Kilimanjaro Day 8 – Saturday August 23
The last day on the mountain began with the ritual tip-giving ceremony, where the support team thanked the climbers for coming to see their mountain. Our treasurer, Cormac, made a speech and dished out the collective tips for the guides, porters, chefs, and Joshua the toilet man. There were a few individual tips as well where people have been particularly appreciative of the help and support provided by some of the guides, without whom they would not have got as far as they did. Some of these gifts include kit and clothing which won’t be needed ever again but will be much appreciated by the porters – and which demonstrated the flaw in the aforementioned second-hand mountain-clothing business plan. There is no such thing as unwanted kit.
The guides and porters then gave us a song and dance routine, giving praise and thanks to the mountain, which could be perceived as cheesy, but could not fail to put a smile on your face – even if it wasn’t as big a smile as Goodjob’s. It was all great fun. I was half expecting someone to suggest we do the Hokey-Cokey in return but thankfully no one did.
And then we started the final descent to Mweka at 1,650 metres (5,400 feet). AWC’s bumf advises that “By now you have probably lost all interest in your surroundings and are thinking only of a shower, a massage, a good meal, a drink and above all a comfortable bed.” But I think we were all in pretty good shape and although the walk out was lengthy, it was really quite pleasant, with the forest providing a different environment, the monkeys and hornbills shrieking in the trees and a degree of greenery we’d not seen for a week. Mind you, the sight of a stout African woman wielding a machete stopped me in my tracks, although she was after chopping down a tree, not a foreigner.
Emergency evacuation from Kili involves the use of a Kili ambulance, a flat metal frame resembling a prison cot (not that I’ve ever been to prison but I’ve seen enough films, and Porridge), with handles at one end and a single wheel underneath. A market barrow-cum-cot-cum-stretcher. The newer models actually have suspension on the wheels, the older ones don’t. They’re solid-looking constructions which must weigh 50 or 60 kilos. And today we passed a dude taking one of them back up the hill. On his head.
As we chatted to a few folk along the way, it became apparent that most of them already seemed to know the Anaesthetist of Kilimanjaro. Doctor Martin Garry had by now achieved some degree of fame due to his widespread efforts to help people suffering from the various symptoms of altitude sickness. He’d helped people in our group, people in other groups and was even called into action on the flight from Amsterdam to Kilimanjaro to assist a young lad having an epileptic fit. I guess it’s part of the Hippocratic oath, and their commitment to other people’s well-being, for a doctor to be permanently on call. Even on top of a mountain.
We finally reached the Mweka gate, where we completed the formalities and signed out of the park; then walked on down to the village, where the rest of the group – myself, Matt and Terry were the last out – were waiting with cold Kilimanjaro beers in hand. Mmm, beer.
We were then met by a driver from AWC, bundled onto a bus, and driven back to Arusha, and Ilboru Lodge. I skipped past reception and there was Sue, sunning herself by the pool, and keen to embrace me despite the fact that I stunk like someone who had not had a shower for eight days, had worn the same clothes for days on end, and who was without doubt malodourously unpleasant.
And who had climbed Mount Kilimanjaro.
Then there was a long shower. The water pressure at Ilboru Lodge wasn’t great, but the shower was hot and very cleansing. There was a chance to shave my head at last, although not before Callum had photographic evidence of exactly what little natural coverage I have. And there were clean clothes, and bugger me, did that feel good. Surprisingly good. Luxuriantly good. Until that point it hadn’t dawned on me that my thermals had been on for well over forty eight hours straight, nor quite how dirty, dusty and smelly all my clothes were.
We congregated around the pool for more beers, anecdotes and an exchange of photos, then went upstairs for dinner – a Swahili grill including buffalo steak and Thomson’s gazelle stew. We’d soon be marvelling at these beasts in the wild so it seemed a little incongruous to be chowing down on them this evening. There were a few more beers, but despite the celebratory nature, with most people heading off on safari or other trips in the morning, and everyone keen to embrace a proper bed, it was not as late a night as might have been expected.
Sue, incidentally, had arrived in Arusha on Thursday afternoon, and despite having to dine alone (“I think everyone felt sorry for me. Or thought I was weird. An Asian woman on her own in Africa.”) seemed to have had a good time poking around Arusha. The hotel helped her find a guide to accompany her around the markets and a coffee plantation and who even took her into a local school to meet the headmaster and the kids. How did that work eh? Sue’s not a teacher, or an inspector, a researcher or a journalist, or anything remotely relevant for the school. She’s a tourist, and that was sufficient for the school to make her welcome? Whatever; the head seemed happy, the kids seemed happy, and Sue was afforded no end of photo opportunities, so she’s happy. Everybody’s happy. Sue also went wandering out on her own, despite my previous exhortations not to.
Breakfast the following morning saw various departures – the Aussies were off on safari and then on to Zanzibar; Linus had one more day in Arusha and then he was off on safari; Callum had a day in Arusha then a flight back to Hong Kong; Terry, Martin and Matt were squeezing in a trip to Arusha National Park before catching their evening flight to the UK; and myself, Sue, Cormac, Kevin and Toby were off to Ngorongoro Crater and the Serengeti.
After all that fuss, shopping, packing and repacking, was all that medicine and all that kit really required?
The jury remained out on Diamox. I took it and suffered zero effects of altitude. Matt didn’t take Diamox and also had no problems. Toby took Diamox and had continuous headaches. Kevin took Diamox and obviously suffered quite a bit from fluid on the lungs. So the results of those tests are utterly inconclusive. Good job we weren’t the pilot group for a multi-million dollar product launch.
The down jacket hired from AWC was useful for summit night, but Toby’s ski jacket did the job just as well. The Patagonia hooded fleece was superb, and all the other kit and caboodle was well used. After all the worry, my Asolo boots were fantastic. Not one blister, nor any discomfort. They took one soaking in a bog and proved resiliently waterproof.
AWC’s sleeping bag was excellent, coupled with my own liner; and the cheap, fleece pillow was a comfortable head-rest. Walking poles were largely unused but helpful for the descent from the summit (Matt didn’t use them at all so they aren’t essential). I didn’t have gaiters and didn’t need them.
Wet-wipes were an absolute godsend. Where did they come from? (Or rather, where have I been not to know about them?) Factor 50 sunscreen was more or less essential, Ibuprofen used only once, Imodium thankfully not used at all, and Deep Heat also unused. Electrolytes for water were a complete waste of space, extra snacks useful but not essential as AWC provided all that anyway. Even the toilet roll went unused thanks to provisions from Joshua’s throne.
The big revelation was the dry bags, not just for keeping stuff dry, but also for keeping stuff organised. Everything on the mountain gets dirty and dusty so being able to keep things separate is helpful. Day clothes in one, summit clothes in another; then dirty clothes in one, clean (i.e. less dirty) in another.
Things that weren’t taken and should have been included a second long-sleeved top, soap (a bit of a schoolboy error to exclude that), disinfectant handwash, electrical tape (the answer to so many of life’s problems, fortunately Callum had some), and the damned notebook that I dumped in a panic at the last minute (and hence the reason why so much of this text may be completely and utterly incorrect).
At the end of the day, I didn’t want for much and most things got used, so the packing must have been more or less appropriate. And the impact of those clean, fresh and comfy clothes to change into upon return cannot be under-estimated.
And that is just about that as far as Mount Kilimanjaro is concerned.
Go to Chapter 13: What’s next?