by Marcy Gordon
Most people, not us people, begin the 12,388 feet ascent at around ten o’clock in the evening. This allows time to hike throughout the night and arrive at the summit in time for the sunrise. We decide to start at eight, which will give us a nice head start from the crowd and allow us to travel at a leisurely pace. Jen takes the lead and Dave eagerly trots along after her. Dion and I hold up the rear enjoying the relative serenity and surprising ease of the trail.
“How come we’re not going uphill? Isn’t that the point of climbing a mountain?” I ask.
“Sometimes, depending on how the trail is made, you have to go down before you start going up,” Dion answers, somewhat unconvinced with his own reasoning.
I choose to believe his sound logic. I like this kind of non-strenuous hiking. After about an hour though it’s becoming more evident that we are traveling in the wrong direction. It becomes obvious when we hit a paved highway, the very highway that led us to base camp in the first place.
Two hours later we find ourselves back at the beginning. We set off again, but now we are amongst the horde and this time it’s hard. I had envisioned a wooded trail with forest critters and the hoots of the old night owl to serenade our quest. It turns out that when you get this high nothing grows and the trail is just a zigzagging straight up climb through rock, gravel and dirt. If you could see the line of people making their way up the narrow path it would have looked like one great, impossibly slow-moving exodus, like one of those biblical epics where the persecuted are always being exiled from their hallowed land. You couldn’t actually see though because the rumored monsoon finally hit rendering visibility nil.
A strong gust of wind rips me from my holy fantasy and takes my dollar raincoat with it. I clutch a large boulder as to not suffer the same fate. The wind lets up for a brief spell, allowing me to stumble from my rocky refuge and resume my crawl to the peak. I hear nothing but the whooshing sound of wind rushing through my ears. I can see even less. We are shrouded in a cocoon of fog, mist and rain. After what feels like hours, we stumble upon an oddly located tin urinal and the four of us clamber inside hoping for a respite from the elements.
“I’m not going any further,” Jen declares sliding to the floor hugging her knees to her chest.
“I’m staying with Jen,” Dave says falling to the floor beside her, content with this arrangement.
“Who would build a toilet here?” Dion muses.
It was never my plan to hike Mt. Fuji. I had come along solely because Jen had suggested it over a few beers last week and I’d thought it would be a cool thing to be able to tell people. Fuji, yeah, done that. For some reason though I’m overcome with an intense and burning desire to finish what we’ve set out to accomplish.
“Come on guys we can do it!” I rally as if I’d swallowed a cheerleader on my way up.
“I spent twenty-one days hiking the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal at heights of 17,000 feet, without a Sherpa. This is worse.” Jen responds shooting me an icy glare.
“Well I’m gonna do it. We’re already over halfway there. Who’s with me?” I look around expectantly.
Dion snuggles closer to Jen.
“Oh, all right,” sighs Dion, “Let’s do it.”
Dion and I continue on for I don’t know how long; time being yet another victim of the freezing cold. My eyes sting and burn with the little bits of dirt and debris that fly into them. Running on adrenaline, I want to surge forward but I can’t. I’m stuck in a traffic jam of pilgrims and suffering the worst kind of pedestrian rage. You always hear mountain climbers extol the virtues of their passion. They speak of the spiritual highs and the soul enriching beauty and peace of the journey.
Mt. Fuji is a bitch and I don’t care for her.
Just as I’m cursing her name under my breath we happen upon a cabin, which stops us in our tracks. This must be the top! You build structures at the top of mountains not perched precariously along its edges. I feel a fellow crusader gently tap me on the back.
“No, no my child. Just rest. Still further we must travel,” he says with Yoda-esque composure. At least that’s what I surmise he is saying, but I can’t speak Japanese.
But I don’t want to go further. I want to rest. I imagine a kindly hermit woman residing inside tending to her fire. She would bring us piping hot mugs of cocoa and make a cozy bed beside her hearth for us to lie down. After all, anyone who would build such a place must want to aid those on their crusades.
“Thirty dollars.” Is all she says.
“What?” We respond. She doesn’t seem very welcoming.
“Thirty dollars or you get out.”
We have to pay the nasty hermit lady thirty dollars each to sleep on the floor of her hard, cold hut for one hour. There is no hot cocoa. Dion and I huddle for warmth, serenaded not by the crackling blaze of the fire, but by the howling winds that rattle and shake the rickety cabin to its foundation. We must have dozed off for only a few minutes when I feel a sharp jab in my ribs. I open my eyes to find the evil hermit lady kicking me in the side. She kicks Dion too.
“Time over. Out.”
Dazed and disoriented we hobble outside to discover that daylight is coming. I sense light on the horizon, but it’s still skulking behind the storm. We still can’t see anymore than a few feet directly in front of us. We must be close but I’m torn as to how we should proceed. We’ve already lost two of our team; somewhere Dave is seducing Jen in a urinal with a bottle of cheap champagne. Dion appears to be losing it, clutching himself tightly and rocking back and forth.
As I contemplate my desire to continue, I realize something. I don’t really care if I get to the top. I’ve never been the type of person to look at a mountain and think, yeah I should be on top of that. The view is nice and all, but I think you can get the same effect standing on your sofa looking down over a dollhouse. In times like these I find it best to reassess one’s goals. I’ve only been in Japan a couple of months and I’ve already had my first encounter with Fuji. Sure, it’s been a bit rocky, but it’s a good start.
“You wanna get outta here?” I shout to Dion, breaking him from his muttering hysteria. I don’t wait for his reply. I’m already twenty steps closer to warm toes and civilization when I hear his jacket rustling behind me. He disturbs a few rocks that roll past me and knock into my heels as if to say, Who’s the bitch now? I laugh, not defeated but relived as I inch closer towards my newly assessed goal—the bottom of Mt. Fuji.
Sarah Katin has been a television host in Korea, professor in Japan, treehouse dweller in Laos, house painter in New Orleans, sangria swiller in Spain, dragon hunter in Indonesia, and fishmonger in Australia. A two-time contributor to The Best Women’s Travel Writing series, she has recently retired (pending her success as a Hollywood screenwriter) from her teaching position in South Korea. These days you can find her hard at work on her next screenplay at her L.A. office (the cushy chair by the window at Starbucks) or in Costa Rica bathing baby sloths. You just never can tell about these things.
KELLY HAYES-RAITT
Flashed in Fallouja
A human rights volunteer is exposed to more than war damage.
Back when it was just another angry Iraqi city and months before it became a major flashpoint in U.S./Iraqi relations, I toured Fallouja.
I was investigating war damage at a water treatment plant, several weeks after President Bush’s declaration of “mission accomplished,” when a man exposed himself to me. He had been brushing close against me as I walked along the narrow sidewalks that separated the water treatment ponds, the folds of his shoulder-to-ankle robe commingling uncomfortably with my long skirt in the 115 degree heat. I pulled my purse in front of me, defensively elbowing space between us.
Later, while I was interviewing the water district manager about her staff’s heroic efforts to keep the water flowing during the first onslaught of war, this strange man squatted unobtrusively in a doorway, caught my eye, and lifted his dishdasha, displaying how Allah had been very generous to hi
m.
I was shocked! And awed. Talk about weapons of mass distraction! What’s a white girl in a war zone to do? Being flashed in Fallouja isn’t covered in the human rights’ handbook.
I knew from his quietly creepy behavior that he was violating standards. But should I speak up and risk offending my hosts? The town was already pretty edgy. Later that afternoon, I would be warned that Falloujans had vowed “to kill an american a day” in retaliation for the U.S. troops’ gunfire exchange with locals who had taken refuge in a school. Schools are revered in Iraq, and our blanketing one with bullets had further ignited this rebellious community.
But I was always taught that bullies bank on us staying politely silent.
“That man exposed himself to me!” I pointed at him as stiffly as he had to me.
My male translator looked at me, confused. This gentle man, whose religious practice kept him from even touching a member of the opposite gender, repeated something in Arabic to the water treatment workers gathered around us. Meanwhile, in the confusion, the exhibitionist had lowered his dishdasha and skulked out.
Well, I had no idea I would cause such a stir! Workers ran after the man, mortified that his aberrant behavior might reflect on them. They made such a fuss with their apologies, I began to feel guilty.
“It was no big deal,” I offered, rolling my eyes. “Really, it was no big deal,” I lied.
I guess one of the men understood my double-entendre, because he burst out laughing, easing the tension.
We lose so much in war, and humor is right there with truth among the first casualties. Standing in battle-scarred Fallouja, a stranger and I started the rebuilding by bonding over a very worn pun, proving that when we’re brave enough to laugh at ourselves, what really gets exposed is our humanity.
Kelly Hayes-Raitt was press credentialed by the Jordanian government as she entered Iraq in July 2003, three months after the US-led invasion. She reported live from Baghdad, Fallouja, Hilla and Basra via satellite phone to National Public Radio, KNBC-TV and other news outlets. The recipient of five writing fellowships, she has lived in writing colonies as far-flung as Bialystok, Poland. She is a popular college lecturer and public speaker and divides her time between Los Angeles, CA, and Ajijic, Mexico. She is writing a memoir about her work with refugees and blogs at www.PeacePATHFoundation.org.
KIMBERLEY LOVATO
Ditching First Impressions
How do you say gutter ball in French?
“I hope you don’t mind,” Wilna says casually, “but I invited a friend of mine to the party. She’ll be traveling around Europe during that time.”
“Of course,” I say. “The more the merrier.”
We are on the terrace at Wilna’s riverside château in the Dordogne region of France. I met Wilna, a convivial South African woman, nearly five years ago while researching a book. We became fast friends and when my book was released, Wilna’s home felt like the natural location for a celebration.
“She is very interested in meeting you actually,” Wilna continues. “She too writes about food and travel.”
When Wilna tells me her is Gwynne Conlyn, shock on my face is as apparent as the freckles. Serendipity by its very definition arrives unexpectedly and it has just careened into me at the dinner table.
I gush about Gwynne’s book Delicious Travels and tell Wilna it’s a dog-eared and well-read kitchen companion at my house, as well as the impetus for my own culinary travel book. That fact that she wrote extensively for magazines and newspapers and had her own radio show, added to her magnetism. Turns out Wilna and Gwynne have been friends for nearly twenty years. We marvel at how small the world is and as I feign brave enthusiasm about meeting Gwynne, my heart pounds and grips the inside of my chest as sweat beads under my arms. It’s one thing to admire someone from behind a computer screen, but to actually meet your idol in person? All I can think of is the old adage (or maybe it was a fortune cookie), “You never get a second chance to make a first impression.” I start to panic.
Luckily I have a month and a long drive from Brussels back to the Dordogne to set the stage for this perfect ‘first impression’ meeting. With no working radio in my car, my mind reels and images flip rapid fire through my head of well-crafted introductory scenes that play over and over again à la the movie “Groundhog Day.” The more I think about it, the more nervous I become.
I rehearse out loud, hoping to quell the nervous ticks in my voice. People shoot me curious looks as they drive by. Understandable since I am alone in the car.
“Hey Gwynne. How’s it goin’?” No, that sounds too informal. I have to show some respect.
I purse my lips and lower my chin. “Hello Ms. Conlyn. I’m a huge fan.” No, too stiff; Too stalker.
“Oh my gosh, I love your book!” I bubble and bob my head side to side. No, definitely not. Way too Hannah Montana.
A barrage of questions fills my head. Should I shake Gwynne’s hand? What if my hands are sweaty? Should I greet her with the standard two-cheek kiss common in France? Did they do that in South Africa? What if she thinks I’m too forward?
On a stretch of French highway with nary a house in sight, my idol-meeting wardrobe becomes my top concern. Since it’s been peaking at 95 degrees in the Dordogne, a dress and sandals seem the sensible choice. But will I appear over-dressed? Is my pedicure good enough for sandals?
By the time I reach the Dordogne, I am drenched in worry but have decided on a firm handshake (I will wipe my hands on my dress if I need to) followed by an informal first name introduction and a smile. After all, a mutual friend is introducing us. My toes look fine. Wilna and I plan to meet the next day at an open-air market in the medieval village of Issigeac where Gwynne will join us for lunch.
The rural roads of the Dordogne are serpentine and narrow, and even the tiny French cars no bigger than super-sized roller skates barely fit side by side. My beefy, Belgian-plated German car is an obtrusive interloper. It is also packed with items I am planning to drop off at my house in France---beach chairs, a trash can, dishwasher salt, pillows, a coffee maker and other incongruent occupants that, had I been pulled over, might have suggested I was on the lam after having just knocked over a Carrefour, the French equivalent of a Wal-Mart.
A few miles from Issigeac, I roll down my windows to let in the warmth of the sun and allow the air to coif my hair and billow my confidence. I have on a new dress, my nerves are calm and I have rehearsed in my head, ad nauseam, the meeting with Gwynne. It’s perfect.
As I round a blind curve on what seems to be a narrower than normal route, I see a large Mercedes truck barreling toward me. It has been gaining speed on a straightaway that stretches out behind it and wasn’t slowing down. I immediately take my foot off the gas and maneuver the car to the right. I assume the truck driver will see this and courteously move to his right too, allowing us to pass one another safely. The truck stays its course, speeding down the middle of the road.
My car is now balancing along a tightrope of gravel that separates the asphalt from a two-feet deep drainage ditch that parallels the road. Much like a bowler does after hurling a ten-pound ball toward the pins at the end of a slick lane, I lean and contort my limbs and body to the left, naively assuming I can will my car to do the same and avoid the ditch. But this is no game. I have two choices—a strike, (great in bowling but not so fun in driving) or a gutter ball. I take the gutter ball. Hell, I AM the gutter ball. My car topples almost gracefully in and gradually slows against the heavy dirt and grass until the front tire hits a cement pipe from somewhere underneath the road. A gruesome crunch brings me to a sudden and slanted stop.
I am fine (the airbag didn’t even deploy) but my car isn’t going anywhere. I look around for my cell phone but can’t find it. Several items that had been neatly stacked on my passenger seat had flown out the window and I can see them splayed like a yard sale on the ground outside. I assume my cell phone is among the debris. The angle at which the car has settled makes it difficult, but I mana
ge to heave myself out of the driver’s side, and slice my shin on the door the process. My phone has landed at the bottom of the ditch, damp from water that has come, presumably, from that blasted cement pipe. I step in to grab it and my foot squishes into the soggy dirt. As I sink, the mud belches out a steady slurp reminiscent of a straw sucking the bottom of an empty glass. Mud oozes between my toes and sandal. I half expect Ashton Kutcher to jump from behind a bush and tell me I’m being “punked.” Instead, a woman is walking toward me. She says she was working in her garden when the truck sped by and she had heard the subsequent crash.
“Where is the truck?” she asks.
“It never came back.”
“Then they are not French. A French person would have stopped,” she says, wagging her index finger back and forth.
I smile at her defense of her countrymen. The French are so proud.
I ask her if she will call a dépanneuse, a word that means both tow truck and wrecker in French. Obviously I have already taken care of the latter. I call Wilna with my mucky phone and tell her I will not be joining them for lunch.
“I’ll come wait with you,” she comforts, “and then we can go together.”
Vanity whispers in my ear and I think of my bloody leg and my sweat-stained dress, accessorized by a sandal caked in mud, and of course the filthy phone print that’s now on my face. There is no way I can meet Gwynne looking like this.
“No, no,” I insist. “I’ll just have the driver take me to his garage and will call a taxi.”
“Where do you think you are, New York City?” Wilna retorts. “There are no taxis here.”
Point taken. And so I wait by the side of the road like the proverbial damsel in distress, only I’m armed with a cell phone, which definitely helps matters. I wonder how many cartoon women could have been rescued from the railroad tracks had their animators drawn in an iPhone.