Gorillas in the Mist

WARNING: This blog may offend primate lovers, although it was not necessarily my intention to do so.

What can I say about my mountain gorilla experience yesterday? The word that keeps popping into my head is “unprepared”. In all honestly, I guess I hadn’t really put much thought into it at all-just figured it would be a cool thing to see in a really beautiful part of Rwanda that I loved. Other words that consequently popped into my head throughout the day: Goretex, hiking shoes, rain jacket, soccer cleats, Zyrtec and misery. Bridget and I woke up at 5:30 to make it to Volcano National Park by 7am. We figured we’d take motos up to the park, roughly a 20 minute ride and around 12 km. So, we arrive, only to find out that we actually need a vehicle to take us to the forest and the beginning of our gorilla trek. Um, again. Unprepared. I look around and scoff at all the overly-dressed tourists wearing their fancy breathable fabrics, leg guards and expensive hiking boots. I glance down at myself. I’m wearing my bell-bottom jeans from the Gap, a cotton tunic from Target, a fleece, and some Tiger sneakers purchased when my first niece Ella was born and I decided it was time for me to be a “hip aunt”. I figured, come on. We’re young and healthy and hundreds of older, out-of-shape people make this hike all the time. How hard could it really be?

I should have known when I laid eyes on our Japanese counterparts, decked out in their Goretex suits, gloves, and carrying ski poles that we were more or less in serious shit. The hike was, hmmm…seemingly impossible. I mean, I guess the word “trek” should have gotten me thinking a bit more about the difficulty of the hike, but I was convinced that something that drew so many tourists couldn’t really be all that bad. And I had heard from friends (that will be getting a swift kick in the teeth the next time I see them) that the hike was fine, that I didn’t even really need hiking shoes. I had honestly contemplated wearing my Tevas. I was even idiotic enough to think, “Oh, how cute. They are giving us little gorilla shaped walking sticks.” Little did I know this stick would probably save me from blowing out a knee, twisting an ankle, or severing an Achille’s tendon over the next few hours. Let me try to visualize this for you. We’re in VOLCANO National Park. It’s rainy season. We are going to see the MOUNTAIN gorillas. The hike was essentially an hour and a half of walking straight uphill on a mountain path two feet wide, essentially a slick trail of sopping mud. The ENTIRE hike. I was so filled with misery that I had to laugh. If I wasn’t gliding down a mud-slicked path on my hands and knees, I was being stung by plants, bitten by fire ants, or wiping pelting rain off of my face. As many of you know, I have this pesky health problem that arises when I’m in cool temperatures or exposed to too much moisture or humidity. My body breaks out in ferociously uncomfortable hives and the only thing that makes them go away is a hot shower and some allergy meds. I was essentially in my own living hell.

It’s worth mentioning that at this point of the journey, our group was well-aware that I was the weakest link. Not only was I wearing completely inappropriate clothing, but I now had hives all over my body and was being escorted by hand by one of the gorilla guides, Augustin. The Japanese quartet smiled upon me with pity and handed me a pair of gloves, presumably for a better grip on the bamboo shoot I grabbed onto for dear life as I went slipping up the mountain yet again with stinging nettles inches away from my face. I fell. A lot. It was quite possibly the Christmas miracle of 2010 that I got to the mountain gorillas at all and didn’t have to be airlifted out of there, although he thought was tempting.

So, I guess it goes without saying that by the time we actually reached the gorillas, I was wondering what the hell we had signed up for, how this gig could have possibly put me out 500 bucks, and why anyone in their right mind would actually find this experience enjoyable. Also worth mentioning is that mountain gorillas share 97% of DNA with humans, so when we arrived, they were ALSO not super psyched about being in the rain and were huddled in little furry black balls looking about as miserable as the humans who had come to observe them. Yes, there I was. Standing in the rain, soaking wet and covered in mud up to my knees, watching roughly a dozen black furballs huddled into one another to avoid feeling cold. Black balls of fur. This is what I paid 500 dollars to see. Luckily, the rain let up with enough time left for us to witness a baby gorilla peeing on its mom’s back and watching a young’un playing with his own poop. The silverback napped lazily. One curious little friend kept trying to creep up to us. The others rolled around and picked bugs off one another. This was the extent of our hour of observation. I guess you could call it amazing to see them. They were pretty incredible. But at this point, all I could think about was how the hell we were getting down the mountain, and if I faked an injury if Ignatius or Augustin would carry me down on their backs. The rain picked up again as soon as we headed down, and the next hour or so, our group basically struggled through the mud, slipping and sliding, grabbing onto anything stationary to break our falls. Wipe outs galore. Ignatius, the other guide who held my hand almost the entire way down, commented on my slippery shoes. I couldn’t help but cry out to Bridget in complete Goonies style, “Wait, guys. Slick shoes! Data, are you crazy?”

I have never been so happy to reach flat ground in my life. It was indeed an adventure-a miserably cold, wet, rainy adventure, and I’m happy that I was able to witness such an endangered species in their natural habitat with a good friend that allowed me to laugh about all the hilarity that led us up and down the mountain to have that experience. Would I recommend it to others? Possibly at another time of the year, or if it was a gift from a rich relative. All I can say is I was very happy to arrive home, shower for the second time that day, and pour myself a generous glass of wine, vowing to never engage in physical activity that challenging again. I love you mountain gorillas, I really do…from my couch watching you on Discovery Channel.

One Love, One Life

Two weeks ago, I had the undeniable pleasure of spending a week in Nairobi for a workshop for the Fellows living in Eastern and Southern Africa. Not to fast-forward through the work, but the big treat was seeing my fellow fellows again-listening to how everyone has been doing, what projects they’ve been working on, and sharing stories over some delicious food and wine and simply being together. It made me realize I’m not alone in my doubts, my questions, my apprehensions about this work, and also reminded me how wonderfully amazing my fellow fellows are. The workshop itself was actually pretty fantastic. We had sessions to refresh and improve our knowledge on things like budgeting, financial systems, proposal writing, and also had ample opportunity to meet regional staff, feel connected to the work everyone is doing, and regain a bit of momentum for the remainder of the year.

Having this shindig in Nairobi was just the icing on the cake, as that town is essentially the mecca of all things ridiculously awesome. It offers everything possible to the Westernly starved expats: shopping malls, spas, good wine, amazing restaurants, great clubs, hip youth culture. Basically everything that Mwanza lacks (although I love you Mwanza-no hard feelings). We shared Thanksgiving dinner together at a delectable Italian restaurant, where I stuffed myself with pork wrapped in pork (otherwise known as bacon), garlic mashed potatoes and creamed spinach. Combine that food coma with a few nights of sushi and an afternoon of detox massage, and all I can say is, life is good. Really, really good.

So, inevitably, after a few days with this incredible crew, assisted by my old friends beer and wine, I couldn’t help but notice a nagging discussion that kept creeping its way into conversation-a discussion that seems to be following me around the globe, or more accurately is most probably eating away at my brain: loneliness, partnership, marriage, and kids. Here we were, discussing where we may end up next year at our posts-Sudan? Afghanistan? Haiti?...and wondering how and if we’ll ever meet someone in such a place. Does it really have to be one or the other? Can’t we have this lifestyle, do this type of work, and STILL find someone? Now, I don’t want it to sound like we’re a bunch of sorry saps sitting around drinking and feeling sorry for ourselves for being single, but it does seem to be the hot topic these days. Here I am, sharing a meal with an unquestionably phenomenal group of women and men, and most of us are riding solo. I mean, REALLY phenomenal people. Well-educated, attractive, hilariously funny, compassionate, well-adapted people. And I’ve found that the older I get, the more panicked I become. All expats suffer the same loneliness, isolation, disconnection from friends and family back home. So our friendships are formed quickly and without pretense. We are quick to share and let our guards down. This is one of my favorite perks of this kind of lifestyle. So how is it so dang hard to meet somebody? We have similar interests, goals, world views, yet here we are…passing the time with whoever we can, just waiting for that magical person to come into our lives.

And so, of course this thinking always brings me back to my eternal question about the sacrifice. Is it worth it to be the absent aunt, the absent daughter, the absent friend, the absent partner to bounce around the globe? And wouldn’t it be oh-so-nice to have somebody to share these experiences with? Luckily, I’m not one of those women whose body and heart are aching for motherhood. But I definitely have my days where I wonder what if I had made different choices…if I had stayed in that relationship longer, or this city longer, would I still be where I am today? I’m also not one of those girls who has been picturing her perfect wedding since she was 12. It’s just not me. But I also can’t say I ever expected to still be single at 32. So where does this leave me? I honestly have no idea. I know that I don't want to wake up one morning as a 40 year old woman, and realize that it was all for nothing, that my life feels empty because I don't have a partner and kids, and that it's too late. I know that this sounds really defeatist, but it's what goes through my head on a pretty regular basis these days. I guess all I can really do is continue to do what I’m doing, and hope that one day not too far down the horizon, I’ll meet that perfect person who is everything I ever imagined them to be.