This is a guest post from my sister, Sharmi, who currently resides in Johannesburg, South Africa. I am in awe of her spirit and bravery and give her major kudos for climbing Kilimanjaro to celebrate her 30th birthday.
Summit night, 11pm. The guide stands outside my tent, calling softly to wake me up. After two hours of anxious sleep, I rub my groggy eyes, fasten my headlamp on my balaclava, and don my “armour,” the layers of thermal and outerwear that are going to be critical in helping me brave the freezing weather. I turn to my tent mate, wanting to go over our daily checklist –gear, food, medicine. I suddenly realize, with a lurch in my stomach, that she wasn’t joining us on this final stretch. My bravado leaves me, deflating me as I contemplate what lies ahead. Panic constricts my throat.
On autopilot, I push on. I unzip our tent flap, pack in my toe-warmers under my socks, put on my climbing shoes. It’s pitch black, freezing. I clamber out of my tent, stumble outside. In the darkness, all I can see are the headlamps dotting the nightscape of the cold, wind-swept ridge at the base of Africa’s tallest peak, Kilimanjaro. I can’t believe I am going to summit tonight. I am excited. I am terrified.
***
I had decided to climb Mount Kilimanjaro as a personal challenge in honour of turning thirty. I was looking for a transformative experience, one that would mark the turn of a new decade, and one that would celebrate my three already in existence. Months of preparation – which included slowly depleting my life’s savings in favour of expensive hiking gear and engaging in a masochistic fitness programme had me confident that I was up to the challenge. For each of my companions on this adventure (including my rather reluctant husband and a crew of six friends), the trip represented a personal challenge, a quest for transformation.
We arrived in Moshi, Tanzania, the afternoon before our climb, little knowing what to expect. We had spoken to the veterans, but their advice was overwhelming, often inconsistent—some said physical fitness was immaterial, others wished they had trained more. We took heed of the advice, paid little attention to the inconsistencies, and blindly trusted our potential to succeed as long as we were “prepared.”
That evening, we met our designated guides for the trip—August and El Bariki. These two soft-spoken, knowledgeable, and patient men were responsible for our team’s eventual success. We listened attentively as they described the terrain we were attempting to conquer, the Machame route, popularly known as the “Whiskey” route for its relative difficulty. They spoke of challenges such as the Wedge, the Barranco Wall, and finally, in hushed tones, summit night. We were told that we would “walk high, sleep low” to help us acclimatize to the altitude. We were told that pole pole (slowly slowly in KiSwahili) was the only sure-fire way of getting us to the top. We nodded blithely, unaware of what really awaited us.
The next morning, we drove into the park, where other teams and their crews waited for clearance to start the climb. We were still at 1800m, and our route forward was displayed on a signboard—3000m, 3800m, 3900m, 4600m, 5895m. It looked so simple, really, just a little bit higher every day… Our 5-kg day packs, a reasonably heavy burden to us, paled in comparison to the heavy loads that the porters had to carry, ranging from sacks of potatoes, pots, pans, tents, even our portable toilets! These heroes of our journey never failed to amaze us, reaching out and lending a steady hand when one of us tripped, gracefully balancing their cargo with their one free hand. In what was going to be a typical pattern, the porters, who had left after us, passed us on the trail, elegantly balancing their burdens as they sprinted up the muddy trail.
As we walked through the rainforest, we laughed and joked that it was too easy—the light rain and the cool weather making for a pleasant hike. But our beginner’s enthusiasm quickly waned as the rain intensified and the trail got tough. By the time we reached the first camp, we were winded. And we had only made it to 3000m! That night, spirits were high as we camped out for the first time in our cosy (or claustrophobic) tents. However, it was only as I laid out my sleeping bag and organized myself for the next morning did it really dawn on me—the extent of the challenge I had imposed on myself. Was I really going to be able to do this for the next five days? My self-confidence, indomitable at the outset, wavered. The night grew chilly, and despite the cheery bustle of a crowded campsite, a core of fear gnawed on my insides.
The next day, we began walking straight into and beyond the cloud cover of the rainforest, the beautiful landscape falling away in dizzying heights around us. We kept a gruelling pace, clambering over and around rocks, as the vegetation slowly waned from lush, thick rainforests to scrub forest on craggy, lunar outcrops—a surreal landscape, a strangely beautiful wasteland.
At the end of day two, I was struck by my first wave of acute mountain sickness (AMS). I became light headed, nauseous, and my head swam – and I thought I was losing my mind. That night, I went to bed loaded on diamox, afraid I would have another attack, that I wouldn’t make it to the top. I drugged my fears to sleep, convinced that I would wake up strong. My fears did dissipate in the quiet light of pre-dawn, when I saw the object of our ambition gleaming quietly in the distance—beckoning, mocking.
Our target altitude on day three was a whopping 100m, our path leading us over “The Wedge,” up to 4300m, and down again to our camp at 3900m! After a few hours of taking pole pole to its logical extreme, we spotted our peak for the day, Lava Tower—an eerie, rocky protrusion surrounded by swirling mists—an ancient, volcanic Stonehenge. We camped that night at Barranco with the mystical peak looming over our starlit campsite.
Our guides pointed out the Barranco Wall the next day, the sheer cliff we would scale during the early part of the day. We watched in awe and horror as a few porters weaved their way up the rockface. My second, brief attack of AMS, meant that I would hold the rear of the group until the very end. A line of traffic made its way slowly up that wall, composing a human chain up the rockface, porters reaching out a hand whenever the climbers needed a steady hand. The top of the wall and a hot lunch brought some relief, but we were quickly taken aback to find out what lay ahead of us.
We were to make our way down and up Karanga valley, and the terrain ahead looked tortuous and desolate—a post-apocalyptic landscape giving way to an even bleaker, oddly beautiful gravel desert. We were by then easily exhausted, the lack of oxygen depleting our energy far quicker than would have been the case on lower altitudes. Our guide August, ever patient, encouraged us to move consistently forward despite our exhaustion. Just when we thought we could go no further, we caught a glimpse of the treacherous ridge leading up to the very top. The lack of oxygen had us gasping, open-mouthed, speechless at this magnificent sight. Breath and words left us as we gazed in awe at the roof of Africa.
By the time we reached base camp, it was almost dusk. The ridge fell sharply away from our campsite, and the wind howled around our tents, making for a perilous respite. As we ate, rested and contemplated our last few hours before summiting, the pit in my stomach deepened. I didn’t want to look up at our route, purely because I was afraid I would be too frightened to continue. I decided to calm myself down, silence my fears for a few hours at least, and try to snatch a few hours’ sleep.
***
Summit Night. One foot in front of another, I tell myself, as the jog of bright headlamps ahead of me weave their way up the mountain, blurring into infinity with the stars. There are times I feel like I am falling asleep. I am cold, tired. I don’t want to look ahead for fear I will not want to continue. August holds my hand, gently pushing me forward, at times shaking me awake. I die a hundred deaths that night—my body does not want to go on. Climbers pass us on the way up; others, less successful, make their way down, unable to continue. I will myself forward, inch by inch, reminding myself of my promise, my commitment to myself. I turn around, watch the dawn light steal across the city of Moshi. It is now visible in the distance, far away from our precarious little ridge.
I catch sight of Stella Point, the crater a few hundred metres away from the peak. Dawn is breaking, and I am nowhere near the top. I am about to give up. I will barely make it to Stella Point. I want to go down.
Then, all of a sudden, a strange wave of inspiration strikes. We run into a rush of climbers starting their descent. “Don’t lose courage!” they say. “You’re nearly there! It is worth it.”
I am near tears, I have lost all hope, and here I am suddenly, a few hundred metres away. All I needed to hear was that I am close, I can do it. I have come this far.
Summoning my last reserves, I make my way up the gravelly, slippery scree to the crater’s rim. The sun beats fiercely upon us. The peak is within reach.
I have fallen to the absolute rear, the slowest member of the team. I take one agonizing step after another, each step bringing me closer to my conquest, each step oddly renewing. The tall, blue-ice, glacier gorge gleams in the morning sun, exuding an ancient, other-worldly calm. I see the signpost beckoning, the marker for the highest point on the African continent.
The last few metres towards my destination are exhausting, exhilarating. I am in a daze, unable to comprehend where I am, and yet strangely exultant. I have done it.
I have conquered the mountain.
Base Camp at Machame Gate: Sharmi, her husband James and friends
Sharmi and James take their first, brave steps up Kilimanjaro
- By Sharmila Surianarain
