Kilimanjaro Day 5: Ascent to Uhuru Peak, Descent to Mweka Gate

 It’s been over a year since I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. I just traveled to Turks and Caicos, and while sitting on the beach, I had the opportunity to re-read Ernest Hemingway’s “Snows of Kilimanjaro”. While the story itself has very little to do with Kilimanjaro, it reminded me of my trip, and also that I never wrote about the final ascent and descent. I figured I should finally record my thoughts, before I write about another trip. Accordingly, what follows are my recollections of my ascent to the summit of the mountain, and the following descent.

9/14/2011

I had dinner at the end of Day 4 at Barafu, the “base camp” for most treks to Uhuru Peak, the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. I ate around 8:30-ish in the evening, and finished around 9. I stayed up a little bit longer preparing for bed, writing, and getting ready mentally for what awaited later that night. After falling asleep around 9:30, Bryson woke me up a little before midnight. You see, when making the final ascent, you don’t wait until the next day; you start at midnight. This gives you the opportunity to be at the summit to watch the dawn… as long as you move fast enough. It’s supposed to be about a six hour trek, and dawn comes around 6:00am. 

I dressed, grabbed my pack and got ready to head off. Other groups around me were doing the same. Unlike the previous sections of trail, this one would be made just by myself and the guide. We would be coming back to Barafu afterwards, and meeting up with the rest of our crew for the descent. We started off somewhere in the middle of several large groups. It was completely dark, except for a little moonlight and the twinkling stars. The larger groups formed long chains going up the mountain, with their flashlights and headlamps lighting their way. They looked like long chains of miners from a distance, snaking their way up the slope. I tried to photograph them, but the lack of ambient light, combined with my own inexperience as a photographer prevented me from getting any good shots.

We moved quickly. We passed one group, and quickly got caught behind another one. On the one hand, I wanted to climb fast to make sure we were at the top before dawn, and to just get it over with. On the other hand, I didn’t want to ascend so quickly that I would get altitude sickness. We were moving from the 15239 ft of Barafu to the 19,341 ft of Uhuru, the largest ascent since the first day. Climbing that many feet between the hours of midnight and 6:00am would be difficult even if I was well rested. Instead I had about two hours of sleep. And the previous day had been the longest single day trek so far, one in which two days of trekking were done in one day. Needless to say, I was exhausted, and the exhaustion took its toll.

Nevertheless, we continued to pass other groups, until there were none left in front of us that we could see. I told myself that we moved faster because I was a Marine, so I was tougher and could move faster than the others. In actuality, it was probably more because there was only two of us, compared to the groups we passed. But in my pride, I asked for fewer stops to rest, and ignored my growing headache.

An hour passed, and then another. It was godawfully boring. The terrain was steep, much steeper than the previous days. At times it was practically sand, and for every two steps forward I took, the sand slid me back one step. There was no talking to Bryson, or gazing at the beautiful scenery to pass the time. It was just drudgery, moving forward in the darkness, all the time wondering how much further to go.

I passed the time any way I could think of. I had gone through a difficult break up in the first half of the year. I worked on a stanza in my head expressing my relief at leaving those feelings behind in New York when I left. It took me the better part of an hour, because my head was spinning, making it difficult to concentrate. It’s hard to remember it exactly, but it went something like this:

Goodbye dear friends,

I must now depart

I leave again

To make a new start

With hopefulness,

But sorrow in part

Goodbye Brooklyn Heights and broken heart.

Sometime around the fourth hour or so, the pain in my head was becoming unbearable. In the same way that I didn’t pack any sunscreen or lip balm, I also didn’t bring any altitude medicine, or even simple painkillers. My pace was slowing, and I was taking much more frequent “rest stops”. Bryson began to taunt me, “You want to turn back?” He was trying to push me, thinking I was considering giving up. “No,” I muttered through gritted teeth.

We came up behind another small group, a couple and their guide. I never figured out where they came from, because when we stopped next to them, I couldn’t focus enough to listen to their conversation with Bryson. They had either gotten an earlier start, or come from some adjoining trail.

I begrudgingly admitted that I was suffering from some altitude sickness. “You wouldn’t have any pills, would you?” I asked them.

“No altitude sickness medicine, but I think I have some ibuprofen if you want it.”

“Gladly. Thank you.” I shamelessly swallowed the couple pills she had, and we continued.

The headache eventually lessened, and after about another hour we reached Stella Point. This is the point where you can finally see into the crater of Kilimanjaro. It is my understanding that several different routes used to reach Uhuru join here and continue as one path to the very top. The remaining ascent was not much higher. Instead it consisted mostly of walking around the edge of the crater to the actual “peak.” The peak is not very pronounced, of course., since Kilimanjaro flattens out around its crater. When we reached Stella I was elated, because it felt like the end was in sight, even though we had about an hour to go.

This last hour was fairly pleasant though. The predawn sky began turning purple, and I could see the glacier of Kilimanjaro all around me in the distance. We weren’t walking on snow, just rocky ground, but off to the right and left on other parts of the mountain it was beautiful. As more light came into the sky, it reflected off the snow in an array of colors. We raced to the top, all exhaustion having disappeared with the excitement of the finish.

We were close to the first up that morning, but I remember at least one other trekker and guide from a different route already there as we arrived. Nevertheless, we beat the crowd, and made it just in time for dawn. It was gorgeous. I could see for hundreds of miles in all different directions. The sun slowly rose, and on one hand light began to shine on part of the land, and on the other hand it was still peaceful and dark. The sky was a brilliant canvas of colors. I took as many photos as I could, and tried to capture as much of the scene in my memory as possible. It was an amazing feeling, standing there at the roof of Africa, knowing that there was not a single person on the entire continent who was standing higher than I was at that moment.

Soon the crowds of other trekkers began arriving. Getting there early allowed me to take more photos in front of the sign marking the peak than people who got there later, and had to rotate with so many others. Even so, we only had about 15-20 minutes at the top, due to the cold temperature, altitude, and the long trek we still needed to make back. I took photos with a Teach For American shirt, since I had raised money for TFA as part of my climb, a Texas flag bandana with Willie Nelson’s signature printed on it, and finally I cracked open the bottle of Kilimanjaro Lager that I had carried with me the entire trek.

I was inspired to do this by a British man I met while climbing to the base camp of Mount Everest. In the cold, the beer had almost completely frozen, but there was just enough liquid to still drink some. The sight of me drinking the beer at the peak caused a minor stir. Everyone loved the idea, and wished they had done the same thing. People laughed and begged me to let them borrow the bottle for their own photos, so I hung out for a couple minutes and shared the prop. Eventually, though, Bryson got impatient, and we were both pretty cold, so I grabbed the bottle and we started back down.

While going up was a six-hour trek, coming back down to Barafu was only about a three-hour trek at most. The trail down is mostly within sight of the trail up, but off to the side by a couple hundred yards on average. It was also a lot more sandy, and we literally skied down the sand in many parts. It was not safe to say the least, and several times I almost busted. Fortunately, the couple times I stumbled, I managed to land on my butt.

west

The speed at which we “skied” and frankly ran down the trail ensured we got back to Barafu before 10:00am. I was on a high, having just gotten back from the summit. Bryson told me I could rest for a little while, and then we would start down.

The descent from Barafu is a two day descent. It takes you through the all the terrain types that I had already encountered, from the rocky mountaintop, through alpine desert, then rocky scrub-land, and finally lush forest. Along the way, treks stop at Mweka camp, about halfway, and then finally to Mweka gate at the bottom.

After about an hour and a half rest, and some breakfast, we started off. Bryson told me it was up to me how fast we did it, meaning I could do it in the normal two days, or push hard and finish in one day. I had been up since midnight, with about two hours of sleep, and had been trekking for approximately 9 hours at this point.

“How long is it until the bottom?” I asked.

“About three or four hours,” he replied.

I decided to push it, and finish it that day. It was Day 5 of the normally six or seven day route. I don’t know whether I was out of my senses because of exhaustion, or overconfidence from being so close, or because I hadn’t been in contact with the girl I had recently become smitten with for a couple days. But I had done it. I had conquered the largest freestanding mountain in the world.

Epilogue:

The descent itself was fairly uneventful. Bryson told me I would start off with Saidi and he would catch up with me later. I didn’t see him until more than half way down, and still continued on with just Saidi, who didn’t speak English. Bryson met up with us and discussed with me a fair tip for himself and the others at Mweka Camp. I also ran into some middle-aged Texan men, who were there with their mother. She had just finished the more difficult Lemosho Route. She was doing it in anticipation of her upcoming 60-year college reunion at Texas Woman’s University. It was kind of incredible.

I don’t know whether there was a miscommunication or what, but it did not take three to four hours. That’s how long it took to get to Mweka Camp. To get to Mweka gate was an additional three hours or so. Maybe Bryson meant that the normal day’s trek was only three to four hours. Or maybe he just wanted to get down himself. The sun was getting low in the sky by the time we reached Mweka Gate. Thabit met us there with a car, and made sure that I was ok.

“Bryson didn’t make you come down today, did he?” Thabit asked.

“No, no, it was my decision.”

I stayed in Moshi that night, in the same hotel that I stayed in before the trek. My lips was so burnt, dry and cracked that they were bleeding. My skin was red from the sun. Everything hurt. But it was worth it.

In the following days, I began my safari.

Kilimanjaro Day 4: Barafu Camp, Base Camp Before Summit Ascent

9/13/2011

This post is short for a variety of reasons, as you can tell from the entry. I had trekked for about six hours that day along a route that many, if not most, do in two days. The temperature had dropped significantly, and I had very little time to rest before the final ascent later that same night.

It's difficult to write because my hands are so cold. We've arrived at Barafu, which is the base camp for the summit ascent, and the temperature here is much lower due to the elevation. 
Today was the most difficult day so far. There was actual hand-over-hand climbing. On top of that, the sunburn on my face, neck, and even lips is bad. I finished reading Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter two days ago. (Having previously read Washington Irving and Ernest Hemingway on this trip, I don't feel like I have to justify my reading selection) I felt like one of the vampires from the story the way I hid from the sun today. Fortunately, most of the trek today was in the shadow of the mountain itself.
We stopped at Karanga Camp for lunch after about three hours. Many groups stop there for the night to acclimatize, but we pushed on. The higher we climbed and the closer we got to Barafu, the more hostile the terrain became. Eventually there was only brittle rock to walk on and fog to walk through. The fog gave the whole landscape an ethereal feel. The terrain was a moonscape.
Barafu itself reminds me of the base camp for Mount Everest: no vegetation, rocky terrain, and an unforgiving appearance. There are quite a few more people here though than there were at Everest. I crossed paths with a few people just down from the summit. They were all in good spirits, but seemed utterly exhausted.
I need to rest now. Tonight at midnight Bryson and I will continue on to Uhuru Peak alone. It's six hours there and three back. Afterwards we will rest again at Barafu, and if all goes well we will push on for 5 more hours to Mweka Gate, finishing a day early. We'll see.

This was my last entry on the mountain. My next journal entry is from the first day of safari. There was no time to write about the final ascent to Uhuru after we returned, and once I had gotten down the mountain, I was so exhausted, dirty, and self-satisfied that I didn't bother recording my thoughts. However, I remember it clearly, and I will follow-up with an entry soon detailing the experience. 

Kilimanjaro, Day 3: Barranco Camp, via Lava Tower

9/12/11

Arrived in Barranco Camp via Lava Tower. Lava Tower is approximately at an altitude of 4600m, but Barranco is only about 3900m. Hopefully today's trek will help me better acclimatize, because it turns out the headache was not caused by the candle in my tent. Although they've gotten better, I've had a headache each day, candle or no.
After today's 6 hour trek though, I've got a new problem: sunburn. I'm burnt on my neck, face, and arms. Dalia crossed my path in camp and said, "Man, you're red! Be careful..." Little late for that now. I'll survive. Been sunburned before.
Other than that, today's trek was really pleasant. The route was entirely across an "alpine desert" of wide open expanse: sparse but hearty vegetation, rocky terrain, views for miles. The incline was gentle, and I feel like I barely broke a sweat. At Lava Tower, I ran into Steve and Aseem, my two American friends, who tried to recruit me to climb the "tower" itself. We had eaten lunch at its base, and apparently people used to climb it before a rock-slide rendered it unstable. Their guide advised against it until Steve told him to "take his skirt off." I asked Bryson what he thought. "No. We don't climb here. You break your neck here." Still, Steve and Aseem were adamant, so I agreed to follow them a little ways, but that I wasn't going all the way up. Having been warned by numerous people before the trek to be careful, and not do anything stupid, and having already ignored that advice more than once, I thought it was best not to push my luck.
We climbed around the base, and I followed them up one side where we had to climb hand over hand. I stopped, and the kept going. Steve eventually stopped as well, because it turns out he's afraid of heights. Only Aseem went all the way up, and when he returned he volunteered that it was a stupid idea. The guide pointed out to him the metal rings where ropes used to go, and teh spot where the rock-slide apparently killed someone. Good to know.
When he came down, we continued onto Barranco, passing many palm tree-like plants. Bryson said the oldest of them were 200 years old.
Feeling my sunburn by the time we arrived, I took shelter in my tent. I opened my Neosporin to apply to a cut, and it steadily oozed out, the pressure difference keeping it from stopping. I kept thinking it woul stop eventually, so I let it pool in my hand. When it didn't stop, and I had more than I would need if I had been stabbed, I crammed the top back on. But what to do with all this Neosporin? I promptly smeared it on my sunburned face and neck. Couldn't hurt, right? We'll see how that turns out. Saidi has just brought me tea, so I have to go.

Day 2: Shira Camp and 10th Anniversary of 9/11, on Kilimanjaro

I stopped transcribing my Kilimanjaro journal a few months back because I was unsure about this post. It was already over a month after the 10th anniversary, and it didn't seem timely. Though I meant to come back to it, I never did. However, at a recent wedding, some family friends informed me that they had loved my posts, to which I replied I had more that were unpublished. They admonished me to continue, so hopefully this post will have at least two readers. The first part is about this day's trek. The last half is my ruminations on 9/11.
------------------
9/11/2011

Just arrived at Shira camp, end of day 2, but it's only lunch time. An earlier start today meant that the trail was less crowded and the trekking more pleasant and peaceful. No rainforest with tons of mud today either, although tons of fog. At one point I had to resort to my poncho to stay dry, b/c we were literally walking through a cloud. While the fog obscured the views, it was beautiful in and of itself.

I walked with Bryson today and got to know him a bit better. He's 49, and has a son my age who is a teacher. He's been a guide since '94, and worked on Kili since '82, before I was even born. He carried a bigger pack than I did, although I'm bigger and younger, and still kept a good pace, only stopping for his smoke breaks. While the climb today was much steeper, the open air, sparsely populated trail, and lack of mud made it a better day.

I was worried last night because I had a bad headache which I began attributing to altitude sickness. I started really worry, and thinking I'd be in trouble. It was difficult to eat all the food they kept bringing me as well, both because of my headache and filling up on water, popcorn and Pop-Tarts. I knew I needed to eat more to keep my energy up, but I just couldn't. I stuffed as much as I could, but began to despair. I worried about taking painkillers because I thought it might only mask the symptoms. The way the world is, what with media and guidebooks making it seem like your life is always in danger, it's a wonder anyone ever goes on any adventures at all, and that we're not all hypochondriacs. I could hardly sleep either, and I was worried greatly about today's trek.

I woke up though with no headache, feeling fine, if a bit tired. As I sat up, I took in the surroundings of my tent. I absentmindedly read the warning tag, cautioning against open flame in the tent. I thought about the two candles Saidi had brought me the night before.

"Combustion can produce dangerous levels of carbon monoxide, which could lead to serious injury or death." Last night I thought the candle a quaint accommodation. Having closed myself in with it to keep warm, I now wonder if it caused my headache. Perhaps no candle tonight.

---


Bryson reminded me on the trail that today was 9/11, but he didn't need to. In about 5 hours it will be exactly 10 years since those bastards killed all those people. I can't help but hope that there's an afterlife so that they're rotting in hell.

I was a freshman at Texas A&M, new to the Corps of Cadets. I was sleeping in my friend Magidah's dorm room in Mosher Hall to avoid harassment by the upperclassmen. Her suite-mate Hannah came in and woke me.

"Someone crashed planes into the World Trade Center in New York."

In my half awake state, I remember thinking, "If that's true, it'll be on later." However, I did not go back to sleep as the realization of the event dawned on me. I went next door to her suite and began watching TV with her. We still had no idea who was behind it, or what was going on, but I said out loud, "We'll go to war over this."
"What?"she asked.
"We're going to go to war over this."
"You think so?"
"Definitely."
And I wanted to go to war then. Looking back, I wanted war like most everyone else. did. And even in hindsight, even with all that's gone wrong, I think I was right to want it, and that war was called for. I just wish our leaders had done a better job of it. But that's another issue.

I met some people in Dar es Salaam who did not believe bin Laden and Al Qaeda were behind the attacks.
"They have proof!"
"It wasn't even a passenger plane, it was a cargo plane!"
"Did you know there weren't any Jews in the buildings that day?"

This from people who live in a city that was bombed by Al Qaeda, led by bin Laden. I stopped talking to them. I'm never one to accept everything at face value, especially from an administration I neither liked nor trusted. But ten years ago today, Al Qaeda under Osama bin Laden attacked the US. Innocent Jews, Christians, atheists, and Muslims were killed. Americans, Europeans, Asians, Africans and more were killed. They deserved better. We all did. But now the best we can do is remember them, honor their memory, and cherish and protect the things they loved, and that make our country and world great. Bless them.
---
I wrote a note to myself in the margins to mention a conversation I had with one of my porter's, Enoch, about the anniversary. Unfortunately, I did not write it at the time, and now the memory of the conversation has faded. I remember a bit of it though. We talked about bin Laden, and Enoch confirmed that he believed him to be an evil man. But we also spoke of President Obama. Policy aside, it's difficult for us sometimes to realize the psychological impact that the election of a black-skinned man to the most powerful position in the world has had on people in Africa. Enoch, like many Tanzanians, knew that Obama's father was from Kenya, Tanzania's neighbor. This young man sympathized with the people of the US over the 9/11 attacks, and had no love for Osama. But he also had lost much of the idealism with which he viewed the US after ten years of war, detainees, water-boarding, Guantanamo, and all the other accoutrements of the war on terror.  When Obama was elected, it made him feel like the US was a place of dreams again. He knew nothing about health care reform, stimulus money, government bail outs, or any number of other controversial issues of the Obama administration. He just looked up to America again. And that felt good to hear that day.

K-Day, First Day of Trek: Kids, Car Wrecks, Porters and Poptarts

9/10/2011

Today was my first day on the mountain. This morning Thabit picked me at 8:00am.  We started the actual trek at noon from Machame Gate. Before breakfast Thabit told me that the Canadian and Norwegian whom I was to trek with postponed for 3 days in order to acclimatize. I’d be trekking alone. Alone is not really the right word, since I have Enoch the cook, Saidi the porter and Bryson my new guide (*I later learned there was an additional porter name Melak). I also learned about Bryson’s existence in this conversation, and that Thabit would not be my actual guide. “Be free, Doug,” Thabit told me, sensing my hesitation. “Don’t worry. There are many people on the mountain.” OK…

After I bid Elyse and Facebook farewell via Kindle, we set off in the car for Machame Gate. We had to make several stops for supplies.  I only found baby wipes just before the gate (apparently they’re vital for any trek). Fortunately we didn’t leave Machame before I informed Thabit that I still didn’t have a water bottle (apparently they’re vital for any trek). We went back to our rental place to get me one, and I saw YellowShirt (see previous post) there, still rubbing his head.

The closer we got to Machame Gate, the more verdant the area began to look. The base of Kilimanjaro is essentially a rainforest. The road was like most asphalt roads in third world countries: narrow, bumpy and driven on with no regard for safe speed. This was especially true when it came to our driver.

As I sat in the passenger seat trepidation grew. I began to think of a TV show that was playing last night in the hotel restaurant. It was the first program I had heard in English while in Tanzania. I half-listened as a panel of talking heads spoke about random issues facing the country. One old man insisted on talking about the dangers of driving in Tanzania. “Too many of the productive generation are being killed on our roads,” he said.

Zipping past pedestrians on this rural road, with honking as our only precaution, I wondered if we would add to the old man’s statistics. There were dozens of people of all ages walking alongside and on the narrow road. At the speed we were going, it seemed to me that they took way too long to move out of our way . Nevertheless, everyone involved, whether pedestrians, our driver, or the other passengers, seemed unconcerned, so I tried to relax.

After awhile, I began snapping photos of people, landscape, houses, and whatever else caught my eye. In the distance, I spotted a pretty young woman and a small boy of about 2 years old walking along the road. All children and babies are beautiful, and without fail they bring a smile to my face. This young boy was smiling himself, and looked like he had only learned to walk fairly recently by the way he stumbled along. As we drew closer, I couldn’t help but grin at this little Tanzanian boy with the wide eyes. When we were about 10 feet from him, still smiling, he lunged in front of the car.

“JESUS!” I shouted at the same time that the others in the car yelled in Swahili with equal vigor. A fraction of a second later, the driver swerved and slammed on the brakes. We skidded past the boy, missing him by about a foot. As one, all five of us in the car turned and stared incredulously at the woman and boy now 20 feet or so behind us.

The driver reversed and pulled up alongside them. I rolled down the window. A stream of angry Swahili flew from the driver’s mouth at the woman. I didn’t need to speak the language to understand. She shyly picked up the boy and began carrying him on her hip as the driver kept yelling.

I was amazed we hadn’t killed the boy. His bright smile wouldn’t have even been recognizable. His head was about level with the headlight. Such an accident would undoubtedly haunt me for the rest of my life. Never mind continuing the Kilimanjaro trek, or even beginning it for that matter. “My apologies, donors,” I imagined myself writing. “I was unable to begin the trek because my expedition killed a toddler before we could get started. Still, your donations will directly benefit children in the US who are still living.”

We continued onward, and my premonitions of an accident returned. WE reached the gate, and pulled up a crowded cobblestone drive through dozens of trekkers loitering around. The steep driveway led to a small parking lot, and the driver pulled in behind a safari-style SUV that was ascending the short driveway as well.

All of a sudden the SUV began rolling backwards towards us. We were surrounded by people and couldn’t back up.  Our driver laid on the horn, but it was too late. The giant SUV crashed its back left corner into the front right of our car with a resounding crunch.

Our driver was livid. He leapt from the car and began arguing his case to the observing public by yelling at the other driver. Thabit surprised me, opening my door. He ushered me to a covered area to get me out of the light drizzle. Fortunately, the unavoidable accident occurred at the very end of our drive, and didn’t involve any injuries to small children.

As Thabit made arrangements, I sat among other trekkers. I met Dahlia and Daniel, an Israeli brother and sister who recognized me from the Buffalo Hotel in Moshi. They were surprised I was American because they didn’t think I spoke with an American accent. They were right. Whenever I’m around people that speak English differently, I accidentally adopt their speech patterns. When those people are non-native speakers, I slow my speech and alter my speaking to make it easier for them to understand. Still, it was a little embarrassing to be called out on it. They were friendly though, and I thought maybe we’d trek together.

Thabit came and took me to pay the fees and register. I was the only American that I could find in the registry today. Under “Occupation”, almost everyone had listed “student.” One Belgian girl from NYC had written “lawyer”. I wrote “Marine.”

I lost track of Dahlia and Daniel when Thabit took me to change into my trekking clothes. We took some pics and I officially met the crew, even though we had already almost killed a child together. Thabit told me to start out with Enoch, and Bryson would catch up. I bid Thabit farewell until the end of the trek, and started off with Enoch. Enoch was young and well built, but carrying much more than I was. Usually my tendency is the opposite of “pole pole” (“slowly slowly”) while trekking. But I tried to be considerate to Enoch by slowing my pace. Enoch and I were together for the entire 4-hour trek. Bryson did not catch up until we reached our campsite.

As we walked, I contemplated the lot of the porters. Here I was with all my gear and clothing, and even though it was used and old for the most part, it was still better than what most of them wore. In mostly street clothes, the porters carry all of our gear up the mountain, without hiking poles and without complaint. They stop for rest breaks, smoke cigarettes or weed, and then keep going. I met two American guys, Aseem from San Francisco and Steve from Pittsburgh at lunch. We discussed the porters.

“If they get by with so little, why is everyone so worried about us?” I asked.

“Kinda makes you feel like a pussy,” remarked Aseem. Steve and I concurred.

We reached Machame Hut-Camp just after 4:00pm. Enoch and I sat and waited for the others. I ate the two tiny bananas leftover from lunch and split my muffin with Enoch.  Bryson arrived before long, and I again signed in as “Douglas Martin, Marine”. I was hungry, so I asked when we’d have dinner. “It is up to the cook,” said Bryson as we walked back to our tents from the hut.

Saidi pointed at one of the tents, smiling broadly and said, “Ready.”

“Me and you?” I asked.

“No, just you,” replied Bryson.

I laughed with Saidi as I mimed rolling around in my sleep because of so much space. I climbed inside and sought out a pack of Pop-Tarts that I had stashed. I resolved to eat only one of the two in the pack. After devouring both of them, I re-resolved to have more discipline with the other packs.

About 5 minutes later, Saidi came by with a green cloth and announced, “Tea and popcorn!” with his big smile. I shouldn’t have jumped the gun with the Pop-Tarts. Saidi set up the cloth on the empty side of the tent. Apparently he is also my waiter. Over the course of the evening, he has brought me tea, milk powder, Milo (a fortifying chocolate powder “for strength!” he says), popcorn, condiments, tea, cookies, a hot water dish with soap for cleansing, and is now setting up for dinner in stages. He even brought me a candle to have dinner by.

As I look at all of this, I feel more and more like some British imperialist on expedition. It’s not luxurious, but being waited on while camping is not something I’ve experienced before. I’ll be sure to tip better than the old “mzungu” explorers though.

Kilimanjaro Journal Day 0: Prep Day

9/9

Today after a cramped minibus ride from Arusha we arrived in Moshi. Thabit set my up in the Buffalo Hotel, and we set out to get my clothing and gear for Kilimanjaro. Even though we’re near the equator, in sub-Saharan Africa, it’s quite cold on the mountain and I’ll need lots of warm clothing. The clothing is just about what I would wear skiing. Considering that I began my traveling in Morocco at the end of July, I’m not quite prepared for such weather.

Thabit took me first to a little place where a large woman greeted us warmly. In a small room she had quite an impressive array of gear stocked, which although used, would certainly suffice. Thabit left me with her to find stuff that fit, and she turned out to be quite friendly. As she handed me different items to try on, I asked her if she had climbed Kilimanjaro. “Yes, but I climb Marangu route. It’s Coca-Cola route. Machame route is whiskey route.” I wasn’t sure whether to be proud that I was doing the whiskey route or intimidated since I hadn’t actually begun it yet. In any case, after about 30-45 minutes chatting and fitting, we had quite a pile of clothing and gear assembled. I was happy with the whole lot except for the boots. The only ones she had that fit well were quite heavy since they had steel toes. I didn’t look forward to carrying them up the tallest mountain in Africa. But they were the only ones that worked.

Soon Thabit returned, and began the process of negotiation. Since I bargained with him that the cost of my gear and clothing rental would be included in our price, he was haggling for his own money. I sat back and pretended to look around innocently, which was probably unnecessary since I don’t speak Swahili anyway. After some lengthy and testy exchange, Thabit said, “Doug, may I speak with you?” He took me aside.

“This lady is nice, but she wants too much money.” Thabit has been good with me, so I said, “Okay, let’s go somewhere else.” Without hesitation we walked out and around the corner, avoiding the woman’s glance as we left.

“Because it’s high season, she raised the prices. She wanted more than it would cost to buy. We would have no money left for food.” I laughed and told him I would prefer to have food on the trek.

“Have you done business with her before?” I asked, wondering if there was a previous relationship.

“Yes, she’s my sister.”

“Wait, what? She’s your sister? Like…your sister?”

“Yes.”

“And she wouldn’t help you out?”
            “I think she thinks I have more money than I do. I was going to help her out, but she wants too much.”

“Won’t she be angry?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

And so we went somewhere else that was more reasonable. That place turned out to be a shed behind a snack bar where more such supplies were stored. There was a large backyard with no grass, a covered paved area with a pool table and about a dozen men hanging out. We walked through the open eating area that also had a little barbecue to grill meat in order to reach the backyard. Here I was fitted for gear that was not quite as nice as Thabit’s sister’s, but satisfactory.

Afterwards, the rest of the crew began testing out the tents in the backyard to make sure they were ok. As I stood there watching them, I notice about 10 feet away two small Tanzanian men in an argument. Neither of them was more than 5 ½ feet tall, and both looked like they weighed about 110 lbs. But the one in the brown shirt was clearly angry at the yellow shirted one, while yellow shirt seemed to want to be done with him. Brownshirt was having none of this, and eventually it escalated into pushing. None of the other men seemed very concerned, and my crew didn’t even take notice, even though this exchange was occurring not 10 feet away.

Soon they both put up their fists. However, their tiny size and obvious inexperience at fighting made this quite comical. Neither of the them seemed to even want to punch, but in his anger, Brownshirt finally telegraphed a right cross that failed to connect. Since punching obviously wasn’t going to work, they began wrestling. Soon however, Yellow had Brown penned. While he spoke to him in Swahili, it was clear that Yellow was telling Brown to lay off and leave him alone. Even though Brown couldn’t move, he seemed quite defiant.

Yellow got up and walked over to the pool table, but Brown soon followed yelling at him. The other men looked on with a mixture of amusement, but little concern. Some offered their opinions, but Brown didn’t care, and pushed past them to attack Yellow again. They began wrestling again near the pool table, and again, Yellow penned Brown.

After more yelling, Yellow walked away and made a circle of the backyard, while Brown was defiant as ever. Making his way towards the exit, but not wanting to look like he was running, especially since he kept overcoming Brown. Brown was persistent however, and I watched as he followed Yellow around the backyard and towards the exit. It’s unclear how many other watched this, because no one acted to interfere when Brown picked up a hollow metal pole used to support a large camping tarp. This was not the type of fold up pole that you used on a tent, but quite a large thick one for a bigger open air shelter. Yellow didn’t even see Brown coming, but I did. From about 13 feet away, I watched as Brown took quick strides and came right up behind Yellow. He raised the pole high in the air and brought it down hard and fast on the back of Yellow’s head.

Everyone gasped as the loud smack grabbed their attention. Brown hit him hard enough to bend the pole, and Yellow seemed dazed. Brown then grabbed Yellow, threatening to strike him again. Thabit grabbed the pole in Brown’s hand and wrenched it away, but Brown barely noticed. He began wrestling again with Yellow, but he clearly had the upperhand now. Soon he penned him, and began yelling at him. The other men took more interest now, but still mostly just arguing among themselves and yelling at Brown. Thabit moved a large rock out of Brown’s reach before he could get any ideas.

A crowd began to gather in the backyard, arguing seemingly about the best course of action, and which fighter was right. Most people seemed to think Brown had fought unfairly, but one large man seemed to be on his side, arguing on his behalf.

Brown kept Yellow down, continuing to yell at him about something, and was clearly unsatisfied with the responses he got from Yellow. He didn’t even seem to notice the other men. Soon an older, better dressed man joined the group, and it became clear he spoke with authority. After some more arguing, and after Brown had held Yellow down for about 10 minutes, several men grabbed hold of Brown. It wasn’t easy to pull him off. Brown was surprisingly strong for such a small man. But two men managed to pry him away from Yellow, and Yellow struggled to his feet. Yellow knew what was good for him, and beat a hasty retreat, while Brown seemed to come to his senses, and noticing the other men around began arguing with them, but less forcefully. He obviously was unsatisfied.

Thabit soon explained. “That man (Brown) says he (Yellow) stole his bag on the mountain.”

“Did he?” I asked.

“I think so.”

“Will he get it back?”

“I don’t think so. I think he already sold it to someone else. This is why he (Brown) is so mad.”

I didn’t know what to think or do. I just watched this fight unfold from so close that I had to move several times in order to avoid getting physically involved. I watched one man bludgeon another over the head hard enough to bend a metal pole. There were allegations of theft that seemed to be fairly well established. And for the most part most people seemed unconcerned, and even unsurprised that it was occurring.

As I pondered this, Thabit left to go make more arrangements. I didn’t know what to say. I looked at Saidi, one of the porters who speaks little English, and said, “Food.” and made an eating motion with my hand. He smiled, nodded agreement, and indicated for me to follow him.

Everyone’s gotta eat.

“What’s the Matter, Old Cock?”*

I arrived in Dar es Salaam on 9/4, early. I had a room reserved for two nights at Safari Inn in the center of town, a “budget” hotel. The idea was to land, spend two nights and one full day getting my bearings, and then set out for adventure. Everything was going fairly well until the night of the 5^th. I had a bus ticket for 6am in the morning for Arusha. I heard that it would take anywhere from 9-12 hours to get to Arusha from Dar. Sounded wonderful. But it was quite a bit cheaper than a flight.

I had eaten every meal for a day and a half around the corner at Jambo Inn. Should have just stayed there, since I also went there for internet and directions. Nevertheless, I was tired of eating the same tired old Indian food that they served there, so I asked the woman at the front desk of Safari where else I might eat. She recommended walking down a nearby street and trying another establishment, the name of which I forget. That night I set out and soon found it.

After sitting, I asked what was good. “We have chicken biryani,” the waiter replied. “I’ll have that then,” I said. I would regret that decision.

By midnight that night my stomach was churning. I stayed up late speaking to Elyse via Kindle and Facebook, allowing me to chart the progress of the sickness. By the time I decided that it was more than a little bout of stomach problems, and broke into my stash of Ciprofloxacin, it was too late. The antibiotic quickly came back up. I packed my bag and made my way downstairs. I called for a taxi, and when it arrived, I told the driver to take me to a hospital. “Which one?” he asked. “The best one,” I said hurriedly.

By the time I arrived at the hospital, I was doubling over in pain. I was admitted to the ER and instructed to pay the admittance fee before seeing the doctor. The doctor soon realized I needed to be admitted to the night ward. Before I could be, though, I had to pay the fee upfront. Once I was laying down, the nurse brought me the list of prescriptions, and explained what each was for: hydration, antibiotic, painkiller, etc. Before she could administer them, however, they had to be bought. By me. Now. Clutching my stomach in pain with one hand, I fished in my bag for the third time that night to find money. I grabbed a handful of Tanzanian bills and tossed them in her direction. I didn’t even care anymore. “Take whatever you need,” I moaned. I just wanted the pain and regurgitation to stop.

Eventually both did, but it took another several hours, 4 bottles of IV solution, two doses of paracetamol, and both an injection and oral dose of Ciprofloxacin. Needless to say I missed my bus. I slept a little in the hospital ward, but it was difficult since it was just one big room with sheets hanging to separate about a dozen beds. A child screamed bloody murder occasionally when her IV had to be inserted or adjusted.

By midday I was feeling better enough to make small talk with the nurses. “Why do they call you all sister?” I asked, thinking maybe the hospital was run by nuns. “Sister? Hmmm. Because the first nurse was Florence Nightingale, and she was a sister, so they call us all sisters,” my primary nurse told me. Sounded reasonable enough. Since it was only my third day in Tanzania, I didn’t yet realize that every woman was referred to as sister. I’m still not sure why she gave me that answer though.

Obviously I was looking a little better, because they began to question after the second IV solution bottle when I could leave. The doctor didn’t think I was ready though. Still, the nurse insisted I eat something, which sounded ludicrous to me. They brought me toast and chai tea, of course after I paid for it, but I only nibbled at the bread and barely sipped the tea.

Just before noon, it was determined that I was well enough to leave. I thanked the “sisters”, gathered my things, and slowly walked out of the ward. I hailed a taxi to take me back to the neighborhood of my hotel. I needed to try and get a new bus ticket without repaying, and make sure I could stay an extra night in the hotel. My hand was bandaged from the IV, and if I looked how I felt, I must have looked horrible. On the plus side, as I ran my errands, my appearance had a bonus effect. The touts, hustlers, and street peddlers gave me a wide berth. In the future, I think I’ll wear bandages whenever I walk through such cities. No one wants to mess with a sick person.

The next morning I got on what turned out to be a 12 hour bus for Arusha. That night I ate my first meal in 48 hours, the last one being the dreaded chicken biryani. Less than three days later I would be climbing Kilimanjaro.

*see Hemingway, Snows of Kilimanjaro