King of the Mountain

We wait at the luggage carousel at Tanzania Airport. My backpack appears first. Dee’s topples out a bit later but the sleeping bag which was attached to it is nowhere to be seen. We make our way to the lost luggage office to file a report. Little do we know that there is a lucrative black market in camping gear in this part of Africa. Wayne (our self-appointed tour guide) suggests that we head to the airport lounge to wait for the rest of our party. There will be eight of us in total – a mix of ages, personalities and hiking experience. We sit sipping Stoney Tangawizi (ginger

beer) on Wayne’s recommendation and wait.

Our once-in-a-lifetime trip to Tanzania would involve a community project in a Maasai village before embarking on a 7 day trek up Mt Kilimanjaro culminating with a 3 day safari visiting the Serengeti - what an adventure. Little did we know.

We are accompanied by Frankie, the head guide and a group of experienced porters who carry not just tents and cooking gear but our backpacks as well. How difficult can it be carrying day packs containing wet weather gear, water and a few snacks? We walk ‘pole pole’ (slowly) ever upwards.

By Day 3 we wake to ice-covered tents, frozen ground and amazing views in every direction. We follow the mantra of ‘climb high, sleep low.’ We have begun to notice a tingling in our extremities with the noticeable thinning of the air as we reach higher altitude. There is however something quite spectacular about seeing Mt Kilimanjaro come through the clouds at sunset.

Dee feels the cold intently and is concerned that the rented sleeping bag she has procured is not going to provide as much warmth as she needs. Wayne offers to swap with her stating “I don’t really feel the cold.” The temperature overnight drops dramatically. We had been instructed to leave all our clothes on whilst in our bags to generate body heat. As I lay there in my -8C down sleeping bag, I start to sweat. Aware that Dee is sleeping beside me in our two-man tent, I noiselessly extract my arms only to hear “Have you got your arms out of your sleeping bag?” My only response is to say I’m hot.

One of the rituals of this trip is the expectation that every participant will write in the group journal each day. When I read Wayne’s footnote the next day, I was taken aback.

I lent my sleeping bag to someone tonight without checking that I fit into

theirs. As I lie here writing in a bag that only comes up to my armpits, I am a

little worried about the night ahead. With sub-zero temperatures predicted, it

might be a long night – time to toughen up I guess.

Day 6 is Summit Day. We are up by 11pm, ready to leave our camp before midnight

to ‘kill Kili.’ The air is crisp and at times biting but the views are nothing short of awe-inspiring. Our mantra ‘shuffle, shuffle, pole, pole’ settles into our psyches. False summits attempt to break our spirits but all are successful in the ascent.

There was an overwhelming sense of elation, success and pride in completing the summit climb. But going up means coming down. We slide over shale for what seems like an eternity. Its jarring on everyone’s knees and feet which are still recovering from the hike up the mountain. We are excited by the thought of taking our boots off, flushing toilets and a cold beverage but it isn’t to be. We notice that the porters are milling around our tour bus and not in a friendly way. As time passes, we learn that there is a problem with our park fees – evidently they haven’t been paid. It is then that we realise that we are now hostages unable to leave the national park. Wayne quickly goes into action  (knowing the fees have been paid). He does his best finger-pointing and arguing with a park ranger who is literally a metre shorter than him. I quietly move behind him and whisper “Wayne, he is a little man with a big gun!” We are forced to take in our surroundings – park rangers with guns, porters fighting over their pay and the smell of people who have sweated and not showered in a week. Wayne refuses to relinquish our passports and a number of urgent phone calls are made to the Australian tour company. We learn that the local ‘big boss’ is MIA and has absconded with the money leaving us stranded in Kilimanjaro National Park. After an embattled three hours, Wayne manages to secure our release and we gratefully board our bus and head back to Moshi.

Dedicated to Wayne Grant Cotton 1971 - 2025

_________________________________________

A recently retired academic, Robyn’s love of long walks has taken her across Spain’s

Camino de Santiago and Del Norte, Le Chemin in southern France and the

Nakasendo trail in Japan and many places in between. She fervently hopes this

wanderlust continues into her dotage!