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.

Leaving Simba Hut

Morning came early at Simba Hut at 2771 meters above sea level. I had had a bad night, despite my tent having been erected on flat ground without any rocks or stones to disturb with my sleep. My guts had been in full rebellion, thanks to the goat innards soup from the Kibo Lodge BBQ.

I wiggled from my sleeping bag and crawled from the tent. The cooks were preparing breakfast. I stumbled to the nearest bush and spewed green liquid on the ground. The porters laughingly mimicked my feat and chorused, "Oooooh-ach. Oooooh-ach."

I was no longer M'zee, but now M'zee Ooooh-Ach.

"Can someone put that old man out of his misery?" shouted Tim from a nearby tent.

"I only wish someone could." I heaved bile and everyone within earshot echoed my retch.

"I warned you about that soup, but you're a tough old nail and think you can eat everything/."

"I used to."

I wandered to the breakfast tent.

Ma'we smiled at me and said, "Don't listen to them you are still Bwana M'zee Konyagi to me. We get back to Marangu, we drink Konyagi by the big tree."

"And a lot of it."

"But if you can't make it, then better to stop now, then have to come down from higher up."

No, I'll be fine," said before searching for a remote bush into which empty my breakfast.

It was a good morning to hit the trail.

Cool.

Dry.

Sunny."

The ladies were all smiles.

Mark and his friend Kees were happy to be here with their sons.

Oskar was young, but had good musical tastes.

They turned around and looked at me.

"Ooooh-ach."

I pulled on my day sack and told Charlie, the head guide, "I'm setting out ahead to take videos.

"Do not go far. There are water buffaloes.

"Lions too," warned David, his brother.

"And elephants added my porter.

"I know elephants." Every year Old Yai visited my mango tree."

"Thai elephant not same African." Charlie shook his head.

"All elephants are the same. What is between their toes? Slow-running people."

They all laughed warily and I set out withe the rest of the Kili Team lining up for the trail. Young people liked to talk. I preferred quiet and twenty paces later I was alone.

I stopped to set up a shot.

Ma'we was in the lead.

I snapped several photos.

Jackman called out, "Be careful. Lions like the sound of ooooh-ach."

"They like young men better. Your meat tastes sweet and especially when the meat is close to the bone."

Jackman was muscular, but thin.

"I'll tell the lions better meat is coming."

I broke away from the crowd on the path through the dry rainforest.

Kilimanjaro seemed closer, but it was another five days to the summit.

The Maasai was far below. A world away and I maintained a face pace, although not as speedy as the Chaanga porters whose lungs were inured to the altitude. Each one carried thirty kilos. My day pack was loaded with three liters of water, camera equipment and rain gear. The weather on the mountains changed from place to place.

I felt good and stopped to drink water. I cast an ear downhill and heard nothing, but the wind.

The path was romanced by the perfume on the flowers.

The flowers had no name and I had lost mine.

I was M'zee of the Konyagi tribe.

A lover of flowers.

Clouds ate the sun.

My fingers predicted rain.

I hurried along the trail.

Dry forest, but I saw the scars of an old fire.

Something stirred in the underbrush.

Not close. Not far either.

Thunder rumbled up the slope.

I pulled on my poncho.

David caught up with me and pointed out a cave.

"We wait there for everyone. Your friend Tim worried about you."

"About a lion.

"No, too much ooooh-ach."

The cave was a closed volcanic vent.

"Water buffalo come here to lick salt." He pointed to turds. "Last night."

"Better last night than now."

They barely smelled bad.

Twenty minutes later the Kili Team appeared at the cave. I was glad to them."

M'zee, are you okay?" asked Vanessa.

No lions. No buffaloes. No ooooh-ach."

"Then you are healthy and keep going."

I got here before you all and I'll see you at the next camp. Stay dry."

"Kilewawi Camp is not far," advised David and I nodded my head, knowing that not far for a Chaanga could be twenty miles, but an hour later he pointed out a camp and said, "Kilewawi."

"Good," I answered and the sky opened with a tempestuous torrent.

The dry ravines filled fast.

The water fed the plains.

The rain was a good thing.

Especially when the sun broke through the clouds and there was hot tea and cookies at the end of the day's trail.

And I wasn't alone.

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.