'sA-dE . com

The Ubiquitous Mr. Bacon

This past weekend, Capt Mike and I, along with Capt Mike's brother, Dave, and Dave's girlfriend, Joyce, took a little roadtrip to the island of Manhattan. Empire City. The City That Never Sleeps. The Big Apple. Okay, you get the picture. New York, N.Y.
Here are some of the things we learned on our whirlwind little tour:

(1) Dogs are not allowed at Rockefellar Plaza
Yes, we took Dexter with us. Kenneling him for two weekends in a row would have been just plain cruel, and New Yorkers, well, most New Yorkers, love dogs. As for Rockefeller Plaza, I am not sure if this is a general rule, or if it was just the security gaurd working that day, since as we were leaving I heard him mention to a colleague how much he hated dogs.

(2) Dexter is a rockstar almost everywhere we go
Seriously, this dog can't go anywhere without people fawning all over him. Someone in Times Square actually wanted to buy him from me.

(3) We really are all connected to Kevin Bacon
Anyone who reads this blog probably knows me personally, and therefore anyone reading this blog has just instantly become one degree of separation closer to Kevin Bacon. He and his lovely wife Kyra walked past us as we were imbibing gin and tonics on a patio on Amsterdam Avenue. My first reaction was "That guy in the ball cap looks vaguely familia...holy crap, that's Kevin Bacon." Of course, that all just happened in my head... it was Dave who actually called out "Hey Kevin!" and was acknowledged.

(4) New York isn't as intimidating or tall as it looks on TV
Everyone looked pretty normal. That whole Sex in the City thing about how everyone in Manhattan is a model and super tall and thin is completely untrue from what I saw. Yeah, all the women working in the stores in SoHo have probably auditioned for American's Next Top Model, but for the most part, New Yorkers look like the rest of us plebians.

(5) Radishes and butter taste good together
We went to Prune for dinner on Saturday night, on the recommendation of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations. Instead of a basket of bread, we started the meal off with a wooden plate of radishes, whipped butter, and sea salt. Who'd have known what a flavour sensation that'd be?

(6) You can have too many Pottery BarnsHilly Krystal, founder of CBGB, died shortly before our trip. After dinner at Prune, we walked around the corner to Bowery to pay our respects at the make-shift shrine that had been set up in front of what had once been the club's doors. Those doors may have closed for the last time 10 months ago, but here's to hoping that it won't end up as another high-priced box store selling faux character for yuppy lofts.

| Comments (0)

Whirlwind vacation

Capt Mike and I just got back from a bit of a whirlwind vacation. We went to visit his parents in Trinidad and Tobago. It was such a whirlwind, in fact, that we neglected to take a single picture while we were there! Which I suppose just means that we will have to go back again some day.
There seems to be a rather large Canadian presence in Trinidad. The school where Capt Mike's dad works in run by Canadians, most of the teachers are Canadians, and quite a few of the people I encountered in passing had lived in Canada at one time or another in their lives. The ferry boat that goes between Trinidad and Tobago each day is the same one that operates between Newfoundland and Nova Scotia during the summer months. It has both the Canadian and Trinidadian flags painted on the side.
While Tobago is pretty much the stereotypical island paradise kind of tourist destination, Trinidad is a much more industrialized island. It has some nice beaches and rain forests, apparently, but Port of Spain is a loud, busy, crazy, sprawling, urban mess. Driving is to be done at your own risk. As I was reminded numerous times during our short stay, the stop lights are merely strong suggestions. Trinidad also has a fairly high crime rate, and the news media are not shy to report on it. Gruesome accounts of the previous night's most shocking murders or assaults are the headlining stories on many morning papers. The crime stems largely from the huge divide between the ridiculously wealthy and the unbelievably destitute. Despite vast natural resources (oil) that are the envy of the other Caribbean nations, the wealth doesn't trickle down much past the top layer of Trinidad's political elite. There is also a pretty large drug problem, and it would appear that the only people more bent than the drug lords and politicians are the police.
Tobago is only a few kilometres to the northeast, but it's a world away. Few of the crime and drug problems have been exported to Tobago as of yet, and Tobagonians would like to keep it that way. In Trinidad, many stores on the street require you to be buzzed in by the staff. In Tobago, the owner of a record stand left his shop unattended to go back home to get a copy of the CD Capt Mike was looking for.
I just wish we'd remembered to take some pictures.

| Comments (0)

Last chance to see

Sadly, Capt. Mike and I seem to have a knack for timing our travels quite well. First, the melting snows of Kilimanjaro, and now the Great Barrier Reef:

Australia's barrier reef could die within decades: UN report (CBC News)

"Australia's Great Barrier Reef could be "functionally extinct" within decades, warns a leaked portion of a major United Nations report on climate change.

A confidential draft of the report, prepared by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), was leaked to Australia's The Age newspaper.

It warns warmer, more acidic seas could severely bleach coral in the world-famous reef as early as 2030. Recovery from such bleaching could take decades, the draft report warns.

However, if seas continue to warm, the coral could be killed outright, says the report."

So, if there's a species or world heritage site you'd like to see come to a premature end, let us know. We're still looking for a honeymoon destination.

| Comments (2)

Stuck between a rock and a rock....and I liked it

You will have to excuse me my delinquent ways when it comes to my total inability to blog while down under. I think it had something to do with needing both hands to hang on for dear life, in case I got sucked into the big, black, vaccuum of space.

It was quite a trip, I will say that much. A whirwind, really. Sydney, The Red Centre, Ayer's Rock, Cairns, The Reef, Brisbane, The Hunter Valley, and back to Sydney again to say farewell.

I will try to relate some of the more interesting anecdotes in the coming weeks, but for now, I figured I should concentrate on what most people would think of as the most important event to transpire over the holiday... Capt. Mike and I got engaged. On top of Ayer's rock, no less. The son of a gun snuck it by me, too. I was, apparently, the only person who didn't think it was going to happen, let alone have prior warning.

So, you will have to forgive me if the details of the rest of the vacation are a bit hazy or vague. Australia's awe-inspiring landscape and rugged terrain were overshadowed by a rock of a completely different colour (almost colourless, to be exact). But I will do my best to update my Yahoo! photo albums asap so that you don't get too bored by all the prenuptial preparations.

| Comments (2)

Remember: keep to the left

You have no idea how many times I had to tell myself that today between 10 am and noon. You see, that's when I was trying to navigate myself from the Sydney Airport to my hotel downtown, in my little light blue Hyundai Accent. Things I have learned so far while in the land where the water spins backwards down the bowl:

1- I really never paid much attention to which way the water spun in the northern hemisphere
2- Driving on the other side of the road isn't that much of a big deal except that
3- Everyone in Sydney seems to have learned to drive from a Montrealer
4- Starbucks over-roasts their beans everywhere

My flights here were uneventful. I got to stretch out on two seats from T.O. to LAX, and then sat by the window next to two older retired women from Palm Springs who trade houses with people in other countries every year. It's amazing what you can do via the internets these days.

Tomorrow I pick up Capt. Mike at the airport. Hopefully it's not as confusing as it was to navigate myself away from it this morning. I hope he recognizes me.

| Comments (1)

Somewhere beyond the sea...

Way, way, way beyond the sea. Australia is freaking far away. It will take 20 hours in the air for me to get there. Even Capt. Mike, already halfway around the world it seems, will have a 15 hour flight to Sydney.

But today's the day my journey starts.

| Comments (1)

30 Days

... and counting! And how! Just 30 days before I set off for the land of Oz!

Capt Mike and I have just finished finalizing the plans for our trip. I will be arriving on Nov. 3, and he will fly in the following morning. From Sydney, we'll fly to Ayers Rock, where I've booked us on a sunrise climb of the Rock followed by a picnic lunch in the desert. After that, we head northeast to Cairns, where we'll be staying in an Oceanview apartment for a week, during which we'll learn how to dive and go on an overnight trip to the Great Barrier Reef. We'll then fly to Brisbane, where we're renting a car, and driving back down to Sydney, stopping along the way in Surfer's Paradise and The Hunter Valley wine-growing region. And one our last night in Australia, we're booked on a climbing tour of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Because a vacation isn't a vacation in Capt Mike's eyes unless he's scaled something.

I can't wait!

| Comments (2)

There and back again

It's nice to be home. San Francisco was a nice place to visit, one I hope to travel to again some day, but I am glad to be back in the land of snow and ice.

I think the thing that struck me most about the city was the massive divide between rich and poor. The contrast was really quite startling. Within a five-block radius of my hotel, there was a Saks Fith Avenue, Tiffany's, Emporio Armani, Burberry, and a myriad of small, one-off, high-end boutiques. Outside of that 5-block radius, it was pretty much Crackton. There didn't seem to be the same sort of "middle class" that there is here. Granted, I didn't get to see much outside of the downtown area, but it was definitely very different from a comparably sized Canadian city, like Ottawa (SF population estimate for 2004: 751 682; Ottawa population 2005: 774 072). The biggest visible difference was definitely the level of poverty and homelessness. Even in Toronto, a city more than twice the size of SF (and that is not counting the GTA), I have never seen so many visibly disturbed, addicted, violent, or physically disabled people forced out onto the streets.

I know that Canada's got a lot of problems, most of which are being used as talking points during the leadership debates as we gear up for our January election. But I can't reconcile how a country who has left so many of its own citizens behind and without access to basic human necessities is at all qualified to be telling other sovereign nations how to install responsible governments.

| Comments (1)

The SF Observer

Further observations on life in northern California:

Pedestrian traffic: People here walk like they drive in Montreal. Maybe it's because there are so many tourists, and as a rule, tourists behave like lemmings. There is definitely a disconnect between the brain and the feet. Two simple words to live by: shoulder check.

Retail: The retailers here seem to be more interested in singnig me up for credit than in helping me navigate their merchandise. Only one store, Nordstrom's, actually had a salesperson approach me who wanted to know if she could be of any help. Unfortunately, everything was too expensive for me to be able to reward her excellent customer service with a purchase.

Overall, my trip is actually proving quite pleasant. Business at the exhibit is a bit slow, but the people who do drop by are all very nice and seem to be genuinely interested in what we have to say.
This evening, we're going to take a little trip down to Fisherman's Wharf and hopefully eat some seafood, and pick up some fun postcards.

| Comments (1)

San Francisco Treat

That's right, sports fans. I am blogging from San Francisco. Actually, I've been here since Thursday night. I've been delinquent in updating lately, I know, but with good reason. Moving from O-town to "the P-dot" (dont' blame me, I didn't coin the term) is quite time consuming.

But that's all done now, and here I am blogging to you from sunny San Francisco, a balmy 17 C. That's right. I said blamy. I left -20 in Ottawa, so anything without a negative sign in front of it feels pretty darn nice.

So, why am I here? I'm attending the American Society for Cell Biology annual meeting. Mostly, I am helping run the exhibit booth for my employer, trying to attract papers to our biomedical journals. It's going quite well so far.

I will try to write more later, but for now a few things I've noticed about the city:

Environment: Superficially, very clean. There are people constantly sweeping the streets and sidewalks. Sort of like Disney World.

Friendliness: With the exception of the woman at the TravelEx who wouldn't cash my traveller's cheques, it's very congenial. I dropped my scarf on the street twice ont he first day, and both times people drew my attention to it. The service staff at the hotel are all very helpful and friendly, and ridiculously apologetic if they take what they think is too long to serve you. They must run into some pretty obtuse customers I guess.

Time in SF before someone asked me if I was from Toronto: Less than two hours. When I finally did manage to find a bank taht could cash my traveller's cheques, the teller saw my Canadian passport and asked if I was from the T-dot. "No, I'm from Ottawa," I replied. "Oh. Where's that?" she asked. I just mumbled that it was about 4 hours east of Toronto, and refrained from adding that it was our nation's capital.

Cost of Living: Ridiculous. $2.75 for a 375 mL bottle of water, Aquafina, which is really just glorified tap water. At that price, I should be getting more mineral, less plasticky aftertaste.

| Comments (2)

Finally!

I've gotten my photos back and am slowly organizing them. The first album, Zanzibar 2005, is available on my Yahoo! site.

Hopefully more will be available shortly, with links from here to follow.

Update
All of the photos are uploaded and organized into albums.
Jozani Forest

Kilimanjaro

Safari

| Comments (2)

Every day a little closer

Dissecting Kilimanjaro

Day 0: Slowly, slowly, at your own suitable pace

You arrive at Kilimanjaro Airport in the mid afternoon. The air here is cooler than in Zanzibar, less moist. You do not feel as though you are closer to the equator. You gather your luggage, what is left of it after Air Canada and British Airways have done their worst, and are met at the gate by a representative from the Hotel.

The drive to Moshi is about an hour. You pass children herding goats and Maasai women carrying buckets of water on their heads. Every nook and cranny of land is used for something: Sunflowers, grazing, an impromptu garbage dump. The road is surprisingly smooth and well paved, though narrow. The driver honks the horn approximately 37 times during the course of the trip. Here, you honk to say "Hello", or "I'm coming", or "Mind your goat". Friendly honks, attention-getting honks, but never impatient "get your ass in gear" honks.

The hotel is surrounded by a high cement wall with shards broken glass stuccoed into the top and the large metal gate is gaurded by men with AK-47s. You are torn between feelings of security and vulnerability.

You check in, are told of your briefing at 5:00 pm, and escorted to your room. Staff carry your packs on their heads, show you how to turn on the hot water, where the light switches are. The room is small and modest, but comfortable. It's only one night.

The hotel receptionist delivers the briefing like a nursery rhyme. She has done this a thousand times. She has a rythm. The key take home message: "Slowly, slowly, at your own suitable pace". Every hike's description, for every route, starts with this phrase. It is the mantra of Kilimanjaro. When she is done, she introduces you to your guide, Chitanda. He's young, maybe 22 or 23. He has been a guide since 2001, and has climbed the mountain twice a month every month since then. Machame, the route you will be taking, is his favourite route. He says it's hard, but that most people succeed on it, and that's what he likes to see. He is raising money to go to University to become a mechanical engineer. His brother is a guide as well, taking people on Safari. You feel more confident having met Chitanda. He knows what he is doing, and can tell just by looking at you whether or not you will make it.

At dinner you meet a woman from New York, which she pronounces New Yawk. She was on the mountain for one night and then "did something stupid" to her knee. She tells you that the altitude sickness will hit you earlier than you expect, and that it's dreadfully cold. She has no words of encouragement; she also has no limp. The receptionist had warned you of the poisonous "blah blah blah" that people coming off the mountain might have to say. You smile politely, because that's what people from New Yawk expect of Canadians, and disregard everything else she says.

Day 1: I don't know what it is, but I like it

Toilet paper? Check. Three litres of water? Check. Day pack organized? Check. Will three bottles of hand sanitizer be enough? Do I have emergency telephone numbers in an easily accessible compartment? Maybe I should get more toilet paper.

The bus is crammed full of climbers, guides, porters, and eggs. There are dozens of eggs. You wonder who will be responsible for carrying them, and how. The ratio of porters to hikers is about 3:1. You drive through Moshi, make one last pit stop to pick up what appears to be more eggs and some kerosene, and then continue on your way to Macahame gate. The paved road soon gives way to a dirt one, then to a single dirt lane, and finally to thick red mud. The bus struggles with the mud, the porters and guides get out to push it up the hill. About 40 feet from the gate, the bus gives up entirely. Everyone files off the bus and walks past throngs of porter hopefuls selling ponchos and bag covers. No longer carrying such a heavy load, the bus can now slowly drive through the gates. You sign in at the ranger's office, read the posted notices informing you how to identify altitude sickness. Chitanda hands you your lunch box. When everyone is organised, you are introduced to your team. Each porter can carry 25 kg, plus his own gear. You have 6 porters, a waiter, an assistant guide, and Chitanda assigned to your team. You try to remember everyone's names, but it's all happening so quickly, and you feel like you're in the way.

You begin to climb through the thick red mud. You're in a rain forest. Tree ferns, Lobelia, campher all tower around you. The only noise is your breathing and the occasional limb falling. You crack a lame joke about how "they really do make a sound". You're hiking with an American, Robert, and two Brits, Ed and John. You will later learn that John is actually from Ireland, so the term Brit is probably politically incorrect.

Up, up, slowly, slowly, at your own suitable pace. After about an hour and a half, you reach the lunch spot. You open your packed lunch: a hard boiled egg, a bottle of mango juice, a bun, a piece of chicken, some sponge cake, peanuts, and an unidentifiable sausage-like concoction. It's crispy on the outside. Inside...what is that? Mashed potato? And some sort of meat. You don't know what it is, but you like it. Even after someone mentions how much it reminds them of haggis. Lunch is eaten quickly, and afterward you decide to investigate the mountain's offerings in the way of toilet facilities. A quick inspection leads you to the following decision: the bushes look very inviting. As long as there is still vegetation, you will squat in the bushes. Somehow, and this is a stretch, that seems more civilized.

The hike continues, slowly. Eventually, the trees and ferns start to get shorter, thinning out. By late afternoon, you've arrived in the heather zone, and reached your first camp, Machame. The porters have beat you there. Your packs have been unloaded outside of your tent, already set up. Kamil, your waiter, brings hot water to wash your face and hands. Then, popcorn and tea in your mess tent. The mess tent is also where Kamil sleeps. His pack, an old canvas school bag held together with safety pins and twine, rests in a corner.

A few games of hangman, and then a candlelight dinner back in the mess tent. Romantic, despite having to crouch over the table to avoid hitting your head on the tent ceiling. Mushroom soup, Irish stew with potatoes, and lady finger bananas for dessert. Maybe it is the fresher, thinner air, but everything tastes so much better up here.

By the time dinner is over, it is dark. You stumble back to your tent. Tomorrow night, you will remember to bring a flashlight. You get changed quickly...it's already quite cool, and climb inside your sleeping bag. Thirty minutes later, you climb back out. This happens five more times during the course of the night. By morning, you have sworn off Diamox for good. You're going to need your sleep.

Day 2: This is not good

Eggs. That's why there were so many eggs on the bus. You each get two eggs for breakfast, scrambled, served with toast, a wiener, fresh fruit, and porridge. You drink as much tea as you can stomach, and give your empty water bottles to Kamil to refill with boiled water left to cool overnight. The day begins quickly. You reorganise your packs, and set off while the tents are dismantled. The porters will pass you soon enough. They do this three or four times each month. Their pace is so much stronger, even though some of them wear sandals and they are carrying so much more weight than you are. You almost feel lazy, but you know that this adds to your chance of success.

Despite having to get up so many times last night, you slept well. Others are not so lucky. Robert, on his own in his tent, has no ambient body heat to keep him warm. It was a rough night, and will likely only be more so the further up you go. Today's goal, Shira hut, elevation 3800 m.

You continue walking through the heather lands, shrubberies occasionally punctuated by Gladiola and giant Senecio. White-necked ravens scavenge for pieces of egg at the lunch site. You pass by caves and rock overhangs. In front of one is a large mound of flowers. This, Chitanda tells you, marks the spot where a porter was caught in the rain two months ago. He was not properly equipped, and died of exposure. You feel unsure how to pay your respects. Add another flower? A moment of silence? You take a deep breath before continuing on.

Not long after, the gurgling starts. It can't be. Not now. You can make it to camp. You'll make it to camp, and... there is no vegetation at camp. You will have to use the outhouse. You did not want this to happen here. This is not good. Maybe that's all there is. Maybe it won't happen again. You go back to the tent and lie down. Now you have to pee. There is still Diamox in your system. You know that if you have to stay up all night doing this, you will surely go insane. That outhouse. On your next trip out of the tent, you scout around for a well hidden rocky nook. It's almost too late. This is really not good. You have to bring out the big guns. Immodium and Cipro. You have only tea at dinner, and retire to bed early. The medication kicks in quickly, but the gurgling continues without its nastier side effects well into the night, leaving your stomach bloated and taught. Tonight, you will have to leave the tent only twice.

Day 3: Look Ma, no ropes!

Day three starts out slowly, but the gurgling has stopped. You still feel sluggish, and are speaking a little bit like Stevie from Malcolm in the Middle. Pole pole. Slowly, slowly. Your own suitable pace is positively elephantine. Today, you will be climbing up to 4600 m, but then quickly coming back down to 3940 m as you make your way along the Barranco wall. The Cipro has left your skin more sensitive than usual. The sun is hot, the lack of vegetation providing no shade from its rays and no shelter from the wind. The landscape has given way to an alpine desert. Brown and beige. Stone dust.

The lava tower is good for acclimatization. And when they say tower, they really mean tower. A sheer rock face. You're going to be free climbing. You haven't been bouldering in four years, and even then, you were only a foot away from a soft rubber mat to break your fall. You freeze, you want to climb back down five seconds after you've started. You don't want to pull your body away from the wall to navigate around the outcropping. Your arms aren't long enough, are they? Your legs certainly aren't. A group of American male climbers are on their way down, and you're in their way. You retreat, and climb down. They make it look so easy, one after one, descending the wall. They strengthen your resolve. They don't call you "little lady", but you know they're thinking of it. After the last one descends (he was a little hesitant, too), you climb back on. Don't look down. Just breathe. Pole pole. Put your hands where Chitanda's were. Follow his footholds. Your legs are long enough. Your arms are long enough, and stronger than you thought. You make it to the top. The view. The glacier seems so close now. How can it take three more days? You really climbed up here.

You descend rapidly toward Barranco camp, following a glacial stream. A thin ribbon oasis bordered by Lobelia, colourful birds flirting with the icey water.

Day 4: Hot lunch

The American isn't looking very good. The nights are getting colder. His rented sleeping bag provides little comfort. He sleeps with a hot water bottle clutched to his chest. When it cools down, he wakes and spends the rest of the night shivering.

Today is a short day. The other hikes have all been between 5 and 7 hours. Today, you will arrive at the next camp by noon, in time for a hot lunch. You are taking an extra acclimatization day, along with Ed and John. You will be making camp just above the Karanga valley, while Robert, the American, continues on to base camp.

You scale the Barranco wall. It's steep, in places not unlike the tower from yesterday. Ascending 200 m takes you more than an hour. As you grip the rocks with white knuckles, porters pass you balancing large packs on their heads, perfect posture, as though they're just climbing stairs. Four-strip mice scitter across the path.

Up and down. Up and down. This is why the Machame route has a reputation for being difficult, but also why more of its climbers are successful. Chitanda believes you will be together to the top.

At dinner, you learn sad news. Robert has had to go back down. Pulmonary edema. He made it as far as Karanga when his guide heard the distinctive rattle in the chest. Others are starting to experience headaches and loss of appetite. Knock on wood.

At this altitude, you are looking down on the clouds. The entire milky way stretches out above you. Constellations you've never seen before. Scorpio. The Southern Cross. Sky meeting sky at the horizon.

Day 5: Every day a little closer

Another short day. Three hours to Barafu, the base camp. A hot lunch. Get as much rest as you can. Drink a lot of water. The pace is so slow, it's almost painful. You must conserve your energy. Tonight, at 11 pm, you will be woken up with tea and biscuits. At midnight, you begin the trek to the summit. By dawn tomorrow morning, you will have ascended almost 2000 m.

The landscape is all rock now, almost martian. The only other life forms are the ever present white-necked ravens. You try to get as much sleep as possible, but by now, a headache has slowly begun to creep up along your neck, nesting in the base of your skull.

The summit influences its own weather system. You wake up at about 10 pm, freezing rain pelting the outside of your tent. You have to pee again. You crawl outside, everything covered with ice. The air is a bright white. Static electricity. You crouch along the rocks, not wanting to tempt fate or lightning. You want to share this sight with someone, but it's too cold, and we are all so tired. You creep back into your tent and doze off.

Day 6: The longest yard

Midnight. You follow a long serpentine line of headlamps slowly ascending to the summit. The headache was gone for a little while, but soon comes back. Exposure, dehydration, exhaustion. Each step no more than 6 inches. You collapse onto a rock, wanting to give up, but each time you are urged on. Your cheerleader. You love him and hate him at the same time. This is the most amazing thing I have ever done. How could you do this to me? It's harder and harder to get back up, but you do. You've come this far.

The sun rises with 50 m to go to the top of the rim. For every step you take, you slide back half. The ground is rock, dust, and sand. You have so little energy left, and don't know where that is coming from. You could fall asleep where you stand. You reach Stella point. The placard reads 5758 m. You can go no further. The headache is back, angry to have been neglected for so long. You actually do begin to fall asleep where you stand. The cold is starting to take over. A quick photo, and your guide points you back down the mountain. You must lean heavily. You are no longer in control of your legs. They give out twice on the way down, as you slide along on your heels. Half the time, Chitanda is dragging you. He gives you some juice, and tells you about the pictures of Vancouver his brother sent him.

At the campsite, you crawl into your tent, half delirious with exhaustion. Kamil brings more juice, and water. You fall asleep before you can thank him.

At noon, you must walk again. Down this time, the air thicker with every step. No more pole pole. Hustle. They sell Coca-cola at the Mweke hut. Only one more night in a tent. One more night until you can have a hot shower. One more night crouching in bushes.

After dinner, you thank the guides, and give them their tips. You tell them that at the gate you will be giving them the gear you don't need anymore. A ski jacket, toque, gaiter, and camelback.

You don't need to leave the tent at all that night.

Day 7: I just climbed a freaking mountain

The last 6 days seem surreal. Did it even really happen? You walk down to the gate so quickly, the buses aren't even ready for you yet. The only thing on your mind is a hot shower and a beverage other than tea or water. The elements have not been kind to your skin. Chunks of face are peeling off, and you're sure everyone is staring. But you just climbed a freaking mountain. You're entitled.

| Comments (5)

Almost there!

I am writing this from a web kiosk in LHR airport. The keyboard is pretty stiff, so excuse the typoes. :-)
I will write more once I finish this final leg of the journey. But fr now, just let me say this:

Holy freaking crap, was that a vacation!! I climbed a freaking mountain!!!!!

| Comments (1)

Kwaheri!

For now, anyway. I am off. In 6 hours, I will be checking my bags at the Ottawa airport, counting down the seconds until I meet up with Mike in Nairobi. :-)

I am not particularly confident in my ability to find an internet connection while I am in transit, but I will try to keep people updated en route if I can. Otherwise, this will be my last blog posting until July 19th!

In case I don't get a chance to tell you in person:
Happy Canada Day!
Happy Independence Day!
Have a great summer!

Take care,

Saedigh

| Comments (3)

Five weeks

Just five more weeks, and I will be in Tanzania!

Things I still need to do:

Get my prescriptions for Malarone (the malaria medication with few to no psychological side effects) and Diamox (to help prevent acute altitude sickness)

Get my Hep A shot (Hep A is water-borne; Hep B is an STD, but I was vaccinated against it in grade 11 anyway)

Get my visa, therefore get passport photo, express post envelope and admin fee of $75 (an interesting sidenote: the UK and Canada are the only members of the commonwealth whose citizens require a visa to enter Tanzania or Kenya.... and I have no clue as to why)

Continue training

As part of my training for the climb, I have been running a lot. I was preparing for the MDS Nordion 10 km race that is part of the National Capital Marathon Weekend. It is tomorrow at 6:30 pm. Mom and dad are going to be there to cheer me on and feed me lasagne at the finish line. I will running 10 and 1'a (10 minutes running, 1 minute walking). My pace waivers between approximately 9.6 and 8.8 km/hour, so I won't be finishing very quickly, but I am not in it for a gold medal anyway. It's the first time I've done a 10 k, so I just want to cross the finish line in one piece. If I can, the next step is doing a half marathon. I will probably join a running room clinic for that one though.

So, the countdown begins. And over on the other side of the continent, a very different kind of countdown is taking place. I'd like to know the Vegas odds on my returning from the Spice Islands an Auntie. :-) We Curries do tend to value punctuality, and often show up early for special events.

| Comments (1)

Countdown

In 70 days, I will be arriving in Tanzania. That's just 10 weeks! I can't believe it's actually happening. I still feel like I have so much to do:
- get my shots
- get my visa (which I can only get with proof of a yellow fever vaccination)
- make sure my hiking boots are well broken in
- order and change my money
- be in physical condition conducive to climbing the 7th tallest mountain in the world

That last one I've been working on since January, and with the nice weather finally reaching these latitudes, it's getting a lot easier because I can take my workout outside: running, biking, and rollerblading. And, of course, breaking in my boots in the Gatineaus. So, this weekend, as long as it's not pouring with rain, I think I will take myself up the King Mountain trail. I've done it once before. It's not particularly difficult, but a good way to get my legs used to the idea of going up hill, and then down again. And, unlike the last time I went hiking in Gatineau Park, I will remember to take the map out of the car...

| Comments (1)

Greetings from Kabul

The saedigh.com foreign correspondent has filed his first report from Afghanistan:

Greetings from Kabul!

It’s been almost two months since I’ve arrived in Kabul and everyone has settled into their routines. I’ve ended up switching jobs from working with the National Command Element to going back to Force Protection Company. Fortunately, my boss was able to claw me back and although I am just working in Company Headquarters, it’s still much more enjoyable since I’m back with the infantry. We have just recently changed from our green uniforms into our arid-region, or desert-pattern uniforms. For some I suppose it’s a novelty, but for me it’s just two new pairs of boots to break in. It is much warmer here than it is in Canada, although there is still some snow in the mountains. On a clear day the temperature usually stays around 20-25 degrees (Celsius), but can drop below zero some nights. It has rained almost every day here during March and although it should be somewhat of a relief considering Afghanistan has been experiencing a 7-year drought, the abnormal amount of rain has caused significant destruction in the form of flooding in the central regions of the country. The worst that’s happened here in regards to flooding is that some of the guys in my tent have gotten their carpets wet.
There hasn’t been that much excitement since we’ve been here. I’ve managed to get out of the camp a few times to have a look around the city. The destruction is unbelievable. Large portions of Kabul were completely destroyed during the civil war period of 1994-2001. The Russians rarely entered Kabul in an overt military presence, although from the camp we can see an old Russian Officer’s mess on the periphery of the city. It’s been gutted since their withdrawal, but it was likely an impressive structure at the time of the occupation. A couple of weeks ago I made it up to this place called TV Hill. It’s a large hill in the center of town where the local radio and television stations keep their communications equipment. The view was impressive and there was lots of evidence that some fierce fighting had taken place there. The site contained thousands of shell casings from small-arms to anti aircraft guns and 150mm artillery pieces. There were even a few unexploded 150mm shells and 106mm rockets as well as some more sinister evidence of conflict. In addition to this, the entire south side of the hill was mined. Unfortunately, during the Afghan New Year’s celebrations (called Nowrus) last Monday, a local teenager lost his legs trying to climb up the south side of the hill.
So far, the time has passed quickly and I am looking forward to my leave block when Sarah and I will go to Tanzania to climb Mt Kilimanjaro. Take care and I will be back in August,

Mike.

| Comments (1)

Kabul Kitty

The safest place to be?

Photograph courtesy TFK Photo Club 2005

| Comments (0)

Québec City, Jan. 7 - Jan. 9 2005

Well, it's been a long week, but I've finally gotten around to documenting my trip to the capital of La Belle Province.

We arrived in Québec City at about 1:30 Friday afternoon. I had grudgingly been convinced to wake up early on what was to be my day off so that we would have the afternoon to do the touristy thing. I am pleased to report that I was not disappointed. Apart from a minor meltdown while trying to order a meatball sub in French at lunch (I am a little out of practice, but I was back on that horse by Saturday evening), the trip was amazing.
Friday afternoon was spent wandering around the city, taking in this amazing aerial view from L'Observatoire de la Capitole,

and avoiding Radio-Canada cameras at Pub St. Alexandre (possibly the best cup of coffee in the city.)
Dinner was at Aux Anciennes Canadiens, a restaurant housed in one of the oldest buildings in North America, which specialises in traditional Québecois fare. Mike had a veritable "zoobecue" consisting of grilled stag, caribou, and buffalo in a creamy peppercorn sauce. I had a much less adventurous meal of chicken in pastry, but it was still delicious. After eating our fill, we went back to the hotel to change into warmer gear and go toboganning in front of the Chateau Frontenac, and take some pictures of the city by night.

Saturday, after a delicious breakfast of crêpes, we took a trip to the Ice Hotel. It's about a 25 minute drive northwest of Québec, in St. Catherine de la Jacques Cartier. There are a lot of saints in Québec. Everything in the hotel is made of snow and ice, including the beds (but not the mattresses), the bar,

and the glasses you drink out of at the bar

It's definitely a novelty for the rich, but it was fun to see it.
We then headed east again, to Montmorency to see the waterfalls.


We rounded off the day with an incredible meal at Le Beffroi, and a trip to Chez Dagobert, a local nightclub. Three floors, with music for all tastes. One thing that definitely goes in the plus column for this city is the fact that no one seems to charge cover.
And so, sadly, we had to leave Sunday morning and return home for work Monday morning, to start my first full week back at the office. I am already thinking ahead to my next trip though. I will have to remember to bring along more spending money though, as the city was full of interesting shops you just don't find in Ottawa. *sigh*

| Comments (2)