I'm an American journalist traveling way outside my comfort zone, living for half a year in Tanzania and trying to cast a fresh pair of eyes on the complexities of development in one of the poorest places in the world.

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3rd February 2010

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To Climb or Not to Climb?    February 3rd: Maria’s birthday. Before she left for the hospital this morning she opened my two gifts: a pair of earings from a vendor in town and four precious rolls of super-soft, luxury toilet paper. She seemed pleased, and after a few weeks here, you’d understand why. Who says romance is dead? I also picked up a big can of “Doom” ant-killer spray — but had the inspired idea to hold onto that until Valentine’s Day.    So this is the view from just outside our front gate: Mt. Kilimanjaro, at just under 19,500 feet. Usually by mid-day the coulds have rolled in around the summit, but during the relatively cool and crisp mornings this is the usual view. At the top, the glaciers (though disappearing quickly) are reportedly immense; from the bottom they are just tiny white flecks.    The big question is this: To climb or not to climb? The debate began even before I arrived. On the one hand, it’s right there. People fly in from all over the world to attempt to reach the summit; how could I not do it when I’m here for seven months? Climbers well into their 60s regularly make it to the top. If the hefty, bibulous and excruciatingly annoying gaggle of Welsh housewives who surrounded me on my flight down can make it, then I should have no excuse.    But it can be a thoroughly unpleasant experience — seven days of intense hiking, compounded by the reportedly incomparable misery of altitude sickness.  I’m told a majority never reach the top (though those who go with reputable guides and take their time probably fare much better) and those who do aren’t guaranteed a cloud-free view. Even if the view is good, you can only stay at the summit for a few minutes before returning back down. Is it worth it? Interestingly, the vast-majority of people I’ve met who are here for an extended period have NOT climbed the mountain. At least two have also dismissively described the people who jet in, climb Kili, and jet out as “self-satisfied” (though it’s not inconceivable that the people bragging about their decision not to climb are actually the more self-satisfied).    I guess the key question is whether there’s s a difference between “satisfied” and “self-satisfied.” Being an over-thinker, I of course feed this into broader, recurring internal debates about the nature of “an experience” and the line between an authentically meaningful one and one undertaken principally to project some desirable self-image to others. I tend to lump a large proportion of human activity into Category B, which is probably too cynical overall but understandable when you keep running into insufferable European 19-year-olds on their gap years. That said, it’s impossible to deny it would be immensely satisfying — self or otherwise — to stand on top of that sucker. Two good friends insist they are thinking seriously of visiting to do the climb, which would heighten the appeal.      

To Climb or Not to Climb?

    February 3rd: Maria’s birthday. Before she left for the hospital this morning she opened my two gifts: a pair of earings from a vendor in town and four precious rolls of super-soft, luxury toilet paper. She seemed pleased, and after a few weeks here, you’d understand why. Who says romance is dead? I also picked up a big can of “Doom” ant-killer spray — but had the inspired idea to hold onto that until Valentine’s Day.
    So this is the view from just outside our front gate: Mt. Kilimanjaro, at just under 19,500 feet. Usually by mid-day the coulds have rolled in around the summit, but during the relatively cool and crisp mornings this is the usual view. At the top, the glaciers (though disappearing quickly) are reportedly immense; from the bottom they are just tiny white flecks.
    The big question is this: To climb or not to climb? The debate began even before I arrived. On the one hand, it’s right there. People fly in from all over the world to attempt to reach the summit; how could I not do it when I’m here for seven months? Climbers well into their 60s regularly make it to the top. If the hefty, bibulous and excruciatingly annoying gaggle of Welsh housewives who surrounded me on my flight down can make it, then I should have no excuse.
    But it can be a thoroughly unpleasant experience — seven days of intense hiking, compounded by the reportedly incomparable misery of altitude sickness.  I’m told a majority never reach the top (though those who go with reputable guides and take their time probably fare much better) and those who do aren’t guaranteed a cloud-free view. Even if the view is good, you can only stay at the summit for a few minutes before returning back down. Is it worth it? Interestingly, the vast-majority of people I’ve met who are here for an extended period have NOT climbed the mountain. At least two have also dismissively described the people who jet in, climb Kili, and jet out as “self-satisfied” (though it’s not inconceivable that the people bragging about their decision not to climb are actually the more self-satisfied).
    I guess the key question is whether there’s s a difference between “satisfied” and “self-satisfied.” Being an over-thinker, I of course feed this into broader, recurring internal debates about the nature of “an experience” and the line between an authentically meaningful one and one undertaken principally to project some desirable self-image to others. I tend to lump a large proportion of human activity into Category B, which is probably too cynical overall but understandable when you keep running into insufferable European 19-year-olds on their gap years. That said, it’s impossible to deny it would be immensely satisfying — self or otherwise — to stand on top of that sucker. Two good friends insist they are thinking seriously of visiting to do the climb, which would heighten the appeal.   

   

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