Morning! Tea? Coffee? Sugar? One Scoop? Two Scoop? It was all the English Wilson knew, but it was all he needed to function as our morning alarm.
We wake up and perform the mountain versions of our morning routines. Brush teeth. Stretch. Journal. Breakfast is a bigger spread than we anticipated. Chapati (crepe like bread), toast, peanut butter, jam, honey, instant coffee. eggs, hot dog shaped mystery meat. I wouldn’t call it Michelin star dining, but I wasn’t complaining either.
Eat! You must eat! Jonas commands. Today is a very long day. You need the energy. Jonas' English was short, simple, and refreshingly direct.
We finish eating and tend to the rest of our routines. In no time the porters have broken down and packed most of our camp. We must leave soon. Today is a long day. There's no time to waste.
But first, it was time to resolve of my greatest mountain anxieties - pooping. Pooping, or, as they say here, sending a fax (because it's slower than a text), was an issue of top priority. In this realm I am a victim of posh modernity used to spotless porcelain thrones, high pressure bidets and robust toilet paper. Nightmares like spontaneous diarrhea or sticking my butt for cleanliness, as close friends have done on similar excursions, haunted my dreams.
But none of that was to pass. The toilet tent containing a modest portable toilet turns out to be one of the most critical luxuries of the trip. It's one of the main reasons to pay the extra bucks for the right guiding company. Spend a half second in the vague proximity of a public toilet (which is more of an outhouse) and you’ll understand why the private toilet is the only real option.
Fortunately, the toilet, along with my fax machine, worked on cue in normal and predictable patterns. Just after breakfast, and before the hike. My nightmares go unfulfilled.
With that out of the way we begin the first of what would be many long and difficult hikes. We begin with a steep uphill climb through more rainforest.
Pole Pole, slowly slowly, is the mantra drilled into our heads long before we even get to the mountain. To make it to the top, we must go Pole Pole.
But Pole Pole was for us, not the porters.
Blasting by us was a long column of porters carrying tents, excess gear, food, cooking equipment, water, even the toilet (which yes, is cleaned before it's carried). They carry it on their backs. Some on their heads. Some both.
They do it with gear more Goodwill than REI. Worn shoes. Torn shirts. Nothing new. But what they lack in quality they make up in swagger. Stacks of cash on gym shorts. Fake Gucci sweaters. Graphic hip hop tees. Ornate beanies. Most look more like extras in rap videos than porters for Africa's tallest mountain. They pass us smiling.
Not all porters are created equal though. Our porters are super stars. Others, not so much. We see porters from other groups struggle mightily. Another reason to pay the extra bucks. More money. Better porters.
Physically we’re fine, but Lauren's absence drains our morale. It starts raining and we sink even further. Your clothes must not get wet, Jonas warns. It will not dry. Thankfully I had a poncho and rain cover for my bag, but my shirt got soaked. It would take four days for that one shirt to dry off.
The surroundings are beautiful, but we have to focus more on our footwork to avoid slipping. If we learned anything last night, it was that any step could spell disaster. We took the lesson to heart.
Pole Pole.
It was the perfect recipe for a shitty day. Cold. Wet. Windy. I was becoming more miserable by the minute. I wasn't alone. I challenged the faith that brought me to this mountain. This was day two?! I groaned. And we have another FIVE DAYS?? Fuck me. Why did I sign up for this again?
We slog along for hours. Soon, the rain along with the rainforest disappear. Out of nowhere it seems like we've portaled from the jungles of Colombia to the meadows of Yosemite. Big open skies. Short bushes and shrubs replace trees. Mysterious flowers instead of fungi. Kilimanjaro's ridges line the horizon.
We make it to Shira One, the day's halfway point, for lunch.
We refuel with vegetable soup, rice, chicken, filtered water and caffeine. I bust out a curveball nobody saw coming. Two kilos of flamboyantly colored and extravagantly tasting Turkish delight from my stopover in Istanbul. Everyone, especially the porters who’d never seen anything like this, lose their shit.
Just as planned.
Bellies full, feet relieved, rehydrated and caffeinated, rain paused, and Turkishly delighted, our mood improves. But we have little time to spare. We need to make camp before nightfall. We pack up and set out.
But what holds us up on this leg of the hike isn’t rain or steep terrain. It’s how beautiful our surroundings have become. We find ourselves deep inside an ancient caldera with grasslands and volcanic rocks in all directions. A calm mist blankets the greenery. The snow-capped Kebo peak and Mount Meru dominate the background. We stop frequently to admire the scenery and take pictures.
Decca, our bursting ray of human sunshine, busts out a speaker and blasts music. It turns out gangster rap, afro beats and house music are the medicine we didn't know we all needed. A few hours have turned us from a group of wet grumbling hikers to a roving dance party. For the first time we’re having fun. Lot’s of it.
Golden hour magnifying the palate around us. Amber sky. Earthy browns. Yellow dotted grassy greens. Shining silver mist. Wildflower pinks and purples. We slow down to admire. Part of me doesn't want this day to end. I look at Zach, beginning to understand what compelled him to return. He returns the look, smiles and nods.
Not everyone was enjoying this part. We cross paths with Megan, a friend we made back in Moshi. She's pale, puking, and miserable. We don’t know if she’ll make it. Another reminder that nothing is guaranteed.
We arrive to Shira Two Camp, our home for the night, as the sun sets. We've hiked nearly non stop since the morning. Legs tired, faith tested, we rest in good spirits. Night falls. Stars glitter the night sky. The glow is bold, bright, and glorious. The only tragedy is not having enough time to admire it. Tomorrow is another long day, and we need as much sleep as possible in order to confront tomorrow's opponent - altitude.