Showing posts with label marangu.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marangu.. Show all posts
Sunday, October 11, 2026
40 Meter Mad Dash - Marangu, Tanzania - 2019 Kili Initiative Team # 22
Tanzania was greener than Kenya, where the Kil Team 2019 had spent the last ten days. Kenya was all dry plains. Here was jungle.
The country has been ruled by socialists for decades. The people looked the same, but I was the only M’zoongoo or white man in sight. I was blind to many things and blessed by an accepting ignorance. I was just a human being as are we all, although none of the 2019 Kili Initiative Team were native to this country.We were Kenyans and Americans. Not Tanzanians. None of that mattered. We had come to Marangu to open our minds after a trek across the Maasai Plains and prepared our bodies to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. The mountain was always above us in the trees.
The Top of Africa.
We passed through the town. The market was busy. More people than we had seen for the last days in the plains. Bars operated on the right. Music blared from everywhere.
"That's the size of my old hometown." Milton, Massachusetts, had many trees too, but not as green as those in Marangu. "It used to have no bars."
"No bars?" Such a thought was sacrilege to Ma'we, although he was an upstanding member of his church.
"A dry town from the Prohibition of the 1920s to the year 2000."
"We will visit this town later. They have many bars. I know a good one. " Ma'we said, respecting my research of beers around the world.
Five minutes later, we turned into the Marangu Hotel.
The courtyard was tidy. I was the first person off the bus. I ran to the WC. Travel had not been kind to my stomach and lower tract. When I emerged from the WC, the KI team were heading to their respective cabins. I received keys from the reception. Larry stood outside next to a cut-out of Kobe Bryant in the lobby.
"Kobe is my man."
"He beat my Celtics in 2010." I blamed the loss more on my friend AP coming into Frank's Lounge at the 4th Quarter and asking what was the score. AP was not a sports fan. A curse.
"His name means something in Swahili."
"I'll find out," I replied and recalled the Laker star had spent time here in college contributing his talents to various youth and woman groups.
Two older women led me to my cottage.
I tipped the girls carrying my bags and lay on the bed. The Maasai trek's sleeping arrangement had been tents and sleeping bags on bare ground. I had learned to sweep the earth of stones before the porters set up the tents. Every night a small stone would wander beneath the tent to disturb the princess' rest like a pea like in the fairy tale "The Princess and the Pea" by Hans Christian Andersen. I was no princess. I hadn't been on a mattress in ten days. I fell asleep for forty-five minutes.
It felt incredibly good. I searched for 'Kobe' in my phrasebook and found ‘sea tortoise’ before dropping back into ZZZ land.
I woke to the ringing of my cell phone. Tim Challen, the Kili Initiative director and a friend from my pilgrimage to Lhasa in 1995, was calling from Geneva.
"Are you feeling okay?"
"Better," I lied without shame. I was exhausted from the trek, yet ready from the climb up Kili.
"I'm at the airport, waiting for my flight. I'll be there tomorrow to make sure you aren't dying."
"Hopefully I'll be alive, otherwise feed me to the lions. There is no honor in being devoured by hyenas."
"It won't come to that, but please stay away from any strange foods, especially goat stew."
Disregarding his warnings, I had braved eating goat stew on the plains. Forever foolhardy. My digestive tract was paying the price for an old man’s arrogance.
"I won't even listen to any Rolling Stones' songs from GOAT'S HEAD SOUP. I'm looking forward to seeing you."
That was the truth. We were longtime friends.
I had rarely been a Pete, but was happy to think that later on I would be drinking there.
Jackman came over to ask, "You want to kick with us?"
"Football is not really my game. I'm more into basketball." Never really good, except on defense adn my name on Swest 4th Street was 'Brick'/ A two-fold meaning. One for my blown lay-ups. # 2 for my defense.
"That is because he is a slow M'zee," shouted Fast Steve from the distance.
"I am not slow, you Kobe."
Jackman and Ubah laughed heartily and the young white boy asked, "What's so funny?"
"Kobe is turtle in Swahili."
"I am not turtle, M'zee."
"I am not slow, you Kobe. I accept I am an old man. You should accept you are slow. Let's have a race. 40 meters." I handed my phone to Larry, who looked hurt learning Kobe meant a turtle.
"Kobe's no turtle."
But neither was Kobe a saint. He sought to win with any means possible.
"You don't have to tell me. He killed us in 2010." I added nothing. I was no fan of Kobe. He had purposely submarined Kendricks Perkins in the finals, tearing out his ACLs, plus he had snitched on Shaq for seeing women on the road after he had been accused of rape. I turned to Fast Steve. “I’m ready. You, me, and everyone else."
"You really think you can beat me."
"I bet $3 the old M'zoongoo will beat you." $3 was the price of a Guinness at Pete's Bar. I took out my money. I was at least forty years older than Steve. "Let's go, Kobe."
The Vegas odds on my winning this race were 1000 to 1, except we were in Marangu and not Vegas. I knew Anything could happen.
We lined up for the race. The football was the finish line.
Larry called out, "Ready, set, go."
The five of us leapt from the line.
Me less fast than the young'uns. Me as Mzee M'zoongoo. An old white man.
I feel behind with ease. My sixty-six year old legs was deaf to my fifteen-year-old heart.
Jackman won the gold. Ubah took the silver. Youngblood grabbed the bronze. The race wasn't over. I caught up with Fast Steve. Something was wrong with Fast Steve.
He pulled up lame. A victory for the old man. Horrah M’zee.
I was fourth. Not a medal winner, but not last like Steve.
Jackman and I celebrated our victories.
Larry showed me the VDO.
The thrill of victory.
