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264 pages, Paperback
First published April 7, 2014
After gaining more than half of my weight back after the first Kilimanjaro climb, I was there for the second time in hopes of dropping pounds, but I really should have done that before arriving in Marangu, the village at the base of the mountain. This time, instead of taking a hike as a celebration, the trek felt more like a condemnation.
I looked back at my duffle bag, which was just as stuffed as my size twenty-eight jeans. I had packed the same things as last time, ignoring the fact I had gained seventy pounds while pregnant and in the months after life with my daughter. I hesitated in terror.
Wait, did I even try on my pants? I remembered sticking both pairs in the bag, trying to ignore that size 3X might not fit me anymore. The last time I wore them, they were roomy, and I needed to use the canvas belt woven through the waistband to keep them up.
A moment of panic set over me as I unzipped my duffle bag, its contents nearly spilling out of the overstuffed sack. My heart pounded. I may be about to set off on a seven-day journey on a mountain without proper pants. I was sure I’d lose fifteen pounds while hiking, but that didn’t matter before everything started. The two pant legs swished together as I held them up as if in prayer. Please let these fit. Please let these fit.
Back home, I told my friends and family that I had picked up some kind of stomach bug, but I knew the real reason I had failed was that I was unprepared. I had gone from being at the top of Kilimanjaro to the low point between two mountains--the gorge.
There was something about taking on a cause such as this and announcing it to the world. It was a way of crying out. Please, I’m good. Please see me as something other than the three hundred-pound blob that I am. Please know I’m worthy. I am kind. I am motivated. I’m not the lazy stereotype you picture when you see someone encased in a mountain of fat. The charity climb was, in part, a way to give myself a gold star—a way of feeling better.
I heard Kenedy, our head guide talking about me, “Mama Kubwa” or “Big Woman,” and I knew he was laughing at me. I knew, as I listened to his grunts and groans, that he was mimicking my sounds on the trail. At first, I was mortified. I wanted to hide in my sleeping bag and not get up. Then, I was mad. I wanted to unzip my sleeping bag and go tell him off. But what would I say? Maybe I was a laughing stock. Let them have their fun, I thought. I am an oddity. I can do this, I whispered to myself again and again until I fell asleep. The next morning, I kept hearing that laughter in my head, those unseemly grunts and groans. Was I that ugly? Did they feel disgusted by the mere sight and sound of me? I felt humiliated and angry all over again, but we needed them to get us up and down this mountain safely.