Hike | Kilimanjaro | Tanzania
Kilimanjaro - climbing to the roof of Africa
Text | Anninka Kraus
Photography | Tobias Kraus
Tanzania
Taking off from Zurich airport, we flew with KLM (Royal Dutch Airlines) to Amsterdam, and after being sucked up into the human maelstrom of passengers congesting the airport, we caught our connecting flight to Dar el Salaam in Tanzania with a stopover in Kilimanjaro.
A three-week holiday lay ahead of us, and out of habit as well as interest, we had crammed it full of exciting off-the-beaten-track travel destinations and activities.
On the agenda were climbing Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania (taking the Lemosho Route to avoid the busier areas), going on safari in the Kruger National Park in South Africa, and finishing off with more hiking and lazing about on Réunion, a French island off the eastern coast of Madagascar in the Indian Ocean.
We arrive in Tanzania to climb Kilimanjaro ... without our luggage
Our first long distance daytime flight, while uneventful, was also disappointing. Our expectations of KLM were certainly not met by the worn and filthy aircraft, but at least the crew was pleasant. We flew across the infinite expanse of the Sahara, the desert sand stretching all the way to the horizon, and I was fascinated that even from a bird’s eye view the ochre-coloured plain appeared anything but boring or monotonous. Plain is perhaps a misleading description anyway, for this was a sea of tiny little grains of sand bobbing up and down like waves, its crests and troughs painting three-dimensional landscapes in the arid desolation. Occasionally a blazing silver dot flashed in the distance as the scorching sun reflected off a small oasis.
That the desert is as freezing cold at night as it is seething hot by day is as astonishing as the ice crystals that formed outside my window while behind its glass I took off my sweater in the pitiless heat of the airplane cabin. I wondered, not for the first time, why to this day no one has managed to devise a neutralising air freshener capable of diminishing the smell of recycled food and stinking socks (in all honesty I should mention hiking boots here, including mine), nor invented a thermostat to adjust the temperature in aircrafts to anywhere but parboiled or frozen.
Above Egypt and Sudan we crossed the Nile several times; a wide river that seems oddly out of place in this thirsty environment. After the second miniature meal with pizza bread, and to my delight ice cream, dusk approached and a glowing orange-coloured stripe trailed the horizon. The sun set swiftly, plunging into the sea of sand, continuing its bright orange luminescence for a long time after, and like a rainbow set itself apart from the baby blue sky above. The contours of the desert faded slowly until small hillocks that stretched like braille on dark paper for kilometres disappeared into grey-brownish anonymity before losing themselves permanently in a black hole that stretched all the way to the horizon. There a narrow streak still glowed bravely but it too was slowly swallowed up by the blue-black night sky. The only light remaining sparkled at the end of the plane’s wing, and soon after the captain announced our final descent to Kilimanjaro airport.
After a flight time of almost nine hours we were happy to reach our destination, yet it turned out that our relief was a tad premature. Since we were seated in the last row we were among the first to leave the aircraft. Crossing the runway, empty except for one other aircraft, we entered the humble terminal buildings. Picture a battered hangar, simply partitioned into an immigration area and a baggage claim area by several cubicles, and in those cubicles grim and impolite officers appearing to nod off and almost slide out of their chairs in a most convincing display of boredom and indifference.
We paused and then made our way to cubicle 1 – a wooden shack. Here 80% of passengers accumulated. It was manned by two staff members who collected the 50$ visa fee and then needed ten minutes to make out a receipt for each individual person – handwritten, on copy paper, in blue ink.
Along we went to cubicle 2. This was again manned by two officers. The officer on the left oversaw receipts, and dead slow, he sternly questioning the length of our intended stay. We obtained our visas and the officer on our right pointed a camera at us. Said camera however did not work, and we waited whilst everybody (from cubicle 1 and cubicle 2 part 1) impatiently waited behind us, tired and already thoroughly irritated. The camera guy on the right did not deign to talk to us so we never found out if he got the camera working, but eventually his colleague sent us to cubicle 4. I cheered inwardly ‘Yay, we skipped cubicle 3!’, though I have no idea why, as there was a horde of tourists queued up there as well.
It was a half-hour wait to meet the officer in cubicle 4, or what was visible of that officer anyway. He had slid so far off his chair, he was almost completely on the floor. He didn’t talk to us either, too busy chewing gum, and checked the receipt from cubicle 1 (again) and the visa from cubicle 2. He took another photo and an impression of our fingerprints (from every finger… on both hands). Whoever, at this point, didn’t feel like a felon on the way to prison must have had prior real-life experience…of prison, or Tanzanian immigration.
We entered the baggage claim area and somewhat perplexed observed an empty, unmoving conveyer belt, and the luggage instead spread messily all over the floor. Whatever hint of joy remained after surviving the two-hour immigration ordeal was crushed when we realised that Tobi’s backpack was missing. A wooden shack, the only area trying to look official in this part of the hangar was empty, but we were able to get a hold of somebody who agreed to fill out a baggage claim form for lost luggage.
He did so by hand, because the WiFi had fallen victim to construction works. When we pointed out the rather obvious, which was that a European airline would have some difficulty finding out about a handwritten claim form sitting on a desk in a Tanzanian airport shack, and suggested calling KLM instead, we were told that that was impossible during night duty, and somebody would get in touch with us tomorrow by 10am. If not (suggesting they never considered calling), we were to call the airport and ask if the backpack had appeared.
A worn minibus was waiting to take us to our B&B. We drove through the pitch-black night for an hour, hopping over speed bumps at regular intervals, and sat there worried about the prospect of starting the tour the next day without Tobi’s luggage. We were supposed to set off in the morning, but KLM lands at Kilimanjaro Airport only once a day at 8:40pm. We couldn’t see much of Moshi, a municipality on the lower southern slopes of Kilimanjaro, and starting point for tours up the mountain. It was late at night, and the More than a drop B&B was likewise dark. Grateful for the guard on night duty who showed us our room, we collapsed into bed, knackered.
Climbing Kilimanjaro on the Lemosho Route to Big Tree Camp
Our B&B doubled as a training facility for female students attending a hospitality boarding school run by a philanthropic, non-profit organization. It was alive with the bustle of school routine but somehow still managed to feel peaceful. I would rate it 5 stars. Breakfast was served on a patio in a green, tropical garden with vegetable patches, and the girls shyly offered us coffee and tea, French toast, and omelettes in broken English. Showers were as expected thrillingly adventurous installations (T.I.A. = This is Africa), and not to be touched (as per the B&B advice), offering as much water as can be expected on a continent where this is a rare commodity.
Most of the students came from close-by slums, taking part in a one-year training programme covering English, gastronomy, and hospitality. The German manager of the hospitality school and B&B, Nicola, lived in Zurich for 25 years before moving to Tanzania. She told us she initially intended to stay for 3 months, but that was two years ago, and she had no plans of leaving.
We had arranged to meet our guide from the local tour company, Zara Tours, at 7am, but it was half past nine when, in between unanswered phone calls to the airport, Winford, our amicable 39-year-old guide, and ten-year Kilimanjaro veteran, arrived. He was not at all surprised that some of our luggage was missing, but since we had already booked the shortest tour of 6 days/5 nights, without allowing ourselves a buffer before our onward journey to South Africa, we were faced with a dilemma.
Our options were – 1) start without Tobi’s backpack, 2) skip the climb, or 3) postpone the flight to Johannesburg. Since skipping the hike was not an option for Tobi, he bravely went ahead and rented sleeping bag, poles, headlamp, and clothes from a nearby rental store. I have to say we were lucky it was Tobi’s backpack that was lost, not mine, for I would not have been able to sleep in that rental sleeping bag…I’m somewhat sensitive to smells.
Late morning we were finally on our way, heading out of Moshi on the three to four-hour drive to the start of the Lemosho Route in a 4-wheel drive minibus. In the daylight, I could catch fleeting glimpses of Moshi. They were colourful scenes of dusty roads, an unhurried but noisy bustle, motorbikes and battered minibuses crisscrossing the roads or parked at the curb next to stalls selling suitcases, mangos, grilled corncobs and phone cards. An impression I had formed on my past travels was revived – Africa, it seems, absorbs 99% of the worldwide minibus production! The bustle drew attention away from the simple shacks made of corrugated iron and wood, plaster scaling off buildings, and window frames filled with cardboard instead of glass.
Once we shrugged off the outskirts of Moshi, villages lined the road at regular intervals, and we saw scrawny cows, chicken, and street dogs wandering amidst discarded trucks. We passed a group of elderly men sitting on bright red plastic chairs in front of a roadside kiosk in the shade, and minutes later waved back at a small boy herding goats on rocky fields where nothing edible was apparent. Cows listlessly scoured the dust, and in another village flowering hedges fenced in small houses and school kids in black and yellow uniforms cleaning a trench in front of their school.
While we jolted along, we pondered, not for the first time, why Africa is struggling so much economically. Tourists from around the world spend their vacation in Tanzania and are fascinated by the beauty of Mount Kilimanjaro, the Serengeti, and the Ngorongoro-Crater, but that fascination, it seems, is not used to benefit the population.
Tarmac gave way to dirt roads peppered with potholes, which due to the start of the rainy season a few days earlier were already filled with water, though our driver circumvented every pothole, no matter how large or small, with soaring enthusiasm. The landscape changed as we entered reforested wood, where men and women crouched in the shade of conifers, harvesting potatoes and carrots, leaving large bulging sacks filled with vegetables to lie by the roadside.
From time to time a pickup jolted past us, labourers crowding their cargo bed, and brave moped riders drove by balancing sacks on their knees, swaying to-and-fro, trying to counterbalance the weight of the vegetables with their feet, and barely missing the potholes but by a hair’s breadth.
When we reached the official registration building, where we were to sign in with the gate warden, we were surprised to see several dozen porters standing in line, waiting to weigh large black plastic bags. Winford explained to us that the maximum load of 15kg per porter was strictly controlled. We continued our bumpy ride to a small clearing in the rainforest at 2100m, and the trailhead of the Lemosho Route. Three hours were estimated to Big Tree Camp, but we covered the distance at a leisurely pace on well-maintained trails in 1:45 hours.
With every step we ventured further into the sumptuous rainforest, the fauna drawing us into scenery straight from the tale of Tarzan or the Jungle Book, accompanied by stifling humidity. Black and white colobus monkeys swung on vines dangling from a dense canopy above thick undergrowth peppered with giant red flowers that on closer inspection consisted of hundreds of tiny blossoms. Winford reckoned it wouldn’t rain that day, but a quarter-hour later the first shower poured down. The next days would bring along similar downpours whilst Winford doggedly maintained the contrary.
I believe he secretly knew about my aversion to any kind of precipitation and had to listen to enough whinging and complaining from other hikers over the years to tell me exactly what I wanted to hear. While mornings always greeted us with brilliant, treacherous sunshine, the rising temperatures caused the precipitation of the previous afternoon to evaporate up into fleecy clouds. They fraternized and piled up to form menacing cumulus clouds, which in turn arranged for heavy downpours in the afternoon, before cowardly hiding again until the following afternoon for a rerun. At least they made way for beautiful, colourful sunsets.
We reached a small clearing with multiple tents already pitched, and two buildings (a wooden shack housing an old toilet, and a highly pungent more modern building housing newer squat toilets). Our tent was green and spacious and under the vestibule stood a table covered with a blue-and-yellow tablecloth and two collapsible chairs. Deavis, with a huge smile, introduced himself as our personal waiter (there’s a first time for everything) and served fresh popcorn, and chocolate cookies on a silver tray. He placed a large red thermos bottle with hot water between the milo, tea, milk powder, coffee, and sugar already on the table. I can say without a doubt we have never camped this luxuriously before.
There wasn’t much to explore in the small camp until dinner, but the fancy three-course meal by candlelight was excellent camping food. We surely have never managed soup with fresh herbs, potatoes baked in egg, veggies, and fish on a camping cooker. For dessert we were given fruit though we were not sure what kind. Its orange colour reminded us of Papayas, but the intense fruity taste more of the artificial flavourings in tropical mix candy. “Mango!” Deavis replied perplexed when we asked, “you don’t know?” Well, we certainly knew mango, but never had one that tasted this good.
The night was reasonably comfortable, sleeping on green plastic pads provided by the tour company, and my own thermarest, wearing ear plugs, and beating the cold with heat pads.
Kilimanjaro, Lemosho Route Day 1
track details.
Route: Lemosho Gate – Big Tree Camp
Distance: 4.3km
Time: 1:45 hours
Elevation: 453m gain / 64m loss
Day 2 - Big Tree Camp to Shira II
Last night Winford had told us the names of everyone in the group accompanying us on the trek. In addition to Deavis the waiter, and Toscha the cook, we had yet to meet Davidy, the assistant guide and porter, who came in addition to five other porters. I was baffled by the mass migration two hikers caused, and watched our small caravan get underway from Big Tree Camp at 2700m to Camp Shira 1 after breakfast.
This was a very different hiking experience to the one we were used to! After a very comfortable start to the day with scrambled eggs, porridge, tea, and toast for breakfast, all we had to do was simply walk off with our daypacks, leaving the tent and bulging backpacks behind. My only complaint would have to be the porridge, which looked and tasted like sawdust soaked in murky sugary water.
We started off in long-sleeved tops but after barely an hour changed into T-shirts when the wood gave way to open terrain and sunshine. The stretch that day took five to six hours, which was long compared to most other days, but consisted of very leisurely, easy walking, as we only had to carry our additional layers of clothes, two bottles of water, and a small packed lunch.
The trail led through rainforest, which shrank away, transitioning into gentle hills overgrown with scrubby, crippled bushes. We faced Mount Kilimanjaro for the first time as the undulating hillocks gave way to vast and flat alpine tundra. To the left, the massif’s highest peak, Uhuru, was already shrouded in fields of white clouds, but on the right-hand slopes the dark rock face was dappled with snowfields.
We picked out the light green roof of the warden hut in Camp Shira I at 3610m from afar, where it stuck out amidst unruly dark green scrubs, and stopped there for a short lunch break. Porters from a different group were pitching tents for hikers that had booked the 7 or 8 days tour, and would spend the night here, before tackling the next 10 kilometres and 240m in altitude, estimated to take 4 hours, to Camp Shira II. The light turned sickly as we continued on the trail, cutting through steppe and towards the massif for clouds cloaking the mountainside like wafts of chilly mist, blocking out the sun.
On the 2-hour leg from Shira I to II (posted times are generous) we met Trevis, a 27-year old South African cook, who works on luxury yachts. He told us that he works 24/7 for more or less 9 months of the year, and while it sounds dreadful, he is compensated for this with a great salary, all-inclusive everything while he’s on board, no taxes, and a job location that is either in the Caribbean or the Mediterranean Sea. Additionally, he gets three months uninterrupted leave to travel on full pay, which is the point in his story when I started wishing I could cook.
We arrived at the camp just as the daily downpour was looming, only to learn that our tent in the company of one of the porters had fallen behind. We insisted that we were happy to wait around, rain or no rain, but Winford grumbled into his mobile, giving the poor guy with a leg cramp a scolding anyway. Chilly gusts of wind crawled under every layer of clothing I carried with me, and we escaped into the warden hut.
This was under construction, but in one of the half-finished rooms, built of unpolished wooden planks and full of sawdust, Deavis set up two chairs for us. While we sat comfortable and dry, sipping steaming hot milo, our tent arrived and was pitched in the pouring rain in next to no time. Like I said we weren’t used to this kind of service, and felt bad about the rather unfair division of work, but inwardly breathed a sigh of relief when our offer of help was declined.
After a few minutes in the tent, the rain picked up to such a ferocity that a current forced its way inside the vestibule, and it started hailing pea-sized ice pellets. About the time, I got ready for a nap, I discovered a growing puddle inside the tent, unpleasantly close to my sleeping bag, and spent the next few minutes frantically soaking paper napkins in freezing water.
Meanwhile our porters, visibly distraught at the sight of the torrents rushing down the slope, dug a trench into the clay-like ground with pickaxes all around our tent to divert the onrush.
However, when I next stuck my head out of the tent, the billowing thunderclouds had vanished and adorable pink fleecy clouds were illuminated by the setting sun in their stead. Shira II at 3850m was busier than the previous two camps and I had to chuckle at a group of noisily partying Russians, passing around a bottle of vodka, and thus conforming perfectly to their well-worn national stereotype.
Kilimanjaro, Lemosho Route Day 2
track details.
Route: Big Tree Camp – Shira II
Distance: 15km
Time: 6:40 hours
Elevation: 1300m gain / 200m loss
Day 3 - Shira II to Baranco Camp
The sun had not yet risen above the campsite when I got up the next morning, and the dusky light painted the surrounding brown rock a dark grey, almost black colour. Still half asleep, I drudged towards the outhouse, stopping halfway in front of a puddle. I gingerly stepped on it with my boot. Frozen! Indeed the ground all around me was covered with frost, and while I have some difficulty appreciating colder climes, I also came to the realisation that when water freezes so does poop, taking with it its stink.
Walking back to the tent, I saw Kilimanjaro in all its mightiness, completely free from clouds for the first time. Still shadowy, its profile silhouetted against the dawning greyish-blue sky, the precipitation during the night had covered the slate grey massif in a spotty snow cover. Clutching hot cups of tea, we eagerly waited outside our tent for sunrise. The clouds opposite Kilimanjaro were already illuminated a pale yellow, and a glowing halo along the horizon announced the sun, which soon after erupted behind the mountain.
The temperature rose steadily with the warming, direct sunlight as we set off on a march through rocky steppe, watching the surrounding landscape turn greyer and more inhospitable with every passing hour. For acclimatisation purposes we were climbing to Lava Tower Camp at 4600m that day. Shrubs disappeared and gave way to bristly hassocks that in turn yielded to soft lichens clinging onto rock, though the landscape was barely visible as we were shrouded in menacing clouds, with no visibility beyond our immediate vicinity. Davidy condemned us to a frustratingly slow crawl, which was beneficial, I suppose, in that we didn’t notice the altitude much. Lava Tower Camp was a dreadfully wet, chilly, and windy spot. Whoever spends an extra night at this ghastly place does not do so voluntarily, but must truly be too tired to descent to Baranco Camp at 3900m.
We descended towards Baranco Camp and watched the change in vegetation zones we had witnessed this morning reverse. I was happy to leave the bleak alpine desert behind and delighted to see the knobbly groundsel shrubs, which appear in their initial stages like giant spiky balls sitting on the ground. Their withered leaves allow the plant to grow steadily, and grown-up groundsel shrubs look like spiky balls sitting on a stem. There are often several knobs to a single stem, and it ends up looking a lot like an alien with multiple heads.
At 3900m, groups of different tour companies climbing Kilimanjaro on different routes joined into a colourful camp with tents dotted along the foot of the Baranco Wall, which, facing the valley, rose steeply to our left. Baranco Camp was considerably larger than Shira II and spread out on a stony ledge, bordered by steep rock faces on the left and right above the valley, where in the dark the lights of Moshi sparkled at our feet. Daily camp life was a familiar routine by now. We signed in at the camp warden upon arrival, the outhouse smelled like a congested sewage plant, Deavis brought popcorn, and we had a nap during the daily recurring afternoon downpour. It promised to be a chilly night under clear skies, as the rocky plateau was unexpectedly draughty despite its snug position between steep cliffs.
We brushed our teeth, gazing at the lights of Moshi in the darkness, and felt it was all quite lovely despite the cold, until this hyperactive rat started racing around our feet, making me jump around like flustered chicken. In a short briefing for tomorrow’s hike Winford announced an earlier start than the previous days. Baranco Wall is climbed in single file and long queues can form behind unsteady hikers, prolonging the climb by up to three hours.
We were more than happy to get up at 5:30am if this were to prevent us getting impaled on a flailing hiking pole from said inexperienced hiker half-way up. Earplugs were absolutely essential that night. The Russian group arrived at the camp hours after us, but of course, on this rather large site they picked the spot right next to ours. Unfortunately for us, they had not yet run out of vodka.
Kilimanjaro, Lemosho Route Day 3
track details.
Route: Shira II – Baranco Camp
Distance: 9.5km
Time: 4:50 hours
Elevation: 775m gain / 660m loss
Day 4 - Baranco Camp to Barafu Camp
Minutes before our alarm went off, Deavis noisily yanked open the zip to our tent with a cheery ‘Good morning, good morning. Tea!’ and placed the red thermos bottle on our table, before disappearing again. When we set out in the greyish-blue shades of dawn and before the first rays of sunshine struggled across the mountain peaks, the ground was still frozen at 3900m, and the camp was only just coming to life, with bleary-eyed faces underneath woollen hats reluctantly pulling down tent zips. No sooner had we started up the wall than we caught up with the only group that had left before us.
In many places the rock was covered in ice and after being trampled on by several boots, it was smooth and slippery. For the first time on the tour we had to use our hands to scramble up the slope but I appreciated the climb as a fun and welcome change to the earlier terrain. After an hour we reached a large rocky plateau, basked in bright sunshine, and marvelled at the snow-covered Mount Kilimanjaro to our backs, and the valley with Moshi and Mount Meru in front of us. Tobi swept the landscape with his binoculars, then handed them to Davidy who’d been watching intently.
Have you ever seen anyone use binoculars for the very first time? I now have, and it was hilarious to watch Davidy first hold them the wrong way round, look confused, and then after turning them the other way, wave his outstretched hand in front of the binoculars in disbelief at the surrounding far off mountain slopes suddenly appearing to him at arm’s length. Altogether fascinated, he explored distant rock faces and excitedly chatted with Winford. It was very much like watching me operate an electronic device for the first time (and sometimes the second or third time).
The trail cut across the last sparsely vegetated plain, dotted with shrubs and giant groundsel, and continued steadily but not too steeply uphill. When we drew closer to Barafu Camp, plant life disappeared entirely, and only the monotony of an insensate rocky desert remained. The path surrounded by brownish-grey boulders seemed to stretch on interminably, but at long last, after 6 kilometres, Karanga Camp at 3995m came into view. Icy gusts swept across the exposed escarpment relentlessly, too unpleasant to rest, yet other hikers seemed to think differently, and we watched groups of porters’ pitch tents to serve their clients hot lunches.
But Karanga was still a highlight for us as a porter awaited us with Tobi’s backpack that had finally arrived. Tobi took what he needed from the pack – warm clothes, a sleeping bag, and his thermarest sleeping pad – and ten minutes later the porter jogged back down the mountain slope carrying a much lighter pack. We both had the sneaking suspicion that something was missing from the pack, but before that suspicion turned into action, the porter had already left. We carried on to Barafu Camp at 4673m, which serves as a base camp, from where most people start their ascent to the Uhuru Peak. Tents were scattered over a wide, badly littered area, naturally partitioned by large rock boulders that smelled cloyingly of urine.
Kilimanjaro, Lemosho Route Day 4
track details.
Route: Baranco Camp – Barafu Camp
Distance: 8.8km
Time: 5:55 hours
Elevation: 1070m gain / 400m loss
Day 5 - Climb Uhuru Peak, Top of Africa
Worried about the cold on our ascent to the peak, I was too anxious to sleep, and eagerly struggled out of my warm sleeping bag when our alarm went off at 11pm. Despite the ungodly hour, Deavies appeared in front of us with tea, candles, cookies and pancakes for breakfast. One thing was for certain – we would not go hungry on this hike. When at dinner at 7pm we had declined still more food that Deavies proposed for breakfast four hours later, he was actually worried that we didn’t like the food. While we climbed the peak, he slept in our tent that night to guard our belongings, as apparently a lot of stuff goes missing at Barafu.
We set off at midnight. In the pitch black of night, headlamps illuminated our little troop of four shuffling along in single file, and along the invisible mountain face singled out small groups that had started before us. The dancing pools of light transported me back to crossing the Thorong-La-Pass in Nepal but also looked very much like bright portholes swaying on an ocean liner. Spurred on by Davidy’s melodic chanting, I relished in the simplicity of advancing step by step under the sparkling night sky, loose gravel crunching beneath our feet, strangely amplified in the silence.
We had just settled into a steady plod when an Indian woman came towards us. She had aborted her climb, and was being carried back down by three guides. My fingertips and toes started to feel increasingly numb, and I hoped to warm up by walking faster. The trail was steep but not technically challenging, and I asked Davidy to walk a little faster. A mere two minutes later, I was both completely out of breath and terribly embarrassed, muttering a meek and weary ‘slower please’. Davidy kindly refrained from commenting and slowed down to what I from then on had to admit was a much more appropriate pace.
While the thin air was arduous and the climb relentless, it was the bitter cold that pushed me to my limit. My fingers resembled icicles, and the cold exhausted the capacity of half a dozen heat pads in my pockets. Yet thankfully the self-adhesive heat pads in my boots (a truly marvellous innovation) lasted, which meant my toes only started growing numb after four hours, when we reached Stella Point at 5756m. We had left the other groups far behind us, and Winford was a little worried that we were walking too fast, and would reach the peak well before sunrise. I couldn’t have cared less. In the biting cold, I just wanted to get up, and then back down to somewhere warmer, as quickly as possible.
At 5:30am, we reached the highest peak in Africa – Uhuru Peak at 5865m. It was still pitch-black and for an excruciating half-hour we strolled around the plateau, at -17 degrees Celsius, waiting for the sun to rise. That I felt cold and trembled uncontrollably came as no surprise to me but to see Tobi shiver in the beam of my headlamp, his teeth chattering violently, was very unusual.
When finally the night sky lost its intense blackness, profiles of other hikers approached the summit, silhouetted against a light blue glow and yellow-orange stripe trailing the horizon. We all congratulated each other, and gathered around the summit sign for ‘evidence’, taking shaky photos of proud, blurred faces. The sunrise put an abrupt stop to our stumbling about, shaping the mountain, and illuminating the debris, snowfields, a whitish-grey glacier (a massive box-shaped pile of ice), and fleecy clouds above us in the morning sun.
We began our descent, running down the gravel slope, with Winford in front. I could feel my fingers thaw as blood slowly started to circulate in them again, and the rays of sunshine at long last drove away the most violent shivers. I may have gotten a little carried away by my relief, at having survived what to me felt like an ice age, and on our way down showered groups still ascending with encouragement. They didn’t seem to mind, some in desperate need for reassurance, and some judging by the agony in their faces having grossly underestimated the challenge.
I was glad for the stabilisation from my poles, as we skidded down the steeper slopes. At quarter to eight we arrived back at base camp and were welcomed by Deavis with juice boxes on a silver tray. As unlikely as it may sound, I quickly forgot about the freezing cold, the memory banished by the sunshine and bright blue skies. Feeling good, we spontaneously decided to skip the night in Mweka Camp and descend straight to Mweka Gate at 1640m in one go, much to the joy of our entourage.
We set off again at nine, and as I jogged after Davidy I paid silent tribute to airplanes. Ordinary as they may seem nowadays, they are unfazed by desert, sea, and mountains, span huge distances, country borders, and differing seasons. And one had whizzed us from Europe to this stunning dormant volcano, the world’s tallest freestanding mountain, rising from the plains of Tanzania, in next to no time, for a brilliant hike.
Today’s stretch fast-forwarded through various vegetation zones, reversing back through what we had passed on the way up. At 5:30am we were chilled to the bone in a freezing alpine desert at 5865m, engulfed in complete darkness, but we’d forgotten all about the cold as low-growing shrubs appeared alongside our path by mid-morning, shortly after followed by taller plants reaching as high as our heads, and by the time midday rolled around, following an incessant stretch down steep steps and across rough boulders between Millennium and Mweka Camp, we found ourselves once again enveloped by humid, green rainforest.
I hated the steps on the descent, and groaned inwardly when the trail on the slippery, moist rainforest floor was likewise laid out in steps, continuing on for several hours. After landing heavily on my bum in yet another mudslide, I imagined it must feel somewhat like an elephant (fully grown bull, not a baby elephant mind you) kicking you before stepping on your feet. When finally, after the umpteenth turn, we came upon a forest road, I cheered inwardly, convinced that we were almost there. But every turn just revealed more forest road. Turn after turn after turn. I was too exhausted to even to whinge, and a little grateful that at least my uncontrolled stumbles no longer required bent knees.
Hiking is such a wonderful opportunity to practise patience. Taking in my pained expression, Winford announced, ‘Only 15 minutes’. And indeed shortly later, at 2pm, we arrived to busses lined up and waiting next to an office building where two wardens were busy taking record of euphoric new arrivals, and exhausted summiteers. A small kiosk provided some bare necessities. We signed out and I noticed one hiker adopted a slightly worried expression, when I flopped down on the ground so heavily I hurt my bum. Sitting down was heavenly but nothing compared to the liberating feeling of slipping into flip-flops after 14 hours in hiking boots, an ascent of 1295m, and the following descent of 4225m.
Minutes after leaving the parking lot in a minibus towards Moshi we were stopped in the middle of the road by dancing police cadets. They hopped across the pavement for fifteen minutes, halting all traffic, and flailed their arms about, skipping in circles. We were told it was for an admissions exam into the police force, though how this particular exercise reveals useful qualities for later police work I am unsure. I asked Winford. He didn’t know.
On the bus we met Trevis again, who had also shortened the tour by one day despite his encounter with altitude sickness this very morning. He recounted that he nearly collapsed with dizziness just before the summit and only reached the peak thanks to his guide’s support but felt absolutely fine again when he reached base camp. Altitude sickness is treacherous and strikes fast indeed. When the last police hopeful successfully hopped across the road, we continued past banana trees, restaurants operating out of corrugated iron shacks, and a very out of place palatial villa.
Back at the Springland Hotel in Moshi, headquarter of Zara Tours, our suspicions about Tobi’s backpack were confirmed. All electronic equipment in Tobi’s backpack had been stolen. One of Zara’s managers told us that thefts ‘always happens at the airport and the taxi driver steals the rest’. Apparently, here lost luggage at the airport is an open invitation for anyone to help themselves to your knickers, squashed muesli bars and electronic equipment. At least this is what another of Zara’s managers who came to talk to us suggested. Also we realized that cab drivers are treated with contempt the world over, including here.
Overall this was a wonderful, well-organized tour but while the entourage that supported us up the mountain, fed us pancakes at 11pm, and miraculously appeared with hot milo in the middle of a thunderstorm, were incredible, we were somewhat less convinced by management. It was not uncommon to see terribly ill-equipped porters hiking up the mountain in worn-out loafers several sizes too large with the sole coming off. We would very much like to see tour companies treat and equip their staff with the same pride those employees take in serving their customers.
Back in the B&B, and a day early, Nicola treated us to an upgrade and freshly squeezed juice. We were completely and utterly exhausted, limping up and down the stairs, but revelled in the warmth and comfort.
Kilimanjaro, Lemosho Route Day 5
track details.
Part 1 Route: Barafu Camp – Uhuru – Barafu Camp
Distance: 10km
Time: 7:30 hours
Elevation: 1215m gain/loss
Part 2 Route: Barafu Camp – Mweka Gate
Distance: 15.3km
Time: 4:20 hours
Elevation: 2954m loss
Ever been to a police station in Tanzania?
I woke to the sun’s weak rays dancing on the smooth palm leaves and shining through the glassless windows covered by mosquito nets, onto my face. Enthusiastic gospel-like chanting of the girls’ morning singing assembly mingled with high-pitched birdcalls and I was reluctant to get up. When I finally did, I revelled in trudging to the bathroom dressed only in my underwear and no headlamp (a seemingly trivial task, but impossible on Mount Kilimanjaro) and using the clean ensuite flush toilet.
During breakfast, filled with the elation that comes with achievement, we gazed up at Mount Kilimanjaro, its high, flattened summit again speckled with white snowfields under cloudless skies.
After breakfast we explored Moshi on foot. It was hot, dusty and noisy. Minivans and motorbikes honked continually and the only traffic rule seemed a tendency to drive on the left. Roadside stalls – no more than makeshift grills – sold corn cobs blackened on small fires, or offered sugarcane, T-Shirts, fruits, and sweatpants for sale. It smelled of charcoal and giant tawdry billboards advertised purple Fanta, Miranda and Kilimanjaro beer. In the town centre we were repetitively approached by locals volunteering to take us up Kilimanjaro for free or offering cheap accommodation.
Back at the B&B, we received an email from the insurance company advising us to report the stolen electronic equipment to the local police station. At times it feels as if the insurance industry has a hidden agenda of making life unbearably difficult for their insurant at the most inopportune moments, and I really struggle to understand how a report from a police station in Moshi, Tanzania would be helpful. We took a taxi back into town (walking the distance once had been enough) and faced a large stone building with a police logo painted above the entrance.
Plaster was peeling off the exterior walls and inside the battered front counter and high noise level resembled the ambiance of a bazaar, more than a police station. The young police officer who attended to our request, chewed gum while listening to us, and then shaking his head reckoned a report would be difficult to make out today as the guy keeping the police stamp had disappeared. Someone who looked like a local citizen interrupted him and we watched a short, heated dispute flare up. There might be a remote possibility for that report yet, we were told. But first we had to pay an admission fee of 500 shilling (approx. 21 Euro cents) and followed the officer up a well-trodden stone staircase in the rear house to the first floor.
We arrived on a gloomy and narrow floor with wooden doors to the left and right, most of which were shut. The officer stopped at the far end of the corridor, shouted, and banged loudly on the last door. After a moment the top half of the horizontally partitioned door opened, and a woman’s head appeared. After witnessing another loud exchange, we paid the 500 shilling, and watched the woman’s head disappear, the door bang shut, and the officer retreat down the stairs. We should wait, he said, but what for we didn’t know.
When after a quarter-hour the door’s upper half opened again the woman wordlessly thrust a piece of paper into Tobi’s hand. We stared at the receipt which had taken 15 minutes to write, and made out way back to the ground floor. There we stood amidst a crowd of wildly gesticulating teenagers who were glued to the counter, trying to get the attention of the female officer behind it, yet she continued writing her report in neat, fluent handwriting, completely ignoring them.
Unfortunately our officer seemed limited to block letters, and was further slowed down by the yellow syrupy liquid he sipped through a yellow-tinted straw from a sodden coffee cardboard cup after every letter. He also texted on his mobile while talking to someone on the phone, and intermittently barked at a stranger who stood next to us. This stranger tapped me on my shoulder several few times, and claiming to know the police director, offered to put in a good word for us. We started to feel uncomfortable, and cheered inwardly (a little too early as it turned out) when our officer finally disappeared to retrieve the infamous stamp.
Instead of handing us a stamped report we were called into the room next door, a bleak uncharitable space dominated by a heavy wooden table behind which a scowling man in his late fifties played on his mobile. Though clearly distracted, he eyed us suspiciously, and frequently requested clarification of our answers to the questions asked by the junior officer by his side. They were the very same questions the officer at the reception desk had posed earlier, and everything stolen was again noted down.
As soon as he was done, he left the room with the initial report and we could hear raised voices in the corridor. Still vehemently arguing, both officers returned and announced that the initial report was wrong. Instead of ‘camera issued by Nikon’ it should say ‘Nikon camera’ one of them insisted. The report had to be rewritten. Simply crossing out the allegedly incorrect phrase and writing it anew would not do, we were told.
When after what seemed like an eternity, the second report was stamped and handed to us we literally fled the building. What struck me as even more remarkable, other than non-existent maintenance, electric wiring strung through a glassless window on the first floor, the chaos, and deliberate slowness, was the complete absence of computers. While mobile phones were omnipresent, we saw no larger electronic equipment at all. Everything was handwritten and sorted into stacks of papers, piled up high in bleached cardboard folders on the grimy concrete floor.
After hours at the police station, we barricaded ourselves behind the green hedges of our B&B, in the shade of palms. The stark contrast between the bleak police station and these lush gardens to me drove home the blatant injustice. Not long ago my Mum recounted to me that while joking with one of her Kiwi friends how nice it would be to win the lottery (as a lot of people do when the jackpot is at an all-time high), one of her friend said: ‘We’ve already won the lottery. We’re healthy and we live in New Zealand.’ I was first struck by the perceived arrogance of that statement before I realized it was gratitude.
When we were hiking up the mountain behind the porters, I pondered on privilege and entitlement. Some of the porters were similar in age and build to my younger brother. Yet, while these porters in Tanzania have a life expectancy of 60, my brother, who is studying medicine in New Zealand, is expected to live 20 years longer.
An odyssey from Kilimanjaro to Kruger National Park
When our alarm went off at 3am we knew it was going to be a long day, traveling from the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro in East Africa, via Nairobi and Johannesburg, to Grietjie Nature Reserve, part of the Great Kruger National Park, in South Africa. Passing the surly officers at airport immigration was a surprisingly speedy affair. They were evidently happier to see us leave than arrive.
Considering that Tanzania is heavily reliant on tourism and could certainly do with further strengthening this industry, the hostile attitude of custom officials was surprising. The flight to Nairobi passed without incidence and the airport while admittedly still run-down was fortunately no longer a member of ‘One of the 10 worst airports in the world’ as it was five years ago. Security measures were strict, even for transfer passengers, but after passing through security screenings (twice), I thought it was safe to buy myself a giant blueberry muffin and takeaway cup of tea.
Unfortunately, two minutes later we stood in front of yet more CT scanners and metal detectors that we needed to pass through to get to our gate. And they were enforcing airport liquid restrictions. ‘You cannot take this,’ the employee who waved passengers through the metal detector pointed at my cardboard cup and shook his head. There was no way I could pour the scorching hot liquid down my throat in time for boarding, but I really wanted my Assam tea with milk. I shot the officer a pleading look, and thankfully he smiled and said ‘Drink!’ I took small sips, careful not to burn my tongue, and satisfied I wasn’t carrying some sort of bomb-building explosive liquid, he let me keep the tea.
At a car rental office just outside the airport in Joburg, we were taken through a detailed, painstaking introduction to our Nissan pickup with rooftop tent. After an hour elapsed, my impatience started to show (it does rather quickly) but Tobi reminded me that I had complained about the lack of kindness and organization in Tanzania, and was now rebuffing these very qualities. I tried my best to listen to the inventory list (jack, sand ladder (perhaps there would be a sand storm?), shovel), and instructions (opening and lashing down the tent, operation of the 4-wheel drive), and everything was explained in excruciating detail. Lastly, we were asked to count spoons, pillows, pots, chairs, towels, sleeping bags, fruit knives, and dozens of other items before we could sign the inventory list.
We happily hit the road, but then promptly got lost on the highways around Joburg, for about an hour. I don’t know about other couples, but after a 3am start getting lost on the roads was somewhat unconducive to our relationship. While I had insisted on hiring a car with GPS, Tobi had booked one without, and now accused me of being incapable of deciphering illegible maps. Yet it turned out that getting lost on the highways was the most enjoyable part of the drive.
After finally taking the right exit, we picked the northbound route R36 (because we failed to read instructions from our lodge hosts properly who strongly advised against taking that particular road) that was covered in potholes the size of ponds, and proceeded to drive through towns with names on signposts that bore absolutely no resemblance to those printed on my map. It was dark and raining, and I cursed the person who thought it was a good idea to pick two names for every place, one in Afrikaans and one in local dialect, and then to put either one or the other on the sign or my map, but never both and never the same.
We struggled along at 30kmh, frequently blinded by the full beam lights of huge trucks coming towards us, and stopping at petrol stations to ask for directions, We were met with mostly unhelpful indifference, yet we did find one cordial young guy, who carrying two bags of crushed ice, told us the way, as we watched his ice cubes slowly liquefy. Our plan was to arrive between seven and eight o’clock, but after multiple delays, and loosing another hour south of Phalaborwa looking for signposts (in vain) to our lodge, we finally reached our destination at 11pm, far more exhausted than at any time while climbing Mount Kilimanjaro.
Michael, the lodge owner, was irritated that we hadn’t notified him of our late arrival (which without cell phone reception was impossible) and testily pointed out that the other guests had already eaten our dinner. As much as I understood his annoyance, I couldn’t have cared less at that moment. He and his dog escorted us to a round cream-coloured cottage with a pointed thatched roof, flanked by two similar cottages at a comfortable distance. While his torch flickered across the gravel path, Michael explained he would always escort us in the dark on the unfenced property that is an extension of Kruger National Park, where animals wander at large. Unarmed, he had faced a rhino once, and his wife a fully-grown male lion.
When he advised us that in the event that we should come across an animal of substantial size or danger, we should stay calm, make ourselves look big, and under no circumstances make a run for it, I thought he was joking. I’m 164cm and about 50kg. Danger aside, I would very much have liked to demonstrate that a 200kg lion is unlikely to be impressed by the sight of me with my arms raised above my head.
The cottage was spacious and tastefully furnished in contemporary African style. Before being overwhelmed with sleepiness, we took a half hour to sit on our own private porch in the heart of the reserve, engulfed in darkness, except for the dim porch light which was attracting moths double the size of their European counterparts. A hyena’s howl some distance away pierced the silence and reflexively we searched the darkness for a pair of glowing eyes.
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