The extra risk factors on this trip were my dad and George, who were both in their fifties and had never climbed a mountain before. Rob was a full-time fitness coach and in fantastic shape so I wasn’t too concerned about him, but I needed to watch the other two. The unknown element was the altitude and no-one knows why some people suffer greatly while others simply shrug it off. While Dad and George were in good shape physically and had put in the time training before the trip, I planned to keep a sharp eye on them, especially on our summit day, when we would need to ascend over 1100 metres in one day. Actually, Dad was lucky to be alive after rolling his car returning from work only six weeks before we were due to leave. In true cowboy fashion he shrugged it off and resumed his training regime of 20-kilometre walks with three milk
bottles full of water in his backpack.
If you have never been to Africa it’s hard to describe with words the sensory overload we experienced as we stepped out of the airport doors. The first thing that hit me was the heat and the sticky humidity. Sweat started to pour from my face and within seconds my shirt was soaked through. Looking around I noticed that all of the local men were wearing trousers and long sleeve shirts and it baffled me how acclimatised to the heat they were. Then the smells began to break through the fog of heat and enter my nose. It’s a scent of dust, unwashed humanity and an ancient land all blended into one. Every developing nation has its own particular smell but the scents of Africa are my favourites because they remind me of my desert home directly before a monsoon rain. The smell of dust in the air hours before the yearly rains fell was an incredible scent and it brought with it a sense of comfort and relief that the drought was broken and that the green grasslands were soon to grow. In Tanzania, as we loaded into our taxi, the similar smell didn’t bring with it the knowledge of breaking drought however, it carried with it the hopes and dreams of the millions of Africans living on a dollar a day and working hard for a better life.
Moshi brought that better life to many thousands of locals due to the booming climbing and trekking industry. Tourists like us brought our money into the country to climb a mountain hiring locals as guides and porters, stimulating the local economy. We drove through the townships towards the centre of Moshi with the Jumbo song playing loud enough for the people on the street to sing along. We were all glued to our windows taking in our surroundings before pulling up at the large entrance of the Zara campgrounds, where we would be spending our first few days. Zara was a local logistics company that arranged Kilimanjaro expeditions as well as safaris and excursions into other parts of Africa. They also acted as the local operator for many western companies that offered Kili trips. What can sometimes happen is that a person will book a trip online with a company from their own country at an inflated price, and upon arrival get given the very same trip I had organised locally at a much cheaper rate.
We would only be there a few days to prep our gear, meet our local guide and porters then get going. The camp was bustling with activity; climbers and trekkers from all over the world were either getting ready to depart or had just arrived back from the mountain. The place had a great energy about it and I couldn’t wait to get going. We were settled into some basic accommodation containing a mattress covered in a mosquito net and a small fan to combat the stifling heat. Malaria was a real concern in Tanzania and the other guys, including Dad, had arranged prescriptions of Doxycycline before leaving Australia and would now take their dosage of one tablet per day while they were here to fend off the infection. I had spent six months on Doxy while in East Timor and I knew all of the drug’s side effects and decided I’d go without it this time around. Doxy makes you very prone to the sun and can cause nausea and also vomiting in some cases, so I preferred to just take extra precautions against mosquitos for this trip. I would keep my arms and legs covered, sleep under a net and use spray when they were at their worst.
Zara camp supplied meals for everyone each day and we all sat down in our small team, enjoying our first dinner together in Africa. Dad and George were from two different worlds but they were getting along like old friends. Dad grew up on the land, working with his hands his entire life, and George was big in business in Sydney, owning restaurants and managing real estate. It did not matter what they did for a living, here they were in Africa, eating the same food and about to climb the same mountain; they were equals. I was listening in to their conversation as I devoured my dinner and George was explaining to Dad how affectionate his wife got when he went away and Dad replied, ‘Who with, mate?’ George stared at Dad for a few seconds, not sure how to react before they both burst out laughing and I joined in. George said, ‘You are different Clive, but I like you.’ The team was bonding together well.
The following two days were slightly chaotic, searching for George’s bags that didn’t turn up, and finally tracking them down at the airport ourselves. We also met our local porter team and lead guide who would show us the way, carry our cooking equipment, extra gear, and of course the toilet. We opted for our own toilet to save us using the often crowded communal camp toilets on Kili and to give another local a job. Having a toilet for our convenience was roughly $150, and although being allocated the job of toilet porter is by no means glamorous, it’s still work, and it was great to have another smiling face along on the climb. After some research, we had decided on the Rongai route for our ascent, a trail that begins in the north-east, and seemed to have retained its sense of unspoilt wilderness. It’s a less crowded route that joins a popular route called Marangu after about five days. Once all preparations were complete we loaded into a four-wheel drive and departed Moshi, bound for Kili.
Pole pole was a saying we would all know well by the end of the trip – as we stepped off on the trail the porters, all noticing my eagerness, yelled out together ‘pole pole’, meaning slowly slowly. This was actually the key to every mountaineering or endurance expedition; go slow and steady, conserve energy and you will get there safely. It also aids with acclimatising correctly, especially on a climb like this one with minimal trekking days and high altitude, it’s critical we acclimatise as best we can. It was fantastic to have Dad next to me as we trekked along and we finally had a chance to catch up on years of stories that we never shared. He was in good shape, easily keeping pace with me and not losing his breath at all during our conversations as we made our way towards the mountain.
The scenery along the Rongai route was amazing, starting off in cypress plantations and in fairly open country, it soon transformed as we moved through montane forests. The colobus monkeys kept us entertained along the way and Dad, who had only seen kangaroos most of his life, was loving it. The first day was a short one, five hours of easy trekking before we arrived at our first camp called Simba camp at 2626 metres. The trip really was a luxury one for me after battling through conditions on Denali and Vinson Massif. As we arrived at camp our tents were already erected, some warm water was ready for us to wash our faces in and there was fresh popcorn. I couldn’t believe the trouble the local guide and porters had gone to to give us some lovely comforts.
After a nice dinner prepared by our cook we all settled into our tents to rest. Dad and I were sharing a tent together and as we chatted into the night, we would regularly erupt into bouts of laughter. The guide must have thought we were losing our minds but we were simply best mates catching up and sharing funny stories. The following day the scenery changed into moorland as the altitude climbed higher and we left the forests behind. Kilimanjaro is made up of three volcanic cones, Kibo, Mawenzi and Shira. As the trail narrowed it veered towards the jagged peaks of Mawenzi before we arrived at Kikelewa camp at 3679 metres, after a six and half hour day.
Dad was in a great mood after another solid trekking day, George and Rob were also smiling and everyone was adapting to the trail and the altitude well. Dad was stirring George up as I sat down for dinner saying, ‘Mate, I swear I saw the guy who carries the toilet making our soup.’ George looked worried before Dad burst out laugh
ing, just in time for the hot soup to arrive from the cook. George was very tentative with his first spoonful of the potato soup, that actually looked almost identical to the carrot soup of the night before.
Day three was a steep ascent of four hours, leaving the forest and moorlands behind and emerging into the alpine desert. We arrived shortly after lunch to camp three at Mawenzi Tarn at 4300 metres and situated in the shadow of the magnificent Mawenzi Peak. We took the afternoon to explore, rest and acclimatise. Soup for the night was onion soup, and as the cook left us with a smile on his face, we all burst out laughing – it was most definitely the same soup every night but we played along and enjoyed its nourishing warmth none the less.
The first three days of the climb readied the legs for day four, which was a ten-hour ascent from Mawenzi Tarn to Kibo Hut at 4700 metres. The route was desert-like, dry and inhospitable, gradually climbing higher and over the saddle formed between Mawenzi and Kibo peaks. The consolation for the effort was the spectacular views of Kibo and the valley stretching out below us. We arrived at Kibo Hut tired but excited for what lay ahead. From the hut the only way to the summit was literally up: over 1100 metres of ascent between camp four and the highest point in Africa. We were planning to leave for the top at midnight so after a quick wash, a hot meal and plenty of water we crawled into our sleeping bags to grab a few hours of sleep before show time.
…
It was bitterly cold that night and sleep was restless for me. I felt like I had only just shut my eyes before the alarm in my watch told me it was time to get ready. I turned on my headlamp, waking up Dad beside me, and together we pulled on our gear, packed some water and snacks into our packs and stood up outside. Looking up at Kili we couldn’t see much through the darkness but then I noticed the line of headlamps creeping their way up the side of the mountain. There looked to be twenty climbers up on the trail already, and as George and Rob came over to where we were standing staring up I said, ‘Game on lads, let’s go join them.’
It was a slow, steep ascent right from the beginning and it was very cold. I had to keep burying my hands into my pants to warm them up as we went along and I could see that Dad was having issues with his hands as well. This unexpected cold was one of the biggest problems for people with limited experience in the mountains. Only a couple of hours into the climb we were passed by climbers going down, being escorted by their guides, some with obvious hand issues and some stumbling and incoherent from the altitude. I felt the effects of the altitude as we made our way higher in the darkness and as a small headache crept in behind my eyes I made a mental note to keep an eye on George and Dad – this was the danger zone for them.
I was staring at the few metres of illuminated ground from my headlamp for five hours of switchbacks across scree fields and rocky terrain. We made it to the top of the crater rim at Gilman’s Point at 5681 metres and had a good rest and devoured some biscuits before setting off again across friendlier ground towards the summit. The team were doing well, everyone was still focused and feeling strong, even as the light-headedness of the altitude began to affect us all. The glow on the horizon hinted at dawn, and as it slowly lit up the landscape, the balance of power between my lamp and the sun shifted towards the latter. I turned off the artificial torch and was mesmerised by Mother Nature.
Climbers were passing us on their way down in numbers, telling me that the summit was surely within our reach. As we made our steady walk up the final slope it felt like I was in slow motion and I was incapable of moving my legs any faster. Almost as if I was drunk, the altitude had slowed my mind down and I felt like I was drifting along in a dream. I had been at altitude many times before, but even I hadn’t climbed to almost 6000 metres in a four-and-a-half-day push; we were all under the influence. We crested the rise together and in front of us, nestled among a group of climbers, was the summit and the infamous sign reading:
CONGRATULATIONS YOU ARE NOW AT UHURU PEAK TANZANIA
5895 METRES
AFRICA’S HIGHEST POINT, WORLD’S HIGHEST
FREESTANDING MOUNTAIN
ONE OF THE WORLD’S LARGEST VOLCANOES
WELCOME
…
We had made it. The view from the top was breathtaking, stretching as far as the eyes could see, and bathed in the early hours of sunrise was Africa. Together we hugged and shuffled our way into the group to get our very own picture under the sign to prove we had done it. I pulled Dad in beside me and I told him something I had never openly told him before, ‘I love you, Dad.’ He turned to me and said something in return that he had never openly told me either, ‘I love you too mate.’ We crushed each other in a hug as tears swelled in my eyes and once we had taken plenty of photos it was time to start thinking about the return journey.
The summit was only the halfway point so after we had refuelled with snacks and rehydrated with water, we turned from the top and joined in the line of climbers making their way to the bottom. The descent was tough on the legs but the consolation was that the rising sun was warming us up. Special care needed to be taken over the scree fields, especially when fatigued; this was an unroped descent and a slip or fall down the rocky face could end in tragedy. Nine hours after first staring up at the line of head torches at midnight we walked back to our tents at Kibo Hut. We had stood on the summit of Kilimanjaro and the highest point on the African continent. I was so proud of my dad; he struggled in places and was obviously working hard but never once looked like giving up.
We ate a nice hot meal prepared for us by the cook before packing up and starting a further descent down to Horombo Hut. It took us four hours of steady downhill trekking on tired legs before we could finally call an end to our thirteen-hour summit day. We all sat together enjoying our onion/carrot/potato soup of the day and giggled to ourselves before crawling into our sleeping bags for a well-earned sleep. The following day, on stiff legs, we made the trek down the Marangu route almost 20 kilometres to the gate at its entrance and the end of our expedition. We were issued with a summit certificate from the park headquarters then loaded into our vehicle and made our way back to Moshi.
…
I walked through the dirt streets of Moshi the following day taking a few hours for myself away from the team. I loved the feeling of being alone and vulnerable in a place like Africa, it gave me a heightened sense of things. I’d notice the kids playing with plastic bags, the street dogs lying under the shade of a verandah and I’d notice the toothless smiles on the faces of the locals as I walked by. Africa is humbling to say the least. In my opinion, everyone should spend some time walking the streets of a developing country, it will give you an appreciation for the simple things we take for granted like running water, air conditioning or an unlimited food supply. It will also put a human face to the commercials we typically flick through that ask for donations for another poverty-stricken community in a faraway place. Those places are very real and they have very real people living in them doing their best to survive.
I turned a corner and was enveloped by a gust of wind carrying red dust and the scent of the desert. I closed my eyes, breathed in deep and thought of home. I opened them again, smiled and started walking back towards my dad, my friends and my flight home. Along the way a tune entered my mind and I began to sing that old Swahili song, ‘Jambo Bwana’.
CHAPTER 13
BUSINESS OR ADVENTURE
…
I had completed five out of the six summits I had attempted and I was planning to attempt Elbrus again on my way to Nepal to climb Mount Everest. During the fundraising event, one of the highlights of the night was a pledge of $50,000 for Everest, with me completing 100 push-ups shirtless to lock it in. The reality of the pledge and how events unfolded were slightly more depressing.
When the time came to pay for the Mount Everest expedition, I travelled to the building of the CEO who had made the pledge, ready to tell my stories and pick up the cheque that he told me would be waiting. Once I was called into his office though, some
thing had changed. He was no longer the friendly and cheerful guy full of champagne and bravado, he was now all business.
He told me fairly directly that he would no longer be able to give me the sponsorship, and without even saying sorry, simply acted like it was no big deal. I was in total shock and didn’t know what to say. I tried to protest by saying, ‘You promised in front of 400 people, how can you go back on you word?’ But it didn’t make a shred of difference to him. I would learn repeatedly in the coming years that money is never guaranteed until it is cleared and in the bank, it doesn’t matter what comes out of someone’s mouth. John was as upset as I was but it didn’t seem to come as a big surprise to him. I guess he has been in business long enough to know that people just talk it up sometimes and never deliver.
After realising I had no money in my bank and none due to arrive anytime soon I had a big decision to make. I was contemplating my return to the mines while still training and working at the gym when John and Chris the Greek made a decision for me. They wanted to open a gym of their own in Sydney and would like me to be involved. Once again I was in for a roller-coaster experience, with John leading the way. Of course I agreed to become a partner thinking that at the very least I’d learn a bit about business and be in a position to save money for Everest. Anything was better than going back into the underground hell of a coal mine.
The boys hit the ground running, securing a builder named John as a partner and another guy, Stewart, as an investor and manager. That made up our team of amigos, five guys all keen on health and fitness looking to open our own place. After a thousand meetings ranging from comfortable chats to screaming matches, one trip to China to source gym equipment, three months of pre-sales in shopping centres, long endless nights of building on the site and seven months of waiting, BOX HQ opened in Five Dock in Sydney’s Inner West to a great reception.
One Life One Chance Page 23