See You at The Top

If you’ve read my profile you know that I trekked up Mt. Kilimanjaro in Tanzania nearly two years ago.

Kilimanjaro is the world’s largest free standing mountain, 5,891 meters or 19, 330 feet at its peak.

And while I no longer dream that I’m actually climbing Kili – something that kept occurring weeks after the trek – I still think about that trip, our group of eight trekkers and the people I met along the way to the top.

One young man named Martin from Germany particularly stands out.

My group spent six days on the mountain – four days attempting to reach the top via the Machame route and two days descending. The group included my wife, her twin sister and her husband, my sister and her husband, my sister-in-law’s colleague Kimani, and a teacher from Vancouver, Canada I met on the bus from Arusha to Moshi, Tanzania who decided to join our group.

We met Martin on the second day at Shira Camp after a day of trekking that took us out of the green, lush rain forest into the rocky moorlands. He passed our camp in search of one of the many latrines scattered about the area.

We were relaxing, watching the many clouds float into the camp engulfing us, blocking out the sun and then passing on toward Kibo, one of Kili’s two snow-capped peaks. We exchanged greetings and all the inquiries about where we were from with Martin. At the end of the conversation, Martin said: “See you at the top.”


Afterwards, Martin and his group would pass us along the trail and we would greet one another. He was with a group of young British trekkers, probably in their late twenties, and as they passed us with hiking sticks in both hands, they seemed to be moving at a swift pace. I, for one, embraced the concept of “Pole, Pole,” slowly, slowly in Swahili.

“See you at the top,” Martin would always say as he passed.

The night of the ascent to the Summit --- you start the ascent at midnight to arrive at the top by sunrise – I crossed paths with Martin again. That last ascent from camp Barafu (which means ice in Swahili, so you get an indication that we were moving into the arctic region) everyone looks like coal miners because we have headlamps on to see. You look up the mountain there's a trail of lights, you look down the mountain another trail of lights.

My headlamp, unfortunately, did not work and as I and Kimani broke away from our group at a faster pace with Taday, one of our guides, I found that Kimani didn't have a flashlight and the batteries had died in Taday’s big flashlight. So it was dark. And it was a struggle trekking with a 35 to 40 mph wind blowing us around, our water bottles freezing, my legs becoming like lead. I had never experienced such exhaustion in my life.

As I rested on a rock, briefly contemplating turning back as I watched a man who had passed us along the way with his guide, now turning back -- defeated by Kili -- another group of trekkers, their headlamps lighting up the path, slowly trekked by.

The last one in line stopped, shined his light on me and said: "Hello."

I knew that voice. "Martin"? I said, exhausted.

"Yes. See you at the top," he said and he kept moving on.

I did make it to the Summit, a place called Stella Point, close to 18.840 feet or more, near the snowy crater – enough to get a certificate stating that I’d made it to the top. But opted not to push on to Uhuru Peak.

I didn’t see Martin at the top. But I did meet him on his ascent down from the Peak. “So you made it to the Peak?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “My friends made me.”

And he kept on trekking.

More Chris-Rihanna 'News'? No Thanks!

Are many people really lusting after more news on the Chris Brown/Rihanna abuse case? This was the argument Harvey Levin of TMZ.com, the celebrity news and gossip website, tried to make this morning on Reliable Sources. Howard Kurtz, the host and Washington Post news media critic, posed the question of whether the elite newspaper media felt above the story, since publications like the New York Times relegated the charges to a paragraph in the Arts section. In contrast, cable, network news, and tabloids gave the matter ample coverage. Too much, I’d say. My guess is that most Americans didn’t even know who these two were until Brown’s alleged attack. I think such coverage does shine some light on domestic violence(once again), so there is some benefit, but the blowup of the story on the evening news(I caught it on Katie Couric’s newscast) is why journalism has lost credibility with more serious news consumers. TMZ’s Levin tried to make the case that the failure to give people the kind of news they want—in this instance the Chris Brown story, which TMZ is all over—is why newspapers are suffering such losses, but that’s just his way of promoting his brand. Many newspaper readers are tired of the heavy focus on celebrity coverage and tabloid news. The celebrity obsession is fine for TMZ, but the Chris Brown/Rihanna story isn’t front page news in a world where there is so much economic and social upheaval worldwide. Put Brown in jail if he’s guilty, get Rihanna some counseling, and use precious news space for pressing issues facing us all.

Arabesque: Arts of the Arab World

Arab culture is rich and diverse.

That diversity is being showcased from February 23 to March 15 in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area as the Kennedy Center presents Arabesque: Arts of the Arab World. Over three weeks, more than 800 Arab artists will perform on the Center’s stages and public spaces to showcase the diverse traditional and contemporary cultures of the 22 nations that represent the Arabic speaking world.

The festival includes performances of music, dance, theater, film, and spoken word as well as exhibitions featuring art installations, fashion, cuisine, a marketplace, and more.

I got a taste of this festival last Monday night during a private gala performance at the Center’s Opera House. The opening concert included selections by The Children of Al-Farah Choir; Qatar Philharmonic Orchestra, Bachir Attar and the Master Musicians of Jajouka; extract of various texts that have influenced the Arab world read by Egyptian novelist Ahdaf Soueif; selections from Oman…O Man!, conceived and choreographed by Debbie Allen; and Marcel Khalife’s Al Mayadine Quartet.

I enjoyed all the performances and readings, which opened up a whole new world of artists for me. But two performances, I especially enjoyed: The Children of Al-Farah Choir and Oman…O Man!

The choir opened the concert with the girls dressed in flowing dresses with gold- colored embroidery and boys with dark pants and white shirts. They came down the aisles to the stage waving their right arms back and forth as they sang. They sang LoLolo, a Syrian folk song and a medley of other songs.

The choir was founded in 1977 by Father Elias Zahloui, in our Lady of Damascus Church in Damascus, Syria. It now consists of 500 volunteers aging between 7 and 80 years old, divided into 5 age groups and representing all Christian denominations. The group has traveled around the world spreading the message of peace and encouraging interfaith dialogue through music, according to the program.

Oman…O Man! incorporated the theme of prayer in an aesthetically-pleasing and spiritual way. As a young man dressed in a long white robe sang the call to prayer (known as the Adhan in the Islamic faith), other young men and women performed ablution for prayer or prostrated in prayer. On the background screen there was a slide show depicting scenes of desert sun rises and verses from the Qur an in Arabic script, attesting to the Creator’s ability to bring into existence the heavens and earth.

Debbie Allen – yes, she of the movie Fame and numerous other choreographed dances for film and theater -- spent three weeks in Muscat, Oman working with Omani and American youngsters. And now the Omani teenagers are here rehearsing over the next two weeks with their American counterparts from Los Angeles and Washington, D.C.

From the Kennedy Center website:

At the center of the work are two young men--one Omani, another American--who meet at a military academy with cadets from all over the world. Though similar in age, these roommates don't really understand each other. However, through music, movement, song, and dance, they take a magical journey together and discover the similarities and the differences between their two cultures, and learn much about each other.

I am looking forward to experiencing more of this magic when I see the full performance of Oman…O Man! March 14. From the taste of I got, I don’t think Ms. Allen nor the Omani and American performers are going to let me down. Oh, by the way, did I mention the music is by trumpeter Arturo Sandoval?

I applaud those in the Kennedy Center’s international program who worked tirelessly over the last four years to make this a reality, providing a bridge between Western and Arab cultures through art, dance, music, literature, poetry and song.

Ain't Nothing But A Man

Was John Henry "Real" or "No Real"?

Most Americans of my generation and older are acquainted with the legend of John Henry -- that steel drivin' man who pitted human strength against a steam drill and won. He dropped dead, though, after his victory, so the songs and story goes.

I remember him, based on paintings or drawings in folklore and history books, as this massive, black man; heavy hammer raised high, ready to strike a spike into the railroad tracks. His claim was that he could do it faster and better than this new invention, the steam-powered drill. The classic story of Man against Machine.

John Henry told the Captain:

"A Man Ain't Nothing But A Man.
Before I Let Your Steam Drill Beat Me Down.
I'll Die With A Hammer In My Hand."

All legends, we are told, are based on some truth. I thought there might be some truth to the story but that it probably got embellished as it passed from people to people, region to region.

And, then, just recently at my local library, I came across a book on display, Ain't Nothing But A Man. My Quest To Find The Real John Henry (National Geographic, 2008). It was in the children's section and I thought it would be a good book for my younger daughters. However, after reading it, I see it might be more suited for middle schoolers and above. Written by Scott Reynolds Nelson, a professor of history at Williams & Mary College in Williamsburg, VA., the book is a detective-like account of how the author searched for, compiled, and analyzed material and stories that led him to the "Real John Henry."

Yes, there was a real John Henry. In fact, Nelson wrote an adult book of his search, Steel Drivin' Man: John Henry: The Untold Story of an American Legend that won an award for being one of the best history books of 2006.

More than 40,000 African-American men built and repaired the train tracks that wind throughout the South. We see them in old photographs taken in the latter part of the 19th and early 20th centuries. I often wonder as I look at the photographs what life was really like for them.

Some of their stories come to us through their songs. As the hammer teams lined up track, hammered them in place and blasted through tunnels, they sang songs to keep in rhythm with the work. There are hundreds of versions of songs about John Henry, and as Nelson points out, some of them contain specific information. (Listen to a Smithsonian Field Recording of John Henry, 1947-48).

Studying the various versions of these songs, culling through old ledgers and engineering reports, exploring old railroad tunnels, finding a clue in an old post card and the uncovering by a contractor in the 1990s of 300 bodies buried in the sands of an old penitentiary led Nelson to Virginia where the "real" John Henry was laid to rest.

It's a fascinating and chilling story to read because Nelson uncovers information about the most likely cause of John Henry’s death and the message hidden in the legendary songs to other steel drivin’ men.

Incidentally, the lore of the legend of John Henry was so big in African-American communities that many boys were named after him. The name of my father’s oldest brother? None other than John Henry Martin.

War Against Women in The Congo

The decade-long war in the Democratic Republic of the Congo claims at least 45,000 lives a month, according to an article in The Guardian written last year.

A brutal and vicious aspect of that war has been the violence against women. During the Monday, Feb. 9, 2009 broadcast of Democracy Now, Amy Goodman interviewed Playwright, V-Day Founder Eve Ensler and Congolese Gynecologist Dr. Denis Mukwege, who are raising awareness on the war on women in the DRC.

It's shocking, heartbreaking, outrageous...but definitely a call to action.

As a son of a loving and inspiring mother who taught me respect for women and all human beings; as a husband of a loving, thoughtful and caring wife; as brother of four sisters and father of four daughters, I pledge to dedicate my time and resources to fighting violence and abuse (both physical and mental) of women -- the first teachers of man -- at home and abroad.

Also, in my blog, I will be highlighting the accomplishments of women throughout history from the ancient to the present.

Billy Elliot: Good In Whatever Country You See It

Back in 2007, when I attended a West End performance of Billy Elliot the Musical, a woman sitting next to meet at The Victoria asked whether Americans would appreciate the British humor and context of the musical when it arrived in the states. I indicated my appreciation, but I was an American in London, which would have suggested some brush with British culture. She raised a good question, something I’d wondered since hearing that the production would make its way to Broadway. Through its book and lyrics (Lee Hall), music (Elton John), the musical conveys a greater sense of the British class and culture out of which the story and Billy emerge than the film did. I wondered how a work with more background on the 1984 strike, which accelerated the death of the domestic mining industry, and jabs at Margaret Thatcher (“Merry Christmas Maggie Thatcher. We all celebrate the day, because it’s one day closer to your death”) would fare with an American audience unfamiliar with the strike.

No such barriers were on display at the matinee performance I saw Feb. 7, 2009. Americans laugh out loud at the Maggie Thatcher putdowns and other British-isms and are in awe over the talent displayed by Kiril Kulish, the Billy for that performance, and all the other young performers ( Frank Dolce as Michael and all the girls are stars in their own right). Okay, some attempts at the regional British accent are uneven and move in and out, but the producers are to be commended for not snipping out jokes or references. People who want to know what a pasty is (a meat and potato pie) can read the glossary (“The Miner’s Strike 101”) in Playbill. The London performance has a glossary, too.

Of course, there are some people who just don’t get theatre no matter where it comes from. In the women’s restroom I overheard a woman complaining because she had hoped the musical would end as the movie does, with Billy making that awesome stage entrance for Swan Lake. Anyone looking for the stage version to end like the film probably needed to stay home, get some popcorn, and pop in the DVD. It would have been cheaper. I won’t spoil things for people who may want to see the musical –I didn't tell anyone about this scene after I saw the show in 2007 –so I’ll just say there's an older Billy in a brilliant scene. It moves the story along in a splendid way.

I don’t know if I was aware of this the first time I saw the musical, but many people, myself included, find themselves shedding a few tears at points in the performance. We owe some of that to Elton John’s stirring music. His Once We Were Kings, which is sung by the miners as they go down into the mine after losing the strike, can make you want to go march with them – or march with somebody –even as it all seems futile. We’re happy for Billy but know that part of his story is the devastated people he is leaving.

Meeting Across the River

The half-time Super Bowl performance by Bruce Springsteen and The E Street Band this past Sunday triggered memories of my first musical encounter with the Boss. I was a freshman at a small, liberal arts college in Connecticut during the fall of 1975 and my roommate borrowed this album – Born to Run -- from a friend. I recall the picture of Springsteen, guitar in hand, leaning on the back of his saxophone player Clarence Clemons, whose full body with saxophone extended to the back of the album cover.

I’m pretty sure we played the whole album and liked it. But it wasn’t the now famous songs Born to Run and Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out that stirred my emotions and imagination that night, although I enjoy the lyrics and music of those tunes. It was a song about a man who needed to get across the river – probably from New Jersey to Manhattan – to complete some murky deal with a man who you had to be careful around. So he turns to his friend Eddie for cash and, maybe, Eddie can get them a ride to the Meeting Across the River.

My roommate and I must have played the song several times, mesmerized by Springsteen’s laid back delivery accompanied by piano and the searching, haunting tone of the trumpet played by Randy Brecker. I could vividly see a man who probably had gotten himself in one too many bad deals and if this one didn’t pan out – “they ain't going to be looking for just me this time.”

Listening to a version of the song on YouTube the other day – a performance in 1977 by Springsteen with piano accompaniment – one of my sisters described it as “sweet, sad music.” Another sister, a jazz musician, noted the jazz influences and said the song shows “a mellow side” of Springsteen that she likes.

That it does. That it does. And in my memory I see two freshmen smiling, sitting in their dorm room, discovering the Boss for the first time.

"Hey, Eddie, can you lend me a few bucks
And tonight can you get us a ride
Gotta make it through the tunnel
Got a meeting with a man on the other side."