Africa: According to a Box of Old National Geographics
19 341 feet: Kilimanjaro Part II
I’m going to Tanzania. It’s kind of a big deal — Africa is my last continent.
That’s a lie. I’ve never been to Antarctica, but does that miserable lump of frozen tundra really count? Tell those emperor penguins to get together and open a coffee shop down there, and maybe I’ll take the trip. Until then Antarctica, you’re not a real continent and you should be ashamed to compare yourself to the likes of South America and Asia.
Whenever I set out on an adventure, I scribble down my impressions, all of those half-thought-through opinions I’ve overheard in watering holes. Then, when the trip is over, I get to look back and see what an idiot I was.
It’s fun, in the same masochistic way that dripping hot candle wax on your nipples is fun.
My impressions of Africa come from leafing through my father’s old National Geographics — just ten-year-old me and a box of musty magazines in the basement. I may very well have been searching for tits, but what I found on those pages were stereotypes; the sort of cliches that live in your head for a lifetime.
Here is what National Geographic taught me about Africa.
