“Um…I can’t breathe…”

John the head guide….”pole, pole”

“No…um…I really can’t breathe…and…I think I’m going to throw up…”

As John’s vice like grip held me up while I emptied my stomach for the second time on the way to the summit, I really had to ask myself, at what point had it seemed like a good idea to climb this mountain. I mean, seriously, was it a need to always get to the very top of things? Did I have an issue with my height that could only be resolved if I went to the highest point in Africa? Or maybe it was just that I am too “achievement-driven” and actually it’s turning out to be a personality flaw which will leave me dead on the side of a volcano.

Hang on, hang on…back up, back up.. I hear Seamus’ voice in my head briefing us on the night before we left….“If you can put one foot in front of the other after getting to the first peak, try for the summit!”. So, I ask myself, wheezing and retching, can I?

I think Seamus, proprietor of the Marangu Hotel and master of the climb, was trying to strike a balance between encouraging and terrifying us during this pre-climb briefing. Tough act. He imparted invaluable knowledge about counting steps and rewarding ourselves with chocolate. Bit pavlovian if you ask me. In any case, I seem to remember chocolate being the main ingredient that exited my stomach on the first yock! Yeah…very rewarding…

Wandering down with Seamus on the morning we left, suitably inspired and terrified, I looked around and saw many Tanzanian’s milling around. “Who’re all these people?” I ask. “Your crew”. Our crew?? There are 5 of us climbing and we have a crew of no less than 4 guides and 13 porters! Surely that’s overcompensating! I mean we haven’t done this before but we’re not completely hopeless! On one side of the courtyard our gear is being parceled out into 20 kg loads, each one meticulously measured and weighed before being hefted up onto someone shoulders and carried down to what looks like a big cattle truck. Well, I guess there are lots of us. 17 people….sheesh..

I recall arriving at the start of the Rongai route after 3 bone jarring hours in the cattle truck, already on the back foot having breathed diesel fumes the entire way. I have problems already. I can’t figure out how to do up my gaiters. I think it should involve some kind of zip and there definitely seems to be a zip with some shoelace things….stupid borrowed gear.

Bugger it.

Let’s get this show on the road.

Our brochure said we started near an attractive wooden village. All I remember seeing is a lot of falling down shacks so I think someone has put some serious marketing spin on it somewhere along the line. We head off followed by a little trail of children asking for chocolate. I guess we weren’t the first group to pass by who had the ‘reward yourself with chocolate’ briefing. These kids knew we’d be carrying! Baba placated them with some fruit bars but I know they went away feeling gypped.

And so started the familiar refrain…pole, pole…slowly, slowly. If I had a pound for every time the guides said it….millionaire and all that. We are walking embarrassingly slowly but it seems to be the right thing to do. Mags is diligently breathing through her nose and apparently needs to keep this up for the first two days to stave off altitude sickness. I don’t know where this random fact came from but after giving it a try, I decided it’s just masochism. But she runs marathons so masochism is obviously just second nature!

The most bizarre thing on the first day had to be the ranger popping up out of nowhere with a dirty big rifle and cheerful grin. It wasn’t even like he announced his presence. All of a sudden, walking behind me was a man with a gun. Surreal. He waved us goodbye as we arrived at the camp and at that time, I thought, at this pace, I think I stand a chance! I think I can actually do this! Ha!

Completely lulled into a false sense of security, I struck out purposefully into day 2! Talk about reality check. The estimated 5 to 6 hours stretched into 7 or 8 as I realised we really had to take the whole pole, pole business seriously. One of the assistant guides Nelson decided he needed to be encouraging and actually answer Baba’s incessant question of ‘how long till we get to camp?’. “2.5 hours I think…depending on how many rests.” Maybe 2.5 hours in ‘nelson-land’ where things run on ‘nelson-time’ and everything good happens in under three hours! The other demoralising answer we often got was ‘the camp is over this ridge’. Well strictly speaking, it was, but Nelson neglected to mention the 3 other ridges after that one that the camp was also ‘just over’. Don’t trust the locals! I don’t know who I wanted to strangle the most…Nelson for fictional encouragement or Baba for asking….

We stumble blindly into camp…eat…crash….sleep…

Midnight. Mags is no longer breathing through her nose. Mags is terrified in her tent, unable to go out and pee (and this is important but I’ll get to that later) because there are wild dogs trying to get in. She turns to Mama to scare them off and accompany her to the toilet.

Wild dogs aside, the campsite does have something to recommend it, depending on your perspective. Kibo, our goal, our challenge, our confirmation that we really are insane, is beautifully visible.

Day 3 is billed as a half day! Marketing spin again, I swear. We ended up scrambling over rocks..the trail had vanished. I no longer need to be told pole, pole. I was incapable of anything else other than pole, pole. As I feel worse and worse, I come to the grim realisation that I am going to win the prize for the first person to cry. I never cry! This is a complete shambles! Sadly, Seamus is completely vindicated as I turn to chocolate as a means to get to Mawenzi Tarn, the next camp. Grim.

The view is, as predicted, spectacular, particularly from one of the toilets. But it wasn’t really a place to savour Africa laid out at your feet. Seriously people…do you not know how to aim?!!

We’re now at 4,330 metres above sea level. Altitude is starting to kick in. Dougs can’t sleep and has a monster truck headache. Baba can’t speak and crawled into his tent the moment we arrived. We are drinking insane amount of chai and water resulting in the recommended “copious and clear” pee. Thank you Seamus for opening the door to more toilet conversation than I have ever particpated in during my entire life. I have never peed so much in my entire life and I have never dreaded having to pee as much as I did in the middle of the night. I hate camping.

The girls are still strong but as I said, Mags, the marathon runner, Toto Mama, a hypoxic chamber junkie and Mama, the dynamite lizard woman. We’re cocky! But day 4 dawns and it all goes pear shaped.

Dougs succumbs to altitude sickness. After zero hours sleep, battling an immense headache and climbing another vicious hill, he was having doubts about how much he really wanted to reach the summit. I mean, Kili was my idea. All he really wanted was to go on safari. Arriving at the turn off to Horombo, the camp on the descent, we found the porter carrying his gear waiting and John asking the question ‘Dougs, do you want to go on to Kibo?’. Mentally counting the number of pain killers left and assessing what was really on the list of must-do personal achievements, Dougs decides summiting Kili isn’t on it and says ‘nope.’ Octavian, assistant-guide, agrees with John this is the right decision because the altitude sickness is just going to get worse and leads Dougs off to Horombo.

Since I’d already won the prize for first person to cry, I didn’t get anything for doing it again.

One guide down, three left. Kibo hut beckoned from across the other side of the saddle. We walked, we could see it but it never seemed to get any closer! I decided focusing on the hut was completely demoralising and I was already in a poor frame of mind. There was no way I was going to make this climb if I was going to sniffle the rest of the way. Counting steps didn’t help. Chocolate was making me sick so new tactic, motivational rocks!

Seamus echoes in my head again. “This is a climb of mini-victories!”. OK then. Choose a rock. If I can make it to that rock, that’s a victory, choose another rock, rinse & repeat until I arrive at Kibo Hut. This I would have to impart to Seamus as something to include in his next briefing. Genius!

Kibo hut is a shock. After seeing one person on the Rongai route over the last 4 days, we have joined the Marangu or ‘coca-cola’ route that 80% of people take. Comparatively, the camp site is packed! 4,700 metres now. It takes about 7 steps and I’m out of breath. I counted….on the way to the toilet to pee of course. I have to focus. In less than 6 hours I will make my attempt on the summit and it’s bloody snowing!! Joy.

Massive pasta dinner at 5 p.m. and we are summarily sent to bed. 11 p.m. looms. So does Kibo.

Toto Mama…Toto Mama? Martin the waiter is at the tent door. It’s 11. God damn. I need to pee again!

We get our head torches at the ready, winter gear on. Of course, it’s Baba’s head torch that’s dodgy. I offer new batteries. I offer advice. I give up because it seems to be some kind of technical fault I have no hope of fixing. Mine works and at this stage, I’m actually getting a bit selfish.

I realise that I actually have to get up now and try to climb to the summit. Serious reality check again. But, I’ve made the bed, and now all of us have to lie in it! Mama notices that about 50 other people are setting off at the same time as us to attempt the summit climb. This is insane! They looks like lemmings, walking in single file toward their doom. Some don’t even have head torches! Cerebral oedema here we come!

And so begins possibly the most miserable and torturous 12 hours of my life. The fundamental problem with the summit ascent is that you walk and walk in the dark but you never seem to get anywhere. I tried motivational switchbacks, I tried counting steps, I tried chocolate, I vomited chocolate. ‘Do you want to go down?’ says John. What? Because I chucked up my chocolate? Not a bloody chance!

First casualty halfway up at 5100 metres. Mama, the lizard woman goes down to her hands and knees. Valiantly, she gets up, supported by John and struggles on. 10 metres later, she’s down again…and this time she stays down…fainted! Nelson, who had promised to sing to us as we neared the top, is charged with getting her back down to camp. It’s a grim moment. Will she be ok? Will she recover? Who will sing now?

Two guides down, two left. Maybe Seamus was onto something when he decided on the numbers.

Ok. Focus. I have no idea how much time has passed but I understand a grim fact. We are only halfway and I am devastatingly tired and, since the recent evacuation of the chocolate, running on empty. Too soon John is saying twende…lets go. Strangely, the guides have abandoned the use of pole, pole with us. Does this mean we are the slowest group ever? Maybe so given we aren’t at the top yet and the sun seems to be rising!!

Yep, the sun is rising over Mawenzi Peak. This is a problem. Not because of the sunrise, its actually quite spectacular. The problem is that now we can see where we are going. We can see what we still have to climb to get to the first peak at Gilman’s. Suddenly I feel sick again. Mags is in the lead. What a trooper! Baba is bringing up the rear with Jafid, the third assistant guide. John points out Gilman’s…just that rock up there.

I walk, I look up, the rock is still the same distance away. I walk some more, I look up. Mistake. It seems that someone is moving the rock. That’s just not fair! But, despite this hallucination, the laws of nature still seem to be in effect. I keep walking, I get higher and eventually drag myself over the top of the rock that had become my nemesis to reach the point at which I was guaranteed a green certificate. Gilman’s Peak.

Mags and I collapse and wait for Baba..and wait…and wait. Finally I look over the edge and see Baba being pushed up the side of the mountain by Jafid who is, believe it or not, singing! These guides are not real people. I am sure of it. No living person should be able to climb that slope and be singing at the top!

Baba crawls over the edge and after a moment envelops Jafid in a huge hug declaring he now knows what it is like to think you are going to die and be rescued. He then collapses in the same heap as Mags and I.

Seamus comes back into my head…“If you can put one foot in front of the other after getting to the first peak, try for the summit!”. It sticks, starts playing like a broken record and I decide, yes I can.

Me: “So Mags, wanna go to Uhuru? Try for the summit?”

Mags: “Ask me again in five minutes”.

John: (incredulous) “You want to go to Uhuru???”

Me and Mags: (5 minutes later) “Yep”.

Baba: “Not a chance”.

John jumps like he’s been electrocuted! Arrangements are immediately made for Baba to descend with another guide from the hotel. We really didn’t have any to spare. John is all smiles! Jafid seems keen but has stopped singing. I eat an orange.

So here I am, watching with disgust as the nice orange I ate hits the dirt. Desperately clinging to the faint hope that I can really put one foot in front of the other. Am I deluding myself? Pole I say. The singular means ’sorry’. Then I stagger onwards and upwards! I’m not even carrying my own day pack any more. John has it, but I have to say I’m ok with that as Mags has also relinquished hers to Jafid. There’s no shame in showing the same weakness as a marathon runner.

And there magically appearing over the next rise are the glaciers of the southern icefields. Towering, beautiful, serene. I still can’t breathe but the rest of the fatigue fades away…for about 30 seconds. Mags and I gape at these natural works of art. Mags realises that she has carried her wide angle lens up the mountain for no reason as she cannot muster the energy to get it out. Thank God for ultra-compact digital cameras.

Miraculously, the summit is in view. Uhuru peak! There’s no one there and I am incredulous I have manged to drag myself to the top. “Two minutes” says John. “We stay for two minutes, this is a bad altitude for you”. I didn’t realise there was a good altitude at this stage of the game.

So a few snaps at the top. Mag’s and I do a ‘jazz hands’ picture for our friend Tars although the cost of doing so is huge! Too soon we are being marshalled off the peak and head for the difficult 1000 metres descent through volcanic scree. This consists of basically taking one step, sliding 15 feet, falling on your arse getting up and doing it again. Two hours of this held up by John’s twice proven vice like grip and Kibo hut is in view.

Martin! Martin…provider of food and drink! “Chai please”. “No!” says John in a very curt manner. “You are having some orange juice and going to lie down for one hour!” Okey dokey….roger that. Um…wake me in an hour.

While we’ve been up on the mountain, a huge amount of people have arrived. I can barely stumble to my tent without tripping on guy ropes. All of us are dog-tired but we want to get out of here as soon as possible.

Revived by orange juice we set out into the snow and descend by the Marangu route. It’s relatively uneventful except for the fact that we are so tired its beyond funny. All downhill so that just meant a different kind of pain. When we got to the bottom and signed out to get our certificates, Mags and I looked at the entries in the book above us.

“Gustav Somegermanname, aged 71, summit time 5:50 a.m.”

We wrote:

“Mags & Toto Mama, aged between 28 and 31, summit time 9:30 a.m.”

How embarrassing.

Into the truck, back to the hotel to be reunited with Dougs and receive certificates. Turns out Dougs hiked the entire way back to the hotel on the day he left us which is something like 35 kilometres up and down hill! He just wanted a shower and a beer!!! We treated the crew to a couple of rounds of Tusker beer and the crew treated us to the ‘Kili-man-ja-ro’ song, lustily sung 3 times! Fabulous!

I’m glad I did it. No, not glad, astounded! And, hey, the extreme test of stamina, emotional limits and mental fortitude paid off! They gave me a golden certificate! That’s gotta be worth something!

Thanks to Lizzie (Mama Mkichaa Lizard Woman), Erica (Mags), Rupesh (Baba Omar) and Grant (Dougs) for coming with me (Toto Mama) on the trip of a lifetime!

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