As my time in Kenya comes to an end, I’ve been thinking increasingly about my friend and mentor Kurt Luedtke. It’s not solely because this is the location of “Out of Africa.” It’s because if it were not for Kurt, I likely wouldn’t be here.

Laura Berman called Kurt the provocateur. I’m not speaking out of turn because she said so in one of her Detroit News columns of the time. When I met Kurt, weeks before he won his Academy Award in 1986, I hadn’t been out of North America. 

During our long lunches and happy hours, Kurt challenged Laura’s and my notion of our own independence. For as much as we said we were our own person and could make our own decisions, he showed us it’s harder to do than say. He once told Laura he’d pay for her ticket to Paris for the weekend, if she’d go. But it had to be that weekend. “Go home and get your passport,” he said. 

I put my head down hoping he wouldn’t suggest something similar to me. I didn’t even have a passport.

But not long after, I did and was heading to Italy. Kurt not only coached me on writing, he sensed my restlessness and pointed me toward the other side of the world. 

That trip and so many subsequent trips showed me that such travel is not impossible. In fact, it’s necessary – for me.

Now nearly 40 years later, I am in Africa for the second time in four years. 

My new friend, Lone, from Denmark, and I were looking out over the savannah as we were having breakfast with our group a few days ago. “Did you ever think you’d be in such a place?” I couldn’t answer due to the lump in my throat.

This morning, my last, we went on an early morning hike with Taki, our Maasai guide. It was a morning of sweeping landscapes and tiny flowers. He led us to a point looking out over the Olkinyie Hills. We stood there for a while. Soft, gentle, misty green. 

For the next 90 minutes, we traversed a rocky slope and flat land lined with sage bushes. Taki explained the many uses of the leaves: deodorant, field mattress, calming an upset stomach. And, of course, keeping evil spirits out of our homes.

We stopped to appreciate a tree that produced leaves that smelled like lemon, another tree that held honey deposits from a tiny bee, and one that produced a sweet stretchy substance that became chewing gum.

On the way back to our vehicle, Taki noted giraffe prints. Fresh. I looked, sighed and sighed again. Incredible.

As I climbed in the Land Cruiser, I so wanted to call Kurt. I wanted to share over a long lunch what Africa has given me. And thank him for pointing me in this direction.

Kurt died Aug. 9, 2020.