Clever Title

I have this inability to turn my brain off. I will over think and over analyze everything if left to my own devices, and tend to do so on a day to day basis. I think that is why I originally turned to writing. When I put something down, and leave it out there to see, it no longer becomes my problem alone. By sharing what I'm thinking I can relinquish my sole responsibility on its domain, and slowly let it go.

The problem is that I am also inherently embarrassed with my writings, and I'm far from able to really write down all that I would like to. Some things will just always be mine to stew in, and maybe that makes them special. The memories and feelings that I can't express will always be mine alone; unique and special.

I've recently had a bad week, and by my 'first-world' standards, it was fairly awful. Yet as it played out I noticed that I never experienced that soul crushing despair that can sweep you away. Underneath all the happenings stood this perpetual foundation of indomitable spirit, and a confidence that things will continue to play out just like they always have. The ups and downs that form the staccato timeline of youth tend to level into a more linear flow, that becomes less defined by what you do and instead who you are.

I can't expect the world every day. Everything I do and have ever done has been through a series of steps, and this will be no different.

Full steam ahead.



Thanks for Reading,

Much Love,

Sean

Marty Stouffer's Delicious Narrative

When I was a kid I loved nature documentaries. They weren't just something that I watched on television, or programs that I simply enjoyed more than others, but instead an obsession. In the days before we got satellite, when the antennae was in place and cable didn't reach the remote side roads of our township; when internet was a thing done over the phone and I got about as much normal mail as email, we got one really specific nature documentary on our limited array of channels: Wild America with Marty Stouffer.

The show cultured a very homegrown backyard feel that focused on wildlife specific to North America, and although it contained a few healthy dollops of the old 'Ra! Ra!' pro-American sentiment, the propaganda was lost on a youth that simply didn't care beyond the mountain goats. Sure there were no lions, elephants or sharks, but the exclusion of everything that didn't exist on my continent made every animal seem that much more attainable. These things could be in my back yard. Wild America could be my world. To top it all off it was narrated by Marty, who's voice seemed thick and rich enough to be served as a meal. Now you can understand my real sense of wonder with this show, as it was done before I could go on the web and have everything at my fingertips. Marty Stouffer's thick tongued narration of the wildlife of my conceivable world was my greatest portal to nature.

The withholding of this show was actually a good way to motivate and punish me. I can recall several nights of no Wild America being used to set me straight. You didn't have to tell me no television, ground me or discipline me further. It was enough. I'm not trying to come across as someone that was a fiend for television, or that I spent too much time watching it in my youth. What I'm really trying to make clear is that there have been times in my life that I have really truly cared about something less tangible than an object or a person; but instead in a goal, future or ideal. The world of Wild America was the one I wanted to become a part of.

Fast forward to today and I have a hard time finding that feeling. I like some things and love some people, but that deep seeded passion that ever existed in me, fired in me, offering me any sort of great drive or motivation seems to flicker at best, and not be present at worst.

There are things I would like to do, things I will do, and perhaps things I think I'd like to do because I'm stalling for time. Yet I have a hard time finding anything in my life that I have ever truly thrown my all into. My schooling never saw it, and I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that most employers to date have not seen me properly motivated.

I'd like to say that the pure enthusiasm for nature is eventually what led me down the road to my biology degree, but I can say that it is no secret that my beginnings in biochem at Guelph University were a byproduct of my top two high school grades being Biology and Chemistry. So when did it go? What killed it and how?

Stepping back, I'd like to suggest that this is bigger than me. Perhaps more a sign of the times than any specific problem with myself. In this age of North American consumeristic excess, the media likes to play up the angle of do less for more. On the internet, television and radio, everything is gratification now for a fee to be delivered later. Instant reward for delayed or ultimately avoided work.

The discovery stories of hidden talents and the serendipitous tales of big lotto winners perforate the news, and help move along this idea that the universe owes us something, or that we're due for our break and we just need to wait it out. The entitlement of the current generation is staggering, and although I get urges of it, I feel like by acknowledging the absurdity of some universal debt to me here and now I have a better chance of moving down a better course. The fact remains though: I cringe at the thought of the work-a-day life.

In my opinion people can be roughly split into very clear categories, and they generally go something like this: 1) those who know what they want and how to get it, 2) those who have no clue what they want and settle at first sign of stability and, 3) those like me who have no idea what they want but refuse to settle for anything; and instead slot in one plan after another waiting for either something to click or a handout from the cosmos so that they can join the first group.

I guess to sum up, I am blaming the world for my problems. Cliche, a little. It's just that some days it seems strange to feel like the only person in Brownian motion while the rest of society appears to flow downstream. I sometimes wonder if this truly unrelenting need to always feel like I'm working towards something is an inherently North American attribute, or a human condition. For the record I am going to Japan, and that counts as a thing I am working towards. I am excited. I am motivated to do well, and to give it my all and try my best. But then what?

I like writing, maybe I'll work towards that too.

Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean



Doesn't this just reek of American small town values and patriotism? Hahaha! I love it.

Filler

I try not to get scared.

The question is whether that is really possible. Or is the real question what is there to be afraid of? I'm afraid of the dark, and not in the 'oh the lights are off' sort of way. I'm afraid of that slow count down towards the solstice, the inevitable march towards the early evening.

If you take it at face value it bothers me. I don't like short days. Yet, in a world where people put meaning where it isn't or shouldn't be, it denotes the tick tock towards the unknown. I'm a bit of a nihilist, but I recognize the need for some self imposed meaning in one's life to enable a semblance of progression, even if not on the grander scale. Find reason to exist in the now.

What I'm trying to say is that I get broody in the fall. Funky, but not dancing. In a funk. The evenings are long and I stew through them. I'm counting down to a placement that has been my focus for almost two years. Next year I should be in Japan working, for upwards of a year no less. This is exhilarating, the best news I've had in a long time. So why is it terrifying?

The opportunity is amazing, and beyond a shadow of a doubt I'm taking it. Yet people tether. Even when I don't mean to, or try not to, I root. Avoid all the intimacy and commitment you can and you'll still find yourself apprehensive to pick up and part. You'll miss the family, the familiarity and the feeling of a place at a time. I've learned in the past couple years that when you live in a world that can be dark and scary like ours, find what makes you happy and keep it close. Friends and relationships may often be fads and fleeting, but they are crucial for getting through the now. Much like the darkness, impenetrable by sight, there is always a fear of what is hiding in the future.

There is a quote by T. Harv Eker that reads:

"Nobody ever died of discomfort, yet living in the name of comfort has killed more ideas, more opportunities, more actions, and more growth than everything else combined. Comfort Kills."

In the words of me, the irony is that the biggest hindrance to you living your life is life itself. I'm not really afraid of the dark, or of the fall, or of being out of Canada. I'm afraid of living my life.

... but I try not to get scared.

Live through this and I won't look back.



A song on my mind:

Ink'd: A Story Retold

I'm going to take the opportunity to retell a tale, that, admittedly, is quite a bit older than I am. That doesn't say much though, as that at the ripe age of only twenty three, there are a very large number of things that are older than me. The reason that I am willing to impose some jurisdiction on this story however, is that I recently decided to make it very much a permanent part of my life.

Stories are a curious thing in that what means something to me may not have the slightest bearing on you. The value of a story to a beholder hinges on so many tiny variables, that to expect a uniform reaction to the gritty details of an epic saga is ludicrous. Luckily, one of the more important variables in a stories perceived value is something that I can have an impact on: presentation. Just as you don't want your father to read you a bedtime story in monotone when you're eight, I'm going to take a piece of lore that is equally undramatically presented in most forms and try and impart a bit of what it means to me onto you by readressing it in a more zestful way. Hopefully when this blog is all said and done, a baseline level of understanding into why I chose to get this tattoo will be imparted. Enjoy.

Note: this isn't part of my rather non-existant belief system, but rather an ideal and a sentiment that resonates with me. Nothing more.


A long time ago, Gray Eagle was the guardian of the Sun, Moon, Stars and of fire and fresh water. Gray Eagle was a bird; more importantly though, he was also a man. This was a time of legend, when the animals existed in both beast and human form, but were ultimately Gods. The concept doesn't need to be confusing, you just need to accept it and move on - life becomes a lot easier that way. Pro tip: read the book Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman, that will explain all.

Moving on, Eagle was the keeper of all the celestial bodies, and a couple other nick-knacks that were fairly useful, and he kept them with him inside his longhouse, where he lived with his daughter and who knows who or what else. You see, Eagle was a bit of a hoarder. He had all these wonderful things, but refused to share them with the world. Now, unlike that show on TV where insecure Americans hide their bought-in-bulk Costco wares in their spare bedrooms due to a plethora of mental instabilities, Eagle's reason for keeping these treasures of the universe to himself was rather more pointed: he hated humans.

Yes, humans were detestable to Eagle. He despised them for any number of petty reasons, some probably more recently justified, and as a result forced them to live in a dark world void of the heavens, fire and clean water for drinking. Enter Raven. Raven was a dapper young man, and more importantly a bird of the purest white. A handsome young beast with the tiniest glint of trickery in his eye. You could only see it if you looked closely though, and even then only from certain angles.

I mentioned before that Eagle lived with his daughter. Where her mother was is not important. I'm not a marriage councilor, get over it. Now, being a young Eagle-person of the female variety, she of course had all those urges that I assume are typical to avian-hominids and of course showed interest in the snow-white raven suitor. Inviting him back to her fathers pad, Eagle-daughter then managed to set the stage for one of the biggest debacles to ever throw down in all of Native American lore.

Upon entering the longhouse of Eagle, Raven instantly noticed that there was a treasury of wonders to be had. This is where the story begins to get a little fuzzy. First of all I question how he happened to find himself in a position where he was alone with the booty. Creative explaining chalks this up to a females ability to retire to the restroom to freshen up, and we'll just assume that big bird was out picking on people. The second issue is why Raven decided to even steal them at all. It was pretty clear that he was probably going to score with daughter bird, and no doubt would have other chances to play the looter. Assumedly the humans called in some gambling debts, a trickster like Ravens seems like a craps sort of guy.

The point is that sensing a golden opportunity, Raven grabbed the sun, moon, as many stars as he could carry, all the water (impressive) and a burning brand of fire before flying off from Eagle's longhouse at full speed. The legend states that he in fact flew out of the building's smoke hole, which for the sake of my retelling exploded in a Michael Bay kind of way, just as he emerged from the smoldering rim.



Not wanting to fly blind, the first thing that Raven did as he emerged into the darkness of an empty sky was to put the sun in place. With this new light, his next instinct was to fly far out into the ocean until he reached a little island where he could lie low for a while. After careful consideration, Raven decided that the best option was to ditch the loot so that no one could prove it was him. The problem is that the sun had started to set, and so to take care of this, he threw the moon up in its place, and scatter the stars around it. Under this new light he was able to continue his journey back to the mainland, where he could toss what he had left.

When the moment struck him, Raven next let go of the fresh water, and this became the source of all the fresh-water lakes and rivers today. It really was a lot of water. Our Hero of the story obviously had a much bigger attachment to the brand of fire though, as this became the last thing that our bird-brained protagonist found himself flying with. Possibly it was because it was actually attached to him somehow, or somewhere that shouldn't be mentioned. Let's ask ourselves, if you're managing to carry the sun, moon, ALL the stars and ALL the fresh water, where do you put the burning brand of fire?

If you play with fire you get burnt. This is a fact of life that we all learn the hard way at some time in our life, and Raven was no exception. Whether he just let the brand burn down a little too far, or that he was careless with its placement, the fire eventually became too hot for him to hold, and he dropped it far to the ground below.

The consequences of this were two fold. First off, before he was able to drop it, the smoke from the burning flame billowed around his ivory feathers and coloured them black with soot. This is why Ravens are now black birds. The second is that we learn that rocks, like Eagles, are also hoarders, and upon the brand following into a group of them, they greedily soaked up the flame, and that is why rocks now spark when you strike them together.

The End


With my story over, I guess I owe you a little bit of clarification. The part of this story that really resonates with me has to do with the sun. Ever since I was a child, the high points of my years has always been summer oriented. I'm a lover of light and warmth, and enjoy the life-providing rays of our mother Sol to the umpteen degree.

Even as August progresses, I have already began to notice the continually shortening days, and with a heavy heart acknowledge that all good things must come to an end. As hippy as this sounds, it is the truth of my existence. I have never been one to be depressed, yet still always find myself experiencing a thin film of gloom upon my otherwise cheery demeanor during the lightless months of our Canadian winters.

Coupled with that is the romantic notion of the Raven itself. Ravens are clever birds, thinkers that have the ability to solve problems and use tools. There is a notion of freedom that is associated with all birds too, that thought of just being able to pick up and fly away.

Even if it was just a story, this Raven gave me the sun, and now I always have it with me, even as the light starts to fade a little earlier every night.


Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean



Read The Original Story Here

*aside from the image of my tattoo, which was designed and ink'd by a local tattoo artist, the other two images are not mine and instead a result of a google image search. My tattoo is not completely true to the haida style of raven, but instead more bird like due to my wishes.

Hillside Is A State Of Mind

I keep making the same mistake. I make plenty of mistakes, but in this instance I'm referring to my oft repeated blunder of assuming that having more time to write will actually enable me to do so. As if my blogs were more time sensitive than content influenced. I'm no super machine that can pull something out of my hat on a whim, and I'm not a fantasy guru that can spin a tale out of the crevices of my mind in the heat of a inspirational brainwave. I am experience driven. The things I write have always been based on situational material; emotional fuel from the good and bad of my day to day.

I've had a couple ideas, even considered making an attempt at another illustrated blog, such as the one titled Guilty from all the way back in December of last year. Nothing struck me though, nothing that really made me say "woah", I can put this in words. The internet is bogged down extensively with copious tripe and superficial content that the last thing I need to do is drip into the pond as I try and write about the trivial highs and lows of my every day. I can be happy keeping things to myself every now and again. If I find the need to write another thing that no one is going to read, I need it to be for me.

So if I must be event driven, an event that has come to drive me greatly in such a short span of a couple years is the music festival of Hillside. I am sitting in the twisting early morning air of my softly humming fan, nursing a bruise from a puck to the face and listening to the intensely powerful and penetrating banjo picking of a talented artist named Old Man Luedecke; finally the words to a blog that has for so long eluded me finally begin to flood into my head.

(Obviously not from Hillside)

I'm trying to find a way to describe the feel of Hillside without sounding like I'm just emitting random psychobabble. The truth is that the title of the blog really does explain it all. Hillside is a mindset, it is the feeling you get when you are surrounded by tens of thousands of people that are all exuding positive emotions. It is a mob mentality of overwhelming goodwill. Hillside is a feeling, an emotion and definitely a state of mind. The success of the festival lies in the talented artists and its impeccable organization, but the spirit of the festival is driven by the kindness and enthusiasm of its attendees, volunteers and performers.

For the second year in a row my attendance was serendipitously made possible through the kind actions of friends with extra tickets. The truth of my existence is that I no longer have the where with all to accurately predict if I will be around for any given July in Canada, and thus lack the justification to buy a pricy weekend pass the many months ahead of time that is required in order for them to not be sold out. This years heroine was Clare, who was a last year hillside acquaintance. I don't know why she bought an extra one, but I love her for it. Hillside friends are special friends.

I always do a poor job when I attempt an exact recount of a series of events, so I guess I'll break it down into the things that I feel are worth mentioning and still try to give a sort of overall guideline. The hillside I went to last year was in many ways amazing, so it is truly incredible to say without hesitation that this years' was by far better. I feel like my first hillside was keynoted by several really good bands that were bridged by copious forgettable, if not undoubtedly talent people, such that the time between the performances that stuck was enabled more by the high of the festival than the content on stage. The contrast this year was striking; bands I had never heard of, or that were something on the peripheral of my consciousness all came to play, and play really well. The down time between sets that I wanted to attend was basically non-existant, and really troubling conflicts of interest arose when faced with a tough decision on who to see.

Much to my embarrassment, but post-festival elation, I could often be seen marching off to the merch tent post set to try and track down an album by the artist I had just seen. When I plaintively told the man at the cash register that hillside was draining my money he was quick to point to the reusable beer mugs in my hand. I think it was only after the third time that the same guy saw me passing through with more albums that he finally realized the depth of my problem. I couldn't be happier now though, as I find new music often feels like a depleteable resource. The battle to keep a play list on my computer or ipod that is fresh and new is always a harrowing task, and I think I may have just gained a multi month advantage.

The friday night of hillside has come to feel like a warm up, where you slowly ease yourself into the feel of the festival. The bands that play, with exception, are usually listed on the friday night for a reason, and the time can be used to get your feet wet and have some beers. I'll post pictures from the program and circle what I saw. If I circle two in a set it means I bailed on one to see another, or just sampled both.




The Saturday is when the festival really comes together in my mind, and I don't think that's just my opinion alone, as it was the only day of the three that was completely sold out. Maybe it is the fact that it is the busiest day that give it the feel of being really high energy, but the bands started playing at 11 in the morning and before I knew it I was slightly drunk and in the home stretch for sets.



Saturday opened up with me listening to Dala playing with Doug Paisley, and then flipping to the main stage to watch some Graveyard Train followed up by Dala again with their own set. Graveyard Train is a band all the way from Melbourne, Australia, and they came prepared to play. With a list of songs that all seemed to be about some sort of ghoul or ghostie and a group of band members that includes a harmonica/hammer and chain player, these guys put on a performance that was pretty much unforgettable. Since Hillside is so big on workshops and mashing different artists together to jam, I believe I must have seen these guys three times by weekends' end and was never disappointed. My sister Jessica, who was fortunate enough to make it out for Saturday, even went and saw them again on the Monday night in Toronto. I couldn't work up the energy after my exhausting weekend, I must be getting old.




Dala, which played right after Graveyard Train, didn't quite bring the high energy music of their predecessors, but still managed to pull off a performance no less amazing. This is a group that consist of two admittedly good looking ladies, that I actually know best through my parents having played them in their house. They have a way of harmonizing their voices that is no trick of studio magic. I would wager that after seeing them preform, they sound better live then they ever do mixed on a cd. The natural back and forth banter, and the ease with which they sing and have fun is infectious. I'm not always in the mood to listen to their kind of music, but I will admit that they have a good thing going.



Aside from the surprising Sweet Thing in the midday, the true highlight of the Saturday came at sundown. Starting with Hooded fang at 8 and finishing with Hollerado, the final acts on the island stage made the day. With the beer in hand, and the good times rolling, Saturday evening started with the catchy pop beats of the lesser known Hooded Fang, flipped to the groove infused melodies of the up and coming Sheepdogs and finally was capped off with the fun and energetic set of the ever enjoyable Hollerado. Huge numbers of people were crowded under the tent at the island stage, sweating in the sweltering summer heat and grooving in place while standing on the picnic tables, enthralled by the energy and quality of the performances.








Sunday starts fairly tame, with the highlight being the Gosspel session for two hours starting at eleven. I suppose this is supposed to be hillsides version of church, to make all the Godly feel better about missing a sermon to listen to sick beats. Understandably then it may make you raise an eyebrow and wonder why the professionally unreligious such as myself would find this to be the best thing in the morning. The truth is that even though the workshop is often orchestrated and run by one of the artists that is sufficiently Jesus-enthused, the rest of the jam is comprised of really good, often folky artists, that aren't necessarily heaven bound, but fit the sound that the session was going for. The long and short of it is that if you're willing to put up with one or two drawn out songs about Heaven and the like, you get to listen to artists like Dala and Old Man Luedecke play entirely session-unrelated tunes.



With the morning Gosspel being my first chance to have a look at the banjo playing dynamo Old Man, it was fortunate that his whole set was later on that day, and he didn't fail to disappoint. There were two Albums that I got signed at hillside, and one of them was his. The other was by a band named Paper Lions, who's CD I had actually bought on a whim hoping that they'd be amazing and actually making a really accurate prediction. While I was walking into the merch tent to track down Paper Lions to sign my CD, is when one of the more memorable moments of the festival happened for me.

If you have browsed over the schedule of Sunday that I posted, you'll notice that playing on the lake stage in the early evening was one anomaly of a performer: Fred Penner. Yes, the legend of a man from my childhood played at hillside this year, and although he didn't bring any new age guitar-shredding Freddy P to the stage, he did manage to pull of a set that was by far one of my favourites.


(This is not my video, just took it off the youtubes)


Partially by the virtue of his charisma alone, and then coupled with his energetic, funny and generational gapping music, Fred brought such an energy to the stage that the whole fenced area was alight with smiles, laughter and singing along. Furthermore, Mr. Penner wasn't afraid to collaborate either, and invited both Serena Ryder and Dan Mangan up during his set to sing along with him. When I was a kid, Ghost Riders in the Sky was by far and away my favourite song of his, and I can remember clearly lying in bed with my rewind-button-less sony walkman, flipping the tape over and fast forwarding so that I could listen to it over and over after my parents had gone to sleep. The point is that I'm not entirely sold on Serena based on her own music alone, but she definitely won some points with me after pulling out all the stops to help Fred belt out one of my favourite childhood hits. Good beer and a childhood icon was a little overwhelming.

Back to the memorable moment, as I was walking into the merch tent after Paper Lions' set to get my CD signed, completely by surprise I bumped into none other than Fred Penner himself. This, unfortunately, set off a very awesome and embarrassing series of events. I didn't want to do the cliche thing and tell the man how I grew up with his music, but as a result had no idea what to say to him and started babbling like an idiot while shaking his hand for an awkwardly long time. Eventually, sensing that I had seized in the head, he took the initiative and asked me my name and said he was happy to meet me, jump starting my facilities back to working order.

The festival concluded with a very off sounding Sloan and me losing my car. I feel bad that my only words for the prolific 90's Canadian pop sensation is that they were 'off', but that is all I can muster. I was never really a huge Sloan fan, they just happen to be one of those bands that had so many hits that I can't help but know all their music. Unfortunately their voices haven't aged well, or they were just having a bad night, but either way they failed to put on a performance that had me enthused. Don't worry about my car either, it was just the next lot over.

If there is one last thing I can say, it is that after a festival like that, I am truly proud of the state of the Canadian music industry. As a person that spends too much time on the internet, I'm not a stranger to the complaining that occurs in regards to the state of the world's music scene. I walked away with seven new albums from Hillside, and every one of them was a Canadian band or artist. The truth is that if you ever feel that there is no good music being produced anymore, you're just not listening hard enough.

A big thanks again to Claire for having that extra ticket, and to Her, Gabe, and Sarah for putting up with me all weekend. Hillside friends really are special friends.

Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean

I'll Make Reading My Blogs Into A Sport; You Will Win

If I am ever caught thinking back on a subtitled movie, depending on how compelling a film, I am often hit with a tinge of confusion. It isn't that I'm too simple to follow an ordinary plot line, or so slow at reading to follow the lazily scrolling text, but instead that I am continually faced with the question of whether I had even watched it in subtitles at all. If a foreign film strikes me, and I mean really strikes me, then sometimes my brain starts plugging in the written text into spoken English dialogue among my memories, so that I can never discern what I heard and what I read.

Now as common or uncommon as this might be, I couldn't help but subconsciously extrapolate it as the summary of my whole existence; possibly everyone's existence. How much of what you were told in your life did you hear? How much of it did you just read into? Does our brain just continually make vaguely translated subtitles to everything we encounter day-to-day? Do we know as much as we think we do... Our lives are foreign films that we translate and follow the best we can.

I know this isn't deep, I didn't even have much reason to share it other than to get it off my chest. That, and to make it clear that I like to make obscure metaphors to my existence.

A month and three days is all I have been back in the country, but I can honestly say that I only have felt like I've truly been home for less than half of that. It wasn't because of anything stereotypical. I wasn't depressed, I wasn't even all that sad to be done traveling. I had made it clear in the last of my African blogs that I was ready to leave that continent, at least for a time, and that wasn't reckless words in the heat of the moment or a joke. No, I simply just never felt like I came back. I was transitory, and always seemed to be expecting to push off soon, never really settling back. Funny enough then, the day when I finally came back, and really felt like my trip was over, was the day that Barcelona FC won the Champions League.

I wouldn't call myself a sports fan, that would be insulting to sports fans. I like some sports, I'm too particular. I am hockey nuts, this isn't news. I don't mind baseball, but I won't go crazy. A true "sports fan" loves the spirit of athletics, and will pretty much tune into any of the local teams to follow some action. That said, I do always need at least a sport to pay attention to, any team to follow along with, and nod my head, and talk shop around the water cooler about.

No surprise then, that in Africa, the sport that you only really could follow was football. That is soccer to you. Football was everywhere, the one and only of all sports talk in east Africa. Any awkward encounter with a local could be broken with a mention of Man United or Barcelona, and the donning of a jersey made you the object of praise and ridicule interchangeably for the day. In this way football quickly became a major thread in the story of our travels. So much so, that in the slower weeks and the waning days, our trip could be summarized as the trials and tribulations between games, as if everything was a build up to the next Champions league showdown, or inter league grudge match.

I told you that I like to make obscure metaphors to my existence, and here is what I was trying to get at. Let me make it less obscure: To me, my trip through Africa parallels strikingly to the rise and eventual winning of Barcelona in the UEFA Champions league, and the other countless pitch showdowns of our arbitrarily selected-to-win teams that littered the evenings throughout the trip.

The selection of Barcelona as our go to team was pretty easy. When I was in Argentina, knowing nothing of football, I picked up a national squad Messi jersey. At the time it didn't mean to much, but post world cup when I had had the chance to watch the little dynamo put on an especially convincing performance amidst a mismanaged and poor showing Argentine squad, I was sufficiently convinced of his excellence. How could you make Lionel Messi better? Simple, take him and add him to a squad that is almost half composed of the reigning world cup champion Spanish team and then let the magic happen.



Barcelona is the epitome of European football. Control, skill, speed and showmanship. We would watch games where Barcelona would have over 500 completed passes to the other sides 100, with a ball control percentage topping seventy. Don't you dare call me a bandwagon jumper either, I joined the ship when they were still playing Arsenal, and after game one that series was far from in the bag for the Catalonians. The guns took it 2-1 with a late game rally in the last ten.

The point is that we would ride the ups and downs of Barcelona's season in our own lives. It was partly pure coincidence and partly that energy you feed off from a team you grow to love. The success or failure of Barcelona in any game would shadow our attitudes or situation and vice versa. The good thing on my part is that Barcelona really was the juggernaut, that powerhouse team that seemed to glide through most of their season. Things were always more positive than not, and rarely did a gloomy spell last longer then it needed to.

It was with mixed feelings then that the winning of Barcelona over Man U snapped me back to reality, back to Canada. Don't get me wrong, I was ecstatic. The fact that it was Manchester United was the icing on the cake. The fact that it was none other than Messi, who got the game winner, and sealed the cup, was sublime.



Man United as a team is one that you will grow to hate if you ever cheer for any one else. Rival or not, they have a cast that is in my opinion regrettable and front manned by a fat-faced goon named Wayne Rooney. The worst part is that they are good. Maybe not to the man, but as a unit they are an extremely solid club. Nothing is worse than a hateable club that is actually good, because then you can't justify all your rage by calling the club crud.



The sadness was because it was an end. I had been there as they went through Arsenal, Shaktar, Real Madrid and finally Manchester United. I was unwavering in my fandom through everything, to a level that I can honestly say that I have never felt in the Stanley Cup finals with any of my teams. There was no fear of failure, just a confidence in the end result. That is an addicting feeling. As a result, after the victory over Manchester I felt like I had both somehow "won" at my trip to Africa vicariously through Barcelona, while simultaneously losing my biggest connection to the whole experience. The chord was severed, and instead of living in an unsettled limbo I was firmly back in Canada and reality. Mixed with the aimlessness of unemployment I was experiencing at that time, that was when I got into the real funk.

I like Canada, I like a lot of things about Canada, and yet already as I get back into the groove of life here I find myself unsettled. I get irritated by the small community mentalities, the lifestyle and the tripe that passes for news worthy material, while all the while falling right back into it. I had managed to push out of my mind for a time the work until death lifestyle that runs the Western world, the very same mindset that was the very reason I started this blog in the first place! No wonder I'm irritated by it! All the same the itch returns, the urge to go back out and see something different.

Fear not though, loyal blog readers, for I am on the rise now. I think I needed the decompression time that being an unemployed sack allowed me, and taking it wasn't the biggest mistake of my life. I also needed to take a break from this blog. Finishing the writing on Egypt felt like work. It was that hard. The frustration and emotions that I channeled into that post were a little too much, and it really killed my want to write for quite a while. Things are on the up and up starting now. For the summer I have moved back to Guelph and the streets of my University days, accompanied by all the nostalgia that that brings.

Guelph is a bit of an oddball in terms of weather. For the majority of the year, namely fall through spring, Guelph can be one of the cloudiest most depressing places to exist. Summer though, summer in Guelph is a whole other tune altogether. That overcast gloom is promptly swapped for an omnipresent green scape and sunshine. I'm a child of the sun. Guelph in the summer is like the ultimate bromance of me and nature.

My job for the summer is nothing to stimulating. I won't win a Nobel for any great achievements putting in my time, much like I won't get a Pulitzer for what I write here. It is, however, exactly what I needed this summer. It is active, I am on my feet. I've worked behind a desk for long enough in my life to know that it won't be where I end up. They are flexible, and I have the summer to interview and search for something more up my alley, while making money and staying busy. Fair deal.

Perhaps the best thing about Guelph is the spiderweb of sidewalks that starts outside my door. I have a history of trying to be a consistent runner in Guelph. Unfortunately it usually went to the tune of either I would start in the fall and run into snow, or start in the spring and find myself returning home for the summer, where motivation to run the small selection of routes was minimal at best. In the past weeks I have been consistent, and consequently feel better than I have in years.

My best ideas for writing come to me while I'm active. Just like the first part of this post came to me on one run, the rest of it came to me today while I was out running in my Messi jersey. A bunch of goons heckled out the window to the note of Barcelona sucks.

You can't bring me down. Forget Vancouver, forget hockey altogether for a minute. My team for this year, my real favourite team of this year won the whole thing. Straight up. Thanks Barca!

Enjoy your summer everybody! I should be writing a lot more frequently now!

New Post Soon

I've been sleeping, I've been napping, I've been generally lazy. Although my trip to Africa is for all intensive purposes dead, this blog did not die with it, just as it wasn't born with it.

I'll write more, and I'll do it soon. My lack of material is mostly due to the readjustment process. I had a hard time finishing the one for Egypt, and it kind of killed my writing mojo for a time.

I have, though, had some thoughts for a good blog in my head (good to me at least) for a couple days and will write it shortly.

Sorry for the wait.

Sean

Egypt: The Good, Bad and I Got Ugly

I have never had a need to add a disclaimer, but I think this blog warrants a bit of a note. It isn't because of foul language or graphic content, but rather due to a poor attitude. I actually wrote the majority of this post while sitting in a hostel in Cairo, and the frustrated attitude that I had carried out of Tanzania was only compounded upon in Egypt. I was planning to sit on this and perhaps let my temper cool off - but I don't really enjoy writing retroactively or censoring my opinions, and to change the content now would require both. So the vast majority of this post stands as it was originally written, and the rest is filled in today. Enjoy.


(Identify this bird for me?)


I don't feel like writing a linear account of what my time in Egypt has consisted of so far. Instead, and in a rather cynical tone, I will voice some thoughts and insights into the people and sights of Egypt as I've come to understand them. I say cynical because that is my current mood, however, don't let it detract from your opinion of Egypt on my account - I'm just going to present my opinions! This is my blog, I can do that.

The thought that a whole country could be founded on one river seems slightly absurd. Yet, here in the north easterly part of Africa exists Egypt as a strip of green on blue in the middle of a vast expanse of yellow. Egypt without the Nile is a wasteland; its history and architecture an ancient king's wildest fancy, and nothing more. The vast flowing Nile is the lifeblood of the Egyptian economy and identity. Just as it was the spine and support of the BC era empire, it still stands as the foundation for all the major cities not located on the sea.

Egypt is a country facing many problems, and as a result many changes. In the wake of the January 25th revolution, and the consequential lull in tourism, the attitude of the people has changed; a nationality of pushy people trying to sell their wares to tourists has since become a very desperate pushy people trying to hawk their goods to a dwindling clientele. Add on top of this the fact that Egypt is the second most populated country in Africa, growing at over a million people a year, and without the means to expand their agricultural area which is tethered to a river beside the omnipresent desert - the need for foreign aid and the input of tourist dollars into this economy has never been higher at any other time. It is in this climate that I entered Egypt.

Egypt to me is a love-hate story, and I feel that I really need to present it that way in order for my thoughts to make sense. So like I said before, I don't want to lay out this particular post as a linear recollection of events, but instead categorize it into what I what I will simply refer to as the Good and Bad of Egypt. Since complaining always give rise to a much more interesting story, I will start with the Evil:


The Bad:

It is with sadness that I simply say that desperation doesn't sell. As much as telling me "it's low season, so you buy" didn't sell me bracelets in Tanzania, the endless mobbing of my time and space has failed to make me be any more accommodating. If you give them an inch, they will take a mile. Every small act of kindness in Egypt inherently requires you to tip. Travelers are a pit of wealth to be drained. The result is that everyone feels the need to interrupt and pry into every aspect of your existence.

If you try to take a photo, Mohammad Somebody recommends that two steps to your left would be a much more suitable location. This would be advice costs two pounds. If you ask where the exit is in a museum, the helpful informant will walk you the ten steps around the corner and then bluntly ask "tip for me". If you use an adviser to book a day trip to the pyramids, he will ask you how many days you have in Egypt and take the liberties of trying to book the remainder of your days too, and at a very disingenuous price. Prices for simple amenities are always stated with about a 300% markup until they realize that you're not about to be fleeced and this isn't your first rodeo.



Sadly, this achieves the opposite to their ambitions. I don't enjoy being swindled and conned. If you start at a price that is outrageous I'm more likely to walk away and avoid all future negotiations then to come back when you tell me "OK, we talk, cheap price". No one likes to be insulted, and it is exactly that: insulting. These people gate crash the admissions to the real wonders of Egypt, and so while you're trying to wrap your head around the true splendor of something as mind blowing as the pyramids, six people are a foot behind trying to get you on a camel, and the other four have cheap souvenir pyramids and sphinxes and try to put them in your hand.



If you go to the Great Pyramids, wear a hat. Wear anything at all on your head. The main ploy at Giza goes like this: So and so will walk up to you with dime a dozen postcards in his hands and a cheap version of a traditional Arab head wrap too boot. His first attempt at conversation will be straight forward, he will simply try and sell you both items at a ridiculously overpriced fair to which you will instantly say no. This will go on fruitlessly for about a half minute until they will attempt a change in stratagem.

The man with junk will approach you a second time. This time they will be prepared with the head scarf out of the package and will approach you saying things like "No Money", "Free", and "Gift". Nothing is free in Egypt. They will then try and accost you with the head scarf and unless you are quite slippery, manage in shoving it over your head. While you're busy with that, his other arm will be slipping postcards into the crook of your arms, lodging them securely. The hawkers hands then become permanently glued to his side, and due to some acute onset medical abnormality he will seem to be unable to lift them to receive the postcards that you adamantly want to return. The condition lifts only briefly to occasionally befuddle your attempts to remove the damn scarf that has been crammed on your head. He will continually say it is a gift and free through the whole process, but as soon as you try and walk off with his supposed gift, the mantra instead changes to "tip for the gifts?"

Now he has you in a pickle. You can't physically return it to him because he appears to have lost the basic motor control needed to grasp objects. Yet, you can't simply walk off with them without the man hunting you relentlessly around the lot, either with claims that you didn't pay or that you should tip for his hospitality. The solution, fortunately, was not too hard in the end. I told the man I was going to set his things on the ground, in the sand and camel shit littering the area. By some miracle he made a full recovery and was able to hold things again, but for some unknown reason his face contorted into a not to flattering, unexplainable snarl.

It's not that I don't want to help you. It's that you're selling crap, and the same crap that I can buy in a million stores in Cairo, and you're doing it for a ludicrous markup. One man even had the audacity to request a trade of his three novelty pyramids and a headscarf for my deceased grandfather's ring. I told him no as swiftly as the the other and then I had to laugh as he clarified and repeated: "No, no, no, trade, we trade!" as if that made the deal a little less sour.



Despite all this bitching, I think I should make it clear that I only lost my cool once (other than the time I had to tell the annoying man trying to domineer our picture taking to sod off). It was our first full day in Luxor, and we had spent our morning out at the Valley of the Kings on the west bank, and proceeded to take time in the afternoon to explore the city and watch a football match between Man U and Chelsea.

Every night in Luxor, at the temple of Karnak, there is a light show that takes place in several languages throught the evening. Conincidently as we were leaving the bar after the game, we had just enough time to make the English showing, but not if we walked. We had been harrased by carriages all day while walking around, and finally decided to indulge the cheapest one that was willing to take us out to the temple.

Reaching the temple was the exact moment we made our first mistake of the night. The carriage drivers declined our offerings of money, and told us to hold on to it and pay them after, as they said we could go back into town for the same price after the show. They had only charged us a total of ten pounds for all five of us to go the twenty minutes to Karnak, so we were willing to give them repeat buisness. The downside is that we were now morally obligated to pay them, and our night was inevitably tied to their services.

Things started to take a turn for the frustrating. The light and sound show turned out to be a little pricey for our blood, and as a result we didn't end up seeing it. To compound on that, we now had almost an hour to kill as our would be ride had returned into the city to try and find some fare while we were indisposed. We made a vain effort to try and hear the sound of the show from outside the temple, and failed to get more than some cheesey voice acting, so reluctantly we went back to the entrance to wait impatiently for our ride.

As with all the other attractions in Egypt, it was not long out the gate that the vultures began to descend on us, and this time in the form of two new carriage drivers that pulled up in anticipation of the post show crowd. At first we reacted the same as we had been with all other taxi or carriage drivers we had encountered, and told them simply no thank you. The problem, though, was that we couldn't really leave, and after a short reprieve we were once again set upon as we sat on a curb. Reluctantly we informed them that we were waiting for a carriage that would most likely be coming at nine. We were still adamant that we would not in fact be riding with them, and that they should leave us alone.

This man took it in a different direction, and decided that every minute we waited was another minute that his relentless nagging would wear us into getting onto his carriage. With striking audacity he would grab my hand and look at my watch every minute and say the words "ok, at nine, they not here, we go" over and over again. His offer to take us into town was at double price in two carriages. Finally at nine, noting that our transport had yet to arrive, he said with finality that it was time to go, and that we were to now get into his ride.

I don't get mad a lot. Even when I am mad, it is very rarely that I will give you the full depth of what I am thinking. This man however, he got the whole extent of my anger. I went on a thirty second diatribe about his buisness ethics and techniques. I stripped him down about how annoying he was, and how never in a life time would we get into his ride, regardless of how low the price is. For twenty minutes of annoyance he recieved a half minute of fury, and the finality of me saying very loudly "No." Even then, however, he tried to laugh it off and turn to the others in our group for support. They weren't making eye contact, and I met his attempted joke of "what is no?" with an even more forceful no. It finally sinking in, he slunk back across the parking lot and glowered at us for the remaining two minutes until our carriage showed.



Enough of the bad, let me get to the good about Egypt.

The Good:

People are generally friendly. Those that really have nothing to sell you will often be the first to say something as simple as "Welcome to Egypt", or be genuinely curious about where you are from. These are the good faces of Egypt, and if you manage to discern them from the rest, are actually worth talking to.

There were times walking in Cairo that I would have people fall in stride with me and they would, like everyone, ask me where I am from. Instead of saying something stupid like "Canada dry, never die" in respone, they would often follow up with something about themselves; I'm going to school, I'm fron Cairo, how do you like Egypt? Although I'd be wary, these were often the same people that were simply hospitable and on the way to somewhere much like me and would soon depart. Good conversations are possible in Egypt, they are just a lot more rare.

A good example of this was a man named Jimmy from Luxor. Jimmy was the proprietor of the Princess hotel, and also in charge of setting up our tour through the Valley of the Kings on our first day in the city. He told us upfront that he would be making money, but then outlined costs of admittance, fuel, and driver and presented in a way that made us aware of what was a fair price. This was a refreshing change, considering the agent at the New Palace hotel in Cairo intially tried to hook us up with a ten day tour for over $300 that didn't include admission prices, and was solely for transportation and sleeping arrangments. When we found out you could have a nice bed for roughly $4 a night and that the trains were only $20 to cross the country, we were hard pressed to figure out his price logistics. Lucky we dodged that bullet.

Another solid point about Egypt is the ease in which we were able to place our hands on the quite valuable ISIC cards. For those of you out of the loop, or before their time, ISIC stands for International Student Identity Cards. These little plastic dynamos come with a bunch of perks, including and not limited to discounts off attractions all over the world if you're student traveler. I know that the distance they go varies by country, but in Egypt the cards basically get you half off at every attraction, with the only exception we found being the Karnak light show in Luxor. Now the catch of these cards is that you need to be a fulltime student and have proof of enrollment. Anywhere else this may have been a snag, but in Egypt we pleaded unpreparedness and after a little convincing the lady at ISIC Cairo was more then happy to equip us with our cards. The cards cost us about 120 Egyptian Pounds (roughly $20), but I would wager they saved us more than triple that, none of us students.




Something really good about Egypt is the train system. Egypt was the fifth country in Africa that I had visited, and the fourth one I had seen with train tracks laid down. However, aside from Tanzania, it was only the second I saw with actually servicable machines moving on the rails. The trains in Egypt stretch the whole country, and are the main mode of travel, since the roads have not always been the safest. For the price of approximately $25 you can take a 13 hour train from Cairo all the way to Aswan. I dare you to try and get a similar fair on via rail. There are obviously some minor annoyances associated with the Egyptian rail, such as an irritating conductor that does ticket checks every three minutes, and saucy ticket booth operators who will tell you clearly vacant trains are sold out - but considering some of the more constent hassles of Egypt, this is minor news.

I suppose the thing I should be spending the most time on is what will get the least: the attractions themselves. The treasures of Egypt are simply amazing, but the sheer amount of them can be a little overwhelming. We spent almost two full weeks in Egypt moving non-stop around the country and saw only a part of the cultural wealth Egypt has to offer.



This is a double edged sword though, as with every consecutive thing we saw, my taste for being a camera toting tourist was a little more sated, until finally I stopped getting worked up for temples. The attractions themselves remained incredible, but my enthusiasm to tour them dwindled.

I will say that the big name things are worth seeing: the pyramids, abu simbal, the valley of the kings and so on are all worth it. If you go to Egypt you do need to see them. The sheer size of the pyramids blew my mind. It is hard to stand at the base of something so large and wonder how it was made by human hands only. No machines, nothing of the modern technology. It doesn't matter how many heiroglyphics, statues and obelisks you see, they never get less incredible.

I won't give you the run down on everything we saw, as this blog is already long enough. I'm just going to give you some of my top pictures and tell you where they are from. If you want to look up the details on everything I went to, I have included this picture of all my tickets, which have the name of the site printed on them. Feel free to wikipedia the history! I love how ticket scamming is big enough in Egypt that they need to include the very official looking hologram onto all their official things. Even the visa to enter the country has this hologram!



- The Egyptian Museum (very underwhelming, basically an unmarked storage room)


- Giza Pyramids & Sphinx
> The Great Pyramid (This is the big one that you can go inside. Not terribly worth it thought, as it is really a long climb to an empty, cramped, and hot room. They could at least paint a mural.)





- Abu Simbil Tow Temples
> Kings Tomb


> Queens Tomb


- Valley of the Kings (You can see three tombs with regular admission, the following two cost extra)
> Tomb of Tut Ankh Amun
> Ramesses VI

- Al-Deir Al-Bahari Temple (A large embalming temple that had original paint intact!)


- Karnak (The valley of the Queens Ticket was for Karnak, we never saw the VoQ.)


- R'Mose Temple


- Luxor Temple
Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean

Farewell East Africa

I saw a seal on the bus the other day. He was a peculiar seal, dark of skin and sitting upright, a fine fuzz of white fur covering his rotund head; dual cellphones were clutched constantly in his flippers. Beep. Beep. Beep. For hours. I didn't know that seals rode the bus, or that they had African wives that fed them cashews. They do, I saw it. I wonder what that seal would have said if he had made a slight turn left, and saw me staring at him. I was transfixed, his whole face seemed to jostle and shake as he chewed. The temple pulsed, moving up and down rhytmically; his ears moved in time with his jaw, quivering as if under the duress of a gentle breeze.

OK, I'll admit that he may not of actually been a seal. However he certainly did have a likeness to the seafaring mammal. And, perhaps the man in front of me didn't look like the closest thing to an Afro-asian since Tiger Woods, but he did have a striking likeness to a certain Chinese friend of mine. The lady next to me was touched though, I'm sure of it. Every time the the bus driver touched the brakes, she was up and around; peering nervously through the mid-seat crack and encrouching on my space like a fleet footed doom was approaching.

The point is that I enjoy people watching, and unfortunately for others I excel at being callously detrimental in my assessments of people I've never met. I used to hate long road trips. I've come to the conclusion that it was probably because I had nothing worth thinking about when I was younger. Now I enjoy a more enlightened way to move. Don't try to sign me up for Mensa or anything, but I've come to a stage in life where I have the ability to sit back on a bus ride, look out at the passing landscape, and spend copious amounts of time just thinking. It is always pretty unimportant thoughts: future plans, the rare insight, and often a handful of ideas that I think might fit into my blog; as I was looking at the seal, I was imagining how I could write about him.

On this particular bus trip, that returned me from Moshi back to Dar Es Salaam, the one particular thought that was in my head went like this: I am ready to leave East Africa. It's not that I don't like the region, I do. It's not that I havn't had the time of my life, I have. I suppose it boils down to the Mzungu status that haunts one through this continent. I'm tired of the totes and artists and safari drivers. I'm tired of haggling for everything because the white man has the money. No one ever wants to talk to you just for talking, and if they do they're the one out of ten and you still treat them like a jerk because you just can't take the risk that they're not trying to sell you things.

I'm slowly becoming reclusive; a recluse. Perhaps if my tan was darker you'd be checking under the piles of clothes in your kid's room looking for me, my bite poisonous. I'm folding in on my self like a precisely crafted oragami crane. I havn't the patienece for the grifters and sellers, the 'hello rafiki's and the 'karibu brother's. I just long for the places where you meld in to the background, taking for granted the diversity of home that collages you indecernible from the next. Perhaps, I'm not a friendly person, not inherently. My attitude to new people is a multi-factor variable, and situation plays a big part.

The only place I didn't feel this way was Uganda. When I was in Uganda, the "buy my art Rafiki" was a more sincere "Hello Mzungu, how are you?". Yet, I have no plans to circle back there now, and the guns seem to be blaring in the Kampala streets even if I wanted to. The pearl of Africa still has its problems to sort.

It is thus with a mix of sadness, yes, sadness, and the feeling that now is the right time that I fly out of Tanzania. Tonight in the early hours of the morning, I head to Egypt. Although I know the pestering in Egypt will be as bad as anywhere (probably worse), the change of scenery, the shorter duration and the rendevouz with my younger-older-sister makes me excited to go.

My time in East Africa has been nothing short of amazing. I will write something of more proper tribute when I reach home, but for now I will simply say good bye. It hurts to leave, but I think I need a change.

Thanks for Reading,

Much Love,

Sean

Kilimanjaro on a Whim

I am going to start with this picture of us on Uhuru peak so that you realize this is a happy story. In this story the heroes do reach their goal, and maybe if they get lucky, live happily ever after. However, don't let an ending-first story detract from its content by deterring you from reading to the last, because there is a lot to tell!



Kilimanjaro is a lot of things: a giant mountain, an incredible sight, and something that my sister and I decided over a month ago that we were not going to do. It wasn't that we didn't want to climb it, but we had managed to find a number of excuses that we were fairly happy with; are we really prepared? Do we want to spend the money? The original proposal and pressure to climb was all from me anyways, and I didn't think it fair to push. The point is, we were so firmly decided that the climb was a no go that when we hit Nairobi we took the time to mail some stuff home, including the bulk of our warm clothes and my waterproof pants.

If you're wondering, then, what pushed us to climb it - despite our blaring deficiencies in gear - the answer is of course the mountain itself. There is no greater salesman than that giant chunk of rock. April in East Africa is the start of the rainy season, and according to a precipitation chart we saw, the month of heaviest rainfall for the whole year in Tanzania. Understandably then, when we reached Moshi from Arusha, the whole mountain was clouded over and impossible to discern in the gray.

As we started to explore Moshi, I found the city rather to my liking. Unlike the dirt sides streets and overall brownness of Arusha, Moshi features a rather green backdrop. Despite how content we were with the city though, we were always looking skyward and trying to catch that one glimpse of the summit. When it finally happened we were not prepared. Late in the afternoon of our first full day of Moshi, the sun was out in full force. We were on our way to the YMCA to have a swim in one of the best pools I've ever seen. As we noticed the clouds were parting, we stopped and started looking around, bickering about where it could be.

The truth was that we just weren't looking high enough. It was Brandon who first looked up, and then directed us to do the same. Thus we had our first glimpse of the stunning vista that is the white capped peak of Kilimanjaro as seen from Moshi town. It literally loomed out of the hill backdrop of the country side, towering frosty and impenetrable. Jess instantly turned to me:

"Still want to climb it?"
"Yeah." I answered flatly, staring in awe.
To Brandon: "You?"
"Yeah." Equally stunned.

I don't know if that was the exact moment we decided that it was inevitable, but it certainly put the wheels in motion. Within a day we were at the tourist agency at the YMCA trying to negotiate a possible trip, and within two days and a good quote there was never a doubt that we were going to climb. The only real question, with Easter weekend approaching, was that of when we would leave - as in our North American holiday-oriented brains, making people work on good Friday or Easter Monday is next to blasphemy - but were assured that the guides and porters would rather make money than be with their families. This turned out to be true, the mountain was not as empty as predicted, and all the lodgings were rather full as we went up.

We left Moshi at around nine on Good Friday, and after an hour drive, arrived at the Marangu gate and signed into the guest book. The first day of Kili was two things: the easiest and worst day. The hike itself on day one is rather straight forward, a mere 8 kilometer hike through some beautiful alpine rain forest that bared a striking resemblance to Mgahinga where I stayed in Uganda (except no bamboo). The reason I thought it was the worst though was strictly due to the build to the climb. As we reached the park gate I was shaking from a mixture of nerves and excitement. The drive out to the park had seemed so unbearably long, and with so much mountain to go, I was feeling overwhelmed.

Luckily the cure for my tension and unease was movement, and starting out from the gate and falling into a rhythm proved enough to give me focus and calm me down. Day one is very short, a mere three hour hike, and we reached the Mandara camp site early in the afternoon. The camp ground was located in a clearing among the trees, and spotted with huts that were divided in two, and slept four a side. The beds were simple, furnished with bare mattresses and caseless pillows that could have contained who knows how much drool.



Our time in Mandara was used to acclimate to the altitude (2700m) and to help facilitate this, our guide Zongolo (sweet name) took us to a nearby crater to let us have a walk around. The crater was really rather anticlimactic, and we were positive that it was just an excuse to get the hikers moving around since they have so much time at the end of day one. However, we made the best of it, and decided to act out the word rim, as shown on the sign, so that you can understand. Here is me dunking an imaginary basketball very professionally:



Day two was much more rewarding, and featured a 12 km hike through a zone known as the moor lands. Basically the moor land is just scrub vegetation, including long grasses and undersized gnarly and prickly bushes. Fortunately, the walk provided me many opportunities to say in my most annoying voice "need moor land", to what I assume was everyone's enjoyment.

The only annoyance of the walk on day two, similarly to day one, was the implementation of the much overused Swahili phrase "pole pole". I realize it looks stupid written, as you are pronouncing it with a English-speaking accent.
Here is you: "Pole pole? What the fuck does pole pole mean?"
It is however pronounced "pole-eh pole-eh" and is the single most overused, annoying phrase in Africa. It means, simply, slowly slowly, and if you ever go to Zanzibar all the totes will yell it at you as you breakaway from them and whatever kind of crap they are trying to sell.

It also means that if your guide is saying it, you will be taking really small, short steps, and a relatively easy walk will take a lot longer. I was feeling really well though, and because of some logic I had concocted about the life span of red blood cells and my time spent in Uganda at altitude, I was rather convinced that I was perfectly acclimated, and we could go faster. It really was a rather easy walk.

Despite the rather slow pace, we still managed to get into the second camp rather early in the afternoon. This is a place we have affectionately named cloud city, partly because I forget the name of the hut, and partly because as we arrived the clouds were starting to creep in amongst the buildings. The camp for night two is located at 3800m, and if it is clear when you wake up, you get this:




You also get a view of the peak you get to climb, Kibo, located 9 km away and standing a looming 5895 meters above sea level:



And lastly you got a view of the other peak of Mount Kilimanjaro, which is much closer than Kibo, but stands 500m shorter at a mere 5400. I can't remember the exact name of it, but we were told that the rock was lose, and to climb it you had to have special permits.



This is also when it started to get cold.



Day three showed a very stark change in environment. The moorlands that we had spent all of the previous day slowly faded away until we found ourselves walking through an alpine desert, complete with lots of dirt and sand and very sparse vegetation.

When we finally stopped for lunch we realized that this was probably going to be the closest that any of us would ever get to being on the moon. Furthermore, we realized that Jessica's rented snow suit was probably really just a cheap space suit. The moon bouncing commenced:




The fun couldn't last forever though, and eventually the space police showed up, and put a stop to the fun.



That night we stayed at the last camp before the top, Kibo hut, located at the very base of Kibo peak, a whopping 4700m above sea level. This is where the problems with altitude tend to occur for most of the climbers. Headaches at Kibo hut are pretty much constant, and many people found themselves unable to stop throwing up. A few people were already having problems at the previous camp, and I am unable to imagine how they managed there, if they even made it at all.

The lodgings at Kibo are also drastically different. Unlike the four person seperate billeting featured at the previous stops, at Kibo they squish everyone into 10 person dorm rooms that are all located in one large building. The reasoning for this is that the rooms don't need to be great because you don't spend much time sleeping before you head up the peak. The problem though is that the dorm rooms actually facilitate the lack of sleep during the time you actually have to try and get some.

Everyone reacts to the altitude so drastically different, that to put ten of them together and expect them all to get some rest is impossible. Since day four, summit day, actually starts on the night of day three, dinner was served at five and we were expected to try and fall asleep directly after. The man above me snored. Yet, it wasn't just snoring, it was done in such a way that he sound like he was gutting a bear with a rusty spoon, relishing every last throw of death. People who snore in dorms are the worst, because you know that they're keeping you awake while simultaneously sleeping. Even worse was the man in the middle set of bunks beneath Brandon. His altitude sickness was one of the most severe cases I saw, and he would throw up whatever little food he managed to get down in consistent intervals.

Wake up call was at 11:30, and before that time I had managed a whole hour and a half sleep. Hot tea and some stale cookies were given, before shortly after midnight we set out into the darkness, and up the longest hill of my life. Our guide must have had some confidence in us, as we set out a half hour later than the last group before us, and before long we were already beginning to pass the straggling members of the large Chinese contingent.

The final ascent is a head game. It may seem surprising, but it is much easier to force foot after foot up a grueling hill than it is to actually understand why you're doing it. If you over think it you're done. In the darkness, under the light of the moon, the closest ridge above you is always visible. Yet every ridge seemed to breed a new ridge, until the number of rises after a rise seems infinite. I remember our guide saying proudly, not a short duration in, that we were 5000m up. Not an unimpressive feat, but disheartening when we were positive we were 500m higher.

The last day can be broken into two parts, the climb to Gilman's point, which is steep and long, and the hike from Gilman's to Uhuru peak, which is another 200m but much gradual. To get to Gilman's point is really to climb the mountain itself. At roughly 5500m is when I first started feeling the pressures of altitude. A uneasiness that had been brooding in my stomach had finally grown into full blown nausea, and every step was an attempt not to throw up.

I'm not sure what kept me going on. It could have been pride, or just sheer stubbornness, as I was forced at times to climb up rocks on all fours. When I crawled it was using arms that had long since been deemed unworthy of oxygen by my brain, causing the nerves to sent sharp jolts of pain up the numb appendages. At one point Brandon offered me some biscuits. All I remember is them tasting as dry as the desert from the previous day, and spitting them flaccidly out of my mouth and choking down some water.

The final approach to Gilman's was a trade off of lead group between us and a group of Americans from Colorado. I'm not sure if they were from boring flat Colorado, or crazy mountain part, but I assumed the latter and took great pride in finally passing them and reaching Gilman's first.



Reaching that point was one of the best moments of my life. Not simply because it was a feat in itself, but that from there we had a clear view of Uhuru under the light of a three quarters moon. The path to Uhuru was much less steep, and looked very attainable. Just past Gilman's is where the altitude final got the best of me, and I puked several times until nothing else could come up. Two good things came from this however: the first being being that I felt much better afterward, and found that I had the strength to finish, the second that I think I set off a peristaltic reaction, and the Americans who were creeping close on us again took their time in coming after us.

It was in this way that we were the first to the top on the morning of Easter Monday. We had set out last from Kibo by a half hour, and reached Uhuru first by another half hour, getting there at shortly after 4 in the morning. We were not long for the place though, and only stayed long enough to snap some pictures and leave. The air was well below freezing, as our ice filled water bottles proved, and the longer we stayed the more everyone felt the creeping of altitude induced nausea come over them.



We had defeated Kilimanjaro, and we felt like heroes!


Thanks for reading.

Much Love,

Sean





So cold...