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Pole pole, ado ado, ndogo ndogo. After a week in Tanzania, this is the only Swahili I managed to learn, all of which are various iterations of “slowly slowly”. I’m not sure that there are many people like me who’d approach the decision to summit the second highest mountain in the world, Mount Kilimanjaro, in the same fashion that I had. Which was deciding, then doing in a matter of two weeks. So, I can’t help but to think that there is a bit of irony in my Swahili language acquisition. Kilimanjaro had never necessarily been on my “bucket list”, but I needed a challenge that seemed greater than the superficial challenges that I was facing in my day to day life that were consuming me entirely. You know, the sort of bureaucracy that manifests itself in every work place. But, for me, I had reached a tipping point. I was at the point where I thought it better to break my contract, and make a “midnight run” as it’s sometimes called rather than endure the seemingly insurmountable frustration for six more months. I needed time separate from my work place. I needed to do something that was, by nature, all consuming so that work, or even thoughts of work, could not find its way into my conscious active thoughts. I figured that there’d be no better way to do this than to spend a few days walking up a mountain. Perhaps, I should have anticipated the sudden onset of rain just prior to our departure as a sort of foreshadowing of my experiences. Perhaps, it should have dawned on me that the transition of landscape from lush greenery and mischievous monkeys seamlessly swinging amongst the treetops to seemingly barren land would be some sort of abstract symbolism for the physical pain I’d later experience. The days were long, they were both physically and mentally exhausting. The others on the summit along with me didn’t seem to be struggling nearly as much as I was. I envied their ability to socialize after a long day, and how easy it was for laughter to spill from their mouths, and how in the mornings it seemed they were served an extra heaping side of optimism, and the air full and bountiful for them, while the air and altitude seemed to mock me and run out just before it got to me. How does one resolve the feelings of cognitive dissonance of moving forth with the journey ahead and convincing yourself there is no shame in failure? How does one resolve the cognitive dissonance of feeling simultaneously invincible having walked amongst and above the clouds while also feeling so broken that just being handed a blanket is the thing that makes you cry? For most of this journey, I questioned if I could do this, like really do this. And so it was nearly every day, first the doubt, then anxiety and finally the weight of the panic settling in, but before it could wash over me entirely a passing porter would nod and say, “pole pole” as if they could see the internal destruction just before the bomb went off completely before I turned to rubble and ash on the mountain side. From panic to reassurance a nod of appreciation in return and a whisper to myself, “pole pole”.