It Takes A Village
We embarked upon our Kilimanjaro expedition on a chilly, drizzly Sunday morning, well-rested, suitably carbo-loaded, sporting freshly laundered undies, and feeling newly invigorated by the ice-cold shower provided by our hostel. We threw our backpacks into the Bobby Tours van, and off we went to the volcano! We made it about 1 kilometer before the van suddenly sputtered and died. The Bobby boys seemed uncannily familiar with this scenario and immediately dispatched their youngest member out of the van and into the rain, gas jug in hand. A few litres of gas and several able-bodied van pushers later, we were back on the road.
For Rahul, this was the lesser of two bumps along our road to happy volcanoland, for we were soon to discover that our two hiking companions to-be were none other than his arch-enemies: FRENCHIES! Would six days with snooty, self-righteous frogs force Rahul to hurl himself into the volcano or would he finally overcome his ridiculous Francophobia and give them a chance? As you can probably guess, Marianne and Frank turned out to be superchouette Kili companions and damn tough climbing cookies. Since Rahul failed to come clean on the trail about his (ahem, previous) disdain for the French, he hopes that they won't be too shocked to learn of his pigheaded bias, and he promises to never insult the French again.
After innumerable stops along the way, our Franco-American love van reached the gates Kilimanjaro National Park, and we found ourselves in the company of 150 other mzungus all set to climb Kili with us. Along with the 400 porters and guides that accompany them along the way. Having grown accustomed to the self-sufficiency and relative solitude of backpacking trips back home, we were shocked to discover that our team of 4 whities was to be escorted up the mountain by no less than 12 Africans! 12! For the next 4 days, we were like little ants marching in a line with matching fancy fleece and daypacks boasting built-in "air-coolant and water systems," while our porters sped by in their scrappy shoes and ripped cotton sweatshirts, carrying 25 kilos on their heads. After years of Kili anticipation, we were a bit disillusioned.
But then came Summit Day. We awoke at 12:30am to a thermos of tea and some biscuits our sleepy stomachs didn't want, and hit the trail. The moon was full so we turned our headlamps off, fell in behind the hundred other people on the trail and started up the gravelly hill. An hour in we started singing Hotel California, conspiring with some rowdy South Africans ahead of us to try to liven up the "funeral march" feeling that was permeating our parade up the mountain. But then the wind picked up, cutting through all 5 layers of clothes we had on, and for the next five hours, we cocooned into our gore-tex, staring at the feet of the person in front of us, praying for the sun to rise.
And when it did rise, around 6am, we yelped with joy, and at 6:45 we reached Uhuru Peak, "the rooftop of Africa", 19,340 feet up and 20 below zero celsius. The view of the glacier at the top (which, thanks to global warming, will probably be gone in 15 years) at sunrise, with clouds blanketing the mountain beneath it, is one of the most beautiful, awe-inspiring, humbling things we have ever seen.
After some quick photo-ops (more on that later), we hustled back down the hill, skiing with our boots down the gravel scree, proud of ourselves as we looked at the hill we had just climbed and trying to understand how we were supposed to spend the rest of the day getting ourselves down 10,000 feet without falling over from exhaustion.
We made it down, and were again reminded of the perils of not controlling your own trip. For the next 10 hours, all our cook could scrape together for our ravenous bodies was some soup. And on the last day, we had to try to figure out what the correct etiquette is for tipping 12 people who just took you up to 19,000 feet.
But we're back now and we're safe. And we can't wait for our next chance to buy Annie's mac and cheese, head to Yosemite, and lead ourselves into the backcountry the American way- no porters, no cooks, no one else but us. But for all the crowds and the cold and the reliance on strangers to subsist in the wild, you gotta climb Kili someday. The moonlit walk to see the sun rise over the glacier makes it all worthwhile. And then some. Go. It'll blow your mind.
And about those photos. For those of you who know us well, the obvious question to ask is: are there are any, how shall we say this, naked pictures of us in -20 degree temperatures at the top of Kilimanjaro? The answer is: come to karaoke and find out.
For Rahul, this was the lesser of two bumps along our road to happy volcanoland, for we were soon to discover that our two hiking companions to-be were none other than his arch-enemies: FRENCHIES! Would six days with snooty, self-righteous frogs force Rahul to hurl himself into the volcano or would he finally overcome his ridiculous Francophobia and give them a chance? As you can probably guess, Marianne and Frank turned out to be superchouette Kili companions and damn tough climbing cookies. Since Rahul failed to come clean on the trail about his (ahem, previous) disdain for the French, he hopes that they won't be too shocked to learn of his pigheaded bias, and he promises to never insult the French again.
After innumerable stops along the way, our Franco-American love van reached the gates Kilimanjaro National Park, and we found ourselves in the company of 150 other mzungus all set to climb Kili with us. Along with the 400 porters and guides that accompany them along the way. Having grown accustomed to the self-sufficiency and relative solitude of backpacking trips back home, we were shocked to discover that our team of 4 whities was to be escorted up the mountain by no less than 12 Africans! 12! For the next 4 days, we were like little ants marching in a line with matching fancy fleece and daypacks boasting built-in "air-coolant and water systems," while our porters sped by in their scrappy shoes and ripped cotton sweatshirts, carrying 25 kilos on their heads. After years of Kili anticipation, we were a bit disillusioned.
But then came Summit Day. We awoke at 12:30am to a thermos of tea and some biscuits our sleepy stomachs didn't want, and hit the trail. The moon was full so we turned our headlamps off, fell in behind the hundred other people on the trail and started up the gravelly hill. An hour in we started singing Hotel California, conspiring with some rowdy South Africans ahead of us to try to liven up the "funeral march" feeling that was permeating our parade up the mountain. But then the wind picked up, cutting through all 5 layers of clothes we had on, and for the next five hours, we cocooned into our gore-tex, staring at the feet of the person in front of us, praying for the sun to rise.
And when it did rise, around 6am, we yelped with joy, and at 6:45 we reached Uhuru Peak, "the rooftop of Africa", 19,340 feet up and 20 below zero celsius. The view of the glacier at the top (which, thanks to global warming, will probably be gone in 15 years) at sunrise, with clouds blanketing the mountain beneath it, is one of the most beautiful, awe-inspiring, humbling things we have ever seen.
After some quick photo-ops (more on that later), we hustled back down the hill, skiing with our boots down the gravel scree, proud of ourselves as we looked at the hill we had just climbed and trying to understand how we were supposed to spend the rest of the day getting ourselves down 10,000 feet without falling over from exhaustion.
We made it down, and were again reminded of the perils of not controlling your own trip. For the next 10 hours, all our cook could scrape together for our ravenous bodies was some soup. And on the last day, we had to try to figure out what the correct etiquette is for tipping 12 people who just took you up to 19,000 feet.
But we're back now and we're safe. And we can't wait for our next chance to buy Annie's mac and cheese, head to Yosemite, and lead ourselves into the backcountry the American way- no porters, no cooks, no one else but us. But for all the crowds and the cold and the reliance on strangers to subsist in the wild, you gotta climb Kili someday. The moonlit walk to see the sun rise over the glacier makes it all worthwhile. And then some. Go. It'll blow your mind.
And about those photos. For those of you who know us well, the obvious question to ask is: are there are any, how shall we say this, naked pictures of us in -20 degree temperatures at the top of Kilimanjaro? The answer is: come to karaoke and find out.
posted by Meghul at 6:21 AM
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