Kilimanjaro Day 1 – Saturday August 16
And this is it. August 16. D-Day. Or K-Day as the case may be. And believe it or not, it was exactly twenty one years to the day since myself and Terry set off from London on the aforementioned backpacking trip to Asia in what for me at least turned out to be a genuinely life-changing experience. We went off backpacking…and I never went back.
Twenty one years later and while we’re definitely older I’d question whether we were any wiser. Terry still had the propensity to live up to his nickname, and I still fret over how many pairs of socks to take. Terry observed that “In those twenty one years, I’ve got fatter, Will (another traveller) has got balder, and you (being bald then and now) look the same.” Which means I either look pretty good for 46, or looked shite at 25. So maybe there is an advantage to being bald – as a masquerade for ageing. And now we found ourselves off a-wandering again. Last time he took me to the beautiful beaches of Koh Samui in Thailand. This time he was taking us up a bloody mountain.
An 8am start. Our group of eight was supplemented by Linus, and three Aussies, Matt, Jarrod and Andrew. In their late twenties / early thirties, they were probably hoping for some attractive young women in their group, and instead got a bunch of hairy-arsed middle-aged pissheads. Sorry fellers.
It’s a two hour drive to Londorossi Gate (height 2,250 metres or 7,400 feet) passing the Old Trafford Bar (won’t be going there), innumerable hair salons (won’t be going there either), and a random white man jogging along the road some miles from the city – not something you expect to see in the middle of Africa. And we were incidentally, right in the middle of Africa. Arusha’s clock tower supposedly marks the midpoint between Cairo and Cape Town – although a quick glance at a map would suggest this to be a rather fanciful claim, perhaps based on old transport routes and certainly not as the crow flies.
Our driver was a quiet, but pleasant fellow. When asked his name, he replied “Alex”.
“That’s not very African. What’s your real name?”
“Alex.”
“Oh. What’s your family name then?”
“Martin.”
“Oh.”
He was of course Christian, so his name made as much sense as any of ours. He also explained that the vehicle, which had 400,000km on the clock, is “not old”. As Kevin likes to say “This is Africa”.
As we neared the Londorossi Gate, one of the trucks broke down, and by way of a handbrake a couple of rocks were wedged behind the rear wheels. Whether the handbrakes on the trucks didn’t work or they simply didn’t trust them I don’t know but any time a truck stopped on an incline, the African handbrake was applied. Mind you it didn’t always work. As the trucks were parked at Londorossi Gate and formalities done, the truck, with Terry, Martin, Matt and Cormac on board, slipped its rock and rolled backwards into ours, which was all there was to prevent it from going any further down the hill. There’d have been some fun and games had it kept going.
We reached the gate, signed in and had some team photos taken; a healthy, happy, clean, warm and enthusiastic looking bunch of individuals. But for how much longer?
The route that we (i.e. Terry) had chosen, Shira 7B, does not hike up through a forest zone as is usual on Kili, but instead starts in the next climate level up, at 2,800 metres (9,200 feet), an area characterised by giant heather and thick mists. Had it been ten degrees colder Callum would have felt quite at home such was the resemblance to his native land. There was a further short drive to the edge of the Shira Plateau and then it was lunchtime, and we hadn’t even done anything yet. Our head guide was a chap called Christopher, resplendent in his rasta hat, and from whose tent the occasional whiff of ganja will drift. Other guides included Gama, who decided I resembled Zinedine Zidane – he’d obviously never seen me play – and whispered ‘Zizou’ every time he saw me; Gaspar, recognisable by his New Zealand flag bandanna; Atilio, or AT if you couldn’t manage the full version; Hashim, whose bloodshot eyes earned him the name Hashish; and George, who was just George. There may have been more but names have never been my strong point.
We were then introduced to the army of around fifty guides, porters and chef (singular) that were required to get the twelve of us up the hill. And perhaps the most important man of all, Joshua, the toilet porter. The bumf from AWC said:
At each campsite on the mountain there are permanent toilet facilities. These vary in quality and condition from reasonable to disgusting. In order to save our climbers from this experience we can now provide a portable toilet, which takes the form of a simple canvas surround, a seat and a bucket. It is still not a throne, but it is an improvement.
And they were right on all counts. The public toilets were appalling, their portable toilet was not a throne, but it was a massive improvement. If we’d been forced to use the public toilets day after day there’d have been a temptation to fill up with Imodium and not go for a week. So God bless Joshua and his throne.
There is a sense of, not guilt, but embarrassment that it took so many people to get so few up and down the mountain safely. We were twelve people, walking up a mountain for fun. And it took fifty other people to help us achieve that. On the plus side, we were providing employment for fifty people for eight days, however tough that employment may be. On the downside there were of course rumours of exploitation, mistreatment, poor payment and harsh conditions, but quite frankly there was sod all we could do about that. We were being as responsible as we could by going with a reputable company who made various commitments to the well-being of their porters and families, and we had to be content with that.
And while the Hong Kong contingent may have secured RC Outfitters’ annual bonuses for the year, it seemed that Terry Garry had also made a sizeable contribution to the outdoor equipment retail industry, describing with great relish the fun he had buying new kit. Including his boots. This defied all logic and common-sense but, having experienced some discomfort with one boot, he believed that his optimal combination of footwear, at least for going downhill, was mis-matched boots. So sometimes he’d be wearing a legitimate matching pair of boots, and at other times he’d be wearing odd boots. Even one of the guides commented that that was not something they’d ever seen before.
Matt Seager made a mockery of any concerns about the size of our day packs – including the fact that I judged my existing 22 litre Vaude backpack too small and went out and bought a new 30+4 litre bag – when he pitched up with a 13 litre bag that would have looked more appropriate on the back of one of his young daughters. Some Hello Kitty ears on the top would not have looked out of place. But it carried everything he needed and was very light, so fair play to him.
And then we were off, finally, across the flatness of the Shira Plateau. The terrain is fairly unspectacular and the going very easy; the weather misty and grey. We crossed one or two small gulleys but other than that it was relatively flat and featureless, with low scrub and grassy moorland and not much else. We were all ready for pole pole but the actual speed, or lack of it, was astounding. It was like a funeral march. It was difficult to actually walk that slowly without constantly catching up with the person in front. The porters, who had lagged behind to finish the packing, shortly came racing past, but at our pole pole pace it was not exactly difficult. An arthritic geriatric could have skipped past us at this pace.
After three or four hours of gentle plodding, by late afternoon, we arrived at the first campsite, Shira One Bivouac, to the sight of a young lady vomiting into a bush – and this was only at 3,550 metres (11,700 feet). Apparently it was her second day on the trail and while vomiting is not the be all and end all and can be comfortably overcome, you didn’t really fancy her chances of summiting. I’m not sure what it did for the rest of us – bring home how real altitude sickness is or give us a boost as none of us has succumbed yet (although it would have been disappointing if one of us had – we’d done nowt yet).
There was some excitement as a peak emerged from the mist but it was quickly dismissed by the guides as “just a ridge”. Besides which, we were looking the wrong way. Kibo, the peak of Kili, was in the other direction. And we had yet to see it.
The porters had already set up the camp and we then had to familiarise ourselves with the routine of camp life. The Garry Brothers Flying Circus were bunking in together, Toby and Kevin were together, given Callum’s and Cormac’s propensity for snoring they were in together. Which left myself and Matt to cosy up. So that was bollocks to a piece of advice I’d received about sharing a tent with the person you know best as Matt was probably the person I knew the least – but it was certainly preferable to being squeezed in with a Garry or an Olympic snorer. That same advisor incidentally had also advocated sharing a spliff with the porters then gazing at the stars, but given my inability to handle a joint without throwing up I knew I’d eschew that advice as well.
Camp life. I hadn’t been camping since a booze-fuelled excursion to Fraser Island in Australia some twenty years ago, and readily confess to hate camping. On Fraser Island we found a nice little gulley in which to pitch our tent, cleverly protected from the wind. Unfortunately it turned out to be a dry stream bed which quickly became a very wet stream bed when it pissed down in the night. I awoke with a stream quite literally running through the tent and spent the rest of the night, and the trip, sleeping in the jeep.
AWC describe the Shira 7 route as “… probably the best non-technical route on the mountain, but it is tough. If you are very fit and outdoorsy, used to continuous camping in adverse conditions, then Shira 7 is probably the best option.”
Fit and outdoorsy? Perhaps. Used to continuous camping in adverse conditions? Definitely not. So this should be interesting.
Camp routine. After each day’s walking there is a period of faffing, i.e. getting your tent in order. Laying out your sleeping bag, liner, pillow and whatever clothes you may be sleeping in. Headlamp, ear plugs, book and toilet bag easily accessible in a little pocket near your head. Boots and camp shoes at the bottom end. And bags down the middle. We were advised not to leave bags in the wee entrance way, particularly in busy camps as, although occasional, thefts do occur. We were also advised not to leave stuff lying around outside the tent as the camps are frequented by white-necked ravens, vicious looking scavengers who will do off with anything they can lay their ugly beaks on.
Then there were hot drinks – tea, coffee, hot chocolate, Milo – in the mess tent. Followed by washy-washy, where we were each given a bowl of hot water with which to do our best at washing whatever we felt needed washing. With the accompaniment of the indispensable wet wipes washy-washy was not as bad as it sounds. Mind you, the appearance of a half-naked Terry Garry, hands down the front of his trousers, grinning maniacally and growling “Washy-washy” like a stranger bearing sweets made you want to get it over with as quickly as possible. If not go home altogether.
Dinner was at 6pm – preceded by a briefing for camp routine and tomorrow’s agenda – and was surprisingly good. Toby had read somewhere that the food and drinks, and all the other small touches of camp life, were what distinguish AWC from other companies and confirm that you’ve made the right choice. Dinner each night is bread and cheese; soup, invariably very good; a carb-heavy main, usually rice, potatoes or pasta, with a meat or veg sauce; and fresh fruit. And lots of hot drinks – one of the ways of ensuring you got your recommended five litres a day of fluids.
And then it was bed time. At 8pm. I couldn’t recall the last time I went to bed so early. We were advised that we’d fall asleep quickly, but would wake frequently, and would undoubtedly need the loo once or twice throughout the night. And they were absolutely right. Sleep was quick to come and frequently interrupted, but the periods of wakefulness were thankfully short, and it was a surprisingly good night’s kip.
And the stars were amazing. Popping out in the middle of the night to relieve yourself meant being dumbstruck by the clarity of the night sky, the complete lack of light pollution and the staggering volume of stars glittering away. It was absolutely stunning. If it hadn’t been so damned cold it would have been tempting to stay out and stargaze for a while. But it was way too cold for that.
And the wind. My word. Apparently the altitude has an impact although I suspect our diet may also contributed, but there was a significant degree of flatulence throughout the camp. Fortunately Matt was an ideal tent partner. He didn’t snore, and had a poor sense of smell, which meant he couldn’t smell my malodorous feet, or the Kili wind, although he readily admitted to being equally as guilty for the latter.
Go to: Chapter 6: A first sighting of Kibo