That night I dreamed about Mount Washington. My father had driven us to the summit in summer of 1958. The wind ripped through our clothing and my father said, “Good thing is isn’t winter.”
A rumble filled my ears and I feared an avalanche, but it was Preacherman grumbling the Wrath of God at 5:30 across the valley from the Kibo Slopes Guest House in Loitokitok.
The 2019 Kili Initiative team crawled from our tents. The eastern sky was dark, however the dawn sun wrapped Kilimanjaro with a golden glow. Breakfast was in the lodge’s restaurant. I had tea and toast. JM asked, “Are you okay?”
He had heard my travels to the WC throughout the night.
Okay was the same and every language and I lied, “I’m 100% okay.”
The entire team regarded me, as if I were a plague victim.
Never better.”
It was a lie adn I understood the severity of my illness.
Back in 1994 I had been stranded in Penang, Malaysia. I had visited the English Cemetery with a Norwegian friend. The markings on one stone had read, “Captain Prescott arrived Penang April 3, 1867. Died of the Flux April 6.
I hadn’t died in Penang and I lightened my tone to assuage the fears of my young friends.
“M’zee isn’t dying today.”
The team boarded a bus.
We had been joined by Wini, a journalist from Nairobi. She felt my forehead.
“You are very warm.”
“I ate something that didn’t agree with me. Supu ya mbuzi.”
“You are crazy, M’zee.”
She was right and the driver placed me in the front seat, so I could get air from the open window.
The road to Tanzania was not a straight road. Each lurch challenged the gravity of my guts. A fever burned on my skin and JM asked, “Are you sure you are okay?”
I looked at the holy man and whispered, “Maybe.”
“Keep that ‘maybe’ to yourself. We might be old, but we always be strong.”
The bus stopped before a sleepy frontier post. I went right to the WC and came out three minutes later slightly relieved by the expulsion of fluids, but the expressions on the team’s faces diagnosed the severity of my condition, especially those of Maureen, Ubah, Laikyn, and Vanessa. I put on a brave face and entered the passport control office. I patiently waited my turn and presented my passport and yellow fever vaccine permit to the official behind the desk.
He aimed a laser at my face and said, “You can not come into Tanzania. Your temperature is 103.”
Normal was 98.2.
My head spun on my shoulders and I lost focus on this world.
I was as sick as a dog.
“I am the guide for all these young people,” I explained to the official, who regarded the team. “Go outside and cool down.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered politely and stepped outside, wondering how would I be able to carry off this miracle. I had come across the world to be here. The door was shut. Kilimanjaro was to my right. I had failed again.
I raised my head. A bucket of rain water was to my left.
No one was in the backyard.
I dunked my head for thirty seconds and dried off the wet with a towel.
I entered the office. The customs official did not comment on my wet shirt. JM stood behind me. I sat and the official lasered my face once more.
“You are free to go.”
I did not question his edict and exited the office to the applause of the team. They wanted me to be with them and I wanted to be with them.
I walked across the border with Wini.
WELCOME TO TANZANIA.
We were going to the Top of Africa.
