In 1962, I was posted to Machame Girls' School at an altitude of approximately six thousand feet on Mount Kilimanjaro. I saw many people attempt to go up the mountain; some made it and others did not due to the impact of the atmospheric pressure on them. I took many drinks for Americans and friends going up the 'Mountain' and administered meds for blisters and air sickness for those coming down. Every morning when I got up, I would go to my window to see if the peaks were still there. It was an automatic reaction, the same as I do every morning here in Uganda since I live on a slight plateau facing Lake Victoria, visible from three windows in my residence.
When I returned to USA after my tour of duty, my automatic response in the morning was to go to the window subconsciously expecting to see Kibo or the saddle in between or even the clouds shrouding the 'Mountain'. It was always so awesome just as are the sail boats that waver in the sun on Sundays here in Uganda.
It was on Kilimanjaro that I heard about the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. I remember vividly descending the 'Mountain' on my way to Moshi town at the foot of Kilimanjaro where Chagga people, villagers who lived on the slopes, lined the sides of the road and turned their faces in sympathy as I drove down in my small blue Anglia car.
Believe it or not, there are occasions when I still have nostalgic feelings about 'Kilimanjaro' and, like Hemingway’s leopard, want to go there. I think East Africa is the closest I will ever be to Paradise.
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