Conquer Your Fears and Limited Beliefs: a Tale of Conquering Mt. Kilimanjaro
Mt. Kilimanjaro
In a moment of sheer bravery, combined with a burning desire for new adventures, I had been talked into conquering the second tallest mountain in the world in July, 1982: Mt. Kilimanjaro in Tanzania. Gods will know this was truly the most insane thought I could invent at that time, as I had not been exercising for years and the fact that I was coming from Denmark, where the highest point is 900meters above sea-level.
Would this become an adventure of a lifetime, or a new chapter of painful memories? Time would show.
Free as a bird, I am bumping forward toward the destination in a crowded land cruiser along dusty dirt roads littered with potholes from Morogoro to the foothills of Mt. Kilimanjaro near Arusha. After 100 km the first trials begin: like an old fashioned washing board with built-in bathtubs, my stomach is spinning like a centrifuge, and the tropical heat is unbearable. Mind you, our car was having only “natural” ventilation, no air conditioning. The African landscape is becoming more deserted and thorny, sandstorms are whirling the red sand over the last thorny signs of life; fighting for survival under desert-like conditions. The same place was last year a violent river during the rainy season. The soil is like concrete, erosion is rampant, unable to absorb humidity. Neither man nor animals can survive here.
Finally, after more than 600km of agonizing exercise we experience the snowclad Mt. Kilimanjaro; poetic as a mirage. The air becomes cooler, and everything suddenly seems incredibly fertile, almost hyper green.
We check-in at a colonial-style hotel and order the long fabled beer, of which we have fantasizing the last 12-13 hours, only to experience the flat stale taste sensation on our tongues…the latest batch brew at the only brewery in Tanzania, named Safari, had failed, and almost tasted as awful as our homebrewed pineapple beer, which we made ourselves in 20 liter old plastic paint buckets. We booked our expedition for the next morning, complete with rental of heavy, worn, aged leather mountain boots which seemingly had done the trek many times before. Our expedition will consist of 6 Danish untrained flatlanders and 6 Italian medical mountain doctors, which seemed comforting.
At sunrise we start our menagerie for the 5-day trek. As we had lived in tropical Tanzania for over a year, we had no warm clothes; beyond renting climbing boots, we also needed sweaters, socks, you name it. Knitted hats, gloves and sleeping bags are packed into huge burlap sacks together with food and water, which are to be carried up to the highest peaks in colonial style: 12 Wazungus (palefaces), 1 chief guide, 3 assistant guides and 21 porters….one personal porter per person, the other porters would be carrying food and firewood. I felt like a colonialist, following Stanley’s and Livingstone’s footsteps. 5 days of trekking cost in 1982 a bargain of 2,000 Danish Kr = US$ 305 - equivalent to 3 monthly pay checks for a houseboy or construction worker in Tanzania. This felt baroque and dis-proportionate as we were expatriates/development aides. You get a baroque relationship to money living in a country with a 50% galloping inflation rate, corruption and black-market pricing.
Finally, impatiently, after a horrifying narrative by the hotel lady about the awaiting trials and tribulations, we start our journey. I thought I would just stop whenever I was too tired and return, with little or no ambition at the outset of the journey. Finally we are walking upwards, the incline is not too bad, through an amazing tropical forest with a myriad of air roots and vining plants. Everything seems overgrown by fresh green moss multistoried. The jungle is mysterious, dark and moist. The strange sounds of the forest is an alarming silence pierced by the unique shrieking or rattling sounds and scents indicative of an amazing animal life. Though you actually see nothing, you know it is there: somewhere slithering, creeping and abruptly whistling the leaves and fauna. We push ahead slowly, while breathing deeply, stepping over the huge roots of giant trees creating our footsteps. My pulse is accelerating, I am starting to gasp for the thinning mountain air. Our porters lift the huge, heavy sacks seemingly effortlessly on top of their heads with an enviable graciousness, running ahead of us in their sandals made of old tires.
We reach 2875 m altitude by the 1st hut. The temperature is already freezing cold. We jump into our sleeping bags to keep warm, while I cannot help thinking how to proceed? Will I proceed or bail out? My fingers feel like icicles, even though it was 13 degrees…. Living in the tropics truly makes you very thin-blooded. The landscape reminds me of the highest hill in Denmark named “Sky mountain”. Our porters prepare our meal over charcoal fire, and after a quick meal under the flickering oily light of hurricanes, the lights are turned off early to preserve kerosene. No choice but to try to sleep; however the full moon and anticipation prevents sleeping. Moon sickness….
The next morning our menagerie continues. There is no way I am stopping now, my next goal is reaching hut #2. My thighs and calf muscles are already twitching, but I pretend to be ok, and immediately we overhaul a steep stretch of rain forest, huffing and pushing with a fast-beating out-of-breath heart. Suddenly we exit the coolness of the tropical forest and start walking for hours through the baking sun of moor landscapes. Suddenly Mt. Kilimanjaro peaks through the fog like our beautiful target. We meet people coming from the opposite direction: some have foggy and distant pain-ridden eyes, are terribly sunburnt and look haggard. Others seem to dance effortlessly to a different drum. I wonder what will be my mirror image walking down?
It is now cold and windy. We have a quick lunch behind some rock outcroppings while our porters send begging, longing eyes to our sandwiches. They get nothing. Of course we share our lunches. Move on…Finally second hut is in view. The landscape is now tundra, the air is biting cold at 3883m altitude. Some start having thundering headaches due to the altitude, fortunately I only have sore aching muscles. As the sun finally peaks through I make a few water color sketches before rumbling into my sleeping bag, shakenly trying to generate some heat.
3rd morning, setting off on stiff feet through the tundra, over the lava landscape, where almost all living creature cave in. I could not stop at this point, I was bitten by the expedition fever. The altitude rise feels comfortable, as we stretch our stiff legs while inhaling the thin mountain air through deep yoga inhalations. Our eyes start dizzying and painkillers become the main conversation topic. Lunch consists of tea and crackers as the altitude prevents you from eating much. My tight eel skin-alike pants become useful, gloves and a knitted hat provide a bit of warmth and comfort. We have to hurry-on, but the loose lava rock is tough to conquer.
Finally, 3rd hut appears. It is +2 degrees Celsius indoors and it is only 2 pm early afternoon. We all suffer from extreme headaches, everything seems to be spinning around, my eyesight blackens out. We appear to be a hospice, as we are jumping into our sleeping bags with all our clothes to save whatever bit of heat we can. The desire for eating has evaporated: dinner consists of painkillers, sleeping pills, a thin chicken soup and sweet tea with biscuits, which add a bit of warmth. The hut has no heat, water or electricity. The outhouse is cantilevered off the cliff. Some of our expedition crew have been throwing up all night due to altitude sickness and are unable to continue. We are now at + 4870m altitude.
Hodi, hodi!!! Wake up. Habari Zi Azibuhi! Good morning in Swahili. Time to get up. It is now ten minutes to one in the morning and our final trials and tribulations are to start. Our guide seems hyper fresh. Without much desire we exit the warm belly of our cocoons, our sleeping bags. Teeth-shattering we add every shred of clothes we have: undergarments, shirts, sweater, wind breaker, rain poncho, gloves, knitted hat, ski pants, and those heavy leather boots that already know the route along with 3 pairs of knitted socks. A few crackers chased by some super sweet tea and we are off in a long chicken line, into the biting frost.
The moon is full, illuminating the path; the stars are blinking at us while we slowly make the ascent. Excellent planning! We cast long shadows towards the lava-stone masses and sandy slopes. Dead silence, only interrupted by the sound of rattling, falling stone masses sliding down the mountain, the rhythmic movement of our metal peaked wandering sticks, plus our whistling breath. We still enjoy the climb upwards while slowly, rhythmically, almost mechanically we move upward. Suddenly someone gets sick: one of our alpine police doctors, an experienced mountaineer with a backpack full of climbing gear to conquer the glacier, starts throwing up, continues, and suddenly we see him fall backwards down the mountain side. Our guides follow suit to rescue him, but the climb is over for him. Later, one by one, all of our 6 alpine police doctors pass out and need to be carried off the mountain. Only five of us low-land lobsters can continue, much to the chagrin of our Italian superiors.
The rise seems almost vertical now, each step upwards you slide down halfway through rattling loose lava. The peak still seems to be an endless distance away, but the view over the landscape below, accentuated by the full moon, becomes more and more spectacular. I am exhausted, almost ready to give up. My sight is blackening, my head is swirling and seems ready to explode. Our guide tells us to get our acts together, and move forward. I tumble over my fluttering rain poncho.
Finally, in a daze, unbeknown to me how, I reach Gillman point, the peak. The wind is blowing icicles, the snow and ice is breaking under my boots. This is Africa…. With stiff frost-bitten fingers I write my name in the book, hidden in a wooden box, torn by the wind.
I almost did not notice the spectacular sunrise with a view of Mt. Neru in the far horizon. Then my friend are yelling: do you want to continue up to Uhuru Peak, we are leaving now? They were already far ahead. I have no choice, nobody from my group wants to descend now and the guides are busy rescuing the fallen heroes. Ice and snow everywhere, I am exhausted, my knees are wobbling.
The green ice glacier is luring below my feet. I dare not look down and grab the edge of the glacier. My pants are ripped, but I do not sense it. The deepness of the glacier crater is reaching its fangs towards me, the snow is glistening in a glaringly greenish white, and the frost is biting my face. The view is so stunning, I am speechless. After another 3 ½ km fight with the elements and my exhausted cadaver, I am finally standing at the highest peak of Africa, 5895m above sea level. We are throwing snowballs at each other, while the Tanzanian flag is fluttering in the wind. We enjoy the ice formations of the glaziers, accompanied by sips of sweet tea, biscuits, and a lousy Tanzanian piece of candy, while taking pictures left and right. We are a bit proud of our accomplishment as we were all completely unprepared for the climb.
Time to start the descent;, it is difficult to get back up standing. Suddenly I get terribly dizzy and nauseous, it is getting very cold and cloudy. The others run sliding down the mountain top through the lava masses, leaving behind dust clouds of sand and lava gravel. Suddenly an old sport injury reappears, my knee pain is excruciating, but there is no choice but to start the descent. I tumble and suddenly notice my 2,000 Tanzanian Schillings have flown out of my pockets, - how am I going to pay for the trip? Finally, I reach hut #3, and I fall down in my bunkbed totally covered in black lava dust. I get a cup of sweet tea and 2 painkillers, while tossing and turning for half an hour. Then the descent must continue, we must reach hut #2 before sunrise. Finally, after 14 hours of challenges and a swollen, liquid-filled knee, we are there. This night I slept like a lamb.
Day 5: soon the trials and tribulations will be over. With my knee wrapped in all the bandages our expedition could spare and dressed in Bermuda shorts I look pathetic as I wobble stiff-legged downhill. Each step is placed carefully, but soon my second knee swells and becomes bluish-purple, now both legs look like elephant legs. My big toe nails and heels are telling new tales of pains, but in a bout of vivaciousness and bravery I make a ½ hour detour to a crater, which turns out not to be worth the effort. Stumbling, I slowly descend through the rain forest which seems to be endless. Each step is torture as I wobble along supported by two walking sticks. Finally we are at the gate. The condition of my legs is alarming, but I won my fight, conquering my limited beliefs. I received evidence of climbing the highest mountain in Africa, one of the tallest mountains in the world and know now that any goal is possible.
Back at the colonial hotel where our friends receive us with grinning faces. Wrapped in bandages, covered in dirt after 5 days without a shower, my nose burned bluish-violet by the tropical sun in spite of all the sunscreens; I looks hilarious, but I am proud of surviving the challenge and going far beyond what I ever thought I could do. A lukewarm stale Safari beer evaporates faster than lightning, tastes heavenly and well deserved. My friends offer to assist in cutting my blisters and recommend various snake powders, but I politely decline.
Lesson learned:
1. do not rent “experienced” old leather mountain boots to climb a mountain. 2. Accept challenges and know that if you can dream it, you can do it! If you do not think you can do it, break the goal into smaller parts. 3. If you can reach hut number 1, you will most likely start feeling a burning desire to reach the summit, and continue to the peak….
” Accept challenges and know that if you can dream it, you can do it!”
