Buffalo Soldier - Bob Marley - Africa 2019

In March 2019 while trekking across the Masaai Plains with the Kili Initiative team, ten young adults from Kibera and East New York, I hiked alone to meeting them for a rock climbing exercise. The dust of Africa under my feet I heard a song on the wind and saw the team atop of rock. Singing. As I grew closer, I divine the Bob Marly song BUFFALO SOLDIER. and walked singing the chorus. They shouted the chorus back. Sheer happiness. The magic of Marley. I tried to scale the cliff at ten feet I slipped and crashed into the rocks. Scraps blood. No pain. Africa. Only freedom.

Buffalo Soldier, dreadlock Rasta
There was a Buffalo Soldier
In the heart of America
Stolen from Africa, brought to America
Fighting on arrival, fighting for survival

Lyrics by Bob Marley

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LfVjOdIHSW0

Ambroseli Safari 2019

Ambroseli Safari with 2019 Kili Initiative team. The previous evening at the hotel in Marangu I had eaten goat entrails stew, despite our commander Tim Challen's warning. I ignored his advice and paid the price. I was deathly ill and the next day we went on a safari to Ambroseli. We sighted lions, elephants, zebra, baboons, and giraffes, who are not hard to miss. All I wanted to see was a rest room, which was atop a hill in the plains. Safe from the wild beast, but not goat entrails stew.

On the climb my puking earned the nickname '000-aak'. Never again goat entrails stew.

The Saddle - Kilimanjaro 2019 - Kili Initiative

Morning borke easrly and cold, but sunny. The porters are break camp, while we gather our belongings from the tnets to asssemble in kitchen tent for a breakfast of eggs, toast, and always Kigali, the Kenyan staple. Bad news.

Larry Fishbourne, my New York compatriot, and Jackmon, probably the most athletic of us, have to bail from from the next stage. Larry is dizzy as is Jackmon, who comes from Lake Victoria. Acclimating to the altitude is never 100% successful of these treks. Mawee is guiding them over the Saddle down the slope to Marangu. I'm feeling good, despite my stomach woes.

Snow topped Kilimanjaro. I could see my breath. It wouls be colder at Kibo Hut. I walked over to Larry.

What Will Be Tomorrow - Kilimanjaro

The 2020 Kili Initiative team left Kibo Hut at midnight. I wished them well on the final stage of the climb. The falling snow turned to sleet. My brother Ma'we said, "You should come, my brother."

"I know." I had failed to summit in 2019. My right ankle was weak and my thin gloves guaranteed little protection from the cold. "Maybe next year. See you tomorrow."

I returned to my bunk bed and snaked into my sleeping bag.

Warmth.

Darkness.

Quiet.

Dawn arrived early and I tramped across the ice-encrusted dirt to the WC.

The sun nimbused the eastern horizon and I turned my head to Kilimanjaro. The team had to close to the summit. I squinted, but failed to spot them on the trail. I blew on my bare hands and returned to bed. My old body took its time getting warm. I reached over to my cell phone and called my family in Thailand. Despite the weak connection I was able to say I love you and hear my son Fenway shouted, "Lak Pah."

My phone still showed bars and I tapped in www.theguardian.com

Joe Biden had beaten Bernie Sanders in Iowa, Britain was leaving the EEU, China's pollution levels had dropped during the spread of Coruna Virus, and the headline was UK FEARS OF UNDETECTED CASES GROW AS 13 MORE TEST POSITIVE.

The park ranger approached with a glance at the rim. We knew each other for two years. He was a LA Lakers fan. He pointed to my phone and then the Maasai Plains.

"What do you think will happen?"

"I don't know, but it will not be good."

The guard pointed to a line of climbers.

"Your friends are at the top."

"I'll be in Marangu this evening."

"We'll drink beer together at the Big Tree."

The two of us exchanged a knowing smile, for whatever awaited on the plains coming today or tomorrow was the future and we were happy enough to know a cold beer might save not so much our lives, especially if tomorrow was not today.

Bahati njema.

Rongai Gate 2019 - Kili Initiative

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."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y07vgARrOUE

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.

The Border of Tanzania - 2019 Kili Initiative # 21

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.

Loitokitok - 2019 Kili Initiative - # 20

Back at the Kibo Slopes Lodge the Kili Initiative team relaxed after lunch. I hadn't eaten anything. My stomach was trembling at the sight of good and decided to wander into town for some souvenirs and maybe even a Guinness.

The Irish Stout was good for you.

This was our last day in Loitokitok.

Tomorrow the team was traveling to Tanzania to begin our climb of Mount Kilimanjaro.

My friend Ma'we joined me.

"Always good to have someone with you. This might be the country, but young men can get city very fast, if they see someone with money."

"Like me."

"Yes, like you."

I took only my phone and some money.

We walked down the back road.

Some girl approached us.

They offered fun.

"Sorry, I am a married man."

I have been faithful to Mam over ten years.

One of them said, "Muziki."

Even without knowing Swahili I deciphered the word and laughed, giving them each enough money for a meal. $3 in total.

"Why you give those bad girls money?"

"We all are bad. They are bad 100%. They are just not lucky, same as that flower. Beautiful one day. Not beautiful another."

Ma'we understood and

School was in session and few people were on the street, except for a couple of children on a dusty street.

"Why aren't they in school?"

"Maybe family have no money. School is very expensive, but I think they be too young."

Their smiles were things of beauty.

"Same in Thailand. No money. No school."

"Corruption."

Kenya was richer than most countries on the continent, but the money flowed up to the rich and never down to the poor. Same as everywhere in the world.

"Just a second. You go ahead."

"Sick?" asked Ma'we.

"Only a little."

He walked ahead and I voided my body and soul onto the dirt.

Damn goat entail soup.

We turned a corner and were in the market.

Passengers were loading onto buses destined for unknown towns.

Ma'we had friends here. Everyone knew him. Everyone wanted to say hello. He introduced me as his brother. I felt good about that, but then my stomach gurgled like the inside of a fetid geyser.

"Watch out. M'zee zamani."

All the old men laughed, because nothing was funnier than a fart. I took my revenge and let go. The old men reeled back in earnest and I said, "M'zee # 1."

We left quickly and within two minutes people shouted out to me.

"M'zee Zamani."

I had been here for a couple of days.

They also shouted out, "Konyagi."

It was my drink and in small towns everyone knew everyone's stories and quick.

A bar was located on a back alley.

Ma'we led me to a seat by the window.

He laughed with the other drinkers, telling a tale of my farts and after a brief conversation in Swahili he asked, "Guinness?"

I nodded my head, hoping I could keep it down in my stomach and control my zamani. I told heroic tales of passing gas to the bar drinkers and raised my hands to signal I needed to get outside.

The Preacher Man was kicking off his evening session.

I walked across the dirt road. Flowers floated from the green. I tested the wind and aimed downwind. I spread my legs and let go the wind within me. A song came into my head. CANDLE IN THE WIND. Elton John.

I turned around and entered the bar to cheers.

My fellow drinkers were holding their noses.

I sniffed the air and said, "Big nose smelled bad everywhere."

The next round was on me, because Guinness was good for you.

No matter how bad was your guts.

ps. I bought a Kenya baseball cap.