Kilimanjaro for incompetents

Visiting Africa on a climbing expedition had been an ambition of mine for several years. When my uncle died I discovered amongst his belongings a map of Kilimanjaro, which immediately set me thinking about it more seriously. I studied the map carefully and was surprised to see that there were a number of straightforward paths up the mountain, and the notes on the map confirmed that no climbing was necessary. In fact the only requirement was a reasonable level of fitness. You are not even allowed to carry your own equipment since you are required to hire a guide and porters to do this in order to keep the local economy healthy.

I had seen pictures of Mount Kenya on a number of occasions in various books and climbing magazines, and had always been impressed by the lines taken by two routes in particular. The Diamond Couloir looked magnificent in the pictures, and the Ice Window also looked impressive. My thoughts turned to organising a mini expedition to combine the two mountains.

My contacts in the climbing world were very limited at this time, and the only people I knew who may be interested were those I had “roped” into belaying me (no pun intended) on my irregular trips to local crags. At least the lack of options for a partner made the selection process simple. I bought a guidebook to Kilimanjaro and Mount Kenya, purchased a map of each, and acquired a travel guide to East Africa as a birthday present. Armed with these I asked a good friend of mine, Greg, if he fancied going out for a quiet pint. Having let him get the first round in I got the books and maps out and reminded him that he had been talking about going on an adventure for years.

Greg had never been the greatest enthusiast for climbing, but he did enjoy hill walking. It was easy to sell him on the holiday by concentrating on the plans for walking up Kilimanjaro, only touching on my ulterior motive of scaling either the Diamond Couloir or the Ice Window on Mount Kenya, two steep lines of ice. The limiting factors for our expedition would be threefold. Firstly, neither of us had much money, and return airfares were very costly. In fact our money ran out after only half way through our stay anyway. Secondly, Greg had a job and could not take more than three weeks off in one go, not that our resources would have permitted a longer stay. The third limitation only really applied to my plans for Mount Kenya and this was our complete lack of experience and ability. This, however, was offset by the fact that we were ignorant of our faults, and arrogant enough to think “no problem”. At least I was. I seem to recall Greg pointing out these facts to me occasionally but then I never really listened.

We put our planning heads on, cultivated through several years in the STABs (Stupid Territorial Army Bastards), and formulated a possible itinerary, budget and inventory for the expedition. Some may have said that going from sea level to over 19000ft in four to five days, followed by a brief rest before setting off to climb a streak of ice three times harder and three times longer than either of us had climbed before, and up to above 17000ft, and arriving back at Heathrow in time to catch a back to back flight to Majorca for my parents 25th wedding anniversary in exactly three weeks was a little ambitious. We knew better.

I booked the flights for both of us, and July 1993 saw us arriving at Heathrow for the start of our adventure. Having passed all our baggage through customs, explained that the metal objects in our hand baggage were incredibly valuable items of climbing equipment, and having my stove confiscated because of the fuel inside it, we eventually boarded our 747 bound for Nairobi.

Arriving in the early hours of the morning we changed our currency and hailed a taxi to take us into the city. The driver took us to a hotel and arranged with the doormen to let us stay in the foyer until daylight. To hang around in the dark outside would be inviting trouble. We were told of the time that Mr taxi had had his watch stolen from his wrist whilst he sat in his car, and regular stories on the radio kept us up to date on the current tally of murders so far this year in Nairobi. I believe it was somewhere in the region of twelve hundred by late July. We were quite happy to put up with the foyer until daylight.

A quick breakfast and a short stroll took us to a DHL bus and we bought tickets to take us to Moshi in Tanzania from where we hoped to make arrangements for Kilimanjaro. It was a seriously long and uncomfortable journey with much horn blowing. We were grateful to be stopping at the border village for our visas to be stamped. We were also grateful to get underway again so as to escape the Masai Mara trying to sell us anything from the photos we were taking to giraffe hair bracelets.

Another stop and a change of bus turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Not only did we meet a Kilimanjaro guide who could sort out our first mountain for us, but we also met an Italian girl, Paula, who was later to lend us enough money to see us through our holiday.

By the end of our first day in Africa we had travelled half way across Kenya and well into Tanzania, we had found a guide, we had made a couple of friends and had arranged to start off up Kilimanjaro the next day. We decided to take a short taxi ride to Paula’s hotel just out of the town. I am sure it would have been quicker walking. The car did not seem to have more than one gear and that one was knackered, as was the “driver”. Anyway, we arrived and had a couple of beers and then thought about heading back to our hotel. For some reason we thought that a walk back would do us good, something to do with the earlier taxi ride no doubt, so we set off at a brisk pace down the edge of the road. As usual we had misjudged the situation and ended up doing half the route in the dark, unsure exactly which way we had come from, and being shouted and waved at by hundreds of Africans. It did occur to us that this may not have been a wise decision, especially after listening to radio broadcasts all day in the bus about the crime and poor driving standards. However, everybody seemed to be very friendly out here miles from any large city.

Kilimanjaro from the hotel in Moshi

We arrived back safe and sound and relaxed in our hotel for the night. The quality of the accommodation surprised us. We each had our own room and were pleasantly surprised. They had beds, and so what if there was only half a toilet seat on the first floor of the building. At least it flushed. We could enjoy the barbecued meat on offer, although whether it was giraffe, buffalo or gazelle we were not quite sure, and we could take this fine opportunity of opening our minds to the local beers. To put icing on the cake we had a superb view of Kilimanjaro from our bedroom windows. It looked fabulous, and considering it was at least thirty miles to the base of the mountain it looked enormous.

The next morning we left the hotel for the mountain. Faresi, our guide, had arranged a porter for each of us despite our efforts to persuade him that we were capable of carrying our own rucksacks, and so we only needed to carry a packed lunch, some water, a jumper or waterproof, and any other small items we wanted with us such as cameras. We did not even need to cook meals or prepare our packed lunches as this was in the porters’ “job descriptions”.

An epic car ride took us to the Kilimanjaro Park gate at Marangu. The journey was not without incident and we had to get out and push on one of the steeper sections, and at one stage had to wait for about twenty minutes while a source of water was found so we could fill an empty radiator. We arrived at the gate and sorted ourselves out, ready for our first foreign mountain. It was suggested that we hire telescopic ski poles for the trek, so we got ripped off badly by the locals who are obviously used to this sort of thing. Stupidly expecting to get change I handed over a hundred shilling note, about ten quid, and therefore ended up paying five times the standard rate for a single ski pole. Nevermind, it was money well spent.

It was at this point that we found out that Faresi would not be able to join us until the evening of the next day. He told us that he had only managed to get us on the mountain as early as he had by pretending that we were going through the gate with a group that had booked their entrance months in advance. Because the numbers entering the gate are restricted to prevent overcrowding we would have been unable to gain access to the mountain for a few days, and so Faresi fixed it for us to go through with a guide friend of his, Peter, who was taking the other party. As it turned out Paula was in this group, and we also met a friendly Californian bloke called Terry. The four of us stuck together for our adventure on the mountain, this situation being partly influenced by the fact that the other thirteen members of the group were humourless East Germans with a dictatorial leader taking charge at every opportunity. One of the Germans was OK, and escaped from his group at every opportunity to come and join our uncouth and jolly quartet even though his English was very poor and our German non-existent.

The first day’s walk promised to be fairly short and without any difficulty. Signposts kept us informed how many hours it would be to our first day’s conclusion, and a wide path through the jungle ensured no possibility of getting lost. The only annoyance was a young boy walking up the path beside us for the first hour singing us a song. This splendid recital unfortunately had only one word, “Kilimanjaro”, and finished on countless occasions with a request for payment in shillings or biros for services rendered.

Three hours’ walk and we had arrived at Mandara Huts. These were a collection of A-frame huts on small stilts in a large jungle clearing at a height of 2700m above sea level (ASL). This was already the highest Greg and I had ever been on foot. There were four beds in each end of the huts, with a partition in the middle, there was a larger communal hut for all the tourists to eat and socialise in, and then there were other huts for the guides and porters. Almost as soon as we arrived we were reunited with our kit for the night, and Greg, myself, Paula and Terry were allocated a hut by German leader. It took some devious scheming to get us all in the same hut.

Mandara Huts

During the evening we started to get to know each other a little better. The German's leader had apparently been on this track up Kilimanjaro twice before, and had returned a third time as the previous attempts had failed. In “his” group was a complete mixture of people. Two of the women were vastly overweight and we found it difficult to understand why they were attempting something that they were obviously not fit enough for. The rest spoke little, even among themselves.

This evening was also to be our introduction to the food that the porters would cook for us for the next few days. It was vile. We could just about stomach the main courses, but to eat the grey, scrambled egg or the porridge was simply not worth the effort. I tried to complete a full meal on this occasion, but from then on I refused to eat the items that made be feel sick. I thought about the calories I would need, but I concluded that I would rather give up the walk than eat the porridge that the East Germans seemed to relish so much. Greg, Paula and Terry did not even manage a second mouthful of porridge or eggs during the entire trip.

All except Terry had a comfortable night’s sleep. Terry informed us the next day that this was not his idea of camping. The sort of camping he was used to was using chalets in Yosemite National Park in California where you had fridges, televisions with fifty seven channels, and an en-suite bathroom with Jacuzzi. To have to sleep in a sleeping bad on a bed bug infested mattress in a tiny hut with a communal hole in the ground about fifty meters away as the latrine and no washing facilities other than the single outside tap was a bit of a blow to Terry. It was, however, quite entertaining to hear his incessant wingeing about this and about how hard the walking was.

We awoke next morning to a beautiful day. The previous day had been OK, but the views had been limited by the jungle and by the overcast weather, so to wake up to views over the trees and over the cloud for hundreds of miles in the early morning sun was fantastic. We selectively ate our breakfasts, packed our bags, collected our packed lunches and set off for day two. It was less than an hour until we left the jungle altogether and a total of about six hours to the next stopover, Horombo huts. The afternoons tended to be slightly overcast, while the mornings and evenings were crystal clear with superb views over the clouds below, of the summit of the mountain called Kibo (or sometimes Uhuru), and an even more impressive subsidiary summit called Mawenzi. Mawenzi is actually a mass of rock spires and if I were to return it would hold far more interest because of the technical climbing it would require to reach the top. Both peaks looked very close but in reality they were some miles away.

At the Horombo huts the facilities were slightly better, with more taps, toilets and outdoor sinks. This was probably because these huts were used much more than the others on the mountain. Tourists on their way up and down used them, while the other huts would only be used on the ascent (the descent takes less time and Horombo is the only overnight stop). They were also used as an acclimatisation break for those who took the six-day option instead of the five-day one, these trekkers spending the third day sat around at Horombo. Our group being of the skint variety had decided that it would be cheaper to suffer the headaches that were a symptom of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) caused by the fast altitude gain.

We found out that beer and soft drinks were also available at the huts for those with large wallets. Beer seemed not to be a good idea at altitude, but soft drinks were very tempting. We struggled to resist the temptation, but were finally overcome by the flirting of the bottles of coke. Just as we realised that Faresi was supposed to be joining us this evening Peter came over with him. It was all rather upsetting to hear that Faresi had managed to do the walk we had taken two days to complete without equipment in four hours with a full pack. We spent much of the evening talking to them, something the Germans seemed reluctant to do. It was fun talking to them, especially as Peter could speak only a few words of English. Most of the conversation revolved about the local beers, which were described as Mama Four Star by Peter, an expression that appeared in almost every sentence he spoke. But then almost every sentence he spoke was about Safari, Tusker or White Cap beers.

Day 3 - the walk from Horombo to Kibo huts

Day 3 - the walk from Horombo to Kibo huts

The third day was to be the hardest for me. I sufferred a little from mild headaches and generally felt physically tired. This meant that I was following behind Greg and company, and I needed plenty of rests. I arrived at the highest huts, Kibo huts, about an hour after the signposts had suggested I would, and felt completely wasted. I wondered whether I could face the 1am start from the huts to the summit. My only consolation was that the fat Germans had not felt able to start today’s pilgrimage and had decided to wait at Horombo huts until the rest of their party returned in a couple of days. I realised that part of my problem had been that I had not worn my sun hat today. I had not thought it necessary, as there had been a barrier of cloud between the sun and us for most of the day. A useful lesson for the future had been learnt which was that UV can penetrate clouds especially at altitude. I had dehydrated quite a bit and had managed to get quite sun burnt.

The evening meal was different today. Past experience had obviously taught the porters that solids were not as easily consumed at this altitude, especially by tourists on absurdly fast ascent rates. We were fed a sort of soup with chunks of potato and small bits of meat, which went down fairly well all things considered. I was sat in my sleeping bag eating my soup in a dormitory, with the whole group sat round a table. I was on my bed. I thought that a second helping might be a good idea with tomorrow morning’s activities to follow. I was wrong. I started to feel slightly queesy so I gently started to undo the zip on my sleeping bag. Unfortunately it had become stuck and with my growing need to exit the building I became more frantic in my efforts to undo the zip. The harder I tried to undo the zip the more I needed to escape. I could no longer wait so I began looking around for a suitable receptacle to receive what was about to spue forth. I was wearing the inner boots of my plastic mountaineering boots but the plastic outers were near by. I grabbed one just in time and finally discovered how to make the Germans smile. Having filled my footwear the zip decided to let me go. Our two guides came in with shovels and cleared up the overflow while I went outside to prepare my boot for the days ahead. When I returned the Germans were back to their miserable selves except for one young lady who was kind enough to offer me her perfume. Whether this was for her benefit or mine I will never know. I went to bed.

We were woken as promised, with enough time for us to get ready for our 01:00 start. The walk was horrible, consisting of zigzags up three thousand vertical feet of scree in the hope of catching sunrise on Gilman’s Point, a place considered to be a subsidiary summit. My previous evening’s weakness and illness seemed to have eased and it was now Greg, Paula and Terry’s turn to feel rough, all experiencing painful headaches. Unfortunatley this meant that they all had to about-face after about one third of the climb and return to Kibo huts. It was painfully hard to get the guides to let them go but they eventually gave in. I continued up with Faresi and arrived at Gilman’s Point about an hour after sunrise, the whole climb having taken seven hours. This morning was cold, windy and cloudy on the top with only brief views over towards the crater and of the route to the main summit. With the weather and visibility so poor the guides did not want to continue and, since all the Germans gave up too, there was no hope of doing the three hour round trip to Kibo and so I had to settle with a high point of 18,370 feet. The nightmarish screeslope now became a joy, and what had taken seven hours to zigzag up took precisely fifteen minutes to run straight back down again.

I saw Greg and the others at Kibo huts just as they were preparing to set off down the mountain, but I decided that I could do with an hour or two’s sleep before I followed. I watched them set off and persuaded Faresi that I should go to sleep for two hours. He woke me two hours later and we trotted off down the track catching up with Greg and company about half way down to Horombo, and then stayed with them the rest of the way to the huts. It was nice to have a water source again as the last source up the mountain is between Horombo and Kibo huts. It was also nice to have a full night’s sleep. It was nicer still to be able to buy Coca Cola again.

Celebratory drinks

In the morning Greg and I negotiated the “tip” we were to give our guide and porters with Faresi. This ended up being as much as the initial fee and was to prove a major problem as it severely reduced our financial reserves, and meant that we really had to think about what we could afford to do for the rest of our trip.

The last few hours on the mountain took us back through a rainy jungle, and ended up at the Marangu gate where I signed my name in the summit book. Greg, Paula, Terry and myself then had a few beers with our guides and porters in the bar. It was a great feeling to relax at the end of a wonderful experience, even though we had not achieved as much as we had originally hoped for. We chatted away for an hour or two learning that Peter, the guide, was only doing this to earn a living in Tanzania because he was wanted by the police in Kenya for murdering his wife. We returned our hired ski poles and were driven back to the hotel in Moshi for our last night in Tanzania.