Kilimanjaro: under the light bulbs of the sky.

I don't know, I have often thought about this journey and often asked myself whether the description I could give of it would be able to put on paper the real feelings you can experience when looking at what I consider a wonder of the world: Kilimanjaro. Then I reflected: there are no words to describe emotions. So I told myself: ok!! I will recount what I lived through; perhaps I will intrigue someone, perhaps I will bring back to life a journey for those who took part in it as I did, perhaps.. I would make others dream.. curious to be able one day to stand and admire this immense African mountain. It began by chance: it was the third time I was returning to the Maasai village of Njukini. A small Maasai centre, where life seems to have stopped in the early 1800s. Having got off the little matatu (local minibuses more battered than a vehicle fit for the scrapyard)..

and from which you manage to eat so much red dust, the earth of the savannah, more than you could ever imagine. But that too was the beauty of my Maasai adventure. My African journey, repeated and each time hated but also loved. But I will talk about that later. Having got off the matatu, my husband and I headed straight for mum's hut. A Maasai family anchored to the principles and traditions of a bygone time. He, the modern Maasai. My husband. Complete with mobile phone and fashionable sunglasses. With capri trousers and Nike. A DG T-shirt and.. a baseball cap. The foreigner of the house!! That is what he was called. He.. considered a “madda”.. in the Maasai language “mad”. Mad because he had managed to live like us white mzungu). He who by now eats fish (the Maasai do not eat it, not even if you pay them. Seeing is believing!). In short.

He who seemed to have changed ideologies, ways of doing and thinking. But we did not know that he was, and always will be, deep down in his soul, a “true Maasai”. They have traditions in their hearts. In their brains. Deep in their souls they are, and always will be, warriors. Men of the savannah. They will drive powerful cars, they will have a driving licence and will know how to use a computer. But they will always remain themselves: the Maasai of Kenya. My journey was therefore planned as a total Maasai experience. The real Africa. The one we deep down feel and know even in our own country. If you say Maasai, you say Kenya. Having got off the matatu, not only my eyes but my legs too froze. I was there, before that snow-capped mountain. I was facing Kilimanjaro. I felt a shiver, and John's call (my husband) shook me. I realised that the whole village had its eyes on me.

Everyone in front of their huts, watching me as if I were a rare beast. Well... I don't know. Some children were frightened by my presence. Someone even shouted as I passed. Was it fear? I felt embarrassed. I tried to be indifferent, but every time I passed a woman I heard the word mzungu hovering in the air. They were talking about me. Certainly not about my clothes. And yet I had tried to be like them. I had put on a Maasai pareo. Over a brightly coloured T-shirt, I tried to blend in with their multicoloured clothes. I did not know I was being mocked. My outfit made them smile. A mzungu in Maasai clothes. Ridiculous. John was more and more indifferent to the women's stares. The Maasai, the men, came towards us. Someone uttered a word of English. Someone else smiled at me and held out his hand with a simple Jambo. Others stopped with John.

What is life like with a white woman? And how does she kiss? Is she like our women? Question after question. Even the most absurd ones. Some children slowly tried to come closer. Others passed by me and, pretending to bump into me, touched me with an elbow. Who knows what sensation they must have felt. They who had never seen a white woman could now even touch her, brush against her. And not to mention those who tried to work out whether my hair was fake or extensions. Yes, Maasai women all have their hair shaved to zero. And I, with long and even light hair. What oddities. But let's get to my mountain! Arriving at mum's hut the greetings began. The courtesies that make these people the best hosts in the world. Their home is yours. Everything stops to greet and make the newly arrived guest as comfortable as possible. And imagine if the guest is a white person.

Even the neighbours come joyfully to welcome you. After the greetings and the classic glass of Chai (milk and tea) John and I decided to go and take a jaunt into the savannah. After all, with a Maasai, what dangers could there be??!! (reckless!!). We headed towards the savannah. You cannot imagine how many kilometres I had to walk. But you cannot imagine either what a feeling it is to walk and meet not a bicycle, not a car or a motorbike, but a marvellous giraffe. We met six that day. All very tall. Never seen so tall. And then gazelles, then dik-diks, then zebras, then wildebeest, and finally, NO!!.. luckily we did not meet the lion. It scared me, I admit, the idea of possibly meeting dangerous animals scared me, but I felt protected. I was with my warrior. The man of the savannah. I could not be afraid. BUT I assure you that today I realise how reckless I was.

I think it is the air of the savannah, the smells, the colours, its sounds. I think it is all a combination of feelings that are experienced that succeed in making even a fearful person feel strong and safe. And then he was there..majestic. Imposing. In front of us. Him: Kilimanjaro. We dined with the family. Women on one side and men on the other. As Maasai culture dictates. I, the guest mzungu, could move from one place to the other without a problem. I was allowed to eat with the men. But a Maasai woman, a circumcised woman, cannot see a Maasai man eat. That is why in fact it is always the men who cook the meat and carry the women's share to their hut. The others wait until everything is ready, far from the indiscreet eyes of the women (don't ask why.. deep down they cannot give an explanation for such a custom either..

but that is how it is done!!!) and when the food is ready, all together they plunge their hands into the big pot. A single dish for the whole company. That day I was given a plate of rice and meat. They had given me the seat of honour as a special guest. A big boulder that was generally offered to the elder of the group. But that day even the elder had given up his favourite seat to a woman. What an honour. When the meal was over, the warriors slowly disappeared among the trees of the savannah. In small groups they headed for their huts. And they all came to greet the elder of the group and the mzungu. I felt like a queen, but at the same time embarrassed. But it was the feeling I hoped to experience. It was not the usual journey among ordinary people in ordinary places. I was among the Maasai. I was among the people who even today can kill a lion with their bare hands.

John watched me now and then and smiled. He knew I was electrified by the idea of being close to the savannah. He knew that my gaze now and then rose to look at him. He knew I was there for those people and for Kilimanjaro. We heard voices in the darkness of the African night. We heard the noise of silence. The animals, even the smallest, seemed to bring nightlife to life as much as possible. We glimpsed small fires. All with a kerosene lamp. Huts full of life. Lives worth telling! We met up with other warriors in front of a hut. No electric light. The torch was inside the backpack. For John it was better without. And then there was the light above us. It was the light bulbs of Kilimanjaro. Millions of stars, enough to light up the whole village. The moon waxing. It greeted me on the day I left in its fullest splendour. And the stars that evening had disappeared.

The moon was now the lamp of Kilimanjaro. I must go back. One cannot not return to paradise. Donatella