by John Crocker
Hamisi’s focus integrated everything he observed—including me. When we were hiking up the valley together, he seemed focused on the landscape, but he suddenly announced, “I think we should stop here and rest a while” when I had just started feeling like my legs wouldn’t carry me any farther. This was not the only time when he picked up on my needs. In addition to noticing when I was growing tired, he seemed to know just when I needed help identifying a particular chimp off in the distance. He also understood the forest and how to avoid its perils—both seen and unseen.
There were, of course, cultural differences between us that could take me by surprise. Once, as we walked along the beach before dinner, the sun approaching the horizon, and men outfitting their small boats for night fishing, Hamisi said softly, “The men are setting out for fishing.”
I was listening carefully and glancing down at the sand, so I was startled when Hamisi very gently clasped my hand in his. I had seen Tanzanian men walking together holding hands, and knew it was part of their culture, but that didn’t stop my face from flushing hotly. It seemed like forever until Hamisi let go of my hand, but it was probably less than three minutes. I was deeply self-conscious, but also flattered at the same time. Soon I grew comfortable with this tradition. I felt I was being accepted as part of the closely bonded “men’s circle,” just as the Tanzanian women had their own “women’s circle.” I enjoyed the natural ease of being emotionally connected to the field assistants, and I recognize now that as a result of my time at Gombe I am more open and connected with my friends, having brought some of the brotherhood style of interaction home with me.
Often while traipsing after the chimps with Hamisi as my guide, I thought about how fascinating it would be to visit Hamisi’s home in Bubongo Village. This was a five-hour hike to the other side of the Rift Mountains. I hadn’t heard of other students making such a journey to visit the home of a field assistant, but I was deeply curious. There is so much to experience in Africa—jungles, deserts, and mountains; rural villages and growing cities; diverse cultures, countries, and communities. I wanted to see and experience this one place: the rural village where my friend grew up, his particular Africa.
One afternoon, Hamisi invited me to come home with him. He evidently took the initiative after I’d dropped numerous hints such as, “What is your home like? Do you grow your own food? Do you have chickens or other animals? Do you live with your parents? What do young children do in your village? How far is the nearest school?”
The trip was one of the highlights of my time in Tanzania. I followed Hamisi along dusty trails, climbing high up into the Rift Mountains, gaping at the gorgeous vistas. After months in the dense forest, I was suddenly completely exposed to the sun as we strolled along the barren hillside. The warm breeze caressed my face. My imagination kicked in and I daydreamed of flying like a bird out toward the massive lake and looking back at the deep green valleys where the chimps lived. The open and stunning landscape had ignited my creative side as I pictured myself soaring like an eagle high above the Rift Mountains. The sky was deep blue against the soft-brown of the mountains, and not a single cloud was visible. Despite the arid climate on the mountain at 4,500-foot elevation, Hamisi picked a small white flower from a bush and had me smell the gardenia-like fragrance.
Then, once we began our descent, we passed a number of small corn and cassava farms that I otherwise wouldn’t have seen during my time in Africa. Cassava was the main staple of the Tanzanian diet, a woody shrub with a starchy tuberous root that was pounded and cooked into a baked-potato-like consistency. The small plots of lush plants enclosed by wooden fences were close to a stream that winded down to the cultivated valley below. We were definitely leaving chimp land and entering human civilization.
Along the path, we encountered an older man, whom I greeted by lowering my head and saying, “Shikamoo mzee,” the way one acknowledges respect for an older person. However, probably because I was Caucasian, the man also lowered his head. I lowered mine farther; he lowered his further. As each of us then tried to lower his head more than the other, Hamisi began to laugh. His laughter grew louder as our heads nearly touched the ground.
Finally, we reached Hamisi’s homestead, where five simple mud and thatch houses clustered on a verdant hillside. Beyond the houses I could see a large valley off in the distance, far below. Hamisi lived with his parents and younger siblings in one home, with another for his grandparents, and one each for his older siblings and their families. A small garden adjoined them, and chickens ran about freely. As I walked across the rich, reddish-brown soil on a small pathway leading to the main house, I felt nervous not knowing how I should act or if my Swahili was good enough to carry on conversations.
That feeling vanished as soon as I met his mother. “Welcome to our village and home after your long trip,” Hamisi’s mother said graciously in Swahili. “Perhaps you would like some tea?” When I gratefully nodded, she excused herself to begin preparing the beverage as well as an afternoon meal.
After meeting more of Hamisi’s relatives and taking a stroll around the garden, I sat on the veranda and visited with family members while the children played close by. Some of the younger kids peered out of a doorway and stared at me curiously. When tea was ready, Hamisi’s mother invited me inside, where the earthy aromas reminded me of Indian spices and fresh clay pottery. She filled a teacup half with black, spicy tea, added some milk, and then ladled in enormous spoonfuls of sugar; the sugar must have taken up about a fourth of the cup. After stirring it all together, she carefully brought it over to me.
I tasted the syrupy drink and smiled, trying to ignore the shockingly sweet taste. I wanted to get it away from me, but I was stuck. Drink it all, I kept telling myself. Just do it. The task took a while to complete—and I felt a bit nauseated afterward—but I wanted to be a gracious guest.
Soon it was time for our midafternoon dinner—a wonderful meal of cassava, beans, fish sauce, and fresh greens, all prepared over a small fire and without running water. Having worked all day, the fourteen-member extended family was ready to relax, talk, laugh, and simply be together.
“Hamisi told us you are studying to become a doctor?” his mother asked.
“Ndio,” I replied, nodding. “It will take four more years of schooling and three years of specialty training before I can practice medicine.”
“Mmm—that is too long. You could work here as a healer even now if you are good at healing. Hamisi has a good understanding of plants that are used for curing illnesses.”
I sensed that most people in the villages had better access to local healers and often preferred them to the government-run clinic in Kigoma. I didn’t know if the children had received immunizations to protect against polio and other illnesses, but everyone looked healthy and fit.
After I’d finished my plate, Hamisi’s mother wanted to pile it with more food. Thankfully, I had learned a useful Swahili phrase for this situation. With a smile and slight bow of my head, I said with confidence, “Nimeshiba,” which means, “I am very satisfied and cannot eat any more.” It’s a lovely one-word way to politely express satiety. The meaning is imbued with appreciation for the meal. I thought gratefully of my Swahili teacher, who had taught me this crucial phrase, the only polite way for a guest to refuse more.
The afternoon was filled with easygoing, joyous interactions among Hamisi’s extended family, mostly talking and walking around the garden, dodging the chickens, and watching the kids play. It made me wish I had grown up with a similar style of togetherness. My own upbringing had not created these warm familial bonds, though I felt a close connection with my mother, who always anticipated our needs and was available for reassurance. Though she prepared nice, wholesome meals as a stay-at-home mom, what I remember most is her opening cans of Franco-American spaghetti, my all-time favorite!
But the relaxed pace and inclusiveness in Hamisi’s home contrasted with the more strained family life I had known around dinnertime, our main sha
red meal. I grew up with a father who was painstakingly working his way up the corporate ladder. He frequently came home after work late and in a cranky mood. The four of us kids managed to find humor and entertainment among ourselves as we tried to evade his venting of pent-up stress.
After my Bubongo visit, I wondered if, when I went home, I could persuade my parents to adopt a predinner ritual of relaxing and just being together—but in the winter months in Minnesota, it certainly wouldn’t take place on the front porch.
As I walked back to Gombe with Hamisi that evening, I realized how spiritually close I felt to his community. People living in Bubongo seemed to have a strong connection to nature, and they recognized how much I valued this. Without electricity, people spent much of the time outdoors. Traveling by foot was a welcome change from the energy-draining traffic back home. I was also attracted to the slow pace at which people interacted and prepared their meals. Food, family, and time were all woven together. It would have been inconceivable for Hamisi or his family to rush through a meal or put limits on their companionship.
Perhaps I was searching for a model of home life that included more mindfulness and thankfulness. Even if I was seeing the best of family life on display in Bubongo, that didn’t really matter. I was creating a romantic and charming view of how my future family would be. I found myself wanting to return to the village and spend the night. I pictured myself sleeping on a thin mat a few inches above the dirt floor as I listened to children breathing nearby, the night wind, and the morning roosters.
Over the next months that we worked together, Hamisi and I became even better friends, but despite our closeness, I had to think twice about my urge to invite him to join me on my three-week break to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. There were delicate social rules to consider. At Gombe, it wasn’t customary to travel with a field assistant, except into town for a food run. Perhaps this was because it would single someone out and create jealousies, or perhaps because of the expense or communication difficulties. In the end, I didn’t care about these issues—except for the cost. I would be paying for both of us and couldn’t afford to visit big-game parks or stay in even moderately priced hotels. It would be third class all the way. But with my friend Hamisi as a traveling companion, language and cultural barriers wouldn’t be a worry.
“Would you like to climb Kilimanjaro with me?” I asked Hamisi one afternoon while we sat together in the upper camp.
He looked shocked and then gave me a huge smile as he realized I really meant it. “Asante sana, bwana,” he said, thanking me for the invitation.
For our “relaxing” vacation, Hamisi and I traveled third-class by train for two and a half days to Dar es Salaam, as the first leg of our trip to Moshi, where we would climb Kilimanjaro together. We shared our standing-room-only train car leaving Kigoma with chickens, goats, and a lot of other people. I was packed in so tightly I couldn’t possibly fall over, and the fragrance of the animals in our compartment added another earthy edge to the journey. Luckily, Hamisi brought along some fruit and bread, and I had stuffed some cooked chicken into my backpack, which we devoured. We had wisely planned to sleep in a small hotel halfway to Dar, and getting off the train for a while was a welcome relief.
Tony, the Scotsman in charge of the baboon study, had had the original idea for the three of us to climb the mountain. He met us at its base, and we joined a motley group of twelve people from all over the world along with a very experienced guide.
Starting in a tropical valley, we passed through rapidly changing vegetation up to ice and snow, which covered the ground for the final 4,000 feet up to the summit at 19,300 feet. Hamisi slowed down when we began trekking near snow drifts, and I suddenly realized that snow was completely foreign to him. I turned around to see him grinning and holding the snow and crumbling it in his hands. I bent over, scooped up some cold handfuls of snow, made a snowball, and threw it at him. It might not have been the best timing, because he was still exploring the finer details of the snow. Instead of laughing, he looked at me as if he didn’t understand why I’d suddenly pelted him.
“It’s what we do when we play with snow,” I explained to him. “We call it a snowball fight!”
Hamisi raised his eyebrows in uncertainty. Snow was such a marvel that using it in play fighting was not the first thing he would have imagined doing.
We got colder and colder as we climbed; our light packing job and borrowed gear were woefully inadequate for the crisp, biting air at higher elevations. The last night of our four-day ascent, both of us were so cold that we barely slept. We were also experiencing altitude sickness, he more than I. He had grown increasingly quiet, holding his stomach and wanting to lie down. He said he had a headache and felt weak. For the final ascent, which began at 1:00 A.M., Hamisi stayed behind.
“You should go on without me,” he said softly. “I am too cold and don’t feel well.” I could tell he was experiencing the effects of the elevation and plunging temperatures, but he’d made it through the most enjoyable portion of the climb, the first fifteen thousand feet, for which we’d had blue skies and reasonable temperatures. I regretted having to leave him at camp, but knew that it might be risky for him to continue.
Tony and I finally reached the summit at 8:00 A.M. My stomach was rebelling, my entire body was cold, and I was short of breath. Clouds enveloped us, concealing the view. I glanced grimly at Tony and said, “Why are we doing this? Was it your idea or mine?”
The scenery had been so interesting lower down, and we’d all felt comfortable there. Here at the top, I did feel a sense of accomplishment, but I also felt guilty that Hamisi was stuck, shivering, back at the last camp. Maybe if the sun had been shining on the snow and I could have seen for miles across the Serengeti, I would have been able to muster more excitement, but nauseated from altitude sickness and seeing only clouds from the peak, I made a discovery about myself: my rewards in life come more from everyday accomplishments than splashy feats such as conquering mountains. I felt prouder about being Hamisi’s friend than I did about summiting Kilimanjaro.
I also paused to consider the driving force within humanity to “reach the top.” The same ingrained trait of dominance that kept Figan challenging his way to the top of the chimp hierarchy was probably at work in each of us on the mountain. To reach the top had seemed important while we were climbing. When George Mallory was asked why he had wanted to climb Everest, he answered, “Because it’s there.” But if I were to return to Kilimanjaro today, I’d be content to hike to the fourth hut on the mountain and forego the final four thousand feet. I would move more slowly, taking time to notice the changes in the landscape as we ascended and paying more attention to my companions and the mountain itself.
I stayed at the summit, peering off into the clouds for five or ten minutes, and then headed back down, happily reuniting with Hamisi, who was feeling a bit better from resting and starting to acclimatize. The next day, we ran down the mountain, since there was no need to slowly adapt to decreasing altitude—at least at our age. Our rented lightweight boots were wet and uncomfortable, but we weren’t too concerned. Though we had not been well prepared for the cold or the altitude, we were young, resilient from our long treks in the forest, and still learning about nature and our own survival skills.
After the arduous climb, Hamisi seemed anxious to get home. At the very least, he didn’t express enthusiasm about seeing more towns and was still feeling weak after the climb. He had been very cautious on the entire trip, from what food he sampled to talking to people along the way. His one big interest, I noticed, was purchasing a few kitangas, African printed fabric that women wear in wrap-around fashion, to bring back to his village as gifts.
Looking back, it makes sense that Hamisi was generally hesitant and reserved. Even in his own element he was a quiet and contemplative person; he approached everything with care. He also had never traveled to a major city, especially with a white guy who was still learning Swahili. At the time, I wondered why he didn’t s
eem more excited about the variety of life and merchandise in Dar es Salaam, where we had spent time before the climb. It may have been because it was overwhelming his sensitive nature. Compared to Bubongo Village, where there were no cars or electricity, a major city such as Dar es Salaam with traffic, fast-moving people on the sidewalks and plenty of noise from trucks and factories might have seemed like a war zone to Hamisi. But it could also have been, in part, that he was enthused but just wasn’t meeting my expectations of how excitement should be expressed. I came from a culture where excitement and accomplishment were often expressed by fist pumping and loud shouting. I was more familiar with the kinds of energetic displays I saw from Frodo and Figan as they worked their way to the top of the male hierarchy. Hamisi may have been experiencing excitement and joy while we were there but not needing to display it outwardly.
Sharing that adventure with Hamisi meant a lot to me, and I found out afterward that it also meant a great deal to him. Back at Gombe, several days later, I was compiling some data in the main lodge. He entered with a basket, looking full of anticipation. He presented it to me; it was fifty hard-boiled eggs. “Oh, Hamisi!” I exclaimed, astonished and touched. This was a huge gift and expense for him, and I was deeply appreciative and humbled. It took me a month to eat all those eggs—even sharing some of them. I thought about our trip with each bite.
Perhaps tellingly, the trip to Hamisi’s village remained more imprinted in my memory than climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. Topping a mountain may have given me bragging rights, but being so warmly embraced by Hamisi and his family was the real and lasting pleasure. Hamisi had been very proud to introduce me to his parents and other relatives. I appreciated experiencing unconditional acceptance and warmth in a faraway place during a time of searching for meaning in my life. That being said, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro together was an important milestone in my growing friendship with Hamisi. Shared adventure and shared adversity are important bonding rituals. These do not leave us unchanged, and we change together through them.