Are You Antsy to Begin Your Adventures? A Cautionary Tale from Africa
You're Too Old to Spend the Rest of Your Life on the Couch: Let's Adventure!
An inauspicious start to one hell of an adventure
Most folks have no clue that a few hours north of Nairobi is Africa’s second-tallest mountain, Mt. Kenya. Most Kenyans who are city-dwellers don’t either. The terrible pollution of that city, crammed as it is with millions of cars and endless Chinese construction of yet more highways, has kept many residents from ever seeing this incredible peak.
Nope. Mt. Kenya is real, the distant and mostly-unknown stepsister to Mt. Kilimanjaro. In fact, she’s a harder and more technical climb. The tippy-top rocky peaks reach 17,057 feet and are only accessible to those with climbing gear, ropes and crampons.
In November 2018, the fall of my 65th year, my safari operator Ben Jennings of eTrip Africa invited me to join him and his Kilimanjaro climbing crew. This was a first-off adventure to see how it was on Kili’s little sister. I’d be the guinea pig as a client, and we’d all see how the climbing crew from that area would compare with Ben Jennings’ well-trained crew.
I leapt at the chance and trained again on Denver’s Red Rocks steps and her peaks for the chance to stand at the summit of Africa’s other big peak.
When all of us arrived after a long drive from Arusha, Tanzania’s safari-central city, we clambered out into the local hotel which would be our base. How we met the local guide and how we prepared is for another article. Let’s just say it was spring, and raining hard.
That would set the tone for the next day’s climb.
I was wearing brand-new Goretex Merrell boots. I’d been training in them for months. Denver summers are notoriously dry, so I had to trust that the promise of “DRY” imprinted on the side would hold.
In fact, those boots were so woefully awful that they filled up with water within seconds. That ended any relationship I will ever have with Merrell shoes again. Thank god I had the sense to take a second pair of heavy leather Lowas, which saved my trip. But I digress.
The morning of our trip, pregnant black clouds were lowering. A van of questionable ability skidded to a halt at the front of our motel, and we loaded up. My group was made up of Ben and his three guides, including Bosco, tall and funny and a terrible flirt.
Which, BTW, eventually got him fired, but that’s another story.
The van’s tires had tread that was no match for the climb, which would have been bad enough in dry weather. Now, with heavy rain soaking the dense African mud, we squelched over questionable roads while our guide enticed local farmers to be part of our climbing crew.
Eventually we had a full bus. It was time to climb to the trailhead.
Unlike in Tanzania where climbing Kilimanjaro is a $3.4 billion industry, Mt. Kenya draws far fewer, and the infrastructure to support those efforts is rickety at best.
There was effectively no real “road” to the trailhead. In fact, the trailhead was just as questionable. Our van struggled to maneuver the hillside as the clouds unleashed considerable downpours. We’d head up a few feet then slide sideways.
Meanwhile we were losing critical time. We’d need to hike to our first campsite in time for enough daylight to set up, so Ben called ahead to the driver. We’d walk from here, otherwise we’d just waste time.
We slid to a stop next to a copse of trees, their branches heavy with water. I was sitting in the far back, ready for anything.
By that I mean I was ready for ANYTHING. I had on multiple layers for warmth, an excellent Goretex jacket. I had tucked my pants into my supposedly watertight Goretex Merrell boots, I had gaiters locked in over the top of said Goretex. I was ready for all of it: rain, sleet, snow.
BRING IT ON. I’M READY.
The van had offloaded everyone but yours truly, and they were all standing outside as I stepped onto the wet clay mountainside. Ben, covered in his own Goretex, was standing partially under a branch. We grinned at each other as the guide organized his makeshift crew.
This took a few minutes, so our group stood around in the rain and waited for him to sort out their roles and responsibilities.
After a while I noticed some activity on Ben’s cheek. I reached over and brushed off an ant.
At this, Ben stepped out from under the branches, just in case.
But he wasn’t the problem.
The moment I flicked that ant, I found out that I’d been standing on their anthill. I had ants inside my pants, socks, underwear, my shirt, in my scalp. Past the Goretex, past the gaiters, past the socks and every other tight strap and protective layer I’d laid on.
And as it seems my luck, they all bit at once.
And as is my habit, I burst out laughing.
Suddenly I am ripping off my backpack, my jacket, unlacing my boots, tossing them in all directions with abandon.
The makeshift Kenyan guide crew watched in awe, eyes wide, as gear and clothing, covered in ants, also flew in all directions.
The classic mzungu (crazy White person).
I beg to differ.
If you have African ants in every conceivable crevice and they’re biting, you do everything in your power to get them off you.
When I got most of my gear and clothing off, I leapt into the back of the bus and stripped all the way down, picking at the biting ants who were leaving a constellation of bright red bite marks all over my skin.
Bosco had leapt in the back with me, fully aware of what was happening. He was picking ants out of my hair as I was relocating ants out from the inside of my bright yellow Patagonia undies. I was laughing so hard I could hardly breathe.
YES, it hurt like hell. But what are you going to do? Stand there and cry?
Outside the van, Ben, who with everyone else had moved away from the ant swarm, watched with amusement. So did his other guides, all of whom already knew me. This was my normal. The farmer/guides were transfixed.
Finally, Bosco and I had picked the last of the ants off my scalp, my back and my neck. I retrieved a few intrepids holding on for dear life in my arm pits and butt crack. Ben and the others shook the hangers-on off my jacket and pants.
I swiftly redressed as Bosco removed the still-living biters from the inside of the van and tossed them out. We were both laughing.
Finally, I stepped back out, fully dressed, my skin burning with hundreds of bites, giving the ant hill a wide berth.
In the pouring rain, my super-duper-guaranteed-dry Merrill boots promptly failed. Despite the Goretex, despite the gaiters, despite all the precautions, the layers, the pricey gear, not only was I not ready for anything, but my boots were as wet as though I had stepped in a two-foot puddle of water.
An inauspicious beginning to say the least.
Four days later the lot of us would stand at the top of Mt. Kenya, at that time comfortably obscured from Nairobi’s 4.4 million residents by pollution. For us, however, the view was amazing. That’s for another story, another day.
That first night, when I hove to with a machete to clear away a space for our tents while the farmers were busy building a campfire, I found out that I now had a reputation. Bosco explained that when they found out that I’d been swarmed by biting ants, that I’d found it funny was impressive to them. Who knew, right?
After that, I wasn’t just a crazy White woman. I was a dangerously crazy one. That said, they still made room for me around the fire so that we could all hold our soaking socks, sweaters and everything else (including bright yellow Patagonia underwear) to dry out.
Dangerously crazy.
I like that.
Let’s play.
Thanks for joining me today on another fun trip through my adventures. I hope you got a chuckle, and I’ll bet you’re glad you weren’t with me on that trip! If you enjoyed this please consider
If you know someone who can enjoy my discomfiture, please also consider
Either way, travel prepared, be ready for anything and I mean anything, and above all, find your funny. That’s the fastest way out of trouble.
I would not be able to sleep for days after that ant attack! Great story.
Brillant! Ants in your pants 🙈 you poor crazy woman 😂