| KILIMANJARO: A LOVE AFFAIR - "Amazing Grace" |
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| Kilimanjaro. What's in that name to attract so many would-be climbers to its slopes? Early in the morning that I reached its summit, my guide, Herman, age fifty-nine and the father of ten sons, had faced away from the mountain, leaned into the icy wind that enveloped it, and screamed Kee-lee-man-jar-o-o-o-o, the pitch of his voice dropping at the end. I enjoyed his call and smiled; I was surprised to hear nothing in response from the other guides below. Even now, when I think back to that climb, as I often do, I hear his yell in my mind, and I feel good. I had encountered many people of all types during the previous days spent walking toward the mountain. Some, particularly the Germans and Austrians, looked really fit and prepared, but many appeared to be approaching a mountain for the very first time, and Kilimanjaro is no ordinary mountain; it is massive, and it is tall. Its rim actually contains three separate volcanoes: Shira, sufficiently old and eroded to escape attention; Mawenzi, still young enough to be very impressive and quite obvious to the right of the trail followed by most tourists; and Kibo, the youngest, highest, and still snow covered and glaciated (for a few more years at least). This last is the Kilimanjaro depicted in East African travel literature. Kibo is the goal of many casual climbers; Uhuru is its true summit, but Gillman's Point is a worthy achievement for those whose attempts fall short of their ultimate goal. Why do some many inexperienced people come? There certainly is an enduring mystique about this mountain, likely abetted by the popularity of Hemingway's writing, and a partial leopard skeleton does still survive on the crater rim. I didn't see it, however, because the trail from Kibo Hut to the summit turns away from Leopard Point when it reaches Gillman's. It is also true that Kilimanjaro has come to symbolize Africa. The desire to stand atop the very highest point on the Dark Continent can be very compelling, and the advertisement, true but for the altitude involved, that the summit can be reached by a simple walk, puts attainment of this goal within reach of anyone making proper preparation. The surprising kink in today's Kenya-Tanzania border still intrigues me, and I remain ready to believe that with a stroke of her royal pen, Queen Victoria added that kink to present Kilimanjaro to her German grandson, Kaiser Wilhelm, as a birthday gift. But alas, this tale is at best apochryphal. I was drawn to it primarily because I planned to be in East Africa anyway, having once again decided to flee from home during the Holiday Season, and this mountain stood over a thousand feet taller than the rock pile I had surmounted in the Himalayas a few months previously. On that earlier trek I was in a sense following the footsteps of early Mt. Everest climbers, if only to the vicinity of their base camps, but now I carried with me the secret dream that if all went well on this climb, I might return to the Himalayas and attempt something even more demanding. My approach was by road from Nairobi. The day started strongly for me, and my spirits were only slightly diminished by the failure of my driver to appear at the appointed time. After at most an hour or so of modest fretting, I was able to get the company to send a substitute vehicle and driver. The latter was unusually articulate and talkative, and I thoroughly enjoyed the ride to the Tanzanian border, in particular the view of about ten ostriches feeding near the road. They brought to mind the thrilling three days of game drives I had so thoroughly enjoyed in Kenya's Masai Mara just a week or two earlier. We had sat quietly for what seemed like hours among dozens of lions, had watched two leopards for as long as we wished, and had been entranced by the lithe loveliness and gliding gracefulness of two cheetahs stalking animals across a flower-encrusted plain. Zebras, gazelles, hippopotamuses, topis, elephants, hyenas, jackals, wildebeests, giraffes, crocodiles, and many others I had seen and photographed in abundance. But elands and ostriches were seldom visible, and when we did see some and stopped to view them, they fled immediately. Naturally, on this occasion the sun was directly behind these ten, and besides, all my camera gear was packed. My driver south of the border, whose crossing required perfunctory visits to each country's immigration and customs offices, Tanzanian customs being a masterpiece of triviality, was a taciturn man by comparison, but the countryside made adequate compensation by being much more varied and interesting than that north of the border. The towns we passed, stopping only in Arusha for me to be briefed by the manager of Ranger Safaris, who had arranged my climb, seemed very impoverished in comparison to what I had seen earlier in Kenya; perhaps this resulted from the socialistic position adopted by Nyerere in Tanzania as contrasted to Kenyatta's vigorous capitalistic orientation in Kenya. On the other hand the Maasai costumes here were much more colorful than those seen in Kenya, perhaps because I was traveling on market day, Saturday, and I was really struck by the appearance of the countryside and its proliferation of coffee and banana plantations, flowering trees, and colorful birds. The lower slopes of the mountain's shoulders were visible, but its summit was closely guarded by heavy clouds. Indeed, as we left the highway and started up a side road to the Kibo Hotel, "base camp" for this expedition, it started to rain; this year's dry season was clearly behind schedule. As my driver prepared to leave, I asked at what time he would return to reacquire me a week later, and he shrugged that he didn't know, an attitude of indifferent ignorance that was to trouble me much more one week later when I was on my way home. That trip began with my being stranded at the Kenya-Tanzania border for several hours until the owner of a rival company was persuaded to take me to Nairobi. The first of my three flights was delayed for several hours before leaving Nairobi; in London I was insulted, treated like a thief, and denied access to my plane for nearly an hour; and when similar treatment began in New York, I screamed "enough" and was allowed on board. I started the descent from Uhuru at 7 a.m. on a Thursday and didn't reach home until about 1 a.m. the following Tuesday, Kenya time. Of course I didn't anticipate that problem then, but the uncertainty left me uneasy. Even the hotel manager, one Mr. Godfrey Labrosse, seemed unfriendly, simply demanding that I appear in his office at 5 p.m. to discuss the climb. Feeling isolated, afraid, and very much missing a special companion from Kenya, I retreated to my room, hoping to thicken my skin, so to speak. The meeting with Godfrey went very smoothly, and when told that I had climbed Mt. Kenya's Point Lenana (16,350 feet) two weeks before, he volunteered that I would have no trouble with Kilimanjaro. His comment only added to my nervousness about the climb, because three newfound friends, including that special one, with whom I had just shared the splendid safari in Kenya, and the leader of that outing had said the same thing. It now began to weigh very heavily on my mind that not to reach Uhuru, the actual summit, would be to let these friends down. I was completely sanguine about reaching Gillman's Point, because it is only a few hundred feet higher than my previous Himalayan "summit," but I remained uncertain about Uhuru. Just before going down to dinner, however, I observed and photographed a lovely double rainbow (3) from my hotel room verandah; that at least was a good omen. The Kibo Hotel's dining room that night reminded me of the two years, long ago, that I had spent teaching chemistry at the University of Montana in Missoula. At least back then, winter evenings were devoted to recalling stories of horrors perpetrated by grizzly bears. At the hotel the evening was spent discussing, in grizzly detail, the horrors of altitude sickness, particularly as it was experienced, and observed, at the Kibo Hut. This worry and concern about the possibility of mountain sickness became almost a mania with many. I wondered if the anticipation might be even worse than the ailment itself; I later observed that such was definitely not the case. Happily, dinner itself was much better than I expected. The first course, something akin to oeuf a la Russe, was splendid and was made to seem even better in retrospect by the blandness of the soup that followed it. The main entrée, lamb (I think) patties on eggplant, was accompanied by an appropriate assortment of vegetables. A very nice dessert of apple pastry and custard sauce was followed by coffee service in an upstairs lounge. Climbing this mountain is either a five-day or a six-day affair, depending on whether or not one spends an extra day acclimatizing at a moderate 12,500-foot altitude. The organization that has arranged my trekking vacations believes strongly in reaching high altitudes gradually, so I was on the six-day schedule; seven others who left the hotel with me were on the shorter plan. They traveled together with their set of guides and porters, and I walked alone, if to be "accompanied" by a guide, an assistant guide, and two porters, the mandatory minimum, can be said to be alone. Actually, only the guide stayed anywhere in my vicinity, so quite often I was truly by myself. I liked the quietness and solitude, but I often recalled how enjoyable her company had been on Mt. Kenya and wished that I were sharing it again. Three sets of huts are used to accommodate climbers, guides, and porters. The lowest, Mandara, at about 9,000 feet, and the highest, Kibo, at 15,520 feet, are used only by ascending hikers, but the middle one, Horombo, at approximately 12,500 feet, is used both ways. The latter is thus a center where descending parties pass on their newly acquired wisdom, and their successful members receive the plaudits of their hopeful successors. The first day's walk, about three hours long at a moderate pace, is pretty unexciting. It follows a rather rocky road through a damp, dark, apparently uninhabited rain forest. When the hut is reached, an optional short walk takes one to the Maundi crater, but it too is rather unimpressive, at least by western American standards. (4,5,6) The day I walked to Mandara, a heavy thunderstorm blew in, and like the Pillar of Fire over the Children of Israel, it stayed directly above me for the hour and a half remaining on my walk to the hut. The rain at least made the outing a bit exciting, and the day was so warm that it created no problems. In fact I bothered only to put on a rain parka, assuming that my shorts-clad legs would not shrink much, even in this downpour. My boots, however, got as wet as they had a week earlier when I wore them to wade, chest deep, the hippo- and crocodile-infested Galana River in Kenya. On that crossing we had held hands and walked across in a human chain, although one or two of the shorter women actually floated; I was lucky once again and held her hand. We had walked that afternoon for what seemed like two extra hours simply trying to find a crossing that was not guarded by a hippo, nor infested by crocs, nor just too deep to ford. Once our two armed guards had loaded their rifles and carefully maneuvered the group around a frighteningly mobile hippo on shore who seemingly didn't want us to pass, but ultimately we did; we were turned back three more times by hippos in the river. When we finally did succeed in fording it, the entire group spontaneously broke into cheers. My boots were still pretty mildewy when I got around to cleaning them in Nairobi for the Kilimanjaro trek, and now, wet once again, they really didn't get totally dry until the morning of the final ascent, despite their standing in front of an open fire all that first night at Mandara. My food was prepared by the guides and/or porters; I never was sure who did what, but someone in my entourage was very skilled at scrambling eggs, which were always very fresh here, as they had been in Kenya, During my four weeks in East Africa I must have eaten at least six dozen. I think that the Kibo Hotel not only provided my guides but also organized the food; one porter was needed just to carry it. All hikers ate in a large hut that contained picnic tables and benches. Dinner typically consisted of a thin soup followed by some combination of meat, potatoes, carrots, and cabbage, with rice or spaghetti and chicken occasionally added; dessert was usually fresh tropical fruit. Breakfast was essentially standard English, and we carried sack lunches with us, although I seldom ate mine until reaching the night's hut. The second day's hike began much like the first, but the trail was very wet and slippery from the first day's rain. After about a half-hour's walk, however, we abruptly came to the edge of the rain forest, and our objective was clearly visible. "Kilimanjaro," Herman yelled, pointing it out as if I were blind. He took my picture, (7) and I his, using the mountain as background. Other than occasional views of the mountain, nothing impressive about this second day comes to mind, although I do recall seeing many birds in the area on my return walk. (8, 9 10) On the third day I rested, spending the morning wandering through an impressive forest of giant groundsels (11) near the camp and trying, unsuccessfully, to photograph birds. I had already seen many groundsel plants near Mt. Kenya: the giant variety growing on trunks; the cabbage groundsel, which grows on the ground and has a whitish or silvery appearance; and a third variety looking something like dandelions. Nowhere, however, had I seen such an extensive grouping of the giants. I used the afternoon, the only walker in camp, to catch up on my trip notes and do some crossword puzzles. This camp, unlike the first, is in open country and offers good views in all directions. Its outhouse, however, is its most spectacular asset. Situated far below the huts, it looks out to the valley surrounding the mountain. The two units for men are on the downhill side, and they would constitute a totally restorative facility except that the functional slots in the floor are rotated 90° out of phase with the direction of the view. So much for wilderness planning! I had been quite dispirited during the first two days of walking and hadn't really thought much about climbing the mountain. My mind kept returning to the previous three-week safari in Kenya with ten other Americans, none of whom I had met before, an extremely good American guide (backed up by a native Kenyan named Johnson), and an outstanding Kenyan staff; the cook, to cite the most important example, worked miracles with his primitive outdoor equipment in preparing marvelous food. All but two of the trekkers were single, and in the main we were surprisingly compatible. That fact, plus the sadness of the holidays many of us had left home to avoid, drew us into a fairly close extended family; nine of us, all from the west, talked of meeting again just a few months later. It had been hard to say good-bye to so many friends that last night in Nairobi, particularly to that charming woman who had spent a substantial part of her time walking and talking with me; her company on Mt. Kenya had been unusually special. The sickening feeling of aloneness was emphasized again the third morning on Kilimanjaro when my seven hotel colleagues, a Swedish father and his two sons, two Norwegian engineers, and two young women from San Diego, left for Kibo Hut. But, during that third afternoon I overcame my inner turmoil and resolved to reach Uhuru. The friends who expected me to do it could not be disappointed; if for no other reason I would do it for her in celebration of the earlier climb. But to resolve is one thing, and to succeed is quite another, for the threat of getting altitude sickness, or diarrhea, or a cold, is very real. "Stay healthy and walk slowly" has been my motto in previous similar situations. The Swahili words, "Pole, pole; accune metate," now became my bywords: "Slowly, slowly; no problem." Herman and I often exchanged these, in one language or the other. Later that afternoon I got acquainted with one of the new set of ascending climbers, a man younger than I and also much less fit, and he was very optimistic. Later still I met a doctor coming down who had reached Uhuru. He stayed in "my" hut that night and indicated that the snow on top was deep but firm and gave no trouble. Earlier in the week snowstorms had been so bad that even Kibo Hut had been hard to reach, so his report was definitely encouraging. I got up once during the night, and the sky was brilliantly clear. My seven colleagues would be climbing by then, and they had an excellent chance. The fourth morning was lovely, and I set off in good spirits, walking alone. A (12) little later I was joined by my new colleague, and I enjoyed being with and talking to him. The trail itself wasn't too interesting, but we did get a kick out of filling our canteens at a spot labeled "last water." (13, 14) Interestingly, especially to those who have hiked in Nepal or the U.S., mountain water in Kenya and in Tanzania, as in New Zealand, is pure enough not to require iodine tablets. Herman stuck pretty close to us this day. I asked about the snow on top, and he replied that it would be no problem; if I didn't have a headache at Gillman's Point, we would go on to Uhuru. In midmorning we came to a very barren volcanic region that my colleague called the Alpine Desert; I hadn't encountered that name in my limited reading, but the area certainly looked the part. (15) Walking here was quite easy, and the vistas were very enjoyable. We stopped briefly for a nibble of lunch, and then I saw my seven "original" colleagues approaching, first the Norwegians, then the Swedes, and finally the Americans. (Herman had somehow gotten word earlier that morning, and passed it on to me, that seven climbers were at Gillman's Point at 7 a.m.; I suspected then that it was my friends.) I greeted them in turn and learned that they had indeed reached Gillman's but that their guide would not go on because of the snow. I then believed what I had previously only suspected, that at least some of the guides were afraid of the snow. Happily, Herman did not seem to be one of these; in fact I was now quite convinced that he expected me to go all the way. Not long afterward we caught our first glimpse of Kibo Hut, but Herman assured us it was still an hour and a half away, and of course he was right. (16, 17) The altitude was becoming noticeable now, and my friend decided to stop and rest. I still felt strong, so Herman and I plodded on, reaching the hut in a total of five hours. Kibo is dormitory style rather than a set of four-person huts like the two lower camps. I had a corner bunk, lower level, by the table; Barakeli, my assistant guide, who would take me up the mountain if Herman fell ill, carried my duffel bag on his head and always reached camp early enough to ensure that I had a good place to sleep. After getting out my sleeping bag, I dressed and repacked for the next morning before going outside to enjoy the sunshine and the view. I had hoped to see Mawenzi totally free of cloud cover, but I didn't. (18, 19) The next morning's route to Gillman's was obvious, but for some reason I chose to ignore it. What I did observe, however, without really intending to, was the arrival of "the sick and the wounded." Many climbers and quite a few porters were really ill. Ashen gray, staggering, needing help to reach camp, they went to bed immediately. I was reminded then that my junior porter, a very questionable seventeen, had been sent home from the lowest hut because of altitude sickness, and that even Herman had chewed up a fair fraction of my Pepto-Bismol tablets to settle his stomach. It seemed to me that a disproportionate number of young people and women were among the ill. I was surprised that night to get the normal meal of soup and meat-potatoes-cabbage-carrots, because my friends' guide, in my hearing, had told them they absolutely could not reach Gilman's if they ate soup the night before. Indeed on their way down the American women had told me that all they got for dinner was porridge, and they felt starved on the mountain. I worried a moment about eating the soup, but then I recalled that this guide was afraid of snow, so I decided to rely on my own experience, not on his philosophy. I ate what I wanted and didn't regret it. Wakeup was set for 1 a.m., but some of the independent climbers were up at midnight, so there was no danger of oversleeping, if indeed I had slept at all. Breakfast was lukewarm tea and five biscuits; I quickly stuffed three of them in my parka pockets and leisurely ate the other two. In just a few minutes we were on our way. Herman carried a kerosene lantern which he had somehow patched together-I still can't figure out how-with strips of toilet paper he got from me the night before. It worked, the only problem being that the handle kept falling off. I kept my "torch" in my pocket, because he said that if the lantern blew out in the wind, we would have to rely on it. I suspected my light would last only three hours on the existing batteries, and I had already used up the spares in Kenya. Walking was very easy on scree an inch or two deep, and there were only a few large rocks to avoid. The sky was marvelous, with the Big Dipper on one edge and the Southern Cross with its two pointer stars on the other; that fuzzy patch in the south must have been one of the Magellanic Clouds. Surprisingly, Orion, high overhead, seemed obscure and uninteresting by comparison. Herman's pace-he walked in front for the only day on the entire trek-seemed a bit swift, so I slowed down just a touch; he seemed able to hear my footsteps, and without looking back adjusted his pace to match. We stopped infrequently for very brief rests, and I used them to enjoy the sky and the lanterns bobbing below us. Just when I needed a longer rest he suddenly said "half way" and dropped onto the ground in a little cave; it was 3 a.m. (He always asked, "How much time is there?" when he wanted me to read my watch.) I enjoyed stretching out on the hard ground with a rock for a pillow, but it was cold; when I pulled out my water bottle, it had ice crystals in it. Even with long polypropylene underwear and a heavy down parka, I was soon shivering, so we got up and moved on. And so it went for another hour or so. We began to encounter larger rocks and patches of hard snow, and in places the scree was solidified by ice. I began to feel a little dizzy and even fell once or twice. Hunger was also becoming quite serious, so I stopped twice to nibble a biscuit. This helped, but I began to suspect that focusing too closely on the lantern was a large part of the problem, so I pulled out my flashlight and ignored the lantern; this really improved my balance. Dawn was now close enough that I no longer worried about the cells failing. Not too much later Herman suddenly stepped aside, pointed up the mountain, and said "five minutes walk." Startled and unsure of what he had said, I asked him to repeat it, which he did. I then understood that Gilman's Point was just above us. He blew out the lantern, set it down to be retrieved on our descent, and we walked to the top and sat down on a slab of lava. Dawn was gracing the horizon, Venus blazed brilliantly above it, and it was not yet 5:30. Many lanterns still bobbed ceaselessly below us. After resting for a few minutes I began thinking about Uhuru, and I mentioned this to Herman. I didn't understand his first response, so we sat there a little longer in silence. Then he said that he was willing to try. We descended a few paces and then turned to continue west. When I saw what lay ahead I cried, for it would be easy, and I could not be denied the summit. (Actually it still took more than a hour.) My friends' confidence would be vindicated. The route was a trench stamped in the snow along the crater wall. In places the ledge was quite narrow, and I suppose that one could have slipped off for it was icy in places. I had a ball, since my limited mountaineering experience had beeen on ice and snow. I was always on Herman's heels, and he stopped to rest himself, not me. I felt no pain, no shortage of breath, and no fatigue. Never have I felt better on a mountain. Had I found the stairs, I would have climbed on to Heaven itself, if, in fact, I was not already there. After following the ledge all along one side, we "turned the corner" of the crater, (22, 23, 25) and I saw that we had only a bit of simple walking on snow left to do. Even Herman shrugged and said something like, "We can't miss now." In a few more minutes we were there. It was cold and very windy, so we shook hands, took pictures of each other, and started back. (20, 21) It was only 7 a.m. Now it was my turn to receive congratulations from those I passed on the way down. Back at Kibo at 9, I was handed a glass of something like Kool-Aid by Barakeli, and when I said "Uhuru," he smiled broadly and stuck out his hand. At 10 I left for Horombo, arriving there at noon. Many people on their way up stopped to talk and to offer congratulations. It felt really good. Any day one climbs over 19,000 feet feels really good. I had carried a miniature bottle of Cognac with me up the mountain, as well as a set of postcards for selected friends; someplace on the way down I marked them "Carried atop Kilimanjaro." Actually I had purchased two bottles in Nairobi, but I had already used one of them to toast my special friend after we said "so long" that last night; she suggested we not say "good-bye." I was reluctant to drink this one at such a high altitude, particularly with a long walk still ahead, so I carried it down to Horombo and shared it there with my new colleague, who was very pleased to have reached Gillman's Point. I drank my half with a silent toast to her and laid the mountain and myself at her feet; what my friend, who also lives alone now, thought as he drank his half, I didn't ask. The empty bottle now rests on my desk. (26, 27) The last day was quite dull. It was a very long walk back to the hotel, and I realized during it why I had been so bored the first two days. It was rather interesting this last day, however, to observe the "new crowd" of hikers just starting up the mountain. Some looked fit and acted as if they knew what they were doing, but others were barely able to keep moving, even here near the bottom, whether from age, unfitness, or in one man's case, simply from trying to carry too much; my guides laughed aloud after he passed. When the hotel manager saw the certificate of success I had been given at the park entrance, which attests that I "successfully climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest in Africa, right to the Summit-Uhuru Peak-5895 m," he said, "I see you made it; you're a strong man." His words pleased me very much, and perhaps they imply what climbing Kilimanjaro, or any mountain, is all about, simply to accomplish what one sets out to do; to set a reasonable challenge, not a trivial one nor an impossible one, and then to meet it. There may well be more to it, but that explanation is good enough for me. (28, 29, 30, 31) The original question remains unanswered in my mind, however: why do so many people with no knowledge of what's involved still try it? I truly doubt that I'll ever find the answer to that question. For such people, and also for those who know what they're doing but get sick, Kilimanjaro must become an ogre, a destroyer of dreams. But for me, at least on this day, the mountain was complacent, a veritable pussycat. Another day, on this or another mountain, could be very different. (33, 37, 38, 39, 40) I had once thought of this climb as a test or trial for possible additional climbs in the Himalayas, but as time passed on the Kenya safari, I began to succumb to the romanticism of East Africa and very likely also to the loveliness of my new friends. In fact I even admitted to one or two of them as I said my farewells in Nairobi, "If I climb Kilimanjaro, then I shall marry a princess." I did, and I shall. On the long walk down the mountain and the tedious trip home, I thought of those five words many times and even began constructing a mental list of the princesses I already knew; of course her name was always at the top. (I've often wondered during the three years since my wife's death if other lonely men fantasize as much as I do.) Then I would recall, again and again, what had happened to us in Kenya, particularly during the last two days. We had had a very good time aboard the "Lunatic Express" as it crawled from Mombasa toward Nairobi with its diurnal load of tourists. Dinner itself was not much, but we did have wine, it was fun to be in an honest dining car again, and afterward we enjoyed drinks and small talk with two good friends in their compartment. After breakfast the next morning she came to my compartment and sat with me during the last hour of the rail journey. We didn't say much, probably because we hated to see the trip end; certainly I dreaded all the good-byes that had to be faced that evening. After reaching our hotel in Nairobi, we went separate ways. I had quite a few arrangements still to make and extensive repacking to do before leaving for Kilimanjaro early the next day, and I didn't finish until a half hour before the time set for the group to assemble and share a final dinner. I had thought of phoning her to suggest that the two of us eat by ourselves instead, but for some reason I didn't. When the elevator door opened for me, I recognized her luggage and then saw her standing there in the corner. For the first time I realized what a mature and truly lovely woman she is. In the "bush" she wore her hair in a frizzy style, which made her look a little girlish, but now it was freshly done in a wavy style that I really liked. I told her so and kissed her cheek; she responded by suggesting the private dinner arrangement I had hoped for. (In Kenya my fantasies were quite often fulfilled.) After excusing ourselves from the group, we went to the lounge where we talked quietly over glasses of wine. Later, when she asked to write her last four postcards, I simply sat and watched her; a good friendship doesn't require constant talk to sustain it. She let me read the last one, and it gave an amusing and well-written summary of our safari. We resumed talking, and I was suddenly emboldened, probably by a third glass of wine, to ask if she would even consider visiting my home a few weeks later when I would show slides to my friends, an event of dubious value to which I invite them after every trip. I was a little surprised, but certainly very pleased, with the quickness and definiteness of her assent. She even volunteered, "I'll be your hostess." This certainly reduced my distaste of the coming farewell to her, and I said so. The headwaiter had saved a very nice table for us at the front of the dining room and quite close to the jazz pianist, who by this late hour was already performing; we now had fewer than ninety minutes left to share in Kenya. While she powdered her nose, I managed to acquire, in order, a candle, a rose, and a winelist; the last contained a decent Meursault (particularly by Kenyan standards where most establishments have the same set of six or eight government-selected wines), which I ordered. Obtaining menus was much more difficult, but we drank wine and chatted while waiting. Once, while her fingers lingered on the stem of her wineglass, I reached out, touched them, and smiled at her; she returned the smile and gave my hand a slight squeeze before withdrawing hers. I was concentrating completely on her words when the music suddenly caught my attention, and I stopped her talk and asked her to listen. He was playing a number of jazz variations of the old hymn Amazing Grace. We liked it so much that we asked for a repeat performance when he finished. He granted this and then stopped at our table to chat for a few minutes on his way out for a break. Later on, just before leaving, we asked for and received a final performance, which pleased us and quite a few other diners as well.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me; What's so significant about Amazing Grace? I simply don't know, but for some reason, and I hope it's not clinically serious, a few old hymns, vestiges of my boyhood in a parsonage, have popped into my consciousness recently, and I occasionally whistle or hum them. One of the other women I admired in Kenya heard me humming Amazing Grace one day and asked me to teach her the words; I could only remember two verses, I think the first and the last in our church hymnal, so I sang these to her. On another occasion my special friend came out of her tent, which was quite often pitched near mine, to ask if she had correctly recognized the tune she heard me humming. When I answered affirmatively, she informed me that she had an a capella version by a popular singer on a tape she often carried on her travels. So Amazing Grace had become a sort of theme song to us, and I sang it quite often on my march down Kilimanjaro. In fact, now back at home, I find that I can fashion a recognizable version of it on an old trombone, essentially unblown since college days. Much too soon it was time for us to leave, so that she and the others could catch their flights home. She went to the ladies' room while I waited. When she returned, I asked if I might mess up her newly applied makeup; she assented, and we embraced, twice. In between I asked, "May I fall in love with you?" She responded quickly, "I don't refuse offers like that." I believe that I already had, but if not, I certainly did later. The other good-byes were easy now, and the vehicles soon arrived to pick up luggage and passengers. She lingered outside and was the last to board. Suddenly she turned to me for a final embrace. I thought later that it had been on her initiative and that it was more emotional and firm than usual. I murmured that I would see her the next month. She got on, and I thought that she sat with her eyes fixed on the floor; I saw no wave nor look back. But then I fantasize a lot. That may well have been the last time I will ever see her, but I certainly hope not. I thought about her a lot on the walk down the mountain, and I plotted my strategy. I knew the odds were against my winning her for several reasons; we live over a thousand miles apart, our ages are quite different as are our lifestyles, and she has several other men friends. I had dismissed from my mind the man who jilted her nine months earlier, because when she told me about him she called him an asshole. I also completely forgot that he had written to her just before the Kenya trip. Even back home, when I talked to another good friend who once called her husband by this name when talking with me, but who now says she still loves him but can't live with him, I still didn't think of this other man. I executed my plan. A card "carried atop Kilimanjaro" was mailed from Nairobi. Once home I wired two dozen long-stem red roses to accompany the note "with fondest memories, always, of your delightful companionship in Kenya." A little later I sent a letter accompanied by a brief, preliminary description of my climb. I was unable to have the roses sent with a special champagne I fancy, so I reserved the latter for another occasion. There was no response from her, and I began to get tense and nervous. But she was probably traveling; her job required a lot of that. The tension increased, but I resolved to wait until the day I had preselected before calling her office. It finally came, and I called; her secretary told me, too matter-of-factly for comfort, that she was out of town but would return my call the next day. She did, and at first I was really excited to hear her voice again. She had lost my address and phone number, and since the travel company had listed my address incorrectly, even they couldn't help. She had enjoyed the card, and the flowers were beautiful. "Are you still able to join me next month for my party?" "Well, the strangest thing has happened. The man I called an asshole in Kenya has decided he will make me a lifetime commitment. We've just returned from a ski trip to Aspen, and I still love him." We talked quietly and frankly for several minutes, and then each of us said "I love you" and "good-bye." We were both completely honest in the first statement--this I really believe--but I hope we didn't really mean the second; I do want to see, and embrace, her again. It really hurt at first, as deeply as it had when my first love affair ended, but certainly not out of anger, and maybe not even out of disappointment; it was more from a sense of frustration at seemingly having been so close to happiness again and then finding it snatched away. To me this affair was as beautiful as it was brief, as unanticipated in its inception as was the reason for its termination, and as bitter in its outcome as it was sweet in its duration. And surely the anguish can't be as long-lived as the first time. The mystique of Kilimanjaro remains as enigmatic as the reason for a special relationship between a particular woman and a particular man. I climbed the mountain. I'm not certain why, but I did. And I've shared the love of two special women, one for a very long time, the other much too briefly. Each affair began spontaneously, at least from my standpoint, and each evolved quickly. I don't pretend to understand that either. I know from experience that two princesses have affected my life. And since there have been two, can I doubt the existence of a third? I made a promise to myself about climbing Kilimanjaro and then marrying a princess. I did, and I shall.
When we've been there ten thousand years bright shining as the sun, W. Vance Johnson 27 Apr 87 |