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.