The final day was 1,000m of descent down a steep mud strewed path through tropical rainforest to the Moshi Gate a rather unimpressive end to a classic trek.
I’ve not mentioned the people of this trek. There were no constants as the mountain provided so many routes taking different days to complete, that friendships were hard to strike up. There were no means of talking to fellow Kilimanjaroist (made up word, but you get my drift) after the sun went down, as mess tents became porters sleeping quarters and the nights were too chilly to stand and chat. The tent and the comfort of your warm sleeping bag became the place to retreat once dinner was eaten.
One of the Porters
The main character in this tale is Colin Zee, who I first met in 2007 on the Annapurna Sanctuary trek, a friendship grew during that trek that has endured over the years. Evan though he moved to Singapore with his wife Maury and baby daughter Chloe in 2011. Only after a month there, to join Matthew and me back in Nepal to climb Island Peak. Kilimanjaro was on his ‘Bucket’ list so persuading him to do one more high altitude trek was not difficult. In fact, he booked his flight before I confirmed the dates, which put me into panic mode as it did Ann, at Trek Mountains, who organised the trip.
Colin Painting in the Coolness of the Late Afternoon
Colin is a Chinese Scouser, proud of his roots and heritage. He’s a great front man and charmer, knows what to say and when and had our team eating out of his hand from the start. This could well be our last trip together as he wants to finish each day’s Trek with a shower and a drink, from now on! Something that I don’t think an expedition to Mount Vinson would likely have! Over the week we sorted America, North Korea, and Brexit out, we didn’t need any Hydrogen Bombs, Fake News or blonde wigs and I don’t think we Tweeted once! We discussed democracy and the merits of benign dictatorships, but most of all he’s fun to be with.
The Hero’s – Not us the Porters
Colin aside the other main characters were the team of 18 porters looking after the pair of us! Yep, 18! Imran and Francis being the two guides. Imran took life very seriously and ate with us every meal time and double checked every detail, while Francis was more fun loving knowing that he hadn’t got the final responsibility that Imran had. He was inquisitive about all aspects of our life. Politics was a favourite subject, which normally ended with me dismissing all politicians as liars, cheats and that they were only there for their own gratification and power. I don’t think he understood my total and utter cynicism of all politicians, but I have definitely got overly cynical as I’ve matured, and I think the debacle that are today’s politicians bare me out. Moses was Imran’s right-hand man or I could call him our manservant. He served our meals and generally made sure we had all we needed, from hot water for washing to drinks and food. There were two unsung heroes As always, the porters, but more importantly a man neither Colin or I ever saw. The porters do all the real graft, leaving after us and arriving before us, tents, mess tent and kitchen all set up before we get to camp. The other hero is ‘portaloo’ man, like our tents it was at camp when we left and at camp when we arrived. A job, I believe deserves a medal at the very least.
Now for the other trekkers. On the first day, it was clear that we were the slowest party, taking a snail’s pace of eight days. All the others on that day were to take six or seven days. The first two that stick in my mind were two young lads, one British living in Japan the other Russian. I assumed they were good friends, apparently, though they met only that morning. They both had a zest for the forthcoming adventure, sure of success, and failure was not even contemplated. The other couple that stood out was an Italian man and French woman, married I assume, but lived in Sydney, Australia. They were taking a slightly different route around the north of the mountain. They hoped a quieter route and I’m sure that were right as only they peeled off to the north on day two, all the others carried on to Shira II… except for ourselves who stopped at lunchtime, and didn’t move from Shira I until the following morning!
Kilmanjaro Express
Shira II was full of strangers, it was a melting pot of converging routes and there was no interaction between the groups. Walking past mess tents with laughter and whispers floating out, but there were no hearty welcoming voices making their way to any passerby. It was a shame that there appeared to be no way of socialising. The camps were well organised with a Rangers Cabin, out of bounds to us mere trekkers. A tea room or meeting room would have made all the difference, but instead, we were left after our evening meal to talk among ourselves and then encouraged to retreat to our tents as the porters wanted the mess tent to rest and sleep in.
By now the route was getting busy and the Barranco camp was extremely crowded. Here we did meet a Mother and daughter. The Mother was born in the shadow of Kilimanjaro and her parents owned a farm. After independence enforced repatriation meant losing the farm. She always dreamed of returning and climbing the creator of that shadow she lived under as a child and she summited on the same day we did. I remember seeing her on the summit and her remark was ‘I thought the Barranco Wall was my summit, but now I realise that the summit day push is far harder but more rewarding’. I believe that a few tears were shed with her daughter, that day.
Our Final View of the Mountain
The only other group that stood out were a group of youngsters, well in my eyes anyway, who chatted to me on the summit and at the last camp. They were on a charity walk, six days from start to finish. Surprisingly they all summited, although they did look the little worse for wear. When I told them we were on an eight-day trek, they all looked and nodded at each other and said, ‘that’s why you look so fresh’! Of course, it had nothing to do with their fondness for partying! But what a fantastic and friendly bunch and their joy of reaching their goal was spontaneous and genuine and put many miserable looking middle-aged, grumpy old farts to shame.
I know I’m known as the miserable old git, but Colin has enough social and cheek for the both of us, so it seems a real shame that the different groups didn’t intermingle, but I believe this is partly the fault of the system used and insisted upon by the Park Authorities. They appear to be only interested in getting people safely to the summit, with little or no thought that the trekkers are human beings and that interaction would promote the trek and be a better advert than just the success rate of the summiteers!
The dust was the only ever-present and loquacious amoeba on the mountain. Loquacious may seem like a strange metaphor, but believe me, it nagged and frustrated you more than any woman ever could (I’m in trouble now). Amoeba, because it was single-minded in its ability to totally envelop both your body and mind. It was like treading in finely sieved flour, it lay covering the path in a fine layer that puffed into the air when stepped in, only to settle waiting to catch the following person unawares! Dust, of course, is harmless, but like that fine drizzle that temps you not to put on your waterproof, it slowly penetrates to the core, ending up with dirt in clothes and parts of your body not normally exposed to such things. Two showers and two clean towels and clothes that having been washed two or three times and are still not clean, is the result.
Reflections, a beautiful mountain, and superb walk. A walk that I would have never done if it hadn’t been for my cousin Jane. I have a couple of gripes as you would expect… Health and Safety! Walking at altitude is inherently dangerous, in different degrees, depending on the individual. We all have to assess the dangers and decide whether the risk is within our capabilities and if not whether we should take that risk anyway so as to improve and move forward. Failure is a lesson that can create success. We were on this walk wrapped in cotton wool, all decisions made for us, routes planned out not to be deviated from. I understand the thought process, but part of me wants to scream out and say ‘No’ what’s happened to my individuality and relying on my own common sense. Death, of course, is bad for business and the Tanzanian Government rely heavily on the tourist industry and I’m sure Kilimanjaro, with such hefty Park Fees, brings in much needed foreign currency… but there needs to be some risk to the adventure.
On the way to the summit, we passed a number of people who had started a couple of hours before us. The guides were coaxing them up. As I said in the last paragraph, walking at altitude is inherently dangerous if not treated with respect and affects everyone in different ways. It doesn’t care if you are fit or not, or whether you’ve been at altitude before. The people we passed were obviously sick, struggling with every step. I saw one of the strugglers on the summit. What would she remember, did she enjoy the spectacular view and the high of reaching the summit or would she just remember the pain that the beginnings of either HACE or HAPE bring. There’s acceptable risk and there’s stupidity!