Prologue
It had been pouring mostly throughout since I started the trek three days ago. Emmanuel and I had been trudging up a gentle slope towards Lava Tower all morning; I was fine, he wasn't.
"Maybe you give me two more medicine?" He implored while slumped across a boulder, emaciated and seemingly lifeless.
I eyed my once-full (as of day one) bottle of Aleve and extracted two.
The bottle is nearly empty. I thought and realized it had been halfway consumed exclusively by him.
We were taking rest stops every fifteen minutes and for each time we did, the breaks were longer than necessary - this was due to it being 37 Fahrenheit. The fog was thick, and the wind made sure I was aware that my clothes were wet.
Polepole, hakuna matata. I muttered.
Emmanuel thought the phrase was for him, and like a Phoenix rising from the ash he got up and continued on our acclimatization hike up to Lava Tower; a volcanic spire anchoring a steep scree above 15,000 feet.
Nairobi
The fully-booked KLM flight from Amsterdam landed on time at Jomo Kenyatta International. This was Sunday at 23:05h. The non-Kenyan Visa/Immigration queue had two officers tending to over half of the passengers. Mind you, a Boeing 777 usually has seats for over 350 human beings.
"Oh my god how long is this gonna take?" A hoosier on her way to Mombasa complained aloud.
I shrugged. There was no point in bellyaching.
At 01:00h I got my turn.
"How long, and what are you here for?"
"Two weeks, Safari." I handed the officer a $50 bill for the Visa, he stamped my passport, and then I exited the terminal. By 02:00h, I arrived at my hotel in Nairobi's Westlands.
"Can I get a wake up call at 05:00h?" I asked the concierge.
The man looked at his watch.
"That's 3 hours away." Head tilted, bemused, awaiting my declaration of a joke.
"I have a shuttle to Moshi I can't miss for a trek up Mount Kilimanjaro on Tuesday, tomorrow."
Moshi Town
Monday, 06:00h, I climbed aboard a Matatu Bus that would transit me to Moshi; 12-18 hours away, all contingent upon how many police checkpoints there were.
"There's a lot of corruption here, and the police only stop people for money." Explained the driver during a twenty minute routine stop, shortly after the Kenya-Tanzania border. The checkpoint was marshaled by three rifle-toting cops who walked around with smug faces and a reticent air of superiority. The shuttle driver handed them, or maybe bribed was a better word, 30,000 TSH, which was more or less $15 USD.
At the checkpoint, I was uneasy and felt that I could be shot execution style in the hands of these cops.
I didn't die. The checkpoint, in fact, was a small opportunity to take note of the landscape; a vast rolling desert, its horizon punctured by slivers of Acacia trees. Far off in the distance, mountain peaks were grayed and azure nearly dissolving into the color of the sky. It was really pretty there.
I had never been to Africa before. I've read books and seen pictures of the continent. But the land that I saw while stopped by the police was so much more unique than what I had initially envisioned. Cattle herds roamed aplenty, and their Maasai shepherds in colorful garbs followed them as they went. The air smelled peppery and sweet. I heard echoes of distant whistles, dog barks, and felt that Africa, figuratively, was more real now than ever before.
I arrived at my hotel in Moshi around 18:00h, 12 hours since my departure from Nairobi. It was, as declared by the shuttle driver, a slow day for corruption.
The front desk at Keys Hotel was to the left of a large atrium. Behind that was a kitchen, and next to it on the right was a bar. A 40-some year old Caucasian man and his 20-some son were engaged in a kerfuffle with the concierge. I waited my turn, pretended nonchalantly that the commotion ahead of the line was normal (and maybe it was), and scanned the place.
A culturally ambiguous tourist was seated at a far end table, eyes transfixed on his phone. I could hear sports blaring from a TV in the bar. I noticed the deep green, almost blue, coloration of the trees outside; papaya, bananas, jasmine, and palms. The weather was hot but a pleasant breeze blew into the atrium.
I checked my watch. A fair amount of time had gone and the kerfuffle was still ablaze. I figured this would continue indefinitely and so I decided to sit down for a beer. This was the point at which Emmanuel, my Kilimanjaro guide, arrived - totally unexpected.
Before flying down, all of my correspondences with Emmanuel were via casual emails; no phone-calls nor video-chats. I admit that in the past three months of my planning the trip, I suspected the tour group was a scam and that there would be no crew to take me up Mount Kilimanjaro tomorrow. I was relieved that such was not the case as evidenced by his presence here.
"You must be Harp." Right hand extended for a shake.
"Yes, uhmm, well, Herb, actually." I said, somewhat surprised.
"Harp?" He continued.
Herb
"Harp, ok."
He eyed the beer to my right.
"No more after that." Index finger pointed.
"Bad for altitude." He added.
I took a swig, and then chugged the rest.
I took a swig, and then chugged the rest.
Belch. "Ok."
He briefed me on the hike and then gave me a gear checklist.
The meeting was short. He was aware of my long journey from Seattle and so I was ordered to take plenty of rest. We would depart for Machame gate at 09:00h, sharp, tomorrow.
When I obtained my room around 19:30h, Emmanuel left. While readying for the night, I decided, defiantly, that a few more beers and a cigarette would fare me well.
Day 1: Machame Gate
The trailhead was a paved parking lot that sloped semi-steeply into Machame Village. Several tourists, err trekkers, were grouped below the entrance taking selfies. There was a picnic shelter, a decent bathroom, and a few empty buildings. Additionally, blue monkeys were running amok scavenging for human food scraps.
I looked around and felt a soft cool wind graze my forehead. That same wind rustled the sycamore leaves overhead and I realized that the clouds aloft portended a storm by scurrying westwards.
"Harp, we go soon." Emmanuel admonished shortly after lunch.
Emmanuel, a 36 year old Chagga, spoke - no, hummed - a broken, yet melodious, English. He had a habit of assuring me that the porters were not capable of speaking the language and discouraged any attempts at interacting with them. I'm not entirely sure what inspired this, given I would exchange a few niceties with them and discovered that they were able to understand and respond. Anyway, Emmanuel struck me as wise and highly authoritative whose knowledge of Kilimanjaro's flora was remarkably acute, sometimes too much.
"Let's get a picture and then go." Said he pointing at Machame Gate.
The trail followed an old logging road for the first mile or two and then narrowed down forcing hikers to move onwards in a single file. The vegetation was, as expected, lush and tropical. The trail was muddy and rocky but the tread was a fairly easy affair.
Tropical Rainforest: Machame Route
"Ni hao ma." A porter from a different group said facing my direction. I looked around.
"What?"
"You from China?" The porter said.
"Oh, no, I'm from the United States." I answered defensively.
"You born in China?"
"I'm not Chinese."
"You look Chinese." He pressed, finger pointing at his eyes, ostensibly expecting a different response.
What the hell is wrong with this guy?
I glanced down at my Suunto and it read, "8,098 ft." This first day would raise us up past 10,000 feet in six, or so, miles. While I mulled that over with my watch, trying to ignore the offensive comments in between, raindrops fell onto the glass. Within seconds, we were caught in a downpour.
Machame Camp
The rain did no stop; it merely fluctuated much in the same manner as a shower head. After three hours on the trail, Emmanuel and I arrived at the campgrounds. The four porters, whose names I never had the chance to memorize, arrived much earlier than we did. Because this was so, the camp was all ready and warm water was laid beneath the tent's rainfly. It was comforting to have that for a navy shower after being soaked for three hours straight.
From Machame Camp
Day 2: Shira Cave Camp
I awoke a couple of hours before sunrise, roughly 05:00h. The eleven hour difference between home and there had caused extreme jet lag; the eyebags that developed were freakish in size, and I felt life-less yet capable of moving around. I left the tent, toured the campgrounds and relished the twilight slowly swallow the smattering of stars twinkling overhead. Several areas of the sky were darkened by heavy clouds and it was evident that rain would continue on to this day.
Early Morning Stars and Rain Clouds
Most of the crew from all other groups, mine including, got up early to prepare for the day. When I returned to my tent, another bowl of warm water had been laid. As I was getting in, Emmanuel announced that food would be served around sunrise, and that we were to resume the journey by 07:30h or 08:00h.
My breakfast consisted of French toast, crêpes, berries, mangoes, coffee, and fruit juices; this was to stay consistent for the whole duration of the hike. Additionally, lunch was popcorn, crackers, roasted peanuts, biryani, samosas, lentil patties, yam, and banana fritters. Dinner was usually cucumber soup, pasta with tomato and coconut sauce, steamed cauliflower, chickpea nuggets, and banana fritters.
I unzipped my tent after breakfast, re-emerged unto the world, looked around, and wondered how a luxurious meal like that was possible up there.
"Konnichiwa." A guide from a different group greeted me as I wandered.
"I'm not Japanese."
"Where you from?" The man continued.
"United States." I abruptly replied.
"Oh, Trumpo?"
"Ugh, fine, I'm from Japan (I've never been to Japan)." I learned that I could exit these conversations quicker by falsely confirming their opinions rather than attempting to explain how it was possible for an American to be anything other than white.
The hike up to Shira Cave was alleged, by Emmanuel, to be five kilometers in length. I would later on discover that this was not true, and that the leg would, in fact, be nine kilometers. The trail was steep, ongoing, yet very scenic. The clouds burned away for the most part which allowed sweeping views to the west where Shira Peak protruded up over the dramatic Cathedrals. My temples felt tight and I was unsure whether it was the altitude, jet lag, the wind, or all of them at once that were causing it. I made no mention of the symptoms because I figured the pains would go away eventually, which they did.
Shira Peak over the Cathedrals.
Emmanuel, on the other hand, I noticed began complaining with increasing frequency of similar discomforts.
"I start to feel sick from the rain." He would say at random during our perambulations, and then retire to sit on a rock, sometimes in the middle of the trail. He would then use the breaks to orate about a plant that happened to be nearby, attempting to make the gesture seem deliberate - it was his job to acquaint me with Kilimanjaro after all.
"Impatiens kilimanjari, only grow on Kilimanjaro." He would say, gesturing on a small red blossom reminiscent of Calypso orchids.
"Oh, cool." I would respond disingenuously only because the fact was already stated before. It was here when I began wishing for solitude from him. Emmanuel's constant intermezzos and repetitious declarations of Kilimanjaro-related facts were beginning to take on a more burdensome nature.
When I first flirted with climbing this mountain, I was dismayed to learn that hiring porters and a guide would be a requirement. I was accustomed to traveling alone and resolving difficulties on my own. The idea that someone else would carry the weight of my load and cater to my sustenance was strange in a way that felt slavish and morally offensive. I believed that the system did not accurately represent life: The journey was yours only, and you had to do it alone.
My pack registered at less than 20 lbs. at Machame Gate yesterday morning, and I was pretty sure I didn't need a porter to carry it for me.
"Do you have a first-aid kit and were you trained to use it?" I asked.
"Yes, but porter has it." Emmanuel answered.
His response sounded dishonest to me. I unzipped my day pack and took the medicines I had out.
"What are your symptoms; pain/fever/headache?"
"Pain and headache." Said he.
I took a Diamox and two Aleves.
"Here, these should help you." I advised, and supplemented the offerings with an energy bar.
Kilimanjaro National Park commandment number one: Thou shalt be with thy guide at all times. If Emmanuel vacated, then so would I. I dreaded the idea of quitting, but the possibility was there, and I figured sharing what I had to help his current state might cure a summit-less trip.
Emmanuel ingested the pills and scarfed the energy bar. He got up, and then toughed it out the rest of the way until we arrived at Shira Cave Camp early that afternoon. The campgrounds were blanketed by fog decreasing visibility which made finding our campsites where the porters had set them difficult. I saw beagle-sized ravens in droves croaking off and on, pecking the confines for edibles. It was a tad bit eerie.
Shira Cave Camp
Aren't ravens harbingers of misfortune? I mused.
I was exhausted, a little dispirited, and withdrew myself inside my tent for the remainder of the day.
"Harp, can I have more medicine?" Emmanuel pleaded unannounced, tapping the tent's rainfly just before dinner.
My suspicion that we embarked on this hike without a first-aid kit was henceforth confirmed.
Day 3: Lava Tower - Baranco Camp
It rained all throughout last night. The continuous pelting interrupted my sleep and instilled in me realistic thoughts of a premature exit. Based on how Emmanuel looked yesterday, I felt very little confidence for the day.
It's cold at 12,700 feet, it will only get colder the higher we get, and the rain will only continue falling. I mused apprehensively.
When I got out of the tent around 06:30h, the rain halted. The clouds broke apart and revealed a grayish Isosceles figure hovering over the land southwest of Mount Kilimanjaro.
"That's Mount Meru." A hiker from Saskatoon said at an adjacent group.
Indeed it was. The multiple thin layers of clouds and the rising sun gave its summit peak a corona of rainbow. Everything was still, and everyone facing its direction was mesmerized by the display. I remembered my doubts just hours before.
"I've been caught in worse conditions before, this is easy-peasy."
"I've been caught in worse conditions before, this is easy-peasy."
Mount Meru and Rainbow
Emmanuel told me last night that on the third day, the campsite near Baranco wall was not that much higher than Shira Cave. Because of this, hikers were to meander up Lava Tower at over 15,000 feet, which was an optimum acclimatization height to do prior to summit day. Before Africa, I had never stood past 10,000 feet, so this task ahead was daunting.
The rain had started again, but this time I no longer resented the fact.
"Hi there." The culturally ambiguous tourist I saw at Keys Hotel said as we worked our way up. This was near 14,410 feet - the same altitude as Mount Rainier's summit.
"Hey." I replied tacitly, opting to forego any lengthy interactions because Emmanuel would likely beg for a break soon.
"We're so close, are you sure you need to stop now?" I asked Emmanuel as he readied to lay supine over a boulder, less than one kilometer from Lava Tower.
Dear reader, I was struck with the thought, and maybe you did too, that I was being unfair to Emmanuel's needs. In my defense, I expected a strong and healthy guide to actually assist me on this mountain. As the days progressed when I felt I was doing the guiding for him and when he repetitively asked me for medicines, my confidence in his leadership evaporated.
Ghostly Lava Tower in the Middle, Hikers to its Left
"Maybe you give me more medicine?" He solicited.
I did, and I waited for him to tough it out again.
"Nice mustache." A trekker remarked while passing through. I figured it was for my handlebars and so I replied with a thank you.
Emmanuel got up, meds appearing to have taken effect, and started sauntering through the fog on our way up to Lava Tower. There, we ate lunch. The rain poured heavily and we decided to cut our visit short. We re-entered the trail after twenty minutes. On the way down to Baranco Camp, Emmanuel power-hiked, practically ran, the steep path and opened a wide distance between us.
"I'm not so good on the downhills, maybe you can slow down?" I asked him.
He disregarded my request by not slowing down, and I was soon left struggling to keep up with the pace. My brows furrowed and I thought of the many instances when I waited for him on the uphills.
To hell with that guy. I thought and slowed down enough to be comfortable.
"Polepole, hakuna matata." A different guide I hadn't yet seen since the trip started echoed from within earshot behind me.
This Swahili phrase translated to: Slowly slowly, don't worry. This was the most encouraging thing I've been told insofar on this mountain. I turned around and smiled at him.
"Thank you." I remarked quietly - and sincerely, especially because the phrase felt like a good overture for summit day, which would be tomorrow. Additionally, today had honestly just been total crap so I took the small positive as silver lining.
Day 4-5: Barafu Camp (Base Camp), Uhuru Peak
The hike from Baranco to Barafu Camp was no different from all the days prior. We were inundated by rain, smitten by the cold, and whipped by the winds. The human body had always been remarkable at adapting to its environment and ambling through on the Machame Route proved that even more for me.
"There's no going back." I convinced myself. This was day four, summit day. When camped over a promontory up Kilimanjaro near 16,000 feet, quitting and summiting both felt like similar activities. I forked over $1,982.00 - I have receipts - for the itinerary and it would be wasteful to turn back here.
"You wake up at 23:30h and then we start at midnight. We hike for 7 hours to Uhuru Peak." Emmanuel ordered while laying the plans for the evening.
"Do you have extra batteries?" He added.
"No, what for?" I followed.
"For flashlight."
"Mine is new, I don't need extra." It was true, I bought a nice new headlamp from REI a week before. I tested it and knew it was perfect for tonight.
"No, for me." Emmanuel said.
"You mean you came all the way up here without a properly working flashlight?" I blurted, feeling irritated. I sensed that I was being asked to give up my light for him.
"It's okay, moon will come out, I can see."
I retreated to my sleeping bag by 19:00h attempting to gain some modicum of calm before midnight. My mind, however, was plagued with more worries again wondering whether Emmanuel would truly guide me to the summit in the darkness.
Hakuna matata. I echoed while tucked in my sleeping bag, eyes half shut.
At 23:30h, the moon was indeed out. This was the first out of the four nights thus far that the sky had been truly clear. The stars were sparkling aloft and Moshi town's grid plan perforated the darkness below. I readied and went out searching for Emmanuel at 23:50h.
"Emmanuel, should we start now? I can see a lot of people climbing already."
"No, we wait until midnight." Said he.
He gave no reason that detailed what it was that forbade him from modifying his plan with a ten minute margin. I chose not to follow up; I was saving all of my emotional energy for the trail.
Midnight struck, and off we went.
The sky this high up above sea level had a strange clarity to it. The moon's edges were sharper, and the stars blinked in a way that suggested they were spinning. The other hikers whispered when they talked which was surreal because when mixed with the slow march into the darkness, the ambiance felt vaguely solemn and dirge-like.
We joined the trail, dead last on the queue. All things considered, I felt great. I felt no symptoms of altitude sickness, the jet lag was tame, and I was hydrating properly every day. The distance and amount of climbing on this leg would have just been an average day hike for me back home. Emmanuel's pace was slow and tedious and I wondered whether he needed more pain medicines.
"Do you need more?" I offered.
He nodded.
I gave him my last few tablets of Aleve.
The path was easy to follow, and there were cairns that guided trekkers when an area became dicey. I walked ahead of Emmanuel.
Halfway up to Stella Point, we managed to pass most of the hikers who were ahead of us at the onset. I was truly enjoying the climb now. Basking in the serenity, and seeing the celestial figures aloft reinvigorated my spirit.
The roles reversed, I pointed up to the sky to tell Emmanuel stories about the constellations. I was not an expert in astronomy but here I found an opportunity to assert and say something.
"That's Orion's Belt." I said pointing northeastwards to three equidistant stars.
"Orion was a Greek hunter who got stung by a scorpion and..." Finger shifted to a different hemisphere attempting to locate the whereabouts of Scorpio, to no avail.
Emmanuel was silent. I wasn't sure whether he failed to hear, or was actively refusing any acknowledgements of my reports. I was fine with either; I often talked to myself when hiking alone anyway. This was probably no different.
"A billion stars go spinning through the night, blazing high above your head. But in you is a presence that will be, when all the stars are dead." I reflected aloud in the presence of the Milky Way.
"What?" Emmanuel asked.
"Oh, nothing."
The trail disappeared and I looked around.
"Are we on a saddle?"
"We are on Stella Point." Emmanuel proclaimed with a slight tone of pride.
I looked at my watch; it was 05:00h. It was dark and the trail signs were mere shadows ensconced in the nighttime. In fifteen-minutes, we'd have arrived at Uhuru Peak, well below Emmanuel's seven hour forecast. I gawked at the place, it was silent, and realized we were the first of the day to summit.
The eastern sky was aglow, flamingo colored. I looked around. Rebman's Glacier surrounded the southern tip of the area like palisades painted white. The icy path ended, and a venerable sign declaring Africa's Highest Point stood prominently like a beacon, facing the rising sun. The sun kept climbing over the horizon, and the flat sky became dome-like the bluer it became. The yellow letters inscribed on the planks further glowed and while vapor tendrils swirled out of my nostrils, I said, "this is it."
There was nothing else past this sign. The frustrations in, the malaise from, and the challenges of the climb had made being there far sweeter than anticipated.
View of Rebman's Glacier: A Few Meters from Uhuru Peak
Facing East: Uhuru Peak
Day 5: Mweka Gate
The itinerary was originally scheduled to be six days long. On the descent from Uhuru Peak, Emmanuel was convinced he had Malaria.
"I spoke to chief and asked if I could go home today. We need to go to Mweka Gate so I could go to hospital." He told me, not really asking for permission. Remember Kilimanjaro National Park rule number one? Oh, by the way, yes, there was cellular service on the mountain.
"I don't mind descending all the way to Mweka Gate as long as your chief finds me a hotel to stay in." I replied sternly.
"Also, I need laundry service." I demanded.
Epilogue
Two days after summit day, I was back at Keys Hotel in Moshi. A travel agent made an arrangement, at my behest, for a four day Safari. A stay at Keys Hotel was included.
There, I was able to formally meet the culturally ambiguous tourist. David was a Filipino-American accountant from Los Angeles who arranged this trip almost off the cuff, a month or two prior. An amiable thirty-something, Dave evoked an air of privilege having traveled to many faraway places.
"Come join us for beer." Said he, gesturing me to join their table.
"That's Jerome and Erome (Guillaume)." He added, pointing to two taciturn gentlemen from Brussels.
"You guys got back today?" I asked.
"Yeah, literally hiked off Mweka Camp this morning. How about you?"
"Well, two days ago I was supposed to be at Mweka Camp like you guys, but my guide said he got Malaria. So we had to make it all the way to Mweka Gate right after summit." I responded, a little unsure of how believable that sounded.
"Are you serious?" Said Dave.
"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure that my guide was totally full of crap about it."
"How were your guys' guides?" I continued, genuinely curious.
"Ours was fine. They were nice and even offered to carry our day packs down after summiting." Dave proclaimed, matter-of-factly.
"That's amazing. Mine mostly ignored me the whole way. Also, he had a habit of asking me for meds and snacks." I responded, mildly complaining, but generally at peace.
"Sounds like you got slumped with a bad guide. Did you hire the cheapest group?" Jerome joked.
"I guess so, I thought these guys were pretty middle-tier."
"Anyway, cheers to Kilimanjaro!" Bottlenecks clinked.
"I was the one who told you had a nice mustache, do you remember it?" Jerome added.
"I remember that, yeah!" At the time, Emmanuel was sprawled over a boulder, pleading for medicines.
I laughed. With a contented air, I realized that my conquest of Kilimanjaro, in spite of the unsound weather and my underachieving guide, had exceeded my expectations in a great way. How lame would it have been for things to have gone right all the time? In some ways, I got my This is Life lesson in moments when I was stricken with doubt, soaked in rainwater, and desperate for everything to go right.
I gingerly excused myself, and stepped out of the atrium for a cigarette.
