"To depart on a safari is not only a physical act, it is also a gesture.
You leave behind the worries, the strains, the irritations of life among people under pressure,
and enter the world of creatures who are pressed into no moulds, but have only to be themselves. . ."
Elspeth Huxley
The Mottled Lizard

4- sunrise on the serengeti

Sometime in the night I heard the tearing sound of Velcro, which fastened the door of our tent together. Through the fog of sleep I remember thinking: "Damn, I've put my foot through the door. Now something's going to come along and bite it off". I sat up and saw the shadow of Simon returning from an "outdoor visit", just refastening the tent flap. Sigh- it had only been that. The phosphorescent dial of my watch said 4:30, but I was quite awake now, and we both just lay there quietly for a while. The sound of hunting lions, that coughing kind of bark I'd read about, could be heard from time to time, and the occasional "whoop" of a hyena.

Eventually we began talking in low voices, and about 5:00 banging and shuffling noises could be heard from the neighboring camp. I thought perhaps baboons were running around over there, tearing things up, but it turned out to be their crew preparing breakfast. Soon Geoff's big voice was calling over to us from his tent, and there was a bit of talking and laughing among us.

Suddenly the voice of an American woman was heard just outside our tent: "Excuse me, could you keep it down a bit over here? It's 5:30 in the morning and you've woken us up." We apologized sheepishly, but it was rather ironic with all the noise their crew had been making, and the rattling diesel of their truck warming up, plus the fact that the rest of their group was already up having breakfast. But we tried to feel contrite.

Our group was stirring early as well, and it was a fresh and beautiful Morning. The sun wasn't quite over the horizon, but a soft light was spreading across the land, showing us our surroundings for the first time. We were in the middle of, well, nowhere! The brown plain of short acacia scrub stretched forever, the colorless country making the sky seem an even more vivid blue. It was cool and still, and as the sun inched upward the long shadows of a few stunted grey trees stretched across the dry earth.

I walked over to the fire which our crew already had burning warmly, and wished good morning to Ray and Day, up early and cheery as ever, and to the quiet English couple, Lain and Alison. Lain was often a good source of knowledge on the flora and fauna, as he had traveled in Kenya before. As people gathered around the fire for coffee and tea, some wandering back from the nearby outhouses, I mentioned to Kathy about our American visitor this morning, and how strange it was that she had complained about us, with all the noise that was coming from their camp. Kathy said that she had heard us talking as well, especially Geoff's big voice. I laughed, saying: "Well, Geoff may have the biggest voice, but Simon certainly has the busiest!" Being a friend of Simon's, she could appreciate the truth- and humor- of that.

During breakfast we were amused by the baboons, who waited to attack the garbage as soon as it was thrown into the big steel drums. A whole troop of them gathered around, and the braver ones warily climbed up on the edge and dug for the good bits. One of the bigger ones was squatting there with a tasty morsel in his hands, keeping the others away, when a fast little guy ran past and snatched it out of his hands, running into the bush squealing with fright as the big one gave chase.

By about 7:30 we too were aboard our truck and off down the narrow dirt track across the plains. How excited I was a game drive on the Serengeti Plain, all those nature programs on TV coming to life around me. I heard echoes of Marlon Perkins, David Attenborough, Lorne Greene, William Conrad...

We first had to stop at the park offices to pick up our official guide, a formality which at first I thought to be simply a "make work" program, but it turned out to be a very valuable service. These people really know where the animals are to be found, with a network to keep each other up to date on their movements. Our guide in particular was eager to make sure we saw everything we wanted to- even if he had to break a few rules in the process.

As we waited at the office, I took a walk around the nearby cluster of boulders, curious about some small mammals I saw scurrying there. They turned out to be something called a Rock Hyrax, a small rabbit-sized animal which amazingly is considered to be the nearest living relative to the elephant! We laughed in disbelief when lain told us this, but apparently they do share some unique anatomical features in common (teeth, toe nails, etc.), and they and their cousins the Tree Hyraxes were very plentiful here.

Our first stop was at a hippo pool, where once again these huge animals were completely submerged, only pink nostrils and ears, and an occasional dark grey back visible. I hoped to see one out of the water one of these days- I'd really like to see a whole hippo! Small parasite-eating birds, the Red-billed Oxpecker, flitted fussily around their symbiotic friends.

We drove along a track which paralleled a river bed, stopping to watch and photograph several lions dozing in the longer grass here. Though they looked lazy and impassive, there was no mistaking their nobility and power, they were surprisingly big, and their tawny coats were stretched taut over muscles like coiled springs.

Giraffes were plentiful, browsing in nearby trees or trotting with their rhythmic grace across the horizon. There is something essentially friendly and comfortable about the way giraffes look, though this too is deceptive, as I learned that they can kill a lion with a well-placed kick!

There were herds of Wildebeest and zebras, and many kinds of antelopes, including our old friends the Thomson's Gazelles, perpetually wagging their short tails. These were so numerous everywhere we went that it became a joke among us, pretending to be excited to see them, and they soon became a kind of mascot for us. We also spotted a couple of the shy little dikdiks, the smallest of the antelopes, which are about the size of a baby goat.

We stopped near a group of people in a Land Rover, their binoculars and powerful camera lenses focused on a large thickly-leaved tree. As our engine was shut down, I scanned the tree with my own glasses, slowly searching the dark foliage, and was rewarded at the sight of a spotted tail hanging down from a thick branch. "A leopard!", I whispered excitedly.

There was a chorus of "Where?", "Where?"

"In the tree."

"Which tree?"

"Just there, follow that branch up to the right. You see the tail hanging down?"

"Yeah, yeah- I've got it."

"Where? I still can't see it."

Well, it wasn't much of the leopard, but it was one. (Stuffed, somebody said.) And as we drove on a bit further we got lucky once again. This time we could see the four paws hanging down, and the vague shadow of a large powerful body. We knew how rare it was to spot these nocturnal hunters in the daytime, and felt appropriately excited and fortunate.

The leopard also completed our quest for the so-called "Big Five" animals, the elephant, rhino, lion, leopard and buffalo. I had wondered about this grouping, as they were not the biggest in size, but I learned that the name of this elite club refers to their danger to man; these are the five animals most likely to cause you grievous bodily injury if given the opportunity.

We had another exciting moment as we drove onto the open plains, and a cheetah went running away from our approaching truck, leaving his kill behind. I could just see him through the binoculars, stopping to look balefully back at us from a hundred yards or so away. A flock of White-backed Vultures was clustered over the unfortunate antelope within seconds, and, though it was against the park rules, our guide allowed us to drive across the plain up close to them. The vultures were undisturbed by our presence, and about twenty of them huddled around, pushing their way in and tearing at the flesh. A Tawny Eagle stood near them, looking majestically aloof but obviously hopeful for a share of the spoils. But he was hopelessly outnumbered, and probably too proud to fight with these lowlife scavengers.

Simon, the old softy, felt bad that we had deprived the cheetah of a hard-won meal, and we all hoped that it would return and chase off the scavengers as we drove away. I'm sure it would have. I was also hoping that this distant individual would not be the only one we would see, as they were one of the most fascinating of all the animals to me. Beautiful to look at; long, slender and graceful in movement; they are the swiftest of animals, able to run at 60 or 70 miles an hour to chase down the antelopes upon which they feed. This purposeful grace is the paragon of form and function, and it soon became my favorite of the big cats. Simon agreed with me on that, but surprisingly, he claimed not to be impressed with the lions. It must have been that mating performance that so disillusioned him!

It was only a few minutes later when our guide again led us off the road, and up to a lone thorn bush on the sun-baked plain. As we slowly circled it we could see a yellowish, black-spotted shape beneath it- another cheetah! We were able to get quite close to have a good look through the glasses and take photographs. And just a little further along, once again off the road, we sighted three of them under a bush, probably a mother and her nearly-grown young. We parked quietly for several minutes just twenty yards away from them, and though they watched us warily they stood their ground. Truly an exciting sight for me.

But perhaps the most awesome vision of the morning was a huge herd of elephants, there must have been eighty or a hundred of them, moving slowly across the plains. They seemed to float on a low cloud of the dust which was raised by their shuffling feet. A majestic, timeless sight, these gigantic prehistoric-looking animals moving across these grasslands as they had for tens of thousands of years.

Simon has a particular passion for birds of prey, even having tried his hand at falconry, and it wasn't long before he had everyone in the truck scanning the sky for him. I had been a keen birdwatcher as a boy, and I found this dormant interest suddenly reawakened as he and I thumbed through the field guides to compare the wingshapes of the many large birds soaring motionless on the warm air currents above the plains. We identified several types of eagles, as well as the large hawks which are called buzzards here.

We were back in camp in time for a nice lunch, then spent a few hours lazing around in the midday heat. Everyone was taking it easy, lying in the powerful sun or dozing in the shade. There were a few people sitting on boxes and campstools in the shelter of Kathy's tent flap, comparing notes and bringing their diaries up to date, adding to the list of birds and animals they had seen. This was the first time we had been able to just sit somewhere, as it seemed as if we had never caught up from leaving late on the first day. Bouncing around in the truck all day was certainly tiring, I found to my surprise that my muscles were often sore at the end of the day, with constant bracing against the violent motion on the rough roads. And the dust settled all over you, seeping into everything you wore or carried. The possibility of going over to the lodge for a shower this evening had been hinted at, which had us all excited.

The announced plan was to go for a late afternoon game drive, then to visit the Seronera Lodge to investigate the possibility of showers. But when we clambered aboard once more and set out, we seemed to drive aimlessly down one of the roads we'd been on this morning, then turn around for no apparent reason and drive to the lodge.

At any rate we were glad to learn that for a few dollars each we could rent some rooms with showers, and we split up into groups of four or five and were led to four rooms in this large, modern motel-like complex in the middle of the Serengeti. It had been built I think by the Germans, or perhaps the Scandinavians, as an aid project, and was really a lovely place. It occupied the top of a low rocky hill, and the string of buildings housing the lobby, restaurant, bar and guest rooms had been built around and within the existing large boulders.

Although there was no hot water, lights or electricity in the rooms, even a cold shower and shave felt wonderful, rinsing away the accumulated dust and sweat of the last few days. After taking our turn under the cold spray, the bathroom growing ever darker, we met up in the large open bar to enjoy a beer or a whisky. Everyone felt much better, and looked much better too, and the circle of clean, damp-haired and happy campers grew, sitting in the comfortable chairs around a low table.

You could see that after the European benefactors had turned the place over to the Tanzanians, it had become a bit run down. Obviously fairly recently built, to a clean and modern design in harmony with the environment, it was already looking a bit grubby and neglected. Not only the hot water and lights were out of order, but also the ice-making machines and the refrigerators- so cold drinks remained an unfulfilled wish. It was richly populated with hyraxes as well and they had left their rabbit-like "calling cards" all over the place.

There didn't seem to be many people staying there, I don't think we saw more than a dozen guests, but I could see that visiting a place like this for a couple of nights, and driving out to look at the animals during the day could be quite pleasant. (Though not so exciting as being out on the plain under canvas!)

Some of us walked out onto the terrace outside the bar, which again made use of a natural rock outcropping. I was surprised to see a small swimming pool, though of course it too was out of order- empty and riddled with cracks. The view was just fabulous, looking down across the plains to the west, an endless vista of brown grass and dry acacias with the sun just touching the low hills on the horizon. This classic African vista was only spoiled by a big garbage dump right outside the hotel, presided over by scavenging baboons and many of the large, funereal Marabou Storks in the trees. How strange to see this unsightly mess here- in the middle of one of the world's greatest game parks.

We were in good spirits as we drove back to camp for dinner, once again catching the blur of a group of fleet mongooses in the swath of the headlights, as they raced for cover. We sat around the fire under a bright half moon, the plain but well-cooked food tasting as good as it only can outdoors, and watched a spectacular display of heat lightning off to the north. It seemed to come down, not in zigzags, but in straight silver lines from the clouds to the earth, spreading a bright and dramatic glow in the darkness. The conversations were once again warm and animated, the air alive with laughter and good spirits. I noticed that Janne was talking with our driver which was nice to see, as there was a kind of gulf between us and them that we had been trying to bridge.

Janne was a bit of a puzzle to me, but I had a good feeling about her. Both she and her tentmate Cheryl seemed to be a couple of tough old birds, and in fact Janne was a policewoman back in Australia, a Detective Sergeant, and Cheryl was a secretary in the same police station, both of them unmarried. Simon had mentioned to me early on that he found them both a bit forbidding.

I told him I felt they were different somehow. While Cheryl was tough-spoken and cynical, and bore an evident chip on her shoulder, I had a suspicion that Janne had a "soft centre", a core of vulnerability which she protected with a defensive armor. And I found this to be true, once you had won her trust, you couldn't meet a warmer and nicer individual. It may be that it was just the thick skin demanded by her job, or perhaps it was that she had never been well-favored by nature as a girl, and had had to retreat behind a protective barrier.

As Simon and I unrolled our sleeping bags that night (Simon had told me it was a good idea to leave them rolled up until you were ready to climb in- to prevent any "unwelcome visitors" finding a warm place to rest), and laid there talking in the utter darkness, he told me that he thought I was right about Janne, and we talked for a while about the ways in which vulnerable individuals have to armor themselves against the insensitivity of others.

Sometimes it takes the form of that "urban impassiveness" that you see on the faces of people on subways, on crowded streets, or even on elevators- a temporary shell which can removed at will, when it's "safe" to be open; when you're not among strangers.

But sometimes the armor closes itself around a delicate thing, and with time it grows so thick that it hardens right to the core, and the delicate thing is lost.

Kuma ti kuma to ihiga, na kuororoa to maii
To be hard does not mean to be hard as a stone,
and to be soft does not mean to be soft as water.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

5- the cradle of man

Through the cab roof below me throbbed the droning pulse of the one and only tape which the crew ever seemed to play, maybe the only one they owned. It was a collection of raucous and repetitive American R & B songs recorded from a radio station in, of all places, Wichita Kansas. How they came to have it I don't know, but they sure liked it, playing those same half-dozen songs over and over all day long. Fortunately the sound of their distorted old tape deck didn't reach into the back of the truck, but every time we stopped you could hear it blaring out, and nearly every morning and evening it boomed and rattled away.

We retraced our route from the Ngorongoro Crater, driving back across the infinite Serengeti, across the golden treeless savanna which stretched away to the distant low hills. Giraffes, a shy little dikdik, the inevitable Thomson's Gazelles, a couple of Golden Jackals loping through the grass- and Kathy called to Simon and I to watch a Tawny Eagle soaring high above us. Where a grassfire had recently burned, the new grass came up green and fresh-looking, and a tall Secretary Bird stalked its prey in this fertile spot. The barren plains were criss-crossed by a network of meandering but well-worn game trails, an animal habit which we wondered about. We figured that they must stick to regular paths for the sake of the grass, their food, but it's hard to know.

Even in the early morning, a heat mirage shimmered across the open grasslands from the relentless sun. We passed a dry river bed, a tumult of dusty boulders, where a stand of yellow acacia trees called "Fever Trees" clung to life. I learned they are so-named because it was a native superstition that these pretty yellow-barked trees caused yellow fever.

We left the rough gravel "highway" to turn off onto an even rougher, dustier side road, and the truck labored through the deep dust, sometimes up to the axles. Our destination was the Olduvai Gorge, the place where the Leakeys had found our oldest known ancestor, Zinjanthropus Man. This had been listed as a possible option on our safari, but Ray and Day and myself had been particularly keen to go, urging that we make a stop there.

As we pulled up to the small museum on the edge of the gorge, we had our first real contact with the Maasai tribe. Although not the largest of East African tribes, they are probably the most widely-known, being handsome, exotically-arrayed nomadic people who have clung to their traditional herding lifestyle almost alone in rapidly modernizing Africa. They are the ones you see on the travel brochures, their hair elaborately dressed and colored with animal fat and red ochre, standing with a spear in hand as they guard their herds on the open plains. They cross freely between Tanzania and Kenya, a remnant of their original bravely-defended territory remaining as a "reserve".

Their culture is rich in traditions, taboos, rituals and mythology, and is often compared to the Jewish one- even to the non-Maasai, "gentiles", being lumped together as Ilmeek. One unusual taboo forbids the eating of almost every wild animal, though their domestic cattle form the bulk of their diet. In former days a youth had to prove his manhood by killing a lion. I don't know if that tradition survives, but milk and blood is apparently still a popular soft drink among the Maasai.

Here at Olduvai Gorge, in this shrine of Evolutionism, their ancient myths of creation and exodus offered a romantic counterpoint.

There seemed to be a family of three generations standing in wait, six or seven of them, all in traditional dress, their earlobes cut away for the large earrings they wore, and wearing elaborate beadwork necklaces and bracelets.

And what they were waiting for was us- to pay them to take their pictures. They did look great, and appealed to the romantic in me in their steadfast clinging to an ancient and simple way of life, but when I discovered they wanted fifty shillings each for the arduous task of posing for photographs, I decided it was just too weird and put my camera away.

Geoff and I took a walk down the steep and stony wall of the gorge. The late morning sun was very hot, radiating up from the barren rocks all around us. We. climbed to the top of a narrow pinnacle which rose in the middle of the deeply cut basin and stood there surveying the dry world around us. This was a spot that really gave me something to think about.

To imagine that 1,700,000 years ago, our earliest ancestors had walked on the earth here below us. In the Nairobi Museum I saw a cast of the line of footprints the Leakeys had found here; a man, a woman and a child walking barefoot across a field of volcanic dust, the woman walking in the man's footsteps. "Why?", I asked myself; "Was the sand hot or what? Then why didn't the child walk in the man's footsteps too? Some superstition? Where were they going anyway?"

But whatever the reasons for their journey, or the conditions of it, their footprints have been preserved for almost two million years. It is fantastic to reflect upon this link to a long-forgotten past- it's like the ultimate "Roots" saga. My imagination typically projected myself and my own family onto that arduous trek across the scorched earth, a migration of survival perhaps, and escape from a now-barren Eden.

The Olduvai Gorge is centred between several extinct volcanoes, including the Ngorongoro, and its history is a direct result of that location. There had been a lake at the bottom, and the people had lived beside it, leaving their tools and their remains there to be buried and preserved by subsequent volcanic action. Over the millenia layer after layer of life was buried away, like a series of time capsules. Then in more recent times, a volcanic upheaval had caused a violent flood to rage through here, opening up this gorge right down to the bottom again, and at the same time opening up an archaeologist's dreamworld.

In the small museum there were well-presented charts showing the gorge in cross-section, and the different periods represented by each layer. There was also an interesting collection of fossilized bones, some fossilized Guinea Hen eggs, and a couple of artist's interpretations of what the land and animals might have looked like back then- in the real good old days!

After a pleasant lunch under a thatched canopy at the edge of the gorge, we boarded the truck once more to continue our journey. As we drove away, it was kind of sad to see those representatives of the proud and independent Maasai sitting in the shade of the museum wall, waiting for the next bunch of tourists to pay them fifty shillings (each) for a photograph.

It was surprising to see how differently people reacted to this experience. For instance; Grahame had been to Olduvai before on a previous trip through this area, and he was one of those not recommending a stop here. He said: "there's nothing to see really, it's just a gorge". And I suppose some of this group were much in agreement with that evaluation, and it's true- there really is nothing to see, but there was something about the setting and the associations that I found very powerful, and it gave me much to think about on the next part of the journey. Perhaps there was nothing to see, but there was plenty to feel.

Once more we bounced and strained through the dust out to the main road, then turned to begin the long climb up to the rim of Ngorongoro. Even the hot dry wind across the plains helped to make the heat more bearable, as the midday sun glared down from a cloudless sky. I had a smaller water bottle, from my bicycle, which I carried with me on the truck, but the chlorine taste of the purifying tablets remained uninviting even with a wedge of orange squeezed into it. We passed out of the barren grasslands into an area of thorny scrub: No animals, not even Thomson's Gazelles, could be seen in this desolate wasteland. Mile after mile in first gear, the truck labored up the hill.

There was more dust in the air today, making the distance hazy, and the vastness of the history presented at Olduvai had me contemplating those Large Questions which sometimes demand to be thought about- even if never solved. As I looked around at the thorny scrub, which alone with the grasses survived in this inhospitable environment, I was thinking about how only the most hardy and well-protected plants had evolved to fill this meagre ecological niche, and from that, into Evolution in general.

As a whole it is a theory which I accept as logical, but there are certain questions which I have heard raised which make me wonder, like the theory of genetic mutation being the source of new survival traits in the species. It sounds sensible enough, but the quantum leap from, say, scales to feathers, or from gills to lungs still seems difficult to rationalize. What's it all about (Alfie)? How did it all happen? These are the kind of questions which Creationism makes so easy- what a pain to be an atheist!

We made a firewood stop on a hillside of dried-up timber, with most of the men and some of the women climbing out of the truck to gather dead branches, or to hack away at fallen trees with the axe or the panga- a machete-like cutter with a curved blade. Simon, the experienced lumberjack from the Norwegian forests, chopped away at a fallen tree trunk with the axe, while Geoff walked back down the road dragging a big log in each hand. Paul Bunyan lives!

I had noticed that when the truck was hot they were always careful to park on a hill, so they could let it roll backward to bump-start it. As once more they let the truck roll silently backward, it roared into life, and once again we were climbing slowly, the engine still working hard in first gear, until we saw the familiar rolling yellow hills around the Ngorongoro once more.

And then we were up in the luxuriant green growth of the higher altitude forest. It was quite a different scene to arrive at Simba Camp in the bright afternoon sun, after having arrived in the dark and left in the fog the previous time. We had seen none of it at all. Now we could see that it was an open clearing perched right on the edge of the crater, and you could look out over the whole thing, the walls of the far side blue in the haze.

A few of us followed a little path through the long grass which led over to the very edge, where the wall fell away three thousand feet to the crater floor. It was an awesome sight. Even without binoculars you could see the pink wash of innumerable flamingos on the shore of the blue lake, and that combined with the gold of the savanna and the dark green of the acacia woodlands made a rich and colorful mosaic. Even at this distance the herds of Wildebeest and zebra could be easily seen, and birds of prey swooped down from high on the wall. Simon and I decided to hurry and get our tent up so we could spend the rest of the afternoon right there, just watching this "wildlife theatre".

On one side of the campsite area was a small structure of cinder blocks with a cistern on top. At one time it had contained showers and toilets, but they'd long since fallen into messy disrepair. The roof made a nice perch from which to survey the area, and I climbed up there with my tape recorder for a few minutes while Simon made himself a cup of tea. ("Yank" he calls me, "Teabag" I call him, in our mutual disdain for such nationalist slurs.)

Below me our cook and our driver did some laundry, also climbing up to the cistern to fill a pan with rain water, then sloshing their clothes around in New Blue Omo Powder. Most of the other people were gathered around the fire for a refreshing cup of tea or coffee, enjoying the luxury of arriving at our destination early for once. Though the sun still shone brightly, the air was pleasantly cool at this altitude, and the trees were dripping with moss above the thick undergrowth and rich green grass.

Simon and I sat for several hours in the grass at the crater's edge, scanning the inside with our binoculars and enjoying this exciting vista. Some of the others dropped in on us from time to time, while a group of people went over to the nearby lodge for a drink. Sharp-eyed Simon spotted a herd of elephants down in the acacia woods, and we checked on their slow movements from time to time, as we scanned the grasslands hoping to see a lion or a rhino, and watched the birds of prey wheeling in the clear blue sky.

We could trace the route we had taken across the crater floor the other day, coming down the wall and across the savanna, to where we saw the lions performing that disgusting act, and the hippo pool, the line of the small river where we had watched the hyena family, and the clump of reeds where the rhino had been hiding. An occasional moving plume of dust marked the passage of a Land Rover or safari truck driving across the dry grasslands.

I'd brought my flask over with me, and we enjoyed a couple of capfuls of Chivas to toast the sunset in this once-in-a-lifetime location. The Wildebeest began to string into lines as the crater fell into shadow, breaking up their former tight herds and moving on to somewhere they would feel safer. There was certainly nowhere to hide down there.

I was thinking about the relationship of predators and prey. Where the grazing animals, the prey, have to live with their eyes, ears and noses alert every second, knowing that only watchfulness and a quick exit will save them, the predators walk slowly and confidently around, lordly in the knowledge that they need fear no animal. But even they must grow old and weak, and I was thinking poignantly of a noble old lion, growing slow and feeble after years of being "King of the Beasts", and the tragic end of being brought down and devoured by a pack of hyenas. And so eventually they all know fear and violent death.

Simon eventually headed back to camp and left me sitting there alone, the sun just hitting the treetops behind me. At first it was wonderful sitting there by myself, watching the animal world prepare itself for night. But as I began to think about where I was, and what else was around too, I started to get a little nervous. The Maasai grazed their cattle up here, and apparently the lions were fond of eating lean beef. And we had seen those big elephants the other morning less than a mile from here. The guide book says there are leopards here too- and they kill things just for fun.

Something could come out from behind those bushes right now that would be really scary!

After a lifetime of walking freely in fields and woodlands, it's hard to get used to the idea that there are things here which will rip your throat out! You look around at all these animals from the safety of the truck, and after years of zoos and TV nature programs it seems so safe somehow, and it's easy to take it for granted. Big mistake. There's a nervous little laugh on my tape as I discussed this reality with myself: "Ha ha. Yeah- I think I'll head back pretty soon". I gathered up my things and walked back to camp, with a bit of a spring to my step.

I had asked Kathy to see if she could buy me a half-bottle of whisky over at the lodge, to replenish my flask (Simon was drinking it all), and she came back with a Konyagi bottle (a Tanzanian gin-like liquor) full of something like Vat 69 Scotch. She'd thought the price horrendous, at something around $15 for the half, but way out here I couldn't complain about.

With a little extra time to prepare dinner today, Emmanuel whipped up an especially good one for us, with a ground-beef stew, sausages, carrots, cabbage, potatoes and sweet potatoes. The high spirits and growing camaraderie of the last few days continued around the fire after dinner. I got into a good conversation with Ross, a young Englishman in his late twenties or early thirties, who works as an "investigative accountant", traveling around to check out companies before those notorious corporate takeovers and mergers. I kidded him about being a corporate Secret Agent, a Private Eye of the accounting world.

We stood away from the fire a little bit, and lost ourselves in talking for a couple of hours. He seemed a little insulted when I told him I was disappointed that he didn't have that thick "Brummie" accent my friends and I often mimicked.

"Not all people from Birmingham talk like that you know!"

"Well, evidently not, no more than all Canadians talk like: 'Jeez eh, how's it goin'? Like let's have a couple of brews eh!'. But the ones that do are still funny!"

And from this modest conversational beginning, we went on to deeper things. Music, politics, economics, the British parliamentary system as opposed to the American Electoral College- stuff like that. He was telling me a funny story about the Italian system of "representation by population", where a topless dancer had apparently just been elected to their parliament. Democracy in action! We discussed the prevailing attitudes of European and British people toward America, a TV-tube caricature of filth, vulgarity and violence- none of which exists in Europe of course!- and whether British policemen really do carry guns (I think they mostly do, he maintains they still don't). We delineated the different kinds of violence which trouble America and Europe, street crime on the one hand and terrorism and "football hooligans" on the other. Of course, there is too much violence in the US, but it's foolish to pretend that it doesn't happen elsewhere. I had been amused to read recently that British Airways had started-carrying handcuffs on their charter flights out of the UK; not to control terrorists, but to restrain drunken and violent passengers.

Then there were the mutual causes of this social violence to discuss; unemployment, poverty, boredom, alcohol, drugs, racism, religion, television, capitalism, socialism. . . We had problems to get sorted out!

When we had finished "saving the world", we moved in closer to the fire with the others, and Ross brought out his bottle of Duty Free whisky to share around the remaining six or eight people who hadn't gone to bed yet. I had another nice talk with Janne, as she was telling me about her three weeks down in Botswana, near South Africa. It sounded like a great trip, combining camping, canoeing and boat trips as well as overland travel, and I took down the name of the company she had gone with.

And one of those amazing "small world" coincidences occurred when she mentioned having met a German girl during her trip in western Canada and Alaska who worked for a Canadian musician, and when I looked at Janne's address book I saw that it was our guitar player Alex! Small world indeed. "Canadian musician met Australian woman in Africa, who met German girl in Alaska who used to work for fellow band member of Canadian musician. (Who met Australian woman in Africa who met. . .)

With fewer of us tonight, we were finally able to get the crew to open up. It turned out that their insularity and silence was due more to lack of confidence in their English than to any real alienation. Janne had broken- the ice a bit the previous night beside the fire in the Serengeti, and now, with fewer of us, I suppose it was not so intimidating. We had a good talk with Emmanuel for the first time, and finally learned something about our driver too.

We had been calling him "Dootch", as that is how we were introduced, but now we learned that his name was actually "Dutch", but pronounced like "Deutsch". Get it? It was hard to understand his explanation, but it seemed as if his father had fought with the Germans during the war, and liking them, had named his son after them. Thus Deutsch- but it didn't explain why it was spelled "Dutch" on the driver's licence he showed us, or how his father came to be fighting for the Germans during the war, when Tanzania (then Tanganyika) had been a British colony since the First World War. Could it possibly have been the Dutch his father meant? Nor did this explain why the people from the Tracks company had called him "Dootch". More African mysteries.

We learned that all three of our crew were from the Kilimanjaro area, though Dutch is from the Chagga tribe, while the cook Emmanuel and his assistant Henry are from the Pare Thus they speak different languages, so communication even among themselves was difficult. Dutch told us that as children they learn their tribal language and Swahili, and then later in school they learn English, but nobody takes it very seriously or considers it very important. To speak English among themselves is considered to be "putting on airs".

Dutch (pronounced "Deutsch", you remember) had gone to trade school to learn to be a mechanic, and that was what he really wanted to do. He was just working as a driver to try to save enough money to buy the toolbox and tools he needed to practise his trade. Emmanuel had begun as an assistant safari cook, the peeling, preparing and washing-up job which Henry did now and had worked his way up to being cook.

Janne had lent the crew her tape of Paul Simon's Graceland, hoping they might like it enough to play something different than the Wichita tape, and tonight that tape went around and around, endlessly replaying as we sat in the dark by the blazing fire. The crew were cheerfully smoking Janne's cigarettes and accepting a drink of whisky from Ross as we talked quietly. It was nice to see Emmanuel's shy smile and Dutch's warm grin as we spoke haltingly of our different worlds, ours seeming just as foreign, exotic, interesting and strange to them as theirs did to us.

Maji usiyoyafika hujui wingi wake.
You do not know the extent of waters you have not been to.
(Swahili Saying)

6- lake manyara

I suppose other people's dreams are not the most interesting subject in the world, but it's funny how every time I take a trip like this it brings the weirdest dreams into my sleep.

I was just driving to the store with a friend and our two children, when we suddenly turned out to be in Los Angeles, and then we were somehow backstage at the Los Angeles Forum. Then 1 was alone outside, driving my Audi Quattro up miles of stone stairs in the dark (good thing I had four-wheel-drive!) which were lined by cheering people and bright lights, and it seemed to be part of a movie set. Then I was back talking to the stagehands at the Forum, and the car keys were lost and everyone was looking for them, and then we were all in Tina Turner's apartment- which was above the Forum- and then-

I woke up. Whew!

The mist began to close in on the crater rim just after sunrise, though it didn't seem quite as cold as it had been the other morning. Geoff, Simon and I walked through the wet grass over to the edge where we had spent yesterday afternoon, but just as we stood there the clouds began to obscure the inside of the crater. Simon told me he had heard elephants and lions during the night, and the crew told us there had been elephants, buffaloes and lions just back toward the road from us. Yikes! The crater was soon invisible, and we walked back up to the fire where Emmanuel was cooking up some porridge. I ate a wedge of orange and then went to work on packing up my stuff.

A couple of young Maasai boys wandered through our misty camp, looking at us shyly but with curiosity. One was perhaps twelve years old, the other nine or ten, and they stood a little away from the tents, dressed only in thin blankets on this cool and damp morning. The elder one carried a stick to herd the cattle. I went over to talk to them, and found the older boy could speak a few words of English, and he asked me, not for money or candy, but for a pen. Unfortunately I didn't have one I could spare, I wish I had known before how valuable pens are to the children of Tanzania, I would have brought a whole boxful of Bic retractables. As it was I got them to pose for a photo, and gave them a little bit of money- because they didn't ask for it.

As we climbed up on the truck, Graceland once more going around and around, everything loaded and stowed away, I waved goodbye to my young Maasai friends, and we drove off. The morning remained overcast and misty as we drove around the crater rim, and then headed down across the fertile plateau.

Ross and I sat together, and continued our conversation from the previous night. One doesn't save the world in the morning of course, but we discussed different bands we liked and didn't like, music and attitudes, and the reality of Live-Aid.

Ross is one of those who are of the opinion that an event like Live-Aid really represented something- maybe changed something. But I had to disagree. It certainly didn't change human nature.

Now I'm no cynic, and certainly some of the people involved had the right motivations. There's no doubt that Bob Geldof didn't run himself ragged and sacrifice his on career spearheading all that for any other reason than to try to do something. But there's also no question that many of the other people involved, musicians and "industry" types, had their own axes to grind. There was a lot of: "Look at me, look at me- I'm rich and successful and doing something for the poor starving people", and there was precious little altruism in all this public posturing. It seems to me, Ross, that everyone should have just given some money and shut up!

I know from the inside what was going on during these recordings and concerts, people showing up because "my manager told me it was a good career move" (direct quote), and one can easily guess at the ulterior motives which hypocrites are so adept at hiding.

And then there was the public stoning given those who didn't choose to be part of this exhibitionism. One band called Tears For Fears was dragged through the gutters of the English press for "killing the children of Africa" in their refusal to appear, and yet who could blame them? I have to agree with the British producer and journalist Jonathan King, who dared to write in a London newspaper the next day that all the charitable benevolence aside, it was a terrible show. That certainly took courage, and made him no friends, but I think it's true. Amid all that chaos, with egos and technology impossible to organize, the only artists that came off well were those who just sang with a solo piano. Yet even then they couldn't get a microphone that worked for Paul McCartney. (Though if you ask me, that may have been the hand of a Higher Power!)

My favorite humorist, P. J. O'Rourke, also wrote a very witty and acerbic article on this subject, focusing mainly- in his inimitable way- on the "We Are The World" gang:

"We are the world [solipsism], we are the children [average age near forty]
We are the ones to make a brighter day [see line 6 below]
So let's start giving [logical inference supplied without argument]
There's a choice we're making [true as far as it goes]
We're saving our own lives [absurd]
It's true we'll make a better day [unproven]
Just you and me [statistically unlikely]

"That's three palpable untruths, two dubious assertions, nine uses of a first-person pronoun, not a single reference to trouble or anybody in it, and no facts. The verse contains, literally, neither rhyme nor reason."

And on he goes into greater depth and wit, arguing my case much better- or at least much funnier- than I ever could.

But I can offer a much more cogent example of what it was all about, Ross. During the year following this outpouring of public generosity (when many of the Live-Aid pledges given in the peer-pressure heat of the moment weren't being honored!) I was thinking about some extra drumsets I had sitting around, and trying to think of a good way to give them away. It occurred to me that I might have an auction, and give the proceeds to the Foster Parents Plan, a favorite cause of mine. Then I thought; there must be plenty of other musicians who have equipment sitting around which they're not using, maybe I could make this bigger. And I started to think about a satellite hookup, doing it with MTV and Canada's Muchmusic, and have people bidding by telephone from all across North America. You see, Ross? I was getting excited now. Why, this could catch on, we could even do it every month with a celebrity auctioneer, and help out a bunch of different worthwhile causes. But to do something on this kind of scale I'd need a lot of cooperation.

So I started talking to people in the business, both music and charity, and asked our office to get in touch with the video networks, the phone companies, try to put something like this together, it could be great. So, a little nervous about the scope and demands of this thing I'd put into motion, I sat back and waited for this wave of the whole world's new-found humanity and helpfulness to sweep over me. And what do you think happened Ross?

Absolutely nothing. No one could be bothered. It just wasn't hip anymore- it was no longer necessary to appear charitable. The consciences had all gone back to sleep. So had Ross.

In the late morning we drove up to Gibb's Farm, an old coffee plantation from colonial times which survives by offering guest accommodations and meals to passing travelers. It's located on a very lush hillside, thick with tall trees and tropical vegetation surrounding the orderly rows of coffee bushes. The gardens around the house were beautifully landscaped, lovely gardens of tropical flowers and a fish pond with weaver birds nesting around it. A row of neat little guest cottages lined the driveway, and with the location between Arusha, Lake Manyara, Olduvai and Ngorongoro, on the road to the Serengeti, it would make a wonderful place to stop for a day or two. (Or an hour or two, in our case.)

We were greeted by a gracious hostess who showed us a place to clean up (with running water, and flush toilets!), and then we took a walk around. We were supposed to have taken a walk up to a waterfall in the forest, which we were told was a beautiful place where wild animals often came to drink, but for some reason we couldn't. They said we had been scheduled to go at 10:30 and we didn't arrive until 10:45. But wait a minute- we're on African Time here, what's fifteen minutes? I suppose just as this place has survived as a memory of the days of colonialism, some residue of punctiliousness must be left over from the "outpost of the Empire" days. Strange.

A well-spoken young girl gave us a tour of the coffee-processing area, where the beans were sorted and dried in the sun before being shipped off to be roasted. Then we gathered at the chairs and tables on the main terrace, enjoying the beautiful setting and waiting for lunch to be served. Punctually at 12:30 we were called inside.

Inside the house the rooms were cool, with terracotta tile floors and white-washed walls hung with local maps, wildlife paintings and a zebra skin. A small fire burned in the fireplace in a corner of the main room, as it was still overcast and cool on this highlands morning. The furniture was simple and comfortable. The dining room was at the rear of the house, overlooking another verdant garden, and two large- tables were covered with an incredible variety of food. There was soup, cold meats, several kinds of quiches and dozens of salads, everything beautifully prepared and presented. There was another whole table offering about five different desserts- my special weakness- rhubarb crumble, custard, fruit salad, trifles and more. What a feast to be spread before you out here, in the wilds of Tanzania! I don't think I ever had a better meal in Africa.

After lunch we continued across the green plateau, the countryside dotted with rustic houses of mud and sticks. The roofs were often thatched, with the occasional touch of "modern luxury"- corrugated metal. The people lived off the land here, with fields of maize and a few banana trees, and several brick-baking ovens making use of the clay soil. Ragged children came running out to the side of the road, waving their hands and calling out to us. Once when we were stopped for a moment one of the Australian girls produced some candies to hand out to a family of small children. There was a charming scene when the oldest boy, maybe seven years old, took the first candy and immediately gave it to his little sister, then let the others crowd in Only after everyone had one did he come up and hold out his hand for himself. Now that's the spirit of generosity, Ross! Ross? Wake up, Ross!

I noticed as we drove along that the Swahili word for school is "shule", from the German, another example of the polyglot nature of the language; Bantu, Arab, English and German words combined in a kind of East African Esperantd.

The plateau ended at the top of the Rift Valley wall, and we stopped there for a few minutes, a "Viewpoint Pause" as Dutch called it. A pedlar walked up to the truck and held out his hand to us, then opening his palm like a magician to display several cut stones of Tanzanite, a pretty pale blue semi-precious stone which is unique to the area. Barbara- or was it Heather?- bargained with him for a couple of them, while some of us walked off the road to the edge of the cliff.

We walked through the dry scrub and tall, sculptured termite nests, and stood on the edge of the sheer precipice. It dropped sharply down below us about two thousand feet, making for a fabulous "Viewpoint Pause", and we looked out over Lake Manyara National Park, where we would be camping tonight. The large blue lake was beautiful, spread across the floor of the Rift Valley, and a fire burned in the dry grasslands on the far side of it, a line of flames and white smoke stretching away in the distance.

(No flamingoes today.) At the bottom of the steep road of stones and dust, we drove by the gate of the park and stopped at the market in the town of Mto-wa-Mbu, which I later learned means "Mosquito River". I think we have one of those in northern Canada as well! Inevitably, Graceland came blasting out of the cab as we stopped.

The market area was very large, catering both to the local population and passing tourists as this road is on the main safari route from Nairobi and Arusha to Ngorongoro and the Serengeti. In fact there were two other big Bedford trucks stopping there at the same time, the people walking around in search of a good souvenir of their Tanzanian adventures.

There was a large area of small stalls, where the local entrepreneurs invited you in to look at their carvings, spears, beadwork, baskets, batik, goatskin shields, drums, shakers- that sort of thing. But unfortunately it was all strictly "tourist class", all imitations of the authentic Makonde carvings or Maasai beadwork. Simon and I walked around looking at it all, and he was now beginning to regret not having bought the beautiful ebony carving he had liked in Arusha. At the time he had objected to paying a fairly high price (at the place where "we don't bargain"), but now he could see that "you gets what you pays for". The good stuff cost more here too, just like anywhere else.

We walked around to the far side of the market, where the local trading was done. Though it was late in the day, and most of the business had probably been transacted in the early morning, there was stilt a large variety of bananas, mangos and other fruits, green vegetables and tomatoes. Men sat at treadle sewing machines mending old clothes, while others made carvings and women sat weaving the colorful baskets.

As we came around to the side facing the road there was a long line of local shops, called dukas; corrugated metal kiosks which offered things like soap, shortening, vegetable oil, toothpaste and children's aspirin. I was amused to see a "bike shop"; one of the dukas which was hung with bicycle wheels, tires, chains, ball bearings and miscellaneous tools. It was interesting that here as well the bicycles and parts were of Chinese manufacture, some with the Flying Pigeon trademark which I remembered from my visits to similar "bike shops" in that country.

As we sat in the truck waiting for the others I saw a tiny Subaru safari van pass by, the six occupants and their driver looking very cramped. I was glad my trip hadn't turned out to be like that. I was also thinking that if the safari I'd originally booked hadn't cancelled out on me, I wouldn't have taken this one and met all these good people. It's interesting how life's accidents, or synchronicities, can lead to situations like this. Thinking of Simon and I, two people living in different countries and with completely different livelihoods and lifestyles, signing up for a particular trip in Africa for a particular time when we could get away, and ending up by sharing a tent in Tanzania and becoming good friends almost immediately.

I looked at a group of Maasai women standing on the side of the road, dressed in their beautifully-dyed robes of colorful checks, their heads shaved, and many beaded and metal necklaces around their necks. Not only were their earlobes split open and stretched around decorative wooden plugs, but the tops of their ears were weighted down with heavy metal earrings. I noticed that as the girls grow up they are more heavily weighted down, until the upper ears are completely doubled over. Not very attractive to our western eyes, but the Morani (Maasai warriors) must like it!

Our campsite in the Lake Manyara National Park was very different from any of the others in which we had camped. First of all, here at the very bottom of the Rift Valley the vegetation is nourished by ground water, which I imagine collects and runs down the valley walls, and is not dependent at all on rainfall. In fact, this particular type of forest is called a Ground Water Forest, as opposed to a Rain Forest I suppose.

Our tents occupied a circular clearing, among very tall trees which were thick with leaves and vines. It had a real "Tarzan" look to it, especially with a bamboo shower enclosure in the shelter of the trees at one end. But the shower actually worked, and we were very glad to have the chance to rinse away more dust from the Serengeti, Olduvai and the road from Ngorongoro. All of our clothes were encrusted and permeated with brown dust too, and some people took this opportunity to rinse a few things out and hang them from their tentropes.

Before dinner we took a drive around the park, seeing a large troop of baboons along the narrow dirt road, the smaller babies clinging under their mothers, the larger ones riding up on Mom's back. It's interesting that baboons in East Africa are considered rather like raccoons are at home, as nuisance scavengers and nervy thieves.

There were giraffes and the beautiful caramel-colored Impalas browsing in the late afternoon light, and Simon and I were excited to see an African Fish Eagle perched above a stream right at the roadside. This is a beautiful big bird, looking a bit like a Bald Eagle with its noble white head, and this was the first one we had seen. The trees above us were full of nesting pelicans, so numerous that we had been able to see them from the top of the valley, and it seemed as if their droppings poisoned the trees in which they nested, as the branches around them were dead and bare. The sun was setting behind the wall of the Rift Valley to our left, we could see several elephants browsing up there, and the Baobab trees looked beautiful silhouetted against the dying light.

As we drove back in the dusk, we were suddenly in the middle of a herd of elephants crossing the road. Naturally we yielded the right of way- but one of the bigger ones took offence anyway, and turned to face us, ears flared in warning. Oh boy.

"Don't worry Mr Elephant- we'll be out of here right away- don't get mad!"

We heard a story that was supposed to have happened in this park, where an angry elephant charged one of these big trucks, ramming its tusks into the steel body and lifting the back wheels right off the ground. There was an apprentice driver at the wheel, and the main driver was yelling at him to: "Get it into four-wheel-drive! Get it into four-wheel-driver, and finally he managed to get the front wheels spinning in the dirt, and pulled the truck away from the elephant, two big holes remaining where its tusks had been impaled. That must have been an exciting moment for those in the truck!

It was interesting to notice that one of the herd had a badly misshapen leg, and to reflect on the highly-developed social behavior which would permit such a sadly handicapped individual to survive. Almost alone among animal species, elephants help each other when a member of the herd is sick or wounded, or when one is giving birth. Like the rhinos, the elephants have suffered severe depredations from poachers, having been reduced by as much as half in the last twenty years for their coveted tusks, as well as by the common problems of drought and loss of habitat.

And yet in the National Reserves in Kenya their numbers have to be "controlled", i. e. killed, to minimize the destruction of the landscape. I guess they're like big bulldozers roaming around the dwindling forests, smashing and uprooting trees. Messy eaters.

In the evening a pair of big white thicks pulled into the other campsite beside us. The make of them was MAN, Austrian I think, and they were very robust-looking, almost military, like something out of Raiders of the Lost Ark. There was a big black "NZ" painted on their austere whiteness, and sure enough, it was a group of New Zealanders, on a fifteen month journey from London, through all of Africa, and back again. Wow- what a trip!

And with another one of those synchronicities I was talking about, a young New Zealander on our truck, Fleur, met her friend and next-door neighbor from home traveling with the other group. Big Geoff went over to introduce himself to his fellow New Zealanders, and ask for any information they could give him about climbing Kilimanjaro, but they were having a group meeting, and the leader said he would drop by later.

I was thinking about what these people were in the midst of doing. Spending fifteen months roughing it around Africa with a group of other former strangers. (You'd certainly get to know each other.) There's no question that the trip would be a great experience, but I would find it hard to give up over a year of my life for something like that Too "goal-orientated" I suppose. I could see if you had been working for a lot of years, and had accomplished your goals already, you might want to get away from the world for a while. But to do something like that when you're still young and ambitious is alien to me. (If, I suppose, you are ambitious!) Even thinking back on the last fifteen months of my life, there's no way I'd trade all that I've done and seen for the sake of a single trip- however adventurous! And of course, if you're a young person on a trip like that, you're unlikely to be traveling on your own resources.

Murimirwo ni ithe ndoi indo iri bata
He who has his fields tilled by his father
does not know that things are precious.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

After dinner we sat around the fire talking, serenaded by (of course) Paul Simon, and I saw Geoff get up and go over to meet a couple from the other camp. It was the leader of the New Zealand group and his girlfriend, and since I too was going up Kilimanjaro the following week, I asked if they'd mind if I listened in as well Geoff and I listened eagerly, glad to have someone to clear up the real nature of this undertaking for us. The Kiwi (I'll call him that because I don't remember his name) was a rather flabby and self-important fellow, perhaps in his late thirties, with glasses, a beard and a good-looking girlfriend. He gave us much to think about, telling us of the dangers of "altitude sickness", and some horrible-sounding thing called Pulmonary Oedema, a condition whereby you turn blue, bleed from the nose and ears, and die. Apparently it's like the opposite of the "bends" which afflicts divers at great depths.

He said that it's normal to have a headache and be vomiting (!), and to maybe have nosebleed, but if you get that other thing the porters have to race you down the mountain just as fast as they can, on a special stretcher with four bearers which rides on a motorcycle wheel. Wow. Sounds great. He advised us to try to make the climb in six days rather than five, to give an extra day on the mountain to acclimatize to the altitude.

He also said that near the top the guides were liable to try to discourage you from going all the way, so they wouldn't have to make the climb they'd done so many times before. Apparently they would tell you that you couldn't make it and should go back, but we were to remember that our minds would be playing tricks in the thin air, and that we were the ones paying for it, and to threaten "no tip" if they don't get you there.

All of this ran through my head in the night, leaving me not a little apprehensive about the seriousness of the undertaking I had signed up for so coolly. I saw myself being raced down the mountain on a stretcher, all blue and with blood coming out my ears. A person could get killed here! I mean, in the brochures they say "any reasonably fit person can make it", and "it's just like a long walk uphill", Those words would certainly return to haunt me, but so would the words of our Kiwi friend.

I didn't admit it to myself at the time, but he wasn't a very likeable person, delivering the Gospel According to Himself with a heavy quota of gratuitous obscenities, insensitive to any who might find it offensive.

And his advice would turn out to be exaggerated and sensationalized- calculated to thrill and impress his audience, rather than enlighten them. Only later did it occur to me that he was careful never to say whether he'd actually done the climb himself.

But I wouldn't be surprised to learn he had never been near the place!

Uhoro wa maitho ti wa ruthiomi.
What one sees with one's eyes is not what one hears from another's tongue.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

7- lake duluti

Simon and I thought we had chosen a nice campsite, on a flat piece of ground under the tall trees and a little away from the others. The trouble was, some of the others thought it was nicer than the spots they'd chosen, and we soon had several very near neighbors set up beside us. We thought we'd chosen a "nice country place", only to find ourselves living on top of each other in condominiums!

This only became a problem during the night, when Simon and I were once more working diligently on the problems of the world. Through one of our rambling conversations, we encompassed his interest in the battlefields of World War 1, a discussion of the resentment of the Japanese by people who had fought against them during the Second World War, and a mutual disdain for- but interest in- religion and astrology. In discussing Christianity, we agreed that all the "good stuff" is to be found in the Old Testament- all the good stories, the miracles, the violence, the sex and the philosophy. Really, we decided, it had all been said by the Ten Commandments (or perhaps more realistically, the Ten Suggestions!), and had only been watered-down and sentimentalized later. The baboons barked and chattered their comments from the darkness outside our tent.

I told Simon my theory about the presence in an adult's face of the child they had been, a private game I like to play when looking at the face of a friend or a stranger. I have the idea that you can tell how much of the child is left in the adult by whether or not you can picture what they looked like as a little boy or girl. With some people it seems easy, where others are impossible to imagine, and I think it really tells something about them. Obviously one has to grow and change, but there should be something left of childlike innocence, joy, wonder, sensitivity, trust.

"Go to sleep Simon!"

It was Kathy's voice ringing out in the night from a neighboring tent- I guess she didn't know me well enough to yell at me!

And another voice from the other side, I think it was Iain, seconded the motion: "Hear hear!"

"Hmmph", I whispered, "Neighbors on top of us, thin walls- we've got to move to the country!" So we shut up, and let the world solve its own problems.

In the morning we took another drive around the park, though some of the group were already becoming bored with the "same old animals"; Wildebeest, zebras, buffalos, antelopes and elephants. All of the animals and birds remained exciting for me, and it was a thrill to park right beside a pair of baby jackals, who remained fearlessly looking at us as their nervous parents trotted away to keep watch from the distance. We had been hoping to see some of the famous "tree-climbing lions", and kept an eye on the trees, but never did see any. This is one of only two places in East Africa where lions are known to climb trees, and no one is really sure why, whether it's for a cool spot to sleep or a good place from which to hunt. Maybe both.

We got out of the truck at a river near the shore of the lake, to watch a great number of hippos lazing in the water, or at least the tops of them, and I was still hoping to see a whole one out of the water. Not today. The bird life around the water was fabulous; hundreds of egrets, cormorants, Marabou Storks, pelicans, Egyptian Geese and other shore birds.

Late in the morning we returned to camp for lunch, then loaded up the truck and headed back toward Arusha. We were retracing the route we had followed just a few days ago, though with all we had done and seen it now seemed like a long time ago. Then we had been strangers, a little lost in a strange land, but now we were companions, comfortable in a familiar environment.

Bouncing on the rough road across the dusty plains once more, back on the paved road for the last forty miles, and then into the crowded streets of Arusha we drove. We stopped in town for a while so Emmanuel could pick up some supplies, and sat waiting in the truck and watching the town go about its business. (And Graceland played on- we were really getting sick of that tape!)

Talking to Dutch the other night, it was funny to hear him say he didn't like Arusha because it was "too big". Though it's really quite a small city, only about 100,000 people, I guess when you're from a small village on the slopes of Kilimanjaro it would seem a very busy, noisy and crowded place.

We listened to the eerie song of the Imam calling the faithful to prayer from the mosque across the street, and I was moderately surprised to see a brand-new BMW and a Mercedes 190 parked beside us. Someone was making money here anyway. Two well-dressed "dudes" strolled by, and compared with the crowd through which they moved, their flashy clothes made them stand out like peacocks in a chicken run. I figured they must have been black marketeers, the most charitable possibility I could think of anyway.

This is another place, like China, where socialism has been imposed upon a people who are by nature very capitalistic. Bargaining and barter are a part of life here- even hitching a ride is a matter for which a fee will be negotiated in many parts of Africa, and "small business" entrepreneurs operate everywhere, on both sides of the law.

The other night around the campfire someone had asked Dutch if there were a lot of Indians in Arusha. "Oh yes", he replied, "too many!", and went on to tell us that they owned all the businesses; the shops as well as the industries. In North of South, Shiva Naipaul postulates the idea that many East Africans harbor a secret approval of Idi Amin's ousting of the "Asians" from Uganda, and this may help to explain why Tanzania was left holding a $500,000,000 bill after President Nyerere led the war which deposed Amin. He was forced to fight back when Ugandan forces began encroaching on Tanzania's borders, and ended up overrunning the country and attempting to sponsor a new elected government, though the leadership of Uganda still remains an uneasy balancing act.

Surprisingly, none of the other African countries nor the United Nations would help him in this crusade, an expensive enterprise which effectively wiped out Tanzania's reserves of foreign currency. This is a major reason why Tanzania remains one of the poorest countries in the world, and though Amin was certainly perceived internationally as the worst sort of dictator, no one seemed to be willing to help his deposer. Strange.

On the move again, we drove about twenty miles out of town to our campsite at Lake Duluti. This was a very different sort of campground, with a guard who opened the gates to a well-groomed, park-like place on the shores of a small lake. We set up our tents on the neatly-trimmed grass under tall trees, among several other groups of campers, and found there was even a bar on the lakeshore with showers and flush toilets- this is just too civilized!

This was the last day for some of the group, Geoff, lain and Alison were off tomorrow to start the Kilimanjaro climb, and the rest of us would be heading across the border to Kenya, so we would be saying goodbye to our crew as well. Simon and I exchanged addresses with Geoff, and we shared a bit of the single malt whisky which Simon had been jealously guarding all week.

I had foolishly volunteered to take up the collection from everybody to tip the crew, and wandered from tent to tent for that purpose, "cap in hand" as it were. Then I found myself sitting in our tent with a flashlight taped to the centre pole, which shone a beam of light down on a big pile of Tanzanian shillings and American dollars. I sharpened a metaphorical pencil, and went to work figuring out the exchange, and the percentages to be divided among Dutch, Emmanuel and Henry. Some of us were determined to help Dutch got enough money for his toolbox, and many people gave very generously for that purpose. We were sorry to say goodbye to them now, having just got to know them a little bit, and I think everyone had grown fond of the three, hard-working Tanzaaians.

Val from Tracks and her son Joe met us here too, and distributed forms which everybody was to fill in stating their comments and complaints about the safari. One of the most common disappointments we expressed was not having camped on the floor of the Ngorongoro Crater, which we blamed on having left so late the first day. Val told us that in spite of what the brochures and itineraries said, there had never been any intention to camp there, as it cost about $30 a person to do so, and it was a lot cheaper to stay up at Simba Camp on the crater rim. Naturally we said that having come all this way, we wouldn't have quibbled about spending a bit extra for such an experience, but it was academic now.

Any other complaints were pretty trivial; that the overhead racks in the truck should have some kind of netting over them, to prevent the raining-down of articles upon our heads on the rough roads, and that one of the seats in the truck was broken and uncomfortable.

Having weathered the trials of sorting out the money for the crew, I talked Simon into giving the presentation speech, in which he expressed our thanks, our good wishes, and Janne's generous donation of the Graceland cassette to the crew's limited collection. Certainly none of us wished to hear that album for a long, long time (If indeed, ever again!)

After dinner we gathered in the bar, a small open pavilion right on the shore of the lake, and used up the last of our Tanzanian money buying drinks for the crew and each other. You were not allowed to take any shillings out of the country, so now was the time to get rid of them. As we sat at the long tables with out drinks, Val was telling me that Lake Duluti is actually a crater, which has been filled by underground springs. Out behind it begins a wild area called the Maasai Steppe, a trackless bush country through which she once traveled with some friends in a Land Rover. There are no roads at all, and they followed cattle tracks, hiring Maasai guides when they were really lost, to lead them to towns where they could get their bearings. Sounds good to me!

After a while I took a walk along the shore, looking out over the lake in the bright moonlight and enjoying a haunting night concert from the frogs and insects. I recorded a few minutes of this African night on my tape recorder, and tried a couple of times to track down the source of these songs, zoning in on one voice and peering under logs and among the reeds with my flashlight, but I could never find one.

I sat down on an overturned boat and lit a forbidden cigarette I had borrowed, figuring I could allow myself the indulgence on this night of celebration. I was thinking about the country of Tanzania and its problems. Since achieving independence in the early 'sixties, President Julius Nyerere has evolved a kind of "paternal socialism" for his one-party government, which has often put the country at odds with the surrounding capitalist nations. In fact the border between Kenya and Tanzania was closed for six years, between 1977 and 1983, over a dispute about the equity of a partnership between the two countries and Uganda. These days they maintain an uneasy peace, but the border is open.

In spite of some disastrous early experiments in land and population redistribution, Nyerere seems to remain a very well-respected leader, within his country as well as around Africa and the world. He even has intellectual and artistic credentials, having translated some of Shakespeare's plays into Swahili. Certainly his official portrait, which adorns every place of business (by law here as well as in Kenya- to remind you of who's really boss I guess!), radiates a kindly, avuncular warmth directly into the camera, in contrast to the ones of President Daniel Moi of Kenya, who gazes sternly away from you- into the glorious future, one presumes.

On the dark side however, Nyerere tolerates no dissent, controls all the newspapers and media, and in "elections" he was always the only candidate. Until 1979 he actually held more political prisoners than South Africa, though he did release over ten thousand of them in the next couple of years.

Val gave me some insight into the white community here as well, talking about the cliques they inevitably form. There is one group composed of the "aid" people, enjoying the luxuries provided by their foreign governments, and the expatriate teachers forming a kind of intellectual elite, and then the former colonial people who have been here since before independence, most of them in their sixties and seventies now and set in their ways. They were allowed to keep their farms, though now of course they must sell their produce to the government at fixed prices rather than on the free market. That would explain why a place like Gibb's Farm supplements its coffee income with the restaurant and guest houses. I guess the safari people are kind of the mavericks, on the outside of these cliques. Val was telling me of the small scandal she created by bringing a friend of hers, a black teacher, to one of the "white social functions".

I heard a story about one of the other groups finding a scorpion crushed in the folds of their tent as they unpacked it, and I unrolled and checked the inside of my sleeping bag extra carefully tonight. Once again, sometimes you need a little reminder of exactly where you are.

I heard Simon come in about midnight, leaving some of the party still carousing over at the bar, their conversation and laughter carrying in the night air. Our tent was right beside the main gate, and I heard the diesel clatter of the trucks and Land Rovers coming and going throughout the night. A group of locals had a very long and loud discussion in Swahili sometime after I fell asleep- their turn to "save the world" I guess. All this was a big contrast to the night sounds we'd grown used to- the baboons last night, or the lions and hyenas on previous nights.

I was kind of excited about the changes tomorrow would bring, crossing the border into Kenya, a new truck, a new crew and a new country for a few days. Then I too would be leaving the group early, flying back to Tanzania for the Kilimanjaro climb. I must admit to feeling a little nervousness about that already.

Things were supposed to be a lot more organized and "developed" in Kenya, and I wondered how different it would be. Had we known what we were in for in the next few days, we would certainly not have bothered complaining to Val about Tracks in Tanzania- not a word would have been spoken about misleading brochures, or trivialities like the lack of netting in the overhead racks, or the discomforts of the back seat!

Tinki kiitikino.
The unfavoured may eventually be valued.
(Maasai Wisdom)

8- between two worlds

A light rain was falling when I emerged from the tent in the early morning. I put on a plastic shell and walked through the wet grass over to the fire. I noticed that the crew were walking around with their pant legs rolled up, and I soon discovered the reason for this. I felt a sharp pain on my ankle, and pulled up my own pant leg to see a couple of ants feasting there. Brushing them away and baring both my legs, I looked around to see thousands of them filing around in the grass.

These would be the Siafu- safari ants, of which I had read nightmarish reports. Beryl Markham wrote: "Siafu don't just sting- they bite chunks out of you. Within a few hours a normal, healthy horse, if he is unable to escape his stable, can be killed and half-eaten by even a reserve division of Siafu."

Alan and Carol came over to the fire as well, apologizing for having disturbed anyone during the night. They had been awakened about 4:00 AM by the presence of hundreds of these biting ants inside their tent, and I guess it had been quite a job getting rid of them all. Soon everyone was doing a strange dance around the fire, stamping their feet and brushing their legs, and worst of all- finding these painful pests wandering inside their clothes.

We said a last goodbye to Geoff, lain, Alison, Emmanuel and Henry, and the remainder of our group drove off with Dutch to Arusha. We would be picking up Val, Joe and a friend of Val's at the Tracks house to give them a ride as far as the border, as they were on their way to Nairobi. We were supposed to meet with a truck from the Kenyan side, then travel to Amboseli National Park to spend the night. This park sounded like a beautiful place, at the foot of Kilimanjaro, and on a clear day the mountain was said to make a fabulous backdrop for the animals. We would never know.

We drove along the Arusha road once again, the same one we had taken that first day coming from the airport. How different a place looks when you've seen enough to put it into a context. Now we could appreciate the lushness of the vegetation here in the shadow of Mount Meru; the banana trees, the flame trees, and the lilac clouds formed by the flowering Jacaranda trees which grow over the streets of Arusha. I learned from Janne that these pretty trees are in reality South American in origin, and have been widely planted in Australia as well.

Janne was also telling me that she had the opportunity to meet some of the other safari groups last night, and that their "interpersonal relations" hadn't been as enjoyable as ours Apparently there had been many little causes of friction, like people filling the inside of their truck with so much personal junk that no one could move, and thoughtless people causing "international incidents" by trying to sneak photographs of the real Maasai, whose beliefs forbade it. She was also telling me about an unpopular lady on one of the previous trips she had been on, whom they had called the "traction mat"- if they got stuck in the mud it was her who was going under the wheels!

We had another insight into Tanzanian life as we drove all around Arusha- from one petrol station to another- looking for one that had some diesel fuel! In a place where almost every vehicle is powered by diesel, this is a serious problem. I was reading in Africa on a Shoestring that if you're traveling by bus in Tanzania you should be prepared for delays caused by fuel shortages, and now I could see why. After visiting about six stations we finally found some fuel (and every time we stopped, Graceland wafted back from the cab), and we were off to the Tracks house.

It was a nice modern bungalow in a suburban area, with a large garage and parking area for the safari trucks. I noticed that they seemed to have a security guard on duty, and many of the nicer houses around Arusha were surrounded by high walls with barbed wire and broken glass set into them.

Joe had been telling me about some of the pets they had in the house, and invited me and a few of the others inside to see them. Stewart, the young English Operations Manager whom we had met the first day, had a fondness for snakes, and there was a huge cage built in the front room to house his seven-foot python. Whoa! The python is ordinarily a rare and retiring creature, but Stewart had rescued this one from a grass fire when he was on safari, and had brought it home as a pet.

I was very impressed with Ross's bravery, when he let Stewart wrap the giant reptile around his neck- Ross figuring that Stewart wouldn't have let him do it if it wasn't safe. Trusting soul! I wanted to get a picture of this, but was afraid the flash might cause a reflex tightening around Ross's neck. Stewart assured me it was okay. In another cage Joe showed me their pet Bushbaby, a possum-like nocturnal mammal, and Stewart also had a couple of Night Adders in a terrarium in his room. Just your average household- Val and Joe, Stewart and his girlfriend, a python, a Bushbaby and a couple of adders!

We climbed aboard the truck and continued our journey, the lushness of Arusha soon giving way to the dry grasslands, the bony cattle and goats scratching their food from the sparse vegetation. It was a cool overcast morning, and moving rapidly along the well-paved road made it quite cold in the open back. I was fortunate enough to find an empty seat beside Simon in the sheltered front row, and we started talking together, as usual, the most comfortable of companions now.

We saw a few zebras and gazelles, and a lone male ostrich. The majestic white dome of Kilimanjaro appeared above the clouds for a while, its ethereal beauty giving rise to mixed feelings of excitement and apprehension in me. There was no weakening of my resolve, I really wanted to get up there- I just didn't want to die doing it!

After a couple of hours Joe pointed out the border ahead, a cluster of buildings among some low brown hills. First stop- Customs, Immigration and Currency Control for Tanzania. President Nyerere smiles warmly down on you as you stand in line to fill out a form, hand it in and have your passport stamped, then join another line to have your exchange papers checked. Like petty bureaucrats everywhere, the officers project a stern demeanor, aloof, all-knowing and wearing every ounce of their little powers. They didn't even look at the currency forms, just had us put them in a pile on the desk. Then it was outside to unload all the luggage from the truck, drag it inside and stand in another line. This time I never even knew I'd been cleared- I just looked down and suddenly there was a pink chalkmark on my pack- he got me when I wasn't looking!

And now we entered "No Man's Land". This is a zone about a kilometre wide between the two countries, which is packed with tumbledown buildings, and has an atmosphere rather like a big "jumble sale". Rows of market stalls and dukas line both sides of the road, selling a pretty unexciting selection of clothes, shoes and household goods, with brightly-colored plastic pails and such-like from China. There were many Maasai women selling jewelry on the street; metal earrings, beadwork necklaces and elephant hair bracelets. The town, if town it is, is called Namanga.

At the other end of this "nowhere place" were the buildings housing the Kenyan authorities. We went through the same formalities once again, only this time under the stern countenance of Kenya's President Daniel Moi, looking away into that glorious future.

A big fat Indian man shoved his way past the lineup at the Currency Control counter. (Simon, who knows about such things, later told me he was a Sikh). He was very tall and wide, his vast bulk pushing us all up against the counter as he passed. Turbaned, well-dressed and neatly-bearded with shiny white teeth, he stood in front of the officer smiling and talking, while he placed a few banknotes on the counter. As he turned and squeezed past us again, I saw the officer lay his hand flat over the money and transfer it without expression to the pocket of his shirt. I could hardly believe what I had seen, but others saw it too- you couldn't help it, it was so openly done.

Now we just had to wait for the truck to arrive from Nairobi. We pooled our few remaining shillings and went next door to the "Lucky" restaurant, a primitive and grubby arrangement of tables and chairs offering Indian snacks and soft drinks. There was a window looking into the kitchen, but to look too closely was perhaps a mistake. We fearlessly enjoyed as many sambusas and the doughnut-like mandazis as we could afford, washed down with warm Fanta.

There was no place to exchange money here, so we couldn't buy any Kenyan money. You weren't allowed to take any Tanzanian money out of the country so we'd spent all that. And so it was that at this moment we became effectively broke.

Val, Joe and their friend soon left us, hiring a taxi to take them on to Nairobi. There were some resentful suggestions that she should wait with us until our truck showed up, but she assured us it would be along any time now, and they've never been more than two hours late. Uh-huh. My travel agent had told me she was reluctant to recommend Tracks to me because she had once had an elderly client stranded for five days at this border. Five days? I looked around me in disbelief. There was nowhere to stay, or even to camp, you'd have to sloop in the dirt at the side of the road, and live on sambusas and mandazis every day. If you had any money to pay for them! It seemed impossible.

So we settled ourselves in the truck to wait. At least Dutch and the truck were still here, though neither of them had the papers to enter Kenya. Maasai women gathered around the truck six and seven at a time, holding their trinkets up in front of us and waving them around as they screamed unintelligibly. It soon became annoying, and we agreed that if anyone was interested in buying anything, they should do it away from the truck. Well- most people agreed.

I tried to get comfortable laying across that broken back seat, and picked up reading The Moon and Sixpence again. Maybe I could retreat from these hot, dusty and noisy surroundings into the Eden of turn-of-the-century Tahiti. Simon and Barbara- or was it Heather?- played Scrabble on one of those portable boards, and Day laid down on the seat in front of me and went to sleep. Other people talked or read, or walked around through this unprepossessing neutral zone (one more time).

After two hours of waiting, the Maasai still continued harassing us, though we'd learned to ignore them. One young man in western clothes tapped me on the foot which was hanging over the edge of the truck as I lay there reading. He wanted to know if I would trade my glasses, my T-shirt, my shoes, my watch- anything for the junky jewelry he was selling. The only Swahili negative I knew was hapana, perhaps not exactly the right negative, but it got the message across, and this soon became a kind of mantra as everybody took it up and recited it again and again to all the persistent hawkers.

Hapana! Hapana! Go 'way! Take a hike! Hapana! Hapana! Get lost! Sod off!

After four hours, there were strings of laundry draped across the inside of the truck, as people decided to make use of this waiting time to finish drying their clothes. Spirits were low, everyone wondering when we ought to give up, and what we ought to do. The heat, discomfort and the uncertainty were beginning to get me down, and I was starting to feel pretty lousy, headachy and weak. Probably just malaria or yellow fever, I decided. I finished the Maugham book, my spirits cheered by the vivid description of the hero's horrible death from leprosy.

"What the hell should we do, we wondered.

I was glad I had only a backpack to worry about, deciding in my own mind that I would give tip-before too long and head for Nairobi myself, if the others were determined to wait into the night. Looking around, I doubted if anyone would- it didn't look like the sort of place one would willingly choose to spend the night, especially in an open truck. Even our tents had been left behind- at Lake Duluti, so we were definitely on our own. At least there were fourteen of us- safety in numbers.

Dutch came back sporting new trousers and shoes. I'd thought he'd looked especially disreputable: that morning, and there'd been a reason. It was so he could throw the old stuff away when he went back, just as teenagers used to do at home when they went across the border to Buffalo to buy the more fashionable clothes available there. Some of our tip money was going to good use, I hoped he would still be able to get his toolbox.

By 5:00 we had been waiting five and a half hours. In another hour it would be getting dark, and we decided to take our destinies into our own hands. Ross and Grahame had gamely been trying to phone someone- anyone- from a phone box on the Kenyan side, but had not been able to reach anyone. Now we planned to hire a couple of taxis and head for Nairobi on our own. The only problem was, we still didn't have any money. I resolved never again to travel without a reserve of US dollars at all times, but for now we'd have to get them to take us to a hotel where we could change some money and pay them. There was no knowing if they'd go along with that idea, but we wouldn't mention that detail if we didn't have to.

The commonest kind of taxi in East Africa is the matatu, usually one of those small Japanese pickup trucks with a box over the back, which waits in a particular spot until it is full, and then crams a few more people inside, a few more bundles on top, and finally departs. We had thought we would hire two of these, but the first driver was firm in the conviction that we only needed one. Even with Dutch as interpreter he remained adamant- I guess he was determined not to share the fare with another driver. Cheryl took care of the negotiating on our side, and a large crowd gathered around us as she loudly harangued the driver, and made sure again and again that the agreed-upon price was the absolute and final one. Her strident voice and Australian accent cowed the luckless driver as she ensured one more time that the price included the luggage as well. She was magnificent, and the crowd loved it!

The driver backed his matatu up to the rear of the truck, and we transferred all of our luggage and sleeping bags to be tied onto its roof. We agreed that Ray and Day should go up front with the driver, showing respect for our elders, and began fitting the rest of us into the back. There was a simple bench on each side, onto which eleven of us had to squeeze, while the twins took turns sitting on a sleeping-bag in the middle. It was a close fit, wedged in tightly side to side, and our knees had to be intermeshed like gears. Since Grahame and I were squeezed into the back, we were detailed to watch for luggage falling off of the roof, which was difficult because I had to bend over just to see out of the window, not to mention the fact that it was growing dark. Others were detailed to keep a lookout for a safari truck that might remotely be looking for us. It must be admitted, we were working well together!

It was only a couple of hours' drive to Nairobi, but crammed and uncomfortable in that tiny box the ride seemed interminable. The overladen little truck was at the bottom of its suspension travel, and it was a rough journey. The matatu drivers have a terrible reputation for dangerous driving, the guidebooks describing them as only for those "with nerves of steel and hefty life insurance." I was to read many stories in the newspapers describing horrible accidents involving matatus- but I didn't know that then, and thus didn't know enough to be afraid! Our driver raced along through the darkness, sometimes driving for miles on the wrong side of the road- to miss the potholes, Ray and Day told us later.

The closeness of the box and the violent bouncing were making my headache and nausea worse every minute. I was feeling pretty bad now, and I was glad to see the bright lights of Nairobi up ahead, glimmering in the blackness. As we joined up with the main highway coming in from Mombasa, the road became a four-lane highway into the city. It seemed so strange to be driving past tall modern buildings, along lighted streets with curbs and sidewalks and traffic. Though we'd only been out for eight days, those days had been so full, so rich, and so engrossing that it seemed like a lifetime. The bush country had left its mark on me.

We pulled up in front of the Excelsior hotel, the one described on the information sheet as the "Tracks hotel". I jumped out and ran in to see if there were rooms available for us, while the driver went to find a parking place. It took the desk clerk about ten minutes to figure it out, but eventually they found us seven double rooms, and I ran to tell the others to "come on in!". My head was pounding, I ached all over and felt very nauseous, looking around to see where I could be sick if I had to. I could see no public washrooms in the lobby, and supposed I'd have to go puke in the street. Great.

The first thing I had to do was change some money to pay off the matatu, which turned into about a fifteen-minute operation, then I gave them my credit card and passport and got us all registered. That was another fifteen or twenty minutes. I concentrated on keeping my head clear enough to get this done, so I could get to a room and lie down.

Eventually I was able to give everyone their room keys, and we agreed to meet in Simon's and my room in fifteen minutes, to decide on a course of action. I shouldered my pack and went to walk up the two flights of stairs to our room, only to find a locked iron gate barring the stairs to the second floor. When I asked the security guard how to open it, he said; "Oh no, this gate is locked for the night. You must take the lift."

Now, I prefer to avoid elevators in places like this; and for good reason. Why, only the week before, the power had gone out in the whole city of Nairobi for four hours, (especially embarrassing for Kenya, as it was during the Pan-African Games), and I sure didn't fancy the idea of spending four hours trapped in a shoebox-sized elevator. When I asked him; "What do you do if there's a fire?", he seemed- or pretended- not to understand, and I gave up and went down to take the elevator. I was feeling too lousy to argue, and too lousy to care if the elevator stopped or not.

The room, like the hotel, was a little on the seedy side. It was fairly large, with a bedroom and a sitting room, but it was dingy, the walls a dirty white and in need of paint. The windows were cracked, the upholstery patched with tape, and the paint was peeling off in strips in the bathroom- though at least there was a bathroom! I took it as a good omen that there was a print over the beds of a herd of Thomson's Gazelles- our mascots!

The others soon began to gather for the "summit meeting", telling us it was a good thing the meeting was in our room, as theirs were about half the size. Maybe because I did the registering they gave me the "group leader's" room, I don't know.

Ross and Grahame had managed to get a message through to Stewart back in Arusha, though there was no knowing what good that might do. We also left a message at the front desk for anyone who might be looking for us. We decided we would have to wait until morning, and if we hadn't heard anything by then some of us would go over to the Tracks office, and the others would take turns keeping watch in the lobby. There was nothing else we could do.

All of this decided and agreed upon among our now very unified group, everyone decided to find something to eat, but I didn't feel very hungry. I'd taken a couple of Tylenols, but still felt pretty bad, and just wanted to go to bed. I wished them all goodnight, and when they had gone I climbed into the strange feeling of a real bed with a mattress and sheets. And a pillow- all week I'd been resting my head on a folded-up towel and sleeping on the ground.

Equally strange was the sound of raucous music coming up from the hotel bar, instead of the sound of baboons, lions and hyenas; and the glare of the city lights through the window, instead of the stars and moon of the African night.

Then there was the feeling of being ill and stranded in this dingy hotel in Nairobi, with no idea of what was going on, no idea of what we would do, or where we would go tomorrow.

Matuku ti ma kiumia.
Not all days are Sundays.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

Emisimis inaadooro.
The other side is dark.
(Maasai Wisdom)

9- abdul's unlucky day

Though I slept well, I woke to find my head still throbbing, which began to worry me. A headache is rare enough for me, but I've never had one persist into the next day. So I lay there in the grey morning light in this dingy room imagining all the terrible diseases I probably had. After all those needles too.

For more than a month before I came on this trip I was like the "human pincushion", with a series of vaccinations every week against cholera, tetanus, yellow fever, typhoid, hepatitis- why, one week I had four at once- one in each arm, one in the buttocks, and an oral one down the throat! I couldn't possibly have caught anything- if a bug bit me it would get sick! I had taken my malaria pills every Monday for two weeks before leaving, and then every Monday since. The first page of my notebook read "MALARIA PILLS MONDAY!!", and we had all been reminding each other of our "Malaria Days" all week.

I seemed to remember reading one of the brochures about these "bad bad diseases" where one of the symptoms stated "if the headache persists", it means you have- ? What? I couldn't remember. Something terrible. Great. What have I got? I saw myself turning yellow and delirious, having to be flown home immediately- or worse, spending weeks in an African hospital, feverish and weakly fighting off those deadly blood transfusions.

I went down to the hotel dining room for breakfast, hoping that might make me feel better. It was nice to have orange juice to start, which just about made a meal when combined with a vitamin pill, a couple of Tylenols, and two big white malaria pills. (Yes, it was Monday- my Malaria Day!) But I wasn't too full to enjoy some cereal with real milk, some proper toast and jam, and the final treat- fresh pineapple, my favorite fruit.

I met a few of the others having breakfast, and learned that Carol had been suffering last night as well. It was stomach trouble in her case, probably a souvenir of the "Lucky" restaurant, but she was feeling a little better today. Ross and Grahame had received a phone call at 4 AM from one of the other drivers, who had been bringing in another tour group. He told them he had seen our driver provisioning yesterday afternoon, which seemed pretty strange because it had been Sunday afternoon, and also because he was supposed to have picked us up yesterday morning. But Grahame, Ross and Simon were going straight down to the Tracks office, hopefully to get things sorted out.

I had to book myself a hotel for later in the week, when I would be back here on my way to Kilimanjaro, so I went out on the streets as well. Nairobi is a large city, about a million people, and the streets are modern and bustling with traffic and pedestrians. Concrete, glass and steel; banks, offices, highrise hotels, airlines, oil companies, multinationals- all the enterprises of the western world are represented here. The sidewalks are lined with shoeshine stands and souvenir-sellers, some with stalls and others just strolling pedlars offering carvings, batik and jewelry.

After looking at the modern Intercontinental and Hilton hotels, I decided on the venerable New Stanley, which had a bit of atmosphere and a good location. After booking myself a room, I walked into the bookstore beside the hotel. I'm a sucker for bookstores anywhere, they have some kind of a magnetic attraction that forces me inside. I had to laugh at myself one morning at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, when, with only a couple of hours to look at one of the greatest art collections in North America, I found myself dawdling over the bookstand.

I picked up one of the local newspapers, the Kenya Times, and the guidebook Africa on a Shoestring. I had looked at Ray and Day's copy, and knew from my trip to China that the Lonely Planet guidebooks are interesting and informative. Then I thought I'd better get back to the Excelsior and see if there was any news on our fate.

A couple of the girls were "on watch" in the lobby, but there was no news, and Simon, Ross and Grahame hadn't returned yet. I went back up to the room and settled in to wait. We had decided we would hold onto at least one room until we knew what was happening. I was glad to notice that my headache was abating- maybe I didn't have a horrible disease after all. That was close.

I started reading a copy of the Tanzanian Daily News which Geoff had given me in Arusha yesterday. There were stories about chimpanzees being smuggled out of Tanzania for AIDS research, and a tragedy in a South African gold mine with fifty miners trapped underground. What a horrible thing that would be.

There was an interesting story about stowaways from Tanzania escaping to Mozambique. Eight of them had been sent back, and four of those had escaped en route. It seems as if there's a pattern of that, a stream of people trying to get out of Tanzania, rather like Chinese people escaping into Hong Kong or Macao. This piqued my curiosity, as it seemed to illustrate a lot about conditions of life there.

There was also a story about slavery in the Sudan, with members of one tribe being used as slaves by another. And a story telling of six people who have been killed by animals recently in a place called Kibaha. Apparently they were killed by lions and hippos, surprisingly the two most common "man-killers". I guess it's a big mistake to get between a hippo and the water! But on the other hand, sixty-two wild animals have been killed by game officials there. Humans 62- Animals 6.

Then there's the one about- The farmers in the Sierra Leone are going back to ox power, having found mechanized farm power "costly to run and difficult to maintain". But in order for them to return to the old ways, they first have to relearn the skills of their ancestors. I guess so! What a world we live in.

Ray and Day came by to drop off their luggage in our room. They were off on a mission to recover some Kenyan money they'd had confiscated at Nairobi airport on their way down to join this trip. Unaware of the restrictions against taking Kenyan money out of the country, they had innocently declared it to the officer- and had had it taken away. I was mildly surprised that they actually did get it back- though not without a considerable amount of bureaucratic time and trouble.

I continued reading in the newspapers and guidebooks, picking up a lot of interesting information. For instance, I had been growing very curious about the Swahili word uhuru, which seemed to appear everywhere in Tanzania and Kenya; as the name of streets and highways, in the papers, as the name of Kilimanjaro's highest peak, and I even knew it as the name of a reggae band, Black Uhuru. Now I learned that it means freedom, independence, or autonomy.

Kenya had won its Uhuru in 1963, when Jomo Kenyatta became the first president. He seems to have been a far-sighted man; even after having been exiled and imprisoned for eleven years for his part in the "Mau Mau" rebellions of the 'fifties, he swallowed his bitterness and encouraged the white settlers to stay in Kenya after independence, thereby maintaining the economic base on which to build a new and relatively prosperous country. He died in 1978, and many streets, buildings and the International Airport are named after him. He was succeeded by his Vice President, Daniel arap Moi, whose deadly-serious portrait is seen wherever you go.

The origins of the Rastafarian "dreadlocks" can also be found in old pictures of the self-styled "generals" and "field-marshals" of the freedom-fighters during the Mau Mau Rebellion, who let their long warriors' braids grow wild while they fought in the hills of Kenya.

And I learned that Nairobi was first founded as recently as 1899, as the construction headquarters for the British-built railway between the coastal city of Mombasa and Uganda. This ambitious undertaking was begun in 1896, and took six years and five million pounds to complete. It was strange to see an old photograph of the tented city on the empty plains which spawned this metropolis.

And from the "Did You Know?" file: Slavery was abolished in the British territories in 1807, but it was not until 1873 that the slave market in Zanzibar was finally closed, and the black market continued until 1907, when the last slaves in the area were emancipated.

I went down to the hotel restaurant for lunch, to find a nice smorgasbord spread out on the long tables. How very civilized! We had decided to continue charging all our meals to the rooms, in the hope that Tracks were going to pick up the tab- the least they could do, we figured. I met Janne there and we talked together for a while as others came in to join us.

Simon, Ross and Grahame returned at last, and with good news. They had actually talked to the people at the Tracks office, who claimed they had never received confirmation of our safari, nor the all-important money with which to provision for it, and had just assumed it was cancelled. Yes, they assumed it was cancelled. There had been no communication between the head office in England and Tracks in Tanzania or Kenya. No letters, telegrams, telexes, telephone calls or anything- they just assumed.

But they promised to put together something for us today, and we were to be picked up this afternoon to drive to Lake Naivasha. Naturally we were a little dubious at this point, and taking no chances and nothing for granted. We decided to wait in the lobby all right, but hold onto our room and leave the luggage in it.

But sure enough, about two o'clock a red-bearded young man, a New Zealander, came into the lobby, and told us our truck was waiting down the street. He paid me for the matatu fare from Namanga, and said he would take care of the hotel bill, including the meals. We dared to get excited now, and ran to collect our bags and get aboard. I stopped at the front desk to tell the girl that the bill was being handled by Tracks, and to snatch my credit card slip out of her hand and tear it up. She didn't like that idea very much, but I was taking no chances with this either, and destroyed it before she could protest.

The truck was about a block away, another big Bedford, only white this time instead of pink, and we spent some time putting our luggage aboard and waiting for Ron, the red-bearded tour leader. The girl from the front desk didn't seem to trust Tracks any more than we did, as she came running out to demand that someone look after this bill before we went anywhere. To mollify her, Simon went back inside to wait with her until Ron returned. We met our driver, Abdul, a tall and genial young man, whose features as much as his name told of his Arab blood.

After another half hour or so, Simon and Ron came back to the truck, and Ron climbed inside with us to explain the situation. He told us about the lack of communication, and that he had thrown this whole thing together in a morning. He was sending us off to Lake Naivasha with the crew, while he finished up the organizing and provisioning here in Nairobi, and would join us there tomorrow.

We were excited to be on safari again. (Safari, by the way, means 'to travel' in Swahili.) Spirits were high as we drove out of the city, and conversation buzzed in the open truck. Simon and I were sitting together at the back, rattling on as usual. He knows about a lot of things which I don't, and vice versa, so our conversations could be very enlightening. He was filling me in on some interesting background to the history of Israel, and we talked about Lawrence of Arabia, and the Aga Khan, then jumped across time and space to the Scots settling in Ireland, and Bonnie Prince Charlie. Alan and Carol were sitting in the seat in front of us, and being Scots they could offer some interesting facts on those last themes, and being doctor and nurse, they added some knowledge and insight to our discussions on health and nutrition. When you're theorizing and debating, it's always good to have an expert for two) on hand.

Since the cab is crowded even with three inhabitants, they had installed the fourth member of the team in the back with us, and he slouched in the middle of the front row, which faced rearwards. He was a silent and grubby-looking individual, and I noticed that his neighbors were both always turned the other way. The reason for this turned out to be the powerful stench which surrounded him like an aura, repelling any attempts at communication. I never got his real name, he might have been one of the two Charlies, but he was soon christened "Smelly".

During all this time we had been climbing steadily, the road continuing to rise before us. The surroundings were pretty, the green and fertile highlands which had attracted the first settlers to this area. It was amazing to see the differences between Kenya and Tanzania. Things like sidewalks, power lines, traffic lights, good roads, modern concrete overpasses, the great number of trucks and private cars, nice buildings and suburban houses were a striking indicator of the relative wealth of this country. We truly had been "between two worlds" yesterday.

The truck slowed down suddenly, went silent and coasted to the side of the road. I wondered what was up, and looked out to see an evil-smelling cloud of white smoke pouring from the engine. Oh boy, more fun- we had only made it about ten miles! This truck didn't look that old, but it was obviously pretty tired. If you looked over the side you could see that the rear wheels went down the road a foot or so to the right of the front wheels, and the rear springs were absolutely flat. A trickle of diesel fuel leaked continually from the tank. It was definitely a beat-up old machine they'd exhumed for us.

And now it was dead.

The four people who had been sent with us climbed out slowly and stood around looking at this incomprehensible machine, but our group knew how to swing into action! Like a well-trained military unit, a bunch of us hopped out, put some stones behind the rear wheels, and three volunteers walked off to find a telephone to get some help sent out- like, now. We no longer had any patience for African Time.

The three scouts returned with rather vague expectations, and Abdul decided to give it another try now that the engine had had some time to cool. I must admit I was surprised when the engine rattled into life, but we were off down the busy road once more- for a few miles anyway. Another cloud of white smoke came billowing out, and we rolled off the road again, the passing trucks honking at our lack of consideration.

Once again we blocked the wheels, and a detail was sent off in search of another telephone. This time they took Abdul with them, in case he could be helpful as a translator. They were gone for quite a while, and I took a walk along the roadside to pass the time. It was a pretty area, fields of green corn, plenty of trees and grass, and the view back toward Nairobi looked almost Italian, green and hazy with neat columns of Italian cypress rising here and there in the distance.

When the scouts returned, they were sure we had a couple of vans on the way to rescue us, so we settled down to wait once again. We'd been doing a lot of waiting lately. It started to get chilly as the sun descended, and we put down one of the side curtains to keep the cool wind out. We were certainly well put-out with Tracks in Kenya by now, and we laughed over the trivial complaints we'd made about the Tanzanian company. How happy we'd be now to have Dutch, Emmanuel and Henry, and that big pink truck- never mind the broken seat! It was ironic that the company in Tanzania should be so much better organized and equipped than their counterpart in the infinitely more modernized Kenya.

After a couple of hours had passed, Abdul announced that he was going to drive us into a town.

But why?", we protested, "Shouldn't we just stay here? How will the rescuers find us?"

Somehow he evaded these seemingly-reasonable questions, saying only that "it would be better" if we drove to a town, "in case you want to buy some chewing gum or something". Chewing gum? Is this guy crazy or are we?

But it was pointless to argue. There was such a language problem between us and them, as only one of the four spoke English at all well, and he wasn't even in the crew- just a friend they'd brought along for the ride. So once again the engine rattled into life, and off we drove into the darkness. We turned off the main road, and entered a small town where we pulled into the gas station, an island of bright light in darkest Africa. We were all extremely bored with "having adventures" by now, and really just wanted to get somewhere. Two days of flailing around like this was getting a bit tiresome.

An empty medium-sized bus appeared beside us at the fuel pumps, whether summoned accident I will never know. It may have been Divine Intervention; somebody was probably praying by now. With the interpretive help of Abdul and his friend, we managed to make a deal with the driver to take us to Lake Naivasha, and began transferring everything from the truck to the bus.

The bus itself was a thing of fantasy. The pale yellow paint was covered with an Abstract Expressionist rainbow of multi-colored stripes and zigzags. The only word I can think of for it is 'lurid', though perhaps 'psychedelic' applies as well There was a sign on the front: "TRADE MARK MWANGAZA", which means 'light' or 'brightness', and this bus was certainly brightness exemplified. The inside was a dizzying blend of varied patterns of linoleum on the walls and ceiling, orange, pink and red flowers, next to green and yellow squares, next to a blue, gold and green pattern. The purple and green "sex lights" gave this bizarre decor an even more nightmarish cast.

But it would get us there.

We kept Abdul with us as interpreter, and left the rest of the unlucky crew (including Smelly) with the truck to await rescue. Just before we left a couple of strangers crowded into the back with us, and when we asked who they were we were told that this was the owner of the bus and his friend. A likely story, but who wants to argue now, they can take us out and rob and murder us if they want to- as long as they take us somewhere!

When someone asked for some light as we drove along, one of the hitchers casually climbed out and right along the side of the moving bus to the front, to ask the driver to turn on the inside lights! It was all like some cheap spy movie.

About nine o'clock we drove up to the lodge if Lake Naivasha. We were told that they were expecting us, but we would have to go inside right away if we wanted dinner. We had planned to get the gear unpacked and the tents set up before eating, but we certainly needed a meal, and the bus people said they would wait there for us.

We walked into the lodge, an atmosphere of dark wood and soft lights, and felt dirty and disreputable in these elegant surroundings. We felt even more out of place among all the crisp safari suits of the other diners. The situation looked brighter after a good meal, and cheered by a couple of glasses of wine we went out to tackle setting up camp.

Once again we found ourselves putting up unfamiliar tents in the dark, only these ones, like the truck, had obviously been scraped together at the last minute, and were a motley selection of mismatched bits and pieces. Though we had the light of a bright full moon and the headlights of the bus to work by, even Abdul knew nothing about these tents, so it was like piecing together a geometric puzzle.

Eventually they were all erected, though some of them looked a bit odd, and were probably not put together the way their designers had intended them to be. They were certainly on the small side too, but at least we had shelter. I was glad to have my own foam sleeping pad, as they had sent some repulsively dirty and stained foam mattresses, and not only were they horrible- there weren't enough of them!

It's like that joke Woody Allen tells about the old woman at a hotel complaining that: the food is just terrible here", and the other woman replying: "Yes, and such small portions!"

Even the usually unflappable Ray was moved to give a message for Abdul to pass on to Ron: You tell that Ron for Christ's sake to get some new mattresses! At least enough for everybody!" Poor Abdul. He was a very likeable fellow, and it was unfortunate that he had to be the sole repository of all our discontent and indignation.

Simon was busy covering himself with thick clothing, and continually dousing insect repellent on any exposed areas. He had been told there might be mosquitos- "mozzies" here by the lake, and I've never met anyone with such "insectophobia". He was fanatical about keeping the tent closed up tight every second, and if we heard the whine of a mosquito during the night he could not rest until we'd hunted it down and killed it I told him he'd better stay away from the Canadian woods during the summer. "Didn't they have any mosquitos in Norway, Mr Lumberjack?"

As we lay there in the dark listening for marauding mozzies, we could hear the buzz of outraged voices around the camp. Everyone was thoroughly fed up now, and airing their grievances to each other irately and redundantly.

Cheryl was always among the most vocal when it came to protesting, and she had a most unfortunate slip-of-the tongue when she was enumerating our travails to the patient Abdul. She was delivering a tirade, complaining about the Truck, the tents and the mattresses with mounting fury, until she reached a fever pitch- an irrational state of outrage. Without thinking about what she was saying, she burst out with: "This isn't fit for white people!"

I bet she wished she could cut out the tongue which had done that to her.

Heri kujikwaa dole, kuliko kujikwaa ulimi.
Better to stumble with the toe than with the tongue.
(Swahili Saying)

10- lake naivasha

The sunrise over the lake was spectacular, the sky clear and lucent, and the water was smooth as oil, reflecting the colors of the dawn sky. Green hills surrounded the lake, one of the distant ones a wall of the Rift Valley. The rich, dew-soaked grass grew right down to the edge of the lake, and then there were a few feet of mud flats. The bird life in the sky, in the trees, on the water and on the shore was just fantastic. The wading birds stalked the shallows, the cormorants sat looking into the water from a post, and the shore birds picked, probed and hunted for their breakfasts all around me. I sat with my binoculars and my field guide, happily trying to give a name to all of the different species. Simon soon joined me there.

It was nice at last to get a look at our surroundings. Once again I'd arrived in the dark, and awoken in a place I'd never seen. Our camp was set on an open grassy field by the shore of the lake, shaded by tall and leafy acacia trees. There were a few other groups of campers here and there, but as it was a spacious campground there was plenty of room. The grounds of the lodge began across a little road, a rambling series of cottages leading over to the main building where we had dined last night.

With all of this bird life, the "Dawn Chorus" had been particularly active here, and I had emerged from the tent just before the sun rose. Our haphazard arrangement of tents was covered with a film of dew in the grey light, looking like a huddled settlement of squatters, and I was amused to see the word "Honymoon" (sic) stencilled on our tent flap. Some honeymoon.

Lake Naivasha is the highest of all the Rift Valley lakes, at almost six thousand feet, and is only fifty miles south of the Equator. Traces of human habitation around the lake reach back four thousand years; knives, axes and arrowheads of obsidian. More recently, it had been Maasai land until the railroad brought the first settlers here at the turn of the century, and now the land around it is all privately owned. It has been a popular resort spot through most of this century, and has become an important agricultural area, with many farms and ranches growing fruit, vegetables and flowers. The road here was built by Italian prisoners-of-war during World War II, replacing the winding trail down the Kikuyu escarpment. Joy Adamson, of Born Free fame, had made her home, Elsamere, on the shore of the lake.

Simon and I watched the birds until the sun was well up. A Grey Heron swallowed his morning frog, a Marabou Stork stood motionless in the shallows, and a pair of Fish Eagles hunted low over the water farther out. We talked a bit about the trials of the last few days. One good thing, we decided, was how close our group had become. We had definitely entered another plateau of friendship, based on trust and interdependence in action. It was good that even more people had been brought out of their shells and into the "expedition spirit". Through yesterday's farces, the usually taciturn Alan had been laughing and joking and accompanying people on the rescue missions with enthusiasm. Nothing like a few crises to bring out the best in people! I thought how glad I was to be sharing a tent with a person as sympatico as Simon on this trip- it could have been a nightmare!

And so today we rise to a new day with: no crew, no fire, no food, no truck- no nothing. We're on our own. Fortunately we have the lodge nearby, and there is running water, and showers (of a sort) here in the campground. Simon and I walked across the well-tended lawns toward the main building, commenting that it really was a beautiful place. Very tall, spreading acacia trees shaded the lodge area and the attractive guest cottages. There was a huge aviary along the gravel pathway, with peacocks, parrots, Guinea fowl and a bushy-tailed black and white Colobus monkey. It seemed strange to see birds in captivity in the middle of an area of such rich wildlife. That ol' sentimental fool Simon was disgusted by this. I didn't like it either.

Breakfast was a smorgasbord affair once more, as we were to find is common for breakfasts and lunches at the hotels and lodges in Kenya. So we were able to have a nice selection of juices, cereal, eggs, pastries and fresh fruit. This was not hard to take, but we still felt out of place with the environment.

It was a bit of reverse snobbery I suppose. Among all the well-dressed and well-heeled who were cossetted here in luxury on their "adventure in Africa" we felt a bit superior- with all of our experiences and all! It seemed so much like a game of "let's pretend" to me, as if they didn't want to get too "involved". It shouldn't bother me I know- it's their holiday- but it's the same when I see people on one of those organized bicycle trips in Europe, wearing all the latest high-tech cycling clothes, thousands of dollars worth of state-of-the-art cycling equipment, vans to carry their luggage and pick up tired riders- all of this so they can ride maybe twenty miles a day, and go home and tell their friends they've "cycled around Europe".

I have been reading a good magazine lately called Traveler, and they are at pains to draw the distinction between "traveler" and "tourist". I suppose this is another one of those fine lines, like "taste" and "quality", where the only way to know the difference is to care about the difference

After breakfast Simon and I went back to the lakeshore, and were excited to see a Goliath Heron, the largest of all the herons. It was a beautiful, majestic creature, about five feet tall, and I had been hoping to see one of these huge birds. We also saw a very funny moment in "bird world". A Grey-Heron was dozing away on one leg, standing on a rock in the water, when suddenly a playful cormorant flew by and bumped the heron with his wing, ruffling him awake and off-balance. I'd never seen anything like that- I guess there are practical jokers in the animal world as well!

We were going on a boat trip this morning, and Abdul came by the camp early to make sure that this at least would happen properly. He was going back to Nairobi this morning, so we said goodbye to poor Abdul, who was a nice fellow, and really had done everything he could for us. It wasn't his fault, and we felt bad for him.

Around 9:30 we boarded a couple of small launches, which took us out on the lake and over to Crescent Island. (Really, Crescent peninsula, when the water level, as now, is down.) The boats were small cabin cruisers, with plenty of room for seven of us in each of them, and it was a nice ride over the calm lake on this crystalline morning. The water was a pretty translucent green, like curving glass where the boat sliced through it. It was nice to be out on the open water, with a sense of space and the cool fresh air. It felt wonderful after the madness of the last couple of days. This was, as my Dad would say: "A treat instead of a treatment"!

We went ashore at a rickety wooden jetty, and were told that it was safe to walk around anywhere here, as there were no predators. The group split up into twos and threes, people wandering in whichever direction looked interesting to them. The island was quite open, a slope of long grasses broken by tall shady trees and thickets of scrub, so the walking was easy and pretty.

Right away Simon and I spotted a couple of big nests high up in the trees, which seemed to contain something. Something big. We scanned them with our binoculars, then walked closer to investigate. As we stood under them, suddenly the large shape of an immature hawk or eagle rose up, tested its unsure wings, and flapped awkwardly over to another nearby tree. We weren't sure what it was at first, but later determined it to be a young Fish Eagle. And then there was another one from the neighboring nest, rising into the air for a few seconds to land heavily on another perch. Perhaps both of them were making their first flights today. We two would-be ornithologists studied them for a while, then moved on down the shore. It was strange to see an airstrip in the middle of the island, with a small plane beside it and a jeep track leading away into the bush. That kind of took away from the sense of wildness and isolation here.

A little farther along we met up with Barbara (I think it was Barbara!), and she joined us walking across the tip of the island. There were many animals roaming free there. Waterbuck (a large antelope rather like an elk), gazelles, zebras, Wildebeest, and even wild horses. As I was creeping downwind from a herd of zebras, trying to get a close photograph, a little African Hare came darting out from the clump of grass right beside me. Some of the others even saw jackals on the other side. It was a good feeling to be walking around freely among the animals- ones that don't bite!

As the pickup time approached, people began to gather from different directions. The three of us sat down in the grass under a tree, joining Cheryl and Janne, who was nursing a twisted ankle from falling into a burrow in the ground. We lazed there in the shade for a while until we saw the boats returning for us, then walked down to the dock and got aboard.

On the way back our pilot took us to visit a large family of hippos, who were once again all but concealed under the water, their pink ears and noses a tease to those who wanted a glimpse or a photograph of something more- even a big yawn would be good!

There was still no sign of Ron, but we knew what to do. We went up to the lodge, had a fabulous lunch, and charged it all to Tracks. We thought it was only fair to make this as expensive for them as it was inconvenient for us. We had already missed camping in the Amboseli National Park, under Kilimajaro, and it looked as if we would miss the expedition to nearby Mount Longonot, with the climb into its volcanic crater. And here we were marooned in this "resort park", in Cub Scout-surplus tents, waiting once again. Admittedly, it was not a terrible place to wait.

Outside the dining room and bar was a nice covered terrace, open to a wide lawn and lush gardens. There was a large landscaped pond in the middle of the lawn, which was alive with Crowned Cranes, Black Swans and Egyptian Geese. The birds made for an interesting show to accompany a drink on the terrace. Monkeys played among the trees nearby, there was a swimming pool (if a bit green-looking), and Ross and Grahame and the twins even took advantage of the tennis courts.

With the well-trimmed lawns and raked pathways around this Safariland Lodge, the elegant guest cottages, the dining room and bar, that huge aviary, and a private, irrigated orange grove, it did seem a bit too civilized- even decadent- here. But we would get through the afternoon somehow. We knew how to make the best of a tough situation.

I took my sleeping bag and spread it out under a tree, got out my binoculars, field guide and tape recorder, and laid down in the shade. As I was becoming more and more interested in the birdlife, I had bought The Field Guide to the Birds of East Africa here at the lodge. The field guide I had bought back in Arusha was for the National Parks, and had a lot of information about the parks themselves, and pictures and descriptions of most of the animals we had seen and the commoner birds. But now that I was spending more time birdwatching, I was starting to spot the less-common species, and wanted something more complete.

So I laid there under the tree and looked through the branches above me for birds, while I brought the last two days up to date in my notes. (Not that I'd be likely to forget a moment of it! As I transcribed my tapes and notes from the day spent at the border in Namanga, months later, I started feeling unwell all over again just from reliving it!)

Simon had proposed that when (and if) Ron arrived, we should let Simon speak with him alone, instead of being greeted by a pack of outraged and raving natives. He would take him down to the little bar by the jetty for a talk, and try to deal with him reasonably and get things sorted out to everyone's satisfaction.

When I returned from a wash up at the lodge, I saw the old white Bedford parked at our camp, and figured Simon must be down at the jetty "sorting things out" with Ron. I couldn't believe that the same truck was back again, and as I walked by I saw a trickle of diesel fuel still leaking from the tank, the springs still flat, and the wheels still crabwise on its twisted frame. And this was going to take the others on the long journey to the Maasai Mara tomorrow!

Seeing this I was glad I was getting out in the morning. I hated to leave the trip before the end, especially after all we'd been through together, but now 1 wouldn't mind strapping on my parachute and "bailing out".

During the afternoon I saw the "proper" way to go on a camping safari. A large truck pulled into the campground, and the crew unloaded and set up a neat circle of large square tents. Then a pair of vans drove up, one of them full of luggage and bedding, the other with food and cooking supplies. The efficient crew went to work furnishing the tents, setting up the beds and a portable washstand outside each tent. A fire is soon going, food is being prepared, lanterns are hung by each tent- all is ready for the guests, who are probably still out looking at animals. There is certainly merit in that idea, but even looking over at our "squatter's camp", I thought that being a 'do-it-yourselfer' was probably more satisfying- if less professional-looking.

I also have a developing theory that it is better to travel on these cheaper excursions than on the luxury trips- you simply meet "a better class of people". People who want to travel somewhere exciting, but are perhaps on a budget, and don't mind "roughing it" a bit. Thus there's little complaining about petty things, everyone expects a bit of work and discomfort, and, as we saw yesterday, you really become a group, not just a bunch of people thrown together. As I've found on cycling trips, you really make good friends on a trip like that. People are there prepared to "work at having fun", in a difficult environment, so you at least have that much in common already. No one expects it to be "just like back home".

And when you meet an especially kindred spirit, like Simon, or several good people I met in China, you have the fun of sharing these kinds of experiences with a new friend, the excitement of exploring a new person and a new place at the same time. Since you're sharing an experience you'll never forget so you'll never forget the people with whom you shared it

In the late afternoon most of us gathered on the terrace at the lodge for a drink, experimenting with a curious variety of mixed tropical drinks. Simon joined us, looking exhausted from his marathon of diplomacy. Over a couple of beers he had made clear to Ron what we'd been through and what we expected of the company, and had received Ron's assurances that "all would be well".

Ron claimed that the truck had died yesterday because Abdul didn't know how to drive it properly, and that it could be driven in a way to prevent it overheating. He admitted the truck was "knackered", but he knew how to keep it going. He promised a good trip to the Maasai Mara, which is the Kenyan side of the Serengeti, and was going to prepare us a steak dinner himself tonight.

That all sounded good. But poor Simon really did look-drained. The effort of being nice when he was just as irate as any of us, and trying diplomatically to make the situation as constructive as possible had worn him out. He sat down in a chair on the terrace, ordered his first drink, and didn't stir from the bar for many hours.

Most of us headed back to camp as the sun began to get low over the hills across the lake. It was a beautiful still evening, pleasantly cool at this altitude, and everything was so green and vibrant-looking in the soft light. There was a hush, and we walked quietly in the shadows of the tall trees.

There had been some debate about "Smelly". Yes, he was back, as assistant cook, and some people were a little upset about a person of his "hygienic distinction" handling their food. There were demands to have him sent back, which Ron agreed to if that was what we wanted, but Alan spoke up with a doctor's realism and authority (and a fine Scottish lilt): "I think you're over-reacting a bit. Ron can't do everything himself, and besides, I'm sure those Tanzanian boys couldn't ha' washed but once in a week."

So reason prevailed over fastidiousness and body odor.

We gathered around the fire which Ron had started. We introduced ourselves to him- as well as a dozen or so people can be introduced to a newcomer. "Got all those names, Ron?" He was an interesting fellow; from New Zealand, lean, of moderate height, with wild red hair and a wild red beard. He had the nickname of "Toose", short for Tucson, he explained, because he had been a rodeo rider in his native country (they have rodeos in New Zealand!). All this was such an unlikely origin for a nickname that we took it up. After he'd tired of that avocation, he had gone to England and found a job driving double-decker tour buses across Europe and the Middle East. He had some wild tales to tell of flying bullets and evil highwaymen in some of those troubled countries. He had done some white water rafting on the Zambezi before getting into the safari business out here, so he had certainly been around, and now he was trying to get a job doing rafting trips in the Sierra Nevada mountains in America.

Kathy put together a big salad, while Toose worked on cutting up some meat. He had a big bag of charcoal to burn, but there was no firewood around for a brighter after-dinner fire. I took the panga and a flashlight (I almost said torch!) and went in search of some. The moon hadn't risen yet, and it was very dark, but there was a fallen tree somewhere over that way, and I hoped I could find it and cut off some branches. Ray and Ross followed me over, bringing more light to bear as I hacked away, and more hands to carry back what I could cut. I'd managed to slice off a small pile of brush, when suddenly I felt a sharp stab in my wrist as I swung the blade against a branch, and looked down to see a four-inch thorn embedded deeply in my wrist. Ouch! It had a little barb on the end, which made it no fun to get out, and it hurt a lot even once I'd removed it. Poor baby!

Remembering "The Snows of Kilimanjaro", where the hero dies of gangrene from a wound caused by a thorn scratch, I handed the panga over to Ross and Ray, and went back to camp to put some disinfectant and a bandage on it. I didn't want to die of a suppurating, smelly wound like Harry did in the story.

Dinner was soon ready, with everyone helping and contributing any way they could, and it was delicious. Toose had come up with some fabulous beef from Nairobi, the best I had in Africa, and the salad and potatoes were delicious as well.

Simon remained up at the bar, along with Janne and Cheryl. The meals were so big here that the girls hadn't been hungry after a mammoth lunch, so they stayed there keeping him company. We were all surprised to see Cheryl walk all the way back to camp, prepare a beautiful steak sandwich, and carry it all the way back up to the lodge- for Simon. Throughout the trip these two had been a little like cats and dogs, and being of different temperaments but both quite "vocal", they had been mildly "at" each other all the time.

One night around the campfire Simon had made one of his frequent humorously silly remarks, and Cheryl had exclaimed: "Oh Simon, you're such a flip!"

Now, none of we non-Australians were exactly sure what a flip was, but we thought it was probably not very nice.

I think their mutual roles in the last few adventures had made them appreciate each other a little more, Cheryl dealing with the matatu pirates yesterday, and Simon's diplomacy with Toose today had proven their mutual willingness and ability to "pitch in".

After dinner I walked away from camp a little bit, to sit on a fencepost and look up at the night sky. It was clear and black; with a few high cumulus clouds edged with silver by the bright full moon. An acacia tree was silhouetted perfectly in the white sphere, and the black and silver of the African sky was magical.

I was thinking about this journal and I had a problem. I was really serious about making this story good and true, and had been collecting all the information and impressions I could for the background. More, I had been trying to know these people well enough to be able to understand and describe them a little bit. I wanted to go deeper than I'd gone before, into the place and into the people.

But inevitably, in a group this size, there was someone I didn't like. How should I handle this? It would certainly be honest to be open about it, to describe all the acts, statements, and attitudes that so irritated me, and it might even add a nice thread of tension to the narrative. A little "purple prose".

But it would seem kind of cruel and unfair. I mean, I'm sure such people don't mean to be bad, they're just different from me, and if they irritate me I try to keep it to myself. There's little point in arguing with someone who sees the world completely differently from you, unless they're at least intelligent enough to make the debate stimulating. This, however, was not the case here.

I used to be against the idea of the "compassionate lie", a belief which John Steinbeck defended in one of his books as often more humane than the truth. I disagreed at the time I read it, convinced of the principle that the truth is always better than a lie. Now I'm not so sure. I remember a line of dialogue from some movie where a father said to his son: "You're so full of what's right, you can't see what's good", and I think there's a lot of truth in that observation, as it sometimes applies to myself, anyway.

So I will forbear. I'll follow my method in past cases like this; just mention the person as seldom as possible. No lurid litany of hatred and vitriol, no snarling outrage at the latest irritation. No character assassination.

It's right to be honest. It's good to be gentle.

Maafuu hapatilizwi.
You don't take vengeance on silliness.
(Swahili Saying)

11- cabbages and kings

I had wandered back up to the lodge to see how Simon was getting along, and found him holding court inside the bar, everyone gathered in a large circle around one of the large tribal drums that was used for a table. They asked me for a concert on the drum, but I laughingly declined, saying: "you can't afford me!" I ordered a brandy and enjoyed the high spirits of the group for a while, everyone talking and laughing gaily. When I started to feel tired, and got up to go, Simon announced that he was tired as well, and we walked back in the darkness together.

We undid all the zippers and ties that Simon had insisted upon closing to keep the 'mozzies' away, and crawled into the little tent. It was small enough that we had to lay out our beds one at a time, then take turns undressing and getting into our sleeping bags. Simon figured that our last night as tentmates was worthy of commemoration, and brought out his precious bottle of single-malt whisky. Our nearest neighbors were Alan and Carol, and Simon decided that since they were Scots they might appreciate a taste as well, and called over to them through the wall of the tent. Carol pleasantly declined for both of them, saying they'd had enough to drink, but Alan came over anyway, though under protest. I had the top of my flask to drink from, while Alan was using the cap from an aerosol can as a cup, and Simon filled both of thorn before he tipped the bottle up and drank from it- a man of simple tastes.

Alan crouched there in our crowded tent for a few minutes, then left us, and Simon and I drifted into conversation, this time far enough away from our neighbors not to disturb anyone, we hoped. The tent was dimly lit by the glow of an upended flashlight, with fading batteries, but we could just make out each other's features and expressions, and we could just see to get the drinks to our lips!

And now the time had come to speak of many things...

Simon: "Yes, I do know what you mean, I have no patience with stupidity either. Didn't Oscar Wilde say the only sin is stupidity?"

"Among other things, I think he did. But there's stupidity- and there's stupidity. You won't believe this, but I have a theory about that!"

"No!"

(laugh) "Oh yes!"

"Well, I've certainly never known you to have a theory before!"

"Ha ha. All that has changed now! The word I like in this case is 'simple', if you see the distinction. To call someone simple has unpleasant connotations these days, but I think that kind of character- I mean simple in the sense of not complex- can be very nice in a person. People whose needs and tastes are very straightforward and honest, as they are as people. I often find a 'simple' person is very agreeable to be around, and a good friend. It's the other kind of stupid that drives me nuts- the small mind with a big mouth syndrome, you know what I mean."

"Yes- and whom!"

"Well. . ."

"Never mind. But yes, I've known people like that too. Like you said, uncomplicated, like country people can be. Big-hearted, unpretentious and ruled by common sense."

"Right. But it's a matter of temperament too- not having that good quality warped by envy, self-delusions, or meanness, as it more often is."

"There's a word for that, that smallness of spirit."

"Yes, it's a great word too- pusillanimous- small of soul."

(laugh) "That's good, but it's not a pretty word, is it?"

"No, not pretty, but it's not a pretty way to be either."

"I wonder sometimes if intelligence isn't a kind of curse, and if there isn't something to the 'ignorance is bliss' idea."

"Sometimes, yeah, I suppose it is better, but ignorance also causes bigotry, and mob-rule, and other nasty stuff. Maybe simplicity is bliss, and ignorance is just stupid."

(laugh) "Maybe."

Eetai ta oshi moda nen.
There is a kind of man who is both foolish and wise.
(Maasai Wisdom)

"Well, I'm a rugby and cricket man myself, though I play a little bit of a traditional kind of tennis, called Real Tennis, but in any sport that fellow's kind of behavior gets me peed off."

"Simon, you're being unfair. I think you have to understand that a professional athlete like that is under an incredible amount of pressure. Not only from within, but people are watching every move he makes, on or off the court, and every day there are people measuring his performances, in split-seconds and fractions of an inch. Most people just don't have to work like that. And probably couldn't work like that. I know I couldn't, it's bad enough just having to live up to my own expectations, let alone anyone and everyone else's!"

"That's no excuse for being a childish boor, and disrupting the game like he does."

"Well, perhaps not, but I've met the guy a couple of times, and he's really a quiet and insecure sort of person. He even looks up to musicians- of all people- and calls himself 'just a tennis bum'. But when he's out there playing, he gets intense. He has no mercy for his own mistakes, and no patience to pay for anyone else's bad judgement or bad call, Think about it; for him the strain and the pressure of being at the top are enough that at twenty-five years old the guy started to lose it, and feel washed up already."

"That's because he's a soft colonial!"

"Simon!"

"All right, all right. But I've met other well-known people, maybe not as famous as he is, but soccer and rugby players who have had a certain amount of fame, and they're not like that."

"Well I think it's different in team sports, a team can share the pressure and compensate for each other's weaknesses. Though I have a friend who played for the Montreal Canadiens hockey team, and he used to live in a normal suburb of Montreal, just like a regular person, but he couldn't even take the dog for a walk without everyone in the neighborhood telling him what the coach should be doing, and how the team should be playing. And of course it's different for different people, it washes off the easy-going types- though I've never met a 'normal' person who liked it- while some people are driven mad by it. And the press! That poor guy's been driven nuts by the press, especially in Britain. Down on Fleet Street they just love to get people stirred up about the 'ugly American'. He didn't dare even bring his wife with him to Wimbledon this year."

"Oh come on, I don't think anyone in that position has a right to complain. It comes with the job, there are rewards, and there are penalties."

"Yes, that's true, but the rewards and the penalties aren't the same for everybody. Some people just wanted to excel at their jobs, they never wanted to be famous. And having paid the high price for the thing they wanted, they find they're expected to pay for what they don't want too. You can't do anything about it but it's not fair. Some people, like Paul Newman, have even tried to fight it by refusing to sign autographs, tired of hearing 'oh, take off those sunglasses so we can see your blue eyes'."

"Yes, I saw him on the telly talking about that, and I thought he sounded like a right bastard!"

"Well, there you go. I've had only a small amount of fame to deal with, and I truly can't imagine how awful it would be to be that well-known. Like Greta Garbo; she never said she wanted to be alone, she said she wanted to be left alone. But for me, I admire Newman's courage and honesty. It's hard to fight the whole machinery of fame, as I've learned, but he just wants to be left alone to do his work, that's all. I can certainly understand that, and it shouldn't be too much to ask. And he does good work, too. Like Humphrey Bogart said; 'the only thing you owe the public is a good performance."

"Well- look where it got him!"

"Simon!"

Akili ni mail.
Ability is wealth.

Ivumayo haidumu.
What is famed does not last.
(Swahili Sayings)

12- the road to nairobi

Before sunrise I was out on the dock again to watch the birds. The full moon was still a few degrees above the western horizon, and the sun hadn't cleared the trees in the east, but the sky was pink almost all the way around. A film of heavy dew lay on the boats which were tied up at the dock, and it was cool and pleasant. A little way out a small native fishing boat drifted slowly across the water, silhouetted against the mist which floated above the lake.

It is only in the past year that I have really come to appreciate the earliest hours of the day- (though in younger days I was more likely to see it from the other side!). During the summer at the cottage I had been rising at 6:00 every morning, and alternate days either going out on my bicycle, or working at my writing on the computer out in the garage. There's something beautiful about the first light, about the sunrise, in the way it looks and the way it feels inside, that is more powerful than any sunset. It is full of promise and anticipation, rather than finality and fulfilment, and anyway; I always like the beginning better than the end of something.

The giant Goliath Heron was back, and a smaller Grey Heron, and there was a flock of the odd-looking Sacred Ibis scavenging along the shore. These last are a strange bird, quite large and covered with white feathers except for the black-skinned head and neck, a long black downward-curved bill, and a beautiful spray of delicate blue-black feathers at the back. I never did find out why they're called the Sacred Ibis, but I like them. Ducks, cormorants, coots and crakes hunted for breakfast in their various ways, and there was a noble Fish Eagle perched on a stick farther out. It is truly a birdwatcher's dream here.

This was my last morning with the group, and Simon was going to meet me here to watch the birds together for the last time. I was going to miss that guy! It's not easy to find people who can make you laugh and make you think!

By the time we came back to camp a fire was going, and everyone was stirring. The sun was bright in a clear sky, with just a couple of clouds off to the southwest, and it was a beautiful, sparkling morning. We got our tent taken down and our gear packed up, as we heard Toose trying to start the truck. He had been using the headlights to illuminate the food-preparing last night, and now the battery was dead. The starter made a low grinding sound once or twice, then was silent. Everyone was recruited to try to give this big behemoth a push start, but even with a dozen people pushing, it was hard to get it rolling. We rocked it back and forth, and strained away at it until it finally sputtered into life.

Janne turned to me and said: "I bet you're glad you're leaving now!"

I nodded and laughed: "Really!"

At least they only had to make it to the Maasai Mara today, where they would be spending the next three nights, and then the truck had only to get them back to Nairobi- or for that matter they could probably hitch-hike from there! They'll be okay.

There were many tame monkeys around the campsite, Black-faced Vervets, and while Toose was off filling up with water we had some fun with them. Grahame coaxed some of the more fearless of them down out of the trees to take some food from his hand, and it was funny to see their different characters- the brave ones who ran right up to take it, the shy ones who wanted to- but were a little afraid, the greedy ones who came back for more, and the mothers with babies, who were the most timid of all. They just looked on hungrily from a safe perch.

Finally we were driving out of the park, and we were all glad to be moving on once again. We'd had enough of this place, and we all had a long way to travel today. We drove into the town of Naivasha, a few miles away, where I hoped to find a ride into Nairobi. As we pulled up to the bus station, I heard "La Isla Bonita" blasting distortedly out of a shop door, and it reminded me poignantly of my daughter Selena. It had been her favorite song all summer, and so often we had been driving around the roads of Quebec with the top down and that song playing up very loud. I'd been thinking lately that I couldn't wait to share all this with my wife and daughter, missing them and hoping they would like Africa as much as I did. They would be here in another week or so- but first I had to climb that stupid mountain!

The truck came to a stop on the hot and dusty street, and it was time to say goodbye. I would like to have said something to each person individually, but that was difficult under circumstances, so I just said goodbye and good luck to everyone, and told them: "If I had to through all of this I'm glad it was with you lot!", and I meant it. Simon climbed down to help me with my backpack, and we embraced warmly and promised to keep in touch. Toose considerately walked over with me to make sure I found some transportation.

The bus station itself was an open square, with about four big buses and several smaller ones parked in the middle. All of them had paint jobs worthy of "TRADE MARK MWANGAZA", and they were all just crammed with people, their roofs piled high with boxes and baskets. The outside of the square was lined with stalls of wood and corrugated metal, and seemed to double as a market square as well. Loud music of a nondescript nature blared out from many of the stalls, and Toose told me it was local East African music, which he didn't find too impressive. The music of southern and western Africa was a lot more interesting, he said, but for some reason it was pretty bland in this area.

Stopping at one of the stalls, he asked about buses into Nairbbi, and was told that they were all full, which, when you looked around, certainly seemed to be true. The man said they were always full "this time of the month", whatever that meant, as it was the ninth of September! I had thought a bus trip might be an interesting addition to my experiences, but I told Toose that I wasn't really keen on another matatu journey. It didn't really matter, as we were told they were all full as well. When we asked when there might be another bus, they just shrugged and said: "maybe a couple of hours". African Time, remember.

We asked about private taxis, which seemed to be what they wanted us to do in the first place, and were told I could get one, but it would cost an outrageous 800 shillings to go the miles into Nairobi. It was bargaining time and I got into it now I started the bargaining at 350, and then worked up to 500, when the "dispatcher" went to consult with someone presumably the driver. He returned and said it would have to be 600 shillings, which was still almost fifty dollars, but I could see that this would be the final price, and acquiesced. wasn't really any choice, being "this time of the month" and all. I didn't want to stand around there in the hot sun for a couple of hours and try to squeeze onto a sardine-packed bus or a death-trap matatu, so I said I would take it. I shook hands with Toose, thanked him for his help, and wished him good luck on the drive to the Maasai Mara. Now I was alone.

In a few minutes an ancient Peugeot pulled up before us, and I threw my pack into the back seat and climbed in beside it. I was glad that the car's trunk didn't seem to open, as with the back seat filled by the pack and me, it would eliminate the usual practice of cramming a few more passengers in for the ride. As we drove through the little town I asked the driver if he lived here in Naivasha, and he said he did. I remarked that it seemed like a nice place to live. Being a small town on the shore of the lake, it was pretty and at least would have plenty of water. He said that it was a good place to live, and that would be about the extent of our conversation.

He said he had to get some petrol, and we pulled into a station and filled up. My last 150 shillings went to pay for the fuel, and I would have to change some more money when we got to the New Stanley to pay the fare. But once again I was in the situation of being without ready cash, and if this dilapidated old car failed to make it and I had to find some other way, I would be in trouble.

Next he announced that we had to pick up a spare tire, and we drove out into the country, in the opposite direction from Nairobi. I suppose it's natural to feel a bit uneasy in a situation like that, you feel kind of helpless and alone in a strange, strange world, and I was certainly wondering: "Where is he taking me?"

But we ended up driving into the "US Peace Corps Training Center", of all places, where he borrowed a wheel from a friend of his who worked there. Then it was back into Naivasha to pick up his driver's licence from a garage, and still one more stop to pick up his friend, whom he was bringing along for company I guess. Finally we were on the road to Nairobi.

It was a very good road, along the top of a high ridge which formed one wall of the Rift Valley, and the views were tremendous. It was a clear and sunny morning, and everything shone in bright shades of green and blue. I could see for miles back down into the valley, over Lake Naivasha and the beautiful Mount Longonot, and I wished we'd done that climb yesterday. It might have made a good warmup for Kilimanjaro. This was an area of rich farmland, and there were stalls along the highway selling vegetables, sheepskins, baskets and big pails of potatoes. It was again a striking contrast to Tanzania, though there were yet a few donkey carts, and plenty of poor-looking pedestrians.

At highway speed the little car trembled and rattled and shook, feeling very unstable on the road. It seemed to be protesting against this undignified rate of travel, and again I wondered if it would make it. Somehow the body and wheels seemed to move independently- they didn't seem to be connected.

The driver and his friend kept up a non-stop dialogue in some unknown language, I don't think it was Swahili, and for some reason they felt compelled to shout every word. At first it was interesting to speculate on what it was they were discussing- sports, politics, women, gossip?- but after a while it just became tiresome, and I wished they would shut up for a while.

I was happy to finally see the outskirts of Nairobi approaching, to be back in semi-familiar territory, and we wove our way through the busy streets of the city and up to the New Stanley. The driver's buddy came in with me while I changed a traveler's cheque and paid them off, and then I checked myself into the hotel and went up to my room.

The room was like one in a slightly run-down old English hotel, but it was neat and clean, and as I looked around at the double bed, the mini-bar, the TV and the nice bathroom I let out a spontaneous "yahoo!"- real civilization. The tape recorded me laughing with pleasure; "it looks great. It's nice to be here." A hotel room is a comfortable environment for me after many years of traveling, and I felt right at home in this one too.

The first thing I did was empty out my backpack, which was almost entirely full of dirty clothes at this point. I called down to the front desk to ask them to pick up my laundry and have it done, then luxuriated in a hot bath. Heaven! Dressing in the last of my clean clothes, I went down to the Thorn Tree Café for some lunch. My laundry still hadn't been picked up, and I asked about it once more at the front desk on my way by. They assured me it would be looked after. Sure.

The Thorn Tree is a famous meeting-place, going back to the days of the big-game hunters. There is a tall acacia tree growing up through the sidewalk café outside, which gives the place its name, and which stretches up about fifty feet in front of the hotel. I saw a plaque stating that this tree had been planted in 1961, replacing the original one. Around it is a four-sided notice board, covered with messages left by people for other travelers, and from people looking for others to share the price of a safari.

I ordered the lunch special, Impala Stew, which was a tasty, beef-like meat dish. It was interesting- in a sick kind of way- to eat one of the animals I'd been looking at in the wild. Don't get me wrong- I wouldn't buy a rhino horn backscratcher or anything, but Impala are far from endangered. I was hoping to get a chance to eat some Thomson's Gazelle, I certainly knew they weren't endangered- no more than rabbits are anyway! The cute little Impala- was accompanied by a Kenyan side-dish called "Irio", like Mashed potatoes with corn and greens blended in. A glass of wine, the forgotten luxury of ice cream, and a cup of delicious coffee made me feel good. And so clean!

I walked out into the streets of Nairobi, enjoying the feeling of big city streets under my feet once again. The other morning didn't count; I'd been feeling poorly and everything had been too uncertain for me to take pleasure in my surroundings. Now I noticed that downtown Nairobi is quite pretty, with some nice open squares, and many jacaranda, palm and acacia trees lining the streets. The streets were thronged with a multi-racial crowd of people, and there were a great number of street pedlars and beggars. It is difficult to picture it as it would have looked in the days of the colonials. It's a new city, and as with North American cities, it's all changed too much and too fast. You can't squint your eyes and see how it would have been, as you can in older European cities like London, Paris or Venice.

Almost immediately I was accosted by a young man, respectable-looking and well-spoken.

"How do you like Kenya?"

I replied that I liked it fine.

"I am a student, please take ten or fifteen minutes to tell me about your country. Do you have a nice climate in your country like in Kenya"

I smiled and told him that I was from Canada, and no, we didn't have a climate like Kenya's.

"From Canada? What do you know about the University of Saskatchewan?"

This raised my eyebrows, but I had to say that I didn't know much about the University of Saskatchewan, as I lived a long way from there.

"How about the University of Guelph, or Western University?"

I said, quite truly, that I knew of them, but couldn't really tell him anything worthwhile about them.

I was getting a little suspicious about the meaning of this exchange, and when he suggested that "maybe we could go somewhere and talk about your country", I began to look for a way to gracefully get out of this conversation. I wasn't sure what he was after, but I was sure it wasn't information about Canada, and suggested he would do better to find some books to read about Canada if he was really interested.

But he wasn't letting me go easily, and continued to press. He left me only one opening, but not an easy one, by acting insulted and saying: "Well, if you think I am just wasting your time-".

Maybe he knew that Canadians have a tendency, probably inherited from the English, to avoid a confrontation by going along with an insistent person. But this time he would be disappointed, as I am too used to people wanting to waste my time, and it is the only thing that I am greedy and selfish about. (So I say, anyway.)

I just said: "Yes, I think you are wasting my time. Goodbye.", and walked away from him. I can't imagine what he was really after, it seemed like a lot of trouble he was going to compared to the other "street people" who just uttered a straightforward "Change money? Change money? Good rate!", or "You want to buy nice elephant-hair bracelet? I give you good price." (Judging by the number of people selling elephant-hair bracelets, supposedly made from the elephant's thick tail hairs, there must be a lot of bald-tailed elephants in Kenya!), even the voice in the crowd chanting the offer of "Marijuana? Marijuana?".

Street crime is a major problem in Nairobi, they tell you in the guide books and in the hotels not to walk anywhere at night, and to be very careful even in the daytime. The black market is very active in money, drugs and flesh, and as we saw at the border, corruption is simply a way of life. Whatever my young accoster was up to, I knew I wanted no part of it. It took me a while to adjust to constantly being approached and hailed by these entrepreneurs of the street, and at first it made me very uneasy. After a few days I became hardened, and could wave them away convincingly enough to be effective.

There were a few things I wanted to buy here; odd-sized "N" batteries for my flashlight and an alarm clock, some new mini-cassettes for my recorder, and a bag in which I could leave some of the stuff I wouldn't need on Kilimanjaro. The hotels are used to people going out on safari and wanting to leave unnecessary luggage behind, and are glad to look after it for you. By the time I'd picked up these items and walked around the central area, I'd had enough of being hassled every few feet for one thing or another, and picked up a couple of newspapers and went back to my room. The big bag of laundry still sat by the door, and it looked as if I was on my own with that as well.

It was wonderful to sit down in a comfortable chair, put my feet up, pour myself a whisky from the mini-bar, and sit back to read the newspapers. I had bought an International Herald Tribune, half to see what was going on in the world and half to do the crossword puzzle, but first I turned to the Kenya Times. Although the typesetting was sometimes so bad as to be incomprehensible, it was still a good insight into the "local scene".

I read that the borders have been closed to the neighboring country of Burundi, as there has been a military takeover while the President was attending a convention of francophone countries in- ironically- Quebec. Several Burundi nationals were stranded here in Nairobi without money or places to stay.

There was a lot of outrage in the Kenya papers the whole time I was there, after Amnesty International had accused them of holding forty thousand-odd children in their jails, and of having committed numerous civil rights violations. It's hard to weed out the facts in a case like this, but it seems as if there were a few Kenyans in Europe, particularly in Scandinavia, who were painting an unattractive picture of internal affairs at home. President Moi had made strong speeches defending his country's civil rights record, and government officials were saying that Kenyans abroad attacking their country were "no better than someone abusing one's mother while away". Well. Who's to know?

Letters to the editor are the most interesting part of a newspaper to me (well- next to the crossword puzzle). They tell you more about what's really going on in a place- or at worst they tell you a lot about the paper you're reading, whether you're at home or in a strange country. An interesting debate was going on between Muslims, Jews and Christians through this medium. It was interesting and refreshing because this debate didn't involve smears, violence, vandalism, or the kind of mindless "isms" that are often the result of religious disagreement. The debate seemed to go on for several weeks, and centred around some serious intellectual arguments. Passages of the Bible, Torah and Quran were quoted to prove that Jesus was sent only for the Jews, and there was a fascinating debate surrounding the number of errors in the Bible- "50,000 errors in the Bible" read the headline. This also involved the number of changes that had been made in the Bible to suit the "learned men" of later times, a question I've wondered about too. I found this fascinating, both the subject of this debate, and also the dignified way in which it was being conducted. A "gentleman's disagreement".

There was one letter that I have to quote verbatim- it would lose too much in the translation.

Alone in the wilderness

Recently I happened to have been travelling to Naivasha town for the first time. I was going to visit a relative living in a certain institute near the town. Unfortunately I reached the place at 8:00 pm when it was not easy to find my way to the destination.

After the bus, which was heading for Nairobi, had left me in the dark by the roadside, some one and half kilometres from the town, I could not tell the direction of my destination since, I could no longer follow the map which had been drawn to help me.

By the roadside where I stood was near a junction of Naivasha town road and the wide and busy road by-passing the town to Nairobi. At this junction a matatu, or possibly a private van, from town stopped suddenly aiming at joining the main road by-passing the town to Nairobi. Here is I thought I could be helped so I rushed to the driver seeing that he did not speak languages I tried to use gestures and a few broken swahili words with the intention that this gentleman could either guide me or advise me on what to do.

At first he seemed to be getting my message but he further asked me numerous questions, one after the other, until I could not understand him any more. The gentleman, seeing that I did not answer his questions drove off at once.

In fact, the man almost crushed me because I was very close to the car.

At this place I could easily have been killed by wild animals although what the man did could not make me see a clear destination between him and the wild animals. Personally I think unity is strength and we should be well united so that we can make Kenya a better and safer place to leave in I fail to define a nation when people behave in this manner. I am worried about where we are heading to.

R. Owiti,
Homa Bay

Well. Me too.

A sad note was struck by the headline announcing: "55 Kenyan Lorries Stranded in Uganda". Sad because these fifty-five trucks had been on their way to deliver wheat and food to Ethiopia and the Sudan, and had been stranded due to: "insecurity in the north" of Uganda. Evidently that country is quite unstable since the iron hand of Amin was overthrown by the Tanzanians, and there is often "trouble in the north".

But enough seriousness. I turned to the inside back page of the Herald Tribune- the crossword puzzle.

And later, the full moon rose once again to silhouette an acacia tree, as it had last night over Lake Naivasha, only this time it shone into a hotel room, illuminating a young man laying back in a chair with a pen in his hand, flipping through the pages of a notebook. The room was untidy, with a heap of clothes exploded out of a blue backpack, newspapers open all over the place, the television showing a school choir singing in Swahili, and the remains of a room service dinner on the table.

Mwiikaria ndari haro.
He who lives alone has no quarrel.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

13- out of kenya

The next morning I went down to the Thorn Tree Café for breakfast, then across the street to a kind of department/grocery store. I bought a small box of New Blue Omo Powder, the one I'd seen Dutch and Emmanuel using back at Simba Camp, then went up to attack my laundry.

It's a good thing I've learned on cycling trips how to do laundry in hotel sinks, as the washing instructions and everything but the name on the detergent box was in Swahili. It seems a simple enough task, but I was used to machines doing these jobs!

A few pairs of socks in the sink is one thing, but this time there was a lot of laundry, and it was really dirty, so it would have to be the bathtub. And there I was the old washerwoman, down on my knees by the tub, wringing the sands of the Serengeti out of my clothes. The amount of dirt was unbelievable. I had to refill the tub four or five times for each bunch of laundry, as the water turned dark brown again and again

The next problem was to get it all dry. I had wet clothes hanging from the laundry rack over the tub, from the shower curtain rod, from the wardrobe closet, from the sink, over the suitcase stand- everywhere, but I doubted if it would be dry by the time I had to leave tomorrow. I'd have to think of something.

This satisfying task completed, I left everything to "drip-dry", and went out on the streets for a walk around town. I strolled through the big indoor market, which contained two colorful floors of stalls selling all kinds of produce and meats, and then into the outdoor market which was full of the inevitable carvings, spears and shields, baskets, batik and jewelry. Nothing irresistible there.

I walked along a street that was the "automotive row" of Nairobi, and it was strange to see the dealers' windows full of shiny new cars. In contrast to the empty showrooms of Arusha, here there was a wide variety of brand-new Daihatsu, Opel, Honda, Peugeot, Toyota, Mitsubishi, Nissan, Alfa Romeo and Mercedes-Benz models. I even saw a couple of MGB's on the street, a car I always notice as it was my own first car, but it was remarkably out of place here- this small and temperamental British sports car on the roads of Africa.

I made my way over to the National Museum on the outskirts of town, and went inside. I started my visit at a really good display on the geological formation of the earth, particularly in regard to the Rift Valley, and Kenya's lakes, volcanoes and natural mineral resources. The museum has a large collection of watercolors painted by Joy Adamson of the many species of plant life, and a fairly good selection of mounted animals and fish. I was amused to see one of the latter which was called- I swear- the "Shit Eating Fish". I did a double take when I first looked at the name, thinking I'd read it wrong, or someone had changed the sign. But sure enough, there it was, and it had received its name because the fishermen believed it fed on sewage. Even the Latin word, Scatophagus I think it was, translates into the same curious name.

Most interesting of all was the prehistory section. Since the director of the museum is Richard Leakey, of the famous archaeological family who made many of their significant discoveries in Kenya and Tanzania, the museum has access to some wonderful exhibits. Here the major archaeological sites in the two countries are thoroughly documented, how they have been excavated and what was found there. The tools and weapons of different ages are on display, as well as many fossils.

The stages in the development of modern man are well illustrated by charts and pictures, and also by an excellent diorama which shows a three-dimensional representation of three different periods of our ancestry; full-size mannequins of men, women and children living and hunting on the African plains. I was amused to see one of the groups portrayed eating Thomson's Gazelle tartare- I knew they'd be good eating!

Our old friend the Zinjanthropus Man from Olduvai goes back 1,700,000 years, and they've traced modern man- homo sapiens- back to only thirty thousand years ago. Upstarts. Characteristics typical of homo erectus and homo sapiens go back as far as two hundred thousand years, but I never knew that some of the "famous skulls", like Australopithecus, were thought to be from evolutionary branches which didn't evolve, but became extinct. Prehistoric endangered species.

The Theory of Evolution was revived in my thoughts by all of this, and it occurred to me that the one element I hadn't given proper weight to in my Olduvai reflections was time. We're talking millions and millions of years here (sounds like Carl Sagan)- who can say what might or might not happen in a time frame like that? There may have been so many different mutations, and stages of mutation, which gradually created a more adaptable creature. Just one genetic accident, even only once in ten thousand years, would bring about a change that would be passed on.

But I don't know, it still makes my brain hurt. What about webbed feet? Opposable thumbs? Antlers? Eyelids? Sex?

Another thing I learned is that the earliest known city is Jericho, estimated at ten thousand years ago. And the walls came tumbling down. . . I suppose that it was just one of the first cities built of stone- and so the first one whose ruins would survive. We know what happened to the house of straw, and the one of sticks. I'll huff, and I'll puff . .

There are full-scale reproductions of cave paintings which were made by the Leakey family, and I found these really fascinating. Having become quite interested in painting in the last few years, it was exciting to see the very beginning of it all. It seems the oldest known art dates back about 35,000 years, and these were already highly-stylized cave paintings of animals and daily life. Interesting that the urge to decorate, the urge to express something in pictures, should be so deeply ingrained in us from earliest times. It is also significant that there should be such individual styles evident as well, where the work of different painters of the time can actually be told apart.

I believe these first known works of art were found in caves in Spain, and it is interesting that the modes of form and line in which they worked are reflected so clearly in the famous Spanish artists of this century- like Picasso and Miro.

Back at the hotel, I moved from these visions of our earliest beginnings, to the pinnacle of modern civilization- the hair dryer. I borrowed one from the hotel, put the luggage stand on top of a table to make a clothesline, and sat in front of it drying my clothes one by one. It was a laborious, but eventually effective, method, and it still took several hours. I definitely gave this example of man's ingenuity a lifetime of use in one day. (But will it last 35,000 years?)

During that time I watched many fascinating "home-made" TV programs in Swahili, single-camera sitcoms and news programs, but it was worth it. It was better than having to pack a whole load of wet clothes into my pack- or dirty ones for that matter. Joy of joys- at last I had clean clothes!

Urutagwo mwiruti.
The work is done if one does it.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

*     *     *

The departures board at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport makes some interesting reading. Places like Entebbe, Khartoum, Harare, Kilimanjaro, Dar es Salaam, Bujumbura, Lusaka, Kigali, Kinshasa and Abidjan make a really good geography quiz. I failed: I had no idea where most of these places were. I learned later that of course Harare was formerly Salisbury in Zimbabwe, which was formerly Rhodesia. And when I found out that Bujumbura is the capital of Burundi, I knew I'd have to go there someday. I want to be able to say I've been to Bujumbura Burundi.

But today I had to get to Kilimanjaro. I arrived at the airport about two hours early, having heard so many travelers' tales about flying in Africa. It turned out not to make much difference, as each of the different airlines took turns using the same check-in counters, just changing the signs to read Kenya Airways, Sudan Air, Ethiopia Air, Ugandan Air, or any of the many others. The sign for Air Tanzania didn't appear for about an hour, during which time I found a seat and people-watched for a while.

After the inevitable long slow lineups to check in for the flight and check out of Kenya, there is the final insult of the "Departure Tax". After you spend your money to come and visit a place, and spend even more of it in the country, they have the nerve to hit you up for another $10 on the way out the door. A lot of countries dependent upon tourism seem to find this kind extortion an acceptable "goodbye present" to their visitors.

Once I was in an airport lineup on the Caribbean island of Antigua. I stood behind an American man who had absolutely no cash left to pay this departure tax, and was in a real bind as they truly would not let him board the plane unless he paid it. Sympathizing with the stupidity of the situation, I gave him the five or ten dollars. He took down my address and promised to repay it, but as time went by I forgot all about it. Then about two years later I was surprised to receive a cheque in the mail from this long-forgotten man, apologizing for having put it off so long. Sometimes things happen which renew your faith in human nature.

The plane actually took off almost right on time- only a half hour late- and it was a fairly smooth flight, about forty minutes long. Most of the passengers seemed to be African businessmen, or perhaps politicians, with only a few tourists or white expatriates traveling to Tanzania. It was a good plane, a 707, so I wasn't too worried, but it's a good thing I didn't know at the time that the US government forbids its employees to fly on Nigerian Air, and doesn't recommend that they fly on Air Tanzania- because of their lax safety standards. Great. The corrections to the airplane's attitude did seem a little heavy-handed at times, but we made a safe and smooth landing at Kilimanjaro International Airport. I was disappointed that the clouds were high, and there was no view of the mountain on the way in.

As I looked out the window while we waited to disembark, I did have a good warning to be careful how you pack soft luggage, when I watched one of the handlers jumping down from a pile of baggage, using my backpack as a stepping-stone!

Once again how different a place like this looks the second time around, when you've had a couple of weeks to put it into a context. And how different this little airport felt with only a few people getting off here, most of the passengers continuing on to the capital city of Dar es Salaam. There was none of the chaos of a jumbo jet full of people crowding in, none of the friction of tired and grumpy travelers and harried officers. As I filled out my immigration card in the empty arrivals hail, the young officer walked over to look over my shoulder, reading as I wrote and saying: "Oh, you are from Canada."

I smiled back at him and replied that: "yes I was", and when I got over to his counter he quickly stamped my passport and papers, and sent me over to pay my second "special Extortion Tax" of the day- the mandatory exchange of fifty US dollars. This time my pack was one of the first things off the 'plane, in fact one of the only things off the 'plane, and the atmosphere of the whole arrivals area was very calm, polite and friendly, so different from the growling and hassling of my first landing here.

I was soon walking out through the big glass doors, to be met by Nigel, a young New Zealander who represented the company "Wildlife Explorer", which had made the arrangements for the Kilimanjaro climb. He led me out to a brand-new Land Rover- what luxury!-, and we tossed my pack in the rear of it and drove off.

It's amazing how many New Zealanders there are working here in Africa, a disproportionate amount for such a small country. Nearly all the whites we met in the safari business were either New Zealanders or Australians. It was Simon who told me that the "Antipodeans" really have a reputation for "flying feet", or wanderlust, and it seems to be well-founded. I am good friends with quite a few New Zealanders who had moved to London at the same time I did years ago, and they're still there too. For a country which only has a population of about three million, they sure manage to cover the globe. Those people do get around.

Mundu utathiaga oi no nyina ururgaga.
He that does not travel knows only his mother's cooking.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

part two- kilimanjaro

. . . all he could see, as wide as all the world, great, high, and unbelievably white in the sun, was the square top of Kilimanjaro. And then he knew that there was where he was going.
Ernest Hemingway
The Snows of Kilimanjaro

14- base camp

It was about a fifty-mile drive to the Kibo Hotel on the south side of Kilimanjaro, and we talked about a lot of things as we drove along. Nigel is in his early twenties, with a friendly a open face and a cheerful manner. He had been out here for about two years, and he now lived right near Gibb's Farm, in that beautiful region of lush tropical forest and coffee fields- and that fantastic food!

He told me the story of his first time climbing the mountain, when he had thrown up fifteen times on the way up. "Wonderful", I told him, "I can't wait!" But he'd made it in the end, so that was encouraging, and he'd even gone on to climb it two more times, so it must have been worth it. He was saying that you just can't tell how the altitude is going to affect you up there. It's got nothing to do with fitness or age, but is strictly an individual response- some people get sick and some don't. I hoped I would be one of the latter. Nigel had gone up with two Australian girls that first time, and they had smoked all the way up, lighting up every time they stopped, while poor Nigel had just felt like death, and without their encouragement would probably not have made it at all. He figures that the odds favor women- women who smoke!

Nigel had also met the "orator" from Lake Manyara, the New Zealander who had told us all those horror stories, and I was glad to know that Nigel shared my opinion of him, and could tell me that his stories were indeed exaggerated. I guess he had come roaring into Gibb's Farm with those big white trucks while Nigel was there, yelling at people and being obnoxious, and Nigel too figured he'd probably never even done the climb himself- the ordeal about which he had so much to say.

He told me that we would be meeting another climber at the hotel, and that he would tell us both more about the climb at dinner tonight.

We made a stop in Moshi at the Air Tanzania office, as I wanted to check about my flight back to Nairobi. I had told my travel agent that I might want lo travel back overland, so she had reserved me a seat but hadn't issued the ticket. Now I realized that after the last overland trip to Kenya there was no pleasant way to make that journey, and I guessed I'd have to fly. I wanted to make sure it was all organized.

Well.

First of all, the moment I sat down at the counter, the computers went down. So there was no way of finding out if | had the prepaid reservation I told him I had, and | decided the only thing to do was simply buy a ticket from him now, and get a refund on the other one later. That was the only way I could be sure of having a seat on that plane.

Silly me- I thought I'd pay for it with the Tanzanian shillings I'd just had to buy.

"No no, you cannot pay in shillings, you must pay in foreign currency."

"Well, I just spent all my foreign currency to buy these shillings! I can give you a credit card, or a traveler's cheque in Canadian dollars. Would that be okay?"

He made a pained face, and went off to another room to telephone the bank for an exchange rate. I knew I really should have bought my traveler's cheques in US dollars, but in Europe or Asia it had never been a problem changing Canadian ones, and I just never thought of it. But still, as I remarked when I was caught "between two worlds" in Namanga, I should always carry enough US dollars to cover things like this.

He was gone for five, ten, then fifteen minutes, and I asked a young woman, who seemed to be a trainee, to tell him that I'd just changed a traveler's cheque at the airport, and could show him the rate.

"You must just wait", she said. So I just waited. Five, ten, then another fifteen minutes. When he returned I showed him my Foreign Exchange receipt, and he studied it awhile.

Then, in a complete reversal of policy, he said I could pay in shillings, but I would have to wait while they had a photocopy made of my receipt, to exonerate him with his superiors I suppose. And- I had to pay for the photocopy. "Fine", I said, and he sent someone off to find a photocopying machine.

Sigh

Like the bank in Arusha, bureaucratic efficiency in action! It had been almost an hour by the time I finally rejoined Nigel where he waited patiently in the Land Rover. I could tell he was used to African Time. We laughed about that, how you definitely have to alter your conception of time here.

"There's sunrise and there's sunset- then there's all the time in between. That's all."

We drove out of Moshi and into the open country once more, a green and pretty landscape with many hills and lush valleys. As we turned off of the main road, we were climbing up the shoulder of Kilimanjaro, and the fields and forests continued to get greener.

We were talking about Tanzania, how we both preferred its wild and unspoiled nature to the relative tameness of Kenya. I was telling him how much I had loved the Serengeti, and how I'd like to see it during the rainy season, with those vast plains all carpeted in green. And of course all those gigantic herds of Wildebeest and zebra would be there, rather than largely in migration to the north as they were now. I had imagined it would only be possible to see it by airplane during the rains, but Nigel told me that during the "short rains" in November it was possible to travel there, and it was indeed a beautiful sight.

He was also telling me about some of the safaris his company offered which went further inland, to the Mountain Gorilla country of Zaire, Burundi and Rwanda. That kind of trip really sounded great to me, remote, primitive and interesting. If I have the good fortune to make another trip to Africa, I would like to start my safari in Tanzania, then go deeper into those countries. Besides, then I'd get to fulfill my new dream of going to Bujumbura Burundi! (As long as they weren't having another coup, that is!)

Ironically, Wildlife Explorer was the company I had first booked with for the Tanzanian safari, as they used Land Rovers instead of the big Bedfords, and I thought at the time that the smaller vehicle- and smaller group of people- would be better. Then they had called my travel agent last summer to ask if I could reschedule my safari, as so far no one else had signed up for it. When I replied that this was the only time I could possibly do it, they said: "fine, we'll go ahead with the safari no matter what".

Then, only two weeks before I was to leave, I had a call from my travel agent saying they'd cancelled after all. | was a bit depressed about it at the time, worrying that I wouldn't be able to go (after all those needles too!), but my travel agent came through and squeezed me on the Tracks trip at the last minute.

In retrospect of course, I'm glad things turned out the way they did, as I met a lot of great people, had a wonderful safari, and couldn't have enjoyed myself more. Perhaps being the only guest would have been as exciting in what I saw and experienced- the wildlife and scenery- but it wouldn't have been as much fun without the dynamics that other people gave it.

But I didn't tell Nigel that- at least not right away. I wanted some time to play it up, "wind him up", and play the snubbed guest. We passed a beautiful Long-crested Eagle sitting on a high perch, with long black feathers like fingers on the back of its head. This was the first-one I'd-seen, and I decided this was a good omen for the climb. Nigel told me it was always there, but I didn't believe him. It was a sign.

The Kibo Hotel is a wonderful place. It sits high on the shoulder of Kilimanjaro, near the town of Marangu, in a tropical paradise of rich vegetation. With plenty of rain, and rivers flowing down the mountain all year round, it is a very fertile area. The grounds-of the hotel are beautifully landscaped with brilliant flowers and bright green trees and shrubs.

The hotel itself is rich in atmosphere, as the only people who come here would be either heading up the mountain or coming down again, so it has almost a "base camp" sense of purposefulness about it. There were maps of the mountain, and many photographs and flags left by previous climbers. It had been opened in the thirties by the daughter of the first man to climb Kilimanjaro, Hans Meyer, whose picture also adorned-the walls. He had first tried it exactly a hundred years ago, was turned back by a wall of ice, and then finally made it to the summit in 1889. He is a kind of figure of legend here.

It was a little after four when we arrived, and Nigel gave me my room key and suggested we meet in the bar at 5:30. I went along a covered passageway, which continued across a richly planted courtyard. My room was one of a row at the end of it. I turned the key in the old wooden door, and stepped into an austerely furnished room, with wood-framed single beds and a large wooden wardrobe built into the wall. The room was simple and purposeful like the hotel, and the decor was, well- fifty years old!- but it had a nice big window looking out on the flowers and greenery of the courtyard, and a good hot shower which felt very welcome indeed.

Organized and cleaned up, I thought I'd explore the area a bit. I walked through the courtyard and into the reception area, then beyond it where I knew the bar was. It was a large open room, with a fireplace in the middle, a circle of chairs around it, and small tables and more chairs in groups around the room. Windows lined two of the walls, looking out over green trees and off to a misty distance below us. There was an old wooden bookcase in the corner which was full of books in German, left by Fraulein Meyer herself perhaps, and some ancient antelope and buffalo horns high on the walls.

I walked on out the front door, where there were several locals lounging against the stone walls. Immediately one of them came up and asked if I wanted to see the village, and I replied that I was just going for a walk. Another one came up right behind him, but I just shook my head "no", and walked down the stone steps and onto the road in front of the hotel. I stood for a moment admiring the view, though most of the landscape below us was veiled in clouds. A ragged-looking man walked up to me, a wide smile on his wrinkled face.

"You come down from mountain today?"

"No, I'm going up tomorrow."

He stuck out his hand, and I shook it, but without enthusiasm I'm afraid- I was sure something was coming, it was only a question of what.

"I go tomorrow too, I will be carry your things. You know-", and he mimed carrying a great weight on his head. As he raised his arms to support the imaginary load, his wiry old body was loose and mobile under his ill-fitting clothes. "I am Ricardo", and he pumped my hand once more.

"Maybe you like to see waterfall? Very beautiful. Come, I take you on a little tour. Very nice village, you will like very much."

This was not really what I wanted, I had only intended to take a little walk before I met Nigel in the bar, but maybe Ricardo really was just being friendly. I didn't want to insult him. I pointed to my watch. "No time. No time. I must be back here in-one half hour."

"That is no problem, it takes no time. You be back quick. Come."

And I allowed myself to be led away, off around the hotel and along a dirt road between the tall green trees. He pointed out some of them as we went, the avocado and banana trees, and sometimes I could see a small house hidden away among the thick greenery. I tended to believe that he had worked on the mountain, or at least worked-around foreigners somewhere, as his speech was salted with words from many different languages. He pointed out some bean plants to me, and called them haricots, and when he pointed out the graveyard he said: "You go there when you are kaput- finite", and snapped his fingers. "You see?" Sometimes his limited English even seemed to have a French accent.

He walked quickly, which suited me as I like to walk fast, and I was anxious to be back on time. We moved through the open square of a small village, only six or eight small wooden buildings on two sides of it, and he told me there was a market there two times a week. Then we turned off the road, down a narrow trail through the jungle. It really was beautiful, and I felt bad for having misjudged Ricardo. On I followed, ducking to miss the thick leaves of the tropical plants, and matching his rapid stride.

The path led down a wooded slope, and then out at the side of a rocky river. I could hear the waterfall now, and we followed the path downriver, winding around rocks and trees until we emerged into an idyllic setting. The river cascaded over a rocky cliff, tumbling down white to the moss-covered boulders below, the whole scene shaded by tall trees. We stopped for a few minutes while I took a picture, and I asked him if the river came from the melting snow on the mountain.

"Oh yes. Very good water. From the mountain."

It was almost 5:30 already, and I knew I wouldn't be back in time, but Ricardo kept assuring me: "not long now". He led me on again, turning up into the forest and across an open clearing. We met several children out walking along the path together, and we all stopped to look at each other. I said "Jambo" to them, and they "Jamboed" me back, and I took a picture of this smiling and curious group. At least they didn't seem to expect to be paid for this "service".

As we climbed up a steeper part of the path, Ricardo turned back to me, saying; "it is like this on mountain. You must walk like this there", and he mimed bending over and straining up a steep slope. We "climbed the mountain" together like that, until the path leveled out again. In a while we passed through a schoolyard where another group of children was playing. They came running over, "jambo, jambo", and asked me for a pen. Once again, I wish I'd known what a good little present pens make here, I would have been glad to be able to give such a useful gift to these children.

"I'm sorry, I have no pens", I told them, and Ricardo said something to them in a surly voice and they wandered away. We carried on walking. We passed a large pavilion, laid out like a church inside, but Ricardo explained its real function to me.

"You get in trouble, that where you go. All the people there, you know, they listen to what bad thing you do. Then you go away", and he mimed jail bars in front of him. I guessed this was the courthouse.

Then suddenly it all started to turn sour. We were walking past some really nice houses, bungalows with fences and gates and well-tended gardens, with a beautiful view looking out from the mountainside, and I remarked that some rich people must live here.

"No.", he said firmly, "No. No rich people live here."

I said nothing, just looked at him and tried to figure out what he meant.

"Rich people all come to stay at hotel. Stay there to climb mountain. Those are rich people. No rich people here."

And this somehow launched Ricardo into a soliloquy about his shoes, how they were no good for climbing the mountain, how you need good boots, and he pointed at his tattered footwear as if to call my attention to his need. We were in sight of the hotel again now, and he asked me: "maybe you have a dollar to give me."

From the beginning I had thought I would give him a few shillings for his trouble, but when he mentioned a dollar I remembered that I had a couple of American dollars left, and thought it would be nicer to give him one of them. I had certainly learned the value of "hard currency" around here.

"Good idea", I said, and gave him the dollar.

"Maybe you have two dollars? Or maybe some Kenyan money?"

This made me a little angry, and I could see now the kind of person with whom I had to deal. Plus I was very late getting back to meet Nigel, so I just said: "No. This is a bad thing you are doing. Goodbye."

I turned away and walked quickly down the road to the hotel, thinking that Ricardo was the kind of opportunist who spoils things for everyone by alienating and infuriating visitors. Nigel had been telling me that some of the guides and porters on the mountain were causing bad feelings by actually bargaining for higher tips. The old "biting the hand" syndrome.

It was 6:00 by the time I walked into the bar, and Nigel looked at his watch and smiled: "Oh, we're on African Time, are we?"

I told him I'd been kidnapped by a pirate, and was sorry to be late. He laughed hesitantly, "really?", and I think maybe he believed me for a moment there. He introduced me to Kees (pronounced like 'case'), a Dutchman who would be attempting the climb with me. He was a neat, soft-spoken man with a quiet good humor, perhaps in his late forties, and he sat methodically taking notes as Nigel went over what we were in for.

"Take it slow" was the most important thing, he said, give your body as much chance as possible to acclimatize to the altitude. I asked him about taking the extra day on the way up, as some' people recommended, and he told me I certainly could if I wanted to, but he didn't think it was worthwhile. He told us it was impossible to truly acclimatize in the space of a couple of days, the thing was to be careful not to overstrain yourself, and hope that at least your body would adapt to the effects of altitude. Pole-pole was the Swahili mantra- slowly, slowly- that was the way to do it.

He showed us a map of the climb, the first day taking us from the park gates at 6000' up to Mandara Hut at 9000', a fairly easy climb along a forest path. The second day would be about a six-hour walk- or we should try to take six hours doing it, resting often and taking it pole-pole. This would take us up to Horombo Hut, above the treeline at 12,000', when we might start to feel some of the effects of the altitude.

The third day would take us up to the "Saddle", the plateau between the two peaks, and he recommended taking some headache pills as soon as we reached it, so that when we arrived at Kibo Hut, at 15,000', this most common symptom of altitude sickness might be minimized. From there we would leave in the middle of the night for the final ascent, the toughest part of the climb, and we would know we were halfway up when we reached "Hans Meyer's Cave". The peak was reached at Gillman's Point, at 18,600', and then if we were willing and able, we could continue around the crater for another two hours to Uhuru Peak, at 19,340', which is the absolute summit and the highest point in Africa. I knew that's what I wanted to do- I just hoped I'd be able. It seemed to be more than a question of strength and will.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned around to see the unmistakable presence and warm face of big Geoff, who had just come down today. I asked him how it was, and he just shook his head.

"It's really bloody hard- I still haven't gotten over it. I had the idea in my head that it wouldn't be an achievement unless I made it all the way to Uhuru, but by the time we dragged ourselves up to Gillman's Point it felt like enough of an accomplishment." Apparently he'd been part of a continuous line of about fifteen people, and whenever one would stop or fall down, the whole line would close up like a caterpillar. I guess the guides had practically been carrying some people, and Geoff had found even his small day pack too heavy, and had given it to one of the guides to carry. When they finally struggled up to Gillman's, no one even suggested they carry on to Uhuru.

I told him about all the fun he'd missed with the border crossing and our adventures in Kenya, and he was glad he'd left when he did.

Then Nigel took us to meet the manager of the hotel, a vaguely Oriental-looking individual, slow of movement and speech, who gave us much the same advice, pole-pole- and wrote down our names and nationalities. You could tell he'd been through this routine many, many times before. Kees and I both arranged to rent heavier jackets, and Kees also thought he might need a heavier sleeping bag. He decided to rent one of the walking-sticks as well, but it seemed to me they would be more of a nuisance than a help, and I decided to pass.

By now the dining room was open for dinner, and we went inside. The walls were covered with flags and banners from different groups who had made the climb, from America, Austria, Switzerland, Germany and Canada. There was a big Texan flag with the names of a group who had climbed together, plus a huge banner from a company called MSA International- "Software Solutions from Management Science International", (whoa!), and it was signed with the names of the group, with nicknames taken from The Lord of the Rings. I was amused to see a sticker from my home province: "Ontario- Yours To Discover". Those Canadians!

Joining us for dinner were three friends of Nigel's, safari drivers from a company called Encounter Overland who had their groups up on the mountain now. It was interesting to listen to them talk, telling stories of their adventures on safari, mechanical problems in remote places, close brushes with dangerous animals, and the strange behavior of some of their guests. It was a gentle contest of outdoing each other, each story topping the last, and finally somebody got to the dramatic pinnacle of sleeping out on the plains without a tent, and waking up to find lions sniffing at the feet of their sleeping bags. How're you going to beat that? Well, they did, going on to be attacked by Mountain Gorillas in Zaire, and by terrorists in the Sahara. . .

It's always great when these kind of "outlaw" professionals get together, people who do the same sort of unusual job but whose paths seldom cross. You get a glimpse of the "inside"- the background to these things. It reminded me of a bunch of rock n' roll drivers, the guys who drive the big tractor-trailers and buses from concert to concert, sitting around in a bar, talking and laughing and telling "war stories" from different tours they'd been on. Blizzards, tornadoes, running into moose or cattle, breaking down in Alberta, being attacked by unruly road crews and arrogant musicians. . .

After dinner we went into the bar, where there was a big fire burning in the central fireplace. Geoff's group was sitting around, talking quietly and exchanging addresses, all of them looking pretty exhausted. They were a group of mixed nationalities, some Americans and French people among them.

I sat there for a while around the fire, sipping a brandy and enjoying the "safari talk" among the drivers. They were a good group of people, young and high-spirited. One of them, a blond young fellow (who had actually been born in Kenya!), was trying to cajole Nigel into helping him rebuild his gearbox while they were waiting down here. Nigel had already made the climb three times, and would be sitting this one out, waiting for us down here at the Kibo Hotel until we returned in five days time. It looked like he'd be spending some time under a Bedford as well!

I wanted to get to sleep early tonight, and be as ready for the big adventure as I could, so I soon said goodnight to everybody and headed for my room. I said a final goodbye to Geoff, promising to keep in touch, and he gave me a package of nuts and raisins to take with me, and some Vaseline, which he said you should put on your feet to insulate them for that final cold ascent. I'd never heard of that, but said I'd try it, and thanked him for these gifts. Good old Geoff.

Guthukagirio wanatega itega.
One favours him from whom one has in the past received a gift.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

15- the velvet forest

The local roosters and I were both awake by about 5:30 in the morning, and a chorus of crowing cocks seemed to come from all around the hotel. I was excited and eager to be starting out. My pack would be staying down here, so I had to separate the things I was taking up with me. Kees and I were to put our clothes and sleeping bags into a big bag of heavy red plastic which the porters would carry. I went over to Kees's room at 6:30 to pick up the bag, into which he had already put his things. Seeing his monastic little cell, I was glad they'd had no more single rooms when I checked in. My room was in fact a triple, and was a lot more spacious than his.

The corridors of the hotel were a mass of activity this morning, with guides and porters thronged everywhere. I don't know whether they all just show up on the morning of a climb, and then are chosen by lottery or something, but there seemed to be far more of them than could possibly be needed by the four or five people we knew of who were leaving from here. I left our big red plastic bag there in the hallway, and went to meet Nigel and Kees for breakfast.

Nigel had agreed to give a ride to three young students as well as our guide, and the Land Rover was a little crowded with seven people in it, but we had only a few miles to drive over to the park gates. We stopped at a tumbledown little store on the way, where our guide, Ernest, had to buy the supplies for himself and the porters. As we waited there I learned a little about the three students.

They were all exchange students, studying at the University of Dar es Salaam. Two of them were Americans, studying the humanities, sociology, anthropology and African studies, and the Dutch girl was studying biology. We agreed that Africa was the right place to study any of those subjects.

I had thought of buying some candles back in that store in Nairobi, when I bought the New Blue Omo Powder, but had decided I really wouldn't need them. Now I realized that they would indeed be handy, as we would be spending four nights on the mountain without electricity, and it would be good to at least be able to read when it was dark. There was another little shop right across the road here, but they had no candles.

We had to register at the park gates, and while Nigel took care of some of the formalities I had a look at the signs posted around the office. It was interesting to note how many people attempt this climb, 8000 people in 1986, and a chart showed that August and December are the busiest times. We would be walking a total of thirty-seven kilometres to the peak, it said here, so the return journey would add up to about forty-four miles, though most other estimates figure the distance to be even greater, at fifty-five or sixty miles. Some walk.

Then there was the card describing the effects of altitude. "Headaches, weakness, nausea and vomiting" are described as "normal reactions", but there is also the rare but dangerous possibility of the condition called Pulmonary Oedema. Apparently this is a flow of blood into the lungs, by reverse osmosis, which causes them to block the intake of oxygen. The symptoms are described as: "bloody cough, bubbling in chest, pale blue lips, tongue and-fingernails". And then you die. We agreed to keep an eye on each other for signs of blue lips or fingernails!

There was a little shop here as well, though it was not open right now. Peering through the windows into the dark interior, I could see piles of boxes of macaroni and spaghetti, bottles of Konyagi, toilet paper and tinned fruit. That was about all, except for some particularly cheap and nasty T-shirts which said: "I HAVE CLIMBED MOUNT KILIMANJARO- HAVE YOU?" I promised myself not to buy one.

I had been joking lately that I wanted to become the Minister of Tourism for Tanzania. For myself, I liked it fine just the way it was, but the country and the people desperately need income, and there was so much undeveloped potential here. Tanzania has the best game parks, wonderful scenery, and I'm told that the beautiful beaches along the coast are usually deserted.

Again, personally speaking I would hate to see the place get all westernized, and fill up with resorts and cheap souvenir stands full of T-shirts and coconut ashtrays, but the need is obvious and the market is there.

Even here at Kilimanjaro, with thousands of people every year coming to climb the mountain, there were no books or maps or any kind of nice remembrances (yes, even T-shirts) that you could buy to commemorate this unique experience. I can help. Vote for me everybody- Tanzania's new Minister of Tourism.

By about 10:00 we were finally ready to start, and we gave our passports and wallets to Nigel to keep for us. We'd have no need for them up there, and it felt good to leave these symbols of civilization and identity behind. We kept a few shillings with us "just in case", said goodbye to Nigel and started up the trail past the plaque commemorating Hans Meyer. The path was fairly wide at this point, curving up between thick woods on either side. Almost immediately I fell into step with another brisk walker, one of the American students. It was funny that we walked and talked together for the whole way up to Mandara Hut, and yet didn't even learn each other's names until the end of the day.

So although I didn't know it while we discussed all these things, his name was Greg, and he told me he had been born in Frankfurt, to an American father and German mother. His father had been posted in Germany after the war as a representative of the Chase-Manhattan bank, presumably to help administrate the Marshall Plan for the reconstruction of Germany.

They had-emigrated to the US, and Greg had lived in Seattle for many years. He had taken Officer Training and joined the Marines, and in fact was going to school here under their sponsorship. Apparently they will pay for each year of your schooling in exchange for an equal number of years of service afterwards. Not a bad deal really. He was now a Second Lieutenant in the Intelligence branch of the Marines, and had convinced his superiors that it would be valuable to conduct his studies of Africa in Africa. I would imagine that Africa is of considerable strategic importance, as a result of the East-West struggle for influence in the Third World, and they would want people with that kind of training and experience.

He had taken his first year of university in Swaziland, near South Africa, then had spent a couple of years at the university in Salt Lake City, and was now into his fourth year here at Dar es Salaam University. So he was well-traveled and widely-educated, and had a good grasp of international politics for one so young, particularly of course on the African political scene.

He told me-some funny stories about going to school in Dar es Salaam (which they called "Dar-is-a-Slum"), how the residence was a run-down and pestilent place, often without running water, and the academic standards were ridiculously low. Their teachers were only paid about $50 a month, and thus had to have other jobs to support themselves, and were often tired or even drunk during their classes. Greg said that if you wanted to learn anything there, you pretty well had to do it yourself.

We continued to walk quickly as we talked, soon leaving the others far behind, and we could see porters and climbers passing us on their way down. The slope was gentle, on a smooth dirt path, and it was overcast and cool at this altitude, so the walking was easy and pleasant. The forest was thick and green on both sides of the path, and the only sound was the singing of the many birds. I kept my eye open for new species, but the foliage was so thick you could hear them, but almost never pick them out. I was feeling a bit guilty about leaving Kees behind, as I was carrying both of the lunches we'd been given. Greg was also carrying one of the other student's lunches, so we hoped they weren't getting hungry yet.

After a couple of hours we emerged from the dark woods, and crossed an open plateau of tall grass. Here we ran into Jain and Alison, two more veterans of the "Tanzania campaign", and stopped to talk with them. They had taken the extra day going up, spending a day at the second hut, Horombo, and making a side expedition to the bottom of the second peak, Mawenzi. Perhaps it had been a good idea, as they had both made it to Uhuru, and said that the extra day was the most enjoyable of the climb.

They had been a strange couple on safari, quiet, very reserved and keeping to themselves most of the time. I'd seen them talking with Alan and Carol on a couple of occasions near the end, but other than that they never really opened up. A few times lain and I had talked about different animals or birds, checking their identities together in the field guides, and the last night at Lake Duluti we had discussed the concert scene in England, and one of the big festivals that he had once attended, but that was about it. Someone said they were both geologists, and I think Iain had spent some time working in the Middle East, but compared to most of the other people on the trip, I hardly knew them. Simon remarked at the end of the week that he didn't know any more about them than he had at the beginning. It's funny, I usually think of myself as pretty reserved, but compared to people like them I feel positively gregarious- the life of I the party!

I didn't know it at the time, but we were only about a fifteen-minute walk from Mandara Hut, and they must have thought it strange that I was obviously so eager to get going again. They would have known that once you arrived at the hut there was certainly nothing to do, but I was so keyed-up that I couldn't stand still, and Greg and I set off again.

Mandara Hut is in fact a collection of small buildings, all of the A-frame design. Each of these way-stations on the trail up have apparently been built by the Norwegians as a very thoughtful aid project, and were simple, but functional and attractive. (That's the sort of foreign aid I'll be looking for- as Minister of Tourism!) The main building might have been fifty feet long, by about twenty wide, and was filled with long tables and benches, with a wood stove in the middle, and a loft upstairs which was lined with simple wooden bunks. It was constructed of wood, with large windows, and rested upon a cinder block foundation. Between the cinder blocks lay that stark reminder of danger- the stretcher of red tubing with the single motorcycle wheel in the middle. The only relief for Pulmonary Oedema is the most rapid descent possible.

There was a cluster of five or six smaller wooden A-frames to each side of this main building. On one side were the sleeping huts, and on the other side the kitchen and quarters for the guides and porters. I have to imagine the separation is more for efficiency than segregation!

This little village was shaded by tall trees, and the grass and undergrowth around were thick and green. Greg and I sat on the porch in front of the main hut and ate our lunches, hoping that the others wouldn't be upset that we'd gone ahead with their food. Everything below us was hidden in clouds, and the air here was damp and quite cool. We were at 9000' now, which was already higher than I'd ever been before.

Other people had begun to arrive. When we'd signed in this morning I noticed two names with Michigan addresses in the registry book. I'd noted them particularly because one said Detroit and the other one Lincoln Park, a suburb of Detroit where one of the guys on our road crew grew up. Skip and I often used to joke about Lincoln Park- the centre of the universe. The Michiganites had gone up before us today, and they would be the two already moved into a hut beside the main building.

There was a group of four from the YMCA, which is one of the three places which organizes climbs. (The Marangu Hotel is the third.) This was an international group: an Englishman, a German, a Frenchman and a young American student named Karen, whom Greg knew from school. Kees arrived with the other two members of the Kibo Hotel contingent about a half hour behind us.

When the porters arrived with our gear, we were assigned to our sleeping huis and went to have a look at them. They were small, maybe twenty feet by fourteen, and were divided in half by a wall. Inside, the huts were very spartan, each half containing only four plain wooden berths, one on each side and a "bunk bed" placed laterally. There was a thin foam mattress on each bed. As the walls narrowed to the "A" shape, you could only stand up in the middle, and a small triangular window at the peak let in the only light. But it was nicer than I'd imagined it would be. When you hear the name "hut", you think of- well- a hut.

There was a lot of graffiti on the walls too, people signing in from places as diverse as the German Embassy in Ethiopia, Quebec, Finland, Germany, and all over the United States: Pittsburgh, Ohio, California and Virginia. I took down one poetic offering:

You must be bloody silly
To try to climb up Kili
Cause on the point of Gilly
It's oh so bloody chilly
And Uhuru
I assure you
Is colder than a well-digger's ass
Next time
I'm asked to climb
I'll answer "I think I'll pass"

Dylan from Down Under
26/1/87

There was a sign behind the main building which read "Maundi Crater" and pointed down a narrow path. I thought we might as well go exploring as sit around, and Greg and Kees agreed to go along as well. We were in a vegetation zone which is called a "Cloud Forest", which promotes lush growth as it is always exposed to the moisture-bearing clouds and frequent rainfall. We walked along through a jungle-like atmosphere, the trees covered with vines and mosses, their thick limbs branching out and blanketed in the velvety green moss. All around us the earth and rocks too were soft and green with moss, and beards of lichen hung down among the vines. This whole Cloud Forest was bathed in a warm green light, everything upholstered in this thick rich carpet of velvet, as if it lay under a soft green fall of snow.

We climbed up the steep walls of the crater, up about sixty feet to the windswept rim of the circular caldera. The chilly wind made waves in the long grass, and the silence was complete. Looking down into the cup-shaped depression of the crater was oddly disturbing, its unnatural bareness and symmetry giving it an air of something ancient and man-made. It was like looking at a prehistoric earthwork. The few trees up here in this open place were stunted and twisted, the long grey-green tendrils of lichen moving eerily in the strong breeze. Among the thick grass there were also a few small shrubs that looked like juniper trees, but the inside of the crater was bare, covered only in grass and moss. Wisps of cloud blew by us like smoke, and all around we were encircled in a white world of low clouds. (Actually, I suppose they weren't low- we were high!)

Kees had a small keychain thermometer on his jacket, and told us it was 10° C up here, but with the dampness and wind it felt colder. We walked around the rim, catching a view between the clouds for a moment, looking far down to the green plateau at the base of the mountain.

When we got back I went over to the custodian's hut, where they sold a few things like chocolate bars, cigarettes, soft drinks and candles. Though they charged about two dollars for what was a very cheap and ill-burning candle, | thought it would be nice to have some light for the night, and bought one.

Dinner was served in shifts to each of the separate groups. By now there were about fifteen people there, and we sat down at the long tables, the five of us now a "unit". Once again I could count myself fortunate in being thus dropped into a group of strangers, they all seemed to be really good people. Kees was a gentleman, and very easy to get along with, and Greg and I had already struck up a good rapport that afternoon, talking all the way up about a hundred things before we even knew each other's names.

Michael was another young American, from Portland Oregon, and was studying anthropology and sociology at "Dar-is-a-Slum U.". His open features and large-rimmed glasses gave him a thoughtful and studious look, which in fact was quite justified as he was a serious student. That last unfortunate quality notwithstanding- he was a warm and intelligent person, and I liked him right away. The third exchange student, Ingrid, was a pleasant and friendly biology student from the Netherlands. She was full of fun, and she and Greg teased each other constantly like brother and sister. Ingrid and Kees were glad to be able to speak to each other in their native language, and soon discovered people and places in common.

The guide and his assistants did the cooking and serving, and we had a particularly colorful character waiting on us. He was a young man, very dark-skinned, and for some unexplained reason he wore a brightly-flowered "Mother Hubbard" bonnet whenever he was setting the table and serving the food. This looked very strange on him, and though he was always silent and expressionless, he had a mischievous glint of poker-faced humor in his eyes. That hint and the bizarre bonnet gave him a bit of a "crazy man" look.

Dinner was simple fare; a hearty soup followed by some dried (or perhaps just dry) meat, potatoes, noodles, carrots and the inevitable cabbage. The students joked that cabbage is the National Food of Tanzania, and they were fed a lot of it at the university.

I learned that both Michael and Ingrid could speak Swahili quite well, and finally got translations for a few words I'd been wondering about. In the Tanzanian papers I'd seen the members of a Chinese delegation addressed as Ndugu, which Michael told me meant "brother or comrade"- Marxist comrades in Swahili yet! In the Kenyan papers President Moi kept referring to the Wananchi, which I learned meant "countrymen". And the sign over the hut which read Karibu meant "welcome".

But a really important one: in all the Tarzan movies they're always saying: "Ngowa Bwana", and I really wanted to know what that meant. Now, bwana means "mister", and is still commonly used in greeting someone- "jambo bwana" here is kind of like "G'day mate" to an Australian, or "How's it goin' eh?" to a Canadian. It doesn't at all carry the kind of racist connotation I'd imagined, something like "massuh" did down in Dixie.

But with ngowa we run into a problem. Neither Michael nor Ingrid had ever heard the word, and it's not in my Swahili dictionary, so I guess it falls into the same mysterious category as kemosabe!

The "conventional wisdom" on Kilimanjaro states that it's better to avoid stimulants during the ascent, and after dinner we were served a pot of weak tea, and no sugar was offered. As we sipped our pale tea, the guide and his assistant came in and sat at our table. The chief guide, Ernest, was a deliberate, self-possessed and dignified man, maybe forty years old. His manner was guarded, and seemed to carry an air of thinly-veiled contempt, as if he'd taken your measure and found you wanting.

The other assistant, the one without the bonnet, was called Gabriel, an intelligent and ambitious young man who, like Dutch, wanted to be a mechanic. That seems to be a very desirable profession here. I suppose it's good well-paying work, and probably carries a measure of respect among the many Africans who consider there to be no difference between magic and machinery. Both are obviously real, but both mysterious and beyond understanding. Thus a mechanic would be a kind of "witch doctor" in the community. If Gabriel couldn't be a mechanic, he wanted to be a tailor, which again is probably good steady work, but no doubt it doesn't offer quite the same standing in the community!

Every night the two of them made this ritual visit, and would tell us a bit about the next day's climb. After that they would just sit there, sometimes talking quietly to each other, and then after a half hour or so, say goodnight and go. Neither of them spoke much English, but Michael and Ingrid were able to communicate with them fairly well, and would try to translate our questions for them when necessary. One word I would hear them say that I loved the sound of was we we (pronounced like 'weh-weh'), but when I asked Ingrid what it meant I was disappointed; it only meant 'you'.

The guides told us that only about ten percent of all those people who attempt the climb actually make it to Uhuru, which makes the odds soberingly clear. Ten percent! I was beginning to wonder about the advertising- "any reasonably fit person can make it'.

Sure- but they don't say how far.

Most of the guides and porters were probably from the Chagga people, like Dutch, an industrious and prosperous tribe. In fact Mandara Hut is named after a wily old Chagga chief who had greeted the first missionaries and explorers, accepting their gifts- and then demanding everything else they had as well. This tradition seems to survive in people like Ricardo, and in the acquisitive games which I was to learn are commonly played on the tourists. For example, in his beautiful book Kilimanjaro, John Reader describes the "phantom porter" on their expedition up the mountain, whose name was always mentioned, and whose pay and tips were collected, but whom they never saw. We had the same sort of mystery on our climb as well, a porter whose name was given, and whose money was collected at the end, but we never saw any other evidence of his existence. Presumably they would divide this "bonus" among themselves.

This was forgivable in the light of our learning that the guides are only paid about $24 for the five-day trip, and must have learned each of the four routes up the mountain during their apprenticeship. The route we were on was the most common "tourist route", the others being less traveled and well-organized. The porters would only make about $16 for their part, though with tips these figures would be doubled. In fact the tips were pretty well standardized here, the manager of the Kibo Hotel having made the expected amounts clear. But it was still not a lot to be paid for a difficult and dangerous job, and they could only expect to do two trips a month.

Nigel told me later that it was these people who most often succumbed to Pulmonary Oedema, especially during the busiest time of the year around Christmas. Then they would be climbing up and down the mountain without a break, playing this deadly high-altitude game of Russian Roulette, and one or two of them would be stricken and die, if they couldn't be raced down the mountain in time. Two young porters had somehow been caught below this hut at night, and had died of exposure even at this relatively low altitude.

It was dark soon after dinner, and people were sitting around the tables by the light of candles or flashlights, talking, reading or playing cards. The clever people from the YMCA group had thought to collect some firewood while it was still light, and they had a nice blaze going in the woodstove which helped to warm and brighten the atmosphere. I had brought along my copy of Africa on a Shoestring to read about some of the other African countries, and I browsed in it for a while, through the sections on Botswana, Uganda, Zaire, Burundi and Rwanda.

After a while Kees and I got into a good conversation, sitting in the circle of pale light cast by my candle. He is a physicist, working in the paper industry I believe, but he's a serious clarinetist on the side, and his passion is Dixieland music. He knew that I was a musician by profession, and we discussed the way in which the same values had made him an amateur and me a professional.

There are two ways in which musicians look at the practicalities of what they do. For some, the most important principle is to make a living playing music, no matter what kind of music they have to play. Polkas, country music, or the top forty over and over again six nights a week- it doesn't matter, for them the point of honor is to be a professional. Kees and I agreed that for us, we would rather play the music we liked to play, and make our living some other way if we had to. Music- as an abstract ideal- was too important to us.

In the early years I was often obliged to work at other jobs, in order to afford the luxury of playing good music, but it seemed to me the only choice. It always seemed like prostitution to compromise something I loved for money. I was fortunate that the kind of music I liked to play eventually did achieve some public acceptance, though it took a while and was a long hard struggle. For Kees, he knows that Dixieland is strictly a "fringe" musical style, and is happy to play the music he loves on weekends.

And we had a fascinating, if arcane, discussion of tuning. Kees was telling me that in his style, and in classical music as well, it is common for the soloists to tune slightly higher than the rest of the musicians, to make them stand out more; and that to him one of the qualities of a piano tuner was the ability to tweak the upper octaves just enough to have the same effect. In my musical world, instruments are always perfectly tuned to A-440, guitars and synthesizers regulated by electronic tuners to exact harmonic relations, and this theory was new to me.

It was fun to compare the technical differences in the styles of music we played. So many things are approached differently in the jazz music of fifty years ago compared to the rock music of today. He made me laugh when he talked about drummers:

"For myself, I would rather work without a drummer really. In traditional Dixieland the banjo is often the rhythm instrument. Drummers- they always want to play too much!"

That was funny to hear, and comes from the elitist tradition that a band is "four musicians- plus a drummer".

This also explained his preference for improvised music, in a discussion we had on the merits of that approach versus arranged music, which I prefer. As a soloist, it was great for him to able to wail at liberty, but of course that was why he wanted an unobtrusive rhythm section- to hold it together behind him.

"I don't know", I said, "I like to play improvisational music when I'm not in front of a paying audience, but I think when you've got a big audience in front of you, who have spent the money and time to see you play, you want to have some standards of quality. Improvisation is by definition very- well- human, and according to-the moods and inspiration of the musicians on the night, it can be sublimely beautiful, but it can also be ridiculously bad.

"Also, as a drummer, I feel a lot freer within a structure. I know when I can 'play too much' and it will not intrude on anyone else in the band, and how to be supportive and less obtrusive when someone is singing or soloing. For me, I like most of the music I play to be arranged, with occasional passages in which I can open up and play a bit freer."

It was a great conversation, it was nice to meet another person who, like Simon, knew about a lot of things which were foreign to me. It's good to be exposed to interesting and intelligent people from other walks of life, sometimes it makes a good mirror in which to look at your own life. It's also interesting to learn new things from somebody like that- though I was shocked to hear that he didn't even know who Gene Krupa was!

Utoi uu, oi uu.
He who does not know one thing, knows another.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

16- milestones

It was still very dark when I awoke, and I lay there in my sleeping bag looking up at a single star through the little triangular window at the peak of the hut. I had slept well, but gone to sleep too early. By the time my candle had sputtered out, and Kees and I had finished our musical discussions, there had been little else to do but go to bed. Now the star gradually began to fade as the darkness gave way to the early grey light, and I got up as quietly as I could and went outside. Kees stirred and spoke something unintelligible to me in Dutch, then looked at his watch and turned over again.

It was damp and chilly, the sky clear and pearlescent above, but a thick layer of clouds lay like a snowy landscape below. A wispy trail of woodsmoke rose from the cooking hut, but there was no one else around. The atmosphere was peaceful, but somehow expectant. (Actually, I suppose it was me that was expectant.) The planks of the porch in front of the main hut were dark under a blanket of dew, and the grass and trees of the Cloud Forest sparkled with moisture as the sun began to rise. A pair of White-necked Ravens hopped about near the pits which had been dug for garbage, and a few songbirds sang invisibly from the trees around me.

As I looked at my watch, my eye was caught by the little bubble which showed the date- September the 13th- and I realized with a smile that yesterday had been my birthday. I had been so caught up in the excitement of starting the climb, and meeting new friends, that I had completely forgotten it. Strange- my 35th birthday; what could have been a traumatic and depressing realization of true middle-age- at least in terms of the biblical "three-score years and ten"- had passed totally unnoticed by me or the world! Truly, this was a great place to pass such a milestone birthday, and it was a great way to celebrate it-

by forgetting it entirely!

Gradually a few other people emerged from the huts. Karen, the American girl from Dar es Salaam University who was traveling with the YMCA group, gave me a smile that was almost painfully bright so early in the morning, her face screwed up so tight her eyes disappeared. She seemed to be a nice girl, with a sunny personality, and I believe she was a native of St. Louis. The two Michiganites were up and about too, looking as if they were dressed for a hunting trip in Upper Michigan. We would be leaving in shifts this morning, and they were scheduled to head out at 7:00, our group at 7:30.

Soon there was a lot of activity, people calling out friendly "good mornings" as they went back and forth to the tap behind the main hut, which was fed by a rainwater cistern, and to the outhouses, which actually had the strange luxury of flush toilets. I wonder if the Norwegians lugged those up here as well! The guides and porters were setting the tables for breakfast, and arranging their burdens out on the dew-soaked grass. At this point I was still thinking that the climb might seem like a hollow victory when you watched these people doing it with the extra challenge of bearing these heavy loads, but I would learn better.

It was almost 8:30 before we finally set out, and I had been impatiently ready to get moving for almost two hours by now. I could tell I was going to have trouble with this pole-pole stuff, and was thinking that the greatest challenge of the climb might be trying to go slowly. Again, I would learn better.

Greg and I once more set out at a brisk pace, following the narrow trail which led up into the Cloud Forest. In the cool dim light under the dense trees we climbed up a steep stairway of twisted roots, the footing treacherous in the slippery clay. We caught up to and passed some of the porters, as they climbed slowly up this difficult trail of uneven steps with their loads steadied on their heads by one hand. We would exchange jambos with them, and Greg had enough Swahili to go as far as Habari- "how are you?", and mzuri sana- "very well thank you". We caught up to the YMCA group, who'd left just before us, and went on past them where I the trail was wide enough to permit it.

After about half an hour we emerged from the forest onto an open hillside of thick grass. For the first time we could see the object of this mission- the two peaks of Kilimanjaro standing clear in the morning sun. It was truly an inspiration to see them at last- the jagged teeth of Mawenzi to the right, and the shining white vision of Kibo to the left. Somehow the day felt different now, to be moving toward a visible goal, though they still looked very far away, and very high.

From the plane the mountain had appeared as if in miniature, like a model fora film set; while from the truck on the way to Nairobi it had appeared insubstantial, like a translucent hologram, a pale projection on the sky. But now it was right there- and very real.

After a pause to soak in this impressive and long-awaited sight, Greg and I moved off once again. This was the end of the trees, and we walked up the gentle slope through a waist-high Alpine meadow of low heather shrubs and tufted grasses. The sky was perfectly clear and very blue, and it was nice to have those majestic peaks in front of us, and to feel the sense of openness here. On our left the mountainside slanted gradually away, to end at the blanket of white clouds below us.

One of the YMCA group, a young Englishman named Dom, caught up to us and walked along with us for awhile. I had seen Greg talking with him last night at Mandara, discussing things military, and he told me later that Dom had just been on the verge of joining the British Marines, applying to the ROTC for officer training, but had changed his mind at the last minute. So the two of them had some interests in common, and it was interesting for me to listen as they discussed their countries' military affairs as we walked along, telling stories about the British action in the Falklands, and the American invasion of Grenada.

We soon overtook the Michiganites standing on a ridge taking a break, Dan and Dave they were called, who were trying to take it as easy as they could. Because of flight delays, they had arrived in Africa at the last possible moment to start the climb, and the accumulated jet lag would probably not help their acclimatization. Both of them had climbed to 14,000' before, in Colorado, so maybe they'd be alright. They had a sensible and flexible plan for their African trip; they had two weeks planned out, then the next two weeks to go wherever they wished. After this climb they were planning a trip on the famous train from Nairobi to Mombasa, which would be interesting for them as they both worked for Amtrak back home.

Dom had been part of an expedition with some friends to climb Mount Kenya a couple of weeks ago, which is only a little lower at around 17,000', and was telling us that he had been very sick up there, and hadn't been able to eat for three days. Another member of the "Y" group, a Frenchman named Jean, caught up to us as well, and soon he and Dom were setting a pace even more rapid than ours, and moved ahead when Greg and I stopped for a rest and a drink of water. The two of us had decided that since we were congenitally unable to walk slowly, we would at least try to stop fairly often, and hope to live up to the pole-pole advice that way. It was another ten-mile walk today, as yesterday had been, and we would. gain-another three thousand feet of altitude by day's end.

Another recommendation during the climb was to drink a lot of water, as dehydration also results from the combination of altitude and exertion. Kees had tried to drink the recommended two litres of water the first day, but had ended up having to get up to relieve himself all through the night, and so we had decided just to drink when we were thirsty.

The climb was fairly gentle here, but the trail was narrow and worn down, often winding through muddy patches between thick clumps of grass, and sometimes it took some pathfinder's concentration to choose the driest route. We were gaining altitude slowly, moving up and down over ridges as the clouds closed in around the two peaks in front of us, and the sun rose higher up above. Now we began to meet small groups of porters and climbers coming down from Horombo Hut, the next stage in the ascent.

We had been advised to try to spend six hours on this part of the climb, again to give the body a chance to adapt gradually to the altitude, but it had been only a little over three hours when we arrived at Horombo Hut, at 11:45. The sign on the front of the main hut bid us karibu- welcome- once again, and told us we were at 12,340'. Behind and beside it was another collection of the smaller sleeping and cooking huts.

I'd made it this far alright, another milestone, as this was much higher than I'd ever been, and more than halfway up the mountain. Now | was just hoping to make it to Kibo Hut, the next stop at 15,000". I'm one to set my goals in sequential stages, and rather than think about Uhuru I was just taking each day as a separate challenge.

"Right", I thought, "so far so good. If I can only make it up to Kibo. . ."

Dom and Jean had arrived about fifteen minutes before us, and had cooled off from the walk, so they were shivering and waiting impatiently for the porters to arrive so they could get some warmer clothes from their packs. It was very cold up here, with a chill wind blowing tatters of cloud around, and the treeless landscape felt rather bleak, with the clouds isolating us from above and below.

There was a Belgian girl sitting on the porch who had been taken badly with altitude sickness that morning, and had been forced to leave her group and turn back only halfway to the next hut. The combination of headache, nausea, dizziness, vomiting and diarrhea had- understandably- proved to be a bit too much. Now she would have to spend the next twenty-four hours here in this cold and bleak place, waiting for the rest of her group to come back down.

I checked out the graffiti here as well, the scrawls of souvenirs left by a group of Cubans, a Dane and a pair of Russians among the most noteworthy. A couple of White-necked Ravens seemed to be the only bird life up here, though inside the hut small rodents with chipmunk- like stripes across their backs scampered around, feasting on the crumbs under the tables.

Greg and I opened the lunches we'd carried with us, and just as yesterday, we had been given an orange, a small banana and a dry "mystery meat" sandwich. We devoured them hungrily, if without enthusiasm. This meagre sustenance would have been acceptable; after all, our food had to be carried up the mountain and prepared under difficult circumstances, you couldn't expect too much; except that when the rest of the "Y" group arrived, they were served a nice hot lunch right there in front of us. I guess there are different levels of "catering" from the three base camps.

Kees arrived a little after us, having left Michael and Ingrid behind to be the only ones of our group with the patience to follow the pole-pole dictum. We were all hoping we weren't going to pay for our haste higher up on the mountain. There were still 7000' to go.

Kuambiana Kupo, Kusikilizana hapana.
There is plenty of giving of good advice, but not listening to it.
(Swahili Saying)

Now we had a whole afternoon to spend here, and I went inside to try some reading to pass the time. I laid across one of the hard wooden benches near the window, figuring I'd have light if I couldn't have warmth. Kees's little thermometer gave us a noon reading of 9°C, and it was damp and chilly here. I'd started on Forty Stories, a collection of short fiction by John Updike, back in Nairobi, but it wasn't going too well. He is one of my favorite modern American writers, along with, say, John Irving, William Kennedy, John Barth and Tom Robbins, and I've enjoyed his novels very much, but now I found this book strangely slow going. Perhaps these introspective visions of rural and small-town America were just too at odds with the reality here. And certainly the combined distractions of the cold and this adventure were too much to escape. It was like trying to read Marcel Proust, or Ulysses or something- pushing myself from page to page. I was wishing I had the book which Dom told me he had seen in England, which told the history of Kilimanjaro, and recounted or discounted the many legends. That would surely hold my interest right now. He promised to write and tell me the name of its publisher, so I could look it up when I got home.

From somewhere I remembered the saying, perhaps Chinese, that "gathering firewood warms you twice", and I thought I'd go for a walk and see what I could find at this treeless altitude. I'd been impressed by the resourcefulness of the "Y" group last night, and thought I might contribute to tonight's fire. At worst it would warm me up, and at best I might find something to burn later. I emptied my day pack and slung it over my shoulder, and followed a path that led past the cooking huts.

Karen had told me she'd heard it was a good idea to climb a bit higher than where you. I were staying; that this would help you sleep- the mountaineer's "climb high, sleep low" adage I suppose- and I thought I might give that a try, but the trail seemed to go up and down the mountainside without climbing appreciably upward. There was precious little firewood to be found, and the porters would certainly have harvested anything available along the trail. I heard they spend about two hours just to gather enough to cook a meal here, so it would be thin pickings.

I took a walk away from the path, through the open country below, taking care not to lose my bearings in this inhospitable environment. Being lost out here for a night would surely be fatal, and I knew the clouds could close in around me at any time. The small shrubs had thick twisted roots, and every once in a while I could kick one loose, or gather a few twigs and branches to put into my pack. By the time I'd wandered along for a mile or so I was feeling much warmer, and my pack was full, so I turned back to Horombo Hut.

The low shrubs and tall cacti had an olive-green tinge in the grey light, and the blanket of clouds below was opaque, and as distant as if seen from an airplane. There was a rent in the clouds above me for a moment, and I had a glimpse once more of the sharply-jagged peak of Mawenzi, a few zigzag flashes of snow on its side.

We were on the border between the alpine meadow and moorland zones, and there were some strange-looking taller plants around, the giant groundsels and lobelias. They are like a large tropical cactus, exotic-looking where they rise out of the low grass and scrub, with the difference that they have to survive sub-zero nights. Their delicate leaf rosettes have adapted to these extremes by closing up at night to protect them from the frost.

It's a common and interesting analogy that climbing Kilimanjaro is like moving from the Equator to the Arctic Circle, as you leave the tropical rainforests below and rise up through the I alpine meadow, moorland, the alpine desert, and then to the barren icefields of the peak.

I was thinking about the many stories and legends that surround this mountain. When the first European missionaries reported a snow-covered mountain here in equatorial Africa they were greeted with scorn and derision from geographers- who typically passed judgement from their comfortable clubs back in London.

Another story which Greg first told me concerned the reason why Kilimanjaro is in Tanzania and not Kenya. If you a look at a map of the border between the two countries you can see that the line of it seems to bend around Kilimanjaro, and there is a story that in the late 1800's the mountain had been in the British territory of Kenya, and had been given as a birthday gift by Queen Victoria to a German relative by way of this alteration to the border. A good story- but unfortunately untrue, as I learned from the excellent pictorial history, by John Reader, called Kilimanjaro. This was probably the book Dom had mentioned, and I was fortunate enough to find it in Nairobi, though not without a search.

"Kilimanjaro is a snow covered mountain 19,710 feet high, and is said to be the highest mountain in Africa. Its western summit is called Masai "Ngaje Ngai," the House of God. Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude."

The legend of the leopard which was supposed to have been found frozen on the peak was made famous in this introduction to Ernest Hemingway's wonderful story, "The Snows of Kilimanjaro". I saw more than one person reading that book on the way up, though the story doesn't really concern the mountain. But this legend, at least, is true (though he did get the altitude wrong!). | had been very curious about it, and I was glad to Icarn that it was for real. The frozen carcass was discovered there in 1926 by a missionary named Reusch, and an old photograph of two nurses posed beside it is shown in the Kilimanjaro book.

Unfortunately the leopard was later carried away, perhaps by Reusch himself, as he had earlier cut off one of the ears as a souvenir. There is still a place called Leopard Point on the peak, and the remains of a sign which apparently used to mark the spot where it was found. How it got there is anyone's guess, but I like to imagine a romantic vision of the noble cat knowing he was going to die, and preferring to climb up here to the highest point in Africa, rather than suffer the ignominy of being brought down by hyenas and picked at by vultures.

Hemingway certainly picked a flexible symbol, as some people take it as representing death; I see it as representing a noble stoicism, and John Reader likes to see it as a "salutary example of over-zealous ambition".

Horombo is the busiest of all the huts, as it is a way-station for those descending from the peak as well as those on the way up. During the afternoon it became pretty crowded, all of the long tables filled with groups of climbers; the hopeful ones on the way up, and the triumphant or disappointed ones coming down. Those who had elected to spend the extra day going up were also passing it here, as Iain and Alison had done. It would probably be of more help to spend the extra day up at Kibo Hut, at 15,000', but this didn't seem to be allowed as there was no water or wood for cooking up there, and at that altitude the porters couldn't be expected to carry any more than was absolutely necessary.

After the day's long climb, our meagre lunch and my firewood expedition, I was very hungry, but our group had to wait for a vacant table and was the last to be served that evening. I was glad to note that my appetite remained strong, and that the only effect of the altitude seemed to be a slight headache, but being cold and hungry made me a bit miserable, watching the steaming food brought in by the porters, and everyone else around us eating. Everybody seemed to be dawdling far too long over their tea at the end, preventing us getting a table- but perhaps it was just my mood.

And finally Jared was laying the table, his crazy bonnet on once more, and we were being served our soup, then another simple meal of dry meat, potatoes, carrots and- yes- cabbage. We felt better right away, and the five of us talked while we ate everything put it front of us. So far none of us had an appetite problem.

The question I'd been dreading a bit was finally raised by Ingrid, who was sitting across the table from me.

"What do you do for a living?"

"Well, I'm a musician."

"Really- what do you play?"

"Oh, drums and percussion."

"Where do you play? Do you make records, or play concerts?"

"Hmm, a little of both."

And at this a light seemed to go off in Greg's head. I felt it happen, but to his credit, he played it cool. He turned to Kees and asked him his last name, and Kees told him, then he turned to me and asked me the same question, and I told him.

"Do you play for a group?"

(Nod.)

"Rush?"

(Nod.)

"No shit!", he exclaimed, leaning back from the table in surprise. "I don't believe it".

I held up my hands in front of me in mock defence. "Whoa!"

"I used to look at a poster of you every single day when I went to school in Utah! My roommate was a drummer, and he thought you and Billy Cobham were the greatest!"

Kees turned to me and smiled: "well, he's certainly heard of you." Kees and I had discussed these things earlier, and not surprisingly he had never heard of Rush. Mind you, Kees is fifty-five years old, almost ten years older than I'd thought, and is from Holland, where the band has had some success, but is far from famous. He'd thought perhaps his son might have heard of us.

But I was a bit worried now. Greg and I had developed such a good rapport over the last couple of days, and I hoped this wasn't going to spoil it. Fortunately he was mature enough to sense this too, and was determined to go carefully now, knowing I wouldn't want him to treat me any differently. It would be a shame if this budding friendship was stunted by such a silly thing as that. But we both handled it well, and remained our respective versions of 'normal' toward each other.

After dinner I took a walk outside for a moment, and being well-fed and feeling much better, I was rewarded with an incredible sight. It had turned very cold when the sun was gone, and was probably around the freezing point already. The sky was dark now and mostly clear, with just a few billowing clouds. The two peaks were silhouetted against the sky, with just a trace of sunset to the left of Kibo, and a few stars peeking out from behind Mawenzi. I went back inside feeling happy and at peace inside.

We had started the fire at dinner time, and by now we had a good one blazing in the little woodstove. Kees had also gone foraging for wood, as had the "Y" people, so between us we had gathered a good pile of fuel. Everyone else had gone to their huts, and the nine of us gathered around, pulling the benches up as close to the fire as we could. This was truly a "United Nations" assembly, or at least NATO: an Englishman, a Frenchman, a German, two Americans, two Dutch people, a German-American, and of course, your Canadian delegate.

The fourth member of the "Y" group was an affable German with a ready smile named Dietrich, and he and Greg spoke a bit in their native language, as Kees and Ingrid would sometimes do in Dutch. The atmosphere was very cozy and friendly; once again- I was in a special kind of "club". All of us huddled close together, near the warmth and light of the fire, taking turns feeding it with sticks and roots. Across from me Karen laid her head down on Ingrid's lap, who gently stroked her hair in a touching display of friendly affection. We were talking about what an international group we were, sharing this experience together, and how forty years ago we would have all been either allies or enemies in a terrible war. It seemed so impossible.

Greg and I had discussed these matters quite a bit. With his combination of German background and American upbringing, as he travels around in the world he sometimes finds himself on a two-edged sword, with an older generation resenting the Germans and both younger and older people resenting the Americans. Of course, both prejudices are unfair and unfortunate, as anyone knows who has enjoyed the warm hospitality of a restaurant in the German countryside, or the open friendliness of the American Midwest.

As a seasoned alumni of the tourist industry in London, I have found that sometimes Germans and Americans abroad just take it for granted that people don't like them, and this insecurity makes them feel they have to be loud and demanding to get the respect they deserve. This of course only exacerbates the problem, causing even more resentment.

Thus the German people are often judged by a few murderous madmen, from a time before they were born, just as Americans are judged, if not by Ronald Reagan or Rambo, than by some stereotypical boorish tourist, loud of voice and dress, spreading money around in an effort to buy goodwill. As if obnoxious tourists- and heartless killers- didn't come from everywhere. But of course it's not the whole story- not by a long way.

Avumaye baharini papa (kumbe wengi wapo).
The one that is famous in the sea is the shark-
(but then, there are many others.)
(Swahili Saying)

17- the alpine desert

Greg was going to bunk in with Kees and I that night, as some other people had been put in with their group, and as we walked together over to the sleeping hut, we stopped to admire the stars. It was an incredible sight at this altitude, the sky so clear and black, and the Milky Way like a phosphorescent cloud spattered across it. It was very cold, and utterly dark. Greg pointed out the Southern Cross to me, the first time I'd ever seen it, as this was the first time I'd been south of the Equator. We picked out some of the other constellations we knew; unmistakable Orion, and my personal favorite The Pleiades, a diamond necklace centred in the dome of scattered bright stones. This is the one I always look for wherever I am, on those metallic winter nights, skis hissing on a frozen lake in Quebec, or while sailing on the soft trade winds in the Caribbean. It's always The Pleiades I look for in the night sky, as a kind of charm I suppose, a beacon, a distant friend.

I fell asleep readily, but after four or five hours I was awake again. I lay in the cold dark hut, restless and apprehensive, thinking the hundreds of thoughts that run through your mind when you lie awake in the darkness. By this time tomorrow we'd be on the final ascent, and I continued to see visions of myself stricken, sick and weak, being carried off the mountain in disgrace. Or worse. Every slight twinge in my head was incipient altitude sickness now. It was strange not to be able to count on strength or fitness, or even sheer will, to get me up this mountain. Anything could happen. I was prepared for the worst in my heart, but still, I wanted badly to get up there. By this time tomorrow, the tale would be told.

I dozed off again for an hour or two, then awoke to see the first change in the light coming through the little window up at the peak. I wanted to get outside for the sunrise, I hated to miss one, but some of the warm clothes I would need were in that big plastic bag, and I knew I couldn't get out without making a lot of noise. So I stayed in my warm sleeping bag, once again focusing myself on the next goal- Kibo Hut.

By 6:30 I could lay there no longer, and got up to get dressed in the cold morning air. As it was, | needn't have worried about rustling around; Greg never even stirred, and Kees merely mumbled something incoherent once again, without waking. The morning was sharp and bright, and what had been a dull grey-green world isolated between the clouds was now an open panorama, showing some lesser volcanic cones and a parallel series of ridges stretching down the mountainside to a distant field of low white clouds. Above me the sky was still a clear deep blue, Kibo shining white in the west and Mawenzi nearer, a few rags of cloud already gathering around its teeth. The sound of rattling pots and pans and chatter came from the cooking huts, as the porters began to bring breakfast over. I went over to let Kees and Greg know that it was time.

Once again this morning we were served a thin white porridge, a very bland and tasteless mixture which had been christened "wallpaper paste" in several languages. We were sitting beside the "Y" group, and as Jean, the Frenchman, lifted a spoonful to his mouth he grumbled: "In France you serve food like this you go straight to jail!", and it reminded me of an observation I'd once made about it being "against the law to serve bad food in France".

As he raised a second spoonful of the greyish paste, he made us all laugh by saying sadly: "Have you ever seen a Frenchman commit suicide?"

Ingrid had been bothered by a worsening cold on the way up, and this morning she awoke with badly-blocked sinuses. This is a condition which can be very painful at altitude, as anyone might know who's ever been in an airplane with a bad cold or earache. The warning posters don't recommend you go any higher than this if you have such a problem, and she was going to have to stop. It was a tough break, as now she would have to stay behind and wait here until tomorrow for the rest of us to come down again.

Ernest came by to point us in the right direction, and Greg and I set off together once more. We didn't seem to be gaining any altitude for a while, continually climbing up and down ridges as I had done gathering firewood the afternoon before, but after an hour we stopped with a few of the others at a place signposted "Mawenzi Ridge 13,500", which told us we had indeed gained over a thousand feet.

There was a tumbling of boulders here, and we sat down among them for a while. Though Kees's thermometer had shown just one degree above freezing that morning, and it had certainly been below zero during the night, the strong morning sun felt quite warm when you were out of the wind. It is said that up here "every day is summer and every night is winter". Everyone except Dom was trying to keep the pace slow today, and we often met up with some of the others. Dietrich was splendidly arrayed in a pair of knee-high socks of a particularly violent pattern- in fact each of them a different violent pattern. Now who could resist a German in loud mismatched socks?

I watched a large brown mouse creep out from under one of the rocks, his whiskers twitching from side to side, before he decided he didn't wish to share our company and retreated. It was comforting to see this sign of life, as the landscape was growing increasingly barren and inhospitable. Ahead of us we could see the Saddle, the high plateau which stretches about seven miles between the two peaks. This area is called an alpine desert, and it was brown and studded with a few large boulders and scattered smaller rocks. They must have landed where they lay when they came blasting out of one of the volcanic explosions which formed this mountain.

We stopped to fill our water bottles at the stream which was marked "Last Water", where the porters would fill jerrycans with enough water to cook the evening meal. We were all still feeling good as we started across the Saddle, a deceptively long and flat part of the trail. We could see where Kibo Peak began its sharp rise, which would be where the hut was located. A few distant groups of climbers and porters on their way down gave the trail the look of an ancient trading route across a desert.

Resting climbers had stopped and arranged baseball-sized rocks across the side of the path, spelling out their names in a "found objects" sculpture. I had read that herds of Eland are sometimes seen crossing the Saddle, and at one point I came across a series of large cattle-like footprints pressed into the gravelly surface. Since there is little or nothing for them to eat here, one can only assume they migrate over the Saddle to get from one side of the mountain to the other. It is perhaps these passersby which draw another kind of visitor- leopards, which are known to hunt high up on the mountain.

Only later, in the Kilimanjaro book, did I read about occasional encounters with wild dogs up here as well. The African Hunting Dog is a rather fearsome animal which hunts in packs and attacks its quarry by biting pieces away until the prey weakens, then dismembering it while it is sometimes still alive. As recently as 1979, a lone man was attacked by a pack of I them right here on the Saddle, being severely bitten and losing a finger before they were fortunately frightened off by the arrival of another group of climbers. That kind of experience is hard to imagine, thinking of that silent wasteland where nothing stirred.

In the early 'sixties wild dogs were actually encountered on the high summit, where three climbers were unnerved by being trailed for a couple of hours by a pack of five of them, among the glaciers and snowfields up there. It's a good thing I didn't know everything there was to be afraid of- there was enough to worry about with just getting up there, never mind leopards and wild dogs!

The few climbers we began to meet coming down the trail looked beaten and drained, barely managing a "good morning". One young fellow just shook his head and advised: "Wear everything you own".

Greg kept me amused with some good stories from his "boot camp" days, figuring that if he'd survived that he could survive this. From some war movie I remembered a drill sergeant screaming: "I CAN'T HEAR YOU!", and when I yelled that into the thin air Greg laughed, saying he'd had an officer just like that. If you went to the door of his office and knocked, he would say: "I HEAR LITTLE TINY WOODPECKERS AT MY DOOR", and would only respond if you pounded on the door in a proper manly way.

He was also telling me that for himself he hoped that the military would take him into the diplomatic world, which was his real ambition. Rather than work his way up through the lower levels of the bureaucracy, he hoped to rise as an officer in the Marines, then sidestep into a higher echelon of the diplomatic corps. We joked that when he was the US ambassador to Tanzania, he would get me into the Ministry of Tourism.

As I learned more of Greg's background, my respect for him grew. I'd noticed a tattered old green hardcover book which he always carried with him, and when someone had asked him about it I heard him call it his "bible". I was curious what he meant, but didn't like to pry. As our friendship grew he told me about it himself, it was the Alcoholics Anonymous book. He went on to tell me he had been a teenage alcoholic until the night he woke up in jail, at the age of eighteen, and couldn't remember a thing. He'd been arrested for driving while intoxicated, and from that moment he never took another drink.

I asked him: "How did it come to that? How does a thing like that start?"

"Well, when I was fourteen or fifteen, I used to save my money during the week, then buy a bunch of beer and drink it all."

Perhaps typically, this seemed such a remote and impossible thing to me, I tried to picture what would make a young teenager do that.

"You must have really liked the feeling of being drunk, to have waited through the whole week just to have it again."

"Well yeah, I did, but like everybody does, I never thought I was an alcoholic, not until I woke up in jail like that. That really scared me."

"I guess so, though it could have been a worse lesson. If you'd hurt somebody, or-"

"Yeah, I know, I was lucky. But I was still pretty scared. I can't say enough about the AA, those people really helped me through it."

"You know, thinking about it I have to admire your courage in dealing with it. I'm not sure if I was mature enough at eighteen to have faced such a problem so constructively".

And as we walked together along that dusty trail through the barren and blasted landscape, he told me a bit about the program, how they help you face your psychological problems as well as your dependency. For instance, they want you to write down a list of all the things you've done that you're ashamed of, then you have to choose someone as a "confessor"; someone you trust enough to listen to you unburden these things. I've known other people who've joined this organization, or its companion Narcotics Anonymous, and they've told me how your self-respect is rebuilt by facing and sharing your problems with others. Just calling it a disease, instead of a weakness or an addiction, makes all the difference in justifying it to yourself, and learning to carry on without the crutch. This "fatal flaw" in one's makeup, the addictive tendency, is not well understood, and in fact I've learned it's referred to as the "X Factor", but it is certain that the only cure is abstinence. There is no such thing as moderation, and "will power" can't control the problem, only help to eliminate it.

"One drink is too many, a thousand aren't enough".

I was saying that where we were now, altitude sickness had some points of comparison with alcoholism. No one knows why it afflicts some people and not others, it can make you very unwell, and in extreme cases, even kill you. And the only cure is to take away the catalyst- stay away from the cause. I hoped I wasn't going to turn out to be a carrier of this X Factor.

Later in the morning we decided we really should try to pause more often (pole-pole!), and moved off the trail a bit to lean against some rocks out of the wind. We unwrapped our lunches, the usual dry sandwich and orange, and, following Nigel's advice, I took a couple of Tylenols in preparation for any ill effects when we arrived at Kibo Hut.

Greg was telling me that he liked to decorate his room with flags of different countries he'd lived in; Germany, the US, Swaziland and now Tanzania; and how he sometimes got grief from other students about the US flag. "Why don't you take that thing down?"

He thought this was pretty stupid, and told me: "It really bugs me when I meet other American kids at these foreign schools, and they think people will like them better if they run down their own country. 'Oh yeah', they'll say, 'it's really awful in the States, you know, like with Reagan and everything'.

"Yes, I've met them too, and they agree with anything bad anybody says, as if the United States was truly the Babylon of the modern world. You can't win. What are you supposed to do- when you're the richest and most powerful nation in the world? You can hold it back, or try to use it responsibly, and American has been damned for both. In the early years of both world wars America was criticized for trying not to get involved, but when-they do try to use their power to help somebody, like Korea, or even Vietnam- though of course I don't believe in the draft- Grenada, Central America; people bitch even louder. I'll tell you, it really burns me sometimes. After about twelve years of touring-around the United States I've really come to love the country, especially in the last couple of years when I've gotten out on my bicycle and really seen the place. From the Maine coast, the Arizona desert, New England woodlands, Spanish Moss on the Mississippi trees- even the midwest- Ohio and Indiana have parts that are really beautiful."

I even shocked Greg by saying that as far as I was concerned, I wouldn't mind if Canada was a part of the US. I don't really find any difference between us, and as a frequent border-crosser, it would be great to get rid of the invasive and unpleasant Customs and Immigration people. Of course, growing up in Seattle, so close to Canada, Greg had met many of the more nationalistic and paranoid brand of Canadians, to whom such a suggestion smacks of heresy and treason, and he was genuinely astonished to hear anyone from north of the 49th parallel say such a thing.

"Boy, you better keep quiet about that idea. You'd get tarred and feathered and run out of Town on a rail."

I nodded and smiled, "yeah, I know, it's an unpopular opinion up there, but Canadians are so insecure about this 'national identity' business. I mean there we are, living in the protective shadow of America, along the 'world's longest undefended border', watching American. television and buying American products- what do they think would be so different? We all come from the same immigrant background after all, we have the same heritage, language, customs, holidays, cars, appliances and TV shows. And if there were ever a war, say Russia decided to take over Canada, where would they look for help? To England? Ha ha."

It's been fun for me, as a Canadian, being able to argue with these people on the side of the US without being accused of chauvinism- I can claim an unspoken neutrality I suppose. In my travels I have often found myself in arguments with Canadians, Europeans and even Americans about this "big bad Imperialist monster" that they identify with the US. I call this the "conspiracy mentality"; people who are convinced there is some secret power conglomerate of politicians and corporations manipulating the world- pulling the strings.

These are the same people who believe in the "great American myths", like the patent for the "500 mpg carburetor" that General Motors is supposed to have bought and buried, or the "light bulb that lasts forever" that General Electric is supposed to be hiding; or the otherwise intelligent people I've talked with who really believe that the world would be running on solar power except for some secret agreement between the governments and the oil companies. I've been hearing these kinds of stories since I was a kid. The latest one is the "perpetual motion" machine that some guy claims to have invented, but the Patent Office is trying to keep it buried to protect the "vested interests". Right.

"Goddam", I said, "anyone who's met a businessman or a politician, or even listened to one talk, should really know better. Do they really think these people are that smart to begin with? Or even if they were smart enough, do they seriously believe these people could agree on anything so complicated, and manage to keep it secret? Just think about it for a minute!

"It's like the worldwide "Reaganophobia" that gets so tiresome. Jesus, the guy can hardly string two words together if they're not written down, yet people believe he's capable of controlling a huge international conspiracy to rob everyone and take over the world. It's beyond belief."

But these kind of people find conspiracies everywhere they look. | suppose sometimes it's a kind of scapegoat- it's those kind of "conspiracies" which have also kept them from becoming the rich and important people they think they ought to be, or that have made the "lucky" ones more successful than them. That reminds me of the great line, when a successful man was told how lucky he was: "Yes it's true, and the harder I work, the luckier I get!"

After four and a half hours we arrived at Kibo Hut, elevation 15,520'. Dom had really made fast time this morning, arriving well before us, and was stretched out in the sun, out of the wind behind a ridge of bare rocks. He seemed to be feeling pretty good, so perhaps his experience on Mount Kenya had conditioned him for this. We joined him there, the sun warm and welcome in this sheltered place, and it was surprising how comfortable you could be- lying on a bed of loose and jagged rocks. Others began to arrive, and soon there was a row of us lying there, tired and drained by this difficult stage of the climb.

From here you could see the trail we would be taking tonight, the slope beginning here and growing steeper and steeper, until it began to zigzag sharply back and forth across what must be a very steep climb. And on and upward it went, the scree slope apparently very treacherous on loose rocks and gravel. You could see why Geoff's group felt it was enough just to get to Gillman's Point.

I could feel a headache starting to grow, and hoped the Tylenols would soon kick in and take care of it, but as I lay there my head began to pound more and more painfully. I started to feel pretty bad, my skull in a throbbing vise and pressure growing behind my eyes. It was almost hallucinatory, weird thoughts flashing in my brain, and patterns of light and dark forming and changing behind my closed eyelids. I could feel the pressure knotting in my stomach as well, mild nausea adding to the discomfort. I lay there in the hard sunlight and rarefied air, feeling miserable. "Here we go", I thought. "This will grow worse and worse, and I'll have to go back down the mountain. Maybe even in the dark- great!"

The X Factor strikes.

But gradually it abated, perhaps the Tylenols finally took effect, or just resting from the exertion of the climb at this altitude had done the trick. I was relieved, and feeling strong again I walked over to have a look at our home for tonight. Kibo Hut is different from the rest; instead of being a collection of small huts, like a little village, it is one cinder block building, divided into five or six rooms inside. The rooms are cold and dim, bare wooden walls, a rough table and benches, and twenty or so bunks in each. A short distance away there was another similar hut for the porters and the cooking.

As at Horombo, a tall antenna rose above it for the emergency radio, to summon help if someone was badly stricken here. It occurred to me that one of these aid programs should really buy them a helicopter. It would probably save a lot of lives, and could even be used to drop food and firewood at each of the huts. Of course, it would put a lot of porters out of work, and I suppose the rattling of a chopper in the air every day would detract from the atmosphere and sense of adventure. But if I lay dying up here. . .

Kees had remarked last night, as we discussed being cold almost all the time, that if this were in Europe or North America, you would at least expect to be warm when you arrived at your destination. You would still face the physical part of the climb yourself, but would be met by a warm fire and a good meal at the end of the day. Certainly that would make it nicer, but I don't know, it seems to me it's already pretty organized, and a little suffering kind of contributes to the whole thing.

Through the window I saw our porter struggling up the rocky slope with that red plastic pack on his head, and he staggered into our room and collapsed on a bunk. He looked in rough shape, and I was worried about him for a moment, and asked if he was alright. With two fingers he pointed to his forehead, saying: "very bad, very bad". I gave him a couple of my Tylenols, which he took gratefully, and passed him my water bottle. As I looked at him collapsed there on the bunk, I recalled one of the writeups I'd read on this climb, where someone had described how: "as you struggle up the mountain, the porters will go skipping on ahead of you as if it was nothing". Yeah.

Fully recovered now, and feeling the creeping chill once more as I cooled off, I thought another walk might be good. Maybe I could even explore a bit of the next route, and try the "climb high sleep low" adage once more. There was certainly no chance of finding firewood here; we were on the margin of the last life. Only a few hardy grasses and lichens could survive in this environment, and the porters had to carry up what was needed to cook the one meal we would have here.

When we were lying out on the rocks I was surprised to see another pair of White-necked Ravens flying around. Even way up here, the prospect of scavenging a bit of garbage around the camp must have brought them. It reminded me of the Arctic paintings of Ted Harrison, where the ravens are always scavenging around the Inuit settlements. A very adaptable bird- or so lazy that they'll go anywhere they don't have to hunt for their food!

Greg was still feeling pretty good, and agreed to explore a bit higher with me. We followed the trail, a lighter dusty brown track through the stones. The landscape was barren and moon- like, the earth a treacherous slide of volcanic gravel. Huge sharp-edged rocks lay scattered where they had fallen and hardened millennia ago. Long flows of lava had-frozen into jagged ridges, patterned with faults and cracks. In some places the rock had-hardened into waves, forming shallow caves and weird shapes.

The trail grew steeper by the minute, until each step was a deliberate, gravity-defying movement. Up here the oxygen content of the air is half that at sea level, and you have to measure it out carefully. When we had climbed high above the hut, we turned and rested, looking down the steep trail to see another group of people following our lead, a trail of brown dust as they trudged up the scree. The afternoon sun was moving above and behind. the peak of Kibo, adding dramatic shadows to-the grey and blasted landscape. We looked across the vast desert of the Saddle, a smooth brown plain stretching off in-the clear air to Mawenzi. It looked as if we were about even with its peak here.

My headache had disappeared entirely now, and I felt good as we slid our way back down. For the first time I dared to think I might make it, and it was an exciting thought. Also it was so strange and unearthly up here that it already felt as if we'd entered another world. The adrenalin was starting to pump.

When we returned I walked restlessly around the camp. I visited the toilets on a rocky outcropping, and, as at Horombo, they were truly the "long-drop" variety here, being wooden shacks built out over a high cliff, the wind blowing cold up through the "thrones".

There was a high pinnacle of tumbled rocks in front of the main hut, and I climbed over the boulders around it and pulled my way up, sitting atop it and looking around in the late afternoon sun. The silhouette of Kibo peak had already begun to fall across the Saddle, the shadow very dark against the bright gold of the desert that remained in the light of the powerful sun. When it grew too cold I went back into the hut, though it was really no warmer there, and was dim and cheerless. The "Y" group were huddled around the small metal woodstove, shivering and pathetically feeding a tiny flame with twigs and bits of paper, in a futile effort to create at least the illusion of warmth.

As I looked out the window of the hut, and watched the mountain's shadow creeping up the side of Mawenzi, I saw an exciting thing. I wasn't sure at first, and pulled out my binoculars and field guide to be sure, but yes it was- a Lammergeyer, a rare and beautiful bird of prey, soaring effortlessly in the thin air. It flew around the hut for several minutes, and I watched it until it was gone, following its motionless flight in my binoculars, and verifying the field marks. The graceful silhouette, rusty-buff body and dark wings and tail, sharp wedge of dark feathers by the eyes- yes! It looked like an Art Deco bird, designed by Erté; the dark grey and pale rust colors, the sleek curvaceous shape, that angular slash across the eyes. Beautiful. It would have been exciting to see it anywhere, but here on Kilimanjaro, at 15,500' it was magical. Like that Long-crested Eagle at Marangu, it was a sign.

Because all of the sleeping quarters were in the one building here, and the small common room had only a single table, we were served our dinners in the separate rooms. Since poor Ingrid had been left behind, it was just the four of us now; Kees, Greg, Michael and myself; and we were all feeling good and ready for a stew of meat, carrots, potatoes and- of course- cabbage. It was the perfect meal to make you feel heartened in a cold and lifeless environment like this.

Greg and Michael and I discovered a common taste (?) for the humor of Eddie Murphy, and began reciting some of his routines from the live video and laughing uproariously. We each took turns quoting key lines- "Hey Norton!"..."Aunt Bunny is comin' to get me". . ."Goony-goo-goo, Gus", which would send us all into fits of laughter. Kees was completely bemused by this, having no idea what we were talking about, but when we apologized for leaving him out he said: "no, no- it doesn't matter. It is just as funny to watch you laugh!"

Though Kees spoke excellent English, he would occasionally delight us with a charmingly unusual usage, like many people to whom it is not their first language. He made us all laugh, himself included, with a perfectly logical tumble into the abyss of English constructions, when he wondered why "the porters don't port any higher than Kibo Hut".

I had also picked another poetic piece of graffiti from the wall:

Here we huddle eating our rice
Looking around everything's nice
Tomorrow we're told
Will be very cold
But we'll give it a try
God knows why
30/10/85

It was signed by a couple from Colorado, who also claimed to have joined the "Mile High Club" here (actually almost three miles). Doubtless it helped to keep them warm, but they must have been alone in here, or been very quiet. There were about twenty-bunks in the room, and there was no privacy.

When dinner was finished the sun was just about down, and it grew even colder. I decided to get into my sleeping bag and try to conserve some body heat at least, and fully-clothed I climbed into it and laid back on the bunk. Everyone else soon did the same, and then we were all in bed- at a little past 6:00, before the sun was even down!

As I lay there in the growing darkness I began to feel bad once again, We'd been told that people seldom slept at this altitude, and Geoff had told me he had lain awake here all night, cold and miserable, just waiting for the knock on the door to get them up. I hoped that wasn't what I was in for now. I tossed and turned for a couple of hours, my headache and sick feeling growing steadily worse, until I finally got up and tried to find my water bottle and the Tylenols without disturbing the others. They all told me later that they'd been awake the whole time too, and it was kind of funny; all of us lying silently in the darkness, not wanting to disturb the others- who were all awake anyway!

As I continued to feel worse and worse, pounding head and rising nausea, once again I was gripped by apprehension. What was happening to me? Was this the beginning of something really bad? Something serious- the X Factor- should Iturn on a flashlight and see if my fingernails were blue?

What could I do? I couldn't very well go stumbling back down the trail in the dark by myself, which would probably have been my first instinct if it got too bad. And if I was feeling this bad now, what was going to happen when I had to go up another four thousand feet tomorrow? Why did I do this- why am I here? I could be relaxing in a-warm hotel room, in a comfortable bed- or be at home, and turn on a light and read for a while.

Only I felt so bad I couldn't have read anyway.

Meetai dikir nemesheyui.
There is no hill that never ends.
(Maasai Wisdom)

18 - the highest high

I awoke suddenly to hear the door banging open, pleasantly surprised to find that I'd been asleep. In fact; against the odds I'd actually slept for two or three hours, though fitfully. It was Jared, the assistant guide, coming in to wake us, carrying a lantern and a tray with tea and hard biscuits. It was 12:30. He already looked dressed for Antarctica, every inch of him thickly covered except his nose and eyes.

I climbed out of the sleeping bag excitedly, and started putting on all the clothes I'd laid out before I'd gone to bed- yesterday afternoon. Last night when I'd been lying awake I started to worry about frostbite as well, for that is yet another of the possible pleasures of this climb. People have lost fingers and toes here. Now I was worried about having to turn back because of cold hands or feet- but I was determined not to be stopped by anything stupid like that, I would get there if I had to drag myself. (Well- as long as my lungs weren't full of blood or anything.)

It seemed wise to take the advice of our unknown advisor on the trail yesterday- "wear everything you own!" - and I had pulled out everything I thought might help. I started with long underwear, two pairs of pants, heavy socks, boots with gaiters over them, two T-shirts, a long-sleeved T-shirt, two sweatshirts, a nylon shell, an insulated windbreaker, the heavy rented coat, gloves, a balaclava, and the hood of the shell over top of that.

I even tried putting the Vaseline on my feet, as Geoff had recommended. Into my day pack I put my camera, tape recorder, flashlight, extra socks, sunglasses, Tylenols, pen and paper, spare batteries for camera and recorder, and my water bottle. I hoped all that would get me there.

I was too excited for the tea and hard biscuits, and once I had my gear ready I went outside to wait for the others. It-was very cold and dark, the stars hard and bright in a clear black sky, and the peaks were outlined in the light of a low half-moon. I was feeling good, ready to get going, and paced around to keep warm while some of the other climbers gathered into shadowy groups. It was too dark to tell who anyone was, but the guides seemed to get them all sorted out, and led them away into the blackness. I had a momentary gloomy vision of the condemned being led away to hell.

Finally our four were all prepared, and the lead guide waved us in behind him. We set out single-file down the trail, which was lit only by the pale moon and stars, and was merely a trace of a different shade of dark beneath our feet. We each followed closely behind the silhouette in front of us, one foot in front of the other. It took a while to figure out who the leader was, but I finally decided that it was Ernest in front, with Greg and I behind him, then Kees and Michael followed by Jared. Ernest set a slow easy pace, and we tried to match it, knowing we were in for a long hard climb. In spite of our good intentions, typically we were soon moving ahead and pressing at Ernest's heels on the corners, but he would not be hurried very much.

He followed the trail by the light of stars and moon alone, and as the slope grew steeper we settled into a steady rhythm; lean your weight forward into the slope, put one foot in front of the other and push against the loose stones. It wasn't long before we left the others behind with. Jared, and began catching up to some of the groups ahead of us. Every once in a while I could see the red spark of a cigarette in the blackness, as a guide relaxed while his charges recovered their energies.

It was steep enough now that you couldn't go straight up, and the trail began-to zigzag back and forth across the scree. It was hard going; if you slipped in the stones you lost your balance and your momentum, and then would have to gather your strength to push against the gravity and the slippery surface once more. I kept my fingers balled into fists in the middle of my gloves, to make sure they stayed warm, and tried to keep wriggling my toes inside my boots to keep the circulation going. On and on we climbed, back and forth, back and forth, each step an arduous struggle, but each step taking us higher.

When the shadowy groups ahead of us stopped for a rest, or the trail was wide enough, we passed them, and soon I could only see four figures on the mountain above us. It was so steep that whenever I saw them traversing the slope in a line, they appeared silhouetted against the sky, outlined by the stars. It turned out to be Dom, Jean and Dietrich with their guide, and we met up with them where they rested in Hans Meyer's Cave. Now we'd reached 17,000'. We'd been climbing for about two hours now, and this was supposed to be the halfway point, so it was a good place for a break.

Their group was just getting ready to start out again as we arrived, and we wished each other good luck. No one said much, except to ask how everybody else was doing, and so far everybody seemed to be feeling okay. I sat down and took my socks off, rubbing most of the Vaseline away, but it hadn't seemed to do much good anyway. I put on my spare pair of socks, as the others were wet with sweat already, swallowed a couple of preventative Tylenols with some water from my bottle, then laced my boots up again. We invoked the spirit of Hans Meyer himself to help us reach the peak he had been the first to conquer- Uhuru.

"Ready to go?", I asked Greg.

"You bet. Lead on!", he replied.

Now it all became kind of vague. Observation and imagination were gone, replaced solely by will, as I concentrated only on lifting one foot higher up the mountain in front of the other one, keeping balance and momentum together. I went into that Zen-like trance, a physical and spiritual numbness, as I followed Ernest through this shadow-world. It was like being on a hundred-mile bicycle ride, or swimming a mile, (only harder), my whole being focused on a physical rhythm. The chemicals of exertion were at work; endorphins spurring me on, and dopamine numbing the pain.

After another hour of trudging back and forth across the slippery scree, it became soul-destroying, a struggle that would never end. Ernest in front, then me, and Greg following behind. The only sound was our boots crunching and slipping in the gravel. Sometimes as I made the turn back across the slope, Greg would be beside me coming up, but we didn't waste any energy on conversation: "Alright?" "Yup." I couldn't believe it could go on so long, and I couldn't believe how hard it was. Hard and frustrating, when I would slip backwards and lose a hard-won step.

My natural response to a struggle like this is anger. The irresistible force of determination meets the immovable object of frustration- and for me, that combination equals anger, and becomes a furious determination. At times like this it's productive, and helps me achieve the goal- get up the hill- but other times it's not so helpful. Like the time I was struggling up a difficult cross-country ski trail, slipping and sliding over steep terrain, and in a fit of rage smashed my ski pole against a tree. It was a long walk back with only one pole.

If I'm straining up a hill on my bicycle, it's anger that kicks in when the going gets too hard, as if to say: "You're not going to beat me, you stupid ignorant hill", and I would stand up and grind away at those pedals until I made it. And so it was now, only my anger became focused on the people who make this all seem so easy. "Any reasonably fit person can do it." "It's just a long walk uphill". Those tantalizing phrases that lure the unsuspecting into this grueling experience went around and around in my oxygen-starved brain, becoming a kind of mantra, though not a soothing one! That kind of oversimplification seemed to me to cheapen the accomplishment, to rob you of the sense of conquering this very difficult challenge.

And if only ten percent actually make it, what about the ninety percent who must fail- aren't they "reasonably fit"? Can't they survive "a long walk uphill"? It didn't seem fair, as if all of these people were being duped into paying their money, only to be disappointed or humiliated.

Of course, in the "fine print" of the information sheet there are hints: "No refund can be made if a climb is shortened by illness or weather". Uh-huh.

Any reasonably fit person can make it.
It's just a long walk uphill.
Grrrrr.

It was getting harder, and still steeper, and I was getting madder. I noticed that Ernest would stand aloof whenever we paused for a breather, as if he didn't need a rest, and as I followed behind him in the darkness for hour after grinding hour, I began to divine the reason. He had a slow rhythmic stride, leaning forward with his hands behind his back, and actually resting between each step. After each foot was placed, he would pause for a second, before shifting his weight up to the next step.

Certainly it worked well for him, letting him conserve his strength while maintaining a steady pace, but now that I was being driven by anger as well as determination, I found myself on his heels, and constantly being blocked by these pauses between strides. He would be stopped in front of me for a moment, with his weight on the firmly planted foot, forcing me to lose my rhythm, and I would be set off balance and start to slide in the loose gravel. Then I would have to summon the strength to regain my balance, as well as push my weight against the slippery footing to regain my forward motion. It may have made it easier for him, but it was making it harder for me, and I imagined, for Greg too.

I was muttering away under my breath, cursing this endless struggle in the darkness, cursing the loose gravel and Ernest too, and when I turned and spoke to Greg about it, he just mumbled something that sounded like assent, but I couldn't see his face.

Finally this "furious determination" got the better of me, and where the path led between some boulders I went to go past Ernest, reasoning through my anger that I could-surely do better on my own- all I had to do was keep going up- I couldn't get lost! But he just waved me back in behind him, to which I responded by waving my hand rapidly back and forth, as if to wave him on, but also to urge him on quicker.

"You want to go faster?", he said with a note of surprise in his voice.

"Not faster- just steadier!", I said between clenched teeth. "You keep stopping between each step; it just makes it harder for us!"

It was only a few minutes later that Greg spoke up weakly: "I have to stop for a minute", and for the first time I realized that he was having a rough go of it. He fell back onto a rock beside the trail, his breathing shallow and rapid.

"I feel pretty dizzy", he said.

I felt bad, thinking that I'd forced the pace with Ernest, without knowing that Greg was hurting. He'd probably been cursing me. Blind, stupid anger.

"Don't worry", I said guiltily, "just stop whenever you want to. We've got plenty of time." Knowing he felt bad melted my anger away immediately, and I just wanted us both to get-up there. He struggled-back to his feet, weaving a bit as he tried to gather his balance and his strength to continue.

I motioned him in to go in behind Ernest. "Here- you go ahead and I'll follow you. You set the pace, and whenever you want to stop just say so. It's okay. We'll get there."

I concentrated on my fingers and toes, making sure they didn't go numb, and labored silently in the darkness behind the unsteady Greg. There were some larger rocks now, which were helpful to brace your feet against, or you could use your hands to help haul yourself up. As we worked our way over and around the rocks, Greg fell against one for a moment, turning to me.

"You know. . . I'm just climbing on determination now."

"I know, I know, keep it up. We'll get there."

A couple of times I could see him falling backwards, losing his balance, and I tried to steady him when I could. I was getting worried about him now. I thought we must be getting close to this bloody peak by now.

We were entirely surrounded by a world of shadowy boulders now, hoisting ourselves over them in the darkness, poor Greg getting weaker and weaker.

"So dizzy. Can't see very well."

I was just starting to think we'd better get him back down, when I began to hear murmuring voices. I could see a couple of silhouettes on top of a large flat rock, and the spark of a cigarette in a shallow cave behind it. I didn't know if this was Gillman's Point, or just another resting place, but I thought I'd better take care of Greg, and steered him gently towards the cave. Ernest said "No, up there", pointing to the rock, so I guessed it must be Gillman's, but I just said "okay, okay", and led Greg into the shelter of the cave, telling him: "Just take it easy, man. Sit down and rest, you'll be alright now." He could only moan.

I crawled up on the rock, standing on it and looking around. Here I was, Gillman's Point, 18,600', and still feeling strong and good. It was about 5:30 now, still dark, but a thin mauve line stretched around the horizon to the east, a horizon that was a long way below us. I could see a sprinkling of lights on either side of the Saddle, Tanzania on one side and Kenya on the other. The plains of Africa were now about three miles below us.

I could just make out a pink glow on some walls of ice and snow off to the left, but I hardly took the time to look around. I was tense with excitement, my whole being consumed with the desire to keep going. I was so pumped up, I was afraid if I paused here too long I might start to feel bad too, or lose the resolve to continue. So right away I asked Dom and Dietrich if they were ready to keep going. Jean was also feeling pretty sick, and was one of the huddling shadows down in the cave. When they said "yes, let's go", I told them I'd like to go around the crater with them and their guide, and leave Ernest to look after Greg. Hopefully he would recover and be able to follow later. I went down into the shallow cave and put my hands on Greg's shoulders, but he just moaned, his head hanging down weakly. I told Ernest what I was going to do, and asked him to stay and look after Greg. It was hard to go on without him, we'd done the whole climb together and it was like abandoning your partner, but I didn't know what else to do. He was certainly in no shape to carry on.

Around behind the point, we started down a narrow trail along the inner wall of the crater, squeezing along the cliff face between outcroppings of jagged volcanic rock. Jean tried to rouse himself and join us, but a few minutes later he turned around again, asking me to tell the others he'd gone back. Another poor victim of the X factor.

Now there was just Dom, Dietrich and myself led by their guide, making good time over the rough terrain of blasted rock. Soon we emerged into the open, on top of the crater rim. It was growing lighter all the time, but you had to concentrate on where you put your feet, so there was little time for sightseeing.

After a while we stopped to rest, taking a good look around us for the first time. I was still wide-eyed and intense with this "furious determination", and my brain struggled to record it all, to find words to describe what I saw. Far, far below us we could see the distant cloudscape stretching away for hundreds of miles, even the rising peak of Mount Kenya to the north, the second-highest point in Africa, almost two hundred miles away. And another bump in the clouds to the southwest that would be Mount Meru, near Arusha. "Wow", I kept saying. Just "wow".

I was surprised to find that the summit is not entirely covered with ice and snow; in fact the crater rim is quite bare of it. The remains of the great glaciers which once covered the whole peak have dwindled over the centuries, but there were still vast cliffs and terraces of ice on both sides of the rim, some of them huge and beautifully-sculptured, breathtaking as they reflected the fiery tints of dawn.

It is figured by experts in these matters that the glaciers are a remnant of the last Ice Age, and have slowly been melting away, undercut by the heat which is absorbed by the dark volcanic rocks. Even fifty years ago the ice cap was significantly larger, and photographs show huge glaciers in places that are now bare rock once again. It's strange to think that in another century or two the snows of Kilimanjaro could once more be just a legend from the past, perhaps even disbelieved as they were a hundred years ago.

I knew that once again a camera was helpless here, but I pulled it out anyway and tried to capture some impression of this incredible vista. Where a camera fails, words must fail too, and I can't imagine how to describe it all. The other-worldliness of this fantastic landscape, the bitter cold, the ice cliffs tinted pink and orange, Africa so many miles below us, and the sheer exhilaration of being there.

All of us now firmly in the grip of "summit fever", we were soon moving again, making our way over the barren rocks to the other side of the crater. Only occasionally did we have to cross a shallow snowfield, the hard and crusty surface melted by the strong sun into a field of six- or eight-inch stalagmites. The slope was gentle most of the time, though at this altitude anything that wasn't downhill was hard going. Once again, it seemed like an endless trail we were on.

After an hour and a half, the guide told us we were almost there, and we stopped once more in the lee of some rocks, the sun now well up in the deep blue sky. Dietrich was looking a bit rough, and he collapsed on the ground, breathing deeply to get some more oxygen into his lungs. I leaned back against a rock in the sun, blessing whatever was keeping me going. I think the deep regular breathing I'd learned from swimming was helping me a lot, as the thinness of the air didn't seem to bother me too much, and I think cycling a hundred and fifty miles a week, and swimming across the lake every day all summer had given me the endurance (and the leg muscles) to keep putting one foot in front of the other. And if they ever ask me to do a commercial for Tylenol, I could hardly refuse. I don't think I'd have-made it without them. Whatever the secret was, I blessed it. I was beating the X factor.

After a few minutes rest, the guide led us off once again, now climbing some steeper ridges and hauling ourselves up over the rough rocks. Just as the summit finally came into view, a glimpse of the green and black of the Tanzanian flag, I turned around to see Dietrich down on his hands and knees, his body wracked and vomiting painfully. I could only wait and look away; be there if there was anything I could do. With an understanding founded on my own native stoicism, I wouldn't intrude unless he needed help. I know when I'm sick I'm like a cat- I just want to crawl away under a bush and be alone.

I looked over at the steep ice cliff of a glacier's edge shining in the sun, beneath it a hockey rink-sized surface of flat ice. For a crazy moment I wished I had some skates- maybe the altitude was affecting my brain!

Pat Morrow, the Canadian mountaineer and photographer, actually brought skis up here, on an expedition which was part of his quest to climb the highest peak on each continent. He was able to use mountaineering skis, heavy cross-country skis with metal edges, on many of the mountains, and in his book Beyond Everest, he describes the exhilaration of carving Telemark turns on the glaciers up here. I had cut out a picture of that wonderful scene, and it had been one of the images that made me want to make this climb.

Dietrich was up again, shaking his head mournfully and moving on, and in a few more minutes we were there. A cluster of sticks and tattered flags surrounded a plaque placed by Julius Nyerere, who I believe actually did this climb himself. My hat's off to you, Julius. The plaque was dated 1961, when the country was still called Tanganyika, and the large Tanzanian flag waved in the cold wind above it.

It was 7:30 A.M., September the 15th, 1987, and I was on the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro.

How to describe the feeling? I was pleased, excited, proud and happy, looking down at the clouds from 19,340'- the highest point in all Africa. I was exultant, no- exalted is the word. I did a strange kind of victory dance there on the rocks, hands and face raised to the sky, jumping up and down with profound excitement. Not just the highest mountain in Africa, but the eighth-highest in the world. I was high! An entry on my tape recorder expresses it thus:

Well, hope this battery's holding up. I'm bringing this to you live from Uhuru, the highest point in Africa, the top of a continent, and it feels like the top of a world. So exciting, and I'm so proud to be here. The scenery is incredible. I just took some pictures which had better turn out. Got the ice and snow all around, and the clouds way, way down. Sun well above the horizon and Mawenzi in the distance. It's great!

Exhausted and triumphant, we laid down on the rocks in the powerful sun, looking down into the crater, overwhelmed by the supernatural panorama of the icefields, the barren rock, the snow and the incredibly blue sky. Dietrich was sprawled on the rocks, his head against the plaque and his hat over his face. I think he hardly knew, or cared, where he was- as long as it was over. Dom pulled out a bottle of whisky which he'd hauled up with him, and we toasted the summit with a capful each.

Ernest suddenly appeared from among the rocks, and joined us on the summit. As he sat down beside us, he patted my leg and gave me one of his small smiles. It was an eloquent gesture, but hard to read. At first I took it as a proprietary sign- that he'd been my guide, and he'd got me up there and don't forget it- but it might have been a sign that he forgave me for my anger on the scree, or a sign of congratulations for having made it. Who's to know.

He and the other guide tucked into the whisky big-time, and in fact when Dom went to put it away, their guide said: "No no, we'll take it down for you", and of course he never saw it again. We took the obligatory summit pictures, Dom using my camera to photograph Dietrich and myself with the two guides, and I took some with Dom's camera. We all looked like real mountaineers, dressed for the Antarctic, standing on the bare rock with the Tanzanian flag dark against the impossibly blue sky. After all Dietrich had been through to get here, the severe cold had killed the battery in his camera, and of course it needed a special size which neither of my spares would fit. I took a few extra shots of him with my camera, promising him I'd send him some copies. Sometimes life is just not fair.

There was a box containing the "guest book", and we were glad to add our names to this exclusive and hard-won club. I hadn't bothered with the ones in the huts on the way up, but this one I was proud to sign. Here was a place worth leaving your mark. Dom remarked that it was a shame that everybody couldn't have been here together, to have taken a group photograph with all of us. A generous observation, and it was true; we didn't feel any superiority to those who didn't make it, only sorry that we couldn't have all shared the whole adventure together.

And so we started back down the trail, back around the crater rim to Gillman's. About halfway around we met Michael and Jared, and Michael looked a little "shell-shocked", but he would make it. He told me that Greg had gathered himself and gamely tried to make it past Gillman's to the summit, but had collapsed a couple of times and finally passed out cold for a few minutes, at which time the guide sent him back down. Probably the wisest decision, but poor Greg. I knew how much he'd wanted to make it, and Michael and Ingrid had been kidding him from the start, that the "big tough Marine" would be the one not to make it. As I said to him later, "I know how much it cost you to get there- and I know how much it cost you to turn back".

The only other people we encountered were a hardy Danish couple, though they were still not far from Gillman's when we met them, and I'm not sure if they made it all the way or not. Even if they did, that would only make six of us out of about twenty who attempted it that day- better than the ten percent average, but still leaving a lot of people who were not "reasonably fit" enough to make it. Yeah.

We moved on ahead of the guides, Dom still full of energy and leading the way, with Dietrich and I behind. Poor Dietrich was violently sick once more, leaning weakly against the rocks in the grip of a painful spasm of nausea. As we carried on around the rim, he said in his soft German accent: "You know, I made it- but I sink it vas too hard". No question, it was the hardest thing I'd ever done, far beyond, say, cycling 175 miles in a day, the only comparable experience I could think of.

John Reader, in collecting the photographs and background information for his Kilimanjaro book, actually spent a night bivouacked inside the crater, and in describing some of the effects of the altitude and hardships of the climb, had this to say:

"I am not at all sure that I would have succeeded without the obligation (of this book for example) to do so, and I want to record here and a now my boundless admiration for all those people who climb Kilimanjaro simply for the fun of it, or just because it is there."

- and it wasn't over yet. We still had to get down.

There was no one at Gillman's Point when we reached it, and I paused there for a few minutes while Dom and Dietrich continued the descent. It had been dark when I'd first arrived here, and I'd had my mind totally focused on Uhuru, but now I could rest and enjoy the view, looking down over the Saddle to the ruined castle that is Mawenzi. Though it is the third- highest peak in Africa, after Kibo and Mount Kenya, even it looked a long way below me. Kibo Hut was just a tiny speck on the barren brown Saddle, some three thousand feet down. I decided that's where I wanted to be right now, and shouldered my pack for the descent. It was all downhill from here.

But even this was hard going. Just as it was too steep to climb straight up, it was also too steep to walk straight down, without following the zigzag traverses. Dietrich, still weak and drained, was following this trail. But if you just let yourself go straight down the fall line, you could practically "ski" down, bending your knees and letting your boots slide in the steep gravel, covering maybe ten feet with each step. But of course the resistance was strong, and it took a lot of effort to maintain control. As on a steep ski hill, if you started to fall you'd likely just keep falling, until a black-and-blue bundle of rags fetched up at the bottom- or against one of the jagged boulders I was "skiing" around.

As I made my arduous (but rapid) descent down the scree, the strong morning sun shining full on the slope, I began to feel very warm in my multi-layered and motley outfit. The zipper was broken on the rented outer coat, so I couldn't even open it, and anything I took off I would have to carry, which was impossible in this treacherous balancing act. So I began to sweat heavily, and as I did- I began to smell. Four days without a shower, plus sleeping in my clothes, and I was "high" in more than one sense!

Another entry on my tape illustrates my feelings, and my totally lost sense of time:

Funny, I was thinking about how both of the peaks are staying clear so late today, but of course even after all that adventure it's still only 9:30 in the morning. Strange, I guess we started out about 1:30, so that's one long eight hours. I can't remember when I've felt so tired. You can hear me stumbling down the hill here- hard to lift my feet up- just let them slide.

About halfway down I met Kees and Karen resting against some rocks, and I stopped for a minute to see how they'd done. They'd both made it to Gillman's, and Kees had tried to continue around to Uhuru, but had begun to feel so dizzy and light-headed that it was dangerous, and he had turned back.

Kibo Hut still seemed a long way down, and I set off down the "ski hill" once more, working my way down around the scattered boulders, and cutting across the trail where it zigzagged across the fall line. Eventually the slope became gentler, and I was walking now, down the last part of the trail, and the hut finally looked a little closer. It had taken us about six hours to get up there, and only a little over two to get down again.

A group of porters were sitting outside the hut when I arrived, and I gave them a triumphant wave and a "jambo" as I passed. For them, this was as high as they needed to go, and they must have thought we were a crazy bunch of foreigners, wanting to go through all that just to freeze on top of a mountain.

Inside the hut it was silent, and in our room there was only Greg, bundled in his sleeping bag, his face turned to the wall. As I quietly removed my clothes layer by layer, building a big untidy pile on the empty bunk beside me, my sense of triumph and relief was softened by compassion, and a little guilt. I'd left him behind, my climbing partner, and though he'd tried so bravely to make it, he'd had to turn back. He looked so small and sad huddled there with his face to the wall, and my heart went out to him.

Ruuo riltiguanarirwo.
Pain cannot be felt by one for the other.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

19- down to horombo

A loud bang at the door and the rattle of glassware crept into my sleep, after barely an hour of blessed rest. My eyes opened reluctantly, to see the morning sun was now shining painfully bright into the cold room. My limbs were heavy, sore and tired; my skin felt dirty and sticky with dried sweat, and for some reason the rolled-up towel next to my face felt very rough. It was then I noticed that my face was severely sunburned, from a mere twenty or thirty minutes exposure to the early sun on the peak. Even though I'd been out in the sun all summer in Quebec, and had been well-tanned by that and the recent exposure to the African sun, even at 8:00 in the morning the high-altitude sun had been powerful enough to give me a painful burn. It's easy to forget that Kilimanjaro is just 3° from the Equator.

The sounds of the door and the rattling glass rang sharply in the stark room, and I saw that it was Jared bringing a trayful of cups, containing some kind of orange squash which was lukewarm and overly-sweet, but welcome all the same. This we knew was the signal for us to get moving. It would have been good to lay in my warm sleeping bag for another few hours, but I guess they want you out of there well before the next group of climbers starts arriving in the early afternoon. A meal would also have been nice, as I'd had nothing to cat since the stew last night, and after all that work I had a powerful appetite, but food and sleep would have to wait a while yet.

About half of what I'd been wearing went back into the red plastic bag, and I returned to my "sub-Arctic" wardrobe. I was glad to see that Greg awoke in good spirits, quite recovered from his illness and taking his defeat very well, talking and laughing readily with the rest of us. Good man.

But it didn't make him any quicker, and as usual he was the slowest in getting ready. I was soon all packed-up and waiting for him, kidding him: "come on you turtle!" as I paced around impatiently and watched other groups setting off down the trail. Even Kees and Michael were away ahead of us, and they weren't the fastest packers in the world either. But to be fair, traveling almost incessantly for the last twelve or thirteen years has made me a quick and efficient packer, and even when I'm home I usually find it easier to continue living out of a suitcase. Plus there's the fact that I am driven by that organizational urge- as well as the fear that someone might have to wait for me. I don't know why, but I would much rather be the one waiting, than have anybody have to wait on me. Some WASP hangup, I suppose.

Tijina ilaanyuni, mijin ilaanyisho.
Be one of those who is waited for, not one of those who waits.
(Maasai Wisdom)

Ngeterera ndikinyaga.
He who waits does not arrive.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

Not what I would say, but there you go. Perhaps it would be better to be that way; certainly it would be less stressful. Seems kind of inconsiderate, wasting other people's time instead of your own, but maybe Greg had the right idea after all. I'll think about it.

(No I won't.)

So once again we set off between the stark rock formations that rose here beneath the peak, and headed for the brown desert of the Saddle. We soon found to our dismay that even walking downhill was hard. Our feet and legs were sore and tired, Greg's feet badly blistered by the ill-fitting rented boots he wore, and we were exhausted all over from lack of sleep and the arduous workout. I mentioned to Greg how hard all this exertion at this altitude must be on your body, and he replied: "Yeah, if your body could talk to you right now, it would have a lot to say!"

We continued the rapid pace we had established coming up together, and we soon overtook Michael and Kees, just where the trail passed out of sight of Kibo Hut and opened onto the open desert. We also began to pass groups of people on their way up, wishing them good morning and good luck, and thinking of the incredible difference the last twenty-four hours made between them and us- "What a difference. . a day makes!" - as it had yesterday with the descending climbers we'd passed. We came upon an English couple we had met at Horombo, who must have spent an extra day there as they were only on their way up now, stopping to eat their lunches by some rocks just off the trail. When they asked how it was, we repeated the advice about wearing everything they could against the cold, and not wanting to spoil anything for them, just wished them luck without telling them too much about what they were in for!

The clouds had begun to gather around the peaks by now, as apparently they always do by about 9:30 in the morning, but the sky above was clear and blue, and the sun was bright on the barren landscape. As we began to walk some of the stiffness out of our legs, our conversations continued:

"I've always thought it must be kind of a tough life, being on the road all the time like you guys are."

"Well, like everything else it's got two sides, negative and positive. I really like traveling, and I like playing drums, it's just all the other stuff that sometimes gets annoying. The days-off in different places are nice, and I make the most of the free time, getting out on my bicycle to see the country, and getting a lot of reading done. But I wish the work part could be more normal, you know, just get up in the morning and go to work, then go home when the work is done. There's always so much 'hoopla' about it all, with too many strangers wanting a piece of your time."

"How do you deal with that? I can imagine the fans must drive you nuts sometimes."

"It's a strange thing. When we first started touring, opening shows and playing clubs, that sort of thing, our dressing room door was always open, and anyone who wanted to could walk in and talk to us. That was no problem then, and it was interesting to meet the odd people who would wander in in different places. Then at a certain point it gets-too crazy, and you have to start thinking about security. It's a hard adjustment to make, it feels so bizarre to start putting: up barriers around yourself, hiring people to keep these people away from you, checking into hotels under phony names, all that stupid stuff. You feel as if you haven't changed- but suddenly the whole world around you is acting really weird. Total strangers chasing you around, yelling at you and exploding flashes in your face. It's hard to deal with."

"I can't really imagine what that would be like. I guess in cities where you're playing people might know you're there, but can you go places at home without being recognized?"

"To an extent, yeah. You wouldn't go to a rock bar or a pinball arcade, or stroll around a shopping mall, but I can go out to movies and restaurants without much of a problem. What it does is kind of force me into an older environment, and away from places where young people congregate."

"What do you do if someone comes up to you on the street or something?"

"The first thing I usually do is get embarrassed. I don't know why it affects me that way, but it does, and I usually feel very uncomfortable if somebody comes running up to me screaming and with their eyes flaming. Kind of centred-out and, well, trapped- it's a strange sensation, and I know it's hard for other people to understand. There are the nice ones though. Where somebody just comes up quietly and says something like "I don't want to bother you, but I really enjoy your work", and shakes your hand. That can be really nice and leave you both feeling good about the encounter. But sadly, that's the minority, most times it's not very nice. There's a sense of invasion about it a lot of times, with total strangers driving up to your house and knocking on your door- expecting you to welcome them as friends, or bothering my family, or my daughter at school; or maybe they somehow get hold of your telephone number and pass it around to everyone they know, nice stuff like that.

"And when I'm on the road I consider a hotel room or our bus as my home too, a small piece of privacy, and when people intrude there I resent it just as much. You can sort of understand teenagers being thoughtless and inconsiderate, just out of immaturity and inexperience, but not long ago one of those Jeep Wagoneers pulled up in front of my house on a Sunday afternoon, and it was a whole family- the parents dropping their kids off at my house to knock on my door and get my autograph. Unbelievable."

"Yeah, I don't think that would be very pleasant. How do you deal with it?"

"Well, in a-case like that my wife answers the door, and steers them away. But mostly I just get uncomfortable,-and sometimes angry, and try to avoid situations like that- when I have a choice. I find it so hard to understand. Certainly I know what it's like to be a fan- I was a major fan of The Who as a teenager, all their records, pictures all over my walls, but I wouldn't have dreamed of hanging out backstage or at a hotel to hassle them. And I think there are two extremes in the way you can react to that sort of situation. I've seen some people, shallow and self-admiring, who are glad to have the adulation; it's like they agree with their fans: 'You think I'm great? I think I'm great too!' (laugh)

"But for me it's more like; 'You think I'm great? Well you're wrong- I'm not. Don't be silly!' (laugh) There are lots of people in that-position who are somewhere in between, or some who just want to be nice- but I suppose I'm just too selfish about my privacy."

"Well, I think I would be like that too, if I think about it. I suppose you get a lot of strange mail too."

"Oh I don't mind that so much, there's no invasion there, and it can be a relaxed kind of contact. Every once in a while I just spend a day answering a whole pile of fan mail, especially what gets sent to me by Modern Drummer magazine. I have little postcards with a picture of me and my drums on it, and I write a little message in response to each letter. That's a painless and stress-free kind of contact that you know people will truly appreciate, for the few minutes it takes to do, and I can deal with it in my own time, without being suddenly thrust into an embarrassing and uncomfortable situation when I don't expect it."

"That's a nice thing to do. Tell me; is it worse in the States, for crazy kids mean?"

"Not really, no. Though there certainly are some, and it can be scary. And people start crazy rumors, that I'm dying of cancer or something. And then someone will walk up to you and say: 'Hey- is it true you're dying of cancer?' I mean, what can you say? And what if it was true- can you imagine going up to a terminally-ill person you don't-even know and saying that? Or the letter I got wondering if it was true, and if so, enclosing an article about a new kind of cancer therapy! Jesus! Can you imagine that?"

(Laugh) "Not really!"

"But I'd say it's the worst in Britain; the kids there are really rabid about their favorite bands. I think it's because they have nothing else to do there, and their football teams and rock bands become the centre of their lives. It's scary; you look into their eyes and they're absolutely gone, and it's not drugs; it's like some kind of religious mania, like they're disciples or something."

"Yeah, I see what you mean. That would be spooky. But I've traveled a bit in Britain, and I really liked it there. Especially up in the highlands of Scotland, I did some walking around in the wilder parts and I thought it was incredibly beautiful up there."

"Oh I know, I like Britain too, there are a lot of beautiful areas, and many more I'd really like to visit someday. I really liked Wales, the Lake District, the Cotswolds and the Pennines, they are fantastic areas, and I'd love to visit the West Country one day. London is still one of my favorite cities too, it's a special kind of place to me, as I used to live there when I was younger."

"Really?"

"Yeah, when I was eighteen I put my drums and records in a crate and moved over there for about a year and a half."

"What did your folks think about that?"

"They were always pretty good about helping me out. They wouldn't just give me things, but they would help me get them for myself. Like, when I wanted to get my first set of good drums, my Dad would sign for the loan, but I was responsible to make the payments. And when I wanted to quit school and try music full-time, of course they didn't like it, but they agreed to a one-year trial period, at the end of which I was supposed to go back to school if nothing was happening for me. My mother was often my ally in unpopular campaigns like that. Of course once I got out I never went back to school, and then when I had the bright idea about going to England, they agreed to match whatever money I could save, giving me a bit to live on when I got there. Imagine- I got a charter flight for less than two hundred dollars, how times have changed! So then my parents gave me another two hundred to survive on as long as I could."

"What were you doing over there? Were you playing in bands or what?"

"Well, the idea was to get 'discovered', and to find fame and fortune, but of course it was much harder than I'd thought. I ended up working for a chain of souvenir shops around Carnaby Street and Piccadilly Circus, and eventually getting into some semi-pro bands. At one point I quit work and toured around the north a bit in one band, but we were soon out of work and starving, so I ended up back at the 'real job'. But I learned a lot about music, and more- about life- and it was probably the most important period of my whole life. I'd never lived on my own before, and had never traveled any farther than to "Expo 67" in Montreal, so it was a big eye-opener for me."

"It must be great going back there now!"

"It sure was the first time, especially playing at the Hammersmith Odeon in London. That ranks right up there with the first time we played Massey Hall in Toronto, like a hometown gig."

"But you don't like working there now?"

"Well, as much as I enjoy traveling in Europe- though preferably by bicycle!- it really can be difficult working over there. Apart from the technical difficulties in those small old buildings, the fans are just too much; for a guy like me, anyway. You can't walk out on the streets in the daytime; sometimes you can't even open the curtains of your hotel room; and going to the hall or back to the hotel after the show there will be a mob of people everywhere, with nothing better to do than hang around in the hopes of an autograph or a glimpse of you going somewhere else. It's like running a gauntlet. And it's not like you're doing anything worth cheering about, just getting into a car or something, but you have all these strangers yelling at you for nothing. It's too weird for me.

"At least in the States life is a little bigger. There are so many things to do, and the kids are more active as well. Music is a part of their lives, and so are sports, but not their whole lives. They don't get so fanatical about it, in general anyway. I think it helps that there is lots of space around them, and other places to go, other things to do. And if they don't have access to a car they know someone who does. They can go skiing, bowling, rollerskating, swimming, dancing, running, hiking, bicycling, so many things- even go mountain-climbing, or to the movies, meet their friends at the local diner, get a job- or just lie around and watch TV twenty-four hours a day. Life is big. And I suppose having a bit more money- and more television and radio to choose from- helps to broaden their lives as well. The kids aren't really different anywhere, but their lives sure are."

"Yes, that's certainly true. I couldn't believe the difference when I first moved from Germany to the States, and it would be even more different coming from England. But you can't tell American kids how lucky they are, they have no idea."

"Like everybody"

"Yeah."

We crossed the Saddle, and began working our way down the undulating ridges of the Alpine moorland, among the tufts of grass and the stunted heather bushes. It was painful everytime we had to go up one of the ridges, but we pressed on without stopping, wanting to reach our destination before we surrendered to the fatigue. The hours passed quickly as we talked, and we soon passed "Last Water" and were working our way around the muddier sections of the trail lower down.

Eventually the group of huts that was Horombo appeared over a ridge, and we trudged wearily up the stairs of the main hut and went inside. Ingrid was there waiting for us, smiling "hello" and wanting to know how we'd done. She looked cold and bored, but cheerful as ever, and there were only one or two other people in the hut. It was quiet and peaceful, and I gratefully stretched out on one of the wooden benches against the wall, lying there with my eyes closed and enjoying the sensation of not having to move. The clouds had long closed in all around, and we were in a dimly-lit island between the clouds below and above. It was cold and bleak once more at Horombo, and I was still ravenously hungry, but my body and my eyelids felt heavy as I sprawled on the hard wooden bench. I dozed a bit, only dimly aware of the arrival of a few other groups, some coming down behind us, and others arriving from Mandara on their way up. The rest of the afternoon remained rather vague in my memory.

There was a tall, older, American-sounding man I'd noticed here and at Kibo Hut on the way up, and he sat down near me. I happened to be sitting up for a few minutes, and we fell to talking about the climb. He told me he had turned back at Hans Meyer's Cave, halfway up the scree, aware that it was going to be too hard for him, but he was not too disappointed. "After all", he said, "I'm sixty-four years old- you want to be young and strong for this kind of stuff!" I learned that he had actually lived on a farm here in Tanzania, over fifty years ago when he was a boy, and had also lived for a while in Kenya, in the so-called "White Highlands", and this was his first trip back since that far-off colonial time.

"It must have been wonderful in those days", I said to him, thinking of all I'd read about the early days in East Africa, and he told me that it had indeed been a fantastic place and time, but that even then people knew it was too good to last.

There was another group of exchange students from the Dar es Salaam University, this being a break between semesters, but these ones were a different breed from our three- or four counting Karen. They were studying here in Tanzania under the sponsorship of the Lutheran Church, which was much scarier to me than Greg being under the aegis of the US Marines, and you could see why he, Michael and Ingrid had chosen to travel together, being misfits not only to their African fellow-students, but also to these less-serious, shallower fellow-Westerners. They were all better-dressed and had nicer hair- but they didn't seem to have much to say.

Greg, Michael and Ingrid had each had a different goal in mind for their travels during this break; Greg had wanted to visit Somalia, as he'd once written a paper on that interesting country, and wanted to see if he'd been right about it; Ingrid had wanted to visit some game parks; and Michael wanted to visit Nairobi and the coast; so they'd all decided to pool their resources and their goals, and "do" Kilimanjaro together before trying to cover all the other places. When they were discussing their future plans that afternoon, and talking about different parks they could get to, one of the Lutheran group told them: "Don't go to the Serengeti, there's no game there right now. All the animals have migrated to Kenya."

Well, I didn't say anything at the time, but I sure wondered where all the animals I'd seen in the Serengeti had come from, and I privately let the others know that they certainly wouldn't regret a trip there, if that's what they decided to do.

Once again, I felt lucky to have been a part of this group; I don't think I would have fit in with these new people either. Kees told me that he had been having some really good conversations with Michael as they walked together, and that meeting these three young people had made him feel a lot better about the youth of today. That was nice to think about, and I understood what he meant. For my part, I was astonished to learn just how young some of our fellow-climbers were. I'd been surprised to learn that Greg was only twenty-one, but when I learned that Dom was only nineteen, I was truly shocked. I do have a problem seeing myself-as a grownup, and consequently tend to see all "real" adults as older than me, as perhaps everyone does, but with Dom's educated, well-modulated upper-class accent, and his overall mature demeanor, I had-put-him closer to thirty. It's not so much that it made me feel old, as it made me realize that I really had to start facing the reality that I was a grownup now- though my work probably helps to keep me a frozen post-adolescent. And that's okay."

Greg and I asked Kees if he'd thought to look at his little thermometer on the peak; if he knew how cold it really was up there, but he answered that he'd actually forgotten to look, he was so occupied with the physical strain of it. Well, it was cold enough, that's for sure!

We had left a bit of firewood behind us here from the pile we'd all contributed to the other night, and Dietrich had put it upstairs in the main hut, with a sign saying "Do Not Touch". But, perhaps not too surprisingly, the sign had been ignored and the-wood was gone. (Bloody tourists!) So once again some of us went out to forage for something to burn, knowing how good a fire would feel in the cold darkness later.

It was now getting close to twenty-four hours since I'd last eaten, and thus food was much on my mind through the afternoon. Dinnertime finally came, and even the same plain meal of potatoes, cabbage and unidentified meat had the effect of a feast. Perhaps they starve you all day so you won't start-complaining about the same old food. I treated myself to a capful of whisky before dinner, and since Dom had lost his "victory whisky" to the guides up at Uhuru, leaving the "Y" group without the wherewithall to toast their success, I put my flask on their table and invited them all to help themselves. Also, now that we were on the way down, the ban on stimulants was lifted and we were given a pot of instant coffee after dinner, which was a treat (sort of- it was pretty bad coffee!).

A full stomach was the final crowning touch on a long and tiring- but very satisfying- day, and by 7:00 I was heading for the sleeping hut. I figured that I'd been averaging about four hours a night for the last four days, and I wanted to do some catching up. I took my boots and jacket off, but left the rest of my clothes on in deference to the cold, and climbed into the sleeping bag, laying back in the cold darkness with a sigh of satisfaction and a quiet smile of triumph. I would have paid a lot for a hot bath, but it wasn't worth thinking about right now.

Mundu utari mburi ndendaga nyama.
People who have no goat do not desire meat.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

20- the last march

The sun was bright in the early morning, and we gathered in the main hut for our last breakfast on the mountain. It was the usual and by now tiresome slice of papaya and thin white bread, spotted with dabs of hard margarine and vile, sickly-sweet "mixed fruit" jam. There may have been some "wallpaper paste", but if so I've blotted it out of my memory. There had been an occasional hard-boiled egg on the first couple of days, but I suppose they were all gone by now. Even the formerly better-fed members of the "Y" group were no longer enjoying the glory of bacon and eggs. All I could think of was how nice it was going to be to get to Kibo Hotel- a hot shower, a shave and a good meal, followed by a sleep in a warm place.

I waited impatiently for Greg to get himself organized, then we struck off down the trail once more. As we crossed a small stream in a gully I saw that it was covered with a thin skin of ice, evidence of the coldness of the nights up here. Our muscles were still sore and tired from the day before, and the blisters on Greg's feet were giving him a bit of pain, but we felt better from a good night's sleep, and the knowledge that this was "the home stretch".

We warmed up our conversations for the day with my remark on how amazed I was at some of the things I was learning about Africa through reading the writeups on different countries in Africa On A Shoestring.

"I was reading about one of the countries, I can't remember which one, where when the king died they had a period of mourning for two and a half months or something, when nobody was allowed to work, and even sexual intercourse was prohibited, with a penalty of flogging. That must have been difficult to enforce!", I laughed.

"That's Swaziland!", said Greg, "that's where I went to school for my first year of university, and it was just after all that happened. The king had had a hundred wives, and the most senior of them, called 'The Great She-Elephant', was the one who proclaimed the mourning period. They had a big power struggle when the king died, because he had about six hundred children, and about two hundred of them were contenders for the throne: It was a wild I time to be there. But one of my favorite ones is the country that used to be called Upper Volta, with a government completely riddled with corruption. They had a takeover, and the new rulers changed the name of the country to Burkina Faso, which means 'Land of the Incorruptibles'. The new government was later overthrown of course, under charges of- what else?- gross corruption! Africa can really be an amazing place to learn about."

"So I'm beginning to discover!"

We wound our way down the trail, up and down the corrugated ridges along the dirt path. As the sun rose higher in the sky, it grew a bit warmer. We began to meet a few porters on their way up from Mandara Hut, and we greeted them with a pleasant jambo, and moved aside to let them have the trail. Greg and I had decided to show more courtesy than we had received on our way up, and to give people climbing the right-of-way.

"This is the opposite of the cross-country skier's code", I told Greg, "there the skier coming downhill has the right of way on the trail." But here I figured that climbers should have the right-of-way, as theirs was the tougher task, and since we were on the way down we could afford to be magnanimous. I happened to be wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap, as it was the only hat I had with me, and a couple of the passing porters asked if I would give it to them. I declined as graciously as I could, but I wanted to keep it. Others would ask us for cigarettes, or T-shirts, but we had nothing to give. One of the porters rested against a rock as we went by, letting his load down from his head for a moment, and he kept repeating something that at first we couldn't understand. Then I figured it out; he was saying "sweet, sweet?"- asking us for some candy. "Sorry", we said, "we have no candy." If we had, I would certainly have eaten it yesterday!

We said 'hello' and 'good morning' to more climbers we began to encounter on their way up, and saw that some of them were sticking together in large groups the way Geoff's had done. We moved aside to let them pass as well, and you could see that some of the people were already finding it tough going. And this was by far the easiest part- they still had a long, hard way to go, and I mentioned to Greg that you had to hope they'd wise up and start splitting into smaller groups of more equal abilities.

(Even though, of course, "any reasonably fit person can make it!")

Our conversation moved on to television, and Greg was saying that the only show he had ever bothered about watching at home was 60 Minutes.

"Well, I agree that it used to be an interesting program, but in the last couple of years they seem to have gotten pretty thin on scandals to. uncover. Lately they seem so desperate they practically make things up, or at least exaggerate small issues into big molehills. When I saw that program where they proved that a Jeep would turn over if you went around a corner too fast, I started to wonder. Talk about stating the obvious! To go to a lot of trouble and expense to prove that a vehicle with the highest centre of gravity of any car, and a short wheelbase as well, would not corner like a Ferrari seems a bit desperate. And then they went from desperate to irresponsible, with that whole Audi 5000 business. Did you hear about that?"

"No, what was that about?"

"Well, there was this thing called the "Unintended Acceleration Syndrome', where some people were complaining that when they went to put their automatic transmissions into Drive, the car would take off by itself at full throttle, and the brakes would simultaneously fail. There were stories of people being killed or badly injured, and then blaming the car for it. It reminds me of what happened in California a few years ago, where two women were racing around in a Porsche 930 Turbo, and smashed it up. The driver was killed, and the passenger tried to sue Porsche for selling a dangerous car- because it was 'too powerful for the average driver'. And incredibly, she won!

"But anyway, 60 Minutes got hold of this Audi story, and blew it up to the point where the Audi 5000 was portrayed as a murderous monster with a mind of its own, and overnight the car's image was destroyed, with acres of unsold new Audis piling up around the country, and the resale value of used ones becoming practically nil. These "TV experts' decided the blame lay in faulty electronics, but to this day no real cause, nor a single evidence of brake failure, has ever been found. At the time the Audi company made themselves look insensitive by claiming that it was just people hitting the wrong pedal by mistake, but I wouldn't be surprised if that's true. If you think your foot is on the brake pedal, and the car's not stopping, you're just going to keep pressing the same pedal harder, and if you feel stupid later when you realize your mistake, what better than to blame the car? It's pretty obvious human nature really. As one car magazine pointed out, there's no car that can overpower its own brakes- if the driver has their foot on the brake pedal, as any sensible person would when shifting an automatic transmission into Drive. Though the so-called syndrome, and-subsequent lawsuits, have since been directed at virtually every single car-maker in the world, it's the Audi 5000 that still has the 'killer image', all because of what I see as pretty irresponsible journalism."

"That's incredible."

"Yes- literally! So I don't have much use for that program anymore. Though it's true, they used to do some good work."

We had crossed the barren country of the Alpine-moorland, and below us we could-see the dark green mass of the Cloud Forest. As the trail meandered its way down toward it, I said to Greg how nice it was to see trees again, after days in a bleak and featureless landscape. As we reached the first tree along the path, I reached out and patted its bark, as if greeting an old friend. Our environment had been so open and limitless, that it was somehow comforting to feel the trees closing in around us, a sense of shelter and protection. The hard light became soft, filtered through the leaves, the moss and the lichens, and it was nice to be returning once more to that submarine diffusion of the deep woods.

Soon we were climbing down that irregular stairway under the canopy of foliage, over the roots and slippery damp earth, to emerge from the trees into the clearing around Mandara Hut. We took a break here, and I went behind the hut to remove my long underwear and one of the sweatshirts, as we knew that from now on it would only be chilly, rather than truly cold. I joined Greg on the front porch of the hut, and we sat down to eat our lunches, once more the small dry sandwich and a small orange. Other than the misleading description of the easiness of this adventure, the inadequacy of the food- especially compared with the "Y" people- would be the only complaint we would be making.

Űngïrïa irio cia műthemba űmwe irï kïnyiria.
If you eat ever of the same food, it becomes bitter: it is a good thing to change.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

Dom, Dietrich, Jean and Karen were soon gathered here as well, and they would be paying off their guides and porters at Mandara, rather than back at the hotel as we would. I watched with interest as another group negotiated with their "support crew". The group consisted of three European girls and a big Japanese fellow, and he was trying to bargain with their guide. There was some discussion over the amount of the tip, which was deemed insufficient, and an argument ensued which drew all of the guides and porters to gather around the porch. About fifteen of them circled around him, as the Japanese man was trying to explain that this was all they could afford, and that "not all people are as rich as others", a point which was perhaps not taken the way it was intended. I'm sure that he felt a little intimidated, being seriously outnumbered here, and as Greg and I were shouldering our packs to set off on the last stretch, they seemed to reach an agreement, more money changed hands, and the crowd began to disperse. I guess what Nigel had been telling us was true; that the tips are more an obligation than a gratuity, and the guides will argue for more if you don't give enough!

We moved down a gentle slope, and then across the grassy plateau where we had encountered Iain and Alison that first day- so long ago. We were talking again about alcoholism and drug addiction, and I was saying to Greg that it was nice he didn't have the "born again" condemnation of others that so many people have when they give up their vices.

"Well, I used to be like that at first, and it really bothered me to see other people drinking, but it doesn't anymore. You have to realize that something that's a terrible problem for you can be simply a pleasurable habit for other people."

"That makes good sense, and it's nice you can be so- ah- generous about it. I guess it's like former smokers looking down their noses at people who continue their 'disgusting habit'. Personally I have the idea that a lot of times it's just jealousy- they wish it was them lighting up and taking that first drag. It's certainly like that for me, I love smoking, and if it weren't for the obvious negatives about it I would smoke forever. I am kind of an on-again off-again quitter, but when I'm not smoking and I see someone else with a cigarette in their hand, I have a feeling that seems like disgust, but it's really more like envy."

"Perhaps you're right about that, that was probably my response in the beginning. These days it's something I just accept. And I'm the same way with drugs, even marijuana, I stay away from everything because I know that I have an addictive personality."

"That old X Factor."

"Yeah."

Although we were now on the last trail, the final stage of the descent, it seemed much longer than it had on the way up. Even so, it was not unpleasant. The sky was overcast so it remained cool, the lush undergrowth and tall trees were pleasant to look at, and the gentle downward path wasn't hard to negotiate. We were discussing leadership, as it applied to Greg as an Officer in the military, and as it applies in other walks of life.

"It seems to me", I said, "that the division between, say, management and labor, or for you, officers and enlisted men, is an inescapable one. You can certainly try to make it as friendly and humane as you can if you happen to be on top, but the 'buddy-buddy' approach never really seems to work. | was thinking of that movie Platoon, with that officer who kept trying to be pals with his men, and consequently got no respect from them. Did you see that movie?"

"Yeah I did, and that part was very true. If you're an officer you've got to realize that you'll never be accepted as 'one of the guys'- I guess it's really better to be like that C. O. I was telling you about- I HEAR LITTLE TINY WOODPECKERS AT MY DOOR! (laugh) Have you seen Full Metal Jacket?"

"Not yet, no, but that's one I'd really like to see, I like Stanley Kubrick's work a lot. Did you like it?"

"Very much, yeah, it was a good picture of what it's really like in the military. It's a heavy movie."

"I really love that title too, but what does it mean?"

"I can't tell you; but you'll find out when you see the movie. That too is a heavy thing."

"Okay, okay. I'll see it. Somewhere I saw an old car ad, for Cadillac I think it was, where they used the phrase 'the penalty of leadership', and I suppose that's really what it's all about. Everything has its price, and if you're going to be a leader, there are certain sacrifices forced upon you. I guess officers have to set themselves apart, and almost appear 'larger than life' to their men. They can't eat with them, or even go to the bathroom in the same place, they have to create a kind of illusion of being above the mortal, of being deeply and truly different. They can't hope to be liked by their men, but they have to have respect."

As we rounded a corner on the tree-lined path, we saw Karen ahead of us, accompanied by one of the guides. We carried on our discussion and our rapid stride, and as we caught up to them and started to go by, Karen turned and smiled at us; "It sounds like you two have interesting conversations!"

"Oh yes, we do", said Greg.

I added: "We've been saving the world, you won't recognize the place when you get down there. It's all different now."

"Yes", said Greg, "an end to nuclear war, famine, violence-"

"And the military spend all their time helping little old ladies across the street."

"Yeah, like Boy Scouts."

"Or if you need your house painted, or your grass cut, you call up the Army now!"

As we neared the end of the trail, we saw a few native women standing at a corner of the path, awaiting the return of their men, we guessed. And at last, there it was, the sign that marked the entrance to the park, and for us, the end of the ordeal. I genuflected before Hans Meyer's plaque. A smiling Nigel came striding up to ask how we'd done, and when I told him I'd made it to Uhuru, he said: "I knew you would. Sometimes you can just tell about people, and I felt sure you'd get there."

And we went over to the registration hut to sign out, where I was proud to write down "Uhuru Peak" in the space where you put how far you'd gone. I sat down on a step near the sign at the bottom to wait for the others, weary but satisfied. Nigel handed me back my wallet and passport, and I'd forgotten totally by now that I'd been "without identity" for the past five days. I decided it was a nice way to be, and was reluctant to take them back!

When I went to stand up after sitting for about ten minutes, I couldn't believe how painful it was. I was stiff and sore, and hobbled like an old man, but I guess it was to be expected. Depending on which figure you believe wait walks between fifty and sixty-five miles these last five days half of them uphill and this morning alone we hiked about twenty miles.

The rest of the people were not far behind us, and there was soon a crowd of climbers, guides, porters and vehicles around us. We said goodbye to the "Y" group as they went looking for their transportation, and I gave my address to Dom, in hopes that he would send me the information on that book about Kilimanjaro, and took down Dietrich's address so I could send him some summit pictures.

Then we were back in the Land Rover once again, for the short drive back to the Kibo Hotel. Nigel told us that before we had our showers we should meet with the guides and porters and the bar, buy them each a few beers and give them their tips, and they would be giving us our "official certificates". When we got back I told Greg to tell the others that I would take care of the tips on behalf of them. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, but I knew they were short of money, and I liked them all and wanted them to have a good time on the rest of their holiday.

Kees and I were given our room, and we left some of our things there while we went to the bar. Our three guides, Ernest, Jared and Gabriel, and the porters (except the mysterious one) came in to join us, and we ordered beers for all of them. Nigel pointed out one "freeloader", an opportunist who sat down and grabbed up one of the beers, even though he wasn't part of our crew. Nigel said he'd seen this same fellow try to join in every group that had been here in the last few days. Ernest handed out certificates to each of us, which stated that we'd reached the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, and either to Gillman's Point or Uhuru Peak, and as he sat down again he suddenly started stamping out a rhythm. The others joined in, clapping and stamping, and they began singing a chanting kind of song for us. It began with "Kilimanjaro, Kilimanjaro-o", then one went on into Swahili. It was a haunting, primitive song, sung in unison with many refrains, and even Michael could only catch snatches of it. Something about the animals, something about the birds, and a lot about the mountain. I had the presence of mind to switch my tape recorder on, and captured most of it on tape, and at the end we all applauded loudly. After another round of beer, I got up to go, and Kees followed my lead. Even though I'd only had two whiskeys, they went straight to my head, and I could feel myself walking a little unsteadily along the hallway.

I let Kees go into the shower first, as now that it was so close I didn't mind waiting a few minutes more. As I pulled things out of my day pack, I noticed that the sides of my flask were collapsed inward, as a result of the pressure change and coming down from 12,000' to 6000' today, more than a mile. Nigel brought back the luggage we'd left behind us here and I was glad to lay out some clean clothes and take my turn in the shower. To feel the spray of hot water on my dirty and stinking body, the soap washing me clean again, and to shave away five days of itchy beard- what a wonderful thing! I think I can say, without fear of exaggeration, that this was the single most enjoyable shower I've ever had. As I looked in the mirror at my clean shaven and sunburned face, I expected it to look different somehow, after all of that. But it was the same old me. Outside, anyway.

I invited Greg, Michael and Ingrid to join us for dinner, and spirits were high as we sat down at the table- with a tablecloth yet!- and were served an excellent meal by the gracious waiters. We ordered some Tanzanian wine called Dodoma Sweet, and sweet it certainly was, but it was a lovely treat anyway, and all of us (except Greg of course) enjoyed it very much. I sat next to Michael at dinner, and we had a good conversation, starting when I asked him about the nature of his studies in anthropology. He told me that the most interesting part of it to him was something called Ethnography, in which the aim is not so much to study the behavior and customs of other races, but to empathize with them, try to put yourself inside their lives. You actually try to adapt another worldview, and look at the world as they would, rather than looking at them in the context of your own worldview.

Michael also told me about a pair of English ladies he had overheard at the airport in Dar es Salaam, when he was waiting to catch the flight up here. Apparently the two old biddies had going on and on about how terrible it was here, but the capper was when one of them said: "Yes, these people haven't got the first idea about cleanliness". Jesus!- I wonder if they've ever been on the London Underground at rush hour! That's one of the most unclean and unhuman stenches this reporter has ever experienced!

The subject turned to the dark specre of AIDS, particularly as it applied to East Africa, where it was considered to be epidemic. Greg had told me that you just forget about sex over here- just keep your zipper done up- and the students told us they had all brought a supply of syringes of their own, just in case. Kees mentioned that on the safari he'd been on before this, they had all checked each other's blood types, just in case someone should need some "safe" blood.

Of course I had heard a lot about this danger before I came over, though I wasn't about to stay away because of it, but when I spoke to my wife Jackie from Nairobi, she was telling me that when she went to the hospital for one of her innoculations, some overzealous young intern had upset her by telling her that she was crazy to go to East Africa, that they believed the virus was carried by the mosquitoes, or by the water, and he couldn't believe we would take our daughter there. She was about ready just to stay home after that, but I convinced her that he'd been exaggerating- or maybe just jealous.

Michael told us that the governments have so far kept it pretty well hidden from their citizens, and it wasn't really believed in by the average people over here. They still believed that if they got it, they could simply get a pill or an injection to cure it.

Apparently too the papers here had been quick to pick up a story that AIDS had been started by the Americans! According to the story the deadly virus had been accidentally unleashed by some biologists in Minneapolis, and this report was circulated throughout the Third World. But whent he story was traced back, it was found to have originated in East Germany, and since then the Soviets had admitted it was untrue. What a world.

After dinner we went into the bar, and sat down at a couple of tables. Unfortunately there was no fire burning tonight in the big central fireplace, and Nigel told us that for some reason they only lit it at certain seasons, and the last time it had burned was the first night we were here. We saw Dan and Dave, the Michiganites, in the living room, and invited them to join us for a drink as well. Apparently Dave had felt so bad he never even left Kibo Hut, and Dan had only made it up to Hans Meyer's Cave before turning back. It must have been the jet lag that did them in, arriving so soon before starting the climb, as they had both been up as far as 14,000' in Colorado before. But next week they were off on the train trip from Nairobi to Mombasa, so they were looking forward to that.

After a brandy I decided that I no longer wanted to postpone the pleasure of going to bed, and I walked slowly down the hall to our room, to be joined shortly by Kees and Greg. Since the three students had been put into a small double room, and Kees and I were sharing a triple, we had invited Greg in to sleep with us. It felt incredibly luxurious to take off my clean clothes, slide my clean body between those clean sheets, and lay my head back on a clean, soft pillow.

Baada ya dhiki, faraja.
After hardship, relief.
(Swahili Wisdom)

21- overland rover

A couple of times during the night I was awakened by the sound like a diesel engine running underwater. It was Kees, snoring relentlessly in the bed next to me. For me, it's always hard to disturb someone who is asleep, even if they're preventing you from sleeping, but a couple of times I reached over and shook him by the shoulder, whispering "Kees- you're snoring", and he would stop briefly, but in a few minutes would be added again. I could sense that Greg was lying awake across the room as well, and just as I would go to reach over to shake Kees once more, the snorting, growling ononslaught would cease. I would try to get back to sleep as fast as I could, before it started up again.

Notwithstanding these occasional interruptions, it was a beautiful sleep, and I awoke eager to begin the journey to Nairobi. Nigel had to drive up there on some business for his company, and had offered to let me ride along with him, which was a pleasant alternative to flying- or the dreaded matatus. We had planned to get away early, but he had to drop keys at the airport as well, and his flight to Dar es Salaam didn't leave until the evening. Thus we couldn't really leave Kees there any earlier than the afternoon, so there was no hurry to leave.

We enjoyed the leisurely breakfast in the dining room, lingering over our bacon and eggs, and toast and coffee, Michael and I picked up our conversation from the night before. He was telling me that Ethnography roughly divides into two different disciplines; anthropology and "cultural psychology". It seemed to be the latter that most interested him. His idealism was evident; Michael was very serious about his subject, and serious about ways to make the world a more harmonious place. Yes folks- he too was on a mission to save the world- a man after my own heart!

One of his theories embraced the idea of finding a common denominator between the different cultures, to make their very deep workings meshed together somehow. We were talking about what happened when the "work ethic" people; the ambitious and acquisitive Europeans, encountered another worldview, like the tribal way of life here in Africa, or the Indians in North America. Full of arrogance of the Industrial Revolution, they could see no beauty in the primitive and natural ways of other cultures. As Karen Blixen wrote in Out of Africa: "When the first steam engine was constructed, the races of the world parted. And we have never found one another since".

Michael and I thought that each culture had its positive attributes as well as negative ones, and had been successful within its own conditions, but the problems lay in trying to make one way of life conform to the other. The "savage and barbaric" people were expected to live by the values of the stronger- or at least better-armed- one.

"Well", said Michael, "I think it's evident that the societies just didn't mix well, mostly I suppose because the Europeans had no wish to mix with these strange people, they just wanted them out of the way. The peaceful tribes they simply shoved right out of their homes, and tribes who resisted were systematically wiped out. When you read about the wholesale slaughter of the troublemakers here in Africa, or in Australia and North America, it's hard to believe people could have been so coldly murderous."

"Yes, the racial arrogance was just incredible. They thought they had some God-given right to kill any race that happened to inconvenience them or threaten their exploitations. I've read a lot about the North American Indians, and the Inuit people as well, and I find that whole period really horrifying. If you've ever read Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee, you know what I'm talking about. And of course it's almost as bad for them today- we're still trying to change them all into hard working, God-fearing white folks. I was just reading about an African tribe who was giving the British trouble back in the nineteenth century. The simply sent the British Army out bo exterminate them, and killed every single one of them. Unbelievable. Just like in the States a hundred years ayo, with the so-called Indian Wars after the American Civil War. The soldiers had nothing to do, so they sent them out to kill Indians."

Michael nodded: "Yes, those are really depressing stories to read about."

"I really understand the meaning of the cliché 'heavy heart' when I think about those things. By the way, have you visited Olduvai?"

"No not yet, but I would like to."

"You should, it's a worthwhile trip, especially with what you're studying. That place really made me think about these things. The idea that as the evolution of man spread out from its ‘cradle' in this part of the world, different branches went on to adapt to the different environments they encountered in their wanderings. Those who spread northward had to adapt to a harsh climate, with a greater amount of discomfort in their lives, and a greater difficulty in obtaining food. Thus their lives would have become more urgent and more stern, time would be more important to them, and even things like sturdy buildings became necessary to survive. Thus there would be this urge to develop- and certainly too the desire for permanent land. Perhaps they became more acquisitive in order to build up reserves- they would need a store of necessities to get them through the long winters, and maybe today's excess of materialism and greed is simply the atavistic remnant of that, like an appendix or something. Just like, say, the Jewish taboo against milk and meat together. Once it was a matter of survival, but today it's just a vestigial ritual. Am I making sense?"

"I think so.

"Good, that's a relief!"

"You know, to many of the tribes here wealth is measured in cattle and goats, and even crimes are punished by fines levied in livestock. That makes for a mobile and self-perpetuating kind of wealth. Also it's a livelihood which has no need to consider seasons, measure time, or possess the open land across which they wander. I think that's a very important difference."

"It's funny to imagine the first white men going to buy some land from the Indians. Of course, the Indians just had no concept at all of owning something as clearly permanent as land, and I always envision the chief turning to one of his braves and whispering: "Psst- this guy wants to buy some land!", and both of them stifling their laughter. "Don't anybody tell him!" To them, it would have been like selling the Brooklyn Bridge or something."

Michael had the grace to laugh at my feeble joke: "Really."

"They probably thought getting twenty-five dollars for an island on the Hudson River was the biggest con in the world!"

"So anyway", I asked him, "what do you think is the answer- at least for Africa?"

"Well, it's a hard problem. For a start, there are so many different tribes, and even after independence most countries have stuck to their colonial borders, which really make no sense in African terms. The ancestral tribal lands bear no relation to these arbitrary borders, and because of that you have tribes like the Maasai, who wander between Kenya and Tanzania, and are part of neither. And most countries are more torn apart by tribal factionalism than by political, like in Kenya, where the Kikuyu people have always been the ruling tribe, though there are something like forty major tribes, and this has caused trouble. In Uganda they've had a similar, and even more violent, situation. And it's even worse in other places. Then there's the cultural problem- should they have to adapt to the white man's world?

"Well it would be nice if they at least had a choice, I suppose. I was reading a story about the early days here which beautifully illustrates the difference in time sense. Apparently if they tried to put a Maasai warrior in jail, he would simply die, as he was only able to perceive life in the present, and couldn't imagine there would be another day when he would be free. The idea of a month from n, or a year from now, simply had no meaning. I guess we all have a bit of that too- on a good day, life is good, on a bad day, all of life sucks."

"Right, I think everybody's a bit like that."

And Michael went on: "And the distribution of aid over here, it has much more to do with politics and former colonialism than with need. I think we have to start some kind of aninternational agency that could pool all of these foreign aid resources, and distribute them impartially and intelligently."

"You mean something like the United Nations?"

"I suppose, but less political, and maybe more powerful. Run by people who care."

(That word again. I smiled inwardly at Michael, not with condescension, but with recognition. I saw myself- a fellow young idealist, exactly as I had been at his age. And like him, I used to see simple solutions for every problem, and couldn't believe that such obvious ideals weren't the reality. Sadly, experience has disabused me of some of my illusions, if not my idealism.)

"I certainly agree with the idea of it", I told him, "but man- it would be really hard to find those people. You'd almost want old Plato's 'philosopher-kings' for that job, people who were educated for their whole lives for the profession of being impartial and intelligent! But it's true, when you think about the things that could be done. Just over the border from here is Ethiopia and the Sudan, and all they really need is water. You'd think that if a lot of this aid money was pooled together, they could find a way to bring water there."

"Like why not take all this 'space laser' technology, and use it to carve canals across the deserts, or dig wells, instead of blowing up missiles." "Say, that's a good idea. Get to work on that right away, will you?"

We laughed and got up from the table, and went back to our rooms to pack. Nigel had promised to give another couple a ride into Moshi with Kees and I, so Greg, Michael and Ingrid were going to hitchhike into town, and meet us there later to go on to Nairobi. Kees and I carried our bags out to the Land Rover, Nigel got behind the wheel and we were off down the tree-shaded road.

We introduced ourselves to the couple who rode with us, who were English, called Phil and Sarah. Nigel had told us that Phil was the Electronics Officer on the Queen Elizabeth II, and that Sarah was a harpist who sometimes worked aboard the ship as well, so that they could travel together.

As we drove down the shoulder of Kilimanjaro, the large trees and thick green undergrowth began to thin out, and to give way to the grasslands and the acacias of the plains. A wall of rounded blue mountains lay to the south, as the road descended to meet the main route to Moshi and Arusha. I looked up to the right where the peak would be, but it was completely blanketed in thick clouds. I sent a mental 'goodbye' to Kilimanjaro anyway.

The town was not far away, and we soon pulled up in front of the New Moshi Hotel, which I was interested to learn used to be called the Livingstone. I suppose that name had been deemed too "colonial". Phil and Sarah had to wait until the middle of the night to catch a plane, and had decided to wait here rather than at the comfortless Kilimanjaro International Airport. We said goodbye to them, and Nigel took Kees and I for a tour around Moshi, as we still had a couple of hours before we were to meet the students at the YMCA. (The "Y" is everywhere, isn't it?)

Moshi is a pleasant little town, relaxed and very "African", as it is well off the tourist track. Only those going to Kilimanjaro would come to Moshi, and that might only be a few dozen a week at most. Thus it was free of the souvenir shops and safari companies which lined the main streets in Arusha. As there had been back in Marangu, there was a cluster of ancient Peugeot taxis on the street, and I even saw a 'forties vintage Ford sedan cruising through the roundabout in the centre of town. As in Arusha, this centre of the town is marked by a Clock Tower, and I had to wonder if this wasn't an institution the colonials had introduced, in order to try to trick the Africans into paying attention to time. If so, it hadn't worked!

There's sunrise, and there's sunset, and there's all the time in between. That's all.

We drove out to a place which was said to sell good carvings, and as we drove through the streets of Moshi Kees and I discussed the merits of wooden instruments, with their special character that resists efforts to synthesize it, and even to record it. Kees told me that while in University he had attempted to design a new kind of clarinet, calibrating every variable and meticulously constructing each part, until he'd produced a scientifically perfect instrument. "The only trouble was", he laughed, "it sounded terrible!" Nigel was getting a little bemused by all of this "muso-talk", and when I started elaborating the subtle properties of different snare drum materials, he echoed Gertrude Stein: "Gee, I always thought a drum was a drum was a drum". "Not at all!", I assured him.

Eventually we reached our destination, and pulled into the driveway of a large modern building on the outskirts of town. With such a remote location in a little-frequented town, I would imagine most of their products were destined to be sold elsewhere, perhaps in Arusha or Dares Salaam. It was run by Indians, and was a clean and well-run operation which specialized in leatherwork. There was a shop in one half of the building, displaying many leather items- handicrafts, belts, hats, briefcases, souvenirs, and even furniture. The other half of the building was a large open workshop, where dozens of leatherworkers were busy at machines.

We were welcomed very graciously, and offered a cup of coffee as we walked around and admired the leatherwork and handicrafts. They did indeed have some good carvings, and I particularly admired the Makonde "family trees". The Makonde tribe are the most highly-regarded carvers in East Africa, and these "family trees" consist of a tall network of intricately-carved figures, each a stylistic caricature of a member of a specific family. They are carved from a single block of wood, sometimes to a height of four or five feet, with dozens of little figures standing around and on top of each other. There were two similar ones about a foot high that I particularly liked, but couldn't make up my mind between them. I asked Nigel which one he preferred, thinking he might have seen enough of them to have an "educated taste", and I followed his recommendation. Thus I purchased my first souvenir of Africa. So far I'd avoided adding any extra bulk to carry around in my pack (well, except for books, but they don't count- they're too practical), but the traveling should be easy from now on, and I decided to indulge.

Not wanting to have to change any more money, and be stuck with Tanzanian shillings that I couldn't take out of the country, I borrowed what I needed from Nigel, promising to pay him back in Kenyan shillings once we got to Nairobi.

We drove back to the New Moshi to have some lunch (how I wish they'd kept the old name, it would sound so much more romantic to say: "We drove back to the Livingstone...), and we sat at a table on the outdoor terrace and ordered some samosas (again spelled "sambusas") and some orange soda. It was a pleasant spot in the shade of the acacia trees, and we met Phil and Sarah there too, whiling away the hours until their flight by playing a game of "'Battleship" on note paper. Phil noticed the name "Montserrat" on my T-shirt, and asked me if I'd been there. When i said I had, and loved the place very much, he told me that he had recently been a consultant on a project to build a communications tower for cellular telephones there. That seemed unlikely on a sleepy Caribbean island, with only a few hundred cars, but apparently it's because it has one of the highest peaks around, and thus makes a good relay point. I asked him to talk them out of it if he could, as I was getting tired of losing my paradises to progress. He laughed and promised to try.

We said goodbye to them once more and drove around to an ice cream shop, which was a nice treat, and then parked by the large market. It covered an area about two city blocks in size, with much of it under a pavilion. Nigel told us he thought he should stay with the vehicle here, so Kees and I took a walk around it together. It was different from any of the other markets I'd seen here, as it was entirely for the local people. Inside there were rows and rows of produce, with a gory lane of lurid red cuts of meat swarming with flies, and Kees and I exchanged a raised-eyebrow look regarding what was certainly the unsanitary source of the food we'd been eating. There were great heaps of dried fish, and high conical piles of wheat and grains, yellow, orange and brown. Bins were filled with colorful fruits and vegetables, ripe red tomatoes and cool green cabbages.

Lining the outside of the pavilion was an open-air market of tools and household items; brooms, locks, cheap watches, baskets, pangas, and an assortment of goods from China: flashlights and brightly-colored plastic sandals and buckets. In atmosphere and merchandise it was very much like a village market in China as well. There were only two other white people in this whole crowded marketplace, and for once I felt we were seeing something truly African.

At the appointed hour we drove up to the YMCA, picked up Michael, Greg and Ingrid, and drove down the smooth highway toward the airport. It was a drive of about forty miles, on a good road, and we talked and listened to music as we drove past farms, small villages, and open grasslands. Nigel put on a tape by Black Uhuru, a particularly raw style of reggae, which didn't seem much to Kees's taste, as he asked him to turn it down!

We said goodbye to Kees at the door of the airport, wishing each other a good journey and hoping to see each other again one day. I moved into the front seat, and we drove off, finally on our way to Nairobi. Kees was not to have the good journey we wished for him, and wrote me later of his adventures. It's worth quoting him here as an illustration of traveling in Tanzania:

You may remember I was dropped at Kilimanjaro airport to take an evening flight to Dar es Salaam. At eleven in the evening this flight was cancelled and everyone was left on his own. I took a ride with an employee-bus to Moshi, where a taxi driver drove me around town to find a hotel for the night. The next morning I returned to the airport, where I could board a plane to Dar. Arrived there, I had to boy-scout to find my contact at the Dutch Embassy, who had arranged transportation to Mbeya. A bus should leave at 8 in the evening. I boarded this bus, but alas, at 12 it broke down and we were waiting for 18 hours at the roadside, before a repair crew came to replace a wheel bearing (in half an hour). The rest of the trip with the bus was further delayed, since it was serviced at every repair shop it came across. Our delay increased to about 26 hours. Finally, 2 kms. away from the end stop, the bus broke down definitively, so that we had to walk the rest. My friend, who should pick me up, and who had waited all this time, was happy to find me. He understood: he lived already for nearly a year in Tanzania.

Fortunately, our journey proceeded rather more smoothly, as we passed through the lush area near Mount Meru, through Arusha, and back into the limitless plain country to the north, stretching to the Kenyan border. We listened to music as we drove, now unconstrained by Kees's lack of appreciation, but most of the tapes in the Land Rover were pretty dated, with my taste for new things anyway. The newest one was the Fine Young Cannibals album, which was pretty good, but most of them were much older, going back to a complete collection of early David Bowie. It was strange to me that this was Nigel's favorite music- at twenty-two-years old he was listening to music recorded when he was about seven. But we played through what was there, one by one. Nigel couldn't drive without music, so I played "DJ", and kept the distorted old tape deck fed with the best i could find. Talking Heads, Tina Turner, early Joe Jackson, Roxy Music- and more David Bowie.

A couple of mornings before, in one of those moments that make you feel ancient, I'd been singing the chorus to David Bowle's "Young Americans", as I waited for Michael and Greg- the young Americans- to get ready to leave. I'd thought he was joking when Michael asked me "what's that song'", as it was a big hit- but then I realized, it was a big hit ten years ago, when he was eleven or twelve years old! Time is such a pain sometimes.

I scolded Nigel for supporting music piracy, as I saw that all of the tapes were pirated, made in Singapore and sold in Syria and Kathmandu, where the young nomads of the world could buy them cheaply.

As we followed the black ribbon of asphalt into the open bush country, we started to keep our eyes open for wildlife. None of the three students had done any game-watching as yet, so it was exciting for them to spot a giraffe, an ostrich, or a herd of gazelles. As ever, I enjoyed it too. Even Nigel, who had been watching animals professionally for two years now, and had done this drive many, many times, was treated to something new. We saw a slender antelope moving through the acacia scrub, and identified it as a Gerenuk, a rare and particularly graceful creature which is known to feed by standing up on its hind legs and stretching its long neck to reach up into the "giraffe zone" of the tender acacia leaves.

Like so many before me, I had come to truly love this dry, inhospitable country. It was familiar and comfortable to me now, and I was happy just to look out at it as we drove along, the delicate tracery of the thorn scrub over the dusty earth, the tall castle-like termite nests, the poetic flat-topped acacia trees, and the distant horizon lost in the haze of clouds and hills. Weaver-bird nests hung suspended from the trees by the hundreds, as these industrious birds will build five or six elaborate nests for each one they actually use, perhaps to confuse the scavengers who prey on their eggs.

We spotted Bee-eaters and Rollerbirds, a tall and long-legged Buff-crested Bustard stalking the bush, and the quail-like francolins and Guinea fowl scattering like chickens as we drove by. The bird life was prodigious; even to the clouds of Little Swifts who jetted around the buildings at the border, as we parked in front of the Tanzanian Customs and Immigration building. The sun was getting low behind the clouds to the west, and it would soon be dark. We had even been a little worried that the border might have been closed, but it looked to be open still. After my last adventure at this Namanga border crossing, I was a little apprehensive about the "karma" here, but we had soon filled out all the right forms, and handed in the right papers, and were crossing the kilometre of no-man's-land to stop at the Kenyan side.

I saw that the officer behind the counter was the same one we'd seen taking the bribe last time, and he was true to character. After we'd filled in our forms and had our papers stamped, he followed us out to look at the Land Rover, and began to tell Nigel that he would have to pay a 'surcharge' of fifty shillings or something- because it was after five o'clock! Evidently Nigel had encountered this kind of thing before, as he just kept laughing and 'jollying' him along, saying he'd never had to pay such a thing before, and telling him "next time, next time", as he got back into the truck and we drove away. I'd gone into the "Lucky Restaurant" (our old hangout!) next door while the others were still in the office, and picked up a bunch of samosas and mandazis to keep us going. I handed them out as we drove away, just as night was coming on. I guess samosas are kind of the "Big Macs" around here.

The road beneath our wheels told a mute story of the different world we were entering. It started in Tanzania as a narrow strip of plain black pavement, then as you drive into Kenya there are white lines at the side of the road, then yellow dots in the middle, which eventually give way to a solid line in the middle, and then reflectors in the middle and signs on the roadside, and finally you join a modern divided highway, where the route from Mombasa comes in. The traffic becomes fast and heavy, there are streetlights and the atmosphere becomes urban. The feeling of spacious open country is left behind.

It was exciting once again to see the bright lights of the skyline of Nairobi, the tall buildings glowing on the dark horizon, and we were soon cruising down the lighted boulevard called Kenyatta Avenue, toward the New Stanley Hotel. Greg asked Michael how long he wanted to stay in Nairobi, and he made me laugh when he answered: "How long does it take jeans to dry?" Laundry was once again of concern to me as well. It's a tough dirty job being an adventurer, but...

Nigel drove up in front of the hotel, and we all got out to say goodbye. I shook hands warmly with Nigel and Michael, gave Ingrid a hug and kiss, and put my arms around my climbing partner Greg, telling him he'd better keep in touch. I told him I expected to follow his rise in the diplomatic ranks- and don't forget that Minister of Tourism gig.

I felt a touch of sadness as I watched them drive away- more new friends parted so soon. As we said goodbye Greg had surprised me by saying he thought I was "one of the friendliest people he'd met", which would probably surprise quite a few other people who know me as well. (I think he just meant that I talk a lot!) But the truth was we'd hit it off really well, and I'd enjoyed my time with him very much. Again, just as I'd never forget this experience, so I'd never forget the people with whom I shared it.

Once I was checked into the hotel I started filling the bathtub with water, New Blue Omo Powder and dirty clothes, ordering a room service dinner as I washed away the dust of Kilimanjaro. With that so enjoyable task complete, and the room nicely decorated with drying jeans and sweatshirts, I put through a call to KLM, as I expected Jackie and Selena to arrive the next morning and wanted to verify the arrival time of their flight. When I'd spoken to Jackie a week ago I hadn't been sure how or when I would be getting into Nairobi, so they weren't expecting me to meet them. At first I thought I'd surprise them and just go out to the airport to meet the flight, but fortunately I decided to call them in Amsterdam. It would be good to hear their voices anyway.

I knew Jackie had planned to stay at the Pulitzer, but I found they had been transferred to the Royal Sonesta, and when I finally reached them there she asked me where I was.

"I'm in Nairobi, I got here a day earlier than I expected."

"Great, how did the climb go? Did you make it?"

"Yeah, I made it, but it was really tough. It was the hardest thing I've ever done."

"Well, I'm glad you're okay, I was worried."

"How was your trip?"

"Well, we just got here today. I took Selena out on one of those boat trips around the canals this afternoon, and that was nice. Tomorrow we're going to the Anne Frank House. Only, I didn't know you were getting to Nairobi so soon, I'd rather be there now."

"Well, there is a flight tonight, the one I thought you were taking. I just called KLM and there's one getting in at nine tomorrow morning. Actually, I was going to just go and meet it and surprise you, I'm glad I didn't."

"Really. I wonder when that flight leaves. The one tomorrow leaves at midnight, and if this one does too, that only leaves an hour and a half. But I don't want to be here now- I want to be there!"

"Well if you want to see if you can get on it, I'd love to see you two, the sooner the better."

"Selena's here beside me, jumping up and down going ‘yes! yes!', I think she wants to see you too. Okay, I'll call and see if I can get on that flight. I'll call you right back.

A few minutes later the phone rang, and a breathless Jackie spoke: "Well, they won't book us on the flight because they say it's too late and we can't make it, but I'm going to try. No time to talk." "Okay, just call me if you don't make it. Bye."

And I knew she would have to make the luggage back together, run for the front desk and pay the bill, get a cab and urge the driver to drive like crazy to the airport, run inside, get their tickets and race through immigration and out to the plane- and hopefully be in time to board it. The chances seemed slim.

Though I was tired, I was too excited to sleep as I lay there and envisioned them going through all of this. I followed the passage of the time on my watch, seeing them in a taxi on the highway to Amsterdam's Schiphol, and imagining Jackie breathless and anxious has the minutes ticked away. When finally an hour and a half went by without the phone ringing, I dared to think they'd made it, and I fell asleep thinking of them on the plane flying ever closer to me as I slept.

Ore olonoto enkitok supat, nenoto olpusii ogol enkinyianna.
The one with a Good Wife is as fortunate as he who has a precious stone.
(Massai Wisdom)

part three - kenya

. . . you could not possibly grasp the enormous vastness of Africa. It seemed to go on for ever and ever; beyond each range of hills lay another far horizon; always it was the same, pale brown grass and bush and thorn-trees, rocky mountains, dark valleys, sunlit plain . . .
Elspeth Huxley
The Flame Trees of Thika

22- sojourn in nairobi

I was awake early the next morning, hopeful and excited but trying to contain it- just in case something had gone wrong, and my girls might not show up after all. After a quick breakfast in the Thorn Tree, I went out into the street to find a taxi. It was a cool and cloudy morning, and the streets were busy with traffic and pedestrians. I found a vacant taxi parked just around the corner, and, as I had learned to do, verified the fare in advance to save any unpleasantness later. As we drove out of the city along the highway which led to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, I was heartened to see a flock of Sacred Ibis winging across an area of open grassland and acacias, a tiny bit of Africa in this urban sprawl, and once again- a good omen!

It was crowded and noisy in the Arrivals area, but I found a place among the rows of plastic seats, in sight of the board which announced the flight arrivals, and sat down to wait impatiently for the landing of the KLM flight. I was a bit early as usual, but at least I had the International Herald Tribune with me, so I had a crossword puzzle to work on.

Eventually the flight came up on the board as having arrived, and I stood with a large and multi-racial crowd opposite the glass doors, straining to see over their heads into the baggage claim area every time the doors would open. One of those occasions when it's good to be tall. People were starting to come out with their luggage, to be greeted by happy relatives and friends, but I still hadn't seen any sign of them. I was getting worried- maybe they hadn't made it, and had been unable to get a call through to me.

Then finally my heart lifted, as I recognized them in the far corner, waiting beside the conveyor for their bags. Selena saw me at the same moment, and her face lit up as she nudged Jackie, and they were both smiling and waving across the boundaries of people and bureaucracy which still separated us. Now I could let myself be excited, and I paced around the area where they would emerge, until I was running up to meet them in a flurry of smiles and greetings, and hugs and kisses. As ever, so much time spent apart meant that we were always truly excited to see each other again, and these moments of excitement and tangible love would not be possible without the separations.

I led them out to the car park, where we were approached almost immediately by a young man saying: "taxi?, taxi?". This seemed easy, and I asked him "how much?", and when the amount was agreed upon he took Jackie's bag out of my hand and started to lead us across the road to an area of parked cars. Suddenly voices were calling out, and I noticed that he was leading us away from where the "official" taxis were lined up, and a couple of other drivers were shouting and gesticulating at the young man who was leading us. He just ignored them, and started walking faster to get by them, and then I realized the nature of the situation. Our driver was a "pirate", perhaps no more malicious than a "freelancer" looking to make a little extra cash, but not one of the officially-licensed taxis. I was uncertain what this really meant here, but decided to play it safe, and grabbed the bag out of his hand and led the girls over to the line of official taxis, again verifying the rate before we started for the hotel.

Selena had been traveling with her mother to meet me in strange places since she was a baby, everywhere from Hongkong to St Louis, and at nine years old she was already a good traveler. But evidently something she'd eaten on the flight into Amsterdam had made her ill, and Jackie was telling me about their dramatic cab ride into that city, Selena being violently sick into a bag they'd brought from the airplane, and the cab driver hearing this unmistakable sound, and wondering where it was landing.

She was alright now though, and they were both very excited to be in Africa, looking around them eagerly as we drove into Nairobi. I tried to explain that a was unfortunate that what they were seeing wasn't really an indication of what it was all about, but decided they'd just have to see themselves. We had a couple of days to spend here before our safari began, so they would be able to rest up from their long trip and the eight-hour time difference from home.

I paid off the taxi at the New Stanley, and led the girls up to our room, still attractively decorated with my laundry hanging everywhere. They were both very hungry and we headed back down to the Thorn Tree Café for lunch. It was still overcast and quite cool outdoors, and we decided to sit at one of the booths inside. When the waiter had taken our order, I pointed out to Jackie the kind of "gracious service" you soon get used to here. Instead of the usual: "can I take your order please?", or: "what will you have sir?", the waiter had come up, nudged me in the shoulder, and grunted: "your order". You had to laugh. But I suppose people here feel they can't afford even the appearance of subservience, the way waiters in Europe or America can, even though it's really a matter of simple courtesy. There is no history of "service industries" here, in which people wait on each other for their mutual gain, and the past was tangled with colonial attitudes of autocracy and even slavery to confuse these modern relationships.

At one point I looked up to see a couple of people just sitting down at a table out on the terrace, and recognized Grahame and Ross. I went over to talk to them for a few minutes, and learned that the rest of their trip to the Maasai Mara had gone smoothly, the truck had indeed made it, and they'd had a good time out there. Some of the group had even taken the hot-air balloon trip across the plains, and that was something I was very interested in as well, from the accounts I'd read of it. The two of them were just here for the day to wait for their flight back to England, having just returned from a few days at the coast, where they'd also had a nice time. I told them a bit about my adventures on Kilimanjaro, and about having seen Geoff, lain and Alison there, before we said goodbye again, wishing each other a good trip.

After lunch we took a short walk around the centre of town, Selena bemused by the constant barrage of people wanting to sell us elephant-hair bracelets, carvings, batiks, or change money. I found a place which offered fast film-developing, and, eager to see my pictures from Tanzania and Kilimanjaro, I left my films there with them, hoping they'd come out all right. The girls were still pretty tired from their journey, and we went back up to the room, where we talked about what we wanted to see in the next couple of days. There were a few worthwhile things we could check out here in Nairobi, and I wanted to know what they wanted to do.

But what they wanted to do was sleep- and they both passed out there on the bed, practically in mid-sentence, and I closed the curtains against the brightening sun, leaving them to sleep for awhile. They'd had a long and eventful trip, and were also eight hours out of sync here, and I knew what that felt like.

I headed out to make some arrangements for our excursion tomorrow, and immediately ran into Nigel in the lobby, picking up the envelope of money I'd left for him there. It's always odd and a little uncomfortable to encounter someone after you've already said a final goodbye, but we talked for a few minutes before I continued out onto the streets. I wanted to look around the bookshops for that Kilimanjaro book, and as I walked up and down the main streets I waved away the legions of street pedlars and black marketeers. I was getting good at it now; it has a lot to do with how you carry yourself. If you walk along purposefully they won't bother you, but if you dawdle along looking in windows, they'll be on you right away.

I looked into about four different bookshops, one or my favorite pastimes anywhere, and found a few other books with good background material on East Africa, but no one seemed to have this particular book. One shopkeeper whom I asked about it told me he thought he would be getting some copies in about eight weeks, and I began to despair of finding it. It was becoming a mission for me, I really wanted to have it, and when I finally found a single copy in a small shop on a side street, it was like finding a buried treasure.

And who should meet as I walked back towards the hotel, but Michael, Greg and Ingrid out walking around as well. Again, we'd already said our goodbyes, and it was a bit awkward, but we were glad to see each other anyway, and talked for a few minutes there on the street. I said goodbye to them once more as well, and went back to the room, thinking it was time to wake up my girls.

But when I walked into the darkened room and saw them sleeping so peacefully there, I didn't have the heart to wake them, and decided to give them another hour. I looked through the photographs which I'd picked up, and was glad to see that they'd turned out pretty well, and browsed through my treasure, the Kilimanjaro book, for awhile.

When I finally woke them up, the first thing Selena wanted to do was go to the pool (the little fish), so we put on our bathing suits and walked out to the open terrace where the pool was situated. As it was on the fifth floor, you looked over a low wall at a view of the tall buildings which surrounded the area, and except for the mosaic murals depicting the African plains, you might have been in any luxury hotel in any modern city. Jackie and I sat at one of the small tables poolside, sipping drinks and talking comfortably as Selena cavorted and splashed in the water. She tried to entice me in to play with her, but I found I was still feeling pretty drained from the exertions of the previous week, and was happy just to sit, sharing the newspaper with Jackie.

After dinner in the Thorn Tree, candlelit now in the night, we were content to spend a quiet evening in the room, looking at my photographs, and talking and laughing together. As it got late we tried to get Selena to go to sleep, putting her in the bed in the other room of our little suite, but it wasn't easy for her. She had her "friends" there with her; Harpo the seal and Leo (now rechristened Simba) the lion, but like anyone, she really needed to try to acclimatize to the time changes. The poor girl was so mixed up timewise, and a little intimidated by the strangeness of all this, that she lay restless for much of the night, sometimes calling out to her mother for reassurance.

It's at times like these when I really feel the burden of having been away for about three-quarters of Selena's life. When you look at it that way you don't feel like much of a father. It's a little easier now that she's a bit older and can understand where I am and what I'm doing, but when she was really small it used to be painful sometimes. If I was standing beside her when she hurt herself, she would turn from me and run crying all through the house to find her mother for comfort. Because, of course, her mother was always there. Dad was like this rumor that occasionally came by for a visit, and not really to be depended upon. I imagine as time goes on I'll live to regret that even more than I do now.

*     *     *

We began the next day with a walk through town, strolling through the market and along the Uhuru Highway to the Museum on the edge of town. We started at the nearby Snake Park, but not surprisingly, neither Selena nor Jackie were too enamored of the cages full of large, slithery reptiles, and we crossed the driveway to enter the museum. Selena especially enjoyed the displays of dinosaur fossils, where they even had some "hands-on" exhibits of large fossilized bones and early tools which she could touch, and that diorama showing the primitive people living on the African plains. It was a good opportunity to try to give her some idea of the concept of Evolution, and I tried to give her a brief explanation of "the ascent of man", without straining her attention span too much.

She too got a good laugh out of the "Shit-Eating Fish", thinking this very naughty, and I showed her the room full of stuffed animals, pointing out which ones we could expect to see once we were on safari. The two of us spent some time together looking at the mounted giraffes, lions, elephants, antelopes and so on, while Jackie enjoyed the second-floor exhibit of tribal jewelry, costumes and crafts.

Always patient with the foolish pursuits of grown-ups, Selena put up with an afternoon spent looking at carvings and tribal masks in the shops, as Jackie and I wanted to look at as many different ones as we could before we bought anything. There was a good shop just across from the hotel and after having "shopped around" to our satisfaction, we returned there to bargain for a couple of masks we liked, and an old drum which had caught my eye immediately. By now I understood the necessity- and the enjoyment- of bargaining for things here, and the delicate process of give-and-take, and Jackie was impressed with my readiness to get right in there, making offers, cajoling, refusing, counter-offering, shaking my head silently at the right moment, and finally arriving at an agreed price considerably less than the written one. I must admit I enjoyed it, too.

Our salesman was a young Tanzanian, and I think I made some points with him when I told him how much more I liked Tanzania than Kenya. But he also told me how glad he was to have a job here in Kenya, and how sad he feels when he visits his family in the west of Tanzania, and sees how poor everybody is. Though he would still rather live there if he could.

We couldn't decide between two different masks, so I continued the bargaining until we'd bought them both for the price of one, and also acquired the elaborately-carved drum which I'd admired. Not to be left out, Selena had her eye on a little necklace, with an elephant carved in malachite, and I made a deal for that too, as well as bargaining for the shipping costs of the larger items.

So now everybody had something, and we crossed the street to the hotel. Naturally Selena wanted to go swimming immediately, and again we relaxed in the late afternoon sun beside the hotel pool. It was wonderful to be together like this- "Just like a real family", Jackie said- only half-jokingly.

*     *     *

We were booked on an early-morning excursion the next day, and I had the unpleasant duty of waking two very unwilling girls. I woke up Jackie first, and she mumbled "okay" but didn't stir, and then got angry at me when I persisted, and when I went in to wake up Selena, gently but persistently shaking her, she woke up screaming at me (her mother's temper!). I must admit it stung at first to be greeted with so much hostility first thing in the morning, but I knew they didn't mean it- or at least, they wouldn't later!

We were picked up by the minibus in front of the hotel, to join a small group of Americans; an older couple with a teenage son, and a single man and woman about our age, and drove on to Nairobi National Park, which was just outside of town. We began our visit at the Animal Orphanage at the park gates, where sick or orphaned animals are cared for. It's laid out like a small zoo, and we wandered among the fenced in areas looking at lions, cheetahs, hyenas and leopards which were caged there, apparently temporarily. There were obviously some permanent guests though; an aged pair of lions living out their last years safe from the hyenas that would have ended their "retirement" in the wild, and a pair of Bengal Tigers, a gift from the Copenhagen Zoo. There is a catch-phrase from a movie we had all watched many times, Monty Python's The Meaning of Life, and when I said. "A tiger? In Africa?", we all laughed out loud.

After an enjoyable hour spent there, we got back in the minibus, and were off on a game drive through the park itself. It is quite an amazing park too; forty-four square miles of wildlife habitat which has been set aside only four miles from the center of the city. We drove through a stretch of forest, and then onto an open area of thick grasses and thorny scrub. A herd of giraffes appeared almost immediately, and we stopped to look at them as they nibbled on their favorite acacia leaves. Ostriches, Warthogs and antelopes were plentiful as well, and I was proud to be able to identify each of the different kinds of antelope for the girls; Thomson's and Grant's Gazelles, Kongoni, Eland, Impala. "There'll be a test later", I told them.

We came to a stop at a high viewpoint, and were able to get out of the minibus and stand gazing out over a vast stretch of open plain, teeming with herds of Wildebeest and zebras. In many ways it was like a miniature Serengeti, except that as you looked out over the expanse of yellow-brown savanna dotted with acacias, behind it all rose the skyline of the city, hazy and surreal like a heat mirage. With the binoculars Selena was able to pick out the ostriches and the Warthogs among the grazing herds, and I was telling her a bit about the Warthog, to my mind another of those underappreciated animals. Although their heads are admittedly grotesque, with large tusks, bristling manes and the bumps on their faces which give them their name, from the head back there is something attractive and even graceful, almost horse-like, in the way they move. They are a very shy animal, and are almost always seen trotting away from you with their tails straight up in the air, and if cornered will disappear- always backwards- into holes in the ground. If you're fortunate enough to come upon one by surprise, you might see it kneeling in the grass, bending its front legs to feed more easily.

We were lucky enough to come upon a rare sight; a giraffe spreading its front legs wide apart to bring its head down to drink from a pool. Rare because this is the one time when they are vulnerable to attack, and consequently have learned to drink infrequently and warily. The story goes that if one were to bend its neck straight down to the ground, like a grazing animal, the pressure of blood rushing to its head would kill it. I don't know if that's true, but it certainly looked awkward splayed out like that, and it is true that the giraffe, with all that expanse of neck, possesses the same number of vertebrae as a human.

I had asked Jackie to bring another pair of binoculars with her, and she had bought me an excellent little pair of Zeiss glasses, far better than the cheap ones I'd been using. It was a good thing she had, with so much here to look at we were constantly passing them between us. Though, she remarked wryly, as Selena and I tended to monopolize them, we could really have used three!

Lunch, part of the day's excursion, was at a well-known restaurant called "Carnivore", which I had first heard about from Janne back in Tanzania, and then again from Nigel, who told me he always makes a trip out there when he visits Nairobi. It specializes, as you might guess, in meat, but with a difference: the specialty of the day is likely to be zebra steaks, crocodile chops, or giraffe neck. The waiters circulate with long skewers of barbecued meat, from which you can choose as much as you wish. "Today's special" was Wildebeest, Kongoni Warthog and Guinea fowl, all of it tasting remarkably- perhaps suspiciously- like steak, pork and chicken. But the taste of Thomson's Gazelle was still denied me.

As we stuffed ourselves on these exotic tidbits, we learned a bit about our companions for the day. The American family and the single man were living in West Africa, Gambia I think it was, and were here in Nairobi for some kind of a conference. I'm not sure if they were missionaries or worked for an aid program, and didn't like to be too nosy. The woman, however, was not bothered by such scruples, and waged a campaign to find out what I did, though she balked at asking me straight out.

"Do you travel a lot?", she asked us, and we told her that yes, we did.

"Are you in the military?"

"No", I laughed, and Selena and Jackie laughed as well. I had my hair cut quite short at the time, and my friends often joked that I looked like an army recruit. I resisted helping her out, because to answer "I'm a musician" was always to invite a host of further questions: "Are you famous? Who do you play for? Oh, I've never heard of them", etc. etc. It's not like saying "I'm a doctor", or "I'm a businessman", where that's the end of it. And sometimes you get something really dumb like: "I've never heard of you but can I have your autograph in case any of my friends have?", like a Certain Person on the Tanzanian group. So I didn't make it easy for her.

"Well I just wondered, because you look pretty fit, and the haircut and all."

"Government work of some kind?", she tried again. I just smiled and shook my head. I could see her curiosity was rising.

"Maybe he's in the CIA", joked her husband.

Her eyes widened at this. "Well I wondered something like that, when I asked him and he just said no, and didn't seem to want to tell me".

Even though we'd told her we were Canadian, maybe she thought that was just a "cover". At any rate, the possibility was enough to make her give up, and the conversation shifted.

The other single woman was a journalist, and this excursion was part of a story she was working on. The single man, also part of the conference group, had left his wife and young children behind in Gambia, as his wife didn't like to travel. Gambia is a small country in West Africa, and they told us some stories about their dealings with the Gambians who worked for them, as farmers or gardeners I believe, and they could have been right out of Out of Africa or Elspeth Huxley's memoirs of the early colonial days in "British East Africa". And there was the story of their nerve-wracking series of flights across Africa to get here. It was then I learned about the US government forbidding its people to fly on Air Nigeria, and the "not recommended" status of Air Tanzania.

After lunch we went our different ways, as the journalist was off to the Karen Blixen museum, at the writer's now-famous farm in the Ngong Hills. What a shame all these paying tourists weren't around in 1931- the income would have let her keep her beloved farm. The Gambian group had to go back to Nairobi for their conference, and we would now be joined by a pair of American nurses who were on holiday from their posts in one of the Arab countries.

As we waited in the parking lot for the minibus, the midday sun very hot now and driving most people into the shade, Selena and I walked into a neighboring field with our binoculars, as I had seen some birds of prey in the sky over there. She was getting into the excitement of spotting and identifying the wildlife now, which made me proud and happy (and made her mother laugh!), and we picked out several Augur Buzzards flying high over the park.

Our afternoon would be spent at the "Bomas of Kenya", a kind of cultural centre featuring the music and dances of some of the different tribes. I knew this was likely to be a bit "jive", just by its nature, but thought it might be interesting enough to make it worthwhile. The word boma actually means 'homestead', and the extensive grounds were filled with examples of villages from different major tribes, like the Kikuyu, Maasai, Samburu and Luo. These, of course, were also an excuse for the selling of souvenirs; drums, rattles, baskets, carvings and jewelry, offered by a blase and mercenary group of people in approximate tribal dress.

The performances took place indoors, in a large circular auditorium which had been built for this purpose. A modern concrete building, it seats something like 3000 people, and was quite full, not only with tourists but with numerous groups of schoolchildren as well. About ten different tribal dances were performed, the music being of much greater interest to me than the dances, as the same troupe represented each of the tribes, and most of the dancers were simply going through the motions, chanting and leaping about half-heartedly. And of course if there's one thing necessary for any kind of performance- it's commitment, and enthusiasm! But some of the dancers gave it their all, and the musicians were much more involved with their art, playing various exotic melodic and percussion instruments with feeling and expression.

At least the Samburu dance was a little more authentic, as four tall and slender young men who probably were Samburu, came out in their white robes and long elaborate red braids. They performed an eerie chant to accompany their leaping dance, something like the mating dance of the Crowned Crane. The Samburu are a tribe which broke away from the Maasai long ago, to the taunts of the others calling them Samburu- butterflies- and they retain the handsome and aristocratic features and bearing of the Maasai people. This cultural attribute was not lost upon Jackie- who found this the most interesting of all the performances!

As I expected I would, I enjoyed the music a lot. The rhythms were hypnotic, powerful and insistent, and the melodies were simple and haunting. Seeing this kind of music performed live is always more compelling than just listening to it. It strikes an ancient chord inside anyone who enjoys modern music, and here is certainly to be found the rhythmic cornerstone of the "rock of ages".

I was surprised at the rhythmic complexity of some of the pieces, incorporating different time signatures and polyrhythms. It was particularly interesting to hear a piece in 3/4 time, a it more often associated with Strauss waltzes than driving rhythms, but it had a peculiar and affecting force to it in this context.

I think it's true that to understand a people you need to understand their music. Nothing else represents a culture so eloquently, especially what is often too-loosely called "folk music", a heritage which needed no recording or broadcasting to pass it from generation to generation. And of course, for an outsider, this is what makes it so elusive; it's so hard to get to hear it. If you can see and hear it performed live, more is experienced, but this can be difficult, especially, I found, in a place like China. But I was lucky enough to find some good recordings of traditional Chinese music there. Some of it is a bit opaque, the different tonalities strange to the western ear, but a lot of it is almost symphonic in scale, with modern recording techniques capturing the poignant textures of the traditional instruments. Stewart Copeland had the right idea; traveling around Africa with a digital recorder to capture the music, "in the field", as it were.

Though I am profoundly affected by melody, I confess to being somewhat rhythmically biased, and I can't enjoy melody without rhythm- though the reverse is quite often acceptable. If melody gives music passion, rhythm gives it fire. The pulse-quickening quality of gypsy music, the dizzy whirl of a polka, the driven joy of good reggae, the melancholy flutes and frenetic strumming of the Andes, the trance-like pulse of Chinese music- these are the things which touch me in a deep place. The emotional impact is profound and true, moving and intoxicating, and it stays with you forever.

And all the fakery and mediocrity in the world can never take that away.

Kiega ta kï gïtithiraga.
A really good thing is ever good.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

Ngoma ivumayo haidumu.
A noisy drumming does not last long.
(Swahili Saying)

23- treetops

Once again I faced the daunting task of rousing two sleepy and unwilling ladies in the early morning. Like girls of any age, they're great to put to bed- but most unpleasant to rouse, especially with their inner clocks eight hours out of sync. But we had to get moving; we were going on safari today, and had to be waiting outside the hotel by 8:00. As good travelers should, we had done most of our packing the night before, but there were still bags to be left behind with the hotel, last minute travel arrangements to be verified, money to be changed and the hotel bill to be paid. Within the context of African Time (or perhaps non-context), it is necessary to plan a generous amount of time for even the simplest transactions. This I'd learned that first day in Arusha, when almost an hour was required to change a traveler's cheque, and then again in Moshi when I suffered the trauma of trying to buy- gasp!- an airline ticket.

And now, as I stood for half an hour in front of the cashier's desk, while he ambled from place to place, picking up and slowly reading irrelevant pieces of paper, only to put them down again and pick up and read another one, I began to get a little impatient. It's one thing to drift happily along without schedules when they're not imposed on you, but when you're forced to deal with realities, and do something at a specific time, the charming unhurriedness becomes lazy inefficiency, and what was a relaxing sense of ease is now a frustrating waste of time.

I like to tell myself that I may make mistakes, and perhaps even too many, but never the same one twice. And maybe it's even true- usually, but this was one error of judgement I seemed doomed to repeat again and again, unable to shake my Western "incrementalism". The leopard and his spots.

Warire ndakerũha.
He who has ever been black will never become white.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

And, I suppose, vice versa.

I once saw a funny skit, on Saturday Night Live I think, in which Paul Simon's personal hell was acted out: he was sentenced to spend all eternity in an elevator listening to Muzak versions of Simon and Garfunkel songs. My personal hell might condemn me to spend all eternity trapped in one place, forever running around trying to escape, and forever just one minute late for the flight that would take me away.

Needless to say, time had remained impervious to me, and inconsequential to everyone but me, and when I finally escaped the cashier and we stood out on the pavement with our bags, we would still wait another half an hour for our minibus to arrive. Some people never learn.

We had booked this safari through a large outfit called the United Touring Company and it was to be a six-day trip called the Treetops-Rift Valley-Maasai Mara safari, so we were watching for a van with the UTC name on it, among the many tourist buses, some with zebra stripes or animals painted on the side, that pulled up to the hotel to pick up or drop off travelers at the New Stanley. My impatience with the cashier was now compounded by impatience at the tour company, but Selena and Jackie waited uncomplainingly. Selena readingoff the names on the vans as they appeared. Finally she spotted the UTC name on the door of a white van.

I helped our driver stow our bags in the back of it, one of those Nissan minibuses which are so common here, and we climbed inside to meet our new traveling companions. They were an elderly English couple, in their sixties, and once we had penetrated their reserve enough no learn that we would be together for the next week, we introduced ourselves to them. They were named Gordon and June Thomson, and Gordon was a quiet, dignified and phlegmatic man, with a warm dry humor and a throaty, cultivated accent. His wife June was less quiet, more dignified, less warm and more dry than he. She was very thin, with a girlish 'forties style of wavy hairdo, and wore a somewhat alarming neck brace beneath her sharp-featured and bony face.

Sometimes it happens that you meet someone for whom you have an immediate antipathy- temperament, chemistry, world-view, all of them "clash and burn"- and in fact, often well before you're conscious of it some chemical rejection is taking place. This can bring on the "devil tongue"- a condition where you blurt out something you shouldn't, and never meant to say, as if it emerged unbidden from some subconscious black humor, and a desire to needle someone else. I sometimes find it happens with people I know as well; for example if I know a secret that they don't think I know- oh, like somebody messing around behind their partner's back, for instance- sometimes I have to bite my tongue almost literally to stop a sudden urge to say something really stupid, some oblique reference to their little secret. It's scary and dangerous, that devil tongue, and, as with Cheryl back at Lake Naivasha, "It's better to stumble with the toe than with the tongue".

Here's how it went that day. June was asking why Selena wasn't in school, and Jackie told her that we'd planned to take her out, figuring that this trip was worth missing a little arithmetic, but then the teachers happened to go out on strike just as they left home, so she wasn't going to miss anything after all.

And June did it to me. Looking as if she smelled something bad, she replied: "Oh, they're on strike, are they? I suppose it's about money", she finished with an extra twist of disdain. Perhaps because I never had a great deal of formal education, it's something I believe in, and there were a few teachers in my brief scholastic career who were important to me. I'd always thought that teaching, say English or History, was one aspiration I might have pursued if I had stayed in school. (Though in truth I probably lack the patience.)

"Well, if it is, I think they certainly deserve it. Teaching is the most underpaid and underappreciated of all professions, and certainly those who go into it only do so because they're committed to it."

(A broad generality I admit, but I went on to spout an even worse one.)

"When you compare it to other professions, most people who want to be lawyers and doctors and dentists seem to only be concerned about the security." (Excuses, excuses, but I was probably still a little disgruntled by my "battle with time", and certainly offended by this typical snobbery of a certain class of the English.)

June lifted her chin firmly: "You think that's true of doctors do you? Are you a doctor?"

"No", I laughed.

The 'bad smell' look was back on her face: "Well, I'm sorry you feel that way."

Jackie was the first to catch on to my indiscretion, and she laughed uneasily: "Now you'd better ask them if they're doctors!"

And Gordon spoke up for the first time, warmly and seemingly without offence: "Well, yes I am, but- ".

To be interrupted by June repeating: "I'm sorry you feel that way. But of course, the younger generation are very different."

Another remark I couldn't let pass. "Not so very different, I don't think. Human nature doesn't change that quickly."

But she was having none of it: "Oh yes. They're very different."

Meaning me, I suppose. Her husband was a doctor, and her son was a doctor, and she'd been a nurse, and they were all Albert Schweitzers in her eyes. Fine. But thus was forged a silent antagonism. Though it was kept to an uneasy peace by our mutual "good breeding", it continued a shoulder beneath the surface all week. We were two totally incompatible human beings in almost every way, but since neither of us was in a position of power over the other, it would be harmless. We would be like two dogs looking at each other through a window, hostile and on guard, but prevented from expressing it. (Though for my part I would be forced to growl silently to myself on many occasions.)

We drove out of the city in a new direction, not to the northwest toward Lake Naivasha where I'd been before, but to the northeast toward Thika and Nyeri. This was all very fertile farmland, part of what had been the settlers' "White Highlands" in former times, and farms large and small covered all the land. Maize, coffee, tea and sisal were grown on a large scale, with smaller plots of fruits and vegetables.

Our driver was named Hassan, a portly and good-natured man with a sleepy but intelligent face. His features were heavy and fleshy, though handsome and finely-made, and enlivened by gentle eyes and a warm smile. He was quiet most of the time, concentrating on his driving, and usually spoke only to point out something of interest, or to answer a question. He was a skillful driver, a rare enough quality here, and he sat behind the wheel and smoothly guided the vehicle with an easy confidence, an equally rare quality. He told us he was from the coastal area, and would have been from one of the tribes which had ancient ties with the Arabs, and among whom the Swahili tongue was born.

Although obviously unimpressed with me personally, June was irrepressible, and maintained a running conversation as we drove along, small talk and family gossip. Whenever her remarks were directed at Gordon, he had a habit of saying "y-e-s, y-e-s", in a slow and dry manner, delivered from the throat with mouth closed and using almost no voice. (Try it, you'll get the idea!) Like many quiet people with talkative mates, he seemed often to "tune her out", and give a non-committal "y-e-s, y-e-s" at appropriate moments to satisfy her that she had his attention. Jackie was trying to make up for me by being extra-personable, and willingly answered June's questions about us. June seemed to take to her and Selena alright- it was just me who was poison!

In mid-morning we made a stop at a small town, at the market square which was a large walled-in area. We were on one of the main tourist circuits, and where we parked there were some large stalls selling the inevitable cheap carvings and other souvenirs. As we got out of the bus, June removed her neck brace, and put on a pair of leather gloves, which, with her long-sleeved shirt and long trousers, made her look rather over-dressed on this warm and sunny morning. It was like the first Europeans who came here, who carefully covered every inch of themselves against the sun, and wore those thick heavy hats, as they believed that if the bare head was exposed to the sun for even a short time, their brains would fry or something.

All over the world, markets like this seem to thrive in the earliest hours of the morning, and by now the square was largely empty of people, with just a few locals wandering among the lanes of fruits and vegetables. Jackie, Selena and I took a quick walk around, but there was not much to see, and we were soon back at the bus, waiting for the Thomsons and waving away the persistent souvenir sellers.

We stopped one more time, at a hotel called The Blue Posts, an establishment which dates back to the turn of the century. It is mentioned as a stopping-place in The Flame Trees of Thika, where Elspeth Huxley describes her arrival here as a child in 1913. At that time it had taken her family two days by oxcart to make the journey we had just made in a couple of hours. Fifteen years before that, before the railroad, it used to take two weeks to make the arduous journey from the coast to Nairobi, a journey which is now accomplished overnight by train, or in an hour or so by airplane. How wonderful it would be to see all this as it was then.

The Blue Posts is situated opposite a high waterfall, a torrent of water which plummets down into a deeply-carved ravine below. Selena and I wanted to follow the path to the bottom, and dragged Jackie down the steep and rocky trail to stand at the edge of the pool below. It was beautiful among the moss-covered rocks and rich green foliage, with the white-noise roar of the falls across from us.

We drove on through this beautiful country, lush valleys and tall trees, and marveled at the brilliant flame trees with their bright red flowers. I learned from Hassan that the small cedar-like shrubs were Casuarina trees, which would grow to the tall, scrubby pine-like trees which we saw everywhere here.

Just before noon we arrived at the Outspan Hotel in the town of Nyeri, another place well-known in colonial times. First opened in 1928, it had been built to attract Nairobi-dwellers for their holidays, and "those travelers hardy enough to face the hundred-odd miles of earth roads". Now it is much easier to reach, and also considerably bigger than the original ten-room structure. Boy Scouts and Girl Guides will be interested to learn that this was the last home of Lord Baden-Powell, the founder of the Scouts. He lived in a cottage called Paxtu near the hotel, and is buried here in Nyeri. The town is beautifully situated in a valley between Mount Kenva and the Aberdare Mountains, on the border of the Aberdare National Park.

The hotel is set among richly-forested hills, on wide lawns shaded by tall trees and bordered by luxuriant gardens. We would be stopping here for lunch, and relaxing for a couple of hours before we were transferred to our destination for the night, Treetops Hotel.

Lunch was served buffet-style, with a choice of tables indoors, or outside on a shaded terrace. There was a great variety of good things to eat; soup, dozens of salads, cold meats, and various hot dishes- all good proper English food. After lunch Selena and Jackie and I walked around the beautiful grounds, then settled to rest on the lawn in front of the hotel, beneath a shady tree. We lay back in the cool grass, getting out the binoculars and taking turns scanning the branches above us for birdlife, and matching them with the pictures in the field guide.

I was glad to see that Selena could enjoy a quiet pursuit like this, and seemed very interested in trying to see and identify the different species. At her age I had been a keen birdwatcher, tracing pictures of hawks and blue jays from my grandmother's bird books, and collecting the bird cards which used to come in Red Rose tea. I could never understand why my parents would never drink tea, and thus contribute to my collection, but fortunately our neighbors did. And my poor mother was continually tormented by the bringing home of old nests, eggs, and even baby birds, which she would make me put back in their nests, even though I assured her they would die if I didn't keep them and look after them!

One of my first bitter lessons in human nature came about as a result of this hobby. At the age of ten or eleven, I decided to start a birdwatching club, and asked all my friends at school if they'd like to join. A lot of the kids said they would, and agreed to meet at my house after school. My friend Doug and I stood in my driveway for hours waiting for them, me still believing that if people said they would do something, they would. And what do you think? Nobody showed up. I was shattered. And ever since that day. . .

In the afternoon we joined a crowd of people in front of the hotel, boarding a pair of large buses for the short trip to Treetops. Most of our luggage was left here, as we were advised just to take a small overnight bag with us. We drove through the town of Nyeri, then out through a couple of fertile valleys to the gates of the Aberdare National Park. A mile or so inside, the buses parked, and we gathered outside in front of an impressively-armed "white hunter", wearing a neat Khaki outfit with a cartridge belt, and carrying a heavy elephant gun. At first I thought this was just for show, but I learned otherwise. He gave a short speech, in what I believe was an Afrikaans accent, advising us to stay together, and to stay quiet as we walked the short distance to the hotel. Once there, we were not to leave the building under any circumstances, and anyone making too much noise would be warned once, and then ejected. We had to say that Selena was ten-years-old rather than nine here, as they didn't allow children under ten, and Selena thought it very amusing that she was suddenly a year older.

Treetops is a very famous tourist spot, and in this case, justifiably so. Sometimes people feel compelled to visit places just because everybody else does, but this is one exception, a place that must always be a magical experience, and a special memory for anyone who spends a night here. Within the uninhabited area of the Aberdare National Park, it is built up high on stilts, overlooking two watering holes and a salt lick which attract large numbers of wildlife, both night and day. The area is floodlit by night, to illuminate the nocturnal creatures as they come to drink, and there are buzzers in each of the rooms which will ring to let you know when something interesting is making a visit, a lion perhaps, or even a rhino.

It was first opened in 1932, as a two-room treehouse, by the same people who had built the Outspan, Sherbrooke and Lady Bettie Walker. One story about its construction tells that every day the rhinos would come out and charge the builder, and every time they charged, the builder put up his price. As the reputation of Treetops spread the treehouse was gradually expanded, though it still remained a small and rustic retreat.

A young English princess visited with her husband in 1952, walking through a herd of restless elephants to reach the ladder to the treehouse. During the night she learned that her father, King George VI, had died, and that she would now succeed to the throne, becoming Queen Elizabeth II. Thus, they like to say, she climbed the ladder as a princess, and descended as a queen. Gee- all this and history too!

A couple of years after that the original building was destroyed by fire, and a new one was constructed which has become today's Treetops, considerably larger and more modern, but still retaining its atmosphere and excitement.

As we walked through the woods we saw a few Warthogs shyly moving among the trees, but we approached the building without incident, climbing stairs now rather than the ladder of former times. Inside, we were directed to our room, a small and rustic cabin which was simply furnished with three single beds. Excited and eager to have a look around, we immediately went up to the observation deck on the roof. We were the first people to arrive there, and had our choice of viewing seats, and we chose three of the deck chairs which were placed around the outside of the large open platform. I spread out our binoculars and the field guides, and we settled down to absorb the surroundings.

We were looking down to the area of open ground around the waterholes, surrounded on all sides by thick green forest. Mount Kenya could be seen to the east, a snow-capped mirage hovering over the surrounding woodlands and rolling hills. Like Kilimanjaro, Mount Kenya has two peaks, the lesser one called Nelion, and the highest one Mbatian. They are named after two great Maasai laibons, or priests, the leaders of their tribe.

It was late in the afternoon by now, and at the waterhole there were a few of the common grey Waterbuck moving slowly around, and several smaller antelope which at first I couldn't identify. A consultation in the field guide told me they were Bushbuck, a species I hadn't seen before. They were attractive little animals, with short spiral horns, thick bodies and slender legs; and their rufous coat is delicately marked with white lines and dots. A few of the large and deceptively placid-looking buffalo visited the waterhole, and we saw baboons cavorting among the nearby trees. Warthogs were numerous here and there under the trees, and we spotted a few hyenas trotting around, just keeping an eye on things.

As the rest of the guests gathered, the atmosphere still remained very quiet, everybody moving carefully and speaking in whispers. There was a murmur of excitement from the other side of the platform, and we stood up to have a look at what the fuss was about, passing the binoculars between us. Just barely visible among the trees several hundred yards away was a single elephant, and everyone was trying to see it and point it out to the others who couldn't pick it out among the thick greenery.

There was plenty of birdlife as well, as there was a small island in the middle of the waterhole which served as a nesting site for a great number of weaver birds. It was interesting to watch them working on those elaborate hanging nests, sometimes they seemed to be hovering upside down as they worked to add the endless stalks of grass which they wove together to make them. A dignified Grey Heron picked his way among the shallows, a few colorful Egyptian Geese swam in the water or waddled onto shore, and the resident bird of prey was a Long-crested Eagle, which remained perched in a tree nearby for several hours.

Afternoon tea was served on the observation platform, an elegant al fresco buffet of small Sandwiches, cookies and china cups of tea or coffee. A single elephant came wandering up for a drink at the waterhole, to the accompaniment of whispered excitement and the whirr of motor-drives. Jackie had gone downstairs to the bar and come back with a Scotch for each of us, and as I went to take a picture of the elephant I inadvertently ended up with a great portrait of an afternoon at Treetops. In the foreground the wooden railing with two glasses of amber whisky on it, and behind that an elephant passing by close below. A civilized wildness.

As the sun began to go down it grew cooler, and we put on sweatshirts and jackets. This was the time when the wildlife show would really begin, and as the shadows grew longer the hyenas began to gather into packs, and elephants arrived in their small family groups. Everyone had been so excited to get a distant grey glimpse of one, and now there were more than a dozen right below us, huge and wonderful to watch as they drank at the water hole and "vacuumed" at the dirt to pick up the salt which was spread for them. As it always does near the Equator, it grew dark rapidly, and the powerful spotlights were turned on to illuminate the waterholes. Soon we were in an island of light in a sea of impenetrable darkness. This was a very exciting time, and as we looked out into the blackness we could see red dots of light, the innumerable eyes of invisible animals in the distance. This was a powerful effect, not a little spooky, and I wondered what sort of animals they were, lurking out there in the darkness like that.

We hated to leave our seats there when dinner was announced, afraid we might miss something, but we went down to take our places at the long tables in the dining room. In spite of the popularity of this place, and the daily invasion of guests, they have preserved a really good atmosphere, a combination of a treehouse and an old sailing ship, with the narrow corridors, rough dark paneling of varnished wood, and the small cabin-like bedrooms. Apart from the observation deck, there were many balconies placed near the guest rooms, and even a concrete bunker at ground level, where you could look out through narrow slits, like gunsights, to watch the animals at their own level. In the bar was a series of photographs of an elephant which had been shot by the resident hunter, when for some reason it had decided to attack the building, crazy-mad and charging the pylons which supported the structure. Evidently the elephants can be very menacing here, and now the hunter who had met us with the big gun seemed like a good idea rather than a "showpiece". There were also the horns of a buffalo which had been killed by a lion here, and the skin of a Waterbuck which had been gored to death during a battle with another buck, the horn wound in the pelt clearly visible.

Once again, we were served a typical English meal; roast beef, potatoes and vegetables, and between courses I kept running out to the bar to look through the large windows there. I didn't want to miss anything good, and at one point I came back to report that there were now thirty elephants out there. As soon as we had eaten, Selena, Jackie and I were back out on the roof, dressed warmly against the evening chill and walking to each side to watch the show.

It was especially exciting to see the nocturnal animals, ones that can only be seen under circumstances like this. I spotted a large White-tailed Mongoose, its long bushy tail bright under the floodlights. There were many hyenas around in the night, some of them lying on the shore of the waterhole, and some of them moving around in groups, like adolescent boys, looking so some "action". Most of the elephants were gone now, but a few came by for a late drink or a bathe, and a large herd of buffaloes gathered at the salt lick. I saw a single Waterbuck on the other side of the waterhole, just out of the lights.

"The aptly-named Giant Forest Hogs were out now too. They are a larger, nocturnal cousin of the Warthog, and several of them snuffled around nearby, chasing the hyenas away from their young. Those two species seemed to play a kind of game with each other, circling around and challenging, neither of them of much danger to the other unless the hyenas could catch a young one unprotected, and that seemed unlikely. Once I even saw a young Forest Hog, closely guarded by a parent, walk right up to a hyena, face to face, and they just kind of sniffed warily at each other's faces for a few minutes.

We stayed out there until well after midnight, sometimes going down to the balconies, or to the ground-level bunker for a different view, but never tiring of this fantastic place. Selena thought it was just wonderful, a terrific adventure, and we let her wander around by herself sometimes too, which made her feel very grownup. Even when we all started to yawn and get a bit heavy-eyed, we hated to leave, but we hoped the buzzer in our room would go off if a lion or a rhino came by, and we went downstairs and along the narrow corridor to our cabin.

Selena also thought it was a wonderful thing that we were all in one room together- "like a pyjama party", she said. Among our friends the question of the "only child" is often discussed, and if it has some drawbacks, it certainly has many rewards, for the child and for the parents. Jackie and I are both from larger families, and when we were growing up it was always "the kids", considered very separate from "the grownups". But with just the three of us, I think it brings us closer together. With only one child, we're less likely to leave her behind when we go out, or when we travel, and thus sometimes she gets to play "grownup" and sometimes we get to play "kids". She is at the perfect age for that interchange now, and it won't be long before she's a teenager, and all that will be over with forever. Even Selena agrees that it would be better if we could just stay as we are now, and that wish was the seed for a song I wrote called "Time Stand Still". But it won't.

She and Jackie were talking and laughing quietly as we prepared for bed, and when I was laying there bringing my notes up to date, they started to make fun of me and my "secret notes". Concentrating, I would miss what they said, and then I'd look to up to see them laughing at me. "Are you having fun at the pyjama party Dad?", and they would both giggle. And then when I went on to read the guide book about where we were going tomorrow, I heard Jackie: "Isn't he a fun person, he comes to a pyjama party and reads", and Selena thought this was just the funniest thing, and her laughter was infectious and I had to put down the book and laugh too.

Uchesi wa mtoto ni anga la nyumba.
The laughter of a child lights up the house.
(Swahili Wisdom)

24- rift valley lakes

With the first grey light of dawn the three of us were awake, eager to get back out to the observation deck for the 'morning show". The buzzer in our room hadn't sounded while we slept, so I guess we hadn't missed anything this particular night, and I heard later that one couple had spent the whole night up on the deck, but had seen no lions. I suppose it's a matter of timing, you can't expect all of the animals to show up "on call" for every single group of tourists. And anyway, we would be seeing plenty of lions later.

The girls were getting over their jet lag at last, and we all dressed up warmly against the chill of a highlands night and went upstairs. It was dark enough yet that the floodlights were still on, and there were only one or two other hardy souls outside in the misty stillness. It was pretty quiet around the waterhole as well, only a couple of Waterbuck and a few buffaloes coming down to drink. Just on the edge of the forest a small herd of Waterbuck lay together under a tree, and a lone elephant came down for an early morning bathe in the waterhole. The sky was heavily overcast, and so the sun never actually came up- though the light increased slowly in shades of lighter grey, until the lights were turned off and it was morning. More people began to appear from below, and the staff were bringing out pots of coffee and tea. A cup of hot coffee tasted very fine in the cool stillness of the new day.

At 7:00 the buses began to depart for the Outspan, where we were to return for breakfast, and the three of us joined the first group of people who were ready to go. We were sorry to leave, and would gladly have stayed another day, and we looked back in regret as we walked down the pathway. This had been an exciting and memorable experience for us all.

The diesel engine clattered to life and shattered the peace of the morning, and the bus retraced our route down the narrow road between the trees. As we passed through the gates of the park we came upon a group of children on their way to school, neatly dressed with their books under their arms. One older boy pulled out a pocket calculator and put it up to his face, to mime taking pictures of us. This was funny to see, as I'm sure countless tourists have pointed their cameras at him and his friends, day after day, as they made this trip back to Nyeri.

After another buffet breakfast at the Outspan; a rich selection of juices, egg dishes, breads and fruits, we reclaimed the luggage we'd left behind, and went out to wait for the van. The Thomsons were ready to go as well, and we stood watching a flight of ibis passing overhead, and the ungainly flight of a large hornbill, until Hassan drove up to meet us. Our luggage was put into the back, and we took the same seats inside, ready for a long day's travel. There was another UTC van on the same trip as we were, two other English couples, both in their forties I would say, and from now on we would be traveling in tandem with them. We'd sat near them at dinner last night, and though we hadn't really met them, they seemed like cheerful and pleasant people.

We drove out through Nyeri once more, on a well-paved main road which ran along between Mount Kenya and the Aberdare Mountains. This was all Kikuyu land, and the rounded hills were dotted with well-tended native shambas, or farms. After independence many of the ancestral tribal lands were bought back from the white settlers and returned to the tribes, and the traditional way of life had been reinstated here in the Kikuyu Reserve. Most of the buildings were round native hats, rising here and there among the small farms with their mud-and-wattle walls and conical thatched roofs. Some of the country was drier and more open, the forested hills giving way to thorn trees and brown grass, and then this would become cornfields and grazing land. It way still all Kikuyu country, and it was beautiful.

June was evidently still rankled that I had seemed to believe that not all doctors were saints on earth, though I'd said no more about it, and into her running conversation of the day she dropped many illustrations of the error of my thinking. She "just happened to mention" that twenty-five British doctors were presently in Kenya on a goodwill visit, and lending a hand with some tricky operations to rebuild birth-defective palates- donating their services, she was careful to point out. And that Gordon should really have retired by now, but continued to overwork selflessly, and he had spearheaded a campaign to raise the money for a diagnostic machine which his hospital needed. Of course I had no problem with this, I liked Gordon very much, and I had no doubt he was a compassionate and dedicated physician, one of many I've encountered. And too; it wasn't him saying all this, he generally just offered his "y-e-s, y-e-s" at appropriate moments.

But then she had to go and spoil it by spouting a typical bunch of anti-American twaddle, again too characteristic of her breed of Briton. This expensive machine they had campaigned so hard to raise the funds for could be found in any American hospital- as if there was something wrong with that! Of course the word "American" was always delivered with a tons of asperity and disdain. And when I mentioned that I traveled a lot in America, it was "Are American women still as vast as they used to be? I just can't believe the way they eat, those huge slabs of red meat, such an unhealthy diet."

Now June herself was undeniably thin- and certainly in admirable shape for a woman near sixty, but it wasn't a thinness born of fitness and tone, but rather suggested anorexia, or what's that other one?- bulimia?

I looked away with my eyes raised to heaven, then turned back to point out only that the trend was toward much healthier eating habits in North America, sometimes to the point of a mania about nutrition- holding back a natural instinct to strike back at this kind of chauvinism, and without mentioning the world-famous horror of English cooking, a nutritional nightmare of grease and cooked-to-death vegetables, and the unhealthy pallor and physical underdevelopment of so many people there.

But only you can appreciate your own restraint!

I have many- well; at least some- English friends, and as I've said, I've lived there, and worked there for many periods of time adding up to several years, and I really do love the country. Perhaps that's why it drives me so crazy. There are many things about the people that I admire too; their humor, their music, their literature, their "grace under pressure", their manners, their actors, their sports cars, their double cream- but there is so much not to like too; the snobbery, the hypocrisy, the extreme chauvinism, the press, the politics, the workmanship, the food. . . There's lots of good, but lots of bad too. That of course is true anywhere, but again; because I care about the place, it matters more to me.

I, for one, would certainly never echo Karen Blixen's comment about the "fearful living death of English middle-class mediocrity". Never! Though I think she was writing about why so many Britons run off to live in the US, Canada, Australia, Spain, the West Indies, India, Africa. . .

We pulled off to the side of the road at one point, the two vans parking on the gravel shoulder, and we saw the sign marking the actual Equator. We were crossing it here at an altitude of some 7470', and though the sun was shining now it was still pleasantly cool, and certainly didn't represent one's usual idea of "Equatorial heat".

It's the kind of thing I'm sure everybody does, but it did make me smile to stand there and step back and forth from hemisphere to hemisphere, or stand with one foot in the Northern Hemisphere and the other foot in the Southern. And I took the obligatory snapshot of the girls posing stiffly and unnaturally by the sign. Some clichés are still fun!

Gordon got himself into a funny situation with the souvenir sellers here. Across the road from us was a row of little shacks, naturally selling the usual cheap carvings of animals and warriors, with the difference that these ones were often inscribed with something to do with the Equator- so you could commemorate this profound experience. Gordon had wandered over there and let himself be drawn into conversation with them, his warm politeness an easy target for their insistence. He picked up a couple of small carved animals as he talked with them, then put them down again and started back to the bus. But such an amiable prospect was not to be let go so easily, and they followed him across the road, pressing the little animal into his hand, lowering the price by the second, telling him he must have this beautiful carving, they would practically give it to him. They could lose money, their children could starve, but he must buy this carving. And of course he relented, laughing softly at himself as he paid the ransom to free himself from their entreaties. He was much amused at his own gullibility, commenting with his dry wit that he'd "blown the shopping budget already", and from now on every time we would pass a souvenir place he would say: "better keep me out of there!"

We made another mid-morning stop at a place formerly called Thomson's Falls, which now bears the less-euphonious name of Nyahururu, meaning something like 'rain of freedom' I think. Our two vans parked briefly in the well-tended parking lot of a hotel, a low modern bungalow-style building. A trio of performers starkly arrayed in motley black and white costumes and makeup began chanting loudly, to the rhythm of shakers which were fastened to the knees of one of these "traditional Kikuyu dancers". The "knee-shakerist" was pretty good, but overall they were singularly apathetic and unconvincing, with a large sign beside them stating the going rates for taking their photographs. I declined this opportunity, and as we walked on past them their performance faltered and ceased. Many tourists were arriving here for a stopover, and as each vehicle arrived the act would begin anew, with some of the tourists taking advantage of this chance to capture an "authentic tribal group" to show the folks back home. The band played on until everyone had disappeared up the path, when they could stop again and take a well-earned break!

The sidewalk through the hotel grounds was thickly lined with stalls, once again the usual hawkers of cheap souvenirs- no more to do with Africa than the plastic Beefeaters made in Hongkong have to do with London, or a white-metal Tour Eiffel with Paris. Gordon recoiled in mock terror when he saw them, but June promised to "keep him out of trouble". The falls themselves were indeed pretty, but the atmosphere was so much like a "miniature Niagara Falls" in tackiness that we didn't want to linger very long, and were soon on the road again.

The scenery remained beautiful throughout the drive, and now in a branch of the Rift Valley we descended a steep road into an area of rich red soil, the farms prosperous under tall and leafy trees. The Rift Valley stretches like a huge trough from the Dead Sea to Mozambique, thirty to forty miles wide and up to three thousand feet high. It is said to be visible from space. This valley, a smaller tributary to that great geological upheaval, was a narrow, evenly-cut fault in the earth, a supernatural river bed which had dropped out of the earth's crust.

June was telling Jackie about her busy social life, and all her activities for charitable causes; though giving teas and attending dinners seemed to make up the bulk of this. To be fair, she was involved in some admirable wildlife projects, like "Save The Rhino" and "Save The Whale", but others ranged from an "Adopt a Duck" program to a campaign to stop Southeast Asians from eating dogs and cats. With these dubious "charities" I was less impressed!

"Are you involved in any charity work?", she asked Jackie.

"Well, not in that sense", she replied, "but we support a few good things, like environmental groups, and an organization which brings education to Third World children, and Neil's very involved with the Foster Parents Plan."

"The Foster Parents Plan? What's that?"

Now, here was a woman who claimed to spend most of her life as a tireless campaigner for "good causes", and she'd never even heard of this large and effective self-help agency, an organization which was started by an Englishman, for heaven's sake, during the Spanish Civil War, and now helps over 250.000 children around the world. I explained to her that you contribute to the support of a specific child in a poorer country, and your money goes for food, clothing, medical treatment and schooling for the child, as well as to community self-help projects like digging wells and improving farming methods. "The wonderful thing", I told her, "is that you touch a specific life, and as you write back and forth to the child you build a relationship that is truly rewarding, rather than just giving money to a faceless organization that you hope will do some good. With this, you feel the good that you do. When was small my grandmother had a foster child in Korea, and it was a great insight into a larger world for me then, and now too. I have a little boy in the Sudan, and a girl in Colombia, and have sponsored many others on behalf of friends and family at Christmas time. It's a beautiful thing."

But I don't believe she thought it was half so important as stopping people from eating poor little dogs and cats- a culinary taste that offends me not at all!

At midday we arrived at Lake Nakuru, one of the most famous of the Rift Valley lakes because it is the home of more than a million flamingoes, feeding on the algae which multiply in the soda-rich blue water. Many nature programs have depicted the spectacle of a pink cloud of countless flamingoes rising into the air, as well as the many other birds who live there, and the whole area is a wildlife sanctuary now to protect this unparalleled variety and quantity of birdlife.

As we stopped at the gate to enter the park, we were approached by a uniformed park ranger who asked if we would contribute to a local school project. Never able to resist such an appeal, I contributed a few shillings, and Gordon willingly followed suit. In fact, I have the receipt still; it was for the "Vihiga Constituency Primary Schools' Harambee Project", and that's about all I know about it. Harambee is an interesting word, often heard in government slogans and politicians' speeches. It means 'pull together', and dates from colonial times when people would be trying to pull an oxcart or a Model-T Ford out of axle-deep mud. "Harambee! Harambee!" A fair analogy for the challenge Kenya has faced- and largely met- in post-independence modernization and prosperity.

We drove through a mile or two of savanna, dotted with a few herds of gazelles and Impalas, then passed into the shade of the thick forest which surrounded the lake. Hassan parked the van near the shore, and we got out to walk down to the water's edge. Selena was just amazed by the flamingoes, and it was far greater in scale than the pink multitudes I had seen in the Ngorongoro Crater. There were also a great number of Waterbuck grazing in the coarse grass to either side of us, unbothered by our presence, but always keeping a hundred yards or so between them and us.

Once we were out in the open sunlight it became very hot, and Jackie soon turned back to wait in the cool shade. The Equatorial sun, right at its zenith, blazed down and radiated back up from the dried-soda shoreline, and the heat mirages were as thick as waterfalls. After a few minutes of watching the birds through our binoculars, Selena and I turned back to the shade of the trees as well, where we sat with Jackie on a bench and waited for the Thomsons. They were not far behind, lingering to try to identify a small hawk which was swooping around nearby.

Though we did indeed visit Lake Nakuru, it was nothing like enough time to fully appreciate the scope of this spectacle, it would have been better to have spent a day, to be there at sunrise and sunset to really enjoy it.

We drove down to the other end of the lake to the lodge, where we once more attended a buffet lunch. The setting was beautiful, on a gentle hill looking down the length of blue Lake Nakuru and out to the green hills beyond. But unfortunately there were rows and rows of tourist buses outside, and when we got inside we found that the dining room was crowded and noisy, and the lineups for food were very long. It had all the atmosphere of a school cafeteria. I couldn't help but contrast it to my Tanzanian trip, our little group having a friendly meal around the campfire in the idyllic surroundings of the Serengeti or Lake Manyara. The food might have been better here, but it tasted better there!

We spent a few minutes outside after lunch, the sun very hot and Selena admiring the swimming pool and trying to figure a way to "accidentally" fall in, and get to go swimming. A flock of the large and grotesque Marabou Storks perched in a nearby tree, and we admired the beautiful starlings, iridescent blue, green and red, so different from the dowdy and pestilent English Starlings which were so thoughtlessly introduced into Canada, and which have bullied out so many of our native wrens and bluebirds. (And we could have done without the English Sparrows too.)

On the road once again, we made a stop at a petrol station in the town of Nakuru, filling up with fuel and waiting while the other van had a flat tire repaired. Predictably, this seemed to take an inordinate amount of time, and it was hot and unpleasant waiting there in the van, with nowhere else to go. One of the ladies in the other group was feeling unwell, perhaps a combination of the heat and motion-sickness, and Gordon and June went over to see if they could help. A drink of water and the brief rest seemed to be what she needed, and once the tire was repaired and the drivers had finished an obscure argument with the attendants, we were finally away.

We headed north along a well-paved secondary road, on our way to another of the Rift Valley lakes, Lake Baringo, where we would be spending the next two nights. This was a less-populated area, consisting mostly of larger farms, grazing land and sisal growing. It had been a long tiring day already, and Selena soon fell asleep on the van seat, all the traveling, the time changes, and the early mornings and late nights catching up with her.

As we passed a small pond at the side of the road, Hassan slowed down to look, then pulled over and reversed along the shoulder to pull up beside it. He pointed out a crocodile sunning himself beside the pond, while on the other side of the water a herd of goats drank without concern, watched closely by their young guardian and his tall wooden staff. Nearer to us was an old man, dressed in a thin robe, who waved and smiled to us with genuine warmth.

It was late afternoon when we finally arrived at the Lake Baringo Club, once again a low, modern and attractive hotel set among beautiful tropical foliage and gardens. We were now forty-seven miles north of the Equator, and during the day we had gradually descended to a much lower altitude, so it was quite a lot warmer and more humid here. In fact the rooms were equipped with mosquito nets, the first time I'd seen them here, and this gave them a real Somerset Maugham atmosphere.

Lake Baringo is another spot which is famed for its richness of birdlife, and we were scheduled to go on a "birdwalk" with the hotel's resident ornithologist. Jackie and Selena were both too tired, and decided to stay in the room and rest, while I joined a group of about eight people armed with binoculars and cameras. We were led around the grounds of the hotel by a pleasant-spoken Englishwoman, who knew her subject and her environment very well. Almost without looking she would point to where we might see such-and-such a bird, and only then pick up her binoculars to point it out to us. We saw something like twenty-five or thirty different species in the space of an hour, most of which I'd never seen before.

She showed us the resident pair of Jackson's Hornbills, a large and attractive black and white bird with an oversized ivory-tipped red bill. I was fascinated by the curious "confinement period" of the female; when she is incubating the male walls her up in a hole in a tree for weeks at a time, filling the opening with mud and grass and leaving only a small hole through which he can feed her. How medieval!

As we walked along the lakeshore we saw some of the water birds; a Goliath Heron perched on a grounded boat, a kingfisher, stilts, egrets and many kinds of shore birds, and a few ducks flying home in the late afternoon. There were also a great many hippos in the lake, and we could see their bulbous silhouettes breaking the surface farther out. I knew we were taking a boat ride in the morning, so we'd get to visit them closer up.

I learned that the Mourning Dove is named not only for its dolorous boo-hoo call, but also for its red-rimmed eyes. And I learned that curious fact I mentioned earlier about the weaver birds building five or six elaborate nests for each one they will actually inhabit. She showed us a Spotted Eagle Owl napping regally in the high shadows of a tree, and a tiny Spotted Warbler trying to feed its "adopted child"- a Red-chested Cuckoo chick which was already twice as big as its "surrogate mother". As you may know, cuckoos- this one more romantically known as the Rainbird- are among the species who lay their eggs in the nests of other birds, thus escaping the drudgery of catering to the prodigious appetites of their young!

And the Hamerkop -"hammerhead"- perhaps the most interesting of all, if not the most attractive. It is a rather squat little brown bird, like a small heron, with a short neck supporting an ice-axe shaped head. It is called "The Lightning Bird" and the "King of Birds" by Africans, and is considered to be a bird of mystical powers, and it is unlucky to kill one. In the fork of a tree overhanging the water they build incredibly huge nests, four feet in diameter, which take a pair of them three months to build, and then are only used for one season. It is this palatial taste in residences which has given them the "King of Birds" title. The less romantic might call them the "Mad King Ludwig" of the bird world.

And on and on- tedious I'm sure to one who is not a "Born Again Birdwatcher" as I am. Ironically too, this was one thing which June and I shared in common (there had to be something!), and it was the one topic on which we could converse amicably.

I thoroughly enjoyed myself on the walk, searching eagerly with my binoculars for the different birds which our guide pointed out, and listing them on my little tape recorder. Another lady on the walk thought this was a marvelous idea, rather than trying to write notes as you watch and walk, and she thought she'd start doing that as well. I lost a few more points with June though, when once I happened to walk in the way of her binoculars, and she made some comment about "Well, there's a nice view of your back."

Sigh- "Sorry, June!"

When I got back to our room I found Jackie and Selena just out of the shower, all clean and revived, and I followed their example and washed away the dust and sweat of travel. As the sun was getting low over the lake we walked along the pathway to the main part of the building, the shadows long across the manicured lawns.

There was an open-walled bar facing the lake, and we went there for a drink before dinner, enjoying the soft light and peace of the evening. The silence was broken only by natural sounds, people talking and birds singing, and the three of us talked together about how much we had enjoyed Treetops.

After dinner we walked back in the darkness, advised by signs to stay on the lighted paths, as the wildlife was wild! I don't think there were crocodiles around there, but there were certainly a lot of hippos, and they were known to walk right up onto the hotel lawn at night.

There was no breeze at all, and inside our room it was stuffy and very warm. The mosquito nets hung from a circular frame on the ceiling, stretching down to form a diaphanous tent over each bed. Selena thought this was a wonderful thing; once again we were in the same room, but now we had our own little tents too. She had Harpo the seal and Simba the lion in there with her, Mom and Dad just a few feet away, and everything was wonderful. She made us laugh with her imitations of the Thomsons; she too had picked up the "y-e-s, y-e-s", and could deliver it with exactly the right dry inflection. She had June down too: "y-e-s, y-e-s, I've adopted a duck", which she thought was the funniest thing imaginable.

"It seems like she cares more about animals than people", said ‘Daddy's little girl', and I laughed at her precocious insight. Jackie talked about this strange notion of 'charity' too, and told Selena: "Well dear, there's a great example for you of someone who thinks they are the most charitable person in the world, but they haven't got an ounce of real charity in them". And she turned to me: "it's just like my grandmother in Scotland; she's always in the newspapers for helping the Boy Scouts or something like that, but she wouldn't give her own family so much as a kind word."

Kutoa ni moyo usambe ni utajiri.
Charity is a matter of the heart and not of the pocket.
(Swahili Saying)

25- hippo on the lawn

It was pleasant to wake up with no urgency to go anywhere, as we would be spending another day here at Lake Baringo. The girls were especially pleased not to have me- the tyrannical ogre- waking them up and urging them to get packed and ready. We could all relax, though I must admit, I would rather have been moving on to somewhere new. There is a difference in the way Jackie and I see traveling, and I have a theory, (which, by the way, she doesn't support), that I most like to travel through places; it is the act of moving over a new country, whether by car, bicycle or boat, that excites me; while she likes to travel to places, to be there, the actual traveling only a necessary price of getting to the destination. A nice theory, but like I said, she doesn't think so!

After breakfast we walked down to the dock, a rickety wooden structure among the thick reeds and grasses on the shore of the lake. It had rained during the night, a soft drumming on the roof of our room, but now it was a beautiful clear morning, the sun hot and bright in a washed blue sky. Out across the expanse of calm greenish water lay a series of rounded islands, the largest being "Teddy Bear Island", which doubtless had another name, but undeniably resembled a Pooh bear lying on his back.

Together with the Thomsons and the other two English couples we boarded a narrow, flat-bottomed boat, the three of us sitting in the bow, and the others further aft beneath a white plywood canopy. A narrow channel had been cut through the expanse of thick reeds, the water very shallow here, and we were poled out until it was deep enough to put down the outboard motor.

We ran along parallel to the acacia woodlands of the shore for a while, our knowledgeable and well-spoken young guide pointing out the water birds- herons, stilts, ducks, storks and kingfishers- which we passed. We circled a few groups of hippos, cool and secretive beneath the water. By mid-morning it was already very warm at this lower altitude, something closer to true Equatorial heat, though still not the swelter you would experience in the tangled lowlands of the coast. But it was pleasant to be out on the lake as we headed across the open water toward the islands, then motored slowly along their shores. One island, called Gibraltar, boasts the largest nesting colony of the beautiful Goliath Herons in all East Africa, and the majestic Fish Eagles were very plentiful as well, a constant source of delight as they hunted low across the water, or perched near their large nests.

The island called Ol Kokwa (Teddy Bear?) had an exclusive resort on its far shore, a secluded series of large square tents under permanent shelters, and a larger main building with docks for the motor launches which would take you there. This looked as if it would be an idyllic spot to hide in for a while, and one guide book mentioned that people enjoyed waterskiing on the lake, "in spite of the crocodiles and hippos". Now that would be an unexpected hazard to your watersports.

We went ashore at one of the islands to see the hot springs, which were steaming volcanic vents from which emerged tiny streams of sulfurous water. As our guide pulled the boat onto the gravelly beach, he pointed out a Greater Flamingo, a larger and paler relative of the pink hordes at Lake Nakuru. He was apparently the only one of his species resident here at Baringo, an avian misfit. Another pair of fish Eagles circled above us, and plovers and other shore birds were everywhere.

Here on the land, among the tumbled rocks baking in the sun, you could truly feel the relentless heat of the day. It was strange to me that if June had been protecting herself from the sun that first day by wearing long clothing and even the incongruous leather gloves, today she was wearing shorts and a sleeveless top, with no apparent protection against the broiling sun. Yet another thing about her I would never understand!

And what would a day be without another awkward clash with June! I was sitting in the bow thwart, opposite Jackie and Selena, with the Thomsons behind them. On our way back across the lake, Selena and I were monkeying around, as is our wont, and I took hold of her hand and plunged it into the water. She laughed "Dad!", and I saw June reel back as the water splashed up, but I thought no more about it- it's only water!- and turned back to face forward.

Later Jackie told me that June had given me "the look of death", and had been rubbing at her eye for a few minutes, apparently having sensitive contact lenses or something. And as we were coming into shore, she innocently asked the guide if there were cases of people going blind from the lake water, and he replied that yes, people sometimes caught infections from the water which left them blind. This was an allusion which at first I didn't catch, but of course she was hinting that I may well have blinded her with my "boorishness".

When we reached the dock, and Jackie took me aside and told me about the contact lenses, naturally I felt very badly, Jackie saying that by now June must refer to me as "that Canadian boor". When I went back to tip the guide I asked him what this blindness business meant exactly, and he told me that it was simply a bacteriological infection which, like any other infection, if neglected would destroy the tissues surrounding it.

Well, that didn't sound quite so terrible as June had hinted, but I was careful to apologize to her for my "childish prank", and hoped that her eye was alright. Without mentioning the melodrama of the possibility of blindness, she was gracious enough to say that it was just her contact lenses, and she'd be fine. But there was certainly a lot of "negative karma" between the two of us- we must have been bitter enemies in a former life or something!

On our way across the lawn to the lodge, we met up with one of the other residents of the hotel- a gigantic Leopard Tortoise, his mottled brown shell a good four feet across and maybe three feet high. He was big enough, and docile enough, that Selena could ride on his back, though this was not a particularly thrilling trip, given his, well, "turtlish" pace. They had an area with a low wall around it at the front of the hotel, in which lived several smaller tortoises, and I'd learned that their only enemy is the Ground Hornbill, a large turkey-sized bird. Its method of feeding on them was particularly horrible; they will flip a smaller tortoise over on its back, then stick their long bills into the shell to devour the tortoise alive. Sometimes I think even Man has a long way to go to match the cruelty of Nature!

After lunch, we decided to forgo the visit to "a local Njemps village", having been surfeited with "authentic tribal culture" at the Bomas of Kenya, and we passed a relaxing afternoon at Selena's favorite of all possible cultural attractions- the swimming pool. Set amid the lawns and gardens of the lodge, it was surrounded by a cool arbor of vines and vibrant flowers, lounge chairs in their shade, and it was a beautiful spot in which to "rough it" for a while. You could lay back and look up into the cool shadows of the tangled leaves and vines, and watch the iridescent birds flit among the bright pink, red and orange flowers. I pointed out one of the loveliest of little birds, fittingly named the "Beautiful Sunbird", metallic green plumage with a breast of red and gold, as it darted from flower to flower, with its long curved bill perfectly designed to feed on the nectar.

With these days of peaceful inactivity, my energy was rapidly returning, and I was persuaded occasionally to join the piscine Selena frolicking in the water. We played a riotous game of "acrobats in the circus", me extemporizing a loud song along those lines, as she stood on my shoulders and I tossed her into the air to land screaming in the water.

While I rested from these exertions in the cool shade, laying back on a comfortable chair to read in the Field Guide to the Birds of East Africa, Selena proceeded to decorate me with tropical flowers, and the edges of my bathing suit and a line along my chest was soon bordered with pink blossoms. As she stood back to admire her handiwork, I looked up from the book as she and her mother both laughed to see my flowery raiment. The things you have to put up with to entertain women!

And so passed the most peaceful and relaxing day we'd had on our "family safari". Late in the afternoon we went back to the room to shower and change, and I took Jackie and Selena around the same circuit as I had followed on the birdwalk yesterday. We stood in the area in front of the lodge, where there was a tall tree which was home to the "undertaker birds", the macabre-looking Marabou Storks. The late afternoon silence was broken by the sound of their wings as they flapped in to perch there, and by the characteristic hollow clicking sound they make with their bills. Both off the girls found these ugly, dignified birds very "gross", but were nevertheless fascinated by their size, and indeed, by their "grossness".

I showed them a "Go-Away-Bird", a pretty, crested grey and white individual who is so-named because of his song, though both Selena and Jackie denied that it sounded anything like "go away". Well, somebody must have thought so!

It took me a long time to find the Spotted Eagle Owl again. This was one I thought Selena would especially enjoy seeing, but he wasn't resting in the same place as yesterday, and as I determinedly glassed the trees near the far end of the lodge, the girls lost interest and wandered away. One of the employees came by, and seeing my fruitless search, asked what I was looking for, and when I told him, he was able to find the owl for me in about thirty seconds, and I called the girls over to have a look. After all that, they were at least a little impressed.

At the end of our birdwalk, we arrived at the open-sided terrace, just in time for a drink before dinner. As good as a strong drink can taste at the end of a long hard day, it's somehow even nicer when you're already relaxed, and it's just the capper on your contentedness. We sat together around one of the low tables, watching the shadows grow rapidly longer on the tree-shaded lawns.

As darkness made its swift downfall, we watched a slide show which was presented there on the terrace, a tour of the local birdlife narrated by the same woman who had led the birdwalk yesterday evening. I have mentioned that I am an avid lover of televised nature programs, but how wonderful to sit back and watch one about the place where you are, and showing the same wildlife you have so lately been looking at firsthand!

We enjoyed a nice dinner once more, and afterward Jackie and I thought it would be nice to return to the terrace for an after-dinner cognac. As we sat there one of the night-watchmen walked up to the railing, and spoke to a couple of men who were sitting nearby. One of them said something to the other, and we only caught the word "hippo", when they both got up and followed the watchman into the darkness toward the lake. Curious, we followed behind, and came upon the amazing sight of the watchman shining his powerful flashlight across the vast bulk of a Hippopotamus, which was strolling calmly across the lawn! We stood quietly a respectful distance away, and excitedly watched it moving ponderously along. Finally I see one out of the water- a whole hippo!

More people began to gather, and unfortunately some of them were a little loud in their appreciation, though Jackie gave them a "sshh", and their voices and laughter chased the visitor away, moving out of the light and back toward the peace and safety of the lake.

And we returned to the peace and safety of our room, undressing and climbing once more under the mosquito-net tents in the close warmth of the night. Tomorrow we would be on the move again, a long journey to the Masai Mara game reserve, and we were all excited about going to the "big game" country. It had been an enjoyable, unhurried day, and I felt relaxed and contented as we talked softly to each other from our white-veiled beds, and then read quietly in our books. When I looked over and saw them both asleep, their books fallen to the pillows beside them, I reached over and turned off the overhead light.

I lay awake in the darkness for a while, hands behind my head on the pillow. I could hear their slow breathing in the rhythms of sleep, and I drifted into one of those all-too-rare times of being truly at peace with the world. There was an unspoken welling-up of love for wife and daughter, and a silent joy at the good fortune of my life, with the wordless satisfaction of knowing that the joy, and fortune, have been well-earned.

Meetai oidipa oitumurrua ake otii.
It is impossible to find a man who has everything,
but it is possible to find one who enjoys the things he has.
(Maasai Wisdom)

26- to cottar's camp

Now we were driving back south again, leaving in the early morning with the two vans in convoy once more. It had rained again during the night, Hassan telling us that the room he'd been given had a metal roof, and the pounding of the rain was so loud on it that it kept him awake all the time. In truth, that seemed a little unlikely, as it couldn't have rained for more than an hour, besides which I had seen him and the other driver near the bar yesterday, looking a little "illuminated", so it may have been something other than the rain which had kept him up so late.

But now the sun was bright in a clear sky, the day warm already, and we were retracing our route down through Nakuru to meet the main road, then on to Lake Naivasha, where we would stop for lunch. The view out the window was ever-changing and beautiful; spacious farmlands and open country, then climbing to majestic panoramas as the road circled high above a green valley or one of the blue, blue lakes.

June was talking about her bird watching club at home, and asking if there were any good birdwatching clubs in Toronto. Naturally enough, we had no idea whether there were or not, which seemed to strike her as slightly scandalous, as if you could possibly do something without a club. And then of course she had to put in a dig about "people who go birdwatching just to keep a list of what they see"; a reference to my tape-recorded log I suppose.

And when I'd told her that my interest in birds was but newly-reawakened, she asked: "Well, why did you take this trip then?", as if I had no business being here if I wasn't "in the club", and I told her honestly that I'd chosen it mainly for Treetops and the Maasai Mara, rather than the Rift Valley lakes and the birdlife. "Oh", she said with elevated chin, "for the animals." As if that were some deviant interest.

June, June.

By now we knew a lot about her and her family, particularly Jackie, who had become a kind of confidante, at least when I wasn't around. In fact, Jackie knew all about her various illnesses, and how her doctor had told her she shouldn't make this trip because of her heart- things her husband didn't even know! Other things became clear less-directly, but by unmistakable inflection. There was no doubt that June had no use for her "number two daughter-in-law", who was "such a gypsy, you know", and "so different" from her dear boy, who was so neat and tidy, and she didn't cook or clean very well either.

But even Jackie ran afoul of her here, siding with this unknown girl and saying with a laugh; "Well, I guess those things weren't too important to him- he probably didn't marry her because she could cook and clean!", which brought that withering look from June. (With the neck brace on, she could be even more withering than usual, somehow.)

And I saw Jackie have to bite her own tongue too, when June went on about how well Selena was behaving with all the traveling, and, illogically; "it's so hard on children"; and then about her two boys, and how she'd never thought it was fair to make the boys travel with them, they'd always left them at home. And how the boys had of course gone to public school (private school, in English terms), and she would never have taken them out of school without the Headmaster's permission. I could see Jackie's eyes flashing at all this, you could never tell if June was being insulting on purpose, or simply thoughtless and arrogant with what she was saying. Like my unfortunate comment about doctors that first day; I hadn't stopped to consider before I "mouthed off" that I might offend or insult these people. I probably tend to do that too often. "God", I thought, "what if June and are so repelled by each other because we're alike?" Scary thought.

I reflected more than once on this "stay in antipathy"; it had happened so quickly and completely. How the way we thought, felt and lived were so totally and immediately at odds. It's certainly true that "no one can make you feel inferior without your consent", but I knew that while I might shake my head in disbelief at her whole world-view, her opinion of me was hardly glowing, and it was evident that she thought me boorish, uncouth, insensitive, uncultured, ill-bred, irresponsible, impertinent, colonial, middle-class- etcetera, etcetera.

It was comforting to think of the other people I'd met on this trip, Simon and Greg for example, with whom I'd forged immediate and lasting friendships. Our encounters had been equally brief, but at least we lived in the same world, and could find valuable qualities in each other that were worth sharing in a profound way. With plenty of time to talk in our travels, and an empathetic listener for each of us, we'd learned more about each other than probably most of our own friends knew. But in these terms June and I really knew nothing about each other, and we probably never could.

It's rather like the letters I sometimes get from total strangers, not the ones calling me a hero, but the ones calling me a nasty person and a totally worthless individual- a cad, bounder, rogue, blackguard, fraud, four-fflusher, charlatan, sidewinder. . . (of their less-modern and literate equivalents!). It's hard to accept that someone who doesn't even know you thinks that way about you.

Asiyekujua hakuthamini.
He who does not know you, does not value you.
(Swahili Saying)

Gordon was cheerfully quiet most of the time as usual, only occasionally assenting to something June said with his characteristic "y-e-s, y-e-s", and more occasionally uttering a little witticism in his low, warm voice, and we would all laugh appreciatively. With all of his reserve and self-contained mien, there was a boyish charm about him that would sometimes emerge in a mildly self-deprecating comment, or a dry bit of humor about some commonplace thing. And "boyish" is the word; getting back to my child-in-the-grownup theory, you could easily picture Gordon as an owlish, solemn schoolboy, with a quiet good nature and amiability then as now. When I applied that theorem to June, I could sort of picture her as a little girl, but only as a stern, bossy, acid-tongued feline. She was even too insulated in layers of repression and conventionality to earn that somehow more respectful label of "female dog" euphemism which I sometimes level at Selena, to her delight. I'd thought myself so clever when I once told her to "stop acting like a female dog", but she'd known right away what I meant and what I meant!

Of course, I'd already visited Lake Naivasha on my earlier ill-fated Kenya safari, and as we approached it I recognized the town where Toose had taken me to find the taxi, and the little road which led along the south side of the lake, past the well-watered orchards and fields. We stopped at a different lodge this time, on the other side of Crescent Island (peninsula) from the Safariland Lodge. (Sounds like a theme park, doesn't it? But this was an equally beautiful spot, an attractive building set on wide, well-trimmed lawns under spreading shade trees, chairs and tables on the grass, and a path leading down to the lakeshore.

Selena wanted to investigate the amenities- the swimming pool- right away, and when she saw their large rectangular pool with the high diving boards, understandably inviting on this hot, humid morning, she began to argue and bargain for a way to get in it. But we had to disappoint her today, there wasn't time to go swimming, (No, not even with; "Oh, look at that pool- come on, please!- just for a minute- I'll be quiet and good all day if you only let me." Not even with: "you're always so mean to me, I never get to do anything! . . ."

After a cold drink on the lawn, we walked down to the water's edge and stood looking out across the lake. We were in a small bay here, and the land, water and air were alive with life. There was such a variety of habitats in this small area that there was a prehistoric air to the great diversity and quantity of birdlife. Even in our immediate area, there was a combination of different shorelines; reeds, grass, tall feathery papyrus, mudflats, and a swampy area to one side which was punctuated with tall dead trees, drowned in the constant rise and fall of the water level. These were home to the larger birds, with several big Fish Eagle nests in their high, bare branches, and all around there were herons, ducks, egrets, plovers, pelicans, cormorants, ibises; and several pairs of the monarchs of all; the lordly Fish Eagles. There were so many birds in the air, in the water, standing in the shallows, and striding along the shore, that it was like a Garden of Eden. Adding to this fanciful simile, there were dozens of hippos farther out in this shallow part of the lake, dark round bumps protruding from the water, and visible everywhere you turned the binoculars.

Lunch was another sumptuous buffet, a great and colorful variety of food to choose from, and I laughed inwardly to see a tourist filming this spread and his family's table with a video camera. Won't his friends and neighbors just be thrilled to see all this on home video- "Our African Trip"- when he gets home! Coffee was to be served out on the lawn, and as I walked out of the dining room I saw the waiters setting up a table under the trees, with cups and pots of tea and coffee. Just then it began to rain, starting gently but steadily growing more insistent, until the waiters were carrying the table back onto the veranda, and we were standing there watching the heavy rain showering down on the lawn, with the thick green trees giving a dark background to the shifting curtains of water. This was the first rainstorm I'd actually seen in Africa, apart from the very few I'd only heard in the night, and I reveled in it. I love a storm. As in so many things, I'm an extremist about weather; I like days that are either tropically hot or Arctically cold, or else violent storms, thunder and lightning lashing the sky, or a white blizzard in a raging wind. I dislike merely cloudy days, and couldn't bear to live in a climate that was always temperate, or drizzly and grey. Give me a perfect day- or give me a show!

As the rain shower tapered off, we returned to the van to find Hassan asleep, but he woke up immediately, though the other driver remained in dreamland. We all laughed as the other four people tried in vain to wake him up, walking around the van going "hello!", "hello". (I suppose the rain had kept him up late as well.) Finally Hassan went over and pounded hard on the door beside the sleeping driver, waking him up with a violent start, and Hassan came back to us with a smile on his face amid everyone's laughter.

It was a long, long afternoon. The roads in Kenya are numbered after the British system; "A" numbers for main roads, then "B" numbers for the secondary routes. Thus we drove along the A 104 for a while, the main route south to Nairobi; then turned west onto the B 3. When you're accustomed to British roads, it's odd to see this legacy of Empire in places as diverse as Kenya, Hongkong, or a Caribbean island. The road markings, the signs, even the driving on the left, these things were all left behind when the Brits were finished bringing Civilization, Commerce and Religion to the unenlightened- and perhaps happier!- regions of the globe.

This was still a well-paved two-lane road, which took us down a steep escarpment and out into a dry, flat country. Grazing land alternated with open grasslands, and herds of carte alternated with free-ranging giraffes, gazelles and zebras. There were steep wooded hills to the north, but to the south was an unbroken plain, the arid brown and gold world of acacia and savanna, with only a rare low prominence to interrupt the linear horizon.

There was a brief stop at souvenir stand- the usual stuff- which stood at the side of the road in the middle of nothing. "Long-drop" outhouses were provided for the weary traveler, which was as thrilling to Jackie and Selena as their first experience with a publica washroom in Hongkong had been- an open room with a trench running along one side. That was one time when Selena found that she could wait! These facilities were at least bearable, if still "gross".

The paved road ended at Narok, a small dry town in which we stopped briefly for fuel. The gas station was large and modern, no doubt prosperous from all the safari traffic on this route, and as we had often seen before, it was also the hangout or meeting ground for any idle locals, a place to gather and do nothing together. There was another cluster of small kiosks selling souvenirs, and the more aggressive merchants came right up to the windows of the van, urging us to come inside, and actually trying to open the door when we said no, we weren't interested. Like everything else, the buying of fuel is a lengthy and complicated ritual in East Africa. It was hot and unpleasant here, and the importunities of the hawkers soon became tiresome. So we were glad when we were finally driving out of town again.

We crossed a flimsy makeshift bridge over a wide riverbed, though in this dry season it was little more than a stream, and we could drive right on the sandy bottom. Beside and above us a proper bridge was under construction, high enough and strong enough to withstand the long rains, when the river would run high.

There were still seventy-three kilometres- forty-odd miles- to go, and the road grew worse with each passing mile. The tires pounded over rough stones, we bounced and lurched over deep potholes, or went over on a tense angle, sinking into the soft surface, and the van was often slewing from side to side in the deep dust. Hassan's driving skill came heavily into play, as this is the kind of driving that requires concentration, control, and gentle corrections to the steering wheel. It also requires the trust and steady nerves of the passengers.

It wasn't really a proper road, I don't think it had never been laid out, built, or graded, but was simply worn down by the many vehicles crossing this dry and thorny savanna. Thus it was in the nature of the game trails which criss-crossed the grasslands, worn by habit and usage, and more like a track than a road. Sometimes it had become so bad that drivers had pioneered new routes off to the side, and we would be bouncing through the thorn bushes on a violent, sliding crescent back to the main track. Selena loved this "off-road driving", and cheered every time she saw Hassan taking one of these unofficial detours into the bush.

I have to imagine that these tinny little vans must get pounded to pieces in no time, and somewhere in Kenya there must be a huge field just packed with the hulks of exhausted Japanese minibuses, abused to terminal fatigue by the safari companies. In the early days of motoring in Kenya, when the roads could not have been much different than this one, the cars were made of sterner stuff- Model-Ts and Chevrolets designed when sturdiness was "cost-effective", and they were infinitely repairable with a little imagination and some baling wire. I suppose the Land Rover is the modern equivalent, even more well-suited to the conditions here by its four-wheel-drive, and that, or the upscale Range Rover, would seem to be the vehicle of choice here for the "enthusiast".

The two drivers had been conducting a bit of a race over this treacherous road, looking for long straight stretches and an opportunity to go racing past the other one in a cloud of dust and flying stones. It was a "gentleman's race", and they never took it too far, so it remained amusing without becoming life-threatening. At one point we caught up to the other van stopped at the side of the road, and we pulled up behind them to see what the problem was. It was another flat tire, the third or fourth in as many days, and the two drivers went to work on it while we got out to stretch our legs.

Dry-baked soil, dusty and reddish, waist-high brown thorn bushes, tumbled grey stones powdered with the dust of passing vehicles. A dry river bed, barren and sandy between banks of rounded stones, was left to wait for the twice-yearly rains. A fat and far-off brown horizon of thorns, hazy dark hills snaking away in the distance. A bleak and forbidding place.

But not too bleak and forbidding for human life- a pair of Maasai herdsman walked out of the bush just up the road behind us. The outer part of the Maasai Mara is reserved as land for these ancestral nomads, and they have been able to continue their traditional way of life without interference- if not without observation! I was thinking about how Africa has benefited by being colonized so much later than North America. Where people started coming to live in America as early as the sixteenth century, Africa was not really colonized- except by missionaries, slavers, and ivory hunters- until the nineteenth century. While not emerging from the colonial period unscathed by any means, Africa was at least spared the centuries of greed and rabbit-like proliferation of Europeans over their lands, and when the world emerged from those harsh and brutal times (as opposed to these harsh and brutal times), there was still time to turn back the white man's clock a little bit, and keep the old ways alive. The North American Indians, tragically, had neither that choice nor that opportunity.

Mũthũngũ ndarï nyagïtũgi.
The European has no trustworthy man.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

The two young Maasai strode down the road toward us, long-legged and gracefully masters of their environment. They came right up to the van, their slender limbs and narrow hips covered in loose reddish-brown robes, and their spears held proudly beside them. They seemed to speak no English, and we- alas!- spoke no Maasai, but we smiled and tried to speak with them anyway, while they were content just to look at us- our clothes, our wristwatches, jewelry and cameras.

When the tire was fixed and we were ready to go again, we waved goodbye to them and drove off. I looked out through the back window to see the two slim figures standing there, alone once more in a wide and empty world- their world. I watched them standing in that place, motionless, until the dust of the road obscured them in the late afternoon light, and I could see them no longer.

Jackie had been impressed with the Samburu dancers at the Bomas of Kenya, tall, well-built and handsome with their elaborate red braids, and since the Samburu tribe were an offshoot of the Maasai people, it follows that the Maasai are equally handsome and well-formed. Selena and I began a running joke about Jackie and her "Maasai lovers".

Elspeth Huxley wrote of the "Maasai worship" which afflicted some of the early settlers, including the legendary Lord Delamere, Europeans who admired the Maasai pride and nobility without bounds, and would learn their language and even try to live among them. It probably wouldn't have hurt to have had more pioneers like that traveling around the world.

The Maasai warriors were fierce and much-feared wherever they ventured, most of their campaigns for the purpose of stealing the most valuable of possessions- cattle. (Even stealing women was less important than cattle!) It was the British who put a stop to their warring activities- by outlawing fighting and enforcing it with their guns! This interrupted their traditional enmity with the Kikuyu people, as well as the internecine struggles among themselves, and also took away one of their important rites of manhood- the "blooding of the spear". Unfair perhaps- but one case of interference that could be said to be for the better!

The sun was on the horizon, and shadows were lengthening in the bush as we continued to bounce and slide along the road. We came to a large stone with "Cottar's Camp" "painted on it with an arrow, and turned off to follow a pair of ruts across the plain. The track split into two, with another painted stone showing two arrows, indicating "Dry Weather" in one direction, and "Wet Weather" in the other. We followed the Dry Weather track, darkness descending with finality by the time we’d gone a mile, and we were bouncing and pounding over this even rougher route in the darkness. The headlights would pick out deep black-shadowed ruts across the road, a warning to brace yourself, and we could see the large stones we would pitch over a moment later. Finally we stopped in a clearing, suddenly in an oasis of greenery, with tall leafy trees over our heads. This would be Cottar's Camp, though there was nothing of it to be seen but one lonely light, and we had no idea what to expect here, considering where we were. (If we only knew where we were!)

We were led through a tunnel of dark foliage, a dim light at the end of a narrow path. Walking through a low doorway, we found ourselves under the roof of a large open pavilion. It was rough-hewn and rustic, but soft lighting and the natural texture of wood and thatch gave it a warm atmosphere. There was a bar to the right and a dining room to the left, and we looked out to a wide grassy clearing on the far side of the pavilion. A large open fire burned in a circle of stones in the middle of the clearing, illuminating the fronts of several small tent-shaped huts to either side. We were given our keys, and led to our respective huts by the porters who brought our bags.

They were wonderful little buildings, cozy inside with wood and bamboo, furnished with three single beds and one chair, and the far end of the room was walled off for the bathroom and shower. We were miles from anywhere, in one of a small circle of huts sheltered around a fire, an island of safety in the middle of dangerous and almost uninhabited bush country. So the sense of adventure remained, entirely untarnished by the presence of an unheard generator and discreet plumbing.

We cleaned ourselves up and went back to the bar, lingering for a moment by the fire in the chilly evening. A few other people were sitting in canvas chairs there, or on the stools by the bar, but it would not be too crowded here, as there were only thirty huts at Cottar's Camp.

There were a dozen or so large round tables on the dining side of the pavilion, and we saw that we had all been seated as a group; ourselves, the Thomsons, and the other two English couples. We colonials were certainly outnumbered here. Dinner was very fine, well-prepared and with a miraculous variety of different things, again considering where we were. One of the Englishmen from the other van was a native of Cornwall, with the cheerful and chatty good humor of a certain breed of Cornishman, so he kept the small talk around the table amusing as he recounted the wild drive across the plains with laughing exaggerations and eloquent gestures.

Jackie and Selena and I rose from the table after dinner, and had a look at the pictures hung around the walls. There were plenty of photographs of the local wildlife, especially lions, and there was a blackboard with a list of the animals that had been seen on the "night drive" the previous evening. This was something special here, driving around in Land Rovers with powerful spotlights to see the nocturnal game, and that sounded exciting. In fact we had been scheduled to go on one tonight, but there was another group who had only the one night here, and we were asked on their behalf if we would mind going the next night instead. After today's drive, no one minded.

We also read the story of the three generations of the Cottar family who have made their home in Africa. I believe the family was originally American, and the grandfather had come out in the early years of the century as a "White Hunter", guiding those expedition-sized hunting safaris in the days when it was the lifestyle of the really rich and famous; the likes of Theodore Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, The Prince of Wales and Ernest Hemingway. As times changed, the family eventually adapted to the modern world of photographic safaris and comfort-loving travelers, settling down in this spring-fed oasis to show people their Africa in this excellent way.

We walked out from under the pavilion, out under the open sky, and we all paused to look up at the stars. I pointed out my newly-learned knowledge of the Southern Cross to my unimpressed family, then we walked over and sat down on the chairs and stools which circled the fire. Everyone was very tired from the long and rough journey, and after a few minutes by the warm flames, we retired to our hut. Some of the other huts were further away from the fire, behind a dark wall of trees, and these people had local "bodyguards", armed with bows and spears, on hand to escort them to their huts. To Jackie's disappointment, we had no Maasai bodyguard, as we lived within sight of the fire.

We had to get up at five o'clock in the morning the next day, so it would be good to have an early night. I set my little alarm clock for a quarter to five, and warned Jackie and Selena that I would be waking them up while it was still dark outside, and not to get angry at me. They merely laughed and said "huh"- as if to say I could talk all I wanted to, but they'd still do just what they pleased. And when I retreated into a guidebook about the Maasai Mara, to learn something about what we would be seeing tomorrow, Jackie threw a pillow at me and Selena called me "the most boring Dad in the whole world".

Elee, itiapeipeene taa anaa enoki e kitok.
Man, you hang about as a woman's curse.
(Maasai Wisdom)

27- up and away

I suppose I must have been about ten at the time. I was swimming in the chilly waters of Lake Ontario, well out over my head, trying to reach a raft which was anchored a couple of hundred yards offshore. Lots of the kids used to swim out there, and I'd done it once before, though it had been right at the limit of my endurance. I was not a strong swimmer, and shivering added to the exertion. Choppy waves broke in my face, and I choked a couple of times on mouthfuls of water. Finally I made it, and I paddled up to the raft, gasping and with my arms aching.
A bunch of the neighborhood bullies were playing there, wrestling and throwing each other into the water, and they thought it was a joke not to let me on. I swam exhaustedly from side to side of the raft, but they would only taunt me, laugh, and push me away. I gave up and started to swim back to shore, while they lost interest and turned away again, back to their rough play. It was too far. About halfway I ran out of strength, and in a panic realized I was going to drown. I couldn't move my arms and legs anymore, and I felt myself sinking. I suppose I must have called out, as the next thing I knew I was regaining consciousness, lying in the sand at the water's edge. I'd been pulled out by two other kids I went to school with, I think they were Kit Jarvis and Margaret Clare. I owe those two a lot- everything- and I've never forgotten them. I wonder where they are now?

But while I was going down that last time, I actually experienced that old myth: I saw my life pass before my eyes. I was young, and there wasn’t much to replay so it didn't take long, but episodes, still vignettes like a slideshow, flashed in sequence through my mind. I would never have believed in such an occult experience if it hadn't happened to me.
Years later I would find that I bore a deep scar from that episode. When the stresses of adulthood began to weigh me down, I would discover that a similar feeling of being trapped, isolated, helpless would sometimes rise inside, and make me uncomfortably anxious. A cloud of 'unreason' would descend over me. An obvious response was being uncomfortable swimming too far from shore, but the association also sometimes materialized in airplanes, or in other confined spaces where my freedom of movement was restricted.
The sense of being "too far from shore".
This again is an experience seldom understood- and often ridiculed- by those fortunate enough not to have known it.

Hucheka kovu, asiyefikwa na jeraha.
He laughs at a scar who has received no wound.
(Swahili Saying)

I was a little nervous about this balloon trip, but at the same time I refused to miss out on a potentially wonderful experience for the sake of some old anxiety. And so, when the alarm clock went off in the pre-dawn darkness, I awoke with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The girls woke up for me with hardly a murmur this morning, and sleepily began to get ready. While we dressed by the light of a single dim lamp, there was a knock at the door to let us know that our driver was waiting.

As I opened the door to walk out, I saw a strange little animal there on the dark grass. It looked like an ordinary hare, except that it had a very long, bushy tail, which looked so out of place on the rabbit-like body that at first I thought it was just a trick of the light. Just as I whispered to Jackie and Selena to come and see it, it hopped away back into the shadows, and sure enough, the long tail followed behind. It had been an African Spring Hare, a rarely-seen nocturnal animal, and I took it for an omen once again. (For a person who claims not to be superstitious, I was seeing a lot of omens when it suited me!)

After a quick cup of coffee in the dark and deserted pavilion, we were led out to a Land Rover by our overalled and rubber-booted driver, and set off down the bumpy track in the darkness. We sat quietly in the back seat looking out through the windshield, and occasionally the headlights picked out a foraging giraffe, or mesmerized a small herd of antelopes as we twisted and bounced through the darkness.

We turned back onto the main road, in the opposite direction from which we'd come, and soon pulled up to a large and substantial portal which barred the entrance to the Maasai Mara Game Reserve. The driver stopped in front of the wooden barrier, honked his horn a few times, got out and looked around the dark office, but there was no sign of life- so he simply backed up and drove around it.

A little before six o'clock we saw a sprinkling of lights ahead, and the Land Rover pulled up in front of the Sarova Mara Lodge, where we would meet the balloon company. There were a couple of dozen other people milling around inside, most of them a group of older Americans from some medical convention, and we were all led outside to a convoy of vans which would take us to the "launching field". As we left the lodge the darkness was just beginning to be leavened by a shade of pinkish-grey light, and ten minutes later, as we pulled onto an open field, it was light enough to see three empty balloons laid flat across the grass, attached to wicker baskets which lay on their sides, and attended by a ground crew.

The ground crew were all Africans, but the pilots were white, two Americans and one Englishman. The senior of the pilots, a thickset, grey-haired American who seemed to be the leader, called for our attention, and everyone gathered in front of him. It was getting brighter by the minute, but they really had this timed perfectly. We had arrived here exactly at the moment between night and day, and we would go up with the sun. No "African Time" here. The chief pilot gave us a ‘briefing’ about the nature of the flight, and what would happen at takeoff and landing.

While he spoke, huge fans were put into operation, blowing air into the mouths of the balloons, and slowly, slowly, the vast bags began to fill. Once they were about half full, the burners were ignited, and the heated air began to move like a live thing inside them. The ground crew were spread out over the field, holding firmly onto long ropes which were attached to the baskets of the balloons, to control their movements when they began to lift from the ground. We were assigned to our craft, along with seven other people, and went over to stand beside it and wait for the sign.

We were last in line for ascent, and as I watched the first balloon rise slowly into the air I felt a charge of excitement, though tinged a little with anxiety. The idea sounded great, but I didn't know if I was going to like this! I watched it float up and away, a brightly-colored child's toy full of waving dolls against the pale grey sky. The thought occurred to me that it would be easy to change my mind now; stay here and let the girls go up, and meet them at the end. I still had the choice. But I wouldn’t take it.

Then the second one was in the air, and it was our turn. As soon as the inflated balloon had lifted the basket upright, we were to climb aboard as quickly as we could, while the ground crew tried to hold it stable as long as they could. I felt the anxiety flickering at my nerves as I followed Selena and Jackie aboard, my hands and feet feeling remote and lifeless as I planted them in the footholes and hoisted myself into the small basket beside them, and sat down on the narrow bench. I kept my head down and fought the waves of anxiety, sure that I would be alright in a minute. It was all chaos now; the roaring of the burner, the ropes flapping wildly against the sides of the balloon and the basket, and the pilot and ground crew shedding back and forth to each other, until I heard a shouted "okay, let her go!", and felt the basket leave the ground.

Then all was silence. The pilot told everyone they could stand up now, and heard murmurs of excitement as people stood up and looked out around them. But I knew I wasn’t ready for that yet. I peeked out once through a foothole in the side of the basket, and saw the grey-green grass now a hundred feet below us, but I had that "too far from shore" feeling, and I hoped I wasn’t going to have to cause a scene by insisting that he take me back to solid ground. So I just sat there with my head down, my fists between my knees, and hoped it would pass. A concerned Jackie, knowing what I was going through, asked me if I was alright, and I just nodded.

All of this happened in the space of about two minutes, though it seemed an eternity to me, and when I finally began to calm down and open my eyes, though still sitting down, Jackie told me about Selena: "She's upset and worried about you". I looked over at Selena and put my hand on her shoulder, but she was looking away with tears in her eyes, not understanding what was the matter with me. This melted my heart, and with it the last of my anxiety, knowing that I'd upset her and that she'd been so worried about me. I told her I was alright now, and I was too, standing up and looking around eagerly, comfortable now and enjoying the experience, as l knew I would. In spite of this curse, I have never ceased to enjoy the sensation of flying, and love to look down on the world from high places.

We floated over a world of green and gold, following the line of a river which was lined with darker trees. The pilots were in contact with each other by walkie-talkies, and the lead balloon would radio back the direction of anything they spotted. That, the occasional soft roar of the burners, and quiet comments and camera clicks were really the only sounds. The Maasai Mara encompasses 700 square miles, most of it grasslands, and is home to literally millions of grazing animals and predators. The herds of migrating Wildebeest, called the 'greatest wonder in Nature', seemed to be on the move back south to the Serengeti, as the pilot told us that during the past week he had seen them gathering in great numbers, preparing for the migration.

Our pilot was a youngish American man named Don, perhaps in his late thirties, and he had the open friendliness and easy-going nature of his home state of Arizona. When someone asked, he told us that he couldn't really steer as such, being at the mercy of the winds, but a strategic blast of the burners could rotate the balloon, and have a small effect on direction. They never knew how long a flight would last, or indeed, where it would end, and sometimes the winds sent them toward the nearby Tanzanian border, marked by the Sand River, though that was something they tried to avoid.

Off to our left we could see the low cluster of buildings that was the Keekorok Lodge, from which another three balloons were just being launched, these ones all a solid tomato-red color. Keekorok was the first lodge built in the reserve, the name being Maasai for "the place of the black trees". It was opened in 1963, as a small group of self-help huts (bandas), and then gradually built up into the luxury accommodations it offers today. There is even an airship there, and you can fly in and taxi literally right up to the buildings. This is probably the most famous lodge as well, of the two or three other more recent structures, and has played host to kings and queens, heads of state, international celebrities; and most recently, Prince Charles and Princess Diana. I also learned that balloon trips have only been in operation for about ten years, and there are three different companies which offer them.

The description in the brochures of "drifting silently over the plains" doesn’t begin to capture the wonder of it. There is nothing that could compare with this experience, you hang suspended over the land, looking out to all sides at an unbroken vista, and watch your shadow move slowly over the earth a hundred feet or so below. There is not even the soft sound of the you're drifting along with it, and voices are hushed in the utter silence. You don’t feel like an intruder on the environment, as it can be in an earthbound vehicle, but rather a harmless part of it, disturbing nothing and leaving no track.

In the filmed version of Out of Africa there are two significant flying scenes portrayed. In one Robert Redford and Meryl Streep (as Denys Finch-Hatton and Karen Blixen) soar an idyllic and unspoiled wilderness, the plains and hills teeming with wildlife; while in the other the Finch-Hatton character flies alone over a more barren savanna, criss-crossed everywhere with the ruts of safari trucks, and empty of wildlife. The White Hunters had been part of this ruination, and, as one of them, he would have known that this was a harbinger of the changing nature of East Africa in his time.

Our flight had a little of both atmospheres. There was the magic of floating over the herds Of grazing Wildebeest, antelopes and zebras, and an endless horizon of grasslands stretching away to low brown hills; but at the same time there was the reality of the dirt track beside us, upon which the company vans followed our progress, trailing a plume of dust behind them.

Beryl Markham also flew the wilds of East Africa in the 'twenties, as a freelance carrier of mail, safari supplies and passengers, and later as an aerial spotter for elephant hunters. In her beautifully-written West With The Night she eloquently describes her reaction on flying low over a vast herd of Wildebeest, zebra and Impala on the Serengeti, just south of where we were now:

"To see ten thousand animals untamed and not branded with the symbols of human commerce is like scaling an unconquered mountain for the first time, or like finding a forest without roads or footpaths, or the blemish of an axe. You knew then what you had always been told- that the world once lived and grew without adding machines and newsprint and brick-walled streets and the tyranny of clocks."

Before coming here I had a mental picture of East Africa as being like that description; a and untrammeled wilderness over which innumerable animals roamed at will. Of course, I leaned that the reality is far different, and it is only within the relatively small pockets of the game reserves that this imaginary paradise exists. Outside of them, it is only in the most dry and infertile areas where you might see the occasional giraffe or ostrich.

It is estimated that today there is barely one-fifth of the wildlife which once existed, and there are many reasons for this. It is fashionable in these times to point at the big game hunters, hunting for sport having become as socially unacceptable as smoking, but there are other, greater reasons behind this. In fact, hunting has been controlled in both Kenya and Tanzania since before the turn of the century. The poachers of ivory and rhino horn are the true abominations in that regard.

Chief among the real factors is probably population, Kenya having one of the highest growth rates in the world, with its population doubling every twenty years, and no end in sight. In fact, a member Of the Kenyan Parliament once stated that birth control was a plot against the black race. And too, 87% of the population is rural, which means they need ever more and more land. Because of this endless attrition, loss of habitat is probably the main cause, though vast numbers of animals were wiped out during the Second World War to feed prisoners of war, and some misguided campaign against the Tsetse Fly sent soldiers out to exterminate millions of hoofed animals, year after year for decades. So the hunters were an easy target, if not altogether innocent, in the same way that automobiles are an easy target for air pollution, though in each case their contribution is but a part of a much larger problem.

It has been made harder for the conservationists too, as there is cause and effect to even the positive moves they have made. For instance, when great numbers of elephants began to retreat from civilization into the Maasai Mara, they destroyed areas of woodland that had formerly been home to other animals. And, as in North America, greater control over Bush and grassfires has diminished the regrowth of short grasses, which animals like the gazelles prefer because their predators cannot hide in the long grass. So even here, and even now, it remains an uneasy balance between man and Nature.

And there are still other voices. Shiva Naipaul speaks for another point of view in North of South, writing with outrage about all the time, money and attention that is given to animal conservation in East Africa, while the people continue to suffer in a backward, corrupt and joyless world. Apparently no animal lover, he writes of a visit to the Ngorongoro Crater with disdain rather than awe, but even granting his point, the tourist dollars which are attracted almost entirely by the animals would certainly be more sorely missed than the money which is spent- largely by foreigners anyway- to try to preserve them.

Thus as I was suspended so pleasurably in the endless blue sky of this African morning, looking around from this breathtaking overview, I had to think of these things; that this wide-open and beautiful natural panorama only seemed limitless, and that beyond each horizon, however far it seemed, lay encroaching humanity. On the surface of a map these reserves are but small pockets of shade, tenuously protected from the light of human progress. This was one of the darker facets I encountered as I came to know a bit of the rough-cut stone that is Africa.

The pilot of the first balloon radioed back to say they'd spotted a lioness in a creek bed, and we all looked over the side as we approached the line of dark trees which marked the spot. Jackie was to prove herself as a sharp-eyed game spotter, and she was first to spot the tawny coat of the lioness, just as it moved beneath the trees. A few minutes later the radio crackled again, the British pilot telling us they had a family of lions feeding on a zebra just to his left, and Don circled our balloon with a skillful blast of the burners, then let it descend a little lower, giving us all a ‘bird’s eye view' of a female and her three cubs feeding on the black-and-white and gory red remains of the unlucky zebra. We watched with fascination until the restless wind swept us slowly and steadily away. With the aid of our binoculars we were brought close to dozens of giraffes, hundreds of gazelles, lesser herds of buffalo, Kongoni, and another antelope called the Topi, a pretty chestnut-colored animal with blue-black upper legs.

If, someday, a movie can truly give you a 360° field of view, with this dizzying scope of height and distance, and let you breathe the cool fresh air of the high country of Africa, smell the dry and subtle incense that rises from the sun-baked plains, feel the occasional blast of warmth on your neck from the burners; if you could see all this expanse of open country in such brilliant clarity, and yet still move in closer on a detail with your binoculars- and if that film could really capture this golden light, that most elusive of qualities, which seems here radiate up from the earth as much as down from the sky -

only then could that movie be half as good as this.

But, unfortunately all too soon it was over. The shortest of hours had passed, and we saw the leading balloon descending to land a mile or so ahead of us. From my earlier brief anxiety, I had relaxed into complete enjoyment of this wonderful experience, and now I felt a deep disappointment that it should be over so soon. Don reviewed the landing instructions, telling us to sit down and brace ourselves as we approached the land, because the basket would likely be pulled over on its side as we touched down.

Then the second balloon was down, and we were crouching down in our little basket, excited rather than nervous, and I felt us touch the ground, bounce, and bounce again, and then we were at rest- the only one of the three to land upright. This was certainly a tribute to our pilot, but Selena and I were both a little disappointed not to have tipped over- it looked like fun!

The ground crew were already there, with large flatbed trucks which they use to gather up the balloons and transport them back to base again, and we climbed out of the basket to be met by a van, which drove us a hundred yards or so to a spot under a wide acacia tree, where a breakfast was being laid out on long tables. Champagne and orange juice were poured, and there were plenty of fruits, hard boiled eggs, croissants and rolls to soothe our hunger, stimulated by the excitement and the fresh coolness of the early morning air.

This flight would have represented different things to different people; a sensual thrill, a new experience, an unparalleled view of the landscape, an animal lover's paradise, a photographer's dream, something to tell the "folks back home", or maybe just something different to do on a morning in Africa. And it certainly would be a valuable fulfillment of any of those desires.

But for me it represented all of those, and more; it was a small triumph, another fulfillment of a resolve never to let these things inside me interfere with my experience and enjoyment of life. So as I sipped my champagne, standing beneath the canopy of the acacia tree and looking out across that grassy, sun-flooded plain, my own smile had more shades than just pleasure and excitement.

Kila ndege huruka kwa bawa lake.
Every bird flies with its own wings.
(Swahili Saying)

28- night creatures

The vans would be taking us back to the Sarova Mara Lodge, driven once again by the pilots, and on the way back Don took us off the track and out onto the open savanna, having noted the place where the family of lions was feeding. The female and her three cubs were still there, the zebra's red ribs open to the sky, and the family seemed oblivious to us as we parked a mere ten yards away, shutting the motor off and watching them quietly, whispered excitement and camera shutters the only sounds.

Then suddenly "big Daddy", a huge black-maned male, came striding arrogantly over to the kill, letting out a warning roar which sent the female and cubs retreating to let him have his turn. Unfair really; the female had probably been the one to do the hunting and killing, as is most often the case, but he asserted the ‘right of might’, and chased them off anyway. He gnawed at the zebra's shrinking remains for a few minutes until he was sated, then slowly wandered away again, to find a shady place for a well-earned nap. Only then did the rest of the family return. We noticed that one of the cubs had half of its tail missing, and Don surmised that it had gotten in the way of Mom or Dad’s powerful jaws while feeding in the dark, and had been bitten off!

Back at the lodge, we were offered coffee on the terrace, looking over a shallow tree-lined valley, with a row of attractive bandas to either side, and Don filled out certificates for us, commemorating our flight over the Maasai Mara. A tangible reminder of this never-to-be forgotten experience was not really necessary, but it was nice anyway. He asked how long we'd been in Africa, and where we'd been, and when I told him that ltd spent some time in Tanzania, and had done the Kilimanjaro climb, he said that he hoped to make that pilgrimage as well before he returned to America, and I told him a bit about it. (Just the nice parts!)

We were met by Hassan and the other driver, and our two vans were off on a game drive around the park, accompanied by a silent guide. We were telling Gordon and June how much wed enjoyed our trip, and June, not to be outdone, said: “Yes, I’d really like to do that- (pause)- again!" Apparently she'd once gone ballooning in England, and of course that couldn't be much less of an experience than this. Of course.

Driving around the park was bound to be an anticlimax after the powerful experience of floating above it, but it was still the beautiful bush country and savanna that I loved so much, and we did see a few good things. There was a large panel in the roof of the minibus which could be raised, and Hassan had opened it so we were able to stand up to take pictures and have an unobstructed lookout. I had only just mentioned that I hoped we might spot a Secretary Bird, as I thought Selena would enjoy it, when, as if on cue, one of those large grey and black birds of prey appeared before us, striding slowly through the grass on its long legs, in search of some lunch.

We were not at all helped by our "guide"; he seemed not to know where anything was, and offered no suggestion as to where we might find the leopard and cheetah that I hoped the girls would see. In contrast to the knowledgeable and willing guide we’d had in the Serengeti, who led us all over the park until we’d found what we wanted to see, this one just slouched in the front seat like a lump, saying nothing, and it was Jackie who did most of the spotting- picking out several lions where they lay dozing under thorn bushes in the heat of the day. Her sharp eyes picked out several females and one big male, and it was exciting to get so close and look into their fearsome golden eyes, but even Jackie couldn't find us the other big cats. The guide never led us to anything except lunch, as far as I could see.

And for lunch, we stopped for a picnic along the Mara, a river which is constant enough to flow all year round, and thus is home to many crocodiles and hippos. The huge shiny bodies of the hippos lay sprawled along the tree-shaded banks of the river, perhaps a dozen of them actually out of the water, and a couple of long, malevolent-looking crocodiles dozed on the shore as well. A large colony of Wooly-necked Storks nested in the thick green trees which overhung the river, and several types of plovers skipped along the sandbanks at a nearby bend. It was pleasant and exotic to watch all this while we enjoyed our simple boxed-lunches, which the drivers had brought along with them from camp.

There was only soda pop to drink, cola or orange, and Gordon claimed that this was the first time he'd ever drunk a Coca-Cola. That was hard to believe in this day and age, and it was another thing that pointed out what a different world and time they lived in. So many of their attitudes, and even the way they spoke, were right out of an old English novel, P. G. Wodehouse maybe. June even confided to Jackie that Gordon didn't like her to wear trousers! Even expressions they used, like: "Well, that's not really my line of country", sounded like an Echo of a vanished England.

As for the Coca-Cola experience, Gordon wasn't sure if he liked it or not. Probably afraid of getting addicted, or that it might lead to harder stuff, maybe hamburgers or something.

We made a brief stop at the Keekorok Lodge, which was a nice enough spot of its kind, though its modern luxury was a world away from the rustic remoteness of Cottar's Camp. But it was pleasant to have a cold drink on the shady terrace there, before we continued our drive across the plains back to our base. While we waited out front for Hassan, an American woman remarked to Jackie how nice it was to see a child here, as Selena was the first one she'd seen. And it was true; we had seen very few other children in our travels, though I suppose it was the time of year as much as anything. Of course most children would be in school (if their teachers weren't on strike- for >money).

We drove out of the lodge and back along the dusty track in the mid-afternoon heat, making a couple of detours to see lions or elephants. In contrast to the parks of Tanzania, where it was unusual to see more than one or two other vehicles wherever you went, here you were constantly passing other identical minibuses, and every time you stopped there would be at least a half-dozen other ones close behind to see what you were looking at. It was a kind of advantage, in that this made the animals tamer here in Kenya, and you could get closer to them for photographs, but at the same time we saw none of the shyer animals; leopard, cheetah, rhino, nor any of the rare antelopes like the Sable and the Kudu.

When we were driving along the set of parallel ruts which served as the road to Cottar's Camp, we saw a large elephant standing just off the track, and Hassan turned and drove right into the grass after it, chasing it around between the thorn trees and laughing uproariously as the elephant reluctantly wheeled and ran to get out of his way. It seemed to us a cruel and unneighborly action, but though Hassan was laughing heartily at this sport, it wasn’t a malicious laugh. I think he just considered this a harmless game he liked to play with old Mr Tembo (elephant in Swahili). If none of us found it amusing in the way he did, June was especially scandalized by this, telling Hassan he was “very naughty”.

I just told him: “He'll get you back one day, Hassan!”, but he only laughed the more at that idea.

I have read that the elephants in general have become much less fierce toward Man in the years since hunting them has been outlawed, and this was probably an illustration of that change. At one time this Mr Tembo would have spread his ears, raised his trunk and anything- even a train- if he caught the hated scent of the "two-legged dwarves" which so plagued his kind.

Beryl Markham also wrote of the incredible intelligence the elephants would display against the hunters. They soon deduced that only the males were in danger, and that only the Tusks were ever taken, so that even with the airplanes trying to spot the big bulls for the Hunters, the females would circle themselves around the male to hide his tusks, or a big female would act as a decoy, masquerading herself with her head hidden by a bush, distracting the spotters while the rest of the herd- and the bull- escaped many miles away.

Elspeth Huxley recounts a beautiful myth in Out In The Midday Sun:

"There is a legend among both the Kikuyu and the Chagga people of Mount Kilimanjaro that elephants formerly were men and women who, like Adam and Eve, gave offence to God, not in their case by disobedience but by vanity and extravagance. To make themselves look beautiful, they washed in milk. For this, God expelled them from their Eden, inflicting on them milk-white tusks as a perpetual reminder of their folly. Sometimes, it was said, when out of sight, a young elephant would change back into a human."

Elephant hunting- or any big game hunting- is a more complex subject than it at first appears. I have mentioned that in the Amboseli National Park they have had to kill off some of the rapidly-multiplying herds of elephant, just to slow their complete ruination of the landscape. And were it not for the avaricious ivory trade, their numbers would certainly never have been depleted by the limited amount of sport hunting which is permitted. While not a hunter myself, it has been argued that hunting an animal which is in no danger of extinction is no more immoral than eating a lamb chop, or wearing leather shoes. In spite of our urban insulation from such unsavory realities, an animal still had to be slaughtered.

And plenty of serious hunters are equally ardent conservationists- in fact it was far-sighted White Hunters who first began the conservation drives here in East Africa. Except for the trigger-happy fools, the same kind of small-minded and unimaginative idiots who spoil everything, most of them have an abiding love for the wild. And if I don't understand their sport, I do understand that. The magic word: they care about the country and the flourishing of the animals, far more than the sentimental protectionists, the hypocritical knee-jerk urbanites who vent their own impotent frustrations on causes they only dimly understand.

Then there is the reality that, unlike the unfortunate steer or lamb, the big game animals had the freedom and ability to fight back, and did, as many a tale of slain hunters can bear witness. William Faulkner once wrote to Ernest Hemingway about his own enjoyment of rabbit hunting, and Hemingway wrote back saying that he really preferred to hunt animals which ran both ways. Hemingway did a lot of hunting during his two visits to Africa, in the 'thirties and the 'fifties, even serving as an honorary game warden on his second visit, but even in those unenlightened times he never wanted to kill an elephant. "Too big, too noble" he wrote.

But those were different days, and now there are only a few small and carefully controlled hunting reserves, with prohibitively expensive licenses- I heard the fee is thirty thousand dollars for anyone who wants to hunt and kill an elephant- so poaching remains the only real threat to the rare animals, and expanding civilization the constant menace to the others.

I have always had an abhorrence of fur coats, thinking the wearing of them barbaric and offensive and in the case of wild or endangered species of course it is, but wearing animal skins which are grown on a farm no different from wearing leather, or eating meat for that matter. I used to wonder about things like ostrich-skin boots or crocodile purses too, but it turns those animals are bred here in Africa on farms for that purpose, not poached from the wild. It is always funny to hear the "meat is murder” fanatics pontificating about the killing of helpless domestic beasts, while their consciences are Untroubled by the leather jackets they wear as emblems of their toughness and rebellion.

We arrived back at camp in the late afternoon, and the three of us took a walk around the grounds of the camp- though paying careful heed to the large sign at the edge which read: "DO NOT PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT". The camp had been situated in the area of a natural spring, so the lush trees and foliage which surround it are an oasis in the middle of an almost perpetually dry land. As you looked out beyond the trees you gazed away to a horizon of dry grass and bald brown thorn trees, to where hazy blue hills stood against a vast sky. This camp was truly a wonderful spot, and I could see staying here for a while. It was civilized enough to be comfortable, but wild enough to be exciting. I was thinking about the natural peace of such an environment, and as Jackie looked at the thoughtful smile on my face as we walked around the camp, she turned to me and said; 'No- we're not moving here!".

I laughed at that, as it's true that I have the habit of wanting to go and live in every nice place I visit, whether it's a beautiful city like Paris, a gracious and scenic country like Switzerland, a tropical island like Martinique, or in the northern woods of Quebec. And yes; I was picturing us living in a little house in Tanzania, surrounded by thick forest and untidy gardens, with a view over the ever-changing plains, and just enough of the trappings of civilization- like mail, and my computer!

(Well, a swimming pool and a mountain bike would be nice too.) But Jackie is more pragmatic than I in these matters, and is not interested in making all the sacrifices that would be necessary in her own life just for the sake of my romantic fantasies. Especially when I'm not even there three-quarters of the time. Selfish- but of course in all objectivity, one can’t blame her! (Sure I can!)

After another excellent dinner under the pavilion, we were summoned for the next adventure on our agenda- the night game drive. I was really excited about the possibilities of this, as other than at Treetops I hadn’t had the opportunity to see the nocturnal animals, from the richly-populated world which begins when the sun goes down. I was especially keen to see a Striped Hyena, a much rarer and more exotic-looking relative of the common Spotted Hyena, and that was an animal I knew was often seen on these drives.

We walked through the dimly-lit tunnel of foliage which led to the parking area, where there were two Land Rovers; one for ourselves and the Thomsons, and one for the other two English couples. Each of them was manned by a driver and another man who stood up in the open back and shone a powerful spotlight around at the bush as we drove along. The two vehicles each took a different route away from camp, but every once in a while we could see the flash of light from the other spotlight as it cut through the darkness in the middle distance.

It was nice to be sitting out in the open again, as I'd learned to enjoy in the big Bedford truck in Tanzania, but it was good that we had dressed warmly, as the night was chilly. It was also more exciting to feel so much nearer to the mysterious wild darkness- if also a lot more vulnerable to the imaginary attacks of bloodthirsty beasts! You couldn't help but have momentary visions of roaring lions leaping in on you from the darkness, or a mad elephant charging out of the shadows and right into the side of the car.

Though I was to be denied the sight of my Striped Hyena, we saw an enormous amount of wildlife as we slowly drove along with the spotlight sweeping the open clearings and thorn scrub around us. Most of the animals were the same ones we had already seen in the daytime- elephants, giraffes, zebras, jackals, Topi, Kongoni, gazelles, Waterbuck, Impalas and many of the Spotted Hyenas- but somehow coming upon them by surprise in the sheltering darkness was thrilling in a different way. There were also the strictly nocturnal animals; the long-tailed Spring Hare like the one I had seen that morning, the conventionally cotton-tailed African Hare, the White-tailed Mongoose, and most exciting of all- a rare predatory cat called a Caracal, which resembles a smaller Mountain Lion with long tufted ears.

The whole group was very tired after a long, hot and eventful day, and especially three of us Iho had been up since quarter to five that morning. Poor Selena couldn't keep her eyes open anymore, falling against me as we bounced around in the darkness, but I just put my arm around her and let her doze. Every once in a while I could nudge her awake to see something special, like the Caracal cat.

When we returned to camp after an hour and a half or so, most of the others pronounced themselves a little disappointed by the experience, but I was only disappointed by failing to see that other hyena, otherwise I thought it was a wonderful thing. Besides, I can always go back some day to search for a Striped Hyena! That's a good excuse.

Jackie and Selena went straight to the hut, while I made a brief stop at the bar to pick up a couple of cognacs for Jackie and I. By the time I got there Selena was in bed and almost asleep, and I kissed her goodnight and wished her sweet dreams- with no dead zebras or fierce lions in them. Jackie too was just about out, and after a couple of sips of her drink she was closing her eyes as well.

I lay there realizing, with a pang of sadness, that this was the last day of our family safari, and my last day in Africa, as tomorrow it was back to Nairobi to catch our flight home. I couldn't believe this week, and the whole month, had passed so quickly, and yet as I thought back over everything I’d seen and done, I couldn't imagine that all of that new experience and knowledge could be contained in only a month.

I turned off the light and lay back in the comfortable bed, thinking back to the Ngorongoro Crater, the Serengeti, the Kibo Hotel, Uhuru Peak, Treetops, and so many other beautiful places; and all the good people I'd met- Simon and Geoff, and the others from the Tanzanian trip; Nigel, Greg, Michael, Kees and Ingrid from the Kilimanjaro climb. So much and so many superlatives.

And now it was all over. I didn't want to replay it all, or relive it again, but man- will someone hurry up and figure out a way to slow the good times down? But no- even African Time can't make a day last one minute longer.

Matukũ nï ngũrïrï.
Days pass quickly.
(Kikuyu Proverb)

29- all said and done

Our last day in Africa had a little bit of everything that such a day should have had. We left Cottar’s Camp soon after another good breakfast, but before we'd gone too far we were pulled up at the side of the track to investigate a huddle of moving shapes. It was a flock of vultures, dozens of them shouldering in to pick at a Wildebeest carcass, which would have already passed down the food chain from the lions, to the hyenas, to the jackals- and now it would pass from the vultures down to the scavengers who were smaller yet, until the Wildebeest disappeared into the plains once more.

We bounced and slid down the rough road through the dry thorn country, steering off of it to escape the worst patches, with the van pounding over the rocks and ruts and slewing in the loose gravel and dust. While right beside us, we could see that a new road had been begun, and there was machinery and building supplies spread all along it, idle only because it was Sunday. For many miles across this wild country a straight and flat bed of gravel had been laid out, which would someday- though not soon!- be a smoothly-paved highway to bring the ever-greater numbers of tourists here, in ever-greater comfort and ease.

Across the flat plains in a cloud of dust, then after Narok back onto the paved road, with the landscape still that classic endless vista of brown and gold savanna with the random flat-topped thorn trees. There were herds of goats and cattle, and there were wild zebras, gazelles, antelopes and giraffes. People walking along the road, working in their fields or tending their herds would sometimes wave to the parade of white minibuses which passed in both directions. We drove back up the steep escarpment, and paused near the top- at a convenient souvenir stand- to get out and admire the view.

The white sun was high in a deep blue sky, and huge cumulus clouds sailed steadily across it, casting their moving trails of shadow across the land like ships would upon the ocean floor. Open country stretched out forever before us, framed by the closer green hills and the distant blue ones on the horizon. In the middle distance, three giant satellite dishes turned their blank white faces to the sky.

As we neared the city, Hassan had to pull over to fix a flat tire, so I went across the busy highway to sit in the grass under a cool shady tree. A diesel stream of trucks roared by constantly, only interrupted by lines of buzzing and eager cars, passing each other any time there was a hint of open road. An Augur Buzzard circled in the sky above. It took me almost five minutes to get back across the road, running between the roaring trucks.

We said goodbye to the Thomsons at their hotel, no heartbreak to any of us I suppose, though Gordon was a gentleman to the end- when Hassan had asked us to write something for him in his notebook, Gordon composed an eloquent message of thanks and appreciation that filled the whole page, and the whole subject, leaving room for us only to sign our names.

Then we were back at the New Stanley, and saying goodbye to Hassan, who had been an driver and guide for us during this eventful week. Though it's funny; I’m sure he never our names, or if he did he never addressed us by them. Even after a week we were still strangers.

In Nairobi the international flights usually land in the early morning, and take off in the middle of the night. Apparently this is because at such an altitude, they would have reduce their payloads to be able to fly in the thin air of midday. Because of this our flight to Amsterdam didn't leave until after midnight, and we had the afternoon and evening to spend in Nairobi. I had booked us a room for the day, but naturally there was confusion over the reservation, and the kind of room we wanted, and it took about half an hour to get checked in. I remember getting impatient after a while, and Selena made fun of me later, putting on a deep voice and aping me: "Whaaat?" and "That's ridicu-lous!" Smart-aleck kid.

Our balloon pilot Don had been wearing a gold version of the elephant-hair bracelets that were so ubiquitous here, and Jackie had admired it as something beautiful while still distinctively African, so she wanted to look for one of those. We went across the street to the shop where we had bought the other things, to be welcomed with a big smile by our Tanzanian salesman, and made a bargain for one. When I tried to get him to go even lower, he called over his boss, an Indian, who accepted a very low offer if we would only pay by cheque rather than by credit card. The difference was far more than could be justified by an American Express commission, and so I think it's fair to assume that the lack of an official receipt was of greater value to him.

The rest of the afternoon was dedicated to the swimming pool, to Selena's great delight, and we enjoyed playing in the water together, and basking in our last day of the African sun. And then there was the organizing to do; collecting the bags we'd left here, and repacking everything where it belonged, checked bags and carry-on bags, and organizing the travel documents, the tickets, the currency exchange papers, and the receipts we’d have to show when we reached Canada. All the tiresome details that come before a long journey begins or ends.

Selena and Jackie fell asleep in the early evening, and I went downstairs to have some dinner, sitting alone with a book at the counter in the Thorn Tree. Then, after another lengthy interlude at the cashier's desk while I got us checked out, I asked for a porter and went up to wake up the girls. It was time to go.

Line up to check in, line up to go through Customs, line up to go through Immigration, line up to pay the Departure (Extortion) Tax, line up for the security check, then finally line up to get on the airplane. The joys of travel. At Customs I was treated to some real extortion, when the officer told me that I should give something to his assistant for handling our bags- when that worthy was merely passing them from the counter in front of him to the conveyor behind him! Knowing how easily our baggage tags could be "accidentally" cut off, I contributed a number of shillings to their scam, mentally calculating how much they could glean from the hundreds of people who passed through here every day. A lot.

I stood in line again to change the rest of my Kenyan shillings into dollars, at the official bank in a far corner of the airport. To one side of this lineup a number of apparently stranded travelers huddled on the floor in grubby sleeping bags, while on the other side there was a bar where a riotous crowd of Africans drank beer amid a cacophony of shouted conversations and laughter. A color portrait of President Moi overlooked us all with those far-seeing eyes.

And finally we were on the ‘plane, facing a seven-hour flight to Amsterdam, a morning layover there, and then another seven-hour flight to Toronto. The big jet roared down the runway in the darkness, then lifted off the ground, climbing higher and higher above the unseen land below- the plains, lakes and mountains of Africa. Soon we would all be asleep, and when we woke again all this would be far behind us, clear in the mind but no longer real, like a dream. A dream of Africa.

Sometimes it happens that I fall asleep while reading a book, and in my dreams my mind continues the story, my imagination carrying the plot and the characters forward. I suppose the mind starts with whatever raw materials are at hand to build dreams out of, and if that happens to be an interrupted story, the subconscious will simply start from there and carry you off into dreamland from that point. Anyway, the results are often interesting, and sometimes more interesting than the book turns out to be, I take this as a good that someday I’ll be able to write as well as I dream!

But will I ever be able to write as well as I live?

This journey alone has stretched me to every extreme of sensation and emotion, with awe and misery, pain and exaltation, broiling and freezing, fear and excitement, love and freidnship and misanthropy; and has had my senses, will, endurance, resourcefulness, adaptability and- most of all- wonder, all on overload. There can be no greater tribute to the worth of an experience.

When you look through a romantic realist's eye at the world around you, you find so much joy against so much tragedy, so much beauty and yet so much pain, that sometimes it seems as if life is a gift to celebrate, and other times a curse to sorrow for. Certainly, with all that going on as a part of reality, it seems redundant to make it all up. And it seems to me now as if nobody really does make anything up- the best stories are true, whether they happened or not.

There was a time when I dreamed of writing innocent fantasies; exotic worlds peopled by magical beings, or outer space utopias of technological splendor; and then later I wanted grandiose allegories with sweeping themes expressed in symbols of absolutes. Happily, I soon grew weary of that narrow approach. Later still I wanted elegant and accomplished heroes delivering lines of great wit and insight in a background of drama and intrigue.

Now I want much less- and much more.

I want to find the words and the sensibility to grasp the world- to hold a piece of it for a moment so I can see how it works, how it looks, how it feels. The world is never really small, clichés notwithstanding, and you could never hope to know much about it in ten lifetimes, but I want to wander around in it for a while, as if along a beach, and see what I can pick up.

And then I'll put it down again.

Mwenda bure si mkaa bure, huenda akaokoto.
He who travels for no apparent purpose
is not like one who sits down with no purpose-
the traveler always picks up something.
(Swahili Saying)

In Nairobi I bought an antique drum. A talking drum. It talks to me of thorn trees, fever trees and flame trees. It talks to me of rain forest, golden savanna and snow-capped mountain.

It talks to me of Africa.

I want this journal to be like the drum. More than a memory. More than a picture. The drum as a story is about primitive beauty, about wild things and about good people.

It is about history, conversation, and magic.

It is about African time.

There is sunrise and sunset,
Then there's all the time in between.

That's all.

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