From the children...

Amongst my final Tanzanian unpacking I unearthed some of the drawings the children did for me either during my time there, or as farewell gifts to me.  Studying them reminded me that, regardless of the chaos of the greater world (both theirs and mine), I made a connection, and I made a difference.  The drawings provide the perfect counter-balance to my deep ponderings of late.

I'm going to let the pictures speak for themselves...

Lessons...

Oh boy, oh boy. If my final few weeks In Tanzania has taught me anything, it’s how vulnerable children are in a world ruled by adults; often unwitting pawns in battles they don’t even understand. Like a bitter divorce, where the parents play their children off against each other – a most despicable action – children mimic, eagerly swallowing and regurgitating whatever their parents feed them, because when you’re a child your parents are all-knowing, omnipotent beings, God-like.

It is part of the process of growing up to realise that parents, indeed all adults, are not perfect & don’t know everything. In fact, they may even sometimes be downright wrong. And that the world is, in fact, not black and white, but innumerable shades of grey. In ideal circumstances, these realisations are acquired without too much pain, but sometimes the road is unbelievably rocky, and incalculable damage may be caused to young hearts and psyches along the way.

The greatest sadness is that adults are often so caught up in their own world of pain, or fear, or desperation, perhaps all three together, that they don’t even realise the damage they are causing children. It seems a greater tragedy, somehow, even than adults who intentionally cause children pain, because the adults involved don’t actually intend to hurt the children. Like the buffalo I saw on safari last week: on his last legs with hounding hyenas commencing to eat him alive, having starting with his soft scrotum first. He reacted from a world of pain, striking out; charging the safari vehicle in front of him. There was no logic to that action – it served no purpose, and it caused damage no doubt to himself as well as the object of his attack. Objectivity is lost and reactions become emotionally driven, illogical.

To maintain an absolute focus on children’s welfare above and beyond the devastation of whatever disaster is unfolding in adults’ lives may seem at times impossible, given our own human failings, but is absolutely crucial, at least to the furthest extent possible. That is not to say it is possible to shield children from all pain, for it is not, and children need to learn resilience to make their own way in the world. As adults we need to be self-aware and self-critical though, assessing our own motivations and actions scrupulously, and being receptive to perhaps others bringing our failings, ill-considered actions or delusions to our attention (ouch!).

I am heading home to marry and, God-willing, have children of my own. The thought of the power and responsibility of parenthood, of the potential I will have as a parent to cause incalculable damage to another human being – is terrifying.

I consider myself a Christian, but I have learnt of the dangers of extreme religion; of cult-like organisations; of the inflexibility of absolute conviction. My belief is that faith is a process, not an absolute; it is a process of questioning & openness. I believe that God works through humans, through relationship, through love, and the imperfect human element in all of that should be acknowledged. Not even just acknowledged, but celebrated. Honestly, given our flawed characters, it’s a wonder anything miraculous is achieved through humans at all. And whilst I have my beliefs, I am not prepared to claim I’ve got it 100% right and every other person on this planet who believes something one iota different (although often fundamentally similar) to me is categorically wrong and is condemned. Surely knowing ALL would make ME God???

I have learnt how desperate people are to eke out a living in a country with a 40% (so I read somewhere) unemployment rate, and to maintain that employment once they’ve obtained it, and how vulnerable this can make them. Of the pain and cost of this vulnerability, but also of the character and strength of humans to endure.

I am sitting in Bangkok Airport on a five-hour layover, contemplating the closing of a significant chapter in my life, and the beginning of a new one.
Transitions...
Change...
Exciting, unsettling, challenging.
I think I’ll be on an emotional roller-coaster for some time to come.

I have learnt the throat-catching jolt of simultaneous joy and pain caused the simple words of a cheeky-grinned six year-old boy...
“I will miss you.”

I have learnt the size of the hole in my heart, which despite my best efforts to maintain a professional attitude to my volunteering work, has been torn simply by saying goodbye to twenty-four beautiful children.

I hope and plan to see them again one day, although I refused to promise them when. Life is uncertain, but hope and love spring eternal.

These children will always hold a special place in my heart. I wish them the world. To borrow (and slightly modify) the words and sentiments of John Schumann:

FOR THE CHILDREN

Committee Assist asked me would I write a song for you.
Didn’t know you then but now I do.
And I’m stuck in this airport, with an empty, aching heart.
And the miles roll out between us, and they’re tearing me apart.
All I’ve got is tunes and rhymes – this one’s for you.

May you always feel the sunshine; take time to taste the rain.
May your friends be true and caring and I hope you are the same.
And in your fleeting passage, leave a little bit behind
for the children who will follow in your footsteps, along the sands of time.

May the wind blow gently through your life, may your principles be strong.
May you stand up and be counted when they work out right from wrong.
May your nights be short and peaceful, may your days be warm and long.
May your music be a service... may they pause sometime and listen to your song.

May your eyes be filled with kindness, may the seeds of wisdom grow.
May you seek for truth and beauty, and when you find it may you know.
May you help feed those who’re hungry, comfort those who hurt.
May you always fight for justice, for all of us who walk upon the earth.

Close your eyes & hold out your hands...

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! What an amazing end to 2010! So, so much has happened.

I have a confession. For five months I was plotting & scheming, fabricating a cover-story & maintaining a carefully crafted deception. The plan... to pull off THE BEST Christmas surprise ever!

And so it was that my poor unsuspecting fiancé was sitting at his work desk in Australia a few mornings before Christmas, missing his girl terribly, when an apparition wearing a Masai shuka (Masai blanket, typically red tartan) & a red Christmas ribbon bow in her hair, came rushing towards him yelling “MZUNGU!”

Never have I seen anyone so completely gobsmacked! He was almost catatonic with surprise; held speechless and motionless by a brain incapable of reconciling what he saw before him with what he knew to be “fact”. That “fact” that I was trekking in the Ngorongoro Highlands of Tanzania for a few days whilst he stoically reconciled himself to our lack of telecommunications contact... AGAIN. And in the lead-up to Christmas, for goodness sake – almost too much to bear. This “fact” was actually a cover-story to “explain” my lack of contact while I flew home for our first Christmas together.

Suffice to say, it was the most amazing surprise I’ve ever pulled on anyone, and THE BEST Christmas present he’s ever received.

The lead-up to my pre-Christmas departure was completely chaotic as I struggled to wrap up my work at Kili Kids. I was on a mission to get as many of them to the dentist as possible. Do you remember going to the dentist as a child??? How intimidating it was, even though you’d been plenty of times before? Perhaps you even recall your first time? Or perhaps, like me, you can’t specifically recall your first time because you were too young. Imagine being anywhere from 6-14 years old and going to the dentist for the FIRST TIME. Scary stuff.

Given the best of circumstances, getting so many children to the dentist is a major undertaking. Each appointment can take up to an hour, so I only take two children at a time. When Tanesco, the town’s electricity supply company, is replacing a major generator & turning the electricity off ALL DAY as often as every second day, & the dentist doesn’t have his own generator, it becomes a major ordeal. One child was particularly unlucky – it was our third attempt before we managed an “electricity on” visit.

At the same time I was trying to rush around to various hospitals/medical centres to book appointments for January. And squeeze in a little family present shopping too of course. Oh yeah, and then there was our Independence Day BBQ, clambering up & sleeping in the crater of an active volcano! And the cow shopping – yes, cows! Tales for another day.

Saying goodbye to the beautiful Kili Kids wasn’t too painful for either side, as we all knew I’d be returning shortly. It was a sobering thought though to realise this farewell was my “practice run” and that my final farewell would not be long in arriving.

And whilst away Christmasing (that’s a verb you know) in Australia, I missed one of the most momentous happenings in the history of Committee Assist and in the “Kili Kids” chapter of our children’s lives: they moved to their new home – Rainbow Ridge. Rainbow Ridge is an eco-friendly group of small homes that has been under construction for a couple of years on a block of land at Mailisita (maili = mile, sita = six), six miles out of town. The children are now in a home in beautiful lush bush surroundings, owned by Committee Assist, rather than a rented house with a dusty yard.

We have cows, pigs, chooks, goats, fish &, as the youngest children delightedly showed me today, frogs (not domesticated though; they just like the bugs around the fish pond). The maize crop was harvested several months ago, & numerous vegetables are thriving. Avocado & banana trees bow under the weight of their fruit, & the creek tinkles at the back of the block. And when she deigns to show her face, Kilimanjaro hovers benignly above it all. Delightful!

As I write this, I’ve been back in Moshi for about 32 hours. It was delightful to be greeted “home” by the children today. Most of the “littlies” threw themselves on me; the older boys were generally more reserved. One of our littlest boys emerged around the far end of one of the houses and stood gazing, registering who I was with a little smile playing across his face. As we exchanged waves I called out “Hello”, which he mimicked back. He made no move closer though. I called out “Come and say hello”, which was playfully mimicked again; then I received a cheeky little karate kick in my direction, which I mirrored. “Njoo hapa” (“come here” in Kiswahili) elicited the same mimicking response. A few minutes later he came to give me a welcoming hug. He’s a chap who likes to do things in his own time, in his own way. I respect that.

It’s a mere matter of weeks until my time in Tanzania comes to its final conclusion and I must face the farewells I dread so much. I’m hopeless at goodbyes. In the meantime it’s a frantic rush to finish everything I possibly can, putting in place whatever I can to be of ongoing assistance once I’m gone, and reconciling myself to all the things I just won’t have time to achieve. I’m ready though; my visit home showed me that. I’m eagerly looking forward to the many adventures that 2011 holds for me – and they are many! Meanwhile, amongst the chaos of my final volunteering days I will endeavour to savour every moment, every precious interaction with my friends, work colleagues, & the beloved children who have been the reason for, and focus of, my time here.

People die easily here...

Locals and wazungu (foreigners) fight to help a teenage boy in an orphanage get the heart surgery he desperately needs to save his life. It’s a bureaucratic fight to get him from Moshi to Dar es Salaam, but that’s nothing compared to the bureaucratic nightmare to get him to India for his surgery. It takes months. Finally all is set, and then the boy contracts an infection and must recover before he can be moved. Recovered, he goes to India & has his surgery. All is successful and his future is looking up.

The boy returns to Tanzania – via Dar again, then home to Moshi. Having just arrived home, he falls ill and is taken to hospital. He dies that night, from sepsis!

A man in Kenya gathers his precious life savings and pays for the implantation of a device in his forearm that allows him to have the kidney dialysis that is keeping him alive. Shortly after, he’s attacked by a pack of dogs and the device is ripped from his arm. Friends in Moshi hear of the disaster and “pass the hat around” so the device can be replaced. Having found someone to transport the money to Nairobi, they get online to send an email with the good news. The inbox contains news – the man died ten days after the dog attack, as he couldn’t receive dialysis. The help comes too late.

MVAs (motor vehicle accidents)... are constant. The bus drivers are maniacs, flooring the accelerator at every opportunity, overtaking on hill crests and blind corners, pulling back into their lane with no regard for the vehicle in their blind spot they are pushing off the road, playing games - racing and blocking each other from overtaking. Vehicle maintenance is dubious at best – I’ve lost count of the number of buses and trucks that appear to be travelling down the road at a 30 degree angle, or greater, to their direction of travel.

And as with MVAs everywhere, in the vehicle versus cyclist, or vehicle versus pedestrian collisions, there’s no doubt as to who comes off worse. Cyclists wear no helmets, and have no lights. At night, pedestrians and cyclists are all but invisible.

Even in daylight, the accidents are constant. My friends have seen a motorcyclist being unwrapped from around the wheel of a dala-dala, and carried back and forth across the road by the arms and legs, tossed around like a sack of potatoes as his helpers desperately tried to throw him in a taxi. Meanwhile others were in hot pursuit of the driver who’d run from the scene as fast as he could.

And mob justice rules (or tries to – it depends who gets to the accident first, mob or cops: usually the mob). I’ve been told repeatedly by numerous folks “If you’re involved in an accident, don’t stop. No matter what! If you see an accident, don’t stop. No matter what!”

It’s amazing what you take on board as accepted wisdom, and don’t pause to question it. Until forced to.

Two weeks ago, I was travelling with a friend back from a weekender trip down to the coast. Approaching vehicles began flashing their headlights at us. As we crested a rise, we saw a crowd running down the road ahead of us. This means one thing only... ACCIDENT! They were all running towards a lump in the middle of our lane. We exclaimed “Oh no, I hope that’s not a person.” No, it seemed too small. Perhaps the size of an adult goat? We breathed a sigh of relief.

Short-lived. As we passed by we were simultaneously hit by the realisation that the locals would be unlikely to be running in such a panicked crowd towards a goat, and by the sight of a boy, probably early teens, side-lying on the road, as though sleeping. In total shock, we instinctively fell back on what had been drummed into us; “Don’t stop, no matter what.”

As we crested the next rise, an even more gut-wrenching sight; a bus was limping along, slowing down as a madly waving man leapt from it. The front drivers-side tyre was blown; and jammed up behind the blown wheel – the handlebars of a bicycle were clearly visible. “Oh God!”

Sickened, I prayed “please let that child have died instantly.” Sounds like an obscene prayer. But there was no way that was a survivable accident. Probably not survivable in the best hospitals in the developed world; certainly not here. There are barely any ambulances. No-one knows first aid. No-one knows how to handle a severely injured person. There is a charity organisation that teaches first aid courses in East Africa, and CPR (cardio-pulmonary resuscitation) is not taught... because none of the other steps in the “chain of survival” exist here. To put it succinctly, there is no point doing CPR, because your patient will die anyway.

Back on the road, we drove on, placating ourselves with reassurances that “there was absolutely nothing we could’ve done to help” and it would’ve been dangerous for us to stop.

But would it, would it really? Looking back now, I’m sickened that we didn’t stop. Was it fear; fear of being mobbed by an emotionally volatile crowd (unable to see the bus over the horizon) looking to lash out at the perpetrator, or anyone handy, that kept us driving? Was it not wanting to face death?  Was it resignation?

And what could we have done had we stopped? Probably nothing. But possibly something. I’ll never know. I will go to my grave not knowing. Why did we not reach out?

I’m being faced with lessons in humanity and humility; in the interconnectedness of all humans. The above is a far more dramatic situation, but does it differ really from ignoring a beggar as you walk past them in the street? Endless wazungu, the poorest of whom are rich beyond imagining to most Tanzanians, walk on by whilst locals drop their coins in the beggars’ cups. Not all the locals, mind you, but some do. Maybe some wazungu are dropping coins too, but I just haven’t seen them.

And these wazungu are not selfish folk either. Most are in Moshi volunteering – giving of themselves to others. There’s a tendency to give selectively though – to ration your ability to give. It’s difficult to live in a situation where you’re perceived as a cash-cow. Where the dentist's assistant nephew asks you to pay his college fees.  When even a casual hello to a security guard outside the bank leads to a request for money because, even though he has a job, he says he can’t afford his children’s school fees. He says “Are you a Christian lady? You’re here helping orphans; why can’t you help me?”

And meanwhile, a mother is in the hospital with her baby who is sick enough he needs to be on oxygen to help him survive the night. The doctors want to take the oxygen away to another sick child or baby, because there are no more oxygen cylinders available. The mother argues and fights to keep the oxygen. It gives a whole new depth of meaning to the phrase bandied around in our well-provisioned Western-world children’s hospitals: “advocating for your child”.

What do I make of all this? I don’t know. I feel guilty.  I feel I could be doing more; I must be able to do more.  There are no easy answers. But it makes you think.

People die easily here. I guess they die easily everywhere.

Wildlife wonders...

Sometimes words are superfluous; I suspect this is one of those occasions.  The following images are from our safari (which means 'journey' in Kiswahili) to Lake Elementiata, Lake Nakuru National Park, and the Masai Mara National Park in Kenya.

  

A mountain in shadow

Like the athlete who just misses a place-getting medal, Mt. Kenya is a mountain quite literally over-shadowed. Despite being the second highest mountain in Africa, I’m yet to meet any other travellers in Tanzania who have trekked it. In fact, I only know one awesome (all-female) group who have. Hordes head up Mt Kilimanjaro annually, yet Mt Kenya, a much more spectacular mountain in many ways, sits like the younger sibling shunned by the crowd enjoying big brother’s party.

Despite this seeming disregard by wazungu (foreigners), the mountain has always been considered sacred by the tribal inhabitants of the region. Both the Kikuyu & Meru peoples considered Mt Kenya the realm of their particular “god”; it is still regarded a holy mountain.

I have to admit, “holiness” wasn’t on my pre-requisites list for the adventure I had planned for my boyfriend when he visited me in Tanzania. We’ve both led treks up Mt Kilimanjaro & Mt Meru (2nd highest mountain in Tanzania) several times. This holiday called for adventure somewhere other than Tanzania. Mt Kenya was the unanimous choice, followed by a short safari, mostly for the sheer novelty of doing a safari as a couple, rather than as a work job.

Mt. Kenya, indeed our entire adventure, far exceeded our expectations. Mt. Kenya surprised & delighted us in so many ways, & has completely endeared itself to us both.

We commenced & completed our trip with nights in The Rock House, on the outskirts of Nairobi. This house/guest accommodation is delightfully quirky. It is decorated inside & out with rock & rough wood, & even has a replica of Mt Kenya dominating the front garden; about as kitch as you can get, but it somehow works.

Our second surprise came after the four-hour drive to Chogoria township, where we met our crew & were transferred from a plush safari vehicle to the oldest, most dilapidated Land Rover I’ve ever seen, much less ridden in.

We rode up front beside the driver, inhaling engine fumes through the substantial gaps in the floor, whilst our crew squashed in the back with all the gear. Not at all reassured by our guide’s assurance our driver was “very good”, we exchanged nervous grins as we raised our eyebrows at each other & gigglingly whispered “Oh well, expect the unexpected.”

Whilst we’d been harbouring the secret concern that our trip had just taken a massive plunge in the quality department, & that our positive experience so far had been the polished veneer that’d just chipped off, the truth quickly became evident... the swish safari vehicle would’ve been completely destroyed by the drive to the Chogoria Track roadhead.

What we experienced over the next almost-two hours was a masterful rally driving display. At times the vehicle slid sideways into the walls of the track, with the vegetation almost tickling my boyfriend’s cheek through the window. Several times our crew disembarked & clung to the rear of the vehicle to weight down the back wheels, or push the vehicle forwards, or sideways, or to shove wood under all the tyres, upon which our driver would rock back & forth, getting up the momentum to get unstuck from the quagmire again. At one point we even lost 4WD in one of the wheels. Finally we reached a point at which our driver decreed he could go no further. There were handshakes & thanks all-round. As we sorted gear, donned our packs, & watched the "Warrior Rover" slide off down the track, we pondered the chances of our driver making it back to town that night without extra bodies to help un-stick him from the bogs.

Yipee! Finally we had our packs on & our boots doing what they were designed for. We strolled up the boggy track, appreciating why our vehicle could continue no further, & enjoyed the changing sky-show as dusk descended. We passed close by buffalo, a male bachelor herd, remembering the advice from Rangers on Mt Meru to “stick close together” to appear like a single organism, as bachelor buffalo are notoriously grumpy guys.

After a delightful night in our own little hut at Meru Mount Kenya Bandas (3,000m), complete with hot drinks in front of the fireplace, we awoke eager to tackle the next day. This day reminded me of nothing so much as walking in the “high country” of Australia; if it wasn’t for the five guys accompanying us chattering away in Kikuyu, I could’ve almost imagined myself in the Snowy Mountains.

We took a side trip from the usual route this day to camp at the delightful Lake Ellis (3,300m). Unlike the broad, well-signposted tracks of Mt Kilimanjaro, on this day we were following winding footpads through vegetation at times head-high & we were thankful for the extensive experience of our guide. In the far distance, brief glimpses of the jagged central peaks tantalizingly beckoned us. We reached the lake for lunch, & then with impeccable timing the rain arrived.  Snuggled in our strongly fish-smelling tent, a siesta beckoned. We dined that evening under a shy full moon, the sole residents of the lakeside camp, although we felt like the only folks on the entire mountain.

On Day 3 we learned why Chogoria Route is considered the most picturesque on the mountain. We crossed a steep valley, & then ascended a long rocky ridge, gaining altitude & ever-more expansive views of the lower foothills.

Late morning we crested a ridge & sensed we were about to come upon something truly spectacular. As indeed we were. Gorges Valley, the deepest valley on the mountain, is incredible! We gazed down in breathtaking awe upon Lake Michaelson far below us, nestled between craggy cliff-faces, the rivers filling & draining it visible as long silver ribbons down the valley floor.

Gorges Valley: a photo will never do it justice...

The bizarre senecio & lobelia made their appearance around this altitude, reminding us of Mt Kilimanjaro. Again the rain arrived with our lunch; just as we hot-footed it into Minto’s Camp (4200m) & dived into our tent. Later we caught brief glimpses of the pretty string of the glacial Hall Tarns before cloud enveloped our moonscape campsite, & the rain set in for the night.

We rose in the dead of night in immense excitement, ready for our summit attempt. The central summit area of Mt Kenya, the volcanic plug remnants of an ancient volcanic mountain, has been eroded into a complex of jagged peaks. The two highest main peaks, Batian (5199m) & Nelion (5188m), are technical mountaineering peaks tackled by a mere handful of hardy climbers a year. Our destination was Point Lenana (4985m), the trekking summit.

We set of at 3:20am, the rain providing a “positive thinking” excuse: to give our gear a good workout. Fortunately rain turned to snow shortly thereafter. Despite not being visible behind the dense cloud, the moon imparted an ethereal glow to the landscape. We grinned at each other like children surrounded by Easter chocolate.

Being well acclimatized & a small party of three, we travelled at a good pace. Our guide Cyrus had legs up to my armpits, so his casual stride ate up the ground rapidly. He was “breaking trail” all the way, as we were the only party ascending from Chogoria route that night. Despite Cyrus’ footprints being too far apart for comfort, as the slopes steepened & the snow cover increased, it was easier to stride out uncomfortably to step into his footprints than to slip & slide on the virgin snow.

There’s a fascinating time-warp effect when nightwalking which I love; hours can disappear, seemingly in minutes. And then there’s that strange dawn moment when you realise you don’t need your head-torch anymore, as you gaze in wonder at the spectacular panorama emerging from its night-time secret.

And this was the most incredible dawn vista that had ever greeted my eyes! We truly felt as though we were in an expansive mountain range, rather than on a single behemoth of a mountain. Trekkers joined us from the neighbouring Mackinder Valley, ascending from Sirimon Route, as we carefully zigged-zagged our way up the slippery slopes before eagerly tackling the rocky scramble to the summit.

Shortly after sunrise we summitted, taking turns with the other jubilant summiters in standing next to the flagpole for “happy snaps”. Our guide left after capturing our summit photo, missing the momentous happenings of the next minutes. Right on the summit, my boyfriend dropped to bended knee, asked the magic question, & placed a beautiful ring on my engagement-ring finger. Not a single other person present on the summit noticed, so it was a perfectly private, romantic moment. Which is just as it should be!

The only issue with a sunrise mountain-top marriage proposal is that it’s jolly cold. Well, extremely cold actually. Neither of us could feel our fingertips as we fumbled unsuccessfully to get our gloves back on properly; so we headed downhill with fingers folded awkwardly within the hands of our gloves. Lower down the mountain circulation, & hence feeling, returned & we “dressed” ourselves properly. Elated, we asked Cyrus “Do you know what happened up there?” He’d had no idea. A grin that mirrored our own spread across his face as he proclaimed he thought we’d make a great team.

Stratospheres above “cloud nine”, I was in no hurry to descend from the Point Lenana, eager to absorb every second; in sensory & emotional overload. I don’t think the Cheshire-cat grins left our faces for the rest of our trip.

The descent to breakfast at Shipton’s Hut was gorgeous; Mackinder Valley disappeared in the distance, appearing never-ending. We descended through senecio forest that puts Mt Kili’s Barranco Valley equivalent to shame. We were amused to watch our cook & porters at a dead-run down an adjacent wall of the valley, obviously keen to get to the hut in time to have breakfast awaiting us. A long but pleasant day’s walk ensued, the only day we walked in rain for several hours. That night, at the huts of Old Moses’ Camp, we once again had the place to ourselves.

In the morning we descended down an unpaved road, enjoying our last decent exercise of the trip. The forest & wildlife were a delight – the entire national park & surrounding forest reserve are a UNESCO-declared International World Heritage Site; many of the vegetation species here exist nowhere else on earth. During our trip we’d seen bush duikers & waterbuck (antelope species), rock hyrax, scaly francolins & an Abyssinian long-eared owl.

We truly felt we’d had an amazing adventure. We’d certainly experienced “the unexpected.” Mt Kenya is definitely now our favourite African mountain. With the exception of altitude, everything the ever-popular Mt Kilimanjaro has to offer; spectacular scenery, striking glaciers, sweeping views, plunging valleys, imposing peaks, bizarre landscapes; Mt Kenya does on a grander scale, or with greater style.

If you are a lover of mountains, Mt Kenya is a true gem. Mt Kilimanjaro is a diamond – sparkling enticingly across the globe, loved by the masses. Mt Kenya is a Tanzanite – a thousand times rarer than diamond, known of by few, a jewel of exceptional beauty.