Trekking to the ‘roof of Africa’

Mount Kilimanjaro from Moshi, Tanzania. Picture by Muhammad Mahdi Karim Wikimedia Commons

Gisborne homeopath Jan Clare travels to Tanzania and shares her experience of trekking the 8-day Lemosho route on Mount Kilimanjaro. Here’s the first of a series of three stories about her adventure.

The day before I left Moshi to start the long climb to the roof of Africa, I lay in the warm afternoon sun and read Ernest Hemingway’s short story The Snows of Kilimanjaro. Eight days and many steps later, standing at daybreak on the summit “as wide as all the world, great, high, and unbelievably white in the sun . . .” the imagery conveyed was just as vivid as the real thing. Unlike the protagonist in Hemingway’s tale, though, I was alive — just. Those who know the story will remember his fate.

Travelling to Tanzania was the culmination of a long-held ambition to experience world-class homeopathy in practice. Homeopathy for Health in Africa, established in 2008 to treat AIDS patients, was now undertaking multiple additional projects.

I’d been sharing a house in Shantytown, off the Lema Road, travelling all over Moshi and the surrounding countryside to the clinics with homeopaths from Bulgaria, Mexico, the USA, Ireland and Israel, as well as two Swahili undergraduates and a New Zealand colleague.

I’d initially planned to come straight home afterwards, but had been persuaded to extend my sabbatical — maybe the beach at Zanzibar? Nope. A safari? Too tame! The idea of trekking Kilimanjaro was the only thing that frightened and inspired in equal measure. So I knew I had to do it.

There were four other climbers in the group: Malachy and Alan, two Northern Ireland fish and chip shop owners planning to set a record for cooking the highest-ever fish and chips and in the process raise money for The Fisherman’s Mission and a local Tanzanian orphanage; Sara, a British nurse from Abu Dhabi; and Canice, an experienced Irish climber intent on his childhood dream. At the Lush Gardens Business Hotel in Arusha (an establishment reminiscent of faded colonial charm and the quirkiness of Fawlty Towers) we bonded over a beer and our mutual love for takeaways.

Athumani, the head guide, came to the hotel to brief us — 33 years old, with an infectious grin and a ready laugh, he’s a veteran of 186 climbs. One hundred and eighty six. I tried to imagine. Just as impressively, when not being a dad to his two small children, Athumani also runs a small business. And . . . marathons, but only in his spare time. He’s climbed in Nepal and Colorado and plans to summit Everest in 2020.

Athumani’s job, he told us, apart from ensuring our safety as the number one priority, was to make sure everyone else did theirs. Each night on the trek — he would usually dine with us — he checked our blood oxygen saturation and pulse rate with the oximeter, and enquired after our well-being (Headaches? Nausea?). He was in daily contact with the trekking company’s owner (also a very experienced mountaineer) by satellite phone. Did we feel safe? Unquestionably.

On departure morning the whole crew — five clients and 30 (yes, 30!) porters and guides — boarded the packed bus for the gruelling three-hour journey to the Londorosi Park Gate, starting point for the Lemosho route. Future travellers will be pleased to know there’s a new road almost finished alongside the bone-shakingly bad old one.

However, the awful bus trip was soon forgotten — this rapid switching of mindset was to become a recurring theme — as we were led to a covered outdoor area for lunch. Made to feel like VIPs — only a select few sat at waited tables — Amani and Omari brought us platters of delicious food and looked after us superbly. The standard was set for the rest of the trek.

‘Hypoxic with laughter’It is still a mystery as to where all the food was conjured from (three courses for every meal, including fresh fruit), but we got a small insight into chef Eddie’s genius later on at Barafu high camp where we were allowed into the kitchen tent to witness the inauguration of high altitude fish and chips.

“Hello, I’m Maximilian,” a sonorous voice announced at my elbow.

It was time to go! Spirits were high as we set off in the forest at an exceptionally slow pace. Had I really needed to do all those punishingly-steep training walks?

Yes, as it turned out. This was “pole pole” (slowly slowly) I’d heard so much about, an essential part of the acclimatisation process.

However, despite the relaxed tempo, by the time we got to Big Tree Camp (2800m), I was not in good shape.

Head hammering and feeling deathly nauseous — surely not altitude sickness already? — I just held it together to watch the welcoming medley of songs. Those guys can really dance and sing! Then I went to lie down and was awakened at tea time.

“You must come and eat something,” I was told.

I tried to obey, but my stomach had other ideas and I only just scrambled out of the dining tent in time.

My heart sank, my fellow climbers sent pitying looks, I was returned to my tent.

“We’ll make a decision in the morning,” Athumani said, doubt written all over his face.

Then Omari kindly brought a bowl of warm water so I could clean up and with the matter-of-fact wisdom of evident experience told me, “Now you’ve thrown out, Jannie, you’ll be OK”.

And miraculously, next day, I was. From then on, the trek was a joyful adventure.

It might have been the increasingly thin air or the camaraderie or the free-flowing jokes that had us hypoxic with laughter but

I found it convenient to remember what I’d read: “Kilimanjaro is a walk-up! . . . Pole, pole and you’ll acclimatise” — and easy to forget I had no previous mountaineering experience and had never been on a multi-day trek.

To be continued . . .