March 22, 2010
Its 7 am and I am on the terrace of the hotel sipping the familiar milky coffee contemplating the next five days ahead. The day is clear and I am happy knowing that we will have a good start.
“I am coming to you, Kilimanjaro. Be kind to me.”
Siraji arrives on time. Jenna wishes me luck and gives me a surprise hug.
The drive to Marangu Gate is of importance. It is a clear day too, which bodes well for our first day of climb. I look at the town scrubbed clean from the last night’s rain.
Will I come back to Moshi successful? Will the old town greet me kindly or mock my failure?
We arrive at the Marangu Gate which at the moment is empty, except for two officers of the Kilimanjaro National Park Authority who will issue the permits. I am asked to sign an indemnity form, in other words, I am taking responsibility for my death just in case. I am so drunk with joy and optimism that I sign with a flourish and make thumbs up as I return the papers.
The senior of the two officer smiles at me.
“No other climber going up today,” he says encouragingly. “You listen to your guide all the time. Stay close to him. Good luck.”
With that he barks into a walkie-talkie and looks at Siraji and points at me then his eyes trace something outside the window and stays focused on that unseen point while his hands swing rapidly in all directions.
I look at Siraji but his expression says nothing.
“Is everything alright? Siraji? What’s he saying?”
“Everything good. Hakuna Matata. We will start now.”
“Five days,” I tell myself following Siraji out into the yard. “Five days and it will be over. Why the fuss? How hard can climbing be anyway?”
Lucas, the assistant guide and two other porters assigned to me are waiting outside. I say hello to them, comforted by the fact that there were four young men around, just in case a need arose to bring me down in a stretcher or a body bag. They are ready with everything that we will need on the mountain. I simply stare at all the luggage and say nothing because there is nothing to say.
Marangu Route is considered a ‘high altitude trek’ and what is that about snow? People walk in snow all the time, don’t they?
I say a prayer and take the first step forward, followed by Siraji and the rest of the team. It is considered lucky, according to Siraji. In less than five minutes, the porters and Lucas, carrying our luggage, except our day packs which we carry, have overtaken us. They will reach the first camp in two hours and get the food going.
We are passing through a rain forest but the stress of climbing makes me sweat. I feel hot and tired. I am quite geared up and in a rush but Siraji warns me against going too fast.
Pole Pole, he says over and over again till I finally understand its merit. Pole pole is going to be my climbing mantra. To get to the absolute top of Uhuru Peak we will go through three other unique micro climates, namely savannah, alpine desert and glacial and every one of them will come with their share of challenges and keeping a pace important.
An hour later we stop by a small stream of water. I cup my hands under the thin stream and wash my sweaty face. It is not as though I haven’t anticipated hardships; but even Google’s assurance that Marangu was ‘luxurious’ hasn’t prepared me for this amount of sweat on my face.
Siraji refuses to leave my side and offers his shoulder to rest my head, murmuring pole pole till my breath returns to normal and I can inch uphill towards Camp 1, but damned if I have to be carried on those shoulders anytime. It will be such a blow to my ego, right?
Mandara Hut is predictably empty and the sight of four empty beds in the conical hut dramatically worsens my outlook. Opinion on the hardship of the four- hour climb from the Marangu Gate may vary depending on your fitness, but my opinion on the subject is firm.
I have wished and been granted a nightmare.
The porters have arrived earlier therefore I have hot Milo and salted popcorns waiting for me in the dining room. When said like that, it does throw up visions of something fancy, but the dining room I refer to is a shelter with a long wooden table and benches running the length, and I sit in one corner and loose myself in the warmth of the drink.
My limbs and back feel sore. I want to sleep and yet I want to be awake every moment I am here. It is still very bright and I suppose I can walk around a little around the camp too. Milo has restored my energy to some extent and hope is creeping back into my heart.
Siraji wanders in as I am about to stretch myself out on the bench so I say hello before tipping over.
“Tired?” he asks me softly. “Tomorrow you will be fine. First day is tough.”
“I should hope so,” I say before letting out a yawn.
Ten minutes later I am on my feet, rested enough to walk around the empty camp, except for a group of porters on the way down but who are staying the night as their clients are yet to arrive. A mishap on the way down has slowed the team considerably. I am curious to know what happened on the mountain.
I talk to myself as I walk about. The first day on the mountain has kicked my ass, dragged me down and beat me into submission and sucked every ounce of life and energy out of me. But on the other side, my heart feels light and something dark has lifted off my soul.
I invite Siraji to share my hut. I am in need of company.
March 23, 2010
We start soon after a light breakfast. I have stopped looking at my watch. Here, time is measured in distance covered and going by my pace it is easy to see that time has stopped. I am that slow. We walk through savannah for a while before breaking out of it into pretty grasslands scattered with cotton trees unique to this side part of Tanzania. Siraji has some knowledge of the flora and sees fit to acquaint time of it from time to time.
| The temperature is falling and as we go higher, the air is getting thinner. Breathing is slowly becoming difficult and my speed falls to zero. |
“It is normal,” Siraji says kindly, coming to stand beside me. “You take rest when you want. You stop and drink water.”
I have a feeling that he is being overly kind. I wonder what he thinks of my ability as a climber. There are no climbers in sight. None coming up or going down. We could be the only small group on the entire mountain. But there is a reason to that. March is not the favored season to climb. I soon see why. The sun plays hide and seek and then suddenly there is a downpour. At this altitude and going higher, rains are not welcome. We must remain as dry as we possibly can. It is strange how when the sun comes up, it gets unbearably hot and I am forced to shed layers.
Occasionally we see the brownish red volcanic rocks and the jagged peaks that form Mwenzi Peak, one of Kilimanjaro’s three dormant pinnacles.
It is growing dark when we arrive at Horombo Hut at 3800 m AMSL. We have been walking for eight hours. I happen to know that experienced climbers have done it in half the time, but I am not letting that knowledge bring my spirits down. And I want to cry for no reason. I hug Siraji as if I do not want to hear what he has to say of my ability or rather inability. I am afraid to cry. Will he suggest that we return?
If Siraji is disappointed, he doesn’t show it, turning his focus on my growing hunger, which he says is a good thing. “Eating gives you much energy. Many people they have stomach upset which is not good. You will lose energy that way.”
I don’t know what it says about my obsession with food, but Siraji’s ruling on my appetite is a confidence booster. After dinner, I step out into the cold night. It is a clear and glorious night up here. The mountains are peaceful and comforting. The magnificence of the night sky engulfs me. I want to stare into the openness and draw strength from the moment.
The temperature fell and I withdraw into the hut. Siraji will be sharing the hut with me on my insistence. I cannot bear being alone. It has nothing to do with the fear of darkness or being alone, just having a living, breathing person at arm’s length gives me strength. Siraji is all I have on this mountain. He is all I have to rely on and trust. I want to feel the presence of another human being. The moment demands it.
| Tanzania Blog | Getting Ready for Africa Tanzania Blog | Arriving in Moshi Tanzania Blog | Preparing for Mt Kilimanjaro |
March 24, 2010
We start towards Kibo Hut early because this is going to be a long and hard day. There is a slight drizzle and it is cold. I wear my layers to maintain the vital body warmth as it will get cold and wet soon. As soon as we approach Zebra Rock, it starts to rain. Siraji recommends sitting it out and we take shelter under the overhanging rocks that look like a zebra has been hung out to dry.
When we finally resume our climb, I realize that I am wet. Somehow the drizzle has seeped through the raincoat and soaked me to the skin. Fortunately we come across a once-usable toilet and Siraji directs me towards it. We are at an altitude of 4000 AMSL and being wet at this altitude is not a very pretty situation.
Siraji takes control of the situation.
“You will change your clothes here. You cannot go up like this.”
The only problem is that my luggage is making its way to Kibo Hut ahead of me, on the back of the porters who have gone ahead. I am in tears.
“I have nothing to wear. I know I will die here. Say, Siraji, do you think I will die of hypothermia?”
“No. You will wear my clothes.”
And so I do.
As I change into his clothes, I realize that I do not have a bra to change into. I hope Siraji does not notice the absence of one. It is a peculiar situation to be in.
From here things get worse. Vegetation is sparse and I now have to pee in the open. There are a few rocks here and there, but Siraji advises me not to wear myself down trying to walk to it and back. He simply turns his back to me and lets me do my thing. I am embarrassed to think that the sound will reach his ears. I am cold and breathless and can hardly walk. We are passing through an alpine desert and it seems endless. What keeps me going is the sight of the snow-covered mountain top. I must keep moving.
Since I am going so slowly, I can appreciate the views, breathe everything in, lift my head up so I can see the world around me, feel what’s in the air, and experience the horizon.
“There is too much snow, it seems,” Siraji tells me. “All the way down from Kibo. Very unusual.”
“So March is a really a rotten time to climb? Someone the flight told me so, but I didn’t take him seriously. Say, is it really easier in June?”
“Yes. Mostly May to September there are many climbers. March is rainy season.”
That is not a very encouraging statement. Walking in snow is energy sapping alright but on the bright side, I have no altitude sickness so far. Only my patience is running low, otherwise I am doing alright.
Finally we reach Kibo Hut. We will stop here for a short while, rest a little while, eat and change into warmer clothes. I am tired. I admit I have never been so tired ever.
The ranger hungry for conversation walks into the largely empty sleeping quarters where I am resting. He asks for my name and launches into a conversation about Mt Everest. I am hungry and I want to sleep.
I want to sleep.
But instead I stay awake and compare notes with Siraji and the Ranger who looks like he intends to stay right here.
The Ranger unnecessarily explains that earlier in the morning, the only other climber, a German, had stepped out of the hut and into several inches of snow and promptly discarded the attempt and descended. If it was meant to discourage us, it failed.
I have a feeling he is itching to tell me to stay away, so he can return to his base downhill. In his situation, I’d perhaps feel that way too. Giving my gloved hand a vigorous shake he wishes me luck and walks away
It is cold.
Midnight of March 24, 2010
I feel the mountain. It is all around me. It is within me. It is my challenge and my dream. It is my personal story. Tomorrow, I will stand on it. Now it is me against the mountain. Everyone has their reason to climb, but I do not of mine yet. I hope I will find out soon enough. At this point I can’t be bothered too – I mean, should I have a reason to climb? I am confused. Maybe I am looking for a reason to define this moment.
So far, this trek seems like a trek that pushed my boundaries and I am going to find out how this will end.
It’s 11 pm and -4 degrees outside. There is a lot of snow and a blizzard is starting. We are wearing everything we own, five layers of pants, six layers of shirts and jackets. Now it is time to summit Mt. Kilimanjaro at 19,330 feet.
March 25, 2010
We are ready for the summit push. There is too much snow and blizzard but we are ready.
We begin with Siraji’s words of encouragement. “If you make it to Gilman’s Point, you will make it to Uhuru Peak. I am sure you will do it.”
After three hundred summits, Siraji is sure to know how this will end. Lucas, the assistant guide, so far a shadowy figure, is going up with us. The porters will stay behind, ready with the celebratory hot soup once we return to Kibo Hut.
Heads bent low to follow the light from our headlamps, we trudge through snow. Siraji constantly assures me that Gilman’s Point is “just around the corner”. However, reaching the said ‘corner’ involves five hours of tramping through a foot of snow on a 70-degree incline and biting wind.
I ask him why refuses to tell me the exact time and distance to Gilman’s Point and Siraji, looks offended as if Gilman’s Point had somehow cheated on him by slipping off and planting itself farther away unnoticed. Then he points at a clump of snow exactly like the place we are standing on and says –
“There.”
I refuse to ask him again. I guess he is adopting the carrot and stick method to keep me marching ahead. I pay attention to where I am going.
I feel terribly alone. And empty. And tired. I am also hungry which is strange. It is not easy to reach into my pack for dates and cookies, in fact is is not easy to do anything with my heavily gloved hand and I do not have the energy of guts to take them off. So, I crawl ahead, ready to die.
It seems to me that today of all days, the mountain is more inhospitable. I have seen pictures of Kilimanjaro’s rock strewn top but see none of them. Everything is covered in snow.
We edge past Gilman’s Point without stopping too long. Lucas is walking ahead of us, still very much a shadowy figure. It is comforting to see another being walk so confidently. Siraji does not let me rest for long or fall asleep. I ask him why and he tells me that by falling asleep I risk going to coma. The trick to staying alive to stay awake and keep moving. I don’t understand what he is saying because I want to curl and go to sleep right here on the snow. I want to take a picture at Gilman’s Point but my camera has died. I am upset, but only just. There is no way I am going to take off my gloves to work the camera button anyway.
Once past Gilman’s Point, the surface flattens. The snow is thick but we lumber on determinedly. Nothing matters but putting one foot in front of the other. I focus on doing just that, trying to live in the present. In two hours, we will be at our destination.
Hopefully.
Lucas reaches the Peak a few minutes before us but we see nothing of the beautiful sunrise or blue glaciers. Everything is white. The blizzard has turned into a heavy curtain of white. I am overjoyed to be here I suppose, but more than anything I want to sleep. I am not even sure I miss the sight of glaciers or sunrise.
“Your family will be proud of you,” Siraji hugs me with a force I didn’t think he has and Lucas congratulates me shyly with a “You have done it.”
“I am so high up I want to see God up there,” I blurt out weakly. “We are really very high up. Goddamn it. And wow, we made it.”
I believe I feel god instead. We trace the outlines of the board. Tears flow out of me. I am on the roof of Africa and all I do is cry warm tears. Ironically it is the only warmth I can get at the moment.
And I am not even wearing a bra.
Descent is worse. The secret to safe descents is recognizing your limit and staying within them, but it seems like such a rotten time to find out, for every exhausted step down the sharp slopes of Gilman’s Point is a lesson I am not going to forget. It is hard to go slow but at this point it is the only way to ensure we live.
Kibo Hut at 1 pm looks exactly like it had at midnight, grey, snowed in and empty, except for the ranger who, in his congratulatory handshake, says without hesitation, “No more climbers go up today. Too much snow.”
The he looks mischievously at me and says – “You brought a lot of snow with you, but you were lucky.”
Lucky is right. I have a natural tendency to say something totally sarcastic, but I guess he means it in a nice way.
We descend rapidly, exhaustion forgotten in our haste to get to oxygen. I even try running.
“Pole, Pole,” Siraji cautions out of habit but I am not going to comply.
“From now on, it’s jaldi jaldi.”
