Back at the Kibo Slopes Lodge the Kili Initiative team relaxed after lunch. I hadn’t eaten anything. My stomach was trembling at the sight of good and decided to wander into town for some souvenirs and maybe even a Guinness.

The Irish Stout was good for you.

This was our last day in Loitokitok.

Tomorrow the team was traveling to Tanzania to begin our climb of Mount Kilimanjaro.

My friend Ma’we joined me.

“Always good to have someone with you. This might be the country, but young men can get city very fast, if they see someone with money.”

“Like me.”

“Yes, like you.”

I took only my phone and some money.

We walked down the back road.

Some girl approached us.

They offered fun.

“Sorry, I am a married man.”

I have been faithful to Mam over ten years.

One of them said, “Muziki.”

Even without knowing Swahili I deciphered the word and laughed, giving them each enough money for a meal. $3 in total.

“Why you give those bad girls money?”

“We all are bad. They are bad 100%. They are just not lucky, same as that flower. Beautiful one day. Not beautiful another.”

Ma’we understood and

School was in session and few people were on the street, except for a couple of children on a dusty street.

“Why aren’t they in school?”

“Maybe family have no money. School is very expensive, but I think they be too young.”

Their smiles were things of beauty.

“Same in Thailand. No money. No school.”

“Corruption.”

Kenya was richer than most countries on the continent, but the money flowed up to the rich and never down to the poor. Same as everywhere in the world.

“Just a second. You go ahead.”

“Sick?” asked Ma’we.

“Only a little.”

He walked ahead and I voided my body and soul onto the dirt.

Damn goat entail soup.

We turned a corner and were in the market.

Passengers were loading onto buses destined for unknown towns.

Ma’we had friends here. Everyone knew him. Everyone wanted to say hello. He introduced me as his brother. I felt good about that, but then my stomach gurgled like the inside of a fetid geyser.

“Watch out. M’zee zamani.”

All the old men laughed, because nothing was funnier than a fart. I took my revenge and let go. The old men reeled back in earnest and I said, “M’zee # 1.”

We left quickly and within two minutes people shouted out to me.

“M’zee Zamani.”

I had been here for a couple of days.

They also shouted out, “Konyagi.”

It was my drink and in small towns everyone knew everyone’s stories and quick.

A bar was located on a back alley.

Ma’we led me to a seat by the window.

He laughed with the other drinkers, telling a tale of my farts and after a brief conversation in Swahili he asked, “Guinness?”

I nodded my head, hoping I could keep it down in my stomach and control my zamani. I told heroic tales of passing gas to the bar drinkers and raised my hands to signal I needed to get outside.

The Preacher Man was kicking off his evening session.

I walked across the dirt road. Flowers floated from the green. I tested the wind and aimed downwind. I spread my legs and let go the wind within me. A song came into my head. CANDLE IN THE WIND. Elton John.

I turned around and entered the bar to cheers.

My fellow drinkers were holding their noses.

I sniffed the air and said, “Big nose smelled bad everywhere.”

The next round was on me, because Guinness was good for you.

No matter how bad was your guts.

ps. I bought a Kenya baseball cap.