In Jambiani there’s a famous reggae joint (no pun) right on the beach. The food’s hot, the beer’s cold, and the weed is kinda average. You can score a smoke for free, though, if you play your cards right, so it all evens out. Next to the bar there’s a sign saying “Who Jah bless, no man curse”. Can’t argue with that.
My woman and I were feeling rather blessed ourselves on this fine eve as we sank into two lounge chairs with our tootsies in the sand. Not only have we managed to finally break out of the technocratic clusterfuck that China has proven to be over the last two years, but, having arrived on the island relatively unscathed only a few hours earlier, it started to dawn on us that we’ve managed to survive a twenty-seven-hour journey spanning five international airports during a Gestapo-style global lockdown. This, by Jah and all the rest of ‘em, was no mean feat. Still high on jet lag, Valium and the last dregs of adrenaline we could rustle up between us, we cackled like crazies as we raised two frosty bottles of Kilimanjaro in celebration.
When the second round of beers arrived, though, we’ve grown quiet. The time served in a concrete beehive on the far side of the world had left its mark. Hemmed in by the vast expanse of tropical jungle and star-studded sky surrounding us, an odd sense of disorientation had set in. The rustling of palm fronds in the breeze seemed too soft, too tender, to be trusted. The squeaky-clean sea air left a strange twang in our mouths. The full moon rising over the silky Indian Ocean at that very moment was simply going too far, like some crude neon gag in the company of sailors. Alas, the city poodle in some grimy alley in the back of our minds, pissing itself in the presence of raw, unbridled nature, simply could not bring itself to lick the outstretched Hand of primal grace.
When the third pair of Kili’s appeared, however, we seemed to have turned a corner. We were slowly, warily starting to awaken from our rat maze stupor and loosening up nicely, island style. It felt good. The barman, who must have noticed the frazzled duo out on the terrace and studiously kept refreshments coming, ambled over to introduce himself.
“I am Manking,” he said while producing a spliff the size of a baby’s arm from the folds of his frock in princely fashion. “It now be time for me Bob Marley. You come join?”
It’s been a while, so yes, I come join infuckingdeed. Leaving my woman in peace to cautiously unfold like a pale rose in the moonlight, I followed Manking down to the water’s edge. We smoked and shot the breeze as the warm waves lapped at our shins. I was just grateful for experiencing something as profoundly normal as two men sharing a joint under the stars once again, talking in (however broken) English about the sad goddamn state of the world.
After some time, we slowly began to make our way back as he started picking up some driftwood on the shoreline. Apparently, it was a bonfire-on-the-beach kinda night. I tried to lend a hand, but my legs had suddenly turned to rubber and spice. With supreme and prolonged effort, however, I managed to dig my health certificate and other travel papers from my pockets and toss it onto the smoldering heap of kindling my gracious host had scraped together. He seemed grateful for the help, but it didn’t look like he needed it. Soon, the flames leapt up cheerfully as some other guys at the bar began to drag down huge bundles of wood across the sand. I took a few steps back and sat down to snap a frame.
As the fire leapt out of the earth and the moon lit up the clouds above, a force both strange and hauntingly familiar suddenly shook me from slumber. The inner beast - that howling guardian of wild men and fools, the lone wolf that only bears the heart as its master, the languid loon that turns logic into nonsense and reason to shame - has always been my closest companion, and now, gathering the whole of the vast wild night to my sold-out soul, it had chosen this moment to awaken once again. Having been buried under spit-stained concrete and dull mediocrity for far too long, it raised its searing muzzle and went hunting for its foe deep within. It crushed the   skulking poodle like a thorn under its heel. Rearing and raving and tearing out of me, it reclaimed the throne of my blood in a burning, blinding instant.
Hey, poet, it growled, licking its chops. Where you been? I missed you, man.
I just sat there laughing and sniffling and swaying in the breeze, not being able to answer until the sheer, sizzling current that fed the entire teeming paradise all around me drew me up and I knew where I was. My bare feet found the earth once more. Sparks flew and the clouds dimmed as I was led back into the hunt as a king among men, claiming as my range the World and the sky and the scent of reborn roses.

Photography, words, narration © Copyright Jac Kritzinger.

Music © Copyright Albertus van Rensburg.