Pole Pole, to the summit we go

In the first half of October ’24, six of us friends took a giant leap of faith by attempting to summit Mount Kilimanjaro. What follows is a day by day account of our trek, which for many of us was the climb of a lifetime.

Asante Sana to guides Michael, Vincent, and Pascal. To the cooks, servers and the innumerable porters, who’s names we never even got to know. Without every single one of you, we could never have done it.

In memory of my Sister. A tribute to my maternal Grandfather.


Day 1: Machame Gate to Machame Camp

Twende Twende, Michael exclaims. We’ll pick up more than a smattering of Swahili by the end of our trek, but for now this is an important one. It’s our guide’s way of urging us to get a move on. It’s 1130 am local time and as we begin our hike, we leave the relative comforts of Machame Gate (5900 ft / 1800 m) behind. Ahead of us lies a magical canopy of ferns, lichens and clinging mosses; giant Camphorwood trees, and the occasional sighting of a Colobus Monkey. Through it all, seven grueling miles of a relentless uphill ascent. The Rainforest is the first of four distinct ecosystems we will experience over the course of our climb, and as beautiful as it is, we can hardly do it any justice; focussing instead on the drudgery of the first day’s incline, and the hours of walking that lie ahead. A break for lunch couldn’t be more welcome.

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Jamaica, in four perfect days

That sliver of land I’ve just spotted is in fact Cuba. Cabo Cruz on its southwestern tip, as the flight map confirms. With only 200-odd kms to go, we’ve begun our initial descent, and my choice of window seat has already paid off. Jamaica’s majestic Blue Mountains make up a third of the country’s landform and practically dominate the country’s eastern half. So far only the summits have been visible – some over 7000-ft high – but as we drop below the clouds, Kingston’s sprawl reveals itself. On what is undoubtedly a spectacular approach, we fly over its bustling harbor, then the airport itself, making a generous loop further east before eventually touching down at Norman Manley International.

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The Night Riviera to Penzance

In the world of engineering, there are few individuals as distinguished or prolific as Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Perhaps one of the greatest contributors to the Industrial Revolution, Brunel left his imprint on everything from bridges and tunnels, to shipping and railways, his rich legacy of innovation and design long outliving his rather short lifespan. Amongst his many great engineering feats, there are few that match the sheer utility or grandeur of London’s exquisite Paddington station. A cathedral of transportation, Paddington imparts a sense of occasion to the mundane act of departing or arriving.

Over the years, I’ve had the good fortune of patronizing Paddington several times, but tonight’s journey is different, momentous even. On platform 1 stands the Night Riviera, an overnight sleeper train, that in some form or another has been operated continuously by the Great Western Railway or GWR since 1877. It’s one of the last two sleeper services left in the UK, and the only one to have eluded me thus far. Tonight, I depart Paddington in style.

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Many Faces, One Republic

My departure gate has a familiar buzz to it. An air of bonhomie, bordering on the raucous, and Spanish that’s too fast to follow along or understand. DL 1943 is a locals-only flight, and I’m the lone outsider amongst the diaspora queuing up to board it. I might as well be at 175th street, waiting for an uptown A train! Much like the A, running express between 59th and 125th streets, the flight to Santo Domingo is a blur, and it’s well past everyone’s bedtime by the time I make it to Casa Sánchez.

I awake to that unmistakable tropical feeling. Moisture-laden air, a scorching sun amidst a dazzling blue sky, a colorful courtyard full of fruit-bearing trees, and a hearty desayuno to look forward to.

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The Reunification Express and other musings on Vietnam

Coming in from the relative calm of Chiang Mai, and the overall order and efficiency one had gotten used to in Thailand, I have to admit, my arrival in Ho Chi Minh City was a tad jarring. From the severely congested airport, to the chaos of evening rush hour, to the overwhelming number of two wheelers, it was all a bit much. By the end of my first evening though, I was a pro. Simply putting my hand out, without ever making eye contact, and crossing lane after lane of traffic with the confidence of a local. Everyone on two wheels – which is essentially all the traffic there is – would either slow down just enough or miraculously weave past me. There was an order to the madness after all – I just had to submit to it. And once I’d made it to the lively streetscape of Nguyen Hue Boulevard, with the splendid City Hall building on one end and the riverfront on the other, I was sold on Saigon.

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The Far West Wilderness, and a Spot of Trains

In the moments leading up to our boarding call, there’s much debate between SK, JB and me on whether Alaska Seaplanes flight 507 to Skagway is in fact a seaplane. It turns out not to be. This, despite Juneau International having a seaplane port parallel to its main runway. Regardless, the short 25-minute flight along Alaska’s Inside Passage is spectacular, and not one of us is lamenting the lack of pontoons on our craft.

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Scandinavia to Iberia, by Train

A Holiday Inn isn’t typically where I’d choose to stay, but in Helsinki it made perfect sense. It was centrally located, and provided a view like none other; winterscape as far as the eye could see, and trains – lots of them – within earshot. One such train whisked me into Helsinki Central Station from the airport in under 30-minutes, and once there, I could get to practically any part of the city on Helsinki’s excellent tram network, or for the heck of it, take a metro to Mellunmäki, the northernmost metro station in the world. Obviously, I did. Across the streets of Helsinki, Christmas decorations and festive lights persisted well into the New Year, as if to make up for all the gloominess. Of the many buildings I admired along the way, Saarinen’s Helsinki Central Station might have been my favorite. Home, amongst other things, to possibly the most attractive Burger King on the planet. The Oodi Library being a close second.

Daylight was limited and temperatures were frigid – as one might expect for the first half of January – but the Finns, everyone I interacted with in my short time there, were welcoming and friendly. It helped, of course, that most do speak English. The country actually has two official languages (the other being Swedish), a fact I was thoroughly ignorant about till my curiosity into the overwhelming presence of multilingual signs got the better of me. They drink copious amounts of coffee – more than anyone else on the planet, as it turns out – and often, that’s accompanied by an excellent selection of cinnamon rolls; a combination any self-respecting Nordic would subscribe to. And yet, somehow, the country felt culturally closer to Russia.

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A day in the life of Corrour

The 15:24 to Fort Williams pulls out, leaving three of us behind on the platform at Corrour. I follow the couple who’ve alighted, across the tracks to the station house, which also serves as cafe, bar, restaurant, and reception. Inside, there’s a working fireplace, plenty of literature, a cozy couch, an enticing handwritten menu with the promise of sumptuous meals and tasty beverages, and for added comfort, three adorable canines. It’s too late for lunch and much too early for dinner, so I make do with a cortado and a whiskey fruit loaf.

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The Caledonian, Scotland’s Ambassador on Rails

Of all the glorious railway termini London boasts off, Euston might be the only outlier. And while my original plan – in the pre-pandemic era – would have involved Brunel’s magnificent Paddington Station as a point of departure, I’m going to have to make do with this incredibly dreary 60s remake of what was almost certainly a more impressive Victorian affair back in the day.

Thankfully, my time in Euston’s concourse is short-lived, and after a quick bite at Nando’s outside, I make my way to Platform 1. Barring Saturdays, The Caledonian’s “Highland” service departs Euston nightly at 9:15 pm, but unlike every other train listed on the departure board, there is no rush to board. This being an overnight train, things are a lot more civilized and sleeper class passengers can board upto 45-minutes prior to departure, giving one ample time to drop off one’s belongings, and then – as should be the case on any respectable journey – make one’s way towards the Lounge Car.

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2021: The travel year that almost took off

0525 am, an unearthly hour by any standard. Even more so if its a flight one has to catch. And that’s precisely how it went down for me on my first flight in 17-months. A journey that lasted less than an hour, from Burlington, Vermont to JFK. Fleeting as it was, being cocooned with a bunch of strangers – in varying states of mask compliance – within the cramped environs of a regional jet, felt entirely unnatural. Some six flights and a half year later, it still does.

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