Between Heaven and Earth (6 page)

Just up ahead I caught sight of a little boy flitting through the traffic. He couldn't have been any older than five, and the only thing the vehicles did was honk at him rather than slow down. Somehow he made it across the road without getting squashed, but then he fell down and started to cry! He was wailing away like he'd been hit. I rushed over.

“Are you okay, little guy?”

He looked up, his eyes got wide, and he cried louder! Then I saw why. He'd ripped open his knee somehow, and it was bleeding.

“Let's see if we can fix this.”

He looked scared. I flashed him a big smile. “I'm going to
help
.” I said the word
help
louder and slower.

I set down my bag, hauled off my pack and crouched down beside him.

“I've got a first-aid kit,” I explained, although I got the feeling he didn't understand English. I showed him the plastic case with the big red cross on the top. Maybe that symbol was part of a universal language.

“I'll fix that up,” I said, pointing at his bleeding knee. “I'm trained in first aid.”

He stopped crying. Maybe he did understand. I pulled out some gauze, a cotton ball and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide to wash away any germs. I soaked the cotton ball with the antiseptic.

“This is going to sting,” I said. Of course he didn't understand. “It will be…ouch!” I said, pretending to touch the ball with a finger. He giggled.

I took the ball and started to rub. He grimaced and pulled away a little bit but didn't cry or scream out. I washed away any germs. Next I took the piece of gauze and taped it in place with two pieces of adhesive tape.

“There you go.”

“
Assante
,” he said, his voice just a whisper, the catch of tears still sounding in his throat.

I smiled. I knew that word too.
Assante
—thank you.

“
Karibo
. You're welcome,” I replied and he smiled back.

He got up and walked off with just a little limp. He'd probably have a good story to tell about how some big
mzungu
fixed him up.

I turned to put my first-aid kit away, but where was my pack? It had been right here beside me. I looked up and saw a boy running off with it!

“Hey!” I yelled as I jumped to my feet. “Stop that boy!”

He scampered through the crowded street, and I ran after him. Stupid sandals. Why hadn't I changed into my running shoes or hiking boots? Wait—what about my other bag? I looked back in time to see another boy making off with it and the cane… the cane with my grandfather's ashes in it! I skidded to a stop and started after him.

“Stop him, he's got my things!” I screamed.

A few people turned and looked, but nobody tried to stop him. I'd have to get him myself. He had a good lead, but he wasn't big and the bag was heavy, and what he didn't know was that I was an athlete—an athlete wearing too-small sandals. I scrunched my toes together to try to keep them on my feet, but I couldn't pick up any speed or gain any ground. I wasn't going to catch him wearing these things. I kicked them off and kept running in my bare feet. The ground was hard but level enough, and I was starting to gain on him when—

“Agghhh!” I screamed as something stuck into my foot.

I hopped forward for a couple of steps, grabbing my hurt foot before I realized that I didn't have time to look at it if I wanted to get my stuff back. I took another step and felt a stab of pain shoot into my foot, but I didn't stop. I'd played football with worse pain than this.

Up ahead the kid disappeared and reappeared as he wove through the crowd. I was gaining but not fast. My legs felt dead and my feet heavy, and I was struggling to get my breath. I had to catch him soon. I was getting closer and closer.

He made a quick turn and vanished behind a building. I reached the corner and he was gone! I looked around. He wasn't there. Nobody was there. I was standing alone in the little alley. The kid was gone. My stuff was all gone. The cane containing my grandfather's ashes was gone.

I doubled over, hands on my knees, straining to get my breath, my lungs burning. I was shaking and sweating and I felt like I might throw up. But feeling sick wasn't the worst thing. The worst thing was that I'd failed. I'd lost the cane. I wouldn't be able to fulfill my grandpa's last request, and everybody would know it. What would my mother think… my brother…my whole family? Wait…nobody would have to know. I could just tell them that I did it. Nobody would ever question that I'd succeeded. It was just assumed I would. Nobody would know except for me. And Grandpa. He'd know.

And then I saw the cane, peeking out at me from a patch of rough ground and weeds where the thief must have dropped it. I went over and picked it up. I'd never been so happy to see anything in my whole life.

I looked skyward. “Thank you. I'm sorry. It won't leave my hand again.”

I walked out of the alley, short of breath, my legs rubbery, a tender spot on the bottom of one foot. I had the cane in one hand and the first-aid kit still firmly in the other hand. At least I could fix my foot. I also still had my money, phone and passport all safe in the money belt. I just didn't have my clothes or my hiking boots or my coat or my iPod. Or anything else I needed to climb the mountain.

EIGHT

I stumbled along the street, limping and barefoot. My breath was still strained and I was sweating. People were staring at me—not just the locals but other tourists. How many of them had seen me chasing after my bags only to come back empty-handed? Well, practically empty- handed. I still had the most important thing—the cane—but nobody but me knew how important it was. I wanted to raise it above my head like a trophy. Instead I slinked away, feeling embarrassed and ashamed. I'd been ripped off by a couple of street kids, and I hadn't been smart enough or strong enough or fast enough to stop it from happening. Less than two hours in the country and I'd been arrested and then had all my things stolen. Great start, really in charge.

Up ahead I saw one of my sandals—the left one. I slipped it on. The cut on the bottom of my foot hurt as it hit against the sole, but at least it was a little protection. Who knew what sort of germs would be on the ground here? I scanned the ground for the other sandal; it couldn't be far, but it was nowhere to be seen. I limped along, hoping to find it.

I still had to get to East Africa Walking Tours. Had I passed it in my mad dash or was it farther along? Was I walking in the wrong direction? I stopped. I needed to get my bearings and catch my breath. Why was I still finding it so hard to breathe? I'd been running, and it was hot and humid, but I shouldn't be huffing and puffing like an old man. I was in great shape, but it sure didn't feel like it.

“Excuse me,” I called out to two tourists. “Do you know where East Africa Walking Tours is?”

They looked at me, puzzled, and said a few words in what sounded like German.

“It is that way,” said a voice behind me.

I turned around. An old man—a local—was pointing up the road. In his other hand was my other sandal!

I limped over, and he handed it to me.

“Thank you.”

“Your foot is hurt?”

“It's not that bad,” I said. “It's just a scratch.”

“Scratches get infected. Take care of it the way you took care of that little boy.”

“You saw that?”

He nodded. “That was kind of you,” he said. “I saw
everything
. I am so sorry. If I was younger, I would have run down one of those boys for you and got back your bags.”

“They were very fast.”

“We are a people of runners. But please do not judge us by a few thieves. We are also a people of honor.”

I hadn't seen much of that honor. No one had tried to stop them.

“It happened quickly or other people would have done something,” he explained.

“It did happen pretty fast. The only one I really saw was the little boy I helped. He's the only one I can identify. At least I think I can.”

“If nothing else, you could identify him by the bandage. He will probably be so proud of it that he will not take it off for weeks,” the old man said.

“Then I could tell the police to look for the bandage,” I suggested.

“I do not believe the little boy was part of it.”

“You mean he just fell down and then by coincidence the others were there to take my things?”

“Not coincidence. You were being watched and followed. They were waiting for you to let down your guard and then put down your bags.”

“That was just stupid of me,” I said. “I should have been more careful.”

“You were being careful, not of yourself but of the boy. You were not stupid but kind.”

“I won't do that again.”

“You won't help someone who needs help?” he asked.

For a split second I almost blurted out “no,” but I thought better. My grandpa helped anybody who needed help. “I'd help, but I'd be more careful.”

“Good. It is one thing that they stole your possessions. It would be a far worse thing if they were to steal your compassion. Now you need people to help you. I heard you ask for East Africa Walking Tours. Is that where you wish to go?”

“Yes, please.”

“It's not far, but not easy to see. I will show you.”

“That's okay, no problem, I can find it.”

“It is not a problem. I will show you,” he said.

He reached out and took my hand. I was slightly thrown but didn't resist. I'd already noticed local men walking hand in hand, talking.

“You are here to try to climb the mountain?”

“Not to
try
. To
succeed
,” I said.

He laughed. “Ah, to be so young and confident.”

“I
am
confident.”

“Confidence in oneself is a good thing,” he said.

“That's what I've always believed,” I said, although I knew a couple of my ex-girlfriends, a whole lot of people I'd competed against and a brother who would have said I was more arrogant than confident.

“But you must be careful not to underestimate the mountain,” he warned.

“I'm not underestimating it, but like Henry Ford said: If you think you can do it, you're probably right, and if you think you can't do it, you're still probably right.”

“This Henry Ford seems like a very wise man. Did he climb Kilimanjaro?”

“No, he made cars—Fords. He practically invented modern manufacturing.”

“Those cars I know. If you could drive to the top of the mountain, I am certain that this Mr. Ford would be correct. As it is, of every ten people who set off on the climb, only six reach the summit.”

“I'll be one of those six. I'm young and I'm fit.”

“Strangely, it is the young men who fail the most. They do not understand
polepole
.”

“I guess I don't understand it either. Po-lee po-lee?”

“It is Swahili for slowly. It is important to move slowly,” he explained.

“Where I come from, it's more important to move quickly.”

“Ah, but you are
not
where you come from; you are
here
.”

My whole plan was to move as quickly as possible. In, up, down, out.

“I can beat the mountain,” I said.

“Oh, no, that is not possible,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “You may summit, but you cannot defeat a mountain. You should not even use such words. You do not wish to get the mountain angry.”

“Angry? It's a mountain.”

“It is more than just a mountain. It is alive.”

Just what I needed—a superstitious old man holding my hand and leading me around.

“Beneath those rocks its heart still beats,” he continued. “Its blood still flows. If the wind is right, you can smell it breathing.” He pulled me to a stop. “Can you smell it?”

Great. Superstitious
and
crazy. Probably believed some African myth about Kilimanjaro being a person or an animal or a spirit. I hoped he'd spare me the story. I didn't like stories unless they were about real things or places and hopefully involved science or math.

“Take a deep breath…smell,” he ordered.

I wanted him to let go of my hand and leave me alone, but out of respect I did what I was told and took a deep breath.

“I don't smell anything. Wait…sulfur…I smell sulfur.”

“Yes,” he said. “Kilimanjaro is a dormant volcano, but not extinct. You can smell the fire beneath the surface. It can still shudder and send down rocks. The glaciers can still crack and roll down the trails.”

“Oh, I understand,” I said. “I thought you were talking about the mountain having a spirit or something.”

“
Everything
has a spirit, and that is why you should be careful what you say. Do not make the mountain angry. I have seen it angry.”

“Maybe we better get walking,” I suggested, trying to change the subject.

We started again, my hand still in his.

“Have you ever climbed the mountain?” I asked.

“I am an old man. It has been more than a decade since I climbed it the last time and almost seventy years since the first time.”

“So you've climbed it a couple of times.”

“The first time I was a boy of eleven and the last time I was more than sixty, but yes, I have climbed it more than twice.”

“How many times?”

“I did not always count.” He shrugged. “Five or six hundred times.”

“You mean
five
or
six
times, right?”

He shook his head. “I have climbed it five times in one month.”

“What?”

“No, that would not be right…the most in one month would be four.”

“Then you really have climbed it hundreds of times?” I gasped.

“Hundreds, but maybe only five hundred. I did not keep track and not every time did I go as far as the summit.”