the joys of IBS

enjoying combining two double cheese burgers into a huge quad-burger, knowing that within 30 minutes, i'll be vomiting my soul out, as i've been doing with every meal for the past two weeks.

love my life, absolutely love it.
oh and love that synthetic cheddar.

in the name of

"It was The Gospel From Outer Space, by Kilgore Trout. It was about a visitor from outer space...[who] made a serious study of Christianity, to learn, if he could, why Christians found it so easy to be cruel. He concluded that at least part of the trouble was slipshod storytelling in the New Testament. He supposed that the intent of the Gospels was to teach people, among other things, to be merciful, even to the lowest of the low.

But the Gospels actually taught this:

Before you kill somebody, make absolutely sure he isn't well connected. So it goes.

The flaw in the Christ stories, said the visitor from outer space, was that Christ, who didn't look like much, was actually the Son of the Most Powerful Being in the Universe. Readers understood that, so, when they came to the crucifixion, they naturally thought...:

Oh, boy - they sure picked the wrong guy to lynch that time!

And that thought had a brother: "There are right people to lynch." Who? People not well connected. So it goes.

The visitor from outer space made a gift to Earth of a new Gospel. In it, Jesus really was a nobody, and a pain in the neck to a lot of people with better connections than he had. He still got to say all the lovely and puzzling things he said in the other Gospels.

So the people amused themselves one day by nailing him to a cross and planting the cross in the ground. There couldn't possibly be any repercussions, the lynchers thought. The reader would have to think that too, since the Gospel hammered home again and again what a nobody Jesus was.

And then, just before the nobody died, the heavens opened up, and there was thunder and lightning. The voice of God came crashing down. He told the people that he was adopting the bum as his son, giving him the full powers and privileges of the Son of the Creator of the Universe throughout all eternity. God said this:

From this moment on, He will punish anybody who torments a bum who has no connections!"

Kurt Vonnegut / Slaughter House 5

on certainty

"Billy had a framed prayer on his office wall which expressed his method for keeping going, even though he was unenthusiastic about living. A lot of patients who saw the prayer on Billy's wall told him that it helped them to keep going, too. It went like this: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom always to tell the difference." Among the things Billy Pilgrim could not change were the past, the present, and the future."

Kurt Vonnegut / Slaughter House 5

stoned

music: the walkmen/ red moon/ You & Me/ download
photo: may 2009/ china town, kuala lumpur, malaysia/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

on chest pain

please fill the void and avoid stepping on the perimeter boundary

drained

and permanently stained

running backwards

music: bob dylan/ ring them bells/ oh mercy/ download
photo: march 2009/ ulleri, nepal/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

nomad

(smash every solid object within a 2 kilometre radius)

burn, mourn, be reborn you superhero

music: get well soon/ witches! witches! rest now in the fire/ rest now, weary head! you will get well soon/ download
photo: may 2009/ melaka, malaysia/ nikon d300/ enlarge

now playing in stereo

"There are many stereotypes, but perhaps the most prominent is that of the Labour-voting middle-class "Guardian" reader with centre-left/left-wing politics rooted in the 1960s, working in the public sector or academia, sometimes eating lentils and muesli, living in north London (especially Camden and Islington), wearing sandals, sometimes believing in alternative medicine and natural medicine though more often atheistic or non-religious and rational.

(...)

The stereotype of "The Guardian" reader is a persistent feature of British political and social discourse. Doctors have used the "doctor slang" acronym "GROLIES" (Guardian Reader Of Low Intelligence in Ethnic Skirt) on patient notes. The stereotype is occasionally referenced self-deprecatingly by "Guardian" readers in the newspaper's letters page, such as opening a response to a surprising claim in a recent article with "I nearly choked on my muesli" or some variation on that phrase."

A now-deleted section from Wikipedia's "The Guardian" article depicting the stereotype of a typical reader of newspaper. So stereotypical I nearly choked on my muesli.

the stereotype-demolishing stereotype

now playing in mono.

in the night

may 2009/ tioman island, malaysia/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

sucré, sacré, secret

"The greatest mystery is not that we have been flung at random among the profusion of the earth and the galaxies, but that in this prison we can fashion images sufficiently powerful to deny our nothingness."

André Malraux

thus

"Back then you carried your ashes to the mountain: would you now carry your fire into the valley?"

Thus spoke Zarathustra/ Friedrich Nietzsche

against the stream

may 2009/ melaka, malaysia/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

gone trekking...

...borneo and the malaysian islands.

beauté

la légende, ou l’histoire des idées raconte qu’Emmanuel Kant, après avoir achevé La Critique de la Connaissance de la Causalité, développé par Hume dans l’essai sur l’entendement humain se dit reconnaissant à l’écossais de l’avoir sorti de son sommeil dogmatique en lui montrant que toute connaissance commence par l'expérience.

or voilà un compliment dont David Hume serait bien passé, car si vrai soit-il, l’hommage de Kant a eu pour effet désastreux de réduire pour l'éternité son aimable destinataire au statut de marche pied. aujourd’hui, selon l’injuste idée reçue, Hume serait un nain sur les épaules duquel Kant le géant aurait posé ses semelles de fer pour entreprendre une longue marche vers les cimes de la raison.

s’il est certain que Kant n’aurait pas écrit La Critique de la Raison Pure s’il n’avait pas lu Hume, et s’il n’est pas moins certain que La Critique de la Faculté de Juger n’aurait pas non plus vu le jour sans les essais esthétiques, il reste que nous gagnons à lire et à connaître Hume pour lui même et qu’il faut redécouvrir tous les textes sans exception de ce chasseur de métaphysique, ce briseur de substance, ami des passions humaines, sceptique, acrobatique, empiriste, philosophe, désespéré, bon vivant et critique de la religion naturelle.

l’homme de goût qui a le génie de montré que l’impression précède l’idée et de transformer toutes notre certitudes en habitudes mérite une autre postériorité que celle de précéder le triste criticisme Kantien. l’écrivain de talent qu’était Hume n’est pas seulement le réveil matin d’un philosophe indigeste. l’artiste brillant pour qui la vie est un remède à la raison, n’est pas uniquement un prélude aux lumières, Hume est une fine lame de la pensée, dont des Kantiens sans morale ont fait un second couteau comme s’il ne manquait à l'écossais délicat que d’être Kantien lui-même.

“La beauté n'est pas une qualité inhérente aux choses elles-mêmes, elle existe seulement dans l'esprit qui la contemple, et chaque esprit perçoit une beauté différente. Une personne peut même percevoir de la difformité là où une autre perçoit de la beauté. Et tout individu devrait être d'accord avec son propre sentiment, sans prétendre régler ceux des autres. Chercher la beauté réelle ou la réelle laideur est une vaine enquête, comme de prétendre reconnaître ce qui est réellement doux ou ce qui est réellement amer. Selon la disposition des organes, le même objet peut être à la fois doux et amer; et le proverbe a justement déterminé qu'il est vain de discuter des goûts. Il est très naturel, et tout à fait nécessaire, d'étendre cet axiome au goût mental, aussi bien qu'au goût physique. Et ainsi le sens commun, qui est si souvent en désaccord avec la philosophie, et spécialement avec la philosophie sceptique, se trouve, sur un exemple au moins, s'accorder avec elle pour prononcer la même décision.” De la norme du goût / David Hume

Inteprétation de Raphaël Enthoven, Les Nouveaux Chemins de la Connaissance (émission du 1er Mai 2009), Radio France

wherever you go i go

"While there is a lower class I am in it. While there is a criminal element, I am of it. While there is a soul in prison I am not free."

Eugene Victor Debs 1855-1926

i keep checking

for a message that never comes

i'm still waiting

for my real life to begin

i only take my shower in total darkness

so i connect with who i really am

i need

a god

i want

happiness

i am

lost

jimmy ferme boutique

voici la saison des pénombres, du sirocco. de la noyade et de la schizophrénie. de la pandémie. voici la saison du départ, des petites manies. des états permanents et des décisions. des démons. la saison du point de non-retour.

voici la saison des adieux. et c'est odieux. mais peut être je serai de retour, au retour, des azalés.

musique: alain bashung/ il voyage en solitaire/ bleu pétrole/ téléchargement
photo: mars 2009/ trikedhunga, annapurna, népal/ nikon d300/ agrandir

matters of a primitive mind

life is deceiving indeed. it's an untamed animal that’s been so documented, you’d think by reading about it for years you’ll have it all figured out.

but life's a cheater. you assume that by avoiding its pitfalls, you might manage to follow its most reliable road map and manage to lead a wiser, more enriching and less humiliating existence.

but soon enough, you surrender to the temptations of your rebellious ignorance. like a moth attracted by a glazing flame, you become victim of life's reputed promises. you spend years wandering its back alleys desperately trying to peak at the front scene, to catch a glimpse of its blinding light, its star-like sheerness. you venture everything in an attempt to savour its most exotic, epicurian delights. you sail open waters, you lose sight of ordinary life, you sink in a realm of ideas and thoughts, you inundate yourself with life’s gist, its philosophy, its lessons and delicate possibilities. you read across its millennia, you plunge into its pleasures. you explore every corner of it, record every sweet aspect, and on your sabbath, enjoy laying back, playing back these neurotic tapes and watching this intoxicating mental movie until you fall asleep.

days start chasing days, hours begin rolling a wee bit faster and months start slipping through your fingers, and then one day, you wake up, traumatised by a bitter realisation: though over the years you’ve got things figured out, you've really failed in one crucial aspect of life: the meaning of your own existence.

and then you wonder: is your existence merely a dream? a void? an ephemeral projection of a cloud on a roughly shaped terrain? a random, anonymous shadow of a random, anonymous object? a virtual element among an infinity of others, existing vainly, simultaneously, in the most quintessential form of vainness?

is your existence as real as a false mathematical formula based on an false mathematical theory?

if all humans in the world firmly denied and irrevocably refuted the existence of god, would he/she still exist (even if he/she actually did indeed exist?). similarly, if your existence is not acknowledged or recognised by other humans, if your entire realm is the shadow of a fluffy, metamorphous cloud of fluid particles, would you really exist? would you count? would you matter?

well no, you wouldn't, and you don't. because you don't.
happy birthday little ugly expressionless face.

gone

april 2009/ dubai, UAE/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

doubt, research, knowledge

"Do not believe on the strength of traditions even if they have been held in honour for many generations and in many places ; do not believe anything because many people speak of it ; do not believe on the strength of sages of old times ; do not believe that which you have yourselves imagined, thinking that a god has inspired you. Believe nothing which depends only on the authority of your masters or your priests. After investigation, believe that which you have yourselves tested and found reasonable, and which is for your good and that of others."

Kalama Sutta ; Gautama Buddha

and i've come full circle

music: the walkmen/ new country/ you & me/ download
photo: march 2009/ bhaktapur, kathmandu, nepal/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

i've had my banyan tree monologue

music: the walkmen/ long time ahead of us/ you & me/ download
photo: march 2009/ bhaktapur, kathmandu, nepal/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

torn and tired

march 2009/ ghorepani, annapurna, nepal/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

sunny side up

i was ascending my roots upwards into the underground,
forging my way through layers of earth and sticky clay,
spikes, swords and large eyeballs,
ravaging my organs, and a cityscape of large carcasses,
and waste

greedy daughters of immoral mothers,
vicious products of the digital cart,
synthetic age, social candies,
and a big large hug of inconsequential rage,
the chaos, the blurriness and the perennial haste

buddha here

march 2009/ ghorepani, annapurna, nepal/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

the stepping stone

march 2009/ ghandruk, annapurna, nepal/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

lucky and happy

march 2009/ ulleri, annapurna, nepal/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

seismic shift

"Like Rolla, I've come too late into a world too old. I should have been born into the Middle Ages when faith was a matter of course; then my way would have been clear to me and I'd have sought to enter the order. I couldn't believe, I wanted to believe but I couldn't believe in a God who wasn't better than the ordinary man. The monks had told me that God had created the world for his glorification. That didn't seem to me a very worthy object. Did Beethoven create his symphonies for his glorification? I don't believe it. I believe he created them because the music in his soul demanded expression and then all he tried to do was to make them as perfect as he knew how.

(...)

But that wasn't the chief thing that bothered me; I couldn't reconcile myself with that preoccupation with sin which, so far as I could tell, was never entirely absent from the monks' thoughts. I'd known a lot of fellows in the air corps. Of course they got drunk when they got a chance, and had a girl whenever they could, and used foul language; we had one or two bad hats: one fellow was arrested for passing rubber checks and was sent to prison for six months; it wasn't altogether his fault; he'd never had any money before, and when he got more than he'd ever dreamt of having, it went to his head. I'd known bad men in Paris, and when I got back to Chicago I knew more, but for the most part their badness was due to heredity, which they couldn't help, or to their environment, which they didn't choose: I'm not sure that society wasn't more responsible for their crimes than they were. If I'd been God I couldn't have brought myself to condemn one of them, not even the worst, to eternal damnation. Father Ensheim was broad-minded; he thought that hell was the deprivation of God's presence, but if that is such and intolerable punishment that it can justly be called hell, can one conceive that a good god can inflict it? After all, He created men: if he trained a dog to fly at the throat of any stranger who came into my back yard, it wouldn't be fair to beat him when he did so.

If an all-good and all-powerful God created the world, why did He create evil? The monks said, so that man by conquering the wickedness in him, by resisting temptation, by accepting pain and sorrow and misfortune as the trials sent by God to purify him, might at long last be made worthy to receive His grace. It seemed to me like sending a fellow with a message to some place and just to make it harder for him you constructed a maze that he had to get through, then dug a moat that he had to swim, and finally built a wall that he had to scale. I wan't prepared to believe in an all-wise God who hadn't common sense. I didn't see why you shouldn't believe in a God who hadn't created the world, but had to make the best of a bad job he'd found, a being so enormously better, wise, and greater than man, who strove with the evil he hadn't made and who you hoped might in the end overcome it. But on the other hand, I didn't see why you should."

William Somerset Maugham / The Razor's Edge

the moon and the sun

march 2009/ bhaktapur, kathmandu, nepal/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

nepal

very little is left unsaid about nepal.

the place is a concentrated drop of heavenly elixir, that if diluted, could easily inundate the cosmos with stories, images and sounds. nepal as an entity is so seriously heavenly, its mere existence is blasphemous. not only it contains god, it also competes with it.

perhaps the most grand aspect of nepal is the one i had anticipated the least. beyond the indescribable natural beauty, the social experience, the architecture, the history, the mountains, the altitude, the majesty of the himalayas, the colours, flavours, and the friendliness of its people, beyond all the earthy aspects that make it what it is, there is a more profound, mystical aspect of this land that genuinely shakes your soul beyond words, scattering your perceptions of life, humanity and existence into quantic dust.

nepal it is true, is a dangerous place, in that it is so addictive it can render, within days, any form of existence outside the realm of the himalayas, their mysticism and their religions, utterly meaningless.

walking through the buddhist slate-stone villages at dusk, in the heavy, foggy, misty, freezing air of the annapurna range is bound to inflict permanent and terminal damage to any remaining materialism dwelling within the void of your cranium and rib cage.

walking your way modestly through the busy streets on a the late afternoon at burbar square in bhaktapur, contemplating hindu temples, or reading about the innumerable hindu gods and their complex powers and ways, may well suddenly shake you so hard it breaks you.

standing humbly at the feet of the annapurnas or the everest ranges puts you in this irrecoverable state of mind where you are immediately bound to believe that god exists, and manifests itself through every atom that constitutes every element of this universe. god exists and is omnipresent, in the earth you walk on, the fruit you bite and the fresh air you breathe.

there is only one reason for you to grab your backpack immediately and go trekking nepal: a trip only serves as means for you to better plan the next one.

good morning life

march 2009/ poon hill, annapurna, nepal/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

gone trekking the himalayas

march 2009/ musandam, oman/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

everyone in the world

sylvain chauveau/ des plumes dans la tête/ des plumes dans la tête/ download

benoît XVI assasin

"En préambule à sa visite au Cameroun, Benoît XVI n’a pas craint d’affirmer que la distribution de préservatifs n’était pas la solution au problème du sida et qu’au contraire, leur utilisation aggravait ce problème. Après la légitimation du négationnisme et du viol, l’église catholique confirme qu’elle va décidément à l’encontre de la science et du progrès : qu’elle se taise !

Act Up-Paris exige de Benoît XVI et de l’église catholique - au vu notamment de leurs positionnements sur l’avortement, l’homosexualité et le préservatif - qu’elles cessent de s’exprimer et d’agir sur la prévention et la gestion de l’épidémie de sida, ainsi que sur toute question scientifique.

Leurs postures grotesques qui persistent, 25 ans après le début de l’épidémie, à ignorer les pratiques réelles et les données épidémiologiques, constituent une insulte de plus aux quelques 33 millions de personnes contaminées - dont 2/3 en Afrique subsaharienne - et aux plus de 30 millions de mortes.

Avec 1,9 millions de nouvelles contaminations annuelles, l’Afrique subsaharienne est la région du monde la plus touchée par le sida [1]. Combien de ces personnes auraient pu ne pas être contaminées si elles avaient été informées que seul le préservatif protège efficacement du sida et si elles avaient eu plus facilement accès à l’information sur le VIH et aux moyens de s’en protéger ? Benoît XVI et l’église catholique auront sans doute à l’avenir des comptes à rendre sur leur complicité dans la propagation de l’épidémie.

Il n’est plus à prouver que les politiques de promotion d’abstinence et de fidélité sont des échecs flagrants en termes de prévention du VIH et des IST. De même qu’il n’est plus à prouver que les discours négationnistes ou le viol sont condamnables. Mais, visiblement, pas pour l’église catholique. Dès lors, nous ne voyons pas qui pourrait apporter encore quelque crédit aux discours papaux.

L’église catholique est plus que jamais ridicule. Cela serait risible si elle ne se rendait ainsi encore davantage complice des 8000 morts que le sida fait chaque jour."

18 mars 2009 / www.actupparis.org

free at last

march 2009/ musandam, oman/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

sur l'utilité de l'harmonie divine

"Oh! Aliocha, je ne blasphème pas. Je comprends très bien ce que sera l’ébranlement de l’univers quand tout ce qui est au ciel et sous la terre s’unira en une seule louange, et que tout ce qui vit et qui a vécu s’exclamera: «C'est justice, Seigneur, car Tes voies se sont découvertes!»

Quand la mère elle-même embrassera le bourreau qui fit déchirer son fils par les chiens et que tous trois s'exclameront en pleurant: «C'est justice, Seigneur!», alors, bien sûr, nous serons à la cime de la connaissance et tout sera expliqué. Mais c'est là précisément que nous butons, car c'est cela que je n'accepte pas. Et tant que je suis encore sur la terre, je me hâte de prendre mes mesures.

Vois-tu, Aliocha, il est possible que, étant encore en vie ce jour-là ou bien ressuscité pour le voir, il est possible, dis-je, qu'à la vue de la mère embrassant le bourreau, je m'exclame moi-même avec tout le monde : «C'est justice, Seigneur!» Mais justement je ne veux pas m'exclamer alors. Pendant qu'il est encore temps, je me hâte de me défendre, c'est pourquoi je repousse résolument l'harmonie supérieure. Elle ne vaut pas une seule petite larme de ce petit enfant tourmenté qui se frappait la poitrine de son petit poing et priait le «bon Dieu» dans son trou puant ! Elle ne vaut pas ces petites larmes qui sont restées sans rachat et qui doivent être rachetées, sinon il n'y a pas d'harmonie possible. Mais comment les rachèteras-tu?

Est-ce vraiment possible? Veux-tu dire qu'elles seront vengées? Mais que ferai-je de cette vengeance, moi, quel besoin ai-je de l'enfer pour les bourreaux, quelle réparation l'enfer peut-il offrir quand les victimes sont déjà mortes dans les souffrances? Et comment parler d'harmonie s'il existe un enfer? Je veux pardonner et embrasser, je ne veux plus de souffrances. Et si les souffrances des enfants servent à compléter la somme des souffrances nécessitées par l'achat de la vérité, alors j'affirme d'ores et déjà que la vérité ne vaut pas ce prix. Et puis je ne veux pas, tout simplement, que la mère embrasse le bourreau qui fit déchirer son enfant par les chiens! Elle n'a pas le droit de pardonner!

Elle peut le faire pour elle-même, elle peut pardonner au tourmenteur son immense douleur de mère, mais elle n'a pas le droit de lui pardonner les souffrances de son enfant, quand bien même celui-ci les lui aurait pardonnées! Mais s'il en est ainsi, s'ils n'ont pas le droit de pardonner, où donc est l'harmonie? Y a-t-il dans le monde entier un être qui pourrait pardonner et qui aurait le droit de le taire? Je ne veux pas de l'harmonie! Par amour de l'humanité je n'en veux pas. Je préfère rester auprès des souffrances non rachetées. Il vaut mieux que je reste comme je suis, avec ma souffrance et mon indignation inassouvie, lors même que j'aurais tort. Elle a été surfaite cette harmonie, le prix d'entrée n'est pas pour notre poche. C'est pourquoi je dois rendre mon billet, et même le plus tôt possible si je suis un honnête homme. C'est ce que je fais. Ce n'est pas Dieu que je n'accepte pas, Aliocha, c'est seulement son billet, que je lui rends très respectueusement."

Extrait de "Les Frères Karamazov" ; Fedor Dostoïevski"

extreme omanlitude

march 2009/ musandam fjords, oman/ nikon d300/ enlarge

modernity, humanity's graveyard

modernity has definitely left most humans bewildered and thrown out of their natural context. humans did not evolve to dwell in identical air conditioned boxes, lazily drive their way through mountains and hills, lead utterly useless sedentary lives, spend their years watching a screen, and brainlessly undertaking the most mediocre of all tasks ; becoming a random element of what we believe is the power behind democracy and the technological revolution: “the masses”.

natural selection has been halted by what humans have evolved to become: complaisant, unintelligent grazers who live on consumership, excessive individualism, misinterpreted self-consciousness, and greed for fulfilling ever increasing, artificially induced, physical needs and wants.

their fiercest forms of social engagement are, at best, limited to online single-click petitions, social networking and wrist band activism, and, best of all, bistro-style interaction over their “extra hot skimmed milk latte with organic brown sugar and a shot of butterscotch sirup”.

humanity, in my opinion, is at a hopeless stage. a stage that makes Swift’s anonymously published “a modest proposal” look like one of the better options that i would suggest to stop this epidemic from ravaging whatever is left of us.

none of the values that humans had worked so hard to establish seem to stand anymore. it makes me wonder whether these were ever supposed to stand, or whether justice, freedom of thought and expression, knowledge and philosophy were merely ephemeral, millisecond-long flashes of insight, in an eternally dark universe.

in a world polarised by extremes of religious, self-righteous, unintelligent, angry dogma on the one side, and baroque mass-oriented entertainment, sports and fashion industries on the other, one cannot help but question the fate that knowledge will end up facing soon.

for those who can spare a moment to give a damn, Eliot’s wasteland eloquently puts the current situation in context.

despite the supposedly astounding potential that it has created through modernity, humanity is still failing on every aspect in reaping the benefits of this realm. new, mass media only helps expand our horizontal potential, our reach, our connectivity. it cannot help us think clearer or better, or even make sense of the information we have.

the information age is nothing but a manicured big pile of dirt. its potential is wasted on millions and millions of trashy human-hours of instant messaging, social networking, and ephemeral brain-draining, life-wasting, entertainment. at best, the information age is a behemoth billion-dollar placebo pill industry and has only marginally increased humanity’s potential to benefit from knowledge. if anything, it has distanced it from effectively acquiring knowledge by diluting meaningful information in trillions and trillions of terabytes of vain, vile and void data.

the information age is best suited for online shoppers, desperate singles, social fashionatas and trivia. modernity’s potential is wasted on the polarised, selfish, fragmented, self-interested and short sighted society that constitutes it.

the burial of the dead

"april is the cruellest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain."

t. s. eliot, the wasteland, 1922

here now

december 2008/ wenchi, ethiopia/ leica r6.2/ ilford HP5+/ enlarge

carbon monoxide

i am eternally amazed by the self-righteousness of religion and those who portray all modern human thinking from right to left as failed, due to the recent political failures and the collapse of the (utterly vile) capitalistic system and neoliberalism.



human thinking is evolving at speeds that exceed by light-years those of old, rotten religions. human thinking has started millennia before religions, and has and will always outlive them.

human thinking, is human, and real, and subject to review and enhancement and therefore is bound to commit mistakes and occasional atrocities (mind you, much less than those committed by religion) and evolve and learn from its mistakes. it's a closed loop system with feedback, it’s a living, dynamic system of thought. how on earth dare we compare it to linear, prehistoric, rigid, cast-in-stone religious dogma that expired the moment it was out.

human thinking evolves with humans. with their consciousness of themselves and of the universe in which they exist. how do religious books evolve?

contrary to what many might think, contemporary human thinking is evolving fast. it's shifting from the 20th century, post-french revolution self-awareness to a more complex, sustainable outlook where the mechanistic, newtonian system of values that sees the world as a clockwork machine working in one direction is being replaced by a 21st century 'living systems' view where peoples' cultures, societies and livelihoods are encouraged to exist within their own, indigenous system of values, and parallel to one another, therefore creating richness, diversity and resilience that resembles those of the earth’s ecosystems. and this happening indeed in spite of the horrendous globalisation trends that of the past half century.



unlike religion which divides and sows dependence and mediocrity, human thinking is learning to live with diversity and encourage it. it’s teaching people to cultivate their own lands, use their own means to adapt, and develop.



thinking outside dogma is plain thinking. it is intelligence. it's Popper and Hegel and Hume and Rousseau and the outcome of millennia of human thinking that transcends obsolete religious books that can only be interpreted in ways that please the religious ruling élites.



but this leads to a dilemma: will we succeed in encouraging and achieving sustainable diversity when many of the sub-systems or sub-cultures that constitute our system are still feeling (or indeed being) threatened or wiped out?

the question is definitely too hard for me to answer. each of us is living in a bubble that is constantly threatened, both by globalisation and by its surrounding context. my only point is that the solution for this dilemma is definitely not in encouraging religion and inhibiting critical thinking. the solution lies in us learning how to further diversify our sub-system, enrich it and nurture it. and this can only be done with critical thinking and feedback loops.



we need more learning and knowledge (be it indigenous or universal), and less dogma. we definitely need less emphasis on religions.



we can discuss intellect for hours, but how on earth are we expected to discuss dictation?

orient

december 2008/ wenchi, ethiopia/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

the new loneliness

me, and the sum of all my fears, and my compass, and the nikon strap, and the cranberry juice and almond and apricot bar, and the dirty bed sheets, and the badly drawn road maps, and the winter sun and the centuries-old temples, and the lonesome shelf, and ishiguro, and the lightness of a cold dewy morning, and the crispy sound of the yellow leaves beneath my feet, and the outside world, and the worn striped scarf, and the 'wait for me', and the table for one, and the idle mind, and the negative, and a swap of my hand, and me.

ode to a carnage

drowning in a pool of my own blood.

wilco and fleet foxes/ i shall be released (live)/ download

happiness

music: fleet foxes/ the icicle tusk/ she got dressed/ download
photo: december 2008/ wenchi, ethiopia/ leica r6.2/ ilford HP5+/ enlarge

let's talk about magic

december 2008/ ambo, ethiopia/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

ode to atrocity

i woke up to a traumatic dream today. and howling winds blowing away my little home. winds wreathing violently the streets of my lonesome village. vile scenes of carnage and death. these remind me of my dreams.

deceitful moving sands are wrapping the folds of my life in a deadly trap. a tornado of dirt and dust sucks me and my newspapers into a tower of sugar coated decomposing matter. biblical doom scenes in luscious packaging. mathematical phases, linear progress scattered to cosmic dust.

i’m following the traces of a bleeding victim, in the dark earthy streets of my lonesome existence. i grab the knife and pluck it in the icy walls imprisoning me. and i recall a poem from when i was old:

"the cattle are lowing
the baby awakes
but the little lord jesus
no crying he makes"

indeed.

un chant sourd

december 2008/ ambo, ethiopia/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

any old lie will do

january 2009/ dubai, uae/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

two hundred thousand million tales

music: fleet foxes/ he doesn't know why/ fleet foxes/ download
photo: october 2007/ london, uk/ canon eos 350d/ enlarge

religion

steven weinberg, u.s. physicist as quoted in the new york times on 20 april 1999: "with or without religion, you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. but for good people to do evil things, that takes religion."

recently i have become so tolerant that i have exceeded the maximum threshold and went back to intolerance again. and as a result, i am increasingly finding that the behaviour of moderately religious individuals is utterly repulsive. they are the kind of people who know that there can’t be a god, but still try to pathetically squeeze its existence into their lives. they are the people who, although not religious, bring up families within a religious framework, often resulting in more potential for children to end up becoming unintelligent, brainwashed individuals raised in an absurd social circle that prefers superstition over science, fear over humanism, and who base their judgements on an obsolete book instead of basing it on the product of millennia of human thinking.

moderately religious people often question god, but end up donating to religious organisations for the benefit of the religious community and its pervert schemes. these are organisations that feed on aid, sow mediocrity and discrimination, and promote dependence.

they always end up torn between their image of themselves and what they actually are in reality: the fruits of a primitive society who doesn't have the guts to call things by their name. i find that moderately religious people are free riders, desperately trying to reconcile their 2009 bmw with the mini-koran hanging in the rear view mirror or the notre dame de lourdes bumper sticker.
 
bertrand russell said very eloquently: “so far as i can remember, there is not one word in the gospels in praise of intelligence.”

intelligent people cannot be moderately religious. you either lead your life on the premise that there is a god and therefore commit to brainlessly apply their preposterous words by the letter, or that there isn’t one. but then again, why make it simple when you can make it infinitely complicated right?
 
make up your minds people.

you either believe in the unrealistic, dogmatic idea that beyond our universe which, by the way, is over 20 thousand million light years large in diameter, there is a blobby, intelligent, perfect, human-loving, rational, eternal, judgemental thingy that has been created by we-don't-know-who and is a voyeuristic pervert who sits and watches us pathetically and grumpily drive to work every morning, masturbate in our beds, and have sex while we're drunk, or you choose the simple fact that there simply is no real evidence of its existence.
 
note that if you choose to be the latter category, you will find yourself immediately snapping out of the pathetic mess that you most probably were brought up to believe in, and start laughing loudly at the dogmatic conclusions that constitute religions: snapping a slice of children penises to please a fantastic character, torturing your body through extreme deprivation, being good by fear and not by choice, repeating obsolete words over and over again, being inherently judgemental and limiting your openness to humanity, being unreasonably selective about who is good and who is evil.

if you're religious, you're barking at the wrong tree.

i have infinite respect for people's humanitarianism. i don't have any for their religions.

kilimanjaro part 4: the tea and biscuit scam

practically, we had arrived at the kibo hut campsite early enough for us to get plenty of rest, and to prepare for the summit night. but we soon found that things were less fun than we had anticipated them to be.

having trekked the saddle and struggled with the violent winds for hours, we were anxiously awaiting our arrival to the site where, we had thought, the winds would be less torturing and the temperatures would be more bearable.

this was obviously wishful thinking. storming, subzero winds were blowing away everything that stood above the surface of the rubbly earth. the tents were being literally ripped off by what seemed like a violent storm.

exhausted and gasping for air, we lay in our tents attempting to sleep as lunch was being prepared. we had no appetite but knew we had to eat and be at our best possible in order to make it to the summit at night.

minimum effort was the rule. i quickly tried to prepare the night’s day pack: rain gear, balaclava, gloves, etc. i also put on all the necessary layers: a merino wool base layer, 2 polar tops and my water resistant altitude trekking pants.

i also refilled my LED headlamp with lithium batteries, refilled the leica with a black and white film, packed the sunscreen, the sunglasses, a polar scarf, polar gloves followed by the columbia titanium ski gloves. those were the best gloves that i had managed to find in dubai. as i finished packing, i had starting becoming increasingly worried about a few points: the layers i was wearing were not keeping me warm (and it was still 3 pm!), and the thermal flask was too bulky and its capacity was for 1 litre only (desmond has insisted that we took 3 litres with us up the summit). i was not too worried about the flask though: my two normal flasks were compact and by keeping them in my day pack, close to my body, i was sure they would not freeze.



we had a quick, warm lunch, and after discussing the next day over a tea, trying to evaluate whether one of the team members should do it or not, we agreed that we will all proceed (kathy had left us earlier that day to take the marangu descent). the six of us were motivated, some were worried more than others. i was in tip top shape. i had saved my ipod batteries over the past days only for it to be my companion during the final ascent. i had also decided which band will be my companion: the shins. no way would there be anything more cheerful and appropriate for such a long hike.



the evening was terrifying. the winds were unbearable, which led us all to question the risk and purpose of hiking the summit under these conditions. it was literally impossible for us to walk in the open air. even a quick trip to the toilet was an extreme endeavour. i had become quite edgy about the freezing winds and questions whether we were supposed to be brought all the way up the mountain when what seemed to be a huge storm was gathering speed.

there was no point complaining though. the guides were really quiet about it all. they only said appealing words and insisted that they would not lead us up the summit unless it was safe to do so. i must admit that the whole situation appeared to be delicate to me. these people are responsible and experienced, and they make a living out of getting trekkers up that summit. they are, at the same time, responsible for assisting us reach the summit, but also alerting us when we cannot realistically do it. and they should also be experienced enough to tolerate our difficult mood, our physical pain and limitations, our selfishness and edginess, as well as the extreme weather which is enough of a burden on its own. they were underdressed, under-equipped and had to keep a smiling face at all time. they were heroes.

after a successful but very miserable attempt to sleep, we woke up at 10 pm, met in the dinner tent, had some tea and biscuits, loaded ourselves on diamox, and, within 20 minutes, were ready to go. by then, my morale, as well as the weather, had become moderate and apparently great. little did i know they were both a few hours away from exploding in my face.

the hike, as desmond had told us, started very smoothly and quite pleasantly. a moderate slope, decent earth and grip, and bit by bit, my energy was seeming at its highest. my ipod was playing, my water supply was good (i had started drinking from the thermal flask as it was easier to reach and that its weight was creating an annoying non-equilibrium on my back. my columbia titanium waterproof, breathable parka had an internal polar lining and seemed to be doing ok in the extreme weather. we were told the temperature was anywhere between -5 and -10 centigrade. the easy part was supposed to last about 1 to 2 hours. i was the last one in the trail which included 6 hikers and 3 guides (the 4th guide had returned with kathy). given that i was several meters away from the others, listening to my ipod and taking it slow, i hadn’t realised that our youngest team member had started to face difficulties breathing and decided not to proceed with the ascent, therefore pulling-out along with one of the guides. 5 trekkers were left with 2 guides.

the rhythm of the ascent was hypnotising. we had slowly emerging from between the kibo huts and climbed a few hundred meters in altitude. the night was pitch dark. the moon, which was supposed to be our guide for the night, hadn’t showed up yet. if it weren’t for our LED head torches, we wouldn’t have been able to see a single thing.

the trek was so naturally slow. i had just enough energy to move my foot by a few inches, breathe heavily, and move the next one. the cold, the lack of oxygen, the dryness of the atmosphere and the wind were becoming increasingly exhausting. i was still doing well though.


music: fleet foxes/ meadowlark/ fleet foxes/ download

as i looked down, i could see strings of little sparkling white lights. they were the head torches of the climbers beneath us. groups of little lights were moving in a dreamy slow motion, following the path, snaking back and forth, back and forth, up the steep scree slope that is the side of kibo peak.

not before long, i began feeling the air becoming incredibly thin each minute, the temperature dropping, and, most importantly, the cold glacial wind increasing in speed. the exhaustion and the narrow track up the zig zaggy, increasingly steep hill, prevented us from walking by or talking to each others.

within another hour, as our water-stops started becoming more frequent, i realised my thermal flask had become empty, and i understood that i had to reach for my back pack each time i wanted a sip of water. such exercise was tremendously draining. the gloves that i was wearing were too thick, the clothing layers to bulky, the zipper handle too small, the balaclava to annoying to remove, the water too freezing, and the re-packing too hard.

i then remembered what desmond said: this day will likely go down in our memory as the most physically and mentally challenging day in our whole life.

we had passed by a first landmark: williams point . it’s a rock which marks the 5,000 m line. as we were progressing, i became increasingly aware of a nasty headache and a mild wave of nausea which seemed to persist.

the shins’ ‘wincing the night away’ had looped over 5 times by then. luckily, i had stored my ipod in the inner pocket of my columbia parka, to prevent its batteries from freezing. the track was becoming more and more extreme: the slope has become almost impossible to climb, necessitating that we walk a long 30m sided zig-zag to achieve a mere meter in altitude. moving at snail pace, we were getting increasingly exhausted by the rubbly scree, the temperatures, and i was becoming increasingly nauseous: i had become so agitated and dizzy that i had to maintain the same walking rhythm. any alteration to the rhythm, be it a slow down, an acceleration, or a pause were torturing. i felt like i wanted to vomit, but there was practically nothing left in my stomach. i had eaten so little that day, and whatever water i had drunk had evaporated instantly given the excessive water that the fast respiration pace results in. i have therefore become aggressive, and my pain was becoming noticeable to the others to the point that they ignored me and left me behind.

we were approaching the first stop: the hans meyer cave lying at 5,150 m was about two and a half hours from kibo huts. as we stopped and sat down, i was still feeling so nauseous i was hardly able to have one bite of my energy bar. it took me over a minute to reach my bottle of water in my back pack, only to be astonished, as i was trying to open it in the pitch darkness, that it had transformed into a block of ice. my hands were frozen and i could not feel my fingers. i was unable to move, to zip my bags or even to wipe the frozen fluids that had lay on my eyes, nose and around my lips, underneath the polar balaclava.

within their mittens, goretex parkas, and wind-breaker fleeces, the others were, on average, feeling better. i then realised what was happening: i was under equipped. louise and simon, both experiences hikers, explained that mittens were instrumental. they were absolutely right. the violent winds had been infiltrating through the numerous joints within my ski gloves. the mitten’s benefit was obvious: keeping the hand within the same compartment allows a higher temperature and inertia.

we had to move quickly. ever since we started the ascent, the guides had been promising ‘tea and biscuits’ at gillman’s point. that was very probably the reason why i had kept moving, even as i was dehydrated and totally drained. i was imagining gillman’s point to be this hidden shelter or hut at the summit, where we would be welcomed and served hot tea and energising, sugary biscuits. despite being totally powerless, i drew every bit of energy inside me and started moving, step by step forward.

another, more extreme hour and a half followed, as the winds were getting much stronger, temperature lower, and the scree started giving way to occasional rocks, which broke our steady rhythm and required bigger steps. the area was called the jamaican rocks.

that was the most difficult part of the climb. i had become totally exhausted, dehydrated and requested on several occasions to be brought down, however, i noticed that no one was responding to my calls. given that only two guides were accompanying us, having one of them accompanying me back to kibo hut meant that the rest would be left with one guide only. we were just past half way through the hike to uhuru. without water, with severe nausea and inadequate clothing, my morale had deteriorated beyond words. i felt i was dying.

in hindsight, i realise i should have ordered my equipment online instead of accepting what was available in dubai. having re-scrutinised my equipment later, i found that the merino wool layer was only constituted of 22% wool, and indeed had about 20% cotton! my gloves were worthless, branded ski gloves. my waterproof breathable parka was an imitation of goretex that would not suit extreme altitudes, and neither my parka nor my pants were windproof!

compared to the rest of the team who were dressed in polypropylene, polar, windbreaker and goretex layers, i indeed was like irresponsibly under-equipped.

about another hour and half later, we were approaching gillman’s point and were all becoming impatient. we had been drained both physically and morally and were seriously unable to move any further. the wind was so strong we could not understand how we were expected to keep moving forward under such circumstances. perhaps, the only motivation that kept us moving was the promise of ‘tea and biscuits’ at gillman’s point. it was going to be the shelter, the rest point, the triumph against the weather, the temperature and the dehydration.

i was so thirsty i started begging for water. simon was kid enough to lend me some of his. i drank in small sips, i was tortured by the idea that i was depriving him of the little quantity that was supposed to last him for the rest of the trip, especially that he had been dragging it, one meter at a time, for the past 4 and a half hours.

we had lost hope during the last 30 minutes as we were repeatedly being promised that gillman’s point was a few minutes away. these last 30 minutes included some mild rock climbing which was the nail on the coffin of our energy tank.

suddenly, still in the pitch of darkness, as we got to the top of the last series of rocky summits, and as we stepped up the last rocks onto a small 3 by 3 metres wide landing surrounded by 1 metre high rocks, we were shattered by an blasting, extremely violent wind that was literally blowing us away. the wind was deafening, we couldn’t hear or see each others, and as we were turning around trying to point our headlights onto the rocks to find a place to hide, were shocked to see a dozen bodies already tucked away behind the largest rocks. we had no choice but to follow. i threw myself behind a rock and started breathing heavily. it was probably the most difficult moment i had ever lived: i was at gillman’s point.

the guides were yelling, trying to address us: “you’re at gillman’s point! you have 5 seconds! you either proceed to uruhu or get back to kibo, what do you want to do?”. i raised my hand, asking to return to kibo and begging for some water.

louise also raised her hand, asking to return. the 3 others decided to move on. according to desmond, the walk between gillman’s to uhuru through stella, is the hiker’s reward. it was easy, and allows the hikers to witness the sunrise at stella point. desmond also promised that the minute the sun rises, the temperatures start start hiking.



i was so drained i couldn’t move. i needed water, warmth and energy.

geoffrey, the assistant guide noticed my condition and tried to help. when i explained how cold my hands were and that my water had frozen over 3 hours ago, he was appalled. i was lying on the ground, almost falling unconscious. suddenly with enough energy to move a mountain, he snapped his bag off his back, opened a large zipper, took out a thermal flask and offered me plenty of water, then, dug into his bag, and took out a pair thin, thinsulate gloves. i didn’t have the energy to lift my hand. he reached to me, pulled my hands, unsealed the ski gloves and took them out, then, started forcing my hands into the polar gloves. don’t ask me where this 40-something year old who was wearing a thin nike parka and a wool cap drew his energy from. he was a hero. as he slid the gloves into my frozen hands, he then had to force the ski gloves on top of them. this was a enormous task that took several minutes.

within seconds, i started, slowly, feeling the fingers warming up. the difference was instant. in less than a minute, i was re-hydrated and warm while still hiding behind a rock on the promised ‘tea and biscuits’ land.

when i asked whether i could proceed further towards stella and uhuru, the answer was instant: too late. the guide and other trekkers had left, and louise was impatiently waiting, exhausted.

geoffrey quickly congratulated us for reaching gillman’s, advised that we would obtain a certificate, and explained to us how to take the route down: we were to climb down the rocky summit, then ski our way to kibo hut.



“what?”.
“you just ski your way down. it’ll take you less than an hour, you’ll see”.

within 15 minutes, as we were still on rocky ground, i witnessed one of the most fascinating scenes of my life: the break of dawn from kilimanjaro. as the first rays of light broke their way through the dark sky, the silhouettes in horizon started taking shape. as i struggle to distinguish the midget volumes at my feet, i was breathless: mawenzi, kibo’s young brother, was so low beneath us it looked like a modest hill. it was topped by a cotton cloud that flirted with its summit.

we were on the africa, we were on the top of the world.

5,681 m, 18,640 ft, according to the gillman sign, and according to the guide, the correct altitude of gillman’s point is actually a bit higher than that. there is no way to describe or imagine the experience of climbing to nearly 6,000 m altitude.

did i regret not being able to continue along the crater rim past the glaciers to uhuru peak? you bet i did. and it was something that i couldn’t get over easily. but that’s another story...

the route down was great. i slid on the scree, my feet drowned almost up to my knees into the fine scree, as i was skiing my way downward. it was an opportunity to catch up with my hero: the guide who technically saved my life. given how cruel the descent was on the knees, i had to heavily rely on the trekking poles.



a good couple of hours and three rolls of film later, we arrived at kibo. the weather had cleared, the wind was a bit milder, and the temperatures, though still well below zero centigrade, were much warmer.



at that moment, my sense of achievement was not high. i was tortured by the fact that i couldn’t see the uhuru sign. i was confused, tired, stressed, and overwhelmed with the landscape that i had been photographing over the past two hours. the morning was glorious.



we were welcomed with divine fruit juice by the cook. we immediately retreated to our tents where we rested for a good couple of hours. i washed, drank plenty of fluids, had an energy bar, and lay back on my mattress. i was confused by the simultaneous beauty and utter violence of what i had experienced.

having resting for a couple of hours, i took my digital camera out and decided to report the kibo hut setting. upon arrival at the radio-emitting station that links kibo to horombo hut, i had a word with the operators. my discussion with them revealed to what was to become to other factor, other than my equipment and the strong nausea, that rendered the hike so difficult: the temperature drop and wind storm were unusual. indeed, the ‘tea and biscuit’ promise was not a scam. in reality, trekkers can take a tea break at gillman’s point, which replenishes them and allows them to proceed. we were damn unlucky.

by mid day, the 3 other hikers had returned with breathtaking photos of uhuru. we congratulated each other, rested, ate, and by 2 pm, hit the trail down the long marangu route to horombo hut. indeed, the day had only begun, and it's another long day until we get to the next camp site...

we crossed part of the saddle, and started quickly descending the marangu route. on our way, we met the exhausted trekkers who were hiking their way up to kibo. they were reaching the camp in preparation for the final ascent. “poor souls, they have no idea about what’s waiting for them beyond kibo!”, i told simon. he laughed. we wished each of them good luck.

the ecosystem change is fast and breathtaking. after a good couple of hours across the saddle, we started noticing shrubs here and there, which then gave way to an arid afo-alpine habitat, which evolved within another hour into a gorgeous forest like environment. we were back into nature. and what was happening was something of a miracle: as we were descending further, there was air again! oxygen! and lots of it! as minutes were passing by, and dispute the indescribable fatigue, life was being injected back into our veins.

as we reached horombo, the pain in our legs was excoriating. we had not trained our legs for descent. and although we were heavily dependent on the trekking poles, our legs had become so sore we couldn’t walk.

we set camp, and enjoyed our last evening together in the mountain. it was a great night, a triumph. dinner was a treat. we had regained our appetite and our humour. it was sad to see it all end, but it was also a relief: we were longing for a hot shower, a bed, and some warmth.

we were so tired we slept like babies. by 8 pm, the whole team was snoring loudly.



we woke the next day to another breathtaking sunrise. i savoured every single second of that morning, watching the fluffy clouds beneath me and enjoyed ever ray of light, every breath of fresh, clean, oxygen-filled kilimanjaro air.



we proceeded down to the park gate. we knew that we had another long, exhausting day ahead: the pain in our legs was intolerable, and the longing for arrival was uncontrollable.

the views were great. the ecosystem was totally different to that of the rongai route. the forests were breathtaking and, as we crossed the afro-alpine ecosystem, we started entering a different habitat: the rain forest.



the hills were endless, the greenery was spectacular. it was intoxicating.

we had lunch at the first camp on the marangu route. the packed food had been delivered fresh from the hotel. it was such a feast.



another hour later, we arrived to the park gate, utterly exhausted, our legs in deep pain. we registered our names and had to head to the truck. as we reached the stairs that led to the parking, we were in such a pain we couldn’t move our legs. walking down the last 10 steps took us a good couple of minutes. it was so painful and funny we were laughing loudly.

the drive back to marangu hotel was great. all we were dreaming of was the hot shower. however, there was another subject that was tormenting us silently: how we could reward the guides and porters who have done so much for us to remain comfortable, safe and enjoy the trek.

this subject had been keeping us busy over the past three days, especially over dinners. we are all taken aback by the generosity and genuineness of these amazing individuals. but the subject was delicate. firstly each of us had different financial standards. secondly, in absolute terms, tipping as a means to reward someone is a difficult issue to me personally. expressing my gratitude to someone and trying to help them through the tip makes sense, but in my opinion, an excessive tip can lead corruption. over-tipping could lead the porters to provoke scenarios which lead the travellers to increase their tips. this is probably the benefit of having an agreed tip, as explained to us by desmond.

but then again, what’s wrong with donating some money to these poor porters and guide, to geoffrey for example, the guide who saved my life at gillman’s point? what’s the harm in making his life and his family’s a little bit better? what’s an extra 20 dollars to me? these points were running through my mind during the long, solemn walks on the 2 day track back to marangu gate: i want to help. i want, at my own scale, to make these people’s lives a little better. but i also don’t want to corrupt them: i don’t want them to dumb the poor traveller and run after the guy with the big camera. but how can i do it?

and then it dawned on me: what better way is there to help these people than donating all my gear and equipment to them? the benefit is not financial but practical, material. the impact is life changing to these people who spend their days and nights in the mountain, and the help that i am contributing with is not comparable to the tip, so it does not affect the image of my fellow travellers.

upon arrival to the hotel, we were greeted with kathy’s gorgeous smile. she had arrived a day earlier and was impatiently waiting for us. she looked great. we unloaded our bags, and immediately separated. we were to meet some 45 minutes later at the bar.

the very first thing we all did was run (actually we were hardly able to walk) to our rooms for a divine, hot shower. an hour later, we met briefly in the garden to organise the tips, as per desmond’s recommendation. we organised the cash in accordance with the rules, and agreed that any personal tips would be given in person, at a later stage, after the initial tip ceremony.



we met in the garden facing the bar. we were served chilled beer. the weather was mild. we sat in a big circle. the speech was given by simon, the most senior of the trekking team. it was a heart warming speech. we then each said a word to thank the team and express our gratitude to each and every one of them, but mostly to the individuals who we were the closest to. kathy’s speech was eye watering. i fell in love with kathy. later that evening we had a long chat. i never felt so close to someone, in so little time.



the group was great. the porters and guides had miraculously washed, cleaned themselves, and changed! we laughed, we drank, we hugged and kissed them, we took plenty of photos, and we distributed the tips.



geoffrey had brought me a kilogram of freshly roasted robusta beans. it was such an amazing gesture.

within one hour, we decided to split so the guides and porters can return home to their families. we each gave our additional discretionary tip to our favourite people. i couldn’t help but give tips to the 8 people who were the closest to me. but before i left, i asked geoffrey (the assistant head guide) and goodluk (the head guide) to pass my room the next day at 8 am. i insisted that they don’t forget about it and wished them good night.



i spent the evening chatting to kathy.

very early the next morning i woke up, tormented by the details of my plan: how would i distribute my belongings? what should i give away, and to whom? who would get the goretex/thinsulate/vibram shoes? who would get the thermal underwear? and the load of energy bars? and the first aid package? and the thermal socks, waterproof pants, polar scarf? balaclava? the LED headlamp? the lithium batteries? the t-shirts? and the rest of the equipment that i had?



i spent a good hour trying to equitably split my belongings. by 10 to 8, i was ready. as the guides showed up, i thanked them, hugged them, asked for their mailing details (which i now lost with the moleskine), and gave them the gifts in sealed bags. it was a great morning.

i spent a very easy morning with the team, we bought some souvenirs, we chatted with desmond and the team, and we prepared to leave. each of us has a different plan. some were continuing to hong kong, others to russia, others back to the u.s.



by the afternoon of saturday 28 june 2008, it was time for me to leave. the truck that was to drive me to kilimanjaro airport had arrived. an hour and a half later, drenched in insect repellant, we arrived to the airport. given that it had been exactly a week since i took my mefloquine pill, i took the second one by then. that pill, which i took on the last day, left me in a depression for over a month. i had lived the worst depression of my life after i had taken the last mefloquine pill. i learned never ever to take mefloquine, even if my life depended on it.

kilimanjaro was a dream, a sweet dream.

(all photos are taken with Nikon D300 or with Leica R6.2 on Ilford Film. click on each photo to enlarge and view in correct colours)

dark, drunk and darkened

music: fleet foxes/ white winter hymnal/ fleet foxes/ download
photo: december 2008/ mount wenchi, ethiopia/ leica r6.2/ ilford HP5+/ enlarge

naked

music: coming soon/ see the future/ new grids/ download
photo: december 2008/ mount wenchi, ethiopia/ leica r6.2/ ilford HP5+/ enlarge

to gaza with

january 2009/ khutwa, oman/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

"La propriété c'est le vol!"

Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, 1865

"they say we're made mostly of water

so how come we cant find the sea?"

kilimanjaro part 3: thin air

so ‘marangu hotel’ is this charming, decades old group of rooms and facilities, established over 80 years ago. it includes twelve acres of gorgeous gardens.

according to Desmond, the central hotel building was once a farm house, built in the early 1900s. this central element was then expanded and renewed over the years and wooden cottages were gradually build around the grounds. there are amazing opportunities for hikes to be had locally through the surrounding banana and coffee farms, and along the river that borders the hotel on one side. the colourful local markets are also nearby.

Desmond showed me a coffee tree in the garden and explained to me that it was also decades old, probably as old as the hotel’s main building. the crew were standing in a line, and an introductory session was facilitated by Desmond. then each porter introduced himself to the hiker whom they were supposed to help.

the team was courteous and obviously experienced. always smiley, ready to help, and as we started finding out later, totally dedicated to making our difficult hike as easy, smooth and painless as possible.

the hotel crew had inspected our baggage and equipment and topped it with any missing items. i was provided with (among other things) gaiters which i found to be probably the most intelligent invention ever made by humans.



a few minutes later, our baggage was weighted and, not to my surprise, it was announced that my large backpack which was supposed to weigh a maximum 12 kg actually weighted 18 kg.

however, for some strange reason, this was accepted although it made me worried about how my porter was to drag this large bag up to the highest camp. my day pack, which consisted of my fully loaded lowepro nature trekker bag looked 8 times as big as the biggest day pack that the other trekkers were carrying.

they were shocked by its size and weight and quickly pointed out that the weight was ludicrous and would ruin the trip for me. cool and serene, i rejected their claim and insisted that given the forced slow pace of the hike, i was intending to take my time photographing the landscape that was waiting for me up there. cathy, the photographer who ended up becoming a friend explained that what seems to be a pleasant walk is actually a strenuous hike since day one.

she insisted that my mood and my photographer state of mind will be consumed by the monotony, the silence, the slow pace and the difficulties in breathing on the way up, and that what looks like an exciting set of equipment to me will, within less than an hour of the start of the hike, become an enormous burden.

she did friendlily insist that, contrary to what i am expecting, the trekking exercise was going to consume 100% of my resources, and indeed might on its own consume me. despite her dedication to photography and fascination with the nature of the region (she had been in tanzania and kenya for a few weeks ahead of the hike and had done the serengeti safari as well as many other locations), she had decided to leave most of her photographic equipment in the hotel and simply dedicate her energy to the hike.



about an hour later, we climbed on a large, colonial truck and hit the road for the three-four hour drive to Nalemoru gate. i was watching the guides loading dozens of bags into the truck, which led me to ask what these contained. the answer came promptly: gazoline, bread, beans, fruits, meat, eggs, maize for pop corn, pan cake preparation, tea, coffee, hot chocolate, and many many other items which, i quickly realised, were destined to end up in our stomach. we were supposed to feel pampered, even at the highest altitude.



and thus started the trip with our drive from the hotel to the village of nalemoru. rongai, the name of the route we chose had originated from the fact that the route used to start from the border village of rongai. this has changed to move the route away from the kenyan border, to nalemoru near loitokitok.

the drive revealed a gorgeous, picturesque drive through the rural chagga villages in the foothills. given that it was a sunday (it was 22nd june 2008) we enjoyed watching the inhabitants of these villages in their most colourful and attractive outfits. the drive saw us contemplate colourful, primitive wooden and earth construction, old dusty vehicles and hundred of families walking to and from church, or to and from the markets. it included a long lunch break in a lovely restaurant in a village along the way. although the track was rough and dusty, i had enjoyed photographing the scenery, interacting with the trekking team and contemplating this divine rural setting.



upon arrival to the gate, we registered and immediately hit the road through cypress plantations, then through a fairly open country with only a few patches of montane forest. rongai we were told was certainly one of the routes that offered a greater chance of seeing wildlife on kilimanjaro. i was taken by the flora and enjoyed spotting proteas and other types of floral species. the patchy forest quickly gave way to the heather that dominated the first day and the next. as we reached the first cave campsite about 4 hours later, we noticed that our porters were busy setting up the tents, and preparing hot drinks.



my backpack, I found very quickly, was becoming a burden. we had gained 700 m in altitude and were actually at 2,650m! the air was already thinner and a 9 kilogram bag was becoming unbearable.

until the morning of the next day, monday 23rd june, i hadn’t yet seen kilimanjaro except from the plane. that monday morning was glorious: it was chilling, the dew on the grass was frozen, the air was crispy and everything around was a crystal clear. we were a good 200m above the clouds. a white, fluffy cotton stretch of endless clouds was at our feet, leaving us under a clear open sky, with an enormous, white monster behind us. my first encounter with kilimanjaro was divine.



we were called to the breakfast tent, and were delighted by what was waiting for us: a warm, cosy tent, with foldable table and chairs installed, tea, coffee, biscuits, warm toasted bread, cheese and omelettes! the cold freezing morning suddenly became a lovely opportunity for us to eat cosily, chat and start a new day full of energy. at 8:00 am we left the site and started walking up. having noticed that we had actually consumed part of the provisions, which meant that the porters had slightly less weight on their shoulders, i dared take a very small day pack out of my nature trekker, put one of my cameras in it and hand the lowepro bag to the guide asking him to arrange for it to be taken by one of the porters. unfortunately for some reason, the bag ended up being ported by my personal porter who was already struggling with my main 18 kg bag. this mean he was carrying over 27 kilograms on his head in addition to his own bag which he had on his back. he was therefore left lagging behind us, struggling with his weight. i insisted that the guide hands me back my bag and he refused assuring me he was perfectly fine. i re-insisted that from the next day onwards, my second bag be held by another porter. to my surprise, the next day the bag was held by the assistant chief guide which seemed more perplexing but turned out to be a much better arrangement.

the ethics of having a porter were to me a major mental challenge that I had to understand, and had no option but to come to peace with. unless i was to be part of a group of professional hikers who carried their own equipment, food and personal belongings and used mules or other arrangement for transporting them, i would not be able to proceed without porters. in my daily life, i hate being served by another human being and couldn’t accept that i pay someone to carry my bags for me. doesn’t this put me in the same box as those sheep who have at least one maid walking behind them in a shopping mall holding their bags for them and feeding their new-borns so they could enjoy shopping?



i discussed with with the other trekkers who were clear and categorical about it: they knew it was probably the harshest way for a human being to earn their living, but they insisted that to date, it was one of the most rewarding ways for the people of moshi, or for sherpas in nepal for example, to survive and lead a better life.

but then, isn’t this pragmatic approach to the subject a hypocritical way to look at the problem? aren’t we implicitly accepting and encouraging this means as a way for the tanzanians to lead their life? isn’t porting some kind of hard labour?

besides, doesn’t it need to be regulated more firmly? don’t these people need to be equipped with professional hiking boots instead of torn, second hand nike shoes that they obtained as a donation from hikers? don’t they need a professional body that regulates their activities and trains them? i was aware that all porters are members of a professional association in tanzania and that the national park’s guidelines clarified the tipping process and other aspects of the profession, but in my opinion, whatever was written in these guidelines was either to applied or not good enough.

until lunch time, all groups still followed the same slow, snaky path uphill. “pole pole”, we strolled through the hills, through moorland covered in heather, on an increasingly steep trail, to the lunch spot known as the second cave camp (3,450 m).



the weather was changing quickly and the clouds had caught up with us. the temperature which had risen earlier in the morning started dropping again as we were gradually invaded by heavy, grey clouds that masked everything around us. we were left in a thick, misty fog, and had no option but to wear our waterproof packets, panchos, gaiters and keep moving upwards. by mid day, we knew that the rest of the day was going to be exhausting and really hard, and that we had at least another 4 or 5 hours to go before the next camp. we had a quick above the second camp cave and headed south east towards mawenzi.



the long and exhausting path ambled through the heathland with the occasional rocky section and a few little ups and downs that kept things interesting. but the mist became so heavy we were drenched in water within an hour, the foil was extremely muddy (i was not wearing any gaiters so it was not fun at all) and the last sections of track included walking through a swamp-like field of black mud which was really demoralising. water had infiltrated through the two thick layers of water resistant clothing that i was wearing. the heavy mist, our inability to breathe, and the wet fields kept getting worse. we reached the camp site at 6 pm and immediately retreated to our tents.

when we met for supper, we were clearly unhappy and worried. how could we keep going if what was waiting for us in the next 4 days was that hard and challenging? i was silent. kathy was furious. she had been struggling since the start of the hike. she made a long speech explaining that the sole purpose for her trip was to enjoy hiking the mountain but that she was literally suffering. she insisted that she had thought about it very carefully and decided she was pulling out.

naturally, we were shocked. the situation was delicate as we were also extremely exhausted and were questioning whether we could make it to the summit, should the rest of the trek be as hard.

we asked her to relax, think about it and agreed we would raise it with the head guide later during the evening.

when we did, he advised that regardless of whether kathie was proceeding or pulling out, she had to hike her way up with us the next day to the mawenzi tarn camp site, and then the day after toward kibo, where we would then seperate as she returns to marangu using the coca-cola route. a simple U turn at that point was simply impossible.

the next morning, i woke up early and prepared to shoot the summit at sunrise. the temperatures were glacial. at breakfast, the head guide visited us, and, aware of our frustrations, he confirmed that the clouds and the rain were behind us. we were at a much higher altitude now and that from this point onwards, there was simply no chance for us to experience any rain or any weather fluctuations except wind and temperature drops. snow storms were apparently rare at that time of year.

i had managed to re-energise and re-focus on the final aim of my trip: the kilimanjaro summit. and thus, we started a relatively short (7 hour) day, “pole pole” trekking up on a rocky and quite vertical mountain, heading toward mawenzi.



that day, the 24th of june, was really enjoyable. we had jaw-dropping views of kilimanjaro, we interacted with other groups of trekkers, i took great b&w and digital photos, under a great sunny sky.

as we were walking up, we hit a milestone: the 4,100 m altitude sign written with rocks by other hikers. my excitement was visible and was perhaps mainly due to the cool gaiters that i had not forgotten to wear that morning!



during the entire trip, i was seen as the sole supplier of great tasting cereal and fruit bars. porters, guides and trekkers alike were waiting for my offerings at each stop.

the views towards mawenzi, kibo with its eastern icefields, and the great weather made this an unforgettable day. looking back down we weren’t able to see the mountains over the amboseli plains into the distance, as the clouds, too, were hiking their way up below us as the daytime temperatures rose.



it was, however, a long day, and we had started to feel the blinding effects of altitude. as we were arriving to the mawenzi tarn camp site, we were all out of breath, we had blinding headaches and were feeling nauseous.



the camp site was probably the most breathtaking camp site i had seen to date, literally! set in the folds of the mawenzi summit, it is surrounded and naturally protected, and includes a natural, small, fresh water pool within a lime green vegetation surrounding.



having arrived early (around 3:00 pm), we had enough time to freshen up, relax, eat and take a walk around the pool and up towards mawenzi. i also had the time to sit with cathy and discuss with her the choices she had to make. i strongly recommended that she walks the saddle with us the next morning and wait for us at the kibo camp. we would then attempt the summit and meet her back at the camp, then continue to horombo huts together. to me, this made perfect sense as her choice to leave us the next day meant that for the coming days, she would only be 24 hours ahead of us and would have to walk all the way to the marangu gate alone. it also meant the porters and guides had to split.

she was unbending.



the sun was packing up its last rays and the clouds formed a pearly, silky, white sea beneath us. the temperatures were more tolerable than those at kikelewa caves, given that the site was shielded from the winds.

as we had been climbing our way up, it was becoming more and more difficult for us to sleep well. the weather, the exhaustion, but most importantly, the lack of oxygen left me shattered that night. i hardly slept for one continuous hour. simply rolling in my sleeping bag meant that i needed to gasp for air for a few minutes until i could breathe normally again.



we woke up to another glorious morning on wednesday 25th june. the porters were busy filling their tanks with water as this was the highest and last fresh water point on our trek. the next point would be the horombo hut camp, which we were supposed to reach on the evening of the next day.



the day started with a wavy hike and down the hills. it allowed us to catch shot mawenzi and kibo from great angles and different points. within a hour or so, the track became plain and it approached the saddle, an enormous, alpine desert. desmond had warned us of that day: the hike was to be plain, cold and extremely windy, but enabled great views of kibo. he had warned that the 5-6 hour walk is particularly challenging since, as of the first hour, kibo hut appears in the far distance and gives the mirage impression that it is only a couple of hours away when in fact it will take us over 4 hours to get to it.

desmond had highly recommended that we do not get demoralised by the distance. he also explained that we would be expected to reach the kibo hut camp site in the afternoon and that upon our arrival, we should immediately head to our tents and try to relax or sleep. he did warn that even more that the earlier nights, it might be impossible for us to fall asleep, given the thin air at that altitude, the freezy cold and the lack of oxygen.



the walk through the saddle was indeed very long, but the biggest difficulty was the glacial, sub-zero winds. given that my equipment was modest and that i was not geared with a proper windbreaker fleece, i was left struggling.



i had put on several layers in vain. i did however get to shoot kibo from a distance. the trail of trekkers across the saddle was such a peculiar scene to watch.

we finally arrived at kibo hut at around 3:00 pm in the afternoon. the hut is at 4,750 m altitude. unlike the mawenzi tarn site, the setting is exposed to violent winds from the saddle. within minutes from our arrival to the site, we realised that as of that moment, the fun was over.

(all photos are taken with Nikon D300. click on each photo to view in correct colours)

media coverage of the invasion of gaza: obscene

for a taste of how the world press has chosen to label the terrestrial invasion, sugar coating it for an increasingly manipulated and ignorant public, check out the BBC's, the IHT's or any other media outlet's articles title on the matter. and for an enlightening analysis on the current events, read Uri Avnery's article here in Gush Shalom (english) or here in Contre Info (français).

oops, they did it again

so many arab countries have cancelled new year's eve celebrations in support for gaza. before you read my opinion on this matter, please bear in mind that i have lived for over 2 decades under occupation in my home country.

instead of shutting down the celebrations for new year, which have cost millions to organise and which generate millions in revenues to local hotels and companies (especially and ironically since most hotels in the arab world are either government-owned or somehow linked to the rulers of these countries), we should have forced a moment of “silence and resistance” at midnight and let the parties go on!

ridiculous as it may sound to some, we should have revolted by maintaining a business-as-usual attitude during the aggression, not by victimising ourselves as we so eloquently do, day in day out.

the hotels and restaurants? we already built them, so better use them to generate money and compete! the current attitude is symbolic of a colonial victimist culture that is rooted in us. it is typical of an arab nation that breast-feeds its babies revisionism, western-phobia and post-colonial inferiority complexes. we love to theorise about conspiracies, which keeps us from dealing with the root of the problem: our non-competitiveness and lack of skills.

others are winning by lobbying, by working like clockwork, 24h a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year to promote their views and to shatter our image, and there we are hiding behind our oh-so-familiar forms of censorship. we want to copy the so-called west, we build our cities to imitate it, we copycat the hell out of every aspect of it, hypocritically use its technology, wear its jeans with pride, and rely on its internet, and then at the earliest occasion, we make a scene out of rejecting its values and inflict losses to our domestic businesses while doing so.

instead of rejecting western aspects and values, we should learn to compete with them, use them to our advantage, and further develop them. survival of the fittest. we should snap out of this post-colonial submissionism.

new york went back to business a few days after the 9/11 attacks, and so do the southerners in lebanon after every israeli aggression. they moved back to their wiped-out villages only days after the israeli massacres of 2006, and like honeybees started rebuilding their villages. and resisting again. and this is how the gazans and the palestinians have been surviving since 1948. by resisting, not by complaisance.

on 31st dec 2008, a business as usual attitude should have been maintained and the income generated should have been dedicated to the relief and support of the palestinian civil society. we should be active, not passive. the colonial days will only be over when we are over them. when we realise that we have to be as innovative, aggressive and competitive as the so-called west.

so all yellow

december 2008/ mount wenchi, ethiopia/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

little funny massacres

"The development of the crisis in the Middle East is both dangerous and instructive. For over 20 years Israel has expanded by force of arms. After every stage in this expansion Israel has appealed to “reason” and has suggested “negotiations”. This is the traditional role of the imperial power, because it wishes to consolidate with the least difficulty what it has already taken by violence. Every new conquest becomes the new basis of the proposed negotiation from strength, which ignores the injustice of the previous aggression. The aggression committed by Israel must be condemned, not only because no state has the right to annexe foreign territory, but because every expansion is an experiment to discover how much more aggression the world will tolerate.

The refugees who surround Palestine in their hundreds of thousands were described recently by the Washington journalist I.F. Stone as “the moral millstone around the neck of world Jewry.” Many of the refugees are now well into the third decade of their precarious existence in temporary settlements. The tragedy of the people of Palestine is that their country was “given” by a foreign Power to another people for the creation of a new State. The result was that many hundreds of thousands of innocent people were made permanently homeless. With every new conflict their number have increased. How much longer is the world willing to endure this spectacle of wanton cruelty? It is abundantly clear that the refugees have every right to the homeland from which they were driven, and the denial of this right is at the heart of the continuing conflict. No people anywhere in the world would accept being expelled en masse from their own country; how can anyone require the people of Palestine to accept a punishment which nobody else would tolerate? A permanent just settlement of the refugees in their homeland is an essential ingredient of any genuine settlement in the Middle East.

We are frequently told that we must sympathize with Israel because of the suffering of the Jews in Europe at the hands of the Nazis. I see in this suggestion no reason to perpetuate any suffering. What Israel is doing today cannot be condoned, and to invoke the horrors of the past to justify those of the present is gross hypocrisy. Not only does Israel condemn a vast number. of refugees to misery; not only are many Arabs under occupation condemned to military rule; but also Israel condemns the Arab nations only recently emerging from colonial status, to continued impoverishment as military demands take precedence over national development.

All who want to see an end to bloodshed in the Middle East must ensure that any settlement does not contain the seeds of future conflict. Justice requires that the first step towards a settlement must be an Israeli withdrawal from all the territories occupied in June, 1967. A new world campaign is needed to help bring justice to the long-suffering people of the Middle East."

Bertrand Russell’s last message, dated 31st January 1970, read on 3rd February (the day after his death) to an International Conference of Parliamentarians meeting in Cairo.

dreaming

december 2008/ mount wenchi, ethiopia/ nikon d300/ enlarge for correct colours

kilimanjaro part 2: the oloitokitok route

so our itinerary went as follows:-

day 1 - nalemoru(1,950 m) - first cave / simba campsite (2,650 m)
trekking distance: 6.5 km
trekking time: 4 hours
altitude gain: 700 m

day 2 - first cave / simba campsite - kikelewa caves (3,600 m)
trekking distance: 9 km

trekking time: 7 hours
altitude gain: 950 m

day 3 - kikelewa caves - mawenzi tarn (4,330 m)

trekking distance: 6 km
trekking time: 4 hours
altitude gain: 730 m


day 4 - mawenzi tarn - kibo hut (4,700 m)
trekking distance : 9 km
trekking time: 5 hours
altitude gain: 370 m

day 5 - summit attempt via gillman's point (5,700 m) to uhuru peak (5,895 m) and descent to horombo hut (3,700 m)
trekking distance: 5 km ascent + 15 km descent
trekking time: 6 hours up to the summit + 2 hours at crater followed by descent to kibo hut + 5 hours descent down to horombo hut camp. total 12-16 hours
altitude gain: 1,000 m (gillman's point) or 1,195 m (to uhuru peak)
descent: 2,195 m

day 6 - horombo hut - marangu gate (1,860 m)
trekking distance : 20 km
trekking time: 5 hours
descent: 1,840 m



on day 4 of the rongai trek on the way to kibo hut, the path joins the marangu route and shares with it the way up to the final ascent. day 5 is the long and brutal summit day, which begins around 11 pm. you are given the afternoon as a break and asked to attempt to relax so you can start your hike later in the evening. you will find very quickly that given the lack of oxygen at 4,700 m altitude, your attempt to sleep is a disappointing nightmare. after reaching the uhuru summit in mid morning on day 5, rongai descends on the marangu route so the final night on the mountain is spent at the campsite in the horombu hut complex.

rongai is the only route that approaches kilimanjaro from the north, and given that the descent is on the marangu route on the southern side, one gets to see both sides of the kilimajaro. to get to the northern side of kilimanjaro from marangu, we had to drive for 3 hours. this would allow us to see plenty of villages, hills, markets and nature on the way.

on the morning of our first day, sunday the 22nd of june 2008, desmond summoned us in a large, old room, where he had a blackboard and an old, large map of kilimanjaro hung on the wall. the purpose of the gathering was a detailed presentation of what was awaiting us, and on the key points that we had to bear in mind.

with a quick gesture, he slid open a large curtain which revealed a cloudy sky behind a small garden. “had this been a sunny day, you would have had a glimpse of what is waiting for you up there”. the window apparently framed a great view of kili.

he explained that the first day is easy, the second is wet and long, the third includes quite a vertical ascent, the fourth is very cold and windy and includes a long walk across the saddle, and the fifth will definitely see us going through the most challenging 12 hours of our life both physically and mentally. he clarified a very important point: we needed to accept the fact that some of us might not make it to the summit.

for many of us summitting was really the only purpose of a trek, and despite the effort and initial resolution to simply enjoy every moment of the climb, we knew we were bound to loose our focus and start seeing the summit night as the one and only achievement. this is further made true by the fact that the ascent to kilimanjaro is quick (6 days) and brutal. there were no breaks or rest days.

with hindsight, and if I had to do it again, i would arrange to spend an extra day at the second cave camp, between first cave camp and kikelewa caves camp. endurance and high altitude accustoming are the key words in kili. the fast and intense descent is another matter that slips the mind of the uninitiated. Desmond explained that we had to bear in mind that summitting meant we have only made it half-way through the trek and recommended that we do our best to enjoy the scenery, the fauna and flora, and make the best out of it.

he also elaborated on the night of the final ascent. he explained about altitude sickness and recommended that we start on our diamox pills immediately. my doctor in dubai had categorically refused to prescribe it to me. half of the group had had it recommended by their travel doctors and had already started on it. given my lack of experience in the subject, the fact that my doctor is not a specialist in the matter (he had not heard of the name until he looked it up) and that the others’ doctors and Desmond had recommended it, i chose to follow.

to my surprise, i later found that one of the kiwi trekkers (who had attempted kili 20 years ago and had to back-off due to sickness) had not been taking diamox and was attempting a clean hike! he actually made it to uhuru without any side effects except some strong headaches in the mawenzi tarn camp (those were actually common to all of us anyway).

desmond graciously gave me enough pills to last me for the entire trip and insisted that it is unhealthy to stop taking the pills halfway through the trip as it could generate an immediate and abrupt water retention.

he then moved on to explain the principles behind the hike: walking at an extremely slow pace since day one. he insisted that we walk as slowly as we possibly can, literally.

indeed, in the days that followed, and specifically on the final ascent i found i was so out of oxygen that a 15 cm step was all i could achieve. reaching for my bag and grabbing my bottle of water which was a 3 second move left me exhausted. he also explained that beside the cold and the altitude, dehydration was one of the main elements of risk during the hike.

desmond then moved on to explain about the team. as we were seven hikers, we had to have a total of twenty two supporting personnel with us. one head guide, three assistant guides (total guides is roughly equal to the number of hikers, divided by two, plus one). we also had one porter for each hiker and one for each guide, making the total number of personal porters eleven. from memory, i also believe we had five porters for camping equipment, one assistant cook and one cook.

desmond then switfly moved to the most delicate subject of all: the tipping ritual which takes place upon our return. he explained how tired the team will be and how upon our return, each of them will have to walk about 1 or 2 hours to reach their homes, and insisted that upon arrival, we take a maximum of 45 minutes to shower, change and collect the cash for the tips, so we allow the team to return home as early as possible. he also warned us about over indulging with drinks and told us that we should not offer more than two beers for each member of the team, so we can ensure they return home safely.

he then said that the tips should be given by the eldest person in our team, and that they should be given to each team member directly. he explained that the tips are as follows: usd 30 for each porter, usd 40 for the cook, usd 50 for the assistant guide, and usd 60 for the head guide. this is the total sum that each member of his team is entitled to. additional tips are discretionary. i was surprised watching him spend a good 15 minutes discussing the tipping process which to me sounded kind of exaggerated. little did i know that this subject was to end up being the single most mind-boggling subject for us hikers during the following 6 days.

he also explained about altitude sickness and that it can be either mild or acute. pulmonary or cerebral edema could be fatal if not addressed immediately, he said. he insisted we alert the guide immediately when we notice our urine becoming too concentrated (water retention leading to edema), or when we have blinding headaches (ceberal edema), severe difficulties in sleeping or breathing (pulmonary edema) or when we notice strange behaviour or unusual aggressiveness by one of the hikers (cerebral edema). in difficult cases, the guide would have to make a split-second judgement on whether the victim should be immediately transported to lower altitudes. generally, we were told the sickness eases very quickly as long as the victim never attempts to proceed with the hike and returns to the hotel.

Desmond briefly described the fourth night but dwelled on the description if the final ascent. he explained that it is very long, very slow, extremely cold, and done in total darkness. The terrain is extremely steep, and mainly constituted of volcanic scree. he said that it was almost impossible to breathe, see, or move without tremendous effort. he warned us, using the clearest lexicon possible, of the difficulties that are awaiting us on the last night.

to me, this was tormenting given that an australian group we had met earlier had told us that the experience was doable and life changing. little did i know that this was their way of saying we’ll have a near death experience on the last night!

he elaborated on the clothing. he made it easy by explaining the essentials using a 1-2-3-4 clothing rule starting from the feet and moving upwards: 1 waterproof, extreme altitude hiking boots, 2 thermal socks, 3 layers on the legs: a polypropylene first layer, a merino wool second layer and a windbreaking waterproof third layer, the same applied to the 4 layer upper clothing regime with a parka/goretex/down feather layer on top. as for the headwear: a good balaclava and scarf should suffice.

in terms of accessories, he insisted that we pack light: 3 litres of water in a thermal flask (we laughed as he advised us against thermal camelbaks, saying that their only advantage is that they will freeze 10 minutes later than non-thermal ones). at -25 to -40 degrees centigrade, we weren’t to expect having fun! to protect fragile accessories from frost, he requested that we pack the sun glasses, sun screen and any compact cameras in our parka’s pocket. temperature on the summit actually hikes as the sun rises.

desmond told us that the descent is not as easy as one would assume, and obviously long enough for the impatient to loose their minds.

he also explained that rongai allows gorgeous views and habitats on the way back, since we would be descending on the marangu route, which goes through a great alpine habitat then directly into a dense rain forest where our chances of seeing wild, endemic species were high.

as the q&a session ended, we were asked to meet with the crew in the hotel’s open air lobby.

(kilimanjaro routes map shown above is property of others)