Hell on wheels.

Sometimes my life is a true comedy of errors. This is one of those times.

Hell's Gate National Park is one of the only places you can actually get out of the car and walk amongst the wildlife in Africa without fear of being mauled by anything bigger than a warthog. With this in mind, A and I decided to shake the cobwebs off our hiking boots and walk the 10Ks to the entrance, rent bikes, and ride around for an entire day.

Did I say 10 Ks? Yeah, that was error #1. For the Americans out there who prefer their distances in a more digestible unit of measurement, 10 kilometers equals roughly 7 miles (I think). And seven miles should be cake. This, however, was not. After three hours strolling down dusty roads and dodging dodgy vans and mule drawn carts, we started to realize that every time we've asked someone how far something is or how long it should take, their answer is inevitably off by at least 50%. So by that logic, our 10 Ks were actually more like 15. But whatevs. No worries. We're fit and able.

Did I say we're fit and able? Error #2. We rented bikes off an old man named George and peddled into the park, guided by a map torn from A's Lonely Planet. It was, in a word, shit. Nothing on the map made any sense. The distances were wrong. The roads were wrong. The descriptions of the sites, nonexistent. I had seen photos of this amazing gorge that I really wanted to visit, and somehow got it stuck in my head that it was part of the Obsidian Caves.

Did I say the gorge was in the Obsidian Caves? Error #3. The Obsidian Caves were no more caves than a pothole is a swimming pool. And they're insanely hard to get to. Especially on a bike made for an eight year old. Every time I pedaled, my knees would practically knock my boobs--and my voluptuousness had nothing to do with it. Add to that a 45 degree incline through ash and sand, and heat like an erupting volcano, and you have the recipe for pure misery. But it was only supposed to be a 14 K loop, so again, no worries.

Did I say 14 Ks? Error #4. Try about 30. Uphill. Both ways. Ok, no, not really, but it felt that way. Finally getting to the downhill part, I thought nothing could dampen my excitement.

Did I say nothing? Error #5. A flat tire will dampen anyone's excitement. I was traveling at what felt like a breakneck speed until I almost broke my neck for real. But being the responsible person that I am, my concern was more for the bike than for myself. I didn't want to mess up the rims. I ended up riding it until we reached a sign indicating that we only had 7K more to go, at which point we decided to stop for a banana break. While sitting on the side of the road, four of our friends rode up to save the day and tell us where the gorge really was.

Where was the gorge, you ask? It was a couple kilometers down a FLAT, delightful road. And was it amazing? Yes, it was. But by this time A and I were too hot and tired to be bothered. Plus, we still had my flat tire to deal with. My friend Scot was nice enough to swap bikes with me (he had no problem messing up the rim), and we rode all the way back to George-the-bike-man.

In the end, he was more concerned about my happiness than his effed-up bike, and he gave me a free bottle of water for my trouble.

And while I mention the word misery in this post, I wouldn't trade that day for the world.

Side note: Before going to Hell's Gate, I asked a local where it got its name. Apparently, the white people killed a lot of black people in the area. I'll be doing a little more research later to fill in the details. But that made for an awkward conversation. Muzungu guilt strikes again.

Dave Roth, this is for you.

The keen eyes of Miss A spotted this gem on a chapatti stand outside of Jinja, Uganda. Dave, we immediately thought of you.

Look a little closer and you'll see it says, "It's like there's a chapatti in your mouth & everyone's invited!!"

Maasai--the original hipsters.

Long before bartenders with earplugs and bike messengers with bags made out of recycled tires, there were the Maasai--Kenya's warrior tribe recognizable by their brightly colored robes, widely stretched earlobes, and handmade rubber shoes.

My friend told me not to bother going to a Maasai village to see their dancing because they're just tourist traps. According to him, the women probably do pole dances at night to supplement what they make for their traditional day-time steps.

I, however, disagree. First of all, there are no strip clubs in a Maasai village. There are no toilets in a Maasai village. A Maasai village is nothing more than huts made of sticks and dung, built in a circle where they keep their cattle at night. There's poop everywhere. They use it for everything, including making fire by rubbing two sticks together (I tried it. Close. But no lit cigar.)

But with all this, the people seem so clean. Their clothes are amazing. Their jewelry is amazing. Their way of life is like something out of a folklore. It's like stepping back a hundred years in time (minus the occasional motorcycle you see roaring about).

And beyond the Maasai villages is the Maasai Mara--a game preserve that, at this time of year, puts the Serengeti to shame. More to come on this a little later. Right now, a large blue bus is waiting for me to get on.

An African period piece.

Warning: this one is for the ladies and will get quite graphic. But gents, if you wish to gain some insight into what we females have to go through while you're busy peeing on car tires, please feel free to read on...

Having your period in Africa is unpleasant. More than unpleasant. It's the most horrible thing in the world short of having your period while having diarrhea in Africa. Basically, you have to have six arms like the Hindu God Shiva in order to keep things from getting completely disgusting. Just imagine: you're stopped on the side of the road using a "bush" toilet (no pun intended) with the following things going on:

1. Peeing. You're squatting next to a rock or tree, trying not to let lone Masai warriors/shepherds see your shockingly white backside (or frontside). Unless you have the thigh muscles of an Olympic speed skater, you need at least one hand for support to keep you from urinating on your foot. You often fail.

2. Ridding yourself of a used tampon. Ok. One hand is already engaged for support, but now you have a bloody tampon to dispose of. Plus, you must keep from getting any on your clothes or feet. Again, you often fail.

3. Opening a new tampon. They're wrapped in plastic and you've no more hands left. Your teeth will suffice.

4. Wiping. I'm not even going to go there.

5. Pulling up pants. Your hands are disgusting, but you can't leave your khakis around your ankles. Screw it. They're filthy already anyway.

6. Burying the evidence. Use a stick.

7. Pretend like it was a piece of cake. Let no one know of the trauma you've just endured.

8. Do it all over again in about 150 kilometers.

Now, just imagine if you have to go number 2. It ain't easy being a lady on the road.

Rider on the handlebars.

First, a quick apology: sorry for the lack of photos. In most of the internet cafes I've stopped at, the connection is too slow to upload anything. Will do a mass posting once I find a suitable place.

Second, please join me in welcoming The Tandem Bike's honorary member, Melissa Rhodes, who will be traveling with me and A as far as Vic Falls. Things have already gotten better (if that is at all possible) with her arrival. She's a bringer of herbal remedies, a player of Mad Libs, and an all-round fab travel companion.

And speaking of herbal remedies, I am, as my Aussie friends call it, crook. This means sick. Ill. Not in top form. Hacking up a lung. I'm hoping it'll pass soon, but send happy thoughts my way. And some emails. I'm starved for news.

I've got about a million more posts to write, but this is just a quick stop in a little town called Naroq (or something like that), so more to come later.

Over and out.

Sign that I didn't get a photo of:

Immaculate Heart Car Wash

African idiosyncrasies.

Carrying stuff: People here like to carry things on their heads. Not so idiosyncratic, you think. It is, however, when that something happens to be a messenger bag. The shoulder strap just hangs there. Or sometimes I see students with the shoulder strap around their forehead with the bag hanging down their back.

Sweeping stuff: I can't tell you how many times I've seen women sweeping dirt roads. I can't quite wrap my mind around the logic of this. Especially when right next to the dirt road is a field completely littered with trash.

Machete-ing stuff: I've also seen men mowing the grass along side the road with machetes. Again, right next to fields or rain forests. Why the tedious landscaping when there are so many goats running around?

Wearing stuff: I am endlessly pleased when I see a man walking down a rural dirt road wearing a three-piece suit. And it happens more than you'd think. I'm equally pleased when it's a woman in an over-the-top sequined dress. Or one of those crazy printed dresses with puffed sleeves that would put Anne Shirley to shame.

I fell in love today.

Her name is Susan. And she knows here ABCs up to H, can count to ten, and thinks my hair is beautiful.

No, I'm not confirming my Dad's worst fears. Susan is actually a four-year-old orphan from the Little Angels Orphanage that Ashley and I volunteered at this morning. It was all very Angelina Jolie-ish.

Tall Pygmies

Yesterday we took a boat to a supposed Pygmy village on Lake Bunyoni. I say supposed, because when we got there, the people just seemed a little on the short side, but nowhere near the stunted phenomenon I had secretly been hoping for. Yes, I am a terrible person.

It was a weird excursion.

First of all, is it wrong to pay to go on what is essentially a human safari? And are the Pygmies participating in what my friend calls "Cultural Prostitution"? I don't know. I'd like to think that I'm helping them out by contributing to their economy, but I think they do it more out of desperation than any desire to chit chat with the Muzungus (whiteys).

When we arrived, we were immediately swamped by about 50 children. They fought to hold onto any available hand. "What's your name?" they ask. That's pretty much all the English they know other than, "Give me money." Or, "Give me coat." Or "Give me pen." It was pretty unsettling. And they were so desperately poor and dirty that I really did want to give them everything I had. But once you reach for your pocket, it's like a swarm of locusts.

Anyway, they showed us their traditional dances and sang some songs for us, and that was about the extent of the visit other than another long walk back to the boat with more "Gimmes" each step of the way. As we were pushing off, I looked back to see some of the kids still smiling and waving, while others were spitting, and one even went so far as to throw a clump of dirt. Again, unsettling.

At the end of the day, I don't know if we were doing more harm than good by being there. What I got from it more than anything, was that Africa--especially remote, rural Africa--is in desperate need of family planning. There are so many children and so little for them expect from life--it's like they all just get lost in the shuffle. It's so depressing, it would make me want to throw a clump of dirt at the rich Muzungus, too.

It's all fun and games...

...Until you hit someone on a boda boda with your big, blue, behemoth tank of a truck. Which we did. It was awful.

But first, some context. Miss A and I, along with 7 Aussies, 1 Kiwi, and our driver, guide, and cook, have been making our way through Africa on a billion-ton truck of dubious mechanical ability. And since we set out from Nairobi a week ago, we have been pulled over twice, plus had a boot put on our tire for illegal parking. All of these incidents have been resolved by paying off the coppers with bribes. I have no idea how much. I think there's a lot of shady dealings with the police here. Anyway, we had set the precedent for a run-in with the law at least once every 36 hours.

Cut to yesterday afternoon.

We are literally just turning into our camping area when there's a lurch, a thud, and the most horrific, heart-wrenching scream I have ever heard. "We've just killed someone," I think. It's total chaos. A huge crowd of very angry men have gathered around our truck, and a lot of yelling in Swahili and broken English ensues. I'm feeling like I may puke and/or cry at any second and am afraid to look out the window to witness the carnage for myself. Luckily, my traveling companions do it for me, and say that the man is not, in fact, dead. But he does seem to have a broken leg.

Out of all of the yelling, I start to piece together that they aren't so much trying to help the injured man as to determine whose fault it is and who will pay.

In defense of our driver, I honestly do think it was the motorcyclist's fault. We were making a turn and he tried to zoom past us on the inside rather than going around or simply waiting like a rational driver would do. But rational driving is a foreign concept here.

Anyway, our guide and driver put busted-leg-man on the back of another boda boda and send him to the hospital with a hot 10,000 shilling Ugandan bill in his bloody pocket. Seems like a lot, right? Wrong. 10,000 Ugandan shillings equal approximately five American dollars. $5 for a broken leg. That's how much I just paid for lunch. It really illustrates the gap between the haves and the have-nots in the world.

I actually just heard that the average Ugandan makes less than $600 per year. Knowing this, I'm shocked that we don't get more hostile looks than we do. In fact, if anything, people have been overwhelmingly nice and welcoming here. Especially the children who never fail to smile and wave as we're driving by.

But back to the story: our driver and guide ended up having to go to the police station to give a statement. We didn't hear anything further about the man we hit. And that was the end of it. Like it never even happened. I think that's the part that makes me feel the worst of all.

Almost death on the Nile

Have you ever had a day so perfect you wanted to hold on to it forever? I seem to be having a lot of them lately, which makes me a little bit nervous. Like, what happens if I use up my lifetime quota all in one go, and then have to live the world's crappiest life when they're all gone?

Yesterday I went whitewater rafting on the Nile, and almost died. Or at least it felt that way. We tipped over in a class 5 rapid called The Nile Special (which, incidentally, is also the name of the beer I've been drinking since I arrive in Uganda). I remember seeing this huge, green wall of water looming about 15 feet above me before I was sucked down, down, down for what seemed like forever. Or 10 seconds. And how does this add up to the most perfect day ever? Excitement? Happiness to just be alive? I don't know. I just know that it was so much fun that I can't wait to do it again. Never mind the sunburn. Or the moments of paralyzing fear. It just made life seem worth while. So much more so than sitting behind a desk or watching reality TV.

And the scenery. It's so green here it almost hurts my eyes. So in between defying death, I just lay back and soak in the loveliness.

Wild kingdom gone wild

Ok. This is gonna have to be short and sweet. Ugandan internet is kiiiiiiiiilling me. So slow.

I'm currently in Jinja, the supposed source of the Nile (though there's been some rumblings that it's actually somewhere in Rwanda). Tomorrow morning I'm getting up at the crack of dawn to go white water rafting--level 5 rapids, which is a bit scary. I promise to hold on tight.

Spent a lot of time on the road getting here, but a highlight on the way was Nakuru National Park in Kenya--and the purpose of this post. Right off the bat, I was all girly giggly over the baboons at the park entrance...up until the point when they turned insane and started stealing people's lunch and climbing through the roof of our sarfari bus. They're actually kind of scary little beasts. I went from, "Oh! So adorable" to "RAAAABIESSSSS" in a nano-second. A couple started chasing me because they thought my wet wipes were food. (Yes, wet wipes feature in many an African story.) I almost didn't even make it to the squat toilet to use them, I was so freaked out.

Anywho, the safari was OTT amazing. I saw zebras having sex. Lions having sex. Baboon not quite having sex. It was a little bit embarrassing, to be honest with you. Such private moments all caught on camera. I felt like a pervy voyeur (spelling? spell check doesn't work here). Other highlights: hundreds of thousands of pink flamingos, rhinos, giraffes, water buffalo, a leopard stalking a herd of impala (we were mere minutes from bloodshed, I'm sure), and more that I can't even recall at the mo.

And now someone wants this crap computer, so I gots to go. Love and miss you all. Leave comments. Send me emails. Think positive thoughts. So much more to say, but it'll have to wait 'til later.

The Tandem Bike is fully (wo)manned.

After an arduous nine hours on the rocky road from Moshi to Nairobi, I've finally met up with Miss A, and the Tandem Bike is once again ready to ride. We set out at 6:30 tomorrow morning on a very large blue bus-type thingy.

Today was a rough one. Hideously hungover and sad to depart Moshi. The highlight (other than the above mentioned happy reunion) was this little Asian man sitting in front of me on the bus singing along to the soft jams being played by the driver. Things like Bryan Adams' "Everything I do." And Asian dude was goooood. I thoroughly enjoyed it was really bummed when he departed outside of Nairobi.

Nairobi, by the way, es no bueno. At least what I've seen of it so far.

Jambo (that means "hello" in Swahili)

This is my first post from Africa, and I have to warn you that I'm a little drunk. Kilimanjaro beer. Safari beer. N'Dovu beer. Is that it? I can't remember. Anyway, I had this grand plan of chronicling each and every step of the way as it happened, but am chucking that idea and just blogging freestyle. There's gonna be tons of misspellings, typos, and straight-up made-up words. Completely unforgivable coming from a copywriter. But I quit that job. So I can do whatever I want.

Moment of epiphany: I'm on Day 5--summit day--on Kilimanjaro. I can't breathe and am a gazillion miles higher than any rational human being should ever be. It's like I'm horribly drunk, hungover, and just plain sick all at the same time. Yet I still feel amazing. It's the weirdest cocktail of physical agony and mental ecstasy I've every come across. And my thoughts have all gone crazy. As I plod along by headlamp (it's 3:00 in the morning and pitch black), I remember my Mom telling me that every moment of happiness in this life is a choice. One that I have to make for myself. And that's what I'm doing. This ain't no Eat, Pray, Love. It's no journey to "find" myself. It's just me following some good advice and choosing to be happy. And at this particular moment in the universe, I'm really, really happy.

Climbing mantra: (1) I swear on the sword of my father, Domingo Mantoya, you will reach the top alive. (2) Hiiiiiighway to the danger zone. Da da da. We're on a highway to the DANGER ZONE. (thanks, Paul, for that). (3) Clarisse. (that's it. Just the name Clarisse over and over again in Anthony Hopkins' voice).

Just for shits (literally): Some people who hike Kili hire a private toilet for $100. This means a poor porter has to haul a bucket in a fancy tent up almost 20,000 feet so that the delicate backside of a climber never has to hover over a hole in the ground like the rest of us schmucks. The funny thing is--it's a bucket! You're pooping into a bucket! Anyway, I and my fellow climbers (Paul, Rob, and Janet) found this endlessly amusing and were making fun for hours. Cut to the middle of the night, when it's my delicate backside hovered over a hole in the ground. Just as I'm congratulating myself on my improving aim and toned leg muscles, I turn to find Mr. Hankey's Tanzanian cousin lounging poolside. Oh. Dear. Lord. Did I really just do that? Yes. I did. I obviously couldn't just leave him there to enjoy his Kilimanjaro vacation, so I gently rolled him into the pool with an ever-handy wet wipe--the world's most magnificent invention of all time. Ever. and then I thoroughly scrubbed myself with about ten more. Anyway, so much for aim. I was oscillating between absolute horror that I'd just shat on the floor and absolute hysterics that I'd just shat on the floor. Meanwhile, Karma was weighing my predicament alongside my previous snarky comments about the personal toilet people, and I like to think that it all came out a wash in the end.

Pooping in general: We talk about it non-stop. Farting, too. It's like personal boundaries completely fly out the window when you're unbathed and sharing close quarters with strangers who are soon to become your best friends.

Travelling friends: I honestly don't even know what to say. This could get really sentimental, so I'm going to keep it short and hold the best bits back for myself. Because no one else can really understand how I feel about the people I've just spent the past week with. There's Rob and Janet, the Canadian couple who biked across Tibet with their two young children and are now spending their retirement in an equally exciting manner. There's Sylvester, my guide, the nicest, sweetest man alive. And then there's Paul. Have you ever met someone who you've felt like you've known forever and will know for the rest of your life? That's Paul. We were meant to be friends.

Random encounters: Paul and I were going into town on an errand when we bumped into an American doctor and nurse couple who started an orphanage here in Tanzania. They gave us a ride, offered Paul a place to stay tomorrow night, and went out for beers with us after our errands. All the while telling us stories of their incredible lives. It kind of blows my mind. And makes me wonder what I've been doing with my own life up to this point. Best of all, I got to ride a Piki Piki (motorcycle taxi), which just topped off and already perfect day.

Kilimanjaro: Just look at some pictures. My words are inadequate, and things like "amazing," "spectacular," and "breathtaking" all tend to lose meaning after a while. Don't get me wrong--it's all those and more. I just don't want to attempt a description that can never live up to reality.

Tired: I am. And I have to catch a bus back to Nairobi at six in the morning. So I'm signing off now. More to come whenever I have time and an internet connection. No idea when I'll be able to post pictures. Like an idiot, I didn't think that far in advance.