Climbing Kilimanjaro [p.4]

I hugged Odilia good-bye. It’s a simple, natural gesture; yet, I’d never dreamt I’d ever hug a native of a land overrun with communicable disease. It’s a harsh statement, but it’s honest. Hugging Odilia was natural for me because we were friends. She didn’t represent all of Africa to me. Quite simply, she was my friend, Odilia Sonza. Sonza is her father’s name. It’s a custom in Tanzania to give a child their father’s name as a middle name. People introduce themselves to you this way. “Hello, I am Odilia Sonza. Sonza, my father’s name...” We found it endearing. In addition to the middle name, they have a family name like our last name in the States.

Our guide, Benjamin, greets us. We’d met him the day before for a prep session. He’s tall and lanky. Well-mannered and very professional, and he is very obviously alpha to his assistant Saaidi and the porters. Saaidi is soft-spoken and is so laidback, he’d easily pass as an islander. He’s Muslim, one of the many religions of Africa; and he’s never seen the ocean. We look at the van and the number of people we were to transport to the base of the mountain. Imagine the little clown car that unloads three dozen people. We were loading it. The passenger count totaled 16 with the three of us taking up an entire row of seats. For the next six days, we’d be one big happy, albeit exhausted family.

The ride to the gates of the Rongai Route is bumpier than a wooden roller-coaster. For two hours we pass through villages caked in dust. At times, the windows around us reveal nothing but clouds of dust. It’s a reddish-orange earthen color. We cross an intersection crawling with people. The dust billows around us. It’s as if the barrage of people explode out of thin air all at once, raging like a river. Our driver maneuvers the van cautiously until we are plunged back into dustness. It wasn’t dark, but there was certainly dust. If only there was a way and reason to export it. It could be Africa’s biggest resource. There are a few moments when we have to unload some of the porters to lighten the van to cross certain potholes. At some point, it was just us and the driver while the other 10 guys got out to push the van over a rather stubborn ditch.

By the time we are on our feet following Benjamin in the cornfields of Kilimanjaro, we feel as if we’ve been travelling for days. The land stretches all around us, beautiful stalks of corn amidst red earth and blue sky. We are the only hikers on this day. There are villages inside Kilimanjaro National Park, inside all their parks. People live and go about their daily lives while strangers trample up and down the mountainside attempting to take on a challenge that’s never been officially issued. Children come up and stare at us. Odilia had explained to me that I was a novelty in Africa on account of my hair. The women just found it fascinating that I had black hair like them, but it wasn’t kinky or curly but super-straight. Even thousands of miles apart, women are fascinated by hair.

Food was a major concern for us on the climb. Again, in maximizing our chances of making it to the summit, we had to guard against food poisoning. All of our food was vacuum-sealed: tuna, spam, chicken, jerky, baby clams, you name it we had it! Our cook, Peter, would make breakfast and dinner as well as pack our lunch sacks for the trail. These packed meals usually ended up being given to the local children. I gave one a Coke and then worried about how it would affect his digestive system. Foreign foods. I suspect it may not have sat well. We loved seeing the kids and their faces light up for such small gifts. Oranges, eggs, and whatever else was packed for us.

The next few days were spent hiking. The sun beat down on us each day. It had a way of bleaching the landscape. I kept thinking movies should be shot here. The natural lighting is awesome. By the end of this trip, we’ll have hiked and climbed 72 miles. Air became more precious as we progressed. It was immediately clear that the time estimates we were given were conservative and each day would take a little longer than expected. Each hike segment took one to two hours more than we’d anticipated. There were no showers. Isaack, a porter who spoke English (most of them did not), brought a wash bucket to our tent at night. We’d use it to wash our hands and faces. It was a futile attempt at maintaining personal hygiene. If you washed your hands, 30 seconds later, you’d feel sticky and could see the dirt accumulate on your skin. I cherished our anti-bacterial wet-naps. The third night, I actually broke down and cried after looking at the gunk on my comb after an attempt at brushing my hair. For me personally, being so dirty was especially trying. The guys held up pretty well. We’d run out of wet-naps by the fourth day.

We were instructed to stay in our tents after dark despite any sounds we might hear. There were a few times when we heard what sounded like hyenas, strange birds, a duck, and a bobcat. We stayed inside. I bundled up in multi-layers to sleep as the nights dipped below freezing. I was quite often completely zipped up in my mummy sleeping bag, trying to heat up my bag with my own breath. Keep in mind the breathing was labored on account of the altitude. We were certainly not on vacation. Our purifying system for water left a chlorine taste that we disguised with Powerade mix. Despite our efforts at frugality, our Powerade mix dwindled down to nothing.

On Tuesday, we arrive at Kibo Hut where we see other groups of climbers for the first time. Several routes converge here and just past midnight, we’d set off in our separate small groups to summit Kilimanjaro and peer into the crater of the volcano. The camp is abuzz with excitement. Not everyone has made it this far; and for the ones who have, the summit seems within reach.