Kilimanjaro: A Fable of Utopia Page 5

  “To use your own example, did German Jews get the government or the laws they deserved?” I shot back.

  “All right, David,” he replied. “Tomorrow I’ll look at the constitution.”

  He wasn’t the only one to look at it. Ledama harangued the Council until they explicitly stated that women could run for any office. This so impressed young Mawenzi ole Porola that he led a children’s march on the Council chambers protesting their making the minimum voting age 16 years, and got them to amend it so that anyone who had reach adulthood—which would be interpreted as having been circumcised—would be entitled to vote, and only those (more and more each year) who elected not to undergo the ritual would have to wait until they were 16 to vote. William Blumlein had been such a model citizen, friendly to all, and a major cash contributor to all five hospitals, that the immigration guidelines were relaxed still further. And of course polygamy and polyandry were written into the document.

  Soon people were marching in front of the Council chamber every day, protesting some item in the proposed constitution or demanding that something else be inserted into it. This group wanted Maa to be the official language of Kilimanjaro; that group wanted to expand the cities and felt they could never attract offworld investment unless the official language was English. One group wanted to bring back mandatory circumcision; another group wanted it totally outlawed. Still another group wanted to get rid of the two game parks and provide more pastureland for the cattle; a rival group wanted not only to keep the parks, but to expand them so that we could clone elephants, which the current parks could not sustain.

  It was when they began posting signs in the ground that Isaac ole Olkejuado sought me out.

  “This has gotten out of hand, David,” he complained.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Look around you!” he said. “Vote Yes! Vote No! Demand this! Protest that! Signs everywhere. Marchers picketing the Council. This isn’t Kilimanjaro—it’s Europe!”

  “It’s people expressing their views,” I replied.

  “It’s more than that,” he argued. “This is supposed to be a Maasai Utopia, not a British or French or American one!”

  “I have learned two things from my study of Kirinyaga,” I answered. “The first is that you can’t stop a society from evolving.”

  “And the other?”

  “That you can’t always predict or control the direction in which it evolves.”

  “Is this what you want?” he insisted. “Men and women wearing Western clothes, walking up and down paved streets, politicking like Europeans, then going home to air-conditioned houses and apartments. Is this the Maasai Utopia?”

  “Would you rather have them penniless, living in huts made of dung, covered by flies, totally ignorant of science and medicine?” I shot back.

  “Of course not!” he snapped. “But there must be a middle ground!”

  “Who chooses it?” I asked. “You?”

  “Why not?” he said uneasily. “I am a member of the Council of Elders.”

  “And if the Council of Elders had been responsive to the needs of all the people that it’s supposed to serve, do you think they’d be marching in front of your chambers day and night?” I asked.

  “Well, damn it!” he said. “You’re the one who convinced us to write a constitution and change the way Kilimanjaro works. What is your vision of a Maasai Utopia?”

  “A world on which the Maasai have agreed upon the way they will live.”

  “But we had it!”

  “Things change,” I said. “Worlds change. Societies change.”

  “But this was the society we agreed to when we came here!” he complained.

  “Did Ashina agree to being refused a place on the Council of Elders?” I replied. “Did Samuel, Mawenzi’s father, agree to repeat a ritual that killed his first son? Did Ledama agree that she could identify herself only by a single name? Look around you, Isaac—Kilimanjaro is already evolving. I have not seen William Blumlein in three or four months, since before this situation occurred, but I’ll wager he tells you that it is absolutely natural.”

  “What does he know?” Isaac shot back. “He is no Maasai.”

  “He is married to a Maasai,” I said. “What would you call him?”

  “A white intruder.”

  I shook my head. “He is a Maasai. Your own Council has said so.”

  He seemed about to argue, then turned on his heel and walked away.

  Word had gotten to Blumlein, and he had left his manyatta and come to the city, where he seemed omnipresent, observing, questioning, making endless notes on his pocket computer. I even saw him having lunch one day with Ledama, probably the first time they’d met since their marriage.

  One day I happened to be passing a small public park, not a game park, just an acre of green breaking up the cement of the city, and I saw him sitting on a bench. He was alone, and not dictating into his machine, so I walked over and greeted him.

  “Hello, David,” he said. “Have a seat. Isn’t it fascinating?”

  “I’d have thought it was entirely predictable,” I said, sitting down next to him.

  “Oh, eventually it had to happen—but so soon! It’s really quite remarkable.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “I suspect you are to thank for it.”

  “You heard?”

  He shook his head. “No. But who else would speak to the Council of elections and constitutions?”

  “Why not Joshua?” I suggested.

  “Joshua and the other lawyers know the law as it is being practiced. Why suggest something that would require them to re-learn their profession? No, my friend, it had to be you.”

  “It was me,” I admitted. “But only after I was asked.”

  “There’s no blame involved, David,” he said. “This is the direction all societies take, some faster, some slower, some with more complexity, some with less.” He smiled. “Some with unbelievable violence, some with none at all.”

  “All societies?” I asked dubiously.

  He nodded his head. “Most hit enough bumps in the road that you can’t recognize it at first, but universal suffrage and universal equality, of opportunity if not position, is the eventual goal of every society.”

  “Based on your observations, how is this one doing?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It’s too soon to tell. There are half a hundred ways to temporarily derail it, but the operative word is temporary. Usually when they evolve this quickly, the change is accompanied by violence, because usually the entrenched powers are not prepared to bow to the inevitable. But Kilimanjaro was based on the Maasai society of Earth, where most of these problems had already been worked out, so I have hope.”

  “That gives me hope,” I said.

  “You? You’re the historian,” he said with a laugh. “None of this should surprise you.”

  “I deal with results, not with the processes that lead to the results,” I explained.

  “Good old David,” he said. “You always have a rational answer to things.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  “Yes, it’s a compliment,” he said. “Sort of. Tell me, have they settled on a title for whoever’s going to run the whole place?”

  “Just Leader, as far as I know,” I said.

  “Not laibon?” he asked. “Maasai chiefs were always laibons.”

  I shook my head. “It is too close to laiboni. We wouldn’t want outsiders to think we were voting to be ruled by a witch doctor.”

  “Actually, Leader is a pretty good name for it,” he replied. “You have to watch out for the ones who give the job grandiose titles.” He paused, staring at a mob of pastoralists who marched by, carrying signs demanding the elimination of the game parks. “Has anyone announced for the office yet?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” I said. “Though I’ve heard that Ashina is considering running for it.”

  “I’d ask if she has any experience,” said Blumlein, “but it’s a
stupid question. No one has any experience. I’ve suggested to Joshua that he toss his hat into the ring.”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  Blumlein grinned. “That if I ever mentioned it again, he’d throw me all the way back to Earth.”

  I chuckled at that. “Obviously being a lawyer pays better than being a ruler.”

  “As long as there are at least two lawyers in town,” agreed Blumlein.

  We chatted for a few more minutes, and then I got up and returned to my office.

  The picketing and politicking went on for another two weeks, and some minimal changes were made in the constitution, but finally the Council decided it was time for an up-or-down vote, and it won by a large majority.

  Then it was time to elect the Council members. Most of them won quite handily, since they were running on the basis of experience. Still, it was apparent that they were expected to be more responsive to their constituents this time, or they would be looking for work after the next election.

  That left only the position of Leader. As I had predicted, Ashina announced her candidacy. When word of what had transpired reached Kenya, Robert ole Meeli actually returned to Kilimanjaro to run for Leader. Isaac ole Olkejuado decided to run as well, and soon there were no less than fourteen announced candidates.

  If Isaac had thought the streets were noisy and crowded before, when people were campaigning for the constitution, he must had been driven practically berserk by the new level of noise and activity. Every candidate had his or her supporters, and not only were the streets filled with marchers, but with cattle, as the pastoralists, unwilling to leave their herds unattended, drove them through the towns to voice their support of one candidate or another.

  Blumlein was there every day, looking positively delighted with the developments. People who had stared at his unusual white face months earlier now took him for granted, as if he were part of the urban landscape, as indeed he had become.

  “Tell me the truth, William,” I said one afternoon, as we were watching yet another herd of cattle walking down the middle of our main thoroughfare, with a candidate’s name written on their sides in white paint. “You couldn’t have foreseen this when you arrived.”

  “No,” he admitted. “But isn’t it wonderful? For more than a century the Maasai didn’t give a damn who ruled Kenya, as long as they got to graze their cattle and live in their manyattas. They had no more interest in voting than in cross country skiing. But now look at these herders!”

  “Do they even know the issues, I wonder?” I mused aloud.

  “They know who’s promised to raise the price on cattle,” he answered. “They know who’s promised to get rid of the game parks. They know who’s promised free health care for their children. They don’t know the other 57 issues, but why should they? They know the ones they care about.”

  He had a point. Everyone knew the issues they cared about. The city dwellers and the pastoralists, the merchants and the students, the wealthy and the poor, the members of each of the five clans. And they knew which candidates addressed those issues that most concerned them.

  And that was getting us nowhere. We had no pollsters, of course, but I was convinced that none of the fourteen candidates could capture as much as fifteen percent of the vote. This had not been anticipated by the constitution: it simply claimed that the winner would be the candidate with the most votes, rather than the one with a majority of the votes, so it was possible that our first Leader could actually lose 85% of the vote.

  Two days before the election it was arranged for each of the candidates to address the same audience on the outskirts of the largest of our cities. Each got up and made his or her promises, and each received raucous applause from a tiny section of the audience and polite applause from the rest.

  I looked at the assembled candidates. Each was well-meaning, none had had an opportunity to become corrupt yet, all believed in Kilimanjaro or they wouldn’t be here…and yet they seemed to fade together, all pastels, no primaries. What we needed was a Batian or a Nelion, two great Maasai of the past for whom the peaks of Kirinyaga—Mount Kenya—had been named. What we had were fourteen well-meaning people who were not prepared to lead this world, small as it was.

  Finally I could stand it no longer, so I stepped up on the platform from which each candidate had addressed the audience.

  “Are you announcing your candidacy, David ole Saitoti?” asked Martin ole Sironka.

  “No,” I said. “I am not qualified to be the Leader of Kilimanjaro.”

  “Then why are you standing there?”

  “Because there is a man who is uniquely suited to be our Leader,” I said. “He is the most educated man on Kilimanjaro. He doesn’t belong to any of the five clans, so he won’t favor one over the other. He isn’t a city dweller, so he won’t favor the cities over the herders. He isn’t a herder, so he won’t favor them over the city-dwellers. He has seen how societies evolve, and he can guide us along the proper path. Finally, the Council of Elders has ruled that he is a Maasai.” I stared at the audience, hoping my candidate was not there so that he couldn’t instantly withdraw. “He is William Blumlein.”

  There was no applause. There were no cheers. But I noticed that there were a lot of whispered discussions going on as I stepped down from the platform.

  Each of the fourteen candidates in turn ascended the platform to denounce my choice, explaining that he would not do for their constituency what they could do. But each time one of them spoke, he or she alienated the nine out of ten Maasai who were not their constituents.

  The election was held two days later, and Blumlein, the white Maasai, won more than seventy percent of the vote. A steer was slaughtered in his honor, and we held a victory feast that lasted well into the night. Finally, when he was sure no one could overhear him, he leaned over to me and whispered: “You son of a bitch! I spent all day yesterday arguing with the Council. The constitution doesn’t provide a way for a candidate to withdraw! You knew that!”

  “Can you think of a better candidate?” I asked him.

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “Not any longer,” I replied. “You’re a Maasai, and a citizen of Kilimanjaro. That is the point.”

  “I’ll have to find a role for you in my government,” he said with an evil smile.

  “Every position is already filled,” I answered. “But I’ll be happy to write the history of your reign.”

  “You’re screwing up this society’s evolution,” he said seriously. “Don’t you realize that?”

  “You’re part of this society,” I said. “Don’t you realize that?”

  “Good old David,” he said in resignation. “Always a rational answer.”

  The next morning Blumlein took office. He made a hell of a speech, too. And I found myself thinking: Poor Darwin. He only got to see the aftermath of evolution. I’m going to get to watch it in action.

  6

  TWILIGHT ON

  KILIMANJARO (2239 A.D.)

  I was sitting at my computer, proofreading a paper I had prepared on the earliest days of Kilimanjaro, when the machine spoke up.

  “David ole Saitoti, your presence is required at the local hospital.”

  “Can you give me any details?” I asked it.

  “You are expected,” said the computer. “Someone will greet you.”

  I didn’t know if it was an emergency or not, so I decided it would be better to drive there in my own car than to take public transportation. I went down to the garage, got into my vehicle, and sped to the hospital, which was about two miles away. I left the car with an attendant, then rushed into the lobby. No one was waiting for me, so I went up to the registration desk.

  “I am David ole Saitoti,” I said. “I received a message that—”

  “Ah, yes,” said the receptionist. “Your presence is requested in room 208.”

  “Is it Joshua ole Saibull?” I asked. “Or perhaps Leader Blumlein?”

  “I don’t know,�
�� she replied. “I only know that you are to report to room 208.”

  I took an airlift to the second level, then walked down the corridor until I came to the room in question. I opened the door and entered it. An emaciated old man lay on the bed, bandages and dressings on his right arm, tubes running into and out of his body. A doctor walked over to greet me.

  “You’re David ole Saitoti?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you could come so quickly.”

  “Why am I here?” I asked. “I don’t know this patient.”

  “He requested your presence.”

  “He did?” I said, surprised. I stared intently at the old man. “I’ve never seen him before. Perhaps you misunderstood him.”

  “I doubt it,” replied the doctor. “You’re the historian, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He insisted that we summon an historian.” He smiled. “It was an easy choice. You seem to be the only one we have.”

  I looked down at the patient. “What’s the matter with him?”

  “He tried to kill himself” was the answer. “He botched the job. I think we’ll probably release him tomorrow.”

  “But all these tubes…” I said.

  “Just precautions. He was dehydrated, and his electrolyte balance was poor.”

  “Why did he try to take his own life?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” said the doctor. “I think that’s what he wants to talk to you about.”

  “What’s his name?”

  The doctor looked at a hand computer. “Sokoine ole Parasayip.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Well, you have now.” Something beeped in one of his pockets. “I’ve got to go down the hall,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  He left the room, and I turned back to the patient, who was now staring unblinking at me.

  “I thought you were asleep,” I said, startled.

  “I was awake,” he replied. “I simply had nothing to say to the city laiboni.”

  “He’s not a witch doctor,” I said.

  “Of course he is. I practice the ancient ways, he practices the new ways. Otherwise we are the same.”