
Upon touchdown in Tanzania three months prior, we really believed we would climb Kilimanjaro, bag Africa’s highest peak, bask in the bragging rights and, coupled with the Serengeti, we’d do Tanzania right. We did do Serengeti, though we kinda went in the backdoor. But we never thought we’d be on the summit of the other mountain, staring across at the snows in Hemingway’s yarns.
Then again, nothing in Tanzania went the way we expected. And it was all for the best.

Our climb was cheaper, more aesthetic, and less crowded unless you count the giraffe and buffalo. Our traveling companion surprised us with a rare form of HAD, high altitude diarrhea, “guys, I had to use rocks.” Our mandatory armed ranger came down with malaria and had to be evacuated, leaving us to follow the fresh buffalo tracks on our own. These were circumstances out of our control, but our social faux pas came in the process of tipping, an extravagant affair in full documented view of our entire staff, which consisted of a main guide, an assistant guide, six porters, a cook, and our aforementioned armed guard. A ridiculous affair but so full of inexplicable decision making that one can only describe it as consistent.
