No Hurry in Africa

by Brendan Clerkin

  CHAPTER 13

  NO PICNIC ON MOUNT KILIMANJARO

  VERY MANY AFRICANS, including many who live within sight of the mighty Kilimanjaro, have never experienced snow close up. Mwangangi was one of them.

  ‘Brendan, you know when your house is covered in snow in Ireland… well, how do you breathe?’ he asked, when I told him that I would be climbing Mount Kilimanjaro soon.

  I assured him it was not a problem. It might be more of a problem near the top of Kilimanjaro however, at nearly 20,000 feet.

  In the ancient world, the Greek geographer Ptolemy included a mountain of snow in one of his maps roughly coinciding to Mount Kilimanjaro’s location. The ancient Greeks were known to trade along the East African coast, and may have heard stories of its existence. The Romans even surmised a mountain such as Mount Kilimanjaro would have to exist as the source of the Nile, though of course this theory was proved to be inaccurate in the nineteenth century. It was not until the 1840s that a missionary named Johannes Rebmann was the first white person to set eyes on Mount Kilimanjaro, back in 1848. The Royal Geographical Society in London refused to believe his tale of snow so near the equator.

  It was not until 1897 that Mount Kilimanjaro was finally conquered for the first time, by the German explorer, Hans Meyer, and his local Chagga tribe guide, John Lauwo. Germans played a large part in exploring this area. The map of Kenya had to be redrawn when the mountain was ceded to the then German colony of Tanganyika by the British at the behest of Queen Victoria; she had made a present of it to her grandson the Kaiser. With its permanent icing of snow, it did look a bit like a birthday cake, I suppose. A celebration was held in 1997 marking the centenary of the first ascent. The guest of honour was none other than John Lauwo, who was by then 118 years old.

  Around the beginning of March, I joined a group of ten Irish people on a climb of Africa’s highest mountain, hoping to emulate the feat of Meyer and Lauwo. I met up with the ten in Nairobi, a motley crew of all ages from north and south of the Border. An Irish Army officer named Dermot would be leading the group on the climb. He was a veteran of UN peacekeeping assignments. Among our group of ten was a gentleman named Pat Close, an engaging character in his sixtieth year who had been a teacher alongside an uncle of mine at a school in the Glens of Antrim before they both retired, yet another person whom I encountered in Africa that was known to a member of my family.

  They were raising money on behalf of a Cork-based charity called Childaid, who were supporting a variety of health and education projects in Kenya and Tanzania. For the first couple of days, we were taken to see Childaid’s activities on the ground. In the sub-dickensian smelly slum of Mukuru, they were amazed by the resilience and good humour of the children in school. As a teacher, Pat was greatly impressed by the children’s willingness to learn and by the good discipline evident in classes of fifty or sixty pupils.

  ‘These kids know the value of education. If only we could export these levels of motivation and discipline back to Ireland!’ he said wistfully.

  At a nearby school for the disabled we called into, Pat was even more impressed by the children. The disabled, both physical and mental, in many African communities are shunned by the able-bodied; the children often neglected by their parents. Dermot was reduced to tears at one point. A tiny girl in a wheelchair— she was about ten—suddenly burst into song. Little Catherine had a sweet voice and a huge personality to match it, expressing such joy through song despite her broken body.

  We met up with Sr. Mary, the Dublin-born Mercy nun who had informed me before Christmas about the climb, at a street refuge for alcoholics and drug addicts that she runs. A remarkable octogenarian named Sr. Anne, who lives with Sr. Mary, was busy teaching recovering addicts to produce drawings and sculpted figures, which are later sold in their gallery. A teenager high on some exotic substance was roaming around, shouting and roaring. Sr. Anne carried on with her coaching, oblivious to any danger.

  ‘She’s retired, you know,’ Sr. Mary reminded me.

  Sr. Mary herself is a pretty gutsy character. She told us about a recent run-in she had with the authorities.

  ‘It was the usual sort of thing,’ she started casually. ‘Last week, we were protesting against a government official who was trying to grab a piece of land unlawfully beside one of our training centres on the edge of Mukuru slum. They sent in the riot police who fired tear gas at us. I stood my ground, unlike the big burly guy from Northern Ireland beside me who bolted for cover. You’d have thought he would have been used to that sort of thing,’ she said, taking a gentle dig at the six Ulstermen in the contingent, but even the three from west Belfast took it in good heart.

  My anticipation was growing of the climb ahead of us during those couple of days. Being in Kenya at the time did not make for ideal preparation. For instance, I had trouble obtaining the necessary equipment. You have to allow for all conditions on the ascent—from the hot African sun to tropical rainforest to arctic blizzards. I had brought a small amount of gear with me from Ireland, I purchased whatever I could find in Nairobi, and I borrowed some things from Fr. Paul who had climbed Mount Kenya. I picked up a few items including a spare head-torch that some of the Childaid group had brought, and hired a couple of items at the base of the mountain. None of it was top of the range. I hoped it would prove to be adequate.

  My fitness preparation was not ideal either. Unlike the others, I had no gym or swimming pool to train in. Though of course I cycled everywhere—this, I hoped, would stand me in good stead. I had talked to a few people who had scaled Mount Kenya, as well as a friend in Ireland who had attempted Mount Kilimanjaro itself. They were very helpful in giving advice on the preparations required, advising me to avoid common mistakes.

  ‘The biggest mistake is to rush it,’ Fr. Paul explained. ‘Lack of oxygen is the greatest problem, no matter how fit you are. You have to try to avoid altitude sickness—nausea, extreme fatigue, nose-bleeds, physical collapse—so be sure to take it slowly, to keep the heart rate down.’

  ‘Drink plenty of water. And keep a bit of chocolate for the very top,’ added Fr. Jimmy, helpfully. ‘Remember, you need the energy to get back down again!’

  He had successfully climbed Mount Kenya too. What they did not tell me, but what I found out from Dermot, was that, on average, 25 people each year die in attempting the slightly higher Kilimanjaro.

  Mount Kilimanjaro is just over 200km southeast of Nairobi as the crow flies. It lies just across the border in Tanzania. On our journey out, the African wild animals were causing all sorts of excitement to the others in the group, as giraffes, baboons, zebras, elephants, and ostriches all made an appearance. Rather sadly, the carcasses of cattle, and in one instance a dead zebra close to the road, pointed to the effects of the drought and famine.

  A short distance over the border inside Tanzania, our minibus became stranded in a muddy seasonal river that did not have a proper bridge (the rains, such as they were, had arrived in these parts the previous week). Our Kenyan driver called out for help to several Maasai herdsmen in their distinctive red blankets sitting along the bank. The Maasai are found in numbers along both sides of the border. After a short time pushing and heaving and revving, we were free. One of our number, a forty-something Belfast man named Dr. Shane, with his characteristic northern wit, shouted down to me,

  ‘Who needs a tractor? After that feat, Brendan, those lads are better than tractors. Maasai Fergusons, that’s what they are!’

  Dr. Shane was proving to be our resident comedian on the trip. He roared a variety of funny remarks out the bus window all day at random passers-by. An odd one was not so clever.

  He spotted monkeys at a village where we had stopped for a break.

  ‘Look boys. There’s monkeys,’ he pointed over. ‘And there’s some furry things climbing the trees.’

  A little further on at a checkpoint, he shouted rather too loudly for comfort,

  ‘Vive la révolution, down with the police!’

  Th
ankfully, they gave the crazy mzungu the benefit of the doubt. He playfully tried to grab the rifle off a soldier at one point. A frown of concern appeared on Dermot’s face. Pat and I were generally amused, though more by his wit than by his current antics. His doctorate, incidentally, was thought to be in veterinary science.

  In Moshi, the nearest town to the base of the mountain, we met up with our guides, cooks, and porters—all seventeen of them. The Tanzanian authorities insist that climbers must be accompanied by official guides, to reduce the possibility of casualties on the climb, while simultaneously creating employment in the area. It is the porters’ job to transport all the rucksacks, provisions, stretchers and other equipment up the mountain. These porters are young local Tanzanians, thin as whippets, who are acclimatised to mountaineering at altitude; they are indispensable. They carry up these huge loads on their backs and on top of their heads, racing past the gasping climbers at twice their speed. However, the porters do not climb right to the top.

  We bonded with our porters and guides straight away. In Moshi, Dr. Shane and the other guys from west Belfast stocked up with a couple of crates of ‘Kilimanjaro’ beer, adding to their supplies of Tusker beer imported from Kenya. They insisted on sharing their drink with the porters on the bus. A couple of our porters were conked out asleep from the effects of alcohol by the time we reached the base of the mountain where the climb begins.

  We planned to trek up the ‘Marangu Route’ on the south face of the mountain. The first day’s climb was not too strenuous, on a fairly decent trail through the banana plantations and up into the rainforest. It took over six hours. We were deliberately taking our time right from the start.

  ‘Polé, polé, urged Frederick, the tall, lean Tanzanian in his forties who was our chief guide. ‘Slowly, slowly. Take it easy. This has nothing to do with fitness. If you feel ill further up, we will take you back down. Don’t be like the Japanese climbers either. They are all so determined to reach the peak that they crawl up on their hands and knees vomiting as they go. That’s risking serious long-term damage to their lungs and brains from the effects of altitude.’

  He made a crazy motion with his index finger.

  ‘More than half of attempts fail to reach the summit anyway,’ Frederick continued in his perfect English. ‘Older people often do better than younger fitter climbers like yourself, Brendan. The key is to go slowly—right from the very bottom.’

  He told us he was planning to retire soon; he had climbed the mountain over eighty times.

  We had perfect weather to enjoy the lush vegetation, the many waterfalls, the soaring raptors overhead and the inquisitive monkeys. There were leopards around there, but they kept their distance. We sat down on rocks after our long walk just before night fell, and savoured the view of a volcanic crater and the flatlands below stretching out to the horizon. Everybody was in fine form when we checked into Mandara Hut, the rather basic A-frame wooden chalets where we would spend the first night.

  ‘We’ve been lucky with the weather so far; a day in the rainforest and no rain,’ I said, as we tucked into a spaghetti dinner.

  Pat, who proved to be a fount of knowledge on most things, agreed.

  ‘February to early March is probably one of the best times of the year to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, if you want the most favourable weather conditions; the monsoon rains usually start later in March,’ he informed us.

  Another eight hours on day two took us up out of the forest into a terrain of giant heather, and then onto open undulating moorland as the vegetation petered out—except for some weird cactus-shaped plants and colourful alpine flowers.

  ‘They are unique to this mountain,’ claimed Frederick as he identified each type.

  The last section of the day’s climb was seriously steep. The only fauna at this altitude were a few large raven-like birds, and some multi-coloured rodents who joined us for dinner in Horombo Hut—even though they had not been invited. We were now at an altitude of about 12,000 feet and the air was very thin. The smokers in the group, like Dermot, were having great difficulty keeping their cigarettes alight because of the reduction in oxygen.

  ‘The mountain is very shy,’ he quipped, as he tried to light up.

  This was a reference to the peak, which was still veiled in cloud; we had yet to set eyes on the top.

  We spent the next day at Horombo Hut in order to acclimatise and help avoid altitude sickness, which is caused by a lack of oxygen to the body. This was a very necessary precaution. One or two in the group were already complaining of headaches, breath-lessness, and dizziness. Having enjoyed perfect trekking weather up to now—dry and overcast—it poured on the third morning.

  In the course of the afternoon, the cloud cleared for our first, fantastic, trembling glimpse of what lay ahead of us, and all that we were about to climb the following day. As it had stopped raining, we sat chatting on rocks outside, and we got to know a group of young English lads, as well as three attractive Iranian girls who were climbing Kilimanjaro with a middle-aged man whom they described as their ‘trainer.’ The Iranians had virtually no English; their trainer was fairly fluent. He asked where we were from.

  ‘Ireland,’ Dermot answered.

  ‘Aah… Bobby Sands!’ the trainer beamed radiantly.

  Dr. Shane looked perplexed.

  ‘That’s right, sure Bobby Sands became a bit of a hero in Iran,’ Pat piped up. ‘And the Ayatollah named the street in Tehran where the British embassy was located “Bobby Sands Avenue,” isn’t that right?’

  ‘The British, they were not amused,’ the trainer laughed. On the second night at Horombo Hut, I passed the time drinking beer with Dr. Shane and the others. We were marvelling at the spectacular lightning storm going on, not around us but below us. We were by now so high, we were actually above the storm. The other nationalities were aghast at our drinking and having a good time that high up the mountain. Some were radiating looks of disapproval.

  ‘Nothing’s going to stop them getting to the top,’ Dr. Shane hollered, opening another bottle of ‘Kilimanjaro’ beer. ‘Especially those Japanese climbers. Attitude sickness, that’s what they have!’

  I did not sleep that second night at Horombo Hut; it had more to do with the altitude than with the drink. Dermot and Pat were indicating they were suffering from insomnia as well.

  Our first target on day four was Kibo Hut, which lies at over 16,000 feet. The weather began kindly enough. We put on extra layers of clothing and plodded onwards and upwards ever closer to the ‘roof of Africa.’ By now, the landscape had been drained of colour, was strewn with volcanic rubble and had become desolate, bare, barren tundra in appearance. The path was rougher and became even steeper than before, and as we passed a landmark called ‘Last Water Point,’ our guide, Frederick, reminded us that our bottled water supplies were likely to freeze from here on. The wind grew and sleet developed, crashing into our faces. After around eight hours trekking, we reached Kibo Hut in the late afternoon; it proved to be an austere T-shaped barn. This was base camp. There were two dorms full of double bunks and little else, and a ‘long drop’ toilet some distance away through the bitter cold. Here in Kibo, we would hope to recuperate for a few hours before beginning the assault on the summit at midnight.

  At 16,000 feet, it was far too high up to allow us any decent sleep. Rather, we dozed fitfully and drank cups of soup and tea, and waited for the off. Everyone was still in the same high spirits that had prevailed throughout the week. But I found the prospect of the final push beginning to feel daunting. People were becoming more quiet and thoughtful—even Dr. Shane.

  We set out for the summit in the pitch black at midnight.

  ‘Make sure you apply plenty of sun cream,’ was the last order Frederick gave to us.

  Hearts sank when we emerged from the hut into a blizzard.

  ‘We’ll risk it,’ Frederick declared.

  The sight of a porter with a stretcher added to the chill.

  ‘For God’s sake, the
man has done this eighty times; he knows what he’s doing,’ Dr. Shane remarked, encouragingly.

  And so we set off, in a bizarre procession in single file, with each of us shining a head torch. I was looking down towards the ground lest my face got blasted with snow, literally following in the footsteps of the man in front. We were zigzagging up a viciously steep scree slope, made doubly slippery by a foot or more of fresh soft snow that came up to my knee. The ski poles that we had hired in Moshi were proving essential.

  ‘It’s a good thing we brought them,’ Pat remarked. ‘I nearly wasn’t going to.’

  Progress was painfully slow. Every step involved a huge effort. I put my boot down hoping to gain a couple of feet, only to slither backwards.

  ‘Polé, polé,’ said Frederick unnecessarily from time to time. How he knew where he was going in a blizzard on this dark featureless mountainside, I will never know.

  The idea of a midnight start was, firstly, to arrive at the summit in time to experience a dramatic sunrise; and secondly, because in theory the snow is more likely to be frozen crisp at night, making progress easier. The fresh snowfall had put paid to the second reason. We trudged on, hour after hour, stopping eventually for a twenty-minute rest around 18,000 feet high at ‘Hans Meyer Cave,’ named after the explorer.

  ‘This is the same altitude as Everest Base Camp,’ Pat informed us, sipping warm water from his flask.

  ‘No wonder we are wrecked,’ Dr. Shane replied.

  ‘The charge of the Night Brigade,’ I suggested.

  But nobody was in the mood for irony. Even Dr. Shane’s wise cracks had dried up. Our luck with the weather had run out. I felt we were going over the top in a futile effort.

  ‘Sometimes the mountain just beats you; it conquers you,’ Dermot told us.

  It was intensely cold. I had seven layers of clothes on, and I was still frozen to the bone. Actually, I was wearing my Dunnes Stores vest and whatever random clothes I could find in Kenya where there is, unsurprisingly, no such thing as thermals for sale. All the others in our group had really expensive professional thermal alpine mountain gear on, all Gore-Tex and Brasher boots— and they seemed as cold as I was.