9/10/2011
Today was my first day on the mountain. This morning Thabit picked me at 8:00am. We started the actual trek at noon from Machame Gate. Before breakfast Thabit told me that the Canadian and Norwegian whom I was to trek with postponed for 3 days in order to acclimatize. I’d be trekking alone. Alone is not really the right word, since I have Enoch the cook, Saidi the porter and Bryson my new guide (*I later learned there was an additional porter name Melak). I also learned about Bryson’s existence in this conversation, and that Thabit would not be my actual guide. “Be free, Doug,” Thabit told me, sensing my hesitation. “Don’t worry. There are many people on the mountain.” OK…
After I bid Elyse and Facebook farewell via Kindle, we set off in the car for Machame Gate. We had to make several stops for supplies. I only found baby wipes just before the gate (apparently they’re vital for any trek). Fortunately we didn’t leave Machame before I informed Thabit that I still didn’t have a water bottle (apparently they’re vital for any trek). We went back to our rental place to get me one, and I saw YellowShirt (see previous post) there, still rubbing his head.
The closer we got to Machame Gate, the more verdant the area began to look. The base of Kilimanjaro is essentially a rainforest. The road was like most asphalt roads in third world countries: narrow, bumpy and driven on with no regard for safe speed. This was especially true when it came to our driver.
As I sat in the passenger seat trepidation grew. I began to think of a TV show that was playing last night in the hotel restaurant. It was the first program I had heard in English while in Tanzania. I half-listened as a panel of talking heads spoke about random issues facing the country. One old man insisted on talking about the dangers of driving in Tanzania. “Too many of the productive generation are being killed on our roads,” he said.
Zipping past pedestrians on this rural road, with honking as our only precaution, I wondered if we would add to the old man’s statistics. There were dozens of people of all ages walking alongside and on the narrow road. At the speed we were going, it seemed to me that they took way too long to move out of our way . Nevertheless, everyone involved, whether pedestrians, our driver, or the other passengers, seemed unconcerned, so I tried to relax.
After awhile, I began snapping photos of people, landscape, houses, and whatever else caught my eye. In the distance, I spotted a pretty young woman and a small boy of about 2 years old walking along the road. All children and babies are beautiful, and without fail they bring a smile to my face. This young boy was smiling himself, and looked like he had only learned to walk fairly recently by the way he stumbled along. As we drew closer, I couldn’t help but grin at this little Tanzanian boy with the wide eyes. When we were about 10 feet from him, still smiling, he lunged in front of the car.
“JESUS!” I shouted at the same time that the others in the car yelled in Swahili with equal vigor. A fraction of a second later, the driver swerved and slammed on the brakes. We skidded past the boy, missing him by about a foot. As one, all five of us in the car turned and stared incredulously at the woman and boy now 20 feet or so behind us.
The driver reversed and pulled up alongside them. I rolled down the window. A stream of angry Swahili flew from the driver’s mouth at the woman. I didn’t need to speak the language to understand. She shyly picked up the boy and began carrying him on her hip as the driver kept yelling.
I was amazed we hadn’t killed the boy. His bright smile wouldn’t have even been recognizable. His head was about level with the headlight. Such an accident would undoubtedly haunt me for the rest of my life. Never mind continuing the Kilimanjaro trek, or even beginning it for that matter. “My apologies, donors,” I imagined myself writing. “I was unable to begin the trek because my expedition killed a toddler before we could get started. Still, your donations will directly benefit children in the US who are still living.”
We continued onward, and my premonitions of an accident returned. WE reached the gate, and pulled up a crowded cobblestone drive through dozens of trekkers loitering around. The steep driveway led to a small parking lot, and the driver pulled in behind a safari-style SUV that was ascending the short driveway as well.
All of a sudden the SUV began rolling backwards towards us. We were surrounded by people and couldn’t back up. Our driver laid on the horn, but it was too late. The giant SUV crashed its back left corner into the front right of our car with a resounding crunch.
Our driver was livid. He leapt from the car and began arguing his case to the observing public by yelling at the other driver. Thabit surprised me, opening my door. He ushered me to a covered area to get me out of the light drizzle. Fortunately, the unavoidable accident occurred at the very end of our drive, and didn’t involve any injuries to small children.
As Thabit made arrangements, I sat among other trekkers. I met Dahlia and Daniel, an Israeli brother and sister who recognized me from the Buffalo Hotel in Moshi. They were surprised I was American because they didn’t think I spoke with an American accent. They were right. Whenever I’m around people that speak English differently, I accidentally adopt their speech patterns. When those people are non-native speakers, I slow my speech and alter my speaking to make it easier for them to understand. Still, it was a little embarrassing to be called out on it. They were friendly though, and I thought maybe we’d trek together.
Thabit came and took me to pay the fees and register. I was the only American that I could find in the registry today. Under “Occupation”, almost everyone had listed “student.” One Belgian girl from NYC had written “lawyer”. I wrote “Marine.”
I lost track of Dahlia and Daniel when Thabit took me to change into my trekking clothes. We took some pics and I officially met the crew, even though we had already almost killed a child together. Thabit told me to start out with Enoch, and Bryson would catch up. I bid Thabit farewell until the end of the trek, and started off with Enoch. Enoch was young and well built, but carrying much more than I was. Usually my tendency is the opposite of “pole pole” (“slowly slowly”) while trekking. But I tried to be considerate to Enoch by slowing my pace. Enoch and I were together for the entire 4-hour trek. Bryson did not catch up until we reached our campsite.
As we walked, I contemplated the lot of the porters. Here I was with all my gear and clothing, and even though it was used and old for the most part, it was still better than what most of them wore. In mostly street clothes, the porters carry all of our gear up the mountain, without hiking poles and without complaint. They stop for rest breaks, smoke cigarettes or weed, and then keep going. I met two American guys, Aseem from San Francisco and Steve from Pittsburgh at lunch. We discussed the porters.
“If they get by with so little, why is everyone so worried about us?” I asked.
“Kinda makes you feel like a pussy,” remarked Aseem. Steve and I concurred.
We reached Machame Hut-Camp just after 4:00pm. Enoch and I sat and waited for the others. I ate the two tiny bananas leftover from lunch and split my muffin with Enoch. Bryson arrived before long, and I again signed in as “Douglas Martin, Marine”. I was hungry, so I asked when we’d have dinner. “It is up to the cook,” said Bryson as we walked back to our tents from the hut.
Saidi pointed at one of the tents, smiling broadly and said, “Ready.”
“Me and you?” I asked.
“No, just you,” replied Bryson.
I laughed with Saidi as I mimed rolling around in my sleep because of so much space. I climbed inside and sought out a pack of Pop-Tarts that I had stashed. I resolved to eat only one of the two in the pack. After devouring both of them, I re-resolved to have more discipline with the other packs.
About 5 minutes later, Saidi came by with a green cloth and announced, “Tea and popcorn!” with his big smile. I shouldn’t have jumped the gun with the Pop-Tarts. Saidi set up the cloth on the empty side of the tent. Apparently he is also my waiter. Over the course of the evening, he has brought me tea, milk powder, Milo (a fortifying chocolate powder “for strength!” he says), popcorn, condiments, tea, cookies, a hot water dish with soap for cleansing, and is now setting up for dinner in stages. He even brought me a candle to have dinner by.
As I look at all of this, I feel more and more like some British imperialist on expedition. It’s not luxurious, but being waited on while camping is not something I’ve experienced before. I’ll be sure to tip better than the old “mzungu” explorers though.
