Somewhere Above It All
The following is an excerpt from Somewhere Above It All, by Holli Fawcett Clayton, available February 8, 2022 from Greenleaf Book Group.
Chapter 1
IT’S 5:30 A.M. IN ARUSHA, a place that is almost 9,000 miles away from my small-town home back in Arkansas. I rise from the bed, making a beeline for the shower. After today, it will be a long time before I can take a proper shower. I scrub every nook and cranny of my body, hoping that I can endure the filthiness that I’m sure the next eight days will bring.
I remove my duffel bag from the corner and assess my gear one last time, just before I call the bellman to collect it. As I pull my hair back into a messy bun, I give myself a pep talk in the bathroom mirror. You can do hard things. You already have. This will be nothing compared to what you’ve been through.
A knock at the door signals the bellman’s arrival. He places my bag on a creaky luggage cart and disappears. I throw on my backpack and look around the room one last time, making sure not to leave anything in this Tanzanian hotel. It seems I’ve collected everything, so I head downstairs.
The elevator doors open to the lobby, which is peppered with people. It is bustling and loud. My tour group is supposed to include only six climbers, so I wonder where most of these other folks are going. The smell of coffee beckons and I head in its direction.
The coffee bar is crowded. When I finally make my way to the large silver-and-black coffee dispenser, I pull the lever toward me, filling a Styrofoam cup with dark liquid. I look around for creamer, but there is none. The sugar packets look strange, shaped like bamboo-colored miniature sticks, so I opt not to use them. I take a sip of straight black coffee, something that I am not used to, and I almost gag. It is thick like motor oil and bitter like unsweetened cocoa.
Yuck.
Still, the jolt of caffeine breathes fresh life into me. As I brave another sip, I hear a call from what sounds like the voice of a local Tanzanian.
“Out Yonder Tour Company,” he says, his forceful voice pushing us to congregate in a corner area. “Meet here for orientation and gear check.”
I make my way to the small group forming around him. We coalesce, and he begins his speech.
“Habari za asubuhi!” he says as a smile expands across his face. “That means ‘good morning’ in Swahili, for those of you new to our language here in Tanzania.”
A slender blond woman stands next to me and smiles. Her expression suggests that she is happy to be here, ready to hear more. I smile back, hoping to convey similar feelings. We turn our attention back to our enthusiastic guide.
“I am Simon and I will be your guide. Welcome to Tanzania, my native country!” His accent is thick, exotic and distinct. “Before you begin your incredible eight-day journey to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, you will enjoy breakfast here at the hotel, followed by a thorough equipment check. So please, if you will, make your way into the hotel restaurant, where I have reserved a private room in the back for our group orientation.”
The six of us flock to Simon like moths to a light, and he leads us to our destination, a small room with a large round table and buffet line. We grab our plates and line up, moving through quickly, each of us piling on eggs and bacon and sausage and toast and biscuits in awkward silence. Finally, the blond woman behind me — the same woman who smiled at me just a few minutes earlier — interrupts the silence and introduces herself as Leslie.
Leslie subsequently introduces the Black woman behind her as her wife, Seraphina. I nod and shake their hands. When the three of us are finally done collecting our food at the buffet, we join the other three group members, who are already seated at the table.
One of them is a handsome, slightly wrinkled man wearing a cowboy hat over his dirty-blond hair. The other two are a lively young couple — likely in their twenties — a man and woman who can’t seem to keep their hands off each other. With every ounce of courage I can muster, I take a seat next to the handsome cowboy and introduce myself.
“Hi, Marren,” he says in a sexy, rugged voice that matches his good looks. “I’m Chris.”
“Hi, Chris. This is Leslie. And Seraphina,” I say to him, gesturing to the women who are now seated next to me. His stunning hazel eyes command me, drawing me in. The thud of my heartbeat pounds inside my chest. I hope he can’t hear it.
He looks at the women I have just met and introduced to him. “Nice to meet you, Leslie and Seraphina,” he says.
Suddenly, the female member of the younger couple chimes in. “I’m Claire,” she says, her mousy blond hair dangling over her
bony shoulders as she rubs the knee of the man sitting next to her. “This is my husband, Casey. We’re from California, and we’re on our honeymoon — as if it isn’t obvious.”
Casey smiles and waves. His hair is the opposite of Claire’s: dark, thick, and curly. They are a sweet little duo. Something like Brian Austin Green and Tori Spelling in the original Beverly Hills, 90210 television series.
“Hi, Claire and Casey,” the rest of us say in unison. Handshakes and greetings ensue as we sit huddled around the round table, ready for Simon’s discussion to begin. I study the faces around me, realizing that, although I’ve never met them before, these are my people. At least for the next eight days.
I miss my person.
