the kenfessions diaries - Day 2/3 – 8-9/12/87 (and daryl hannah for fuzz)

[Ken Gargett]

 

 

 

 

Day 2/3 – 8-9/12/87

 

Okay, at this stage back then, we were still stuck in Paris (yes, worse places), which was freezing.

We’ll get to that, but I wanted to show an example of what got me interested in doing this. I have not trawled all through the journals, diaries, photos and tapes as yet, to refresh the memory – hopefully soon – but I came across a recent article on the Nat Geog site about climbing Mount Nyiragongo in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Or Zaire, as it was then. The article, linked in below, describes it as the world’s most dangerous volcano. I will eventually get to the details of our visit, so this is from a 30-year-old memory, which is not always reliable, but the differences between then and now are profound – not least the change in name for the country and the many advances that came with that.

We were very lucky travelling through this region when we did. We knew of tensions between the Hutu and Tutsi peoples, but the war and the accompanying bloodshed and massacres did not occur until around five years after we went through Burundi, Rwanda and Zaire (I'll use the old name as that is when we were there). Horrendous to think that a region which was so fantastic, so beautiful and with so many great people, especially the kids, could have a million people murdered and many more displaced. And way to go, the West, standing by and watching. I remember Goma as a place where I had a hoot – sneaking into the President’s Palace Grounds with a mate while he was away and swimming in the pool he’d had built out into the lake, with safeguards so as those enjoying it would not be croc fodder. Just a few years later, the streets literally ran red with blood. And of course, then black with lava.

We’ll get to all that in chronological order, but at the time, I'd never heard of Nyiragongo and when I did, I kept mixing it up with the Ngorongoro Crater, which we also went to, and which is not far away. Our driver told us that he understood it was possible to climb Nyiragongo. And to stay on the lip overnight, provided it was not about to blow. There’s a cheery thought. The mountain is around 11,000 feet and we spent the better part of a day ascending. We had no real guides but, if I recall correctly, a couple of porters who lugged all our gear up on their heads for a pittance. We got there shortly before dark. There was one old decrepit wooden hut we all jammed into. Not a comfortable night, especially knowing that if it blew, that was us.

To read that it now has a dozen huts and is top billing on luxury tours is beyond my comprehension. Helicopters? Luxury huts on the lip of one of the world’s most active volcanos. What could possibly go wrong? Toss in a dinosaur and just wait for Chris Pratt to arrive.

When we were there, it was relatively stable. Certainly, there was a boiling, fiery cauldron of bubbling lava and molten rock, tossing and spitting, but that was way way way below us. I remember sitting on the edge with a few of the guys. In retrospect, could there be a more perfect spot for a good cigar and a malt? We headed back down the next day. If I recall (or it could have been Kili), we nearly drowned. I think it was Kili. Basically, Africans, at least then, had not cottoned on to the concept that tracks should not go straight up a mountain. Especially in jungles and where there is often torrential rainfall. All that does is end up digging one almighty eroded channel. I recall that in going up and down, there were times when the edges of the path were several feet above my head. Lord knows what happened to them. But when the inevitable storm hit, they very quickly filled with raging torrents of water. I recall a few of us had managed to get up and grab the base of nearby trees and we hung on as the water raced over us. I remember thinking how bloody stupid to drown on a mountain.

But we survived and I must say that it was a highlight. An extraordinary experience to sit on the lip of an active volcano. There were no luxury lodges and lakeside restaurants, but I'd much rather have done the climb back then than now.

This is the link to the article I mentioned.

https://www.nationalgeographic.com/adventure/destinations/africa/democratic-republic-congo/nyiragongo-volcano-hike/

Before I close, for Fuzz, the Daryl Hannah story.

When I was in London, I lived at a fabulous place called London House. Partly a blast from colonial days, it was centrally situated. A dormitory arrangement that was originally instigated by Churchill as a thank you to the colonies for their assistance in various wars. For post grad students, it was once only for British subjects, if you like, from the Empire, but time mellowed the rules and so we had plenty of Americans and others. At that stage of my life, an incredible place to live. But like many British institutions, you had to work them out. Which I did fairly quickly. Contribute and rewards were yours. If you preferred to keep to yourself and simply study, that was okay, but don’t expect to enjoy some of the benefits. And they were many. Churchill had plundered English institutions to donate to the place. So, there were permanent Wimbledon tickets, permanent seats at Lords and Twickers. A box at the Royal Albert Hall, a fabulous old country mansion in the foothills of Scotland and more.

That mansion was brilliant. Rooms the size of basketball courts and I remember the baths – a great huge thing in which one had a hot bath after a day riding or fishing in their salmon stream or whatever. I could lie full length, stretch out, and not touch at either end. All this cost ten quid a day, which included meals all cooked and if the caretaker was feeling like it, a few good single malts – he was the father of a friend of mine, the guy who turned me into a Gunners fan – so it would be fair to say that whenever I was up there, he was more than feeling like it. in fact, I never saw him not feeling like it.

The Burn, as it was known, was quite close to another British institution, as friends and I discovered when we went out driving around in the snow. A mate and I climbed on to a lovely rock wall, about four foot off the ground and quite flat on top. Apparently, doing that set off the alarms and security descended upon us, guns drawn. We were let off with a stern warning as fortunately, HM was not in residence. Yes, this was the wall to Balmoral Castle. How the hell were we to know? Had she been there, we would have been arrested – which sort of suggested that if you want to be a terrorist, be a dumb one.

The prize was the box at the Albert Hall. It took four from London House and four from WG, the girl’s equivalent across the square. Granted the organiser was supposed to put up a list of all concerts coming, so people could put down their names and if more than four, pull them out of a hat. But really? I volunteered to be the organiser as fast as I could, so for the best part of two years, I had my personal box at the Albert Hall (it was not free – you paid three quid a ticket). I, and my friends or at least three at a time, got to concerts like Dame Kiri, Everly Brothers, Fats Domino, Sade, the Proms, so many – but the classic was Eric Clapton who put on a brilliant show. It didn’t hurt that he had Phil Collins assisting on drums and Mark Knopfler on lead guitar. Not much I have ever done seems to have impressed women but having my own box at the Albert Hall was pretty cool.

I quickly learnt that if I chipped in, one got privileges and not just endless tickets to top sporting events. I ran the cricket and rugby teams and was soon moved from the ground floor to the prize accommodation – there were some 400 rooms apparently – which was a corner room (actually two rooms) on the top floor with a balcony the size of half a tennis court overlooking St Pauls, and also overlooking the flat where apparently Jimi Hendrix topped himself (don’t know if true but plenty assured me it was). You could look in and the carpet had a piano keyboard as the design, weaving through it.

All this for 40 pounds a week, which certainly allowed me to save for the big trip.

Anyway, London House would often rent out its main dining hall for functions. A few of us knew the back way in for these events so would often join them (and if you “contributed”, you could basically get away with blue murder, so being caught was never an issue).

Two days before I was leaving, I was having breakfast with the usual crowd and the topic du jour, to the disgust of the women, was who was the hottest woman on the planet at the time. These daily intellectual exchanges were just one of the many reasons I loved the place. I forget the other contenders, but I was all for Ms Hannah (if you doubt me, go and look at ‘Splash’). I may have gone a smidge overboard, but I announced to all present that if I ever saw said Ms Hannah anywhere that I would promptly walk up to her and propose (figured the chances…). After all, then I could at least tell mates and later generations that I had been knocked back by the hottest woman on earth – something about a perverse badge of honour springs to mind.

That evening I was out for a final catch up with some friends. I kept it low key as I knew that the last night would be a massive party and I did not want to overdo it. Got back around 11ish, if I recall and went straight to bed. I knew there was a function, if I recall it was for the launch of a new film. Turned out to be ‘Cry Freedom’, I believe. Not sure if Denzel etc were there. Anyway, as tempted as I was, I thought it wiser to duck it.

Got up next morning, all set for the last day. At breakfast, I was mobbed. I had no idea what was going on but everyone kept asking me if I did it.

Did what, I asked.

Proposed, they said.

Proposed to who and why the hell would I propose to anyone?

Daryl Hannah, they said.

I thought they were mad, and at that stage, I'd forgotten my rather outlandish plans for happy-ever-after with a complete stranger.

Of course not. How on earth would I even find her?

They all looked at me like I was a gibbering idiot. She was here last night, they all blurted. For the film launch.

Rarely have I been so lost for words. I think I managed some form of primal nooooooooooooooo!

So, Ms Hannah was able to continue on with her life, blithely unaware of how close she came to having some gibbering dill down on his knees before her, embarrassing everyone.

More soon. If we ever get out of Paris.

KBG

[PatrickEwing]

These are great Ken. Keep em coming. 

[JohnS]

Nothing beats a great anecdote!

P.S. Oh by the way Ken, I'm going to remind myself to ask you about the Allan Border/Wicket-keeping and playing cricket story in England this summer when I get the chance!

[Ken Gargett]

1 minute ago, JohnS said:

Nothing beats a great anecdote!

john, you sure you don't mean antidote?

[Fatshotbud]

"So, Ms Hannah was able to continue on with her life, blithely unaware of how close she came to having some gibbering dill down on his knees before her, embarrassing everyone. "

Are you quite sure you missed?
Something influenced her in following Days!
Possibly just don't remember......

Sent from my KYOCERA-E6560 using Tapatalk

[99call]

Loving this thread

[OB1]

My life is soooo freaking boring....

[Fuzz]

Ships in the night, Ken. Ships in the night.

[Ken Gargett]

On 12/9/2017 at 1:56 PM, JohnS said:

Nothing beats a great anecdote!

P.S. Oh by the way Ken, I'm going to remind myself to ask you about the Allan Border/Wicket-keeping and playing cricket story in England this summer when I get the chance!

i'll fire up the cigars and away we go!

[Ken Gargett]

16 hours ago, Fatshotbud said:

"So, Ms Hannah was able to continue on with her life, blithely unaware of how close she came to having some gibbering dill down on his knees before her, embarrassing everyone. "

Are you quite sure you missed?
Something influenced her in following Days!
Possibly just don't remember......

Sent from my KYOCERA-E6560 using Tapatalk
 

who amongst us does not have a few selfie skeletons in the closet?

[LordAnubis]

Ken. Please. Tell me. How in the world can you type this good. Yet every other time you barely use a full stop?

Love the work.


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

[Ken Gargett]

13 hours ago, LordAnubis said:

Ken. Please. Tell me. How in the world can you type this good. Yet every other time you barely use a full stop?

Love the work.


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

mus, there is one small difference. when i do stuff on the forum, rob's machine does not do caps. when i type something like this, i type it on the blank page and then transfer it - much easier for correcting and adding and fiddling. the only difference is the caps but for some reason, this gives the impression that so much more is missing.