The next morning the snow gleamed atop Kilimanjaro. The Kili Intiative 2019 team packed non-essentials into bags for storage at the Marangu Hotel. My Kilimanjaro equipment lay on the bed. Ma’we ruthlessly eliminated my journal, SNOW OF KILIMANJARO, and any excess.
“The less you carry the better for you and your porter.”
He checked off the must-have list; sunscreen, sunglasses, lip balm, thermals, sox, cold weather gear et al.
“How’s your stomach?”
“Fine.” I had only been sick ten times through the night.
“You should have never eaten that goat intestine soup.”
“I know that now.”
“Then let’s go.”
The guides, cooks, and porters waited in the courtyard.
There were over sixty of them and seventeen of us.
A small army.
I dropped my bag in storage under the supervision of Mama, an elderly Chaaga woman, who asked if I needed anything. I shook my head and returned to the courtyard.
The hotel owner, Shamus, described the function of the guides and porters and cooks.
“Each one is important to the success of your climb as well as your safety. If they say go down, go down. There is no shame in not reaching the top, but I hope most of you do. Remember. Pole pole.”
Slow and steady.
The porters loaded the bags and equipment onto the trucks. I poured the remnants of my Konyagi into a water bottle with Crest. Charlie, the head guide, announced it was time to leave. The team sat throughout the big van; Ma’we, JM, Steve, Ubah, Jubbah, Vanessa, Jackman, Laikyn, Larry, Nathalia, Maureen, and the additions; Mark and his son, Rees and his son, Adam, and Winnie from Nairobi. I climbed into my seat opposite Tim, who asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I lied, suspecting my temper was well above 100, but I hadn’t felt nauseous all morning. The driver started the engine and grinded the stick through the gears. We lurched onto the road and everyone was in a good mood.
School kids waved from the sidewalk.
Marangu town was coming to life.
Tim took out a remote speaker. He DJed 1980s British Prog Rock. Simply Red, Rick Ashley, and the Smiths. He extolled each band’s virtues to the African Youth and I said, “This bands suck, especially the Smiths. Everyone get three songs. I’m next.”
“You think you can do better?”
“Of course I can.” I had seen the Matalus or taxi vans painted with murals of Bob Marley.
I turned to the group and said, “In the winter of 1972 I had been walking through a snowstorm in Boston. My feet were cold, my hands were wet, and the wind froze my face. That is what Kili will be like that last day, but no fear, because I stopped at a cinema and looked at the poster. THE HARDER THEY COME about a Rasta gunman. I bought a ticket and was transported to the warmth of Jamaica. This song ain’t from the movie, but it is from Bob Marley. CONCRETE JUNLGE. Ain’t Much better.”
I sang along and we all grooved on the Messiah’s love to be found.
I segued to JOHNNY TOO BAD and then THE RIVERS OF BABYLON. Preacher JM nodded in appreciation. He understood that even atheists care about the human soul.
“That’s my three. Who’s next?”
Larry Fishbourne hoseyed next.
We rocked up to Rongai Gate to Sly and the Family Stone, Biggie, and James Brown. Tim was searching his phone for offerings. Larry passed control to the ladies. They played songs from the ‘now’. I knew none of them, but recognized the shared joy of young people united by a beat. I drank my Konyagi and Crest. MY head nodded to the beat. We turned off the main road and passed through crop fields. Kilimanjaro blessed the slopes with rich soil and water.
“This is the easiest of days,” announced Tim. “We hike two hours and then camp for the night.”
“We go,” Ma’we pulled on his backpack. He was traveling like, as was JM. Steve was staying behind us. His knee was in bad shape and he touched my forehead, “Are you okay? If you aren’t. Better to say it, because up there anything you have here gets worse.”
“I’m not 100%, but I’m not risking my life for nothing.”
“Then good luck Mzee.”
From here on there was no electricity, no beer, no hotels.
We were on the mountain and the mountain, Kilimanjaro ruled all within its sight.
At Rongai Gate we signed the books and had a light lunch.
“I’m going ahead,” I told Charlie. I like quiet and taking fotos.”
“Do not go too fat ahead. being alone is dangerous.”
“I will stay within earshot.”
I left the team behind in the rain forest.
I finished off the Konyagi and set a good pace for 8000 feet above sea level.
It was a good path, but I understood this was easy.
Hard was coming our way.
We had left civilization.
I had no phone reception.
I touched the fallen trees.
The moss fell like it belonged to forever.
I heard the team behind me.
This was Africa.
This was Kilimanjaro.
This was now.
