Day 6, Springlands Hotel, Moshi, Tanzania. We left camp around 8:00AM and in two hours made it to the park gate. The trail was a mud pit, slippery and thick. There were hand-built steps created with lengths of wood hammered into the ground that were the only thing that made the descent possible. I enjoyed the noticeable oxygen-rich air, dense with mist and the smell of organic matter.

At the park gate I signed the ledger and received an official certificate documenting my successful climb to the summit of the mountain. I paid 50 cents for a boy to wash the mud from my boots and gave my thermal long underwear, fleece, hat, socks, and shirts to the porters, August and Tyson, which they grabbed like the jackals who stole a lion’s lunch I would see later on the safari with my mom. Soon enough we were on our way back to the hotel.

At the hotel I pay Manase and Robert for their services, along with Katete, Paul (Tyson), August, and John, my four porters. Manase and I drink beer and Robert has a coke. In addition to my tip, I give Manase my ski pants and Robert my shell jacket. They will certainly use it more than me for the next year. After a nap and a shower I meet back up with Robert to go out for dinner in Moshi. We take a cab to a Nyama Choma restaurant, the Tanzanian version of a dibiterie, with grilled meats served with salt and hot pepper and pints of beer. A guy comes around with a basin and a kettle of hot water for you to wash your hands before diving into a bowl of meat. Maize is ground into a flower and made into a white past called ugali that you ball up and eat to accompany the meat. The goat we ate was delicious, the ribs my favorite part.

As we ate from the communal bowl, Robert’s father shows up. Apparently he lives just down the street. Robert greets him and hands him a 10,000 shillings note, about $8.75. Robert’s salary for the trip was a grand $30, plus my tip. According to Robert, his father will spend the money in no time on a local drink made from bananas and rum. The father takes my hand and says something that I don’t understand. Robert says he welcomes me to Tanzania and that I should come have a drink. I do my best to thank him with greasy hands and face.

That night I reflected on the year I have spent in Africa, enjoying the similarities I see in Senegal and Tanzania, savoring the differences. Like the rest of my time here, Kilimanjaro pushed me to my limits but offered some of the most beautiful views imaginable.

Day 5 at Mweka Camp, 10,230 feet. I made it to the roof of Africa, summiting on Uhuru peak (19,453 feet) at around 5:30AM. Before leaving at midnight from Barafu camp, I tried to get some sleep but ended up getting more rest than sleep. It was windy as hell and my tent made this strange sound effect besides simple flapping, like someone pulling length after length of duct tape from a giant roll. I also got a nose bleed only minutes after writing about no altitude side effects. Still, at 11:30PM I was ready and enjoyed a cup of tea and some “biscoot,” or cookies before heading out into the dark. It was freezing and Manase and I both wore every layer we had, plus headlamps to light the way. Even in the darkness, the mountain stood clearly before us, enormous and intimidating. The trail out of Barafu climbs steeply and immediately up a talus slope before leveling off a bit for a more gradual climb on a compact trail. As we reached the top of the first rise, you could see the city of Moshi thousands of feet below, its green and yellow lights clear in the cloudless sky. Manase and I were making our steady polay polay pace but I realized it was faster than everyone else as we passed three groups on the way up. The moon was waxing at 3/4, and we were able to turn off the headlamps for a solid two hours. The climbing was really one step at a time now and I realized that I felt pretty tired. My toes were frozen and I kept wiggling them and stomping my boots to salvage some circulation, but with little success.

The wind let up a bit and I took in the beauty of nighttime shadows and moonlit illumination. The landscape was barren yet beautiful, rock overhangs and independent boulders picking up the light, breaking the horizon from the night. The stars were out in force but waiting for the moon to move on to really make a show. The trail became steep again for the final 1500 feet up to Stella Point, the false summit only 700 feet below Uhuru. It was at this point I started feeling the altitude more strongly. I felt slightly dizzy and a headache had crept up, strangely sitting at the back of my skull instead of up front or behind my eyes. Looking down onto the over 3000 feet of vertical we had made by Stella Point, I saw the headlamps of other climbers, little white dots that seemed to form a glow-worm or constellation of climbers against the dark. By Stella Point I was happy to be close to the summit, but feeling progressively worse. My stomach felt sick and the wooziness was there, but my breathing wasn’t especially labored, so I didn’t worry. I thought to myself that after a year in Senegal there’s no way an upset stomach was going to stop me. We kept moving and when Manase asked how I felt, he simply said, “Hakuna matata,” no problem, and we moved on towards Uhuru. Physical challenges like this can certainly hurt but also bring a rare form of emptiness of thought that I really appreciate. The singular purpose of getting to your destination and staying steady doesn’t leave room for any pesty internal dialogue.

Half an hour beyond Stella Point, we made it to Uhuru Peak, the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. The summit sign was there just like in photos I saw online, and I had Manase take a shot of me to document the accomplishment. The feelings I had were limited because I was more concerned about feeling the cold and the altitude, but I did feel a sense of relief. We started out again at 5:40AM and made our way back to Stella. From this direction, the glaciers really took form, rising at least 30 feet from the rock, running hundreds of yards in length. Though it was still dark, the glaciers reflected the light of the stars with surprising intensity.

We began the descent from Stella Point, passing a weary-faced group of five. I felt better as we went lower and when the sun began to approach the horizon, and a deep orange and purple banner unfolded behind Mount Mweka, I really felt the sense of accomplishment and good fortune for a successful climb. By this time Manase had led us off the trail to the south by about a hundred yards so that we could enjoy a controlled slide down a huge scree field. It was almost like skiing—you take big steps, lean back and slide from one side to the other. I had my trekking poles and was pole planting before each turn, avoiding bigger rocks with relative ease. The sun broke free of the clouds, shining over Mweka, and casted a brilliant warm orange on the slope. The change in temperature was immediate and I took a minute to stop and really enjoy this incredible moment. If there is one indelible image that will remain in my mind from the trip, it was this.

We continued our slide all the way back to the first steep ascent of the trail and were back at Barafu camp by 7:00AM. What had been described to me as a seven hour climb and a three hour descent turned out to be 5 ½ hours up and an hour and a half down. Every other group I spoke to did the climb in 10 hours instead of 7. Accordingly, I was dead when I got to the tent and crawled in and passed out. At 9:00AM Katete woke me up with hot tea and breakfast. My whole body ached with the accumulated effort of the past five days, but I felt rejuvenated after the nap.

We packed up and started our long descent to Mweka campsite at the upper edge of the forest near 10,000 feet. Gravity really helps in going down and there was no more polay polay. By 1:00PM we reached camp and my knees were aching. Over the course of the last 13 hours we had covered 13,000 vertical feet. Not bad. At camp I chatted with Manase and a big group of guides and porters that were hanging out at our cooking tent, enjoying the Michael Jackson blaring from Robert’s radio. I’m not sure who thought I was stranger, the Tanzanians I was trying to speak Swahili with, or all the mzungoo, or other white people who stared at me from their tents. That night I slept like a rock and dreamed of scree skiing again.

Day 4 at Barafu High Camp, 15,015 feet. Today is the big day on the climb with a six hour hike during the day followed by our summit attempt this evening around midnight. I feel good, my body is enjoying the activity and besides some sun and wind burn, I have faired very well so far. A few folks we passed on the route today were breathing pretty heavily with the altitude. I’m lucky that I haven’t felt any negative affects. The German guy I had beers with at the hotel the night before my climb had gotten headaches and dizziness, then threw up one night and hyperventilated the next. His candor and matter of fact toughness about the whole episode was amazing. He said that after hyperventilating, he felt much better and made it to the summit that night. AMS, or Acute Mountain Sickness, can happen to anyone and apparently fitness doesn’t have anything to do with it. Some people just handle altitude better than others. I’ll cross my fingers for the final 4,000 feet to the summit.

Before starting out for the day, the night was the coldest it has been so far. Ironically I dreamt I was back in the heat of Senegal blabbering back and forth in Wolof with the cast of characters in my life there. To wake up and realize that you’ve been dreaming in a foreign language is strange and exciting. Around 8AM, we started up the Barranco wall, following tight switch backs up the face. There were a number of spots on the lower half where we had to do a bit of rock scrambling, securing hand and footholds to move up and over. At the top I was impressed with how the porters made it up this obstacle with such difficult loads. They are tough dudes. From this height the glaciers and cliffs of the headwall were just gleaming. I must have taken ten of the same picture.

We headed down the ridge and into the Karangu valley. The descent into the valley was steep and in certain places a bit challenging because the trail became the water escape route from up high. In some spots the water loosened the gravel to test your footing, while in others it became ice only to laugh in your face. We climbed up the other side to around 13,500 feet where we stop for lunch. I find a spot out of the wind and at a distance the views are spectacular, but close up are the unfortunate remains of other peoples’ lunch, cigarette, and toilet breaks. I’m not worried about old orange peels, but the plastic wrappers, cigarette butts and used batteries really don’t belong in a place of such beauty. With as much traffic as the mountain gets, it is inevitable that footprints in the dirt won’t be the only trace of people, but I watched countless guides flick their butts or throw a cellophane wrapper without a thought. I’m confident plenty of clients are doing the same. It’s really a shame. I think each group should be briefed on the importance of holding onto garbage and given a garbage bag, but no such protocol. Not a bad project for a Peace Corps volunteer perhaps. As I packed up my stuff, a little black mouse appeared from behind the rocks to see if I left any crumbs behind. I look over to Manase and he’s checking messages on his cell phone. Progress and purity don’t always mix, do they?

Another two hours of steady trekking through our final valley and it’s up the last big trudge to Barafu Camp. The wind was really going as we gained altitude and yet again I felt a sort of knot in my stomach watching porters in t-shirts and sneakers with worn out soles making their way. It makes me feel like there should be minimum standards for health and safety that guide services should have to provide their employees. One company, Tusker Trails, appeared to do this as all their guides and porters wore nice shell jackets with the Tusker name on them.

At Barafu Camp we are set up on a scree ridge that sits beneath the Heim glacier and the final ascent we will soon make up the headwall. From our camp, Mweka Peak sits stately below us on Kilimanjaro’s lower flank, and Mount Meru is still bathed in clouds. I am relieved to have my tent already set up when I arrive and crawl in for some much needed rest before tonight’s final push to the summit at Uhuru peak.

Day 3 on the mountain at Barranco Camp, 13,035 feet. Today was the most beautiful so far, with clear skies all day and very little wind. We left Shira 2 at 8:00AM and made it the 15km past the Lava Tower at 15,279 feet and down into a beautiful valley further south. My neighbor Jose wasn’t copasetic with the Polay Polay pace of his guide and set out at his own strong pace with his guide following behind. If I make it that far, I hope I’m like him at 65. Manase and I went slow and steady, but I was used to it today, and aside from getting the occasional waft of his B.O., it was a really nice day. As it is, we got to camp at 1PM.

We made our way up the first gradual ridge and were treated with great views of Mt. Meru rising out of the clouds. The cloud bank got stuck trying to penetrate the rim around Shira Plateau and sat there like a bowl of cotton. At the crest of our ridge the headwall to the summit stood solid and imposing, catching small wisps of cloud among its glaciers, its vertically ridged cliffs showing through the mist. After a little over three hours, we were on top of the Lava Tower, a 150 foot tall formation just under the steep rise of the Western Breach. There used to be a guided climb up the face of this incredible wall, but the route has been closed since rock fall killed four tourists and two porters. Rock fall killed them but it was melting glacier that let the rocks go. “How long until they are gone?” I think to myself. At the lava tower I ate my lunch packet and especially enjoyed the pineapple juice drink box. Our descent to Barranco offered great views of the terrain—ridges littered with boulders and scree softened to allow the Dr. Seuss looking trees and flowery shrubs to mix in. The Barranco wall, the steep ascent we will make in the morning came into view, the trail visible from the bottom to the top. Looks like a thigh buster. We kept walking down and water collected on the trail in places and in one, formed a little waterfall.

At camp I enjoyed tea and coffee with popcorn and peanuts then laid out my towel and a sweaty t-shirt to dry in the sun. Inside my tent, the greenhouse effect made it toasty so I unzipped the vestibule on the downhill and enjoyed my view above the clouds. On the uphill side I could glimpse the Western Breach. This is definitely the most attractive spot on the climb so far. I chatted with the guys about the climb and their curiosity about what Senegalese women look like—they especially like my description of jaayfonde. I had to laugh when I look over and Robert is having Katete wash his back. “I take a bath!” he yells over to us.

Later, I eased into my tent and enjoyed reading a copy of Harper’s I brought, even if the articles were about the over-reaching power of Wal-Mart and prospects of war with Iran. I put my Ipod on shuffle and Bob Marley’s “Crisis” comes on fro Bob to put it best: “No matter what the crisis is, live it up, live it up, live it up, live it up!” I couldn’t agree more relaxing at 13,000 feet.

Day 2 at Shira 2 Camp, 12, 672 feet. Started out this morning at 7:30AM to clear skies. We made our way out of the forest at a slow, steady pace that I had to adjust to by just chilling out and enjoying the scenery. I’m a fast walker, but accepted that “polay, polay” was the theme of the day. Before leaving I was able to exchange two old $20 bills for their newer counterparts in circulation from two of the American women that arrived in the evening. When I tried to pay at the hotel, they told me the bank didn’t accept the old 20s. When I stopped at a grocery store on the way to the Lemosho gate the woman at the counter put it more succinctly: “Big head only.” I got the new bills, but when one of the women went to get her wallet, her husband or some other man in the group told her, “It could just be a story. Why would he bring money up here anyway?” I couldn’t help but step up to this. I said, “It’s actually not a story, but a real pain in the ass.” When he asked why I had my money up here I told him that I never parted with my wallet as a matter of habit from living in Senegal and that evidently they too had money on them, so what exactly was his point? The Norwegians smirked at me from their tent as I thanked the women for helping me out.

As we got going we enjoyed a real treat in the forest. The sun blazed through the dew and frost on the trees, sparkling and creating visible rays of light through the branches with steam forming all around. The route was fairly steep, ascending one ridge only to drop into another valley that flanked the mountain. Lavender and sage grew abundantly and Manase said the sage was “African medicine to help stomach.” As we gained the final ridge the clouds came in, moving in a solid block creeping up the valley. The blue of the sky disappeared like a blind being pulled down. What remained was a misty white, and it has persisted into evening. By the final ridge the forest had transformed into the alpine environment described by the climbing itinerary as moorland. Trees are gone, but the area is thick in shrubs, flowers, rocks and boulders, mosses, and lichens. It was very similar to the Oregon high desert; Steens Mountain came to mind, as did a Dr. Seuss book.

I passed two sets of droppings that looked to me like coyote and Manase said “mountain dog.” Maybe they’re the same. There were also giant magpies flying through the mist at our sides, landing near us intermittently to search for food. These weren’t like magpies I have seen in the US. They are the same black and white and do seem to possess that creepy yet intelligent air that I’ve seen these birds before, but it’s like they’re on steroids or growth hormone. Their beaks alone were thick as my thumb and pointer finger pressed together. Aside from the magpies we saw no other animals except some black beetles eating at the mountain dog droppings. Manase said that ten years ago there were more animal sightings but with the amount of climbs coming through much of the wilflife had all but disappeared.

We reached the massive Shira plateau as our cook Robert’s transistor radio played an only slightly crackled reggae. It appears that men being obsessed with walking around holding a handheld transistor radio are not a Senegalese thing, but an African thing. Actually, it’s a developing-world thing as this is the one affordable deliverer of news and entertainment. The plateau extended for many kilometers and under better conditions would afford an excellent view of the summit. We reached Shira 1 camp near noon and stopped to “eat lunch,” if that’s what you call me eating a large bag of food while the porters and Manase nibbled at a few veggies or crackers. I made each of them come over and take part of my lunch. I would have felt strange otherwise. They never would ask for anything or let you know, but to me they seemed hungry. I would be starved carrying a 20kg bag of gear on my head and a 10kg bag on my back over 3000 vertical feet. I have since been dividing up the cookies, crackers, and Twix bars I picked up at the grocery. I would like to think that I would behave this way no matter what, but I feel like living in Senegal has really changed my attitude about sharing and teranga, or hospitality. The distrusting American man this morning illustrated a fundamental difference between Africa and America-- we don’t trust strangers while Africans go out of their way to help them.

From the Shira plateau we made another 1000 feet onto a new flank of the mountain, slowly, slowly. By 2:30PM Manase and I reached Shira 2, a seven hour trip he said that most groups do in ten. At over 12,600 feet, I start to experience that mountain high, feeling good, strong, and tired all the while. For me, I am at the equivalent of being on top of Mount Adams, the tallest mountain I’ve climbed. To think that I have more than half another Adams to go sobers me and I go to my tent after the guys set up. I nap for about two hours and wake for some conversation with my new camp neighbor Jose, a 65 year old retired engineer from Madrid, climbing like me, as the sole client in his group. His English is great and his French perfect. He has climbed quite a bit in Spain as well as Aconcagua in Argentina, which is higher than Kilimanjaro. We talked about Senegalese emigration to Spain and he said he knew what was wrong with it- there weren’t any jobs, but like the rest of Spain, doesn’t know what to do. Dinner is served, Jose’s guys make him a fresh carrot soup, and my guys make fresh cucumber soup. It’s creamy and delicious. Then I eat a big plate of pasta with a beef and vegetable sauce with a huge side of green beans. Damn I didn’t know how much I like green beans.

After dinner I chat with Robert, my cook, after he asks, “Natty did you like your dinnah?” I never told him my nickname; he just picked it up from Nat which makes me smile. I tell him dinner was great. I ask Robert about his job and he said he is lucky to get to work one trip a month on the mountain and that his other job is as a welder. He has been buying tools and equipment slowly and hopes to buy a shop this year. He is married with two kids. His son turned three yesterday he said, a day we was working, for me, on the mountain. Robert asked me about myself and my work in the Peace Corps. He nods his head at my description of my work and says he knows a volunteer in a local village who works on HIV/AIDS work. “HIV a big problem for Africa.” He said he thought that every family in Tanzania was affected by it. His eyes glassed over as he told me that his sister and her two children are all HIV positive and all sick. My throat dropped and I told him I hoped his welding business would succeed. I wanted to ask him more about his sister and her condition, but didn’t want to make him more upset. After a minute he said he needed his business to succeed because everyone in his family looks to him for help, his sister and her children included. I don’t really know who to do justice to the emotion I felt listening to Robert, but whatever pain, misfortune, or heartache I may have ever felt seemed so far distanced by this man. This, of course, is probably true for many Africans I ever see or meet. It is humbling and hard to deal with inside myself, not because I feel guilty, but because I really feel for all these people who struggle and yet are so generous, so kind. I want to make all of America and the other rich people of the world feel this sensation, see what I see and feel just as effected.

I say goodnight to Robert and read and write for a while. I feel the air get colder and the light pitter-patter of cloud drops on my tent has stopped. Outside it’s clear and cold and I get my first sight of the mountain since driving to the trailhead from the hotel. It is immense. Under the light of a half moon and lots of stars, I see we are camped on a very gradual ridge that dead ends into the mountain headwall, a truly magnificent peak, steep and rocky, with glaciers lit by alpenglow. With this in my sights, it is a deep breath that I take in which makes any doubts, whether about the climb or about life simply fade into the immensity of the mountain. I am lucky and so happy to be here.

Day One on Kilimanjaro—9075 feet, at Mti Mbubwa or Big Tree Camp, 12km along the Lemosho route. Started early in Moshi at the hotel. After breakfast we weighed my gear, 4kg for me, and 4kg of other gear for my porters. My group consists of me, but I am nowhere near alone. I have a guide named Manase who speaks very broken English, plus a cook and four porters. I’ve never climbed on a guided, provisioned tour and it is odd. These guys carry my tent and clothing, the food for 6 days, stove, water, and other necessities for the whole group. I’m decked out in Patagonia jacket, trekking poles, and expensive waterproof boots while they are wearing t-shirts and second hand Payless boots as they carry giant loads on their heads. Though tough jobs, becoming a porter is very competitive in Tanzania and only those with four years on the mountain can become guides. The guys are all smiles and appreciate the efforts I make in Swahili. Our driver, Khalid, maneuvered our Land Rover over a very broken route up the West side of the mountain, teaching me Swahili along the way with the necessities like “vagina,” “little chicken” and “I love you very much” bringing a very enthusiastic reception each time I try them. We wind our way through turn after turn of industrial clear cuts and cypress plantation forests. It was not what I expected on the way to Kilimanjaro National Park, but I’m not surprised. Local people log the cypress for exports and furniture, then farm in the clear cuts.
Wooden shantytowns sit on ridges between the forest, filled with obviously poor and very hardworking people. Everyone was dirty, as it is tough to avoid the dust the wind picks up from the clear cuts or that the trucks kick up on the roads. Seeing these log-cabins like structures remind me of Jamestown, Virginia, almost like going back in time with wood smoke in the air and chickens pecking at the dirt.


The hike to the first camp took me only an hour and a half, half the time they told me. As it turns out, I probably walked too fast as I quickly distanced the rest of my group. When I waited for them, they told me, “Polay, polay” slowly, slowly. We started at 6930 feet and as we go up to over 12,000 feet tomorrow I will try to take their advice. The forest really reminds me of Oregon with clearly a high amount of rainfall—it came down pretty heavily for most of the hike. The trees are covered in moss and lichens and the trail got a bit slippery in places. I ran into elephant dung on the trail, though no sight of an actual animal besides a monkey that jumped out of a tree as I passed.

At camp I felt strange as my porters set up my tent, prepared hot water for me to wash up with, and brought me tea and a three course dinner. The food though, was excellent. Fresh leak soup, fried potatoes and goat steaks with vegetable sauce, a peanut butter and honey sandwich, avocado, banana, orange slices, and a cup of coffee. Senegal eat your heart out.

Two Norwegian women arrive near dinner and we speak about American politics until bedtime. I am endlessly impressed by how worldly and knowledgeable Europeans are compared to Americans. They both spoke perfect English and French, and describe their disdain for George Bush, their work in finance, and their families at home. A large group of Americans arrive, about 15 with an army of porters and guides. They set up a small city of tents, with one giant dome where they eat and chat in American style comfort. It certainly reinforced the Norwegians’ take on America, but was fun to kid about. Because I am on a six day climb, I skip the next camp at Shira 1 and go another 1000 feet to Shira 2 camp. The Norwegians and my American compatriots however, will be together the duration of their 7 day trip. I’m curious what will happen. I bed down in my sleeping bag, excited to be cold again after sweating for so long back in Senegal.

At the Nairobi airport I deplane at exactly 8:02AM. In Africa there aren’t many of the special transfer ramps on and off the plane that you take for granted in the US, just a set of stares from the ground up. I walk across the tarmac to the terminal and watch as my 8:00AM Precision Air flight to Tanzania taxis to the runway. It’s just my luck that for once, a flight leaves on the dot. I visit the transfer desk to find out when the next flight leaves. 10:35AM, not bad. It turns out that my original flight was late coming into Dakar because an Indian Airways flight popped all 8 of its tires on landing, not injuring anyone but blocking the runway for hours.

I make my way to the Nairobi version of the Prestige Lounge and am disappointed. Non-descript meat pies and burnt coffee serve as breakfast, and the furniture is only semi-comfortable, not the fat leather couches in Dakar. Worst of all, there’s only one toilet and I really have to go to the bathroom, but one guy after the next takes the throne. I decide to go to the public restroom instead. I walk in and a janitor is there. I walk past him to the corner stall and hear when I sit down I hear someone ask in English, “this one or that one?” Next thing I know, a bottle of water comes flying over the stall wall and hits me in the leg. Clearly startled, I yell out and shout, “What the hell?” There is no reply and I don’t hear anything else. I finish my business and when I emerge from the stall, the janitor is gone. Why would he have thrown a bottle of water at me, and was it the janitor or someone else? Was he in the middle of cleaning the stall and pissed off that I walked in? Maybe he just thought I was thirsty. I can’t figure it out, so I let it go, and head to my gate.

I’m on day one of my Tanzania vacation and I have to laugh. During the afternoon I sipped Johnny Walker in the cool, wood paneled calm of the Prestige Lounge at Dakar International Airport, a fringe benefit of my business class ticket. My original ticket was economy class but never arrived in the mail so my mom had to claim it lost, purchase another ticket, and look forward to being reimbursed for the first ticket within one year of the date of purchase. One would think that she could simply repurchase the seat with my name already on it, but not so, hence my business class seat and luxury afternoon. I share a drink with a Kenyan-American woman named Catherine Wachira who is director of the Drug Quality and Information program and International Affairs at USP- the US Pharmacopoeia, a foundation that sets drug quality standards adopted by the USDA. Catherine leads the USP’s efforts on malaria and HIV/AIDS treatments across Africa and Southeast Asia. Her soft spoken manner betray her obvious prestige (her business card has her named followed by MBA, MPA). She talks to me about pricing of pharmaceuticals, the high costs of research and development according to her, the reason for high drug costs.

I listen intently but don’t entirely believe it. When I worked for the PIRGs in Oregon, we lobbied in the state capitol for the creation of a prescription drug bulk purchasing program that would allow the combined buying power of Oregon and Washington to negotiate lower drug costs, something that would greatly help seniors who often choose between paying for life-saving medicines or paying the monthly gas bill. The pharmaceutical industry lobbyists were at the Capitol in force, many well-dressed, well-versed, and well-connected advocates who used the same argument Catherine was making. I told her about my experience and she said she was familiar with the “Oregon case.” Still, I enjoyed our conversation and soon enough we boarded for takeoff. My flight has a stop in Bamako, Mali before going to Nairobi, Kenya where I take a small plane to Tanzania.

Sitting in Bamako, I go through the complimentary toiletry kit in my seat pocket, enjoying a quick tooth brush and a little moisturizer, as I look back sympathetically at economy class and reflect on my first class situation. An announcement is made that there is no fuel at the airport in Bamako and we will be stopping in Lagos, Nigeria to gas up. I think to myself, “it’s another case of WAWA: West Africa Wins Again.”h I just can’t imagine how an international airport can’t have fuel, but there is no point in thinking on it too hard, I have another scotch coming and a big, fat seat to recline in along the way.

Later in the flight I go to the bathroom and come across one of my first and likely favorite words in Swahili: Choo Cha Maji. Flushing Toilet. The novelty of a flushing toilet is really something for me after 11 months of squatting over a hole, but to call it the Choo Cha Maji just adds to the mystique.