After a decade of two degrees, 25
countries and a number of professional incarnations, the question of how to
celebrate my thirtieth birthday loomed large.
Work and an unanticipated (though much appreciated) holiday trip home
conspired against setting foot in my thirtieth country, so when the stars
aligned to climb Kilimanjaro by the light of a full moon during the first hours
of my thirtieth, I considered myself lucky to have stumbled upon a sufficiently
romantic marker of the date that I had once earmarked as the entry-point into
my adulthood.
Living on the shores of the
Indian Ocean, our journey began at sea level.
For myself and my climbing partner, our actual departure was a welcome
relief following weeks of deciding upon logistics, assembling gear and hearing
of the experiences of friends who had already made the attempt. Often these stories began with ‘that’s
awesome, you can totally do it’ followed a short breath later by ‘but it was
the worst night of my existence’. This
was said often enough for me to relinquish my suspicion that it was just
hyperbole. The Rough Guide provided
little by way of solace, urging caution by reminding readers that although
Kilimanjaro is the highest free standing non-technical peak in the world,
upwards of a dozen people each year surrender their lives to it.
The trip had an inauspicious
start. After a hearty lunch of chicken
and chipsi (i.e. fries) with our guide and the company owner (we chose a
locally owned company, Kilimanjaro Brothers, who I whole-heartedly recommend),
we were instructed to go to our rooms and get our gear ready for
inspection. As I had spent hours
wondering whether my Marks Work Wearhouse gloves would result in hypothermia, I
was quite pleased to undergo inspection.
As Gillian began to dutifully unpack her compression bags, I began
frantically searching pockets as the realization set in that I had lost
something I needed – the keys to my locks!
Our guide Robert arrived to Gillian’s gear stacked neatly on her bed and
a deflated me, sitting on my duffel bag.
While he got introduced to my absentmindedness, I got an introduction to
his resourcefulness when he returned to our room five minutes later with a
handsaw. There is something magical about
the fact that while you may not be able to find change for a 5000 THS ($3) note
just about anywhere in Tanzania, you can find a handsaw in a matter of minutes. A couple of precarious looking strokes later,
the inspection was carried out and we made our way to the rental shop.
At first, being led down the
stairs of a decrepit and seemingly empty building made us relieved that we’d
already deposited our money into the hands of the tour operator. But those concerns gave way to overwhelm as
we entered a series of small rooms packed floor to ceiling with outdoor gear,
shed by the thousands that had gone before us.
The gear was much what you would
expect in a seventies ski chalet: pastel versions of mismatched Marmot,
Northface and Patagonia fell over one another in a bid to make another trip to
the summit. Loyalty to the decade of my
birth prevailed and I picked out a pair of baggy blue rain pants and a
cerulean, black and white jacket that was vaguely clammy and that instinct told
me not to smell.
Anticipation is the enemy of
sleep and diamox its companion. This is
a truth I became reacquainted with later that evening. The insurance policy against altitude
sickness, diamox is a drug that is widely taken that may alleviate or prevent altitude sickness and whose diuretic
effects will ensure that you have to
get up multiple times a night. The
prospect of doing this in sub-zero temperatures encouraged us to seek a company
that provided portable toilets. Wimpy?
Maybe, but it was an excellent decision (more on that later). The morning saw the bad omens reversing. Packing snacks into my daypack waist strap, I
found my errant keys. Despite raining
the entire week preceding our arrival, the skies were clear, absent the heavy
clouds of the upcoming rainy season. So
clear was the sky that we were treated to a view of the imposing Kilimanjaro
snowcap for a good twenty minutes of our drive to the park gates.
Gillian and I sat amongst our
porters and guides in silence. The
ominous rise of the peak left me to seriously wonder whether I would actually
stand atop it in six days time. I began
to reconcile myself to my fate, telling myself: all you can do is try, lots of
fit people don’t make it all the way up, partying in Capetown was not the
better option for celebrating this milestone.
This was followed by a pep talk: you’ve been almost this high before,
you are strong, you will stand and watch the sun rise over Africa. Repeat.
Then, eventually the silence that marks the moments before any great
challenge or endeavor – the gathering of one’s will and ultimately, the trust
that after this point, things will unfold as they may.
Gillian is a yoga instructor and
in a few short months I will be joining her.
We are planning on running a retreat together and in our enthusiasm
decided to mark our progress with asanas all the way up the route. Our opening pose – dancer – symbolizing triumph
over ignorance to reach new heights. At
least the former proved true. Over the
next six days, the park log books would bear witness that two women alternately
known as a lawyer, nurse, shaman, levitator, yogi and writer had made their way
up the Machame Route.
Robert, our guide, threatened
that we would not get our summit certificate if we failed to pass a quiz
soliciting our knowledge of the different flora and fauna along the route. With irregular levels of enthusiasm we were quizzed
on the distinct climatic zones of Kilimanjaro:
first, the montane rainforest, where tall trees with trunks covered in
soft green moss dominated the trail, giving way by the end of the first day to moorland,
characterized by sparse short Arica trees, covered with wispy moss whose name
sounded like Russian Beard, but of which I am quite certain I misunderstood.
Finally, was the alpine desert – where shale, boulders and dirty ice reined: a
grey and desolate world.
As I alluded to earlier, the
Kilimanjaro Brothers took good care of us on the mountain. Although it was the off (rainy) season, there
were several large groups climbing with us and yet somehow almost every night
we managed to secure a campsite away from the masses with a spectacular view of
Kilimanjaro and its sister, Mt. Meru.
With the stark beauty of the peaks as our backdrop, we were cajoled into
eating seemingly endless amounts of food: soups, stews, rice, chapatti, eggs,
porridge, more soup. This in addition to
about 3 kilograms of candy, cookies, nuts, chips and energy drinks we’d bought
between us. If you don’t eat more, you
won’t have the strength on the last day was a favourite line of Karim, our
assistant guide and his warnings almost always ensured that I would cram in
another five starchy mouthfuls before crying out in defeat. There is only so much room for food when
you’ve consumed 3 litres of water!
We opted for a 7 day route – meaning
we would summit on the 6th night of our trip. Many others opt for a 5 day route, summiting
on the 4th night, but with the prospect of a 1200 vertical metre
midnight ascent, we decided to maximize our chances by taking as much time as
we could afford. As a result, most of
our days were quite pleasant. We both
had the good fortune of having only short periods of nausea as the main impact
of the altitude on us. The walks were at
times strenuous, but seldom exceeded 5 hours of effort. Robert engaged us on everything from
Tanzania’s history to marriage customs and the occasional Cinderella (a popular Bongo Flava song) serenade. We butchered Bob Marley hits (although Robert
insisted I had a ‘voice wonder’), discussed the lives of Tanzanian pop stars
and lapsed into quiet contemplation of our lives, the sensations in our bodies
and the task ahead.
The weather mirrored our good
health. During our entire time on the
mountain, it only rained twice – once as a non-committal drizzle at the end of
our third day and again as a full scale thunderstorm throughout that night. We had been warned that getting wet would
signal the end of our aspirations as altitude would both limit their ability to
dry and ensure that the cold would go to our bones. Each sunny morning brought relief and
increasing confidence in our upcoming summit attempt.
The morning of the day of our
summit attempt was clear and the peak of Kilimanjaro paradoxically seemed both closer
and further than ever. When our team
asked whether we needed our portable toilet given the inaccessibility of water
at base camp, we told them to leave it behind.
(Although I can’t tell you how wonderful it is if you are forced to get
up in the middle of the night to not have to step in another person’s excrement
as you struggle to arrange yourself in the frigid temperatures.) The day’s
climb was relatively easy and short – while force-drinking after a big lunch
the inevitable occurred – the time for the public bathrooms. Having already visited them on the way into
camp, this required some psyching-up – stepping out of our tent into the
moonscape of the alpine desert we were met with the familiar green of our
port-a-potty tent! In our delirium, I
declared it my best birthday present to date.
In hindsight, I still say it ranks near the top.
No longer dreading the ten minute
uphill walk to the vile facilities, we spent the afternoon and evening dozing
in and out of consciousness. Most people
ascend Kili by starting around midnight and enduring the dark and sub-zero
temperatures to reach the summit. This
was something we never questioned, assuming that there was a reason, like bad weather
later in the day, that made this the option that everyone took. Afterwards, when we questioned our guide, we
found out that the only reason for this is because ‘people like seeing the
sunrise’. Judging by the stricken looks
of the people on the mountain the night we went up, I’m not sure many of them
took much pleasure in the sunrise. Those
in especially rough shape might have appreciated not having to add frozen
extremities and sleepwalking to the list of factors they had to contend with
that day.
Incredulous as we were at the
amplification of suffering for the sake of a sunrise, in the end we both agreed
we would have still chosen the same time (midnight) to depart for the
summit. If you are going to ascend 1200
vertical metres in a solid push, you may as well get extra credit for doing it
through the night and see the sunrise.
It was spectacular. At first I thought
my eyes were betraying me as the inky black sky began to give way to a deep
purple. I had felt strong all morning
but still couldn’t believe that I had been walking almost six hours at that
point – surely there were still hours to go.
Our assistant guide, Karim, who had kept me going at an aggressive pace
that helped ward off the fatigue and cold pointed and said ‘that’s Stella’s
Point in 100m’. Unbelievably, it
actually was – 5685m. Luckily it was
still dark as all I could think about at this point was peeing (yep, the story
of 70% of my trip).
We had been told that Uhuru Peak –
the highest of the three peaks of Kilimanjaro was a half an hour to an hour’s
walk from Stella’s Point. I maintained
my slow, methodical pace, confident now that I would get to the summit. As I walked, the sun began to rise, casting
an eerie glow over the summit glaciers.
Captivated by the dull peachy hues enveloping the sky and the mountain, I
snapped as many pictures as I could bear to expose my hands for. Those who had already made it to the summit
whispered words of encouragement as they passed. Suddenly I turned a corner and could see it –
a small group of people and a large green sign – replacing the classic wooden
one in most of the photo’s I’ve seen.
Unlike my unceremonious arrival at Stella’s Point, my approach to Uhuru Peak
was appropriately climactic. As I walked
toward the peak I reflected upon the fact that the first thing I’d done on my
thirtieth birthday was literally climb a mountain. It was a reminder of the powerful things that
can happen at the intersection of goals, hard work, perseverance, and, of
course, good luck.
A large group was fast
approaching and Karim hurriedly snapped some pictures. Then it was the long, long, long walk
down. Everyone’s commentary had focused
on how brutal getting to the summit was but no
one said anything about going down.
As the scree slope usually taken down was frozen, I descended the same
route I’d taken up and it was my turn to stumble, curse and sit down in fits of
exasperation. It was absolutely
exhausting to navigate the slippery slope while trying to protect my aching
knees. Albeit on a much smaller (and
less dramatic) scale, I began to empathize with the people who sat down for
eternity after summiting a mountain.
Once you’ve done what you set out to accomplish, it would be preferable
if a teleporter could immediately whisk you to a comfortable hotel of your
choosing… maybe even bring you a drink.
This of course was not among the
options presented to us and Gillian and I spent the afternoon and the following
morning walking down the mountain – hurting but buoyed by our success. We had been to the top of Africa and both
agreed that once was enough!
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