Brooklynites Abroad: The curious case of Kilimanjaro
The last thing I expected after climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro was to spend July 4 in a hospital bed. In the Amsterdam airport. With food poisoning. My five minutes in the tarmac ambulance were novel, but they took me away from where I wanted to be – on that KLM flight bound for New York City. And while I have to blame the goat cheese tartlette I ate for dinner in Delft, Netherlands, that was by far the least shocking thing I’d done in my two weeks abroad.
Just days before, I had stood on the so-called Roof of Africa, 19,341 feet above sea level, sobbing as my teammates and I crumpled in a triumphant bear hug. Spent and slightly delirious, too cold even to change the lens on my camera, I could only pose for a group photo. Sunrise across the glaciers was stunning, but the wind was relentless and my head was beginning the slow pound of altitude sickness. One team member vomited. On the way back down, I’d never wished so hard for an easy way out – an inflatable slide, maybe, or a helicopter – anything but the three hours spent skating and slipping down gravel and dirt, poles flailing, stomach churning, knees buckling. It seemed like the descent was harder than the climb or maybe it was just the sorry state we were in. This part of the Kili experience was nothing like I’d imagined.