In the Tanzanian village of Liyasongoro, located 1,700 meters up the south slope of Mount Kilimanjaro, Wilbert Minja has lived for more than 60 years, and lately he has been worried. The weather is all wrong, he says: "Rain falls when it should not, and does not come when it should." He recites stories describing how new settlers used to flock to the mountainside, lured by its rich soil and abundant fresh water. Now, he says, they are abandoning their failed homesteads. The mountain streams are running dry, and the dusty ground that was once fertile and full of life has turned barren.
When asked about global warming, the old man says he doesn't understand the term. But it is obvious that he and the one million or so other inhabitants of Kilimanjaro's flanks are getting a first-hand education in the phenomenon and its human impact. Government water experts claim that the mountain's annual rainfall has declined every year since 1984. In fact, two years ago, the drought got so bad that Minja's crop failed; for the first time in his life, he had to buy food in order to survive.
Farther uphill, past the farms and villages, the rain forest that covers the mountain's midsection has also been affected. It is receding, gradually being consumed by illegal logging and wildfires in the dry heat. And above it all, at the top of Africa's highest peak, the snows of Kilimanjaro are vanishing. It is happening at a frightening rate.
Two American climbers found this out for themselves last year when they set out for the 6,000-meter summit, relying on a map just three years old. The two Americans had planned to climb the southern route by hiking up the Heim glacier. It turned out to be impossible. In the short time since the map had been drawn, the glacier had shrunk by half its size. The leading edge had broken off and melted, leaving a towering wall of ice to block the way.