Wednesday August 13, 2014
An inauspicious start. Our Ethiopian Airways flight from Hong Kong was delayed by two hours. Not that anyone was too concerned. By this stage we were happily ensconced in the lounge tucking into free Stella courtesy of the airline. And conducting a packing post mortem.
Toby and Kevin, who “always travel light” each arrived with 18 kilos of check-in baggage, plus hand carry. Travel light my arse. After all the fuss and faff, my bag was noticeably lighter, weighing in at 12 kilos. My hand-carry must have been another 7kg or so with the big camera, extra lens and stuff. Cormac’s bag was barely 10 kilos – he looked like he was going away for a long weekend. And Callum’s bag must have weighed a ton as, as we were to discover, Callum carries two sets of everything. If not actually everything he owns.
By the time we were on the plane, and wined and dined in Ethiopian Airways business class, I was rather well lubricated. They weren’t shy with the champagne and wine. And thus slept the best part of the way to Addis Ababa. As we approached the city myself and Callum were afforded our first ever glimpse of Africa, which was pretty damned exciting, I assure you. The others had all been before. Kevin is South African so it felt like homecoming of sorts for him. It was the right continent if not the right country.
Addis Ababa airport seemed a little chaotic to say the least. When you arrive at somewhere like Heathrow or Hong Kong you are corralled through a series of channels, gates and walkways, with little chance of making an errant turn. I’m sure it was more controlled than it appeared, but here it seemed that you could go almost anywhere. When an airline representative told us we could access the lounge by going out through Exit 4, airport security said we couldn’t. When we then told airport security that “she said we could” he relented, and let us out. Mind you, going back to the gate meant removing belts, watches, shoes and any other metal objects so maybe it wasn’t as lax as it first appeared.
We then had a three hour layover, so the cards came out. At least they would have done had Toby remembered to bring them. He forgot the cards and the Travel Scrabble. He was duly despatched to find some more and despite having to pay an exorbitant USD 15 for two decks, they would undoubtedly prove to be a sound investment. So began the first of a relentless round of Arsehole, the one and only game we ever play and of which we never tire. It was also time to sample some of the local Ethiopian brews; well it was 8.30am by now after all.
(Arsehole doubtless goes under many different names, but is the most elitist of card games. At the start of each round, the two losers of the previous round exchange their best cards with the two winners’ worst cards, ensuring the winners have an immediate advantage. When you’re the loser, you’re likely to stay the loser. It’s a microcosm of capitalism – reward the winners and punish the losers.)
I was also reminded of the decision to upgrade from economy to business. Had I not done so I would of course have been sitting out by the gate, being very tetchy and irritated and trying to make up for the lack of sleep in economy class, while the others were well rested and in the lounge.
Another flight took us from Addis Ababa to Kilimanjaro. And there, mid-way through the flight, was Kilimanjaro, poking its head out above the clouds. It was exciting to think that, fingers crossed, we’d be standing on top of it in just over a week’s time. There was probably someone there right then, freezing their nuts off. It was getting closer and more real by the minute.
Arusha, Tanzania. My feet landed on African soil for the first time in my life. Customs provided a visa on entry and rigorously checked the Yellow Fever certificate. We wandered outside to find Emanuel from the African Walking Company and set off on the two hour drive into Arusha. Emanuel was quizzed about the risks of malaria in this area, and claimed it to be no issue. The last time he had malaria “…it was a few days off work, some medicine and then I was fine. But I can’t recall the last time I had malaria. It was maybe six years ago.” Can’t recall? Six years ago? That’s, like, yesterday. I had dengue fever twenty years ago and can still remember every sodding, aching, miserable minute of it.
The van turned off the main road and bounced up what was little more than a dirt track with numerous small businesses on either side. The Melody Pub looked risky, the hair salon dubious, and the butcher’s positively out of bounds. One stringy carcass of indeterminate shape, hung forlornly in an open-sided shop, where flies reigned and where Health and Safety had yet to make their presence felt. That said, our dinner could have been sourced from the very same butcher for all we knew. Despite the incongruous neighbourhood, the Ilboru Safari Lodge itself seemed very pleasant. Nice rooms, big swimming pool and, as the lady on reception informed us “We have electricity”. So that’s nice. “We also have free wee-fee, for which I’ll give you the password” – and promptly didn’t.
The only downside to Ilboru Safari Lodge was that me, Callum and Cormac were sharing one triple room, which wasn’t that big. It was basically the same as a double, or a twin, or even a single, just with an extra bed shoved in. There was little discussion as to who was taking the extra bed in the middle as, quite frankly, it was so small that neither myself nor Callum would have fitted in. Good job Cormac is compact.
Then there was not much to do to but settle in beside the pool, get the cards out, and squeeze in a few Kilimanjaro beers. We might as well enjoy the extra night as there would be no more booze once we got started. Despite the fact that it’s virtually on the equator, Arusha’s elevation of 1,400 metres (4,600 feet) meant that although it was sunny, it wasn’t baking hot, and the humidity was pleasingly low. So it was nice for sitting-out but a dip in the rather chilly pool could be forsaken. And that was 1,400 metres of height already dealt with. Only 4,600 to go.
We trooped upstairs for dinner to be presented with a Swahili set dinner, which subsequently meant having little or no idea of what we were eating. There was definitely some rice, some maize, chapatis, grilled meat, fish and I’d guess some okra, spinach, peas and beans. Gastronome Cooper suggested “It’s like Indian food. But without the spice.” Which was accurate enough. It was certainly edible and wholly inoffensive, but didn’t set your taste buds alight either. (And a quick look Google confirmed Toby to have been correct. There is significant Indian influence in Tanzanian food with the spicier stuff found in the coastal areas.)
We also became acquainted with a 29 year old Swede, Linus Skoglund, who would also part of our Kili party and promptly joined us for dinner, beer and cards. (I’ve also succumbed to the abbreviation I’d hoped to avoid but Kilimanjaro really is a mouthful. Even the guides would call it Kili, so who was I to stubbornly stick to the long form?) Linus had been ‘rewarded’ with a trip to Kili by his boss. He didn’t even know about it until three weeks ago. You’ve got to question the motives of a boss who offers a reward which will undoubtedly be freezing cold, arguably hellish and potentially fatal. I think I’d have settled for the cash.
Bedtime. I’d been warned that Callum and Cormac were world champion snorers so feared the worst. But a combination of Kili beer, tiredness and ear plugs made it all a lot more manageable than expected. There was potentially more danger of being gassed than anything else – and I contributed my fair share to that.
Come Friday morning and the joys of sharing a bathroom with two other blokes who’d been on the sauce the night before became apparent. Suffice it to say the ventilation wasn’t up to much. Cormac incidentally was getting right into the spirit of the forthcoming mountain trek by not having had a shower yesterday or today. Dirty git.
By this time we were grateful that Ethiopian Airways had changed their schedule and made us fly a day earlier. Terry, Martin and Matt wouldn’t arrive from the UK until around 10pm this evening. Then they’d be straight off to the mountain at 8am the following morning. The extra day had given us a bit of time to chill out, and fiddle around with our kit of course.
Today being Kili-minus-one, it was time to start taking the Diamox. I almost immediately got a Diamox tingle in my hands, which became a regular, and not altogether unpleasant, experience. Unfortunately, it also made the Kilimanjaro beer taste metallic which was not so pleasant an experience.
We had a 2pm briefing with Paolo of the African Walking Company, which was a little erratic to say the least. After taking our insurance policy numbers (i.e. making sure that someone would pay if we needed to hospitalised) and some other preamble he declared that there are four golden rules to climbing Kili. “And the second rule is…” Hang on, did I miss something? What happened to the first? Will there be a test at the end? Will I fail because I didn’t know the first golden rule?
As it happens, the first golden rule of Kili came after the second, at least in Paolo’s world. The second golden rule is ‘pole, pole’, pronounced ‘pollé, pollé’, which means slowly slowly, and is essential for acclimatising properly. The first golden rule is to have the right equipment, which we were duly and comprehensively walked through. The third is to drink lots of fluids, about five litres per day appeared to be the recommended intake. And the fourth is to have a PMA, a positive mental attitude. We were left in no uncertain terms about the dangers we faced and how potentially fatal Kili can be.
In trekking terminology, mountain altitudes are divided into three zones…high, very high and extreme. Kili falls into the ‘extreme’ category of above 5,400 metres, with Uhuru Peak at 5,895 metres. The African Walking Company has guided more than 15,000 people on Kilimanjaro and had only one death, an old feller who had a heart attack. They estimate that climbers with reliable operators run a risk of death of less than 1 in 10,000. Climbers with cowboy operators face greater risk.
The biggest risk is altitude sickness, and no amount of training or trekking below 5,000m can prepare you for this. It either gets you or it doesn’t. And it can get you even if you’ve been at altitude before and not suffered. Almost all trekkers will suffer some form of altitude sickness on a trek up Kili. Around 15% of trekkers suffer symptoms severe enough to warrant their immediate removal to lower altitudes. 1% require emergency evacuation.
The most common form of altitude sickness is Altoxia, symptoms of which include headaches, light-headedness, nausea, loss of appetite, vomiting and a mild swelling of the face, ankles and fingers. The second is High Altitude Pulmonary Oedema, or water in the lungs, characterized by breathlessness, a very high pulse, a crackling sound in the chest and coughing of pink fluid, or sputum. The condition can be fatal, there are no drugs to cure it and the only solution is to descend. And the third little charmer is High Altitude Cerebral Oedema, or swelling in the brain, which can also be fatal and the only recourse is to descend and get off the mountain. Quick.
Someone please remind me why we’re doing this?
We’re issued with whatever kit we’d hired from AWC, in my case a sleeping bag and down jacket, both of which appeared ludicrously warm. Paolo then advised that “Tips are optional. But here’s a suggested rate card.” Clinical, but clear. As a banker, Cormac was appointed Treasurer and collected all the cash now for distribution at the end of the trek. Mind you, as a banker, he’d no doubt award himself a hefty bonus at the same time.
After Paolo’s golden rule number one, we returned to our rooms to make some final adjustments, although I suspect this fiddling was more psychological than physical. Moving that little step from being 99% comfortable with your kit, to being 99.5% comfortable. Our final adjustments meant that between Callum, Cormac and myself we were leaving an entire bag of kit in the hotel, i.e. we’d taken an entire extra bags worth of stuff that wasn’t required. Sadly Callum opted against taking the single most useless item we’d yet seen, a personal mozzie net – the mesh equivalent of a plastic bag on your head. It may or may not have kept mozzies away but it very definitely looked like he was about to rob a bank in his wife’s tights.
The timing of Paolo’s briefing scuppered any thoughts of going into Arusha for a look around – not that anyone other than myself was particularly keen. So Arusha, major international diplomatic hub, the de facto capital of the East African Community, host of the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, site of the signing of independence of Tanganyika from the UK in 1961, location for parts of the (apparently awful) John Wayne movie Hatari!, and the home of Tanzanian hip-hop, remained a mystery. It was back to the pool for more beer and more cards.
The Swahili set menu was declined for dinner given that it was the same as the night before. Instead dinner was non-Swahili, a la carte, European and not overly inspiring. The avocado ‘salad’ had lots of avocado but nothing else. And the wiener schnitzel was horribly overcooked. Which served us right for eating western food in Africa I guess. Should’ve stuck to the Swahili menu. We hung around waiting for Terry, Martin and Matt to arrive around 10pm, then had a quick welcoming beer with them. Our attempts to share the details of Paolo’s briefing probably confused them more than enlightened them. And then we all buggered off to bed, conscious of not having hangovers in the morning. And they’d run out of cold beer.
Go to Chapter 5: Healthy, happy, clean and warm