With everything that he had the driver of our rickety, overloaded and top heavy bus stomped on the gas pedal until it nearly went through the floor. The rig bucked and tossed about while the tires spun at full speed, digging themselves deeper into the sloppy mud. Smoke billowed from the wheel wells filling the cabin with a thick grey plume of lung congesting toxins, the captain of this tin box refusing to give up. The driver continued his pursuit of forward motion, foot still heavy on the throttle but progress had come to a halt. With that, and the sudden fear of rolling off the side of the mountain, an army of porters leaped from there seats and headed into the rain to analyze the severity of the situation. Once again, the drivers foot jammed the gas pedal into the only position he knew, straight to the floor, and relentlessly tried again. This time however, with the aid of 30 or so hooting and hollering men of might, the bus broke free and began careening up the mud bog of a road while us passengers grimaced in terror. At last, we bounded with relief onto a more solid foundation, the porters with there muddy boots reestablished themselves inside the bus and we carried on towards the entry gate to Kilimanjaro National Park. The days first assault had come to its finale.
