Out of Africa

Tomorrow morning we fly away, back to America. We're spending our last day in Nairobi--Rahul's doing some last-minute gift shopping for upcoming birthdays and weddings while Meg's researching residency programs and working on Version 1298 of her (awesome) personal statement for her application. Africa's been really good to us, and deep down we know that we've got all kinds of sadness brewing about leaving the dark continent, but we'll save most of that for another day because right now we're just so damn happy to be heading back home (or close to it, at least) to sing our lungs out with the people we love. Bagels, pizza, karaoke, moms and dads, bros and sisses, here we come!!

Semper Fi

It's official, I'm now a Marine. Realizing that I was 2 weeks away from having to convince a bunch of cowboys in Oregon that I'm qualified to be a minister for my friend Cory's wedding, I went to the local barbershop in Moshi, Tanzania and asked them to clean up my mop by "taking a little bit off the top." As I realized later, they didn't understand a word of English and saw my arrival as an opportunity to let "the new barber" try out his skills on strange white-man hair. And now I have no hair.

It's okay, though. My plan's always been to get to Mexico in September and shave it all off. A pre-emptive strike on male pattern baldness, if you will. So I guess I might as well get on board the hair nostalgia train now. Plus, Meg thinks it's sexy. "Agassi-esque", she says. I suspect that she's just being a good girlfriend, but I'll take it.

--rahul

Ethiopia vs......Chico State

(Editor's note: We're feeling all kinds of guest blog love now! This one comes from Zanja. His name means "irrigation ditch" in Spanish, he somehow managed to spend the past 8 years living in Manhattan on a $16K/year grad student salary and SAVED money, and now he's about to broaden the minds of hungover frat boys as Chico St.'s new Professor of the Philosophy of Science. Hit it Zanj.)

Yikes! I've been lapped! I was in Africa with Rahul and Meg before Ali, and I promised a guest blog, but now I see that she has already submitted her guest entry. So I've been shamed into writing something.

Meg and Rahul were insistent that I reveal some of the darker side of travel with them, but I think Ali has pretty well taken care of that, so I feel relieved of that obligation. My most immediate experience now is not Africa, but my first day of teaching at Cal State Chico. But some of my more memorable interactions in Africa, Ethiopia especially, were with the youth. So let me offer this humble comparison between the youth of Chico State and the youth of Ethiopia!

The youth of Chico State are mostly white. (80%)
The youth of Ethiopia are mostly black. (99.99%)

The youth of Chico State desperately want a downtown parking structure so they don't have to drive around looking for parking.
The youth of Ethiopia desperately want shoes.

The youth of Chico State are bummed when they have classes on Thursday, as it makes it harder to enjoy Wednesday night partying.
The youth of Ethiopia are bummed when they can't attend any classes until they are fourteen years old because they have been herding goats their entire childhood.

The youth of Chico State have names like Kyle and Jessica.
The youth of Ethiopia have names like Hailu and Tashaga.

The youth of Chico State are friendly and smile a lot.
The youth of Ethiopia are friendly and smile a lot.

The youth of Chico State really like football.
The youth of Ethiopia really like foosball. (And they're really good, too)

The youth of Chico State make $6.75 to $14.52 per hour at their campus work-study jobs.
The youth of Ethiopia make 7 birrh (about 85 cents) per day doing back-breaking construction work.

The youth of Chico State like bio-diesel (well they should, anyway)
The youth of Ethiopia like Vin Diesel (well, at least one of them, anyway)

The youth of Chico State share music online.
The youth of Ethiopia share music by sending their voices and the notes of their flutes through the mists that rest above rolling green hills and waterfalls.

The youth of Chico State never say "brrrr" in August, because it's too damn hot.
The youth of Ethiopia often say "birrrrh" in July, when tourists are around with cameras in hand. (The birr is the Ethiopian unit of currency --ed.)

The youth of Chico State like to ride bicycles to campus.
The youth of Ethiopia like to chase bicycles up rocky dirt roads, then grab on to the ends, and give struggling faranji helpful pushes.

--zanja

BEWARE THE GUEST BLOG

Editor's Note: Well, we'd been saying that our guest blogs did a little too much ass-kissing...but thanks to the fabulous Ali-mac, all that's over now. Meg's psyched, because she'll never have to field small bladder accusations again. So there. Hah! Enjoy. And next time you hear a touchy-feely NPR piece on All Things Considered "produced by Alison MacAdam", remember that big-shot radio people sometimes have to pee into a pitcher in the back of Land Rovers too....

Okay. We all love Meg and Rahul, and have read this blog all year with guffaws, delight, and pride for having such cool friends/family. But isn't there that little part of you... say, the nasty side... who has just beeen HATING this blog as well? Are you like me? Sitting in a grey-lined cubicle at work, or looking out your apartment window at...zzzzz... America... are you thinking, "I am so pathetic sitting here while Meg and Rahul are sipping yak butter tea and scaling mountains next door to Everest." ? Well, hopefully I'm not alone in feeling a little bit jealous. So let's bust open this little happy Meg-and-Rahul-Land RIGHT NOW!

I had the privilege - along with my boyfriend Simon - of becoming part of the adventure in Tanzania. That's why I'm guest-blogging. On our last night together, Rahul observed I had "strident views about inconsequential things." So here goes: I'm NOT gonna tell you about the amazing, hilarious adventures we had. I'm gonna tell you about the sucky, stinky, hair-so-dirty-it sticks-to-your-fingers part of this trip.

Let's start with Meg's clothes. This girl has worn the same THREE outfits for about 8 months. You can imagine they might get a little, say, dusty. But more importantly, woman, what happened to your sense of style?? Meg likes to wear this embroidered blue and red peasant blouse with an orange checked skirt. Phew! I am telling you... you can see this woman coming miles away. Zanzibari police had to book her for clashing (it's a serious offense in Muslim society).

Rahul? Nope, not much better. He's also, as you might note from previous blogs, taken to wearing too little, too often. I mean...wearing NOTHING. Bailing him out of the Stone Town Prison for the Unclothed and Unwashed took longer than it takes to read the latest Harry Potter.

On to hair. Of course, bigger problem for Meg than Rahul. Meg and I sat on the prow of the tossing ferry from Zanzibar to Dar es Salaam to avoid complete barfiness. We were having this great girl-chat, but the whole time I was watching as Meg allowed her unconfined hair to be blown so absolutely back towards the island that by the time we reached our destination, it was all pointing to the right. Shameless.

Speaking of the ferry... it will turn the strongest stomachs. This ferry tossed you like a washing machine, but with less regularity. I imagine it was a bit like riding a bronco... but you really looking sexier riding a bronco than tossing on this Tanzanian Barf Machine. (To our credit, even the weakest stomach of us made it to Dar successfully.)

One more note about Zanzibar and basic hygiene: Remember how when you're at the beach you have to make a serious effort to keep sand from getting it EVERY crevice? Well, we did some yoga on the beach in Matemwe. I oh-so-delicately place my towel in the sand so I could downward-dog and cobra without getting covered in it. Meg and Rahul? Uh-uh. No towel. Just laid down straight in the sand with no regard for those vulnerable crevices.

Let's talk now about safari. If you were going on safari in Africa, would you ask for it to be VEGETARIAN?? Hell, no! The country known for ugali (the staple: cornmeal mush... BIG hunks of it!) is not the spot for a 5-day catered veggie trip. Especially on a budget. The first day the vegetable mush came out with rice, we were pleased. The second day it came out with pasta, we (I) gulped up a LOT of dry pasta. The third day? We all stared at the bowl of veggies floating in unidentified tomato matter as our stomachs cried out, "NO MORE VEGGIE MUSH!" Fourth day, it was cooked into a pie. Filling, but requiring speedy post-lunch trips to the latrines. And the fifth day, accompanying potatoes. Hello, Tanzania! Which one is the main course??

(A note on Tanzanian beverages: Beware the bright orange "Chemi-Cola"! Read instructions first.)

Now - on to the scatalogical (Mom, you can stop reading if you want.). First of all, growing up with Meg, I knew she often got the trademarked "sudden urge to pee." Now - I know why. Since safari involves peeing IN the Land Cruiser or getting your butt bit off by a lion - we used a handy Tupperware pitcher. Fun thing about a pitcher is that you can measure things! Let me tell you, Meg Pearson can almost fill a pitcher of lemonade! I am not kidding - anyone who tells you we are all the same is WRONG. You could make an official NBA basketball out of Meg's bladder.

One of Meg's sudden urges almost got her in a lot of trouble, too. About 20 feet from our campsite on the rim of the Ngorogoro Crater, we saw two elephants busy eating out of the trash pile. Very funny, very cute. Well, Meg decides to pop a squat about 15 feet to the left. All of a sudden a third elephant appears, stomping towards her hiding place in the bushes, snorting, tusks brandished. Megger, this isn't camp Monterey! You can't just pop a squat in elephant territory!

Not to pile on Meg... let me tell you something about Rahul. Some of you who've spent time with him in closed up spaces -- say, college dormrooms or his car -- will already know this fact. That boy has got the most insidious, stinkiest..... Well, you know what I mean.

So all in all - traveling's a joy, and it's a bitch. You get smelly and crusty and your hands dry out from too much hand sanitizer. Your butt gets chafed from toilet paper the texture of sandpaper. And Meg and Rahul seem frighteningly comfortable with all of it.

Nonetheless, everyone, go out and travel with Meg and Rahul. It will make you love them more --- and LOVE home, too.

(PS - By the way, we had a blast.)
(PPS - Cathy Pearson, I promise you Meg's general instinct towards cleanliness is simply hibernating!) (Hey, where's the reassuring message to Rahul's mom about his hygiene?--ed.)

--ali-mac

The Pearson Boys Deliver the Goods!

Thanks to Dunagan and Philip, our long-lost photos from Italy and Egypt are up and hilariously captioned. Head to flickr and check out the Pearson handiwork.

It Takes A Village

We embarked upon our Kilimanjaro expedition on a chilly, drizzly Sunday morning, well-rested, suitably carbo-loaded, sporting freshly laundered undies, and feeling newly invigorated by the ice-cold shower provided by our hostel. We threw our backpacks into the Bobby Tours van, and off we went to the volcano! We made it about 1 kilometer before the van suddenly sputtered and died. The Bobby boys seemed uncannily familiar with this scenario and immediately dispatched their youngest member out of the van and into the rain, gas jug in hand. A few litres of gas and several able-bodied van pushers later, we were back on the road.

For Rahul, this was the lesser of two bumps along our road to happy volcanoland, for we were soon to discover that our two hiking companions to-be were none other than his arch-enemies: FRENCHIES! Would six days with snooty, self-righteous frogs force Rahul to hurl himself into the volcano or would he finally overcome his ridiculous Francophobia and give them a chance? As you can probably guess, Marianne and Frank turned out to be superchouette Kili companions and damn tough climbing cookies. Since Rahul failed to come clean on the trail about his (ahem, previous) disdain for the French, he hopes that they won't be too shocked to learn of his pigheaded bias, and he promises to never insult the French again.

After innumerable stops along the way, our Franco-American love van reached the gates Kilimanjaro National Park, and we found ourselves in the company of 150 other mzungus all set to climb Kili with us. Along with the 400 porters and guides that accompany them along the way. Having grown accustomed to the self-sufficiency and relative solitude of backpacking trips back home, we were shocked to discover that our team of 4 whities was to be escorted up the mountain by no less than 12 Africans! 12! For the next 4 days, we were like little ants marching in a line with matching fancy fleece and daypacks boasting built-in "air-coolant and water systems," while our porters sped by in their scrappy shoes and ripped cotton sweatshirts, carrying 25 kilos on their heads. After years of Kili anticipation, we were a bit disillusioned.

But then came Summit Day. We awoke at 12:30am to a thermos of tea and some biscuits our sleepy stomachs didn't want, and hit the trail. The moon was full so we turned our headlamps off, fell in behind the hundred other people on the trail and started up the gravelly hill. An hour in we started singing Hotel California, conspiring with some rowdy South Africans ahead of us to try to liven up the "funeral march" feeling that was permeating our parade up the mountain. But then the wind picked up, cutting through all 5 layers of clothes we had on, and for the next five hours, we cocooned into our gore-tex, staring at the feet of the person in front of us, praying for the sun to rise.

And when it did rise, around 6am, we yelped with joy, and at 6:45 we reached Uhuru Peak, "the rooftop of Africa", 19,340 feet up and 20 below zero celsius. The view of the glacier at the top (which, thanks to global warming, will probably be gone in 15 years) at sunrise, with clouds blanketing the mountain beneath it, is one of the most beautiful, awe-inspiring, humbling things we have ever seen.

After some quick photo-ops (more on that later), we hustled back down the hill, skiing with our boots down the gravel scree, proud of ourselves as we looked at the hill we had just climbed and trying to understand how we were supposed to spend the rest of the day getting ourselves down 10,000 feet without falling over from exhaustion.

We made it down, and were again reminded of the perils of not controlling your own trip. For the next 10 hours, all our cook could scrape together for our ravenous bodies was some soup. And on the last day, we had to try to figure out what the correct etiquette is for tipping 12 people who just took you up to 19,000 feet.

But we're back now and we're safe. And we can't wait for our next chance to buy Annie's mac and cheese, head to Yosemite, and lead ourselves into the backcountry the American way- no porters, no cooks, no one else but us. But for all the crowds and the cold and the reliance on strangers to subsist in the wild, you gotta climb Kili someday. The moonlit walk to see the sun rise over the glacier makes it all worthwhile. And then some. Go. It'll blow your mind.

And about those photos. For those of you who know us well, the obvious question to ask is: are there are any, how shall we say this, naked pictures of us in -20 degree temperatures at the top of Kilimanjaro? The answer is: come to karaoke and find out.

Let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel

We've got 20 minutes of internet time left before we have to run-off to see a bootlegged screening of War of the Worlds, showing in Tanzania but apparently dubbed in Spanish and subtitled in English. It's a shame really. Tom Cruise speaking Swahili would have been something special.

We said goodbye to Ali-mac and Simon last night, after an afternoon walk through a Masai village and an epic game of Spades. Our sadness at their departure was tempered only by the fact that they're gonna make the long trek up from DC in two weeks for our massive-ass karaoke rager. Rockin'!!

The craziest thing about our 5 days on safari was realizing how short our attention spans have become. On Day 1, the sight of any moving creature, from a bird to a rodent to an antelope, was enough to make us stop the jeep for 10 minutes to revel in its beauty. By Day 5, we had seen so many lions and leopards and cheetahs and elephants that there were only two things that could tear us away from Harry Potter -- seeing animals hunt each other or screw. Honestly, we were chanting "kill, kill, fuck, fuck" from the top of the jeep, eschewing our vegetarianism and sense of decency for the chance to see the wildest of the wild. When we watched a female lion stalk two baby gazelles for an hour and then miss eating them by 6 inches, we were severely disappointed. But on the morning of the last day, when we came across two lions "on their honeymoon" as our driver Halifa euphemistically called it, we watched intently, along with 20 other jeepfuls of people, as Mr. and Mrs. Lion did it twice in 15 minutes. Given that each encounter only lasted for 10 seconds, we suspect we got more enjoyment from the experience than Mrs. Lion did.

And now, after many many years of dreaming about it, we leave tomorrow to go to the volcano, and climb Kilimanjaro. If all goes well, we'll be at 19,000 feet around 6am Thursday morning and back in civilization by Friday afternoon. As Joe would say, we'll jump and we'll see.

Into the Wild

We're taking off in about 5 minutes for 5 days of mzungu (Swahili for pasty white man) safari. If all goes well, tomorrow night we'll be camping in the middle of the Serengeti, drinking box wine and being too afraid to get out of our tent in the middle of the night to pee because a lion might eat us. Sweet.

--rahul

The Beach

We've seen a lot of paradise on this trip. The top of the Himalayas, a rooftop in Amalfi, the back of a galloping donkey in Egypt. But Matemwe Beach on Zanzibar takes all the cliches of paradise, wraps 'em up together in a bundle, swings them around and around and makes you believe that yes, there are a few perfect spots left in the world. White sand stretching for miles, turquoise water, little kids in brightly colored dresses dancing around and singing at sunset, and a secret beach out in the middle of the water that's far enough away from civilization that in the middle of the afternoon you can strip off your clothes and dance naked with your friends. Hypothetically.

--rahul

Penetration....

Ali Mac and her man Simon hit the Zanzibar tarmac a couple days ago and we greeted them with guitars, funny hats, and bicycles. The beauty of tiny islands is that you can do things like biking to the airport to meet your friends. This is only the second coolest airport greeting for Meg given that in the Virgin Islands she was able to take a dinghy to the airport to pick someone up, but nevertheless we were pretty proud of ourselves. A side note: U2's Bad is one of the all-time great songs to parody because of the whole sequence of rhyming words that ends with --ation. When we serenaded Ali and Simon, we started with adoration, progressed to fornication, and it just went downhill from there. A side side note: Ali and Simon had their own song-and-dance routine prepared for us and Simon, despite being as white as can be, can freestyle like nobody's business. We will force him to showcase his honky rap skills at the massive-ass karaoke rager (T-minus 24 days...).

--rahul and meg