Leo Keita

I used to think the streets of Port Moresby, Papa New Guinea, were the only place I belonged. Growing up in a tough neighborhood, I was no stranger to the violence and crime that surrounded me. It wasn’t the life I wanted, but when you’re born into poverty, you learn quickly that survival comes before dreams. I was in my twenties then, running with a rough crowd, living day to day, always on edge.

One day, I met an old neighbor, Jonah. I hadn't seen him in years. He was different from the people we used to hang out with—kept mostly to himself, never getting into trouble. He mentioned he was guiding tourists on the Kokoda Track and asked if I wanted to come along. I laughed at first. Me? Hiking with tourists? But something about it stuck with me, so I gave it a try.

That was five years ago. I'm 32 now, and the Kokoda Trail is my second home. It’s wild, it’s tough, but it saved me from myself. Each trip is brutal—mud-soaked paths, steep climbs, and those relentless steps that seem to stretch forever. But every time I finish a trek, it feels like I’ve accomplished something bigger than myself. It’s nothing like the streets.

The tourists come expecting a challenge, and I make sure they get one, but I also make sure they’re safe. I've heard of muggings on the trail, but not when I'm leading the way. These mountains and jungles are no place for fear, just respect.

Now, when I stand on top of those ridges, looking out over the thick valleys, I feel something I never did in the city—peace. There’s something powerful about this place, knowing soldiers fought and died here. The trail changes people, tourists and guides alike. It changed me. I’m proud of what I do now. It’s not glamorous, but it's honest, and it keeps me connected to something bigger than the streets ever did.