"Hope is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - Emily Dickinson
Before he died, one of the last things John whispered to me was, "Go back to Africa. Keep writing. Be happy again." Better than anyone, he knew of the powerful grip that Africa had on me, the spiritual connection I felt with the continent, and how happy, fulfilled and at peace I was when on her soil.
During the years of his illness and following his death, not a day went by when my mind didn't wander there. I longed for Africa each morning and took her dreams with me to bed each night. Perhaps more than anything, the determination and hope of someday returning sustained me throughout the most difficult moments. And there were many.
My first trip to Africa was with John in 1998. Along with two friends, we spent a glorious five weeks in South Africa. John was sick then, how ill we did not yet know but secretly, my gut told me he was terminal and I suppose I knew then, with John, I would never return to Africa.
Toward the end of our trip, John's energy waning, we spent an easy day exploring shops and museums around Durban. We slipped into a small bookshop and went our separate ways. The proprietor asked if he could help me find a book. I told him I wanted a non-fiction book about Africa. Without hesitation he said, "I think I know the book you'd like." He led me to a table toward the back of the shop that held a few copies of, I Dreamed of Africa, by Kuki Gallmann. "I think you should read this book," he said. He seemed very convincing but I was surprised that he was determined to sell me a book about Kenya. There were many books in his shop on South Africa, one of which I assumed he would recommend. Since he was so convinced I should read her book, I bought it.
That night, as John and our friends went out to dinner, I stayed back at the hotel and read. I finished her book in the early hours of the morning. Before that afternoon, I had never heard of Kuki Gallmann or her best selling book. Not only was it an amazing story and beautifully written, but it was about the resilience of a woman who tragically lost her husband in Kenya some years earlier, and while still in her thirties. Just a short time later, she lost her only son as well.
I too, was in my thirties and facing the possibility of losing John. Although at that time, we were not sure what was ailing him, ALS had been mentioned, but so had many other diseases. It was still early on and a definitive diagnosis had yet to be made.
The book hit me hard. There were similarities between this woman and me, primarily our passion for Africa. Born in Italy, and now living in Kenya, Gallmann's love affair with Africa began in childhood, as did mine. Following the death of her husband and son, she went on to create a protected wildlife refuge, a science/research facility, and the Wilderness School on her 100,000 acre ranch, Ol ari Nyiro, in remote Northern Kenya.
At that moment, my hope took a different turn - not only would I see John through whatever was plaguing his body, but no matter what unfolded and what hand fate would deal - Africa would play a major role in my life.
When we returned to the States, I emailed Kuki Gallmann in Kenya. I told her how much hope her book had given me, about John's illness, and how I longed to see East Africa someday. Over the next few years, we corresponded via email and post. By then, John's diagnosis became terminal, ALS, a fate we hoped against all odds was not the one to be dealt. All along, in her emails, Kuki wrote, "come back to Africa, to Kenya. It is a healing place." I knew it would be, it was just a matter of how long it would take me to get back - to begin to heal.
John and I began sending boxes full of books to Kuki's non-profit foundation, The Gallmann Africa Conservancy. The books were used at her school, founded in memory of her son, as well as in the local library on her reserve. We tried to play a small role in any way we could, which included my writing grant proposals to Bushnell which garnered a dozen pair of night vision binoculars for the anti-poaching patrol on Kuki's wildlife reserve. While our involvement was minor, it made both John and me feel as though we were doing our small part for Africa, together, even if we could not be there.
After publishing a piece about South Africa for The New York Times, I was contacted by Conservation Corporation Africa (CCA) and extended an invitation to visit any two of their safari camps in Africa. It was an unexpected and unbelievably generous offer.
While John's health was deteriorating, he was still upright, albeit with a walker, and somewhat strong, and he was determined that I go back to Africa. As he would tell me repeatedly while I agonized over the thought of leaving him, "I'll be okay - this is a chance of a lifetime, you have to go." With the nudging and reasurrances from our family doctor that John would be okay if I left him for three weeks, and under the care of his sister (formerly a nurse) who graciously agreed to fly from her home in Hawaii to look after him, I decided to go.
Along with a friend from San Francisco, we flew to Kenya and spent three glorious weeks at the major wildlife reserves from Tsavo to Amboseli, with its magnificent backdrop of snow-capped Kilimanjaro, to the arid Samburu reserve on the northern fringes of the country. We saw thousands of shimmering pink flamingos flitting across the alkaline waters of Lake Nakuru, visited a Jane Goodall chimpanzee sanctuary at the base of Mt. Kenya, and ended with an extraordinary stay at the Conservation Corp camp, Kichwa Bateleur, in the legendary Masai Mara.
Our last night at Kichwa, our evening meal was set out amidst the plains. Tables were dressed, brass lanterns glowing around the camp, casting dancing shadows across the grasses. Meats were roasting on open flames, there was song and dance around the fire, while lions roared in the not so far distance. It was indeed a chance of a lifetime. It renewed my spirit and strength for the battle that was yet to come and would consume both John and me for the next two years.
The last night in Kenya, I got a call in my hotel room in Nairobi. Kuki Gallmann's assistant was on the line hoping that we could fly to Ol ari Nyiro the next day to meet Kuki. I had tried unsuccessfully to notify her before my trip but as she was out of the country, the correspondence never reached her. We were not to meet, that trip. It would be another three years, and I would be a new widow by the time our paths would cross.
A native Californian, Jan Baumgartner is a freelance writer currently living in Maine. Her background includes scriptwriting, comedy writing for the Northern California Emmy Awards, and travel writing for The New York Times. She has worked as a grant writer for the non-profit sector in the fields of academia, AIDS, and wildlife conservation and anti-poaching for NGO's in the U.S. and Africa. Her articles and essays have appeared in numerous online and print publications in the U.S. and internationally, including the NYT, Bangor Daily News, SCOOP New Zealand, Wolf Moon Journal, Media for Freedom Nepal, and Banderas News in Mexico. She's finishing a memoir about her husband's death from ALS and how travels in Africa became one of her greatest sources of inspiration and hope. She is a Managing Editor for OpEdNews.
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