ROOOOSHIA Part 1 Some may not know the story, but thanks to an overly (and negligently!) chilled beverage on a flight last summer my mother got 4 free tickets on British Air to anywhere in the world. Originally, it looked like we might have to go to court claiming permanent lip numbness but the recent tobacco and Firestone settlements seemed to have prompted BA to give in. My mother chose St. Petersburg, Russia as her destination. As my father was not interested, she offered me the chance to go (and carry her bags) and asked for any additional itinerary possibilities. I suggested Latvia and Estonia. I had no idea where they where but I figured they had to be tropical because they sounded like Costa Rica, Colombia, Cuba etc. We arrived in St. Petersburg on a sunny Sunday afternoon and were met by our guide, Nonna. When my mother said we would hire a car and someone to show us around the city I had visions of a Russian Cindy Crawford and deeply tinted Mercedes limo. Nonna was actually a pleasant university professor close to my parents' age. She, my mother, and my mom's friend Marge could have long talks about grandchildren and the possibilities of such. The car turned out to be a bright red Ford van. My rock star fantasies faded quickly. British Air must have a second, secret kind of Coach seats for those redeeming free tickets. In any case, after a day and half in and out of airports and airplanes we were very happy to have Nonna drop us off at the Astoria. The true sign of a luxury hotel is the efficiency with which Housekeeping can come to your room, pick up the clothes you have been wearing for twenty-four hours, and have them burned. St. Petersburg dates from the 1700's and while 1/3 was destroyed during the Siege of Leningrad most of the oldest sections survived intact. The ruined buildings were rebuilt with amazing attention to historical accuracy after the war. They looked a lot better than anything built since. The city is on the Gulf of Finland and is crisscrossed by bridges and canals. They claim it is known as the "Venice of Eastern Europe." That is a stretch, kind of like calling Cleveland the "Paris of the Midwest," but it is beautiful. The women are as attractive as their American counterparts but are thinner and wear more stylish (code word for tight) clothing. Some of my friends have asked about the state of Russian dental care. What am I, a horse trader? I appreciated these women for their beauty, I did not go looking for eroded bicuspids or count viable molars. Besides, these people are (if possible) more image conscious than Americans. They'd buy the "Chernobyl Brand Teeth Whitener with Secret Ingredient" if they thought it would get their company some western investment funds. The first warm weather of the year arrived with us. The St. Petersburgites seem slightly stunned by the sun and our guide kept pointing out the bare brown dirt parks that soon would be green. I did notice that these were extremely well swept bare brown dirt parks. Thank the Soviet legacy. I insisted on wearing the sporty leather jacket I only get to use once a year in Florida because I wanted to look like a bad ass Russian Mafia guy during my visit. Instead, I looked like the sweaty tourist guy. I also noticed the large number of very dirty, very expensive Range Rovers and BMWs coated with a winter's worth of salt and grime. Someone would do well to start an organized crime staff car detailing service. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday were spent in palaces: Peter's Palace, Paul's Palace, perhaps even Mary's Palace. In the 1800's, St. Petersburg was the center for the Gold Leaf and Mirrors Movement. I kept expecting to see Liberace pop out from behind a piano. The museums are all converted palaces so we got a double dose of La Vida Baroque there. Our guide told us there are one million paintings, one million sculptures and one million coins and medals in the Hermitage museum. I remember one million miles of hallway and one million comfortable looking armchairs with "Sitting? Nyet!" ribbons across them. Any museum with dozens each of Matisses, Rembrandts and Picassos must have belonged to a totalitarian state. Our guide would point out pieces that had been "donated" by grateful wealthy citizens after the revolution. On the other hand, after seeing a "winter palace" as big as our Pentagon and a "summer palace" as big as the Mall of America built while the peasants starved I could understand how the Romanovs ended up in shallow graves in a Siberian backyard. The only thing these places lacked was Fat Elvis. I was most amazed by the before and after pictures of these buildings following the German occupation. The Germans usually left a couple of bricks standing and a charred board (covered in gold leaf!). Perhaps I heard wrong, but the Soviet army traveled with "combat curators" whose only job was to preserve and document the buildings and artwork that were about to be captured. Those that survived came back after the campaign and directed the restoration. There's a job for art majors with gun fetishes. Occasionally, my mother would spot a church. The red rental van would screech to a halt and we'd all clamber out to take in the famous Russian Orthodox domes and crosses. We saw a lot of domes and crosses, two authentic baptisms, one actual wedding and one realistically staged funeral. At least I had on my dressy leather jacket. Our only brush with celebrity came when a British noble stayed a few nights in our hotel. I'm not sure if it was the Duke of York, the Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl, or perhaps John Wayne..the Duke. All we saw were surly looking security guys in bad suits and Volvos with blue flashing lights. Apparently, the Duke had decided to adopt St. Petersburg's homeless as his pet crusade. The Russians found it as strange as we did. That damn Diana must have taken all the good charities. Thursday was my birthday. We went to the ballet and it was fun. I usually have to save up a pile of $1's to see women in see-thru clothing and pancake makeup jump around. The elegant atmosphere of the Opera house was marred only by the large group of Koreans surrounding us. They chatted loudly through the performance, grunted their approval of certain scenes and stood up often to take flash photos and to videotape. I thought no one could withstand the barrage of Russian grandmothers hissing and giving the evil eye but the Koreans were oblivious. I didn't mind, I thought the camera flashes gave the ballet a "techno" feel. In any case, later that night I found myself in an authentic Russian disco. It wasn't very crowded. Surprisingly, guidebooks printed a year ago for foreigners aren't quite accurate when they promise a certain club is the "hippest new place." I asked the bartender where all the local girls were. I think he misunderstood what kind of "girls" I was looking for. I ended up at a disco where my "hostess" was a cute but hard-faced young Russian named Jana. She taught me some Russian, I bought her and her friends some drinks (at $60 a round?) and I began to figure out what type of establishment this was. When I asked her about clubs where everyone (not just the girls) was allowed to dance she let out that she was "on-duty" there until six A.M. First of all, I wasn't going to last until six A.M. and that urban legend about waking up one kidney short seemed awfully possible. Secondly, even in a slightly impaired state I knew my credit card had absorbed multimillion ruble charges and I had probably already bought the bartender a phone order motorcycle. Thirdly. . .well, let's just say my better judgement and 4 years of Catholic high school took over. I collected my bad ass leather jacket from the coat check and stumbled home. There were no palaces, churches or museums for me that morning. Or that afternoon. I met some normal Russians during the trip, but I remember Jana fondly (and blurrily). My last comments on Russia are about their television. Not surprisingly, it is terrible. 13 channels of recycled dreck from Europe and the U.S. and some Hungarian movies dubbed into Russian with Polish subtitles. The station I found most amusing was Video D'Italia. Italians are attractive, and talented in many areas. Making music videos is not a strength. Say the title of the song came on at the beginning and it included a recognizable word like "boomerang." You'll never guess what the entire band spent the entire video holding while they danced around. It got worse. One "video" was nothing but several different repeating camera angles of an album cover with the song playing in the background. You don't even have to make a video and your music will be featured on Video D'Italia. And the songs were crap too. On that note, I was watching a request show on MTV Europe. You know American culture has conquered all when Gunnar in Norway throws up a gang sign and gives a "shout-out" to his "homies" in Stockholm. Easy-E is rolling over in his grave. To sum up St. Petersburg: If you are thin, dress neatly, and talk quietly people assume you must not be an American. The food was excellent, I never knew you could make so many dishes with beets. The women were attractive and friendly (in an expensive way). The beer was tasty and you could drink it while you strolled the streets and dodged the people who were obviously drinking it while they drove. The mosquitoes were large, but not as bad as the ones in Florida who give you cookies and juice after they bite you. The museums were fascinating in an endless kind of way. Overall, better than South of the Border, not quite as cool as Dollywood. Part 2 of this saga will describe my adventures in the tropical islands of Estonia and Latvia. MIKE	ROOOSHIA Part 2 NEWS FLASH: Estonia and Latvia are not tropical islands. They are countries on the Baltic Sea. They are next to Russia. The phrases "Banana Daiquiri, please." and "Which beaches do the women who wear thongs go to?" mean nothing to them, especially in late April. The American educational system had failed me again. We traveled by train on to Finland, en route to Estonia. A large young Russian and his girlfriend shared our compartment. He was wearing a very cool Russian Mafia leather jacket and when the money changing lady came around they measured his stacks of rubles instead of counting them. I wore my bad-ass leather jacket proudly, but avoided eye contact for 5 hours. His companion was a heavily made up blonde teenager with pouty lips, fishnet stockings and 4" heels. She looked like she might have known Jana. The train had most of the conveniences Americans would expect. The bathrooms were clean although the toilets were a hole exposing the tracks rushing by below. I got dizzy trying to relieve myself. I really enjoyed the warning signs, one of which seemed to forbid men with hats from entering the Dining Car. Signs like this were a highlight of the trip. Although my Cyrillic is poor, the symbols were very descriptive. One park in St. Petersburg apparently forbids men with overcoats from playing the saxophone. Driving your car into the river is also discouraged. My favorite was a chain of candy stores in Helsinki called "Karki Pussi." It's a great insult, try it this week. Helsinki is a busy and wealthy city where everyone dresses like they stepped out of "Beverly Hills 90210: the Nordic Years." The big landmark there is a cathedral, carved out of a hill, which is supposed to be a breathtaking architectural achievement. It looked like a bomb shelter with a pipe organ to me. On Sunday morning in the hotel I was awakened by great gospel and blues coming from next door. I assumed a music school or a jazz orchestra had practice space in the building. The front desk lady informed me that it was the local Presbyterian church having a Sunday service. Who knew the Finns (or the Presbyterians, for that matter) had soul? We continued to eat well and I decided I should find a pool or fitness center so that I could fit in the British Air double secret Economy Class seats on the way back. I ended up at a huge Olympic swimming complex on the outskirts of town. It was the biggest, cleanest, nicest pool I have ever been to. The only problem was that they required Speedo-type bathing suits (another funny sign) and I had left my "banana hammock" locked up in Florida. I'm not sure I wanted them to see my Chiquita Jr. anyway. I was afraid I would have to roll up my shorts, Tarzan-style, and rush the pool. No one paid any attention and I escaped with my privacy. The last thing I found extraordinary about Helsinki and St. Petersburg was that even their oldest and most elegant buildings were covered in advertising for Sony, Coca-Cola, and Microsoft. As long as we chose appropriate settings, I think this is an idea which could bring the American Social Security system back to financial health. The Washington Monument could have T-R-O-J-A-N in big letters down one side or the Statue of Liberty could say "SECRET, strong enough for a man...but made for a (big copper) woman." The Baltic airline stewardesses always put on long black leather gloves for takeoff and landing, why? Sexy, but did it increase safety? On to Estonia, in my opinion, the most technically advanced country in the trip as it had 38 television channels and no Video D'Italia. Monday night was spent in the medieval walled city of Talinn. Although we were told that we had arrived on the "Night of Witches" I was disappointed to see fewer people in capes, black eye shadow and white face paint than in an average Florida night club. Our guide (not Cindy Crawford-like....again!) informed us that the city had been in existence for more than 700 years and that the strong fortifications (including the "Fat Margaret" cannon tower and "Talking Elmo" catapult) had never been taken by force. My Estonian history class was a long time ago but I remembered a guidebook saying that the city had been occupied by various other countries for approximately 650 years. I asked her about this discrepancy and she mumbled something about some people who were really heavy sleepers and who might have forgotten to lock the city gates or something after a big party. Another time everybody was busy doing stuff and nobody noticed a fleet of ships sailing into the harbor. Talinn was a fun city. It had more than its share of cathedrals and cobble stoned streets but did not remind me at all of St. Petersburg. The Estonians (despite 50+ years of Soviet rule) seemed more prosperous and optimistic than their Russian counterparts. The St. Petersburgites I met all seemed to share a "If everyone in the gunpowder factory is smoking, I might as well have one quick cigarette" vibe. Talinn, after surviving a grim Soviet and Nazi period seemed confident that the next 100 years would bring a return to prosperity and independence...as long as they don't forget to lock those damn city gates. We rented a car and headed on to Latvia. We had been told about the Latvian traffic police and despite being warned by oncoming drivers (the Latvian signal for a speed trap ahead is apparently a scrunched up face and making fangs with your fingers) I was pulled over. I was afraid that my leather jacket would alert the officer that I was an important international criminal. The fact I was traveling with my middle-aged mother and her friend in a bright red Ford Focus filled with matching carry-ons served as a good cover. His English was not very good (better than my Latvian) but he pointed out that my high beams were on and let me go. I commend him for his professionalism and courtesy although the Latvian Traffic Police Union should really press for better dental benefits. Look for me on COPS: the Baltic States. My mother's friend, Marge, had arranged for us to stay with her British friends in the Latvian capital, Riga. They would park somewhere on the side of a busy highway leading into the city and we would look for a green car with red plates...a good plan, no? A quick power slide across three lanes of traffic and some angry logging truck drivers and we had met our hosts. Tony, a major in the British (not English, thank you vedy much) Army assists the Baltic states in military training. As occupation seems to be a common historical theme for the region, they need all the help they can get. Before bringing his wife over, Tony had carefully chosen an elegant apartment in the city center close to the Embassy and cultural attractions. Most importantly it was located a few steps from both the English and Irish pubs and next door to a high-end stereo shop. That's my kind of decision process. Again, we were lucky to usually find friendly Latvians who spoke English and were happy to explain things to us. The only exception to this was the parking lot attendant. For a minute I was afraid I had sold him the rental car, but we eventually found Native American sign language effective. I promised to return when the sun had killed the moon twice and give him everything I had hunted that day. The Latvians are huge hockey fans. The first night, I was lulled to sleep by chants of LAT-VI-YUH, LAT-VI-YUH from the streets and we found out the next day that they had defeated the mighty U.S. in a hockey tournament. Graciously, they laid flowers in front of the American Embassy in condolence. The next night, more chanting and I assumed they had won again. No, they had lost, they just liked chanting. The third night, there wasn't even a hockey game and they were still going at it. That is great team support. Not afraid to jump on a trend that has already ended, I bought a Latvian jersey and still wear it proudly. Several Floridians have already asked me what team that player named Latvia is on. I tell them it is actually a small Caribbean country. Our hosts took us to one of the Nazi concentration camps outside of Riga. All that remains is a huge grass field with dozens of low concrete slabs which supported the huts. It was the sunniest day of our trip and the swaying birches and new wildflowers made the area seem incredibly peaceful. The only reminders of its previous use were small plaques with inscriptions like "Children's Barracks" and "Infirmary" and "Gallows." The Soviets had erected several statues and a unmarked obelisk with a metronome beating inside. As soon as you stepped away from the monument, the wind erased its sound and you could only faintly hear the freight trains still passing by on nearby tracks. We did more ballet; I was getting to be quite a connoisseur. Marge explained the different leaps and jitters and I now appreciate that there is more to it than champagne and tights. I think Tony expected me to conquer Riga's night life. He would point out the selection of "Baltic Babes." I tried to explain what Jana and the St. Petersburg club scene had taken out of me, spiritually and financially. He was not impressed by the stamina of America's youth. After a week of Tony and Angela taking cool English-talk, I wanted to start saying thing like "bloody" and "stew-pid" and "rah-ther." They reintroduced us to the pleasure of the British vegetable spread Marmite, Motto-"Smells like old boot, tastes worse." What the hell kind of black sticky vegetable does that come from anyway? Angela convinced us to try eating strawberries with black pepper. It seemed like a good idea, I haven't tried it since my return. I'll shock you by saying we saw a lot of churches and cathedrals and chapels and other places with crosses. I highly recommend the entire blur of them. Riga was a faster paced city than Talinn or St. Petersburg and prepared us to reenter the exciting world of London Heathrow Airport and squeeze our butts into British Air's "How much does a free ticket really cost?" seats. I missed the attractive Baltic stewardesses in long black gloves, especially when one of the BA flight attendants called me "Rah-ther bloody stew-pid" for leaving my leg in the aisle. It still sounded sophisticated.
Colombia: Land of Nice People and Other Strange Things- Another trip, another chance to spam my friends' computers. I just returned from a wedding in Bogota, Colombia. I thought Brett had said he was getting married in British Columbia so I was excited to meet women who say "aboot." What do we know about Colombia? Major export? Hmmmmm. Stability of political system? Hmmmmm. Safety of foreigners? Hmmmmm. What could make it better? You'll be at 8500 feet and may feel nauseated and out of breath for the week. I feel nauseated and out of breath the day after most of the weddings I attend, so that was no deterrent. After some drama the day before the flight, I arrived at Miami International. If my flights have been changed by the airline, why would I save the old ticket? Why would I need to bring that ticket? How many Mike Noones are they going to let on the plane to Bogota? As usual, the 1-800 people say that things are impossible but if you show up at the counter and flash a little shoulder everything falls into place. I caught MIA on a good day. There were beautiful women in tight clothing, swarthy men staring suspiciously at the passengers and loud disputes in several languages. And they were just the security guards. Perhaps those of you who have visited South America are familiar with the option of having your luggage shrink-wrapped at the airport to prevent tampering. Some people in line with me had obviously done the home version with Saran Wrap and Scotch Tape. You never see that in TV ads for either product. As usual, I had an interesting couple as seatmates. He looked like a professional body builder. She looked like a professional...something. I have never seen tighter jeans, a shorter shirt or more exposure of the straps of purple thong underwear. I'm not complaining, it was a good look for her. My primitive Spanish seemed to evoke a motherly response. That and my drooling and trying not to stare at her top. Brett's lovely fiancee, Jennifer, met me at the airport. She is petite, sophisticated, intelligent and like most latinas, as tough as a Navy SEAL. She required me to speak my high school Spanish and her encouragement gave me a false sense of competency that would get me in trouble for the next four days. The Bogota Radisson is very nice. They seemed surprised to have an American guest without a diplomatic entourage but were extremely gracious and friendly. They, too, suffered through my attempts at Spanish and resisted the temptation to demand that I switch back to English. I fell in love with one of the assistant managers and had to create a new problem each day for her to solve. There were very few signs of the crime precautions I had expected. Their parking garage had two guard dogs. One was an immense Rottweiler with a Hannibal Lecter-like muzzle. The other, a more friendly looking German Shepherd, I saw being led around entering cars. I guess one dog was for biting people and one was for sniffing stuff. The next day we were taken to the Catedral de Sal. One of Bogota's landmarks (so to speak, as it is underground), it is a huge salt mine turned into a cathedral. There are dozens of side galleries and three enormous sections to the main body, all dramatically striped with the natural bands of coal, salt and pyrites. To add some flair, the Colombians have severely dimmed the lights and back lit the sculptures and steps with soft green and pink floodlights. There were even a few sections dramatically illuminated with black light. I expected Techno music to come booming out and a teenager to step in front of me with glow sticks. It was unlike anything I have ever seen and despite the discoteca influences, quite somber. Thursday evening was the Night of Gifts. Jennifer's parents had arranged an elegant cocktail party at the hotel. As the one American who supposedly spoke Spanish, I was proudly introduced to the honored guests. After I realized that I had just asked a General if he would like to buy me one of the presents on the gifts' table, I retreated to the corner and began drinking. Not that that was difficult. I'm not sure what the Colombian tradition is but we had three choices for our cocktails: soda, vodka and orange juice, and straight scotch. As I am not old enough to drink scotch I began reliving my high school years with a strong screwdriver. Brett's two other American friends, Brandon and Brad, had chosen scotch and soon regretted that decision. The waiters must have had strict orders because every time our glasses were half full they poured an entire new drink in. Jennifer's friends and family were great. The ones who spoke English were friendly and funny, the rest were friendly and funny too and kept up the illusion that I spoke Spanish. After the continuous vodka y naranja, I had almost convinced myself. Friday brought a small headache (the altitude, I'm sure) and an extended tour of the city. We saw the Gold Museum, a collection of pre-conquest gold artifacts. Brett's mom and sister especially enjoyed it, they found the perfect Christmas gifts for their significant others to buy them. We were all amused by a copy of a clay fertility goddess for sale in the gift shop. It had a normal sized torso and immense thighs. Not the kind of thing you want to bring home to the wife saying "It made me think of you." We were also taken to the Botero Museum. He is a contemporary Columbian artist who specializes in surreal paintings and sculptures of obese people. Another gift you should avoid. After lunch we visited the country home of Simon Bolivar, the Liberator of South America (not the Labrador of South America as I thought I heard our guide say). He was a soldier, a statesman, a diplomat and he had his mistress dance on a table for him. A man ahead of his time, in so many ways. On Friday evening, we all had dinner at Jennifer's parents'. You wonder whether the new in-laws will mingle successfully. Will this be a tense evening discussing the weather and other non-controversial subjects? When I saw Brad and his mother laughing so hard they were crying I knew we had reached a comfort level. When I was asked to translate Brett's comment that he was buying a new "sexual" sofa (I think he meant sectional) to the priest!, we were at a whole new level. When Brandon stood up to give a toast and apparently forgot Jennifer's name, we were back down a notch. That's not important. We had arranged for Fernando, a cousin, to take us out Friday night. When he rolled up in his new BMW, pumping the P. Diddy, we saw we had the right man for a tour of Bogota's night-life. The restaurant we went to specialized in latino music (surprise?) and everyone knew every word and every step of each song. It was like being at an American club if they just played "The Electric Slide" over and over again (thank God, that's never happened to me). We ended up at Fernando's chic apartment, where every single oral surgeon in his thirties should live. Who is the Mac Daddy? Nando! Nando! He and the other cousins watched in amazement as the three Americans polished off a bottle of Agauardiente while they sipped scotch. Agauardiente is the licorice flavored Columbian national drink, guaranteed to cause nausea and shortness of breath, even at sea level. We rested on Saturday. The wedding was held at a historic home and chapel turned into a museum. Brett read the vows in Spanish that he and Jennifer had composed (I wonder who did most of the composing). Everyone was touched and amused to hear a Spanish love poem enunciated with a Virginian accent. Brett, you are “el hombre.” Jennifer, astute organizer that she is, had put me and Brad at the table with the hot cousins. Brad is married and I made sure I knew how to say that in Spanish. Brett's dad and Brandon seemed to be dropping by at our table for longer and longer periods of time; too bad someone told the girls they are both taken. It was almost worth it to get two hours sleep and roll out of bed on at 6:30am Sunday for my flight. I felt like the tour manager for Guns and Roses when I signed my hotel bill for $924,398 (2200 pesos/dollar=$450). After visiting 4 offices in Bogota's airport and paying mysterious taxes (for being an American, for attempting to speak Spanish, for having improper luggage, etc.) they let me board. I had tried to fit in by wrapping that luggage in old dry cleaning bags, but they saw through the disguise. I had a better (in some ways) seatmate, an Ecuadorian record producer. We had a good talk and I am now the official/unauthorized/gringo talent scout for his company. Any future Jennifer Lopez' will need to go through me. Bogota was great. From the disco cathedral to the fat sculptures in a land of beautiful people, I recommend it to everyone. If this e-mail happens to reach Lena Montoya, Assistant Manager of the Radisson Royal Bogota, call me. I was displeased by...the lack of...um...scotch tape...or something...in my room. We can work it out over dinner. MIKE	TANZMANIA Part 1 Some of you have heard that I just got back from an Africa trip, again (as Forest Gump would say). I may have casually mentioned that we climbed Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania (the highest mountain in Africa, 20,000 feet…in case you didn’t know). It was a complicated and expensive trip. With my high school friends Geoff and Christina, I was also going to explore the Serengeti region and see the Muslim island of Zanzibar in two and a half weeks. Which left me several weeks before we left to imagine how our conquest of the summit would proceed. I’m a film buff, and it wasn’t a huge stretch to see Matt Damon (perhaps even Benicio) portraying my character in the movie version of our trip. I’d be the unknown expert in the climbing group: sincere, yet approachable; humorous, but reserved. Only when the final crisis overcame our beleaguered crew would I calmly step forward to display my expertise with ropes, knots, emergency medicine and French cuisine. As we approached 18,000 feet our guide, an ex-Navy SEAL, would be driven mad by the blowing snow and take the last parachute to safety (this is Hollywood, people, work with me.) Geoff and Christina (played by Justin T. and Cameron) would be huddled together, each urging the other to keep their love alive. We stumble upon a group of young Swedish schoolgirls, abandoned by their chaperones. (Not that young, maybe Swedish college students.) These women could be mildly hypothermic and in need of a medically prescribed warming by a qualified paramedic. I would lead the entire group in a courageous push to the summit. The climax would come after an inspiring speech (by me) dedicating our success to that plucky porter, Osemo, who had died the day before in a tragic crevasse incident. It was just a scenario, a possibility that I was mentally prepared for. The reality was somewhat less glamorous, less amorous and more painful, but we’ll get to that. I don’t think Mr. Damon would be interested. As it turned out that none of our climbing party spoke enough English to answer questions more complicated than “Are we there yet?” (Answer-“No” or occasionally “Yes,” - regardless of the answer, inexplicably, we’d keep hiking), each night in camp the three of us would huddle around a headlamp and examine the itinerary the tour company had given us to see how far we had climbed and what we would be expected to do the next day. In order to give this narrative some (painfully needed) structure, I’ve broken it up into days, similar to that much read and often hated schedule. K (Kilimanjaro) Day minus 1 and some Before we could conquer Kili, we had to overcome KLM. It turned out that we weren’t flying Air Pakistan, (don’t laugh, we’ve used them before), but a supposedly reputable European carrier. I’ve made long flights before and each time I like to bring a new and different gadget. On this trip, it was one of those fuzzy, U-shaped neck pillows. It was a huge success. Christina, Geoff’s wife, used it for nearly the entire 17 hours we were in the air. Because it is covered in gray fleece, she named it the “Kitten” and over the course of the trip she would ask for it whenever our trio faced a stressful situation. I’d like to think Christina has found a friend in the Kitten. Perhaps she’ll get it as a Christmas gift. As Christina and the Kitten blissfully slumbered together (props to American pharmaceutical companies), I couldn’t stomach watching a re-run of “Finding Nemo” and began to roam the plane. I passed the time by conversing with a pleasant KLM stewardess, discussing the relative merits of Dutch and American tourist attractions. Upon awaking, Christina, as usual, accused me of being up to no good. What she didn’t know is that I no longer even notice whether a person is physically attractive. She may happen to be; I just want to learn about foreign cultures. I have an inquiring mind. Although I tried to leave my ticket on top of an ATM in Dulles and was momentarily distracted by signs for a “Brassarie” in Amsterdam (I was crushed to find out they sold food), we made it to Kilimanjaro International Airport a mere twenty eight hours after I boarded my first flight in Florida. Eventually I realized that the airline has lost the bag that contained my sleeping bag, backpack and all of my cold weather gear. In return, a pleasant Tanzanian airport employee asked me to fill out a form and peeled a $50 bill off a fat stack in his pocket. This is a sum which is more than generous for toothpaste and deodorant, but insufficient for purchasing large amounts of camping equipment. They promised, Scout’s Honor, to have the bag the next day. A Sunny Safaris tour company driver met us in the parking lot. He cheerfully dropped us off at the Hotel Naaz, a beat-down establishment (we like to call it shabby chic) in the center of Arusha, the nearest large town to Kilimanjaro. The doors had padlock hasps in addition to normal locking mechanisms. Signs in each of our hotel rooms requested that guests not leave the building after dark due to problems with “looters” in the city. Christina and I convinced ourselves that “looters” was probably a Tanzanian slang term for mosquitoes and fell into our respective beds. K Day-The Adventure Begins Geoff had flown out of Ethiopia at two in the morning and arrived at our hotel around 8 am. In the movie, Geoff would definitely be a spy, so I’ll just say he had spent the previous three weeks in remote areas of Ethiopia, working on “special projects.” I’m not saying he actually is a secret agent, but the government agency that employs him has an “I” and an “A” in its initials. Due to a spectacular over-estimation of our physical stamina, the three of us had decided it would be best if we immediately start climbing Kilimanjaro after hours of flying, jet-lag and little or no sleep. Smart move, especially when one of the three is missing critical luggage. So at nine-thirty the next morning, we presented ourselves at Sunny Safaris, who happily relieved us of many thousands of dollars in cash, traveler’s checks, savings bonds, and gold teeth for the honor of kicking our asses over the next seven days. We were introduced to our Tanzanian guide, Brendan, and informed that we would also have 6-7 porters and assistants in our group. This would cost us an additional undisclosed amount of US dollars in tips (because we hadn’t already increased the GDP of Tanzania enough). Arnold Schwarzenegger would definitely play Brendan, who was extremely fit, very quiet, spoke with a strong accent and didn’t seem to understand much of what we asked him. However, he did have excellent timing, giving a dramatic pause before every important announcement. After a two-hour drive during which I discovered that large amounts of bottled water, the anti-altitude sickness medication (a diuretic) and extremely bumpy roads were very nearly a disastrous and embarrassing combination, we arrived at the base of Mount Kilimanjaro. We were about to begin what would become known fondly as the “Death March” and certain themes for the trip started to emerge. First Theme: Christina and her Walkman-a beautiful partnership, to be disturbed at our peril. Christina had decided that the best way to deal with seven long days hiking with Geoff and Mike would be to take solace in music. However, this practice did not stop the following exchange from occurring many times over the course of the trip: Christina- “Wait, what are you guys talking about?” (in a loud voice) G/M- “Take off the headphones and we’ll tell you.” Christina- “WHAT?” G/M- “TAKE OFF THE HEADPHONES AND WE’LL TELL YOU!” Christina- “Stop yelling at me.” In the end, we decided that the movie character Christina most resembled was Cameron Diaz’s mentally handicapped brother from “Something About Mary.” Don’t touch the ears! Second Theme: Lowered expectations. If the food tasted bad, but was hot, we were happy. If the food tasted bad and was cold, we were happy there was food. If the tents were pitched on a severe angle, we slept smushed into a corner-but we were happy to be inside tents. If the sleeping bag the safari company lent me smelled like a family of possums had been living there, I was just happy to be in a funky sleeping bag. Day 1 was very hard. The driver dropped us off at the base camp at about 8,000 feet. We quickly shoved the essentials into our daypacks and the porters disappeared with G and C’s backpacks (KLM still had mine) and we began our first day hiking. We asked Brendan how long we would have to walk to get to the first camp. “We will walk today…(dramatic pause, strong Austrian? accent) six hours.” It was a long, sweaty but chilly march up three thousand feet through the band of rain forest (and deep mud) that encircles the base of Kilimanjaro. We had left Arusha late and Brendan, prudently, wanted to get the three Americans into camp before dark. Something about the wild dogs being more aggressive at night (and to borrow the Dave Barry phrase, I am not making that up)…so he kept us moving quickly for the rest of the day. We thought we were going to die (another theme of the trip). Third Theme: Africa can be very cold. So frigid, in fact, that we coined a new phrase: “Africa Cold” to describe it. It is cloudy and very damp even in the rain forest. Christina was shivering all day. Geoff and I first began to suffer as the sun went down and we stumbled into that night’s campsite. Several German climbing groups, outfitted from head to toe in North Face cold weather gear, greeted us with disdainful stares. To be honest, we may have presented a disorganized appearance. I would have been wearing a cotton FDNY T-shirt and mud soaked jeans (the same ones I had put on Florida in several days earlier), Christina-don’t touch the ears-! - was wearing an Australian cowboy hat and a red fleece vest (that she wouldn’t be seen without in the next 160 hours) along with her ever present headphones, and Geoff probably just looked like he had been awake for 36 hours. We were a dazed and demoralized crew. Lowered expectations led us to marvel over the fact we were served hot food (rice and vegetables, I believe) and allowed to sleep inside tents. Separate tents, thankfully, as Geoff started off with a bit of a snoring issue and as I got sick, I developed one. Christina absolutely, positively, definitely never snored (Is that good enough, C?) K Day plus 1 (a.k.a Day 2 or The Day It Got a Little Better) The Germans, singing “Deutschland, Deutschland Uber Alles,” awakened me at 5 am. I was spared a lengthy decision making process about which clothes to wear, as I still only had one set and they were soaked with mud. Luckily, they had dried while because I slept in them. I met up with Geoff and Christina and we were all stunned, cold, hungry and dirty.. On any long trip a unique language develops. One might even call it a patois. Christina quickly created the first words. Most mornings, the cook would present us with a small pan of hot water to wash our faces and hands. These were precious ounces and we soon learned the most efficient way to utilize this resource. Two people would squat on the ground and one would pour a small trickle of water into the other’s hands. Squatting was combined with crouching to become “scrouting” and the person in charge of the water became the faucet. “Scrout down and faucet me” was a common daily request. We also had our first Kilimanjaro breakfast. Low expectations aided us again. First, the thermos of boiling water would arrive (note to self: do not look in the thermos to see what is floating in there) so that we could make hot beverages. We had our choice of tea, instant coffee, Milo (-something between hot chocolate mix and Ovaltine), and Nido- (a powdered cream derivative). We experimented with all combinations of the powdered drinks and after several days I had discovered a thick mixture of coffee, Milo, Nido, sugar and hot water had the maximum amount of instant energy. I called it cappuccino pudding. They then brought us a plate of sliced tomatoes, pineapple or avocado followed by a plate of toast and scrambled eggs (n.t.s: do not ask how they kept the eggs and meat cool during the 80 degree days). There were also jars of jam, peanut butter and honey on the table. We made some rather odd sandwiches out of these possibilities. Each morning Brendan would announce-“We will leave in…(dramatic, contemplative pause) 20 minutes.” and we’d scramble around trying to get our teeth brushed and our tents emptied. Day 2 was not really that bad. We walked for three or four hours. The weather was sunny and pleasant. The pace was reasonable. We thought that nothing could be worse than the deep mud, but we had not yet been introduced to that enemy of high altitude trekking: dust. Theme Four: Cold plus Altitude plus Low Humidity plus Dust equals bad sinus infections for every non-Tanzanian on the mountain. In our group, Geoff was hit first. I am visualizing him scrouting down, trying to put his contact lenses in, early one freezing morning, with dirty hands while his nose drips into the lens holders. G-man, I was laughing with you, not at you. We had acquired several rolls of toilet paper from the Hotel Naaz. It became apparent that these wouldn’t be sufficient and Geoff started hoarding all paper or cloth products that could possibly staunch the flow. Brendan noticed this behavior and soon we were restricted to one napkin per patron, per meal. However, Geoff would pay good money for these. My bag arrived in my tent at 9pm that the 2nd night, having been carried up in seven hours by a porter from Sunny Safari (they moved a lot faster than we did.) I was in the middle of an impassioned prayer to God on this subject. After I stopped weeping in gratitude, I immediately pledged to avoid women, alcohol and the Internet for the rest of the week. It wasn’t very difficult. K Day plus 2 (Hot Nuts) Warm, fleecy clothing and my sleeping bag, it didn’t get any better than that. The 3rd day passed in a blur. Every few minutes I would touch my clean clothing and smile. Geoff would sniffle and Christina would yell “WHAT?” Although Christina was developing a close relationship with her Walkman, she had neglected to bring enough batteries to play her tapes for five hours a day. (Soon we’ll be introducing her to those radical new inventions called compact disc players or even that crazy MP3 thing.) Thus, only a day or two into the trip, she was forced to rely on Tanzanian radio stations for diversion. She became quite a connoisseur of obscure 80’s pop music (as if she wasn’t already), African gangster rap (that too), and random radio documentaries that she would recite to us as we walked. “DID YOU KNOW THAT DUTCH PROSTITUTES GET HEALTH CARE BENEFITS?” “I do now, and so does the rest of the mountain.” “WHAT?” I believe that it was the third day when we met our mountaineering buddy, Misty. In the film version, Angelina Jolie would definitely play Misty. Why? Because it’s my movie and I want to get know the former Mrs. Billy Bob just a little bit better. Note to costume department: I just saw “Lara Croft: Tomb Raider II” and the two best colors on Angelina are “short” and “tight.” We struck up a conversation with her as she overtook us on the trail. (Almost everyone we met overtook us on the trail.) Misty was an American our age, working in Kenya on a government project (?!?), who had shot over to Tanzania for a week to conquer Kilimanjaro solo. She would be an excellent spy as she spoke several obscure languages, had lived and traveled all over the world and (in my mind) was a trained assassin. She revealed this lethal training when she suggested that if we were just a little bit more assertive with our guide, Brendan, he would surrender the extra toilet paper the safari company had undoubtedly bought for us and Geoff could stop wiping his poor nose with gravel and pieces of bark. She was right and we began to regard her worldly knowledge with awe. Misty became our sensei of African travel wisdom. She would guide us well for the next two days until she mysteriously disappeared during the final push to the summit. More about that in “Tanzmania Part Dos: Brendan’s Revenge.” It will be a lot shorter. Lack of oxygen prevents me from remembering most of the details.
	TANZMANIA Part 2 K-Day plus three When the cameras cut away last time, our intrepid crew was easing towards the summit. This would be the period in the movie for character development. The audience begins to notice subtle psychological trends that may prove disastrous in a critical situation. Geoff had developed a tissue addiction. Christina was sliding more deeply into the paranoia and isolation than non-stop Tanzanian talk radio can bring. Several times an hour I would ask if anybody else thought it smelled like bees. It was madness I tell you. Day 4 we didn’t really push ourselves. We had our guide Brendan for that. We noticed that despite the fact that our camping areas didn’t have showers, books, television, or e-mail, Brendan was in quite a hurry to get us there. He was very stingy with the rest periods. He claimed that if we sat still for more than a few minutes we would freeze to death. It is difficult to convince people hiking in shorts that this is valid. Brendan was in such a hurry that we began to call him the “Break Nazi” (yet another similarity with his Hollywood counterpart, Arnold, who has some Nazi ties himself.) We later discovered that the Kilimanjaro version of television was waiting for Brendan and the porter. They would all sit in the cook’s tent and play cards and smoke ganja while we perched on rocks outside and stared at each other. Other, more minor, characters were introduced. A wholesome European family unit we nicknamed the Swiss Family Robinson would pass us, then we’d pass them and so on. The father of the group, bearded and fit, was out in front, cheerfully swinging his walking stick and pointing out interesting rocks. Mom and the early twenties daughter came next; probably laughing about another crazy vacation that he had dragged them all on. (I would have liked to discuss Swiss culture with the daughter. I have an inquiring mind.) Lagging behind everyone was the teenage son, headphones clamped in ears, obviously disgusted with this overabundance of quality time and lack of MTV. You could almost see his lips moving (in some foreign language): “Why couldn’t we have gone to Amsterdam? I need more batteries for my GameBoy. Are we there yet?” On the fourth night, Christina noticed that an evil spirit had possessed their tent. After some investigation, we discovered the source was the two large backpacks that held most of Geoff and Christina’s clothing. Each morning, we would turn our main packs over to Tanzanian porters who would carry and perspire on our luggage for the next four or five hours. No disrespect to those guys, they were three times as fit and twice as fast as we were. They just didn’t have access to modern deodorants. (Not that after four shower-less days we smelled like roses!) The sweat soaked bags would be deposited in the tents each afternoon to percolate in the African sun. Christina named the resulting pungent odor the Kilimanjaro Funk. It became a faithful companion. As we got farther away from civilization, the humor became darker. As the air got thinner, however, the humor also became much simpler. Whenever a cloud was spotted, the cry would go out, “It looks like snow. We’re all going to die.” The expected reply was “If I go first, promise me you’ll eat my body.” This happened at least once an hour. Each time the trail flattened out for a few yards I would say, “It’s all down hill from here!” and chuckle. K Day plus 4 (Anticipation and rodents) O the fifth day at about eleven thirty in the morning, we arrived at our highest campsite. Not surprisingly, at fifteen thousand feet, it was rather stark. In between boulders there were a few flat places scraped out for our tents. The only permanent man-made structures visible were the outhouses (the high altitude cleaning crews were apparently on strike) and a park service hut. That’s not to say that we were the only living creatures in the area. A huge African Fish Eagle circled our camp. His wingspan had to be greater than eight feet and Geoff and I couldn’t figure out what he was looking for. To be continued...