I consider myself an able backpacker, comfortable in the woods for a few days at time, and a reasonably strong hiker, so when my guide for climbing Mount Karisimbi (~4500 meters) in Rwanda recommended both Emily and I take a porter, our first reaction was very negative. “We do not need porters!” Eventually, we assented to one ($10 a day), realizing that we probably needed a porter to bring us a pot for cooking and to arrange some kind of fire for cooking on. Our guide, who had considerably less stuff than us (in three separate bags – a small backpack full of food and clothes, a tent, and a sleeping bag), arranged another. And so, we met Francis and Bosco.
At the parking lot for the beginning of every hike or gorilla trek in Parc de Volcans large groups of men in blue coveralls wait in the hopes that tourists will need their help. The day previously we had watched a group of 5 porters assist the 6 other tourists on our gorilla trek. These men carried small bags, and (literally) held the hands of the overweight men and women who didn’t appear to realize that trekking mountain gorillas means a short (for us, about an hour, including about 8 short breaks for a particularly out of shape Australian women) climb up the foothills of a mountain. I felt somewhat bad for these porters, but they seemed to take things in stride, no doubt used to fat white women, and aware that hand holding had the potential to upgrade a very reasonable $10 wage to $20 or $30.
It wasn’t until the next day that I developed a true appreciation for the Rwandan porter, personified in Francis and Bosco. As Emily and I walked at a decent pace under the weight of our bags, struggling in the omnipresent mud and steep slope, Francis and Bosco sped ahead. Francis, a small but well built, younger man carried a large bag on his head which included provisions for him and Bosco as well as a pot for us. In his right hand he held a machete, and in his left he carried a large axe. Bosco, a large, and very strong looking middle aged man carried a backpack on his pack. In his right hand, our guide’s tent, and in his left hand, our guide’s sleeping bag. Of course, neither Francis nor Bosco needed extra clothes, a sleeping bag, or a tent.
Shortly after entering the park Emily sprained her ankle, and we decided it would be best to give her pack to Francis, so he hefted it onto his back and continued to walk at the same impressive pace as before. We walked on. Now, I was setting the pace for our group, which included our guide, two porters, and nine soldiers, all of whom were carrying large packs and assault rifles. About 45 minutes from the camp site I was completely beat, and while I could have made it (admittedly in more like an hour and half), Bosco offered to carry my bag, which he hefted on to his shoulders, adjusting his other items, and speeding ahead. When we arrived at the camp site neither man was anywhere to be seen: they had already gone off to go cut firewood.
Within a couple hours they had started a large fire from a very large pile of very wet wood, stacking the wood impressively so that the wood on top would begin to dry as wood on the bottom caught fire. Freezing, Emily and I went to sit by the fire. I began to take off my shoes, trying to dry them by the fire and scraping them with wood in attempt to remove the mud that had formed an outside layer. Francis took my shoes and using a bit of wood proceeded to do a far better job on the shoes than I was. Of course, neither man wore shoes as flawed as hiking boots, instead opting for simple rubber rain boots. Did I mention that all the soldiers and our guide also wore these rubber rain boots?
Bosco and Francis ate some fried bread they brought with them and roasted corn, and ate some things we gave them as well. Then, they probably slept even less than Emily and I, as the two of them shared a large tin shelter near the fire with no blankets, and only a jacket apiece. The next morning, after I failed to summit because of a splitting altitude headache, Bosco comforted me by the fire, using his machete to clean the mud from my shoes, and cooking me roasted corn and potatoes. Over the course of the trip the machete served as a brush clearer, wood chopper, fire poker, potato peeler, and, of course, mud scraper.
On the descent, at a breakneck pace, both porters carried our packs, and could probably have beaten us to the bottom by a good 30 minutes. This is very impressive given that the descent from the campsite took only about two hours, and if I had been carrying my pack it probably would have taken me at least three hours. The climb was full of deep mud and steep wet rocks, requiring great care in order not to fall. I slipped a number of times, and managed small half-falls as well. As far as I can tell, neither porter even so much as lost their balance.
Porters have been used by white men in Africa to carry their things since the first overland explorers began trekking across the continent. It wasn’t until this experience that I began to develop a true appreciate for just how amazing these porters are. White people (myself included) think that they need all kinds of gear and tools to survive outdoors (and, in Africa, people to carry all this stuff). Rwandan porters prove that all you really need are a pair of rubber boots, a jumpsuit, and a machete. Oh, and maybe a jacket and a poncho for staying warm at night. Truly badass.