Morning came early at Simba Hut at 2771 meters above sea level. I had had a bad night, despite my tent having been erected on flat ground without any rocks or stones to disturb with my sleep. My guts had been in full rebellion, thanks to the goat innards soup from the Kibo Lodge BBQ.

I wiggled from my sleeping bag and crawled from the tent. The cooks were preparing breakfast. I stumbled to the nearest bush and spewed green liquid on the ground. The porters laughingly mimicked my feat and chorused, “Oooooh-ach. Oooooh-ach.”

I was no longer M’zee, but now M’zee Ooooh-Ach.

“Can someone put that old man out of his misery?” shouted Tim from a nearby tent.

“I only wish someone could.” I heaved bile and everyone within earshot echoed my retch.

“I warned you about that soup, but you’re a tough old nail and think you can eat everything/.”

“I used to.”

I wandered to the breakfast tent.
Ma’we smiled at me and said, “Don’t listen to them you are still Bwana M’zee Konyagi to me. We get back to Marangu, we drink Konyagi by the big tree.”

“And a lot of it.”

“But if you can’t make it, then better to stop now, then have to come down from higher up.”

No, I’ll be fine,” said before searching for a remote bush into which empty my breakfast.

It was a good morning to hit the trail.

Cool.

Dry.

Sunny.”

The ladies were all smiles.

Mark and his friend Kees were happy to be here with their sons.

Oskar was young, but had good musical tastes.

They turned around and looked at me.

“Ooooh-ach.”

I pulled on my day sack and told Charlie, the head guide, “I’m setting out ahead to take videos.

“Do not go far. There are water buffaloes.

“Lions too,” warned David, his brother.

“And elephants added my porter.

“I know elephants.” Every year Old Yai visited my mango tree.”

“Thai elephant not same African.” Charlie shook his head.

“All elephants are the same. What is between their toes? Slow-running people.”

They all laughed warily and I set out withe the rest of the Kili Team lining up for the trail. Young people liked to talk. I preferred quiet and twenty paces later I was alone.

I stopped to set up a shot.

Ma’we was in the lead.

I snapped several photos.

Jackman called out, “Be careful. Lions like the sound of ooooh-ach.”

“They like young men better. Your meat tastes sweet and especially when the meat is close to the bone.”

Jackman was muscular, but thin.

“I’ll tell the lions better meat is coming.”

I broke away from the crowd on the path through the dry rainforest.

Kilimanjaro seemed closer, but it was another five days to the summit.

The Maasai was far below. A world away and I maintained a face pace, although not as speedy as the Chaanga porters whose lungs were inured to the altitude. Each one carried thirty kilos. My day pack was loaded with three liters of water, camera equipment and rain gear. The weather on the mountains changed from place to place.

I felt good and stopped to drink water. I cast an ear downhill and heard nothing, but the wind.

The path was romanced by the perfume on the flowers.

The flowers had no name and I had lost mine.

“I was M’zee of the Konyagi tribe.

A lover of flowers.

Clouds ate the sun.

My fingers predicted rain.

I hurried along the trail.

Dry forest, but I saw the scars of an old fire.

Something stirred in the underbrush.

Not close. Not far either.

Thunder rumbled up the slope.

I pulled on my poncho.

David caught up with me and pointed out a cave.

“We wait there for everyone. Your friend Tim worried about you.”

“About a lion.

“No, too much ooooh-ach.”

The cave was a closed volcanic vent.

“Water buffalo come here to lick salt.” He pointed to turds. “Last night.”

“Better last night than now.”

They barely smelled bad.

Twenty minutes later the Kili Team appeared at the cave. I was glad to them.”

M’zee, are you okay?” asked Vanessa.

No lions. No buffaloes. No ooooh-ach.”

“Then you are healthy and keep going.”

I got here before you all and I’ll see you at the next camp. Stay dry.”

“Kilewawi Camp is not far,” advised David and I nodded my head, knowing that not far for a Chaanga could be twenty miles, but an hour later he pointed out a camp and said, “Kilewawi.”

“Good,” I answered and the sky opened with a tempestuous torrent.

The dry ravines filled fast.

The water fed the plains.

The rain was a good thing.

Especially when the sun broke through the clouds and there was hot tea and cookies on the table.

And I wasn’t alone.