the rest of the days to come. Especially since I couldn’t hold the puke in as I was supposed to. Leela told me not to let this get to me and that sometimes achieving something is just a state of mind. I nodded weakly while lying on the tent floor getting my energy back. Herment, our guide, came to my tent and told me not to worry and that this is quite common. ‘I get sick too’. Herment had this uncanny way of putting people at ease at the most grueling times and I thank him for it even though sometimes we knew he was just saying things that he really didn’t mean. He did it very nonchalantly without creating a fuss. ‘Also if you feel like throwing up again, don’t try to hold in!’ That does it! I am convinced The Dawg is has been sent to twart my plans of making it to the top!

I felt instantly better as we moved away from the camp and Kibo came to full view again. We walked though some amazing expanse of Moorland vegetation (consisting of some huge cacti) and some black volcanic boulders. The vast starkness of the landscape was mind-blowing and we continued to prod on as the air became thinner. We reached an altitude of 14,000 ft after which we would descend to 12,850 ft to camp. This is the best mantra to acclimatize- Climb High and Sleep Low.

The Dawg declared that he was developing cerebral edema and we laughed at him like good friends should. ‘Dude, that's your Gatorade spilling on your ear.'

In fact his delusions in the mountain didn’t stop there. Every time he came back from the shithouse panting and puffing, he would declare he just had childbirth. His kids surely didn’t take after the mom.

I had lunch in a hailstorm. That’s one thing I would advice you not to put in your list to check off. It was brutal till it lasted. Though it was pounding with all kinds of white substance from the skies, it didn't last long. Downhill usually doesn’t bother me and I had a wonderful time admiring the snow covered landscape and then all of a sudden the clouds parted to my left and we got the glimpse of Kibo yet again, suddenly so close and so majestic. My heart skipped a few beats as I looked up. Nothing could be so perfect and nothing could take this moment away from me. I just sat down on a rock and admired this wonderful creation on earth. I could see the Heim and Kerstein Glacier , beautiful, though receding. A few glacial streams that cascaded down as little waterfalls adorned the path. The giant cacti (Senecio Kilimanjari) surrounded the landscape rendering this picture very illusory. I wished hard for one thing. I hoped to remember this for a long time to come. We had walked for 8 hours straight and were completely exhausted when we reached Baranco Camp (12,850 ft) right under the shadow of Kibo. To the other side was the vast plains of Africa and could spot the city of Moshi way below us. We felt very high and very cold.
Pi and the Dawg staggered into camp an hour later looking completely drained off every ounce. The Dawg collapsed in his tent refusing to come out for dinner. We literally dragged him out. The Dawg suddenly realized that this was not easy and for the first time he started having self doubts. He started talking fondly of his wife (This was highly concerning). He was in pain and had slight fever. Pi had a terrible headache, which is usually associated with high altitudes. Lee’s feet were hurting from an ankle sprain. But luckily everyone could speak two words before they retired into their sleeping bags.

To Pee or not To Pee