My 5.8 AFRICA ROUTE: Djibouti, Ethiopia, Kenya, Tanzania
Life moves in waves. At least that’s how it feels to me. Months have passed since I stood with my team atop Mount Kilimanjaro. I say that life moves in waves because I have awakened every day since Africa to one simple thought lapping at the shore inside my head . . . I need to write . . . I need to get this all out. I need to move on. But everyday I just let the waves roll on and I watch from shore, unwilling to get wet. It’s time dive in head first…..and naked (It’s a metaphor, photos not included).
FOREVER FRIENDS - my climbing group in on KILIMANJARO.
To those of you who have written to me asking what happened, thank you. For those who didn’t write to ask, thank you. Honestly, I have struggled with some things after Africa. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the experience, but my feelings are jumbled up and murky. I mostly think about climbing Kilimanjaro with amazing friends, reliving the joy I felt hugging them as we all stood at the summit. That said, I’ve had a lingering resentment towards other segments of the journey. Maybe resentment is too strong. Maybe conflicted is more accurate. Or confused. Whatever it is, I’ve been unable to shake it. Maybe it will become clearer as I write this. But it’s complicated.
Somewhere on the eastern edge of Ethiopia
I heard the now familiar high pitched whistle, followed by a predictable piercing scream, “you you you you you you you…,” a few seconds before I saw the little girl running across the hard packed dirt field, a tiny dust cloud rising an instant after each bare foot touched down. She was on the right hand side of the road, moving fast, a blur of arms and legs, cutting the tangents, her electric purple shirt flashing like a strobe in my peripheral view. As she closed the gap, I recalculated speed and distance, pedaling just a little faster, badly wanting to get past our inevitable intersection, not wanting to collide if she just kept coming. But she didn’t keep coming. Instead, she pulled up at the road’s edge, as if she had reached the end of a tether, a practiced move, executed perfectly, bringing her to within 5 feet of me, where once again she let out with a rapid fire, high pitched, single syllable, “youyouyouyouyou,” followed by “FARANJI,” the Ethiopian word for “foreigner.” This word was spat out more than spoken. The girl frantically looked in all directions at once, seeking independent confirmation that I was actually there, hopping from foot to foot, pointing at me excitedly, in case others might be unaware of the stranger in their midst. In one fluid motion, she bent down, snatched up a fist-sized stone, and with no hesitation, flung it at my head, the practiced throw of a herder accustomed to hitting her target. I ducked my head to my handlebars, like a boxer dodging a left hook, and stayed there until I heard the rock land harmlessly on the other side of the road. I stood on the pedals, pushing and pulling, putting distance between me and my tiny assailant. I breathed out with relief, but there was no time for relaxation. My head was up again, warily eyeing the next kid sprinting my way, just up the road.
It had taken me nearly 10 years to make it to the start of 5.8 Africa, my first expedition from lowest place to highest point.
The 5.8 Global Expedition Series had always been more of a concept, a vision quest of sorts, than it had ever been a physical undertaking. The idea came to me during a particularly difficult time in my life, while serving an unjust federal prison sentence of 21 months. Incarceration created single minded determination which bred motivation, leading me to decide that I would attempt a human powered journey from the Dead Sea to the top of Mount Everest, from the lowest place on the planet to the highest. But first, I would go from lowest to highest on the other 6 continents, not so much as a warm up as preparation for the big one.
My personal journey, everyone’s journey as far as I can tell, is one long roller coaster ride of highs and lows, peaks and valleys. The good times and the worst times pass quickly, leaving us to spend most of our lives trudging along the more predictable, and necessary, middle ground. I often struggle in this sometimes tedious middle space. It makes me anxious, expectant, triggering a craving for the next adventure, or worse, causing me to expect the next catastrophe. Out of my need to put reality ahead of the imaginary, 5.8 was born into existence. No doubt I would keep bouncing between emotional lows and highs but I wanted to put some meat on the bones of this worn out metaphor.
I got my wish, as this first epic journey across East Africa was certainly no metaphor. It was absolutely physical, far more real than any abstract notion of roller coasters. The lows slammed me to the ground with unambiguous force and tried to keep me down, while the highs made me light-headed and overconfident, setting me up nicely for the next precipice. The entire expedition nearly ended before it started, with missed flights, a lost bike and bureaucratic nonsense that could only be solved with bribes and slight-of-hand. As expected, if I wanted to cross Africa, I was going to have to earn it.
LAKE ASSAL, the lowest point in all of Africa.
Meeting Nomadic Djiboutians was a highlight of my journey.
Even Lake Assal, the actual lowest elevation in Africa, with its gorgeous crystal clear, gag inducing super salty water, refused to offer me more than a 5 foot “free dive” for my trouble, making me look more like a pre-teen doing handstands in the local swimming pool than a real adventurer. Then Djibouti proceeded to punish me with scorching heat and choking clouds of dust, thrown up by strong straight line winds and a never ending stream of tractor trailers beginning their long journey from the port to all points of East Africa. I was regularly lifted up by nomadic families who greeted me with friendly waves and smiles and then brought low by the sight of hundreds of terrified refugees lined up to board boats in the hope of being delivered to a safer, more prosperous existence. I ran and biked past these people without slowing, knowing that I was powerless to improve their difficult lives, feeling embarrassed by my self imposed hardship . . . I told myself I would “do something” about it when I got home. I haven’t. Instead, I passively stuff the shame of inaction into a deep corner and move on. Maybe later.
Then came Ethiopia, a place of myth and legend for me, by far the most intriguing section of this adventure.
As the only country in Africa never to have been colonized, I expected fierce independence. I also expected to see the staggering poverty I had read about for decades. My expectations were fulfilled constantly. But I also anticipated warmth and friendship, even in the face of hardship, because that’s what Africa has always offered me. Years earlier, as I ran across the Sahara Desert, including 6 predominantly Muslim countries, I was treated with overwhelming kindness. But that’s not really how things unfolded this time. My first few days in Ethiopia left me equally mesmerized and terrified. It had not been a warm welcome. I was trying desperately to come to terms with the rock throwers, the screaming, the people trying to knock me from my bike and those that stubbornly blocked my path. I was baffled. Was my mere presence actually causing this to happen? Or were people really this angry at me because I was running and riding across their country?
Grinding away, one punishing hill and at time, motivated to make it to KENYA!
By the morning of day 5, I was only halfway across this hellish gauntlet. I found myself nearly incapacitated, unable to get out of my tent owing to a deep dread of getting back on the road, making myself a target once more. I felt crazy, my racing thoughts unrecognizable inside my own head. I rocked wildly back and forth between anger and empathy, fear and bravado. I knew before my eyes even opened that I would spend the day dodging people and cars, stones and sticks. I thought briefly about loading up some rocks in the pockets of my jersey. Holy shit….was I really thinking about throwing rocks at 12 year olds? Had it come to this? Maybe. Instead, I dressed in layers, put my helmet on tightly, did a breathing meditation, asked my mom to watch over me and got back on the bike.
Kenya on the horizon
And so it went until I reached the border of Kenya, where things really got interesting. (see previous blog One Bullet, One Goat) Being held captive at gunpoint was an enlightening experience, illuminating beyond most anything I’ve ever known. As one might expect, I was afraid, but I was also fascinated. I found myself flashing back to moments I had survived as an addict. In many of those cases, I wasn’t surprised when someone pointed a gun at me or threatened me or robbed me. I was pretty sure that I deserved whatever bad thing happened to me because I felt like a bad and reckless person, cavalier with my life, absorbed in self loathing and self destruction, desperately wanting to be someone other than this self I occupied. I used drugs and alcohol to be someone else, to hide from myself, to feel nothing, to achieve numbness and invisibility. Conversely, since the day I stumbled blindly into sobriety, I have used adventure and travel to bring my true self out into the open, to be lit up from the inside out, to feel everything without the benefit of artificial, mind numbing substances. Today, I get to be fully present, eyes open. A participant in my own life, including all of the amazing and wonderful and terrible and painful things.
At the border of Kenya, with an AK-47 pointed at my face, I was strangely unafraid in the moment. I didn’t want to die but the possibility of death offers the chance to reflect on . . . well, everything. In an instant, I knew that everyone important in my life knew how much I loved them. I knew that I had been sober for more than 27 years and if this was my time to go, I would rather be clear headed and aware. I knew that I had impacted many lives, mostly in a positive way. But also in that moment, some things left undone came to mind. There are people with whom I have argued, lost touch with, vowed to banish from my life for one unmemorable reason or another. And there are those who have done the same to me, written me off and kicked me out of their lives. It’s like all of these people had just been waiting in some little corner for this very opportunity, this time when the stakes were the highest.
Thanks to this moment, a near death experience of sorts, I thought about these people and I knew that I held no ill will or anger around whatever happened. I also knew that if I got the chance, I needed to make some amends, to offer some apologies, to make a few calls. In recovery, I have learned that once something is realized, it can’t really be forgotten. If I got through this ordeal, I needed to take some action. I can’t know how my calls or letters will be received but that’s none of my business. I have learned that I cannot control the outcome but I can control my effort. I can’t make someone forgive me but I can apologize anyway. I can’t force someone to like me but I can be more understanding about why I’m not their favorite person.
Thank you to
Eunice: a wonderful Kenyan who opened her home to me and my crew for some peaceful respite.
Spoiler alert!!! I survived the incident at the Ethiopia/Kenya border. In fact, Kenya reminded me why I came to Africa for this adventure. I experienced incredible beauty and hardship. I received amazing kindness from people who didn’t know me and generosity from people who had little to offer. I stayed with locals, ate the food they ate, drank their water. I felt their love and acceptance without exception. It brought back memories of a life altering trip I took to visit Astacianna, my wife, years earlier as she worked on a conservation project.
Running in ITEN, KENYA with some of the world’s best runners - wow, what a DREAM COME TRUE!
Tanzania was the same as Kenya, but with the added bonus of a very big mountain to climb. I arrived at the base of Mount Kilimanjaro and was greeted by friends who had come from all corners of the planet to climb a mountain with me. What a gift.
The majestic KILIMANJARO calling my name . . .
Me and my momma sharing this summit. Together, WE MADE IT!
When all was said and done, I had covered nearly 2500 miles across across difficult terrain. I went swimming and diving in Lake Assal, crossed Djibouti, Ethiopia, Kenya and Tanzania by running and biking every day for 18 consecutive days. Then I joined friends for an epic climb to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro, where I left a few of my mom’s ashes and a lot of tears. She always wanted to visit Africa.
It’s taken me months to write this story, mostly because I needed some time to process all that happened along the way. But that’s not the whole truth. The fact is that I like the chaos and messiness of an expedition and when it’s over, I struggle to find my footing back in everyday life. Thanks for staying with me and supporting me on this journey. There are many more to come.
See you down the trail . . .
Charlie