Concoct Your Revelations
When I was sixteen I went on a school trip to Mt Kenya. The point of such school trips was to have a cross cultural experience to contribute to general education. Mt Kenya, even though it is not registered in record books, is not small and no one had told any of us enlistees that climbing a mountain in the middle of Africa was not the hot cocoa and a fire on the Swiss Alps romance for which we hoped. We quickly found out that even the smallest bag became heavy after a day long trek and that there were no fires to be had upon this Kenyan mountain. Instead as soon as we reached the “cabin” – a word I’m loath to use because it invokes romanticism – we took off our shoes and jumped straight into our sleeping bags and remained as still as possible so that we wouldn’t waste bodily warmth on the cool untouched parts. In the day time we made our way up the mountain. We spent a lot of the time running since it was a good way to stay warm along the way and also because there was no Swiss Alps scenery worth the 10 degree weather in jeans and t-shirts. There were other people on their way up the mountain too – as a rule we usually ignored tourists but there was one in particular who caught our attention.
He was originally African but we could tell by his gear and his shoes that his Africa was a “motherland”, not a home. Even though he sported the western attire, we also noticed he was as ill-equipped for mountain travel as we. He seemed to be having as good a time as the rest of us except that he was alone and didn’t have anyone to have the therapeutic gripe sessions.
When we finally got to the last “cabin” before the peak he approached us a bit sheepishly. Now I understand the cognitive dissonance of being a twenty-something and having to approach unruly teenagers with a question but at the time I was completely focused on acting cool.
“You boys from Nahrobee?” – the accent was West London English. The type of voice you hear when soccer players are interviewed or when a band member of insert your favorite Brit band is talking about his work.
“Nairobi? Yes. Our school thought it would impose a cross cultural experience upon us.” – our accents are distinctly American. We can see his mind doing computations about who we are and the rich merchant fathers we have to send us on expeditions as such.
“Yeah, thought I’d climb a mountain in Africa too. Dunno why – is there a good place to get a haircut in N… Naiyrobee?”
Dawit, one of my friends, cuts his own hair in a Kid ‘n’ Play flat top that stands nearly 10 inches from his head. Tabaro, another African, has four brothers and they all cut each other’s hair. It leaves me and I got my hair cut at the Kenyatta Market; a very third world-esque open air fare that I was too embarrassed to admit to this well dressed first worlder. We fumbled an answer and he left, visibly disappointed.
I can right now imagine him making his plans to visit Africa and conquer a mountain in the process. What a powerful metaphor. The memory of his features is vague but we knew he wasn’t Kenyan. Coming to Kenya was not a return home with the additional grasp for meaning, it was a tourist affair in which he must have thought about, planned and designed his catharsis. But when he got to the top he realized it was not the Alps, it was cold, there was no fire, there were 30 unruly teenagers squawking relentlessly and that he needed a haircut. So much for a moment of truth and epiphany. Not a spiritual dust mite to be had.
8:49:30 AM 
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