After our safari trip, the corresponding celebrations, and a good sleep at our palatial Airbnb, we farewelled Fabi and Robbie and spent the day getting geared for our hike up the big mama: Mount Kilimanjaro. For our route on the Lemosho trail, we were recommended to bring poles, thick winter jackets, snoods, rated sleeping bags, and a host of other things that, of course, we neglected to bring with us. It was only inevitable that we would then spend a few hours at the camping rental store, negotiating “group discounts” for our gear, largely letting Felix and Lenny helm the negotiations in the Tanzanian dust. The others started the tiresome hunt for headlamps and medications. A pack of six non-African boys roaming Arusha soon attracted the attention of all the local hawkers, and shortly we found ourselves on the side of the street bartering for artwork and small packs of cashew nuts. After a long day bargaining in the heat and dust, we were dismayed to find after dinner that the power had cut out at the Airbnb we were staying, so we were unable to charge our devices for the start of the trip the next day. Fortunately, we now all had headlamps …

How many boys can you fit in the back of a small jeep?

The view to from our Airbnb to the backyard

We piled on to a large minibus (an oxymoron?) the following morning, with a dozen or more porters packed in the back seats and our packs stuffed high on the roof, precariously overtaking haul trucks on the long highway to the mountain. We were dropped off at around 2,200 m, around what I could best describe as a cold rainforest, and what I later learned was called a “montane forest”. Droplets were suspended among the fronds, while colobus monkeys squawked at each other on the canopy. The trail was muddy, and I wouldn’t dare imagine what it would be like hiking it in the wet season. Our charming guide Omari told us that 2 years ago, an expedition during the wet season encountered such torrential conditions that the hike had to be aborted at day two, and two porters died due contracting pneumonia. We never really were able to interact with our porters, although some of them could speak English quite well. They often set out after we did, yet somehow arrived to each campsite earlier than us, and had most tents already set up. We were able to acquaint ourselves well with our three guides, who in addition to Omari included Chris and Alex.

Inside the mess tent

The chatting made the time spent hiking go by quickly, and pretty soon we arrived at Mti Mkubwa camp. The site was filled with tents, as well as a strong smell emanating from the sole toilet block at the edge of camp. I would come to remember each campsite but the conditions of their toilets, and how bad they smelt. I soon forgot about the smell though as we saw the amount of work that our porters had already done. In addition to our sleeping tents, they’d erected a “mess tent” that could fill the six of us, and had a large table covered with a cloth and various condiments. The porters themselves had already set up a larger tent that fit the dozen or so of them, in addition to doubling as the cooking tent. Our packs had all been laid next to our tents, and we were introduced to Godfrey, who greeted us with large bowls of hot water and some bars of soap. “Washy washy,” he said, instructing us to wash ourselves before we rested. We thought the six of us would have to share the water, and we started discussing the best way to go about it so the last person wasn’t left with the dregs. Godfrey soon solved that problem by coming out with five more bows, one for each of us. After bathing, there was a pot of hot soup waiting for us in the mess tent, and I felt quite embarrassed. “I thought we booked with a budget company,” I mentioned to the other boys. So did they, it seemed. It did seem unnecessary to have a group of porters carrying all our food, bags, and tents, when we could have capably done it ourselves. But you couldn’t hike the mountain without local guides anyway, and even though we’d already negotiated down the number of porters from thirty-plus to less than twenty, we told ourselves that we were also creating employment for them. Still, I felt like a member of royalty on the mountain (save for the toilet situation lol).
 
The second day saw us hike up beyond the cloud barrier, and over the forest canopy. The shade and murk of the forest gave way to dryer and lower shrub, and soon we were exposed to blue skies and a harsh sun. It felt nice to pause and take in the beauty, slowly and in increments, as we ascended the moorlands to Shira I Camp. From the exertion and the weather, we arrived at camp quite warm, although the buffeting winds arrived soon after the sun set. I could also sense a mild headache during the hike, and my internal debate began on whether to take altitude sickness pills. On the one hand, it was my first time at high elevations, and I wanted to see how far my body could push it. On the other hand, I didn’t want to fail at the mission all because of my ego. I put off decision for another day, and we spent the rest of the day in the mess tent playing card games (and subsequently destroying friendships).

The porters performing a welcome dance for us

The big girl in the background

 
The next few days and hikes passed by with little fanfare, and our hikes were filled with a mix of banter and philosophical conversation. I was mildly surprised to wake up and find that our campsite had been completely rimed with frost. It only took a tiny bit of sun for it all to melt away quickly, however. Another welcome surprise was having Godfrey knock on our tent each morning, whereby he would serve each of us a hot beverage of our choice while we were still in our tents. Up to now, I had been cocooned in my sleeping bag in nothing but my undies, but each gain in elevation was making me reconsider my pyjama attire.
 
We reached Shira II Camp with only an elevation gain of 300 m in three hours to 3,850m, but each step was certainly getting more painful. My altitude symptoms started becoming more prevalent and spread between all of us, and our guide Alex had to constantly remind us of the five pillars to successfully hiking the mountain: determination, hydration, self-confidence, a positive attitude, and pole pole (meaning “slowly” in English). Our ailments coincided with a cold/flu that was making its way amongst us, as well as some digestive problems that were either due to the altitude, or carried over from the safari. It was some comfort to us that the dropping temperatures and the rising winds were making it more tolerable to frequent the squat pits. For some, however, the smell was too overpowering that they preferred letting loose discreetly along the trail. The cold temperatures were also double-edge, as they could mask the stench but also meant that it was harder to go to the loo in the middle of the night when what was previously in a solid phase had turned liquid.
 
The scenery of each campsite improved upon its predecessor, with the big girl (Mt Kili) getting bigger and more imposing each time. Before long, it was less a prominent mountain and more just a steep vertical wall that we had to power through. The reward at the end of each day was Godfrey’s “washy washy” buckets, and watching the sun set down over the horizon as the cloud layer slowly ascended from beneath us. We were fuelled by deliciously cooked meals, and our positive vibes so far fended off the severe symptoms of altitude. I’d decided though that I didn’t want to risk not making the summit, so I started taking the altitude pills.

 
I felt a sharp drop in temperature on Day 4, as we scended 4,600 m to Lava Tower, a protrusion jutting out even amongst the surrounding rocky slopes. Littered along the route were slick shards of sharp obsidian, unfortunately surrounded by other candy wrappers and plastic bottles that were discarded by less conscientious hikers and porters. That day, even the strenuous uphills weren’t helping my body with generating heat. But it was at this point that we’d reached the beauty of the alpine desert, and boy was it stunning. As it’s name suggested, it was almost as if someone had transplanted the deserts of California or Nevada onto the tallest mountain in Africa. There were plants that were reminiscent of Joshua trees (later I found out they were called Giant Senecio, supposedly endemic only to Kilimanjaro) amongst mini waterfalls fed by melting snowbanks, and these pockets of oases made for a stunning scene. I had the sense that I was in an alien landscape, and for me, that’s what triggers the sense of awe in nature: the feeling of being in a place so foreign that your imagination has never been able to conjure or comprehend. I like this definition of awe and wonder from Lisa Siderisis, a professor at UC Santa Barbara,:

Awe erupts in the presence of phenomena experienced as powerfully vast, overwhelming or incomprehensible. It frequently sets in motion a process of adjustment, an accommodation of one’s mental apparatus to the experience or entity that elicited the awed response. Accommodation can be difficult, even painful. But empirical studies suggest that, when the process occurs, the result is not simply a return to the status quo but a shift in one’s perspective.

 
What was also inspiring to me was the idea that even in this stark desert landscape, where even the bulk of clouds dare not linger long or are quickly asked to move on, such uniquely flora could not only survive but also thrive. I soon forgot the symptoms of altitude (okay I admit it, the pills were working), and I was flooded with a sense of gratefulness for my company of friends, the cheeriness of the guides and porters, the spectacular scenery, and overall the opportunity to be on this expedition.

 
On the fifth day, we departed from the beautiful Baranco Camp, where the previous night we were able to spot the lights of the town of Moshi below. For the first time on the trip, the wind woke me up several times that night as it caused our tent to flap and fret in agitation throughout our rest. I still would have preferred that though to the complaints of the guys in the other tent, which included uncontrollable farting from co-campers, nocturnal nature calls in the middle of the cold night, infectious colds, and of course, snoring. Somehow, despite our best attempts at “washy washy”, a black grime had accumulated on all our fingernails, and the toilets were evolving into much direr states. It didn’t help too that the holes into the ground were about 10 x 10 cm, which means people were often missing the target and the surrounding tile was covered with a mix of god-knows-what.

The hike up the Baranco wall was perhaps the most technically challenging of the whole trip, and involved some scrambling and some steeper drops. I wish I could describe the danger of going around a corner on a cliff, where the edge of the path was thin enough that we had to physically hug the rock face to get around it. But we were doing this with daypacks, while our porters were hauling not only their own personal gear but also gas tanks, camp chairs, and tables. The day also involved deep descents into troughs and valleys followed by steep ascents to end at Karanga camp. Previously we had been approaching from the north-west, whereas now we were camping on the south-east side of the mountain. I don’t know how much this change of aspect affected the weather (and I’m sure the altitude had something to do with it as well, naturally), but it felt like the cold was really biting into our core heat, the winds were blowing ever stronger, and the town we had seen the previous day was now conclusively obscured by clouds.

Up the Baranco Wall

See the moving ants crawling up the wall

The cheerfulness was starting to crack and give way to wariness—did we really know what we were doing? Were we at all prepared for the summit push? The next morning was certainly more subdued as we hiked up into the morning fog to our last and final camp. I don’t know how much the thick fog had to do with subduing the mood, or maybe it was the cold hardening the muscles around our mouths, but the ambience of the hike was noticeable reserved. It felt like I was surrounded by white walkers from Game of Thrones, regardless of whether they were porters or clients, all slowly crawling their way up into invisibility.
 
The day’s hike in these conditions was not very long, only 4 km, but the cold really seeped into my bones. It was an incessant uphill on this alpine desert, but this time the vegetation had completely disappeared and had given way to scree fields of shale. With each step, the visibility worsened considerably, although the plastic littering situation remained the same on the trails, and the smell of urea and defecation worsened. We arrived at Barafu Base Camp at around lunch time, and whereas previously our tents had been erected on flat or gently sloping ground, this time they were perched on rocky outcrops. These were like little shelves along the barren slopes of outcrops, and were surrounded by treacherous piles of used toilet paper and pee-stained dirt.

Like ghouls

Just after lunch, the three guides entered the mess tent to hold a briefing. At this point, their joviality was put aside, and their instructions were delivered in a sombre tone. Throughout the previous nights, they’d checked our oxygen levels and we’d have to recite them for him to record, even as they dropped below 85%. Today, however, he covered each reading on our fingers, and didn’t disclose what the oximeters revealed. We were told what to wear, and what to expect for the summit push that would start around midnight. Their instruction was clear: we were to nap now after lunching; we’d be awoken for dinner; we would nap again until around 11.30 pm and then have a bowl of porridge; and then the push would begin. The gravity of their intention was clear, and we had to remind ourselves of why we were here in the first place, and of the goal that we ultimately wanted to achieve.

Time to listen up

 
I felt anxious as I tried to nap, and tried listening to some folk music to wind me down, but to no avail. After dinner, the fog had made itself at home and settled inside each cranny. The visibility was so bad that combined with the rocks, it was too dangerous to even dare a trip to the toilets. Not only was the terrain treacherous in the fog, but even with our headlamps there was a real risk that we’d get lost on the steep mountainside trying to find the way to or from the toilets.
 
I was fortunately able to sleep after dinner, and was woken up before midnight to surprisingly clear skies, and much improved visibility. The fog had completely lifted, and a radiant moon stood out amongst the shimmering stars. While we re-checked our water bottles and adjusted our packs, we could already see a constellation of headlamps snaking their way both beneath and above us, like a caravan of satellites etching their way along the mountainside. We soon joined their ranks, making our way on the difficult ascent up switchbacks of loose gravel.
 
It was a hard hike, sure, especially with the quick gain in elevation and the loose rock. However, there was nothing technical about it, and I had done a lot more harder hikes previously. So I was surprised to find myself feeling quickly tired by the effort. We gained height quickly, and overtook a lot of groups, especially the bigger ones that had upwards of ten hikers in one party. Several times we saw people crying or vomiting on the side of the trail, but I think we wanted to preserve our energy and didn’t want to waste time staring. And even for the quick-ish pace we were setting, it was still a long, slow slog up the trail, awash with soft moonlight, and looking up at stars we had no knowledge how to read.
 
We were all feeling it, and at one point, the guy in front of me started dragging his trekking poles, and then shortly collapsed onto his knees. He was asked to hike at the very front, just behind our lead guide. Finally, we reached Stella Point, where the landscape flattened out in front of us. The faintest light was visible on the horizon, and Godfrey took out a thermos and shared hot mugs of lemon ginger tea. I was so elated, and started hugging everyone, while greedily gulping down the hot drink. Wide smiles were pasted on all our faces, and I thought that now would be the time to relax, to enjoy the sunrise. Then Omari told us that this was just a rest point, and we all had another hour to go before the summit. Worse still, one of us was starting to show more acute symptoms of altitude sickness, and was invited to turn back and descend to base camp as soon as possible.
 
We had to protest. We didn’t come this far—an hour out from the summit—only to be turned back. We could do it, and we convinced them that we were all capable. We were so close! But after continuing on for a few minutes, there was no denying that he couldn’t make it farther, and the safest option was for him to return. I think this was the point where I was the most emotional. I felt the tears welling as I hugged him goodbye, and told him that to even get here was an achievement. We all felt the heartbreak along with the fatigue, but the guides didn’t let us dally. “Go on, keep going!” they urged us. They themselves didn’t want to spend any more time on the ridge than they had to.
 
After the emotion subsided, the pressure in my temples started to build. First a dull ache, but growing at the same time as the sun rose. Half of the water in my bottle had frozen, and I had to use my elbow to break the layer that had sealed within the mouthpiece. Finally, finally, I saw the silhouette of the monument in the distance, and the sun revealed a desolate landscape around us. On one side, the rocky, grim crater beneath lay without any signs of life. On the other, there were strange glacial walls, which melted to the impenetrable layer of clouds beneath. Chris and I were lucky enough to be one of the first parties to reach the peak, and we held the scene in quiet and weary appreciation while we waited for the others to arrive. After taking our pictures at the peak, the area soon became a Disneyland queue and the jostling for poses began at the monument. Even with my head pounding, we could have stayed there a longer time, but our guides were insistent, “We have to move, let’s keep going.” Another one in the group was specifically targeted, “You need to go down, now.”

With my headache at Defcon 5 and the sun boring holes in my eyes, we made the descent down the scree fields. It was steep and slippery enough that some other hikes were skiing down, using the edges of their hiking boots and twisting around their trekking poles to brake. The descent I daresay was even more physically taxing for me, and I said a prayer or two for me knees. I was so incredibly tired and nearing the end of my water reserves, and I wanted to twist my own head off my neck. Upon returning to base camp, I was so exhausted and hurting that I lost my appetite. I looked at my watch, and couldn’t believe it was only 9am. It was only a 5 km hike total over 1,000 m elevation, and yet we were all knocked out.
 
We didn’t have time to rest, as the symptoms of some of our members were concerning of us that we had to descend as quickly to sea level as possible. We were presented with the option of turning the two day descent to the bottom into one day, and eager to get off the mountain, we took on the challenge. On the way down as we destroyed all the soft tissue around our knees and ankles, we daydreamed about hot showers and soft beds. Descending 4,300 km in 13 km under a searing sun sapped us all we had left, and to motivate each other, we had to fantasise about the familiar comfort foods we would destroy when we were back in Arusha city. (Spoiler: the only thing we could find was Pizza Hut.) The person having the best time was Mikey, whose cheer was hard to extinguish. On the way down, he kept raising his leg to fart at me. Once, twice, then on the third time, he turned around with a forlorn look on his face. “Oh, no.” Turned out that he’d emitted more than air, and he soon became the person having the worst time on the mountain.

 
After reaching the bottom, we somehow managed to safely make it back on the highway in one piece thanks to our berserk driver, and I had one of the best sleeps I’d had in a while. We woke up near lunchtime and roamed near some local markets, before retreating to another Airbnb mansion in the countryside to recuperate. It had been an amazing and emotional adventure, and one that I don’t know I’d want to do again. While I’m writing this, I thought about how I’d never felt the urge to cry on a hike before. But the more I think about it, the more I’m drawn to do it again. The pains were sharper, but the elation was equally starker, and I long for another chance to have the sensation of being in an alien and unconceivable landscape.

 
Completing Kilimanjaro was the highlight of my Tanzania trip, but it wouldn’t be as adventurous and enjoyable had it not been for the company of my friends, old and new, and the organisation of our tour company. We got along so well that they took us out the following night to a bistro then a nightclub, where we partied with them until nearly four or five in the morning (stopping along the way for some potato chips, of course). Thus ended another great trip with the boys in ritual style, with stronger bonds, heart-warming memories, and the faintest trail of a hangover.