Just Another Mountain Page 9

  Musky wood and a fresh, earthy scent from overnight rain filled the air as we passed by ramshackle homes, tucked in behind the trees, almost completely hidden from sight. At the Marangu Gate, where our trek would end, Humphrey, our local guide, pointed out the Chyulu Hills to the north and Lake Chala to the south-east, the Kenyan border tucked in behind.

  As our trekking group walked along winding paths I saw what I assumed was a shallow grave. The low bed of rocks was fringed with grasses that had since dried out, some plants grew in between and at its head was a colourful wreath and a crude wooden cross. When I asked, Humphrey confirmed my thoughts. The family had buried their loved one close by. I could understand why they would want to do that. I held tightly on to the tiny pot of Mum’s ashes in my pocket.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Where the Wind Blows

  Naro Moru Gate to Simba Camp, 2,650 metres/

  Simba Camp to Kikelewa, 3,678 metres, June 2010

  Our group’s Land Cruisers left the hotel early and headed in a northerly direction to bring us around Mount Kilimanjaro to Rongai and the Naro Moru Gate at an elevation of 1,950 metres. It was a bone-shaking ride, but the scenery provided distraction. A car passed, toiling on the slight incline, and my eyes almost popped out of their sockets as I took in the vision of this clapped-out hunk of rust bursting at its seams. It was jammed full of bodies, five people crammed into the front and seven or eight in the rear. I felt claustrophobic just looking at them.

  Women wearing vibrant fabrics and carrying impossibly huge cargoes of bananas on their heads were in colourful contrast to the dry and dusty landscape, and a man in a checked shirt and dirty, rag-hemmed trousers laboured uphill on his bike loaded with blue-plastic gallon containers full of water. There were market stalls at the roadside of each small township we passed through, where men sat under shade on rickety wooden stools chatting over a drink, and women stood at the road with baskets of beef tomatoes and sacks of maize to sell.

  On arrival at the Gate we were given cucumber sandwiches and tea. Fellow trekkers got to know each other better as they chatted inside the simple concrete gazebo, but I shied away. Fuelled by my fear of rejection, a wave of regret for having come as part of a large group flowed through me; feeling uncomfortable, I wandered off and watched with interest as a straggly queue of around forty porters waited to have loads weighed. Seeing Humphrey, I asked how the expedition was organised. ‘Well, the team has six guides, and they carry their own kit, nothing else. The tent boys carry the tents, set them up and clean them out each day. The three cooks have to carry only the eggs, but once the eggs run out they have to help carry other stuff. And the porters have to carry the clients’ kit, their own and whatever else is required,’ he said. It didn’t seem possible that these short, wiry men would carry so much.

  Before we began the trek proper I thought I’d better go for a posh pee (by this I mean enjoyment of a pee in the comfort of a facility with a flushing loo, a basin to wash in, warm water and maybe a paper towel to dry my hands), but what I was directed to was something far removed from my expectations: as surprising as the porters’ loads was my first encounter with the long-drop. Several metres from the gazebo was a shaky wooden structure; inside the cubicle was a rectangular opening cut into its slatted floor from which a powerful stench was emanating from the pit underneath. I gagged but managed to urinate, and I reckon it was at this point that my bowels beat an immediate retreat into hibernation. I wondered if I would survive for ten whole days without doing a poo and shuddered as I imagined the headaches and malaise I’d suffer as a consequence of my body absorbing its own toxins. There was no two shades of shit about it, the long-drops were a stinky, messy and off-putting affair, but better them than nothing at all.

  Gulping at the fresh air I practically fell out of the wooden cubicle, straightened myself up and rejoined the group, which was getting organised to begin the trek. At the entrance to the Kilimanjaro National Park was a warning sign that quickly replaced any toileting fears I’d had. A series of blackened planks nailed across two wooden posts and engraved with instructions alerted trekkers on Points to Remember (nine in all) when climbing to high altitude; they all seemed to indicate that what we were about to do was pretty risky. But the unease those rules stirred in me also melted away as we journeyed up through lush tropical rainforest and fields of maize to the chorus of cicadas.

  Always preferring my own company when walking, I trailed behind the group till they were out of sight and their chatter was replaced by the sound of my feet scuffing the ground; only Humphrey walked behind me. We’d already passed slender firs with pale-green needles, a delicate relative of the more coarse Scots pines that were so familiar to me. But it was amid the olive, juniper and tall, twisting cedar trees that the rustling of leaves alerted us to a small troop of piebald colobus monkeys who peered down from branches in curiosity.

  Somewhere I could hear the soft sound of grasses being trampled and a tapping noise. It grew louder and, turning to locate its source, I spotted a little boy. He appeared through tall green shoots of maize chasing after a large, plastic blue lid that he thwacked merrily with his stick. This happy little lad, who had emerged from the nearby collection of pitiful-looking huts with his makeshift toy, rushed on without giving me a second glance. I thought of my own children and wished they could be here with me. I wanted them to see how much pleasure could be derived from such simple things as a lid and a stick, but mostly I wanted them here because I realised how much I missed them.

  At our first camp, clouds drifted apart fleetingly to give teasing views of one of Kilimanjaro’s three main volcanic cones. Mawenzi’s dark mass was impressive, its brittle, jagged ridge like a thorny crown. The moment of awe was disrupted by loud banter, the other members of the group chatting excitedly about their adventure. I felt apart from their noise and jovialities; I was here to resolve my inner turmoil. But while I was craving some solitude, I also knew that deep down I really did also want to join in with them. At once I felt both resentful and envious of these people with their carefree, light-hearted ways. Feeling my frustration and anger arising within, I wanted to scream at the world from the top of my lungs.

  ‘Hot water?’ A voice called from the outside the tent the next morning.

  ‘Yeah, asante,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Hakuna matata.’

  Six o’clock awakenings and that minimal exchange of conversation would become the norm for the duration of our time on the mountain. My roomie Marty and I stirred to wakefulness by using the small Tupperware bowls of water we’d each been provided with to clean ourselves. It wasn’t a big deal to either of us that we didn’t know each other that well. We accepted the situation for what it was, which was a good job, because turning our backs on each other to wash then dress was all the privacy we were going to get. After packing our gear we headed to the canteen tent, where breakfast consisted of a hard-boiled egg, whose yolk appeared more white than yellow, and a radioactive bright-pink sausage; we looked dubiously at our plates.

  It was the second day of the trek and we were walking to camp two, Kikelewa – a significant height gain of 1,028 metres. On the way, while others conversed about farts, their lack of bowel movements, and the celebrities who had climbed Kilimanjaro for the Comic Relief charity months earlier, I fretted about altitude sickness.

  ‘Pole, pole,’ Humphrey said.

  ‘What’s that mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Slowly, slowly. You’ll acclimatise better.’

  So I stayed at the back of our group and maintained a deliberately slow pace, thinking Humphrey’s advice was an iron-clad guarantee against mountain sickness; and he kept me company.

  ‘What’s that plant? . . . What do you call this? . . . What do you call that?’ On and on I went.

  ‘The buds of this plant are special; this variety is collected and infused in water then used to swill around the mouth to ease dental pain. It has antiseptic properties,’ he said. ‘There are many plants and trees that hav
e medicinal value. This one helps stomach upsets, we use the aerial root of the tree and boil it, then when it cools it is drunk,’ Humphrey said, touching the bark of a fig tree. Flat clumps of everlastings spread in abundance; their white petals with yellow centres reminded me of daisies.

  ‘What are these?’ I asked, pointing at seven pretty red flowers supported on a wiry stem, their heads closed because of heavy moisture in the air.

  ‘They are gladiolus, named after one of the first Westerners to climb this mountain. From now on plants will become less,’ Humphrey answered.

  ‘What’s the name of that bird with the pale streaks on its face?’

  ‘It’s a streaky seedeater. Its home is on the moorland.’

  Asking about the birds and plants was just one of my ways to remember Mum out loud, and with great patience Humphrey did his best to answer the barrage of questions. I was feeling good; both my body and my mind were invigorated by the exercise and stimulated by the unfamiliar.

  Trees and larger plants began to diminish as we plodded higher. We’d been on the move for about four hours through damp mists with no views, but by midday the full force of the sun blazed overhead. I stopped for a drink and, on turning round to take in the scenery, I was bewitched by the most incredible sight. Tropical clouds were a thick and fluffy sea of white colliding silently into the side of the mountain, the sky above a perfect deep blue. I felt as if I were in a secret land in the sky and had to point out the phenomenon to Marty.

  ‘Oh aye, cloud inversion. You sometimes see that on the mountains at home. Pretty cool, isn’t it?’ he said, and carried on walking. But his matter-of-factness didn’t trash my sense of awe; it was really cool, and I tried to walk backwards for a bit to enjoy it for longer.

  When we stopped to break, after stashing my daysack in the canteen tent’s shade, I found a spot where I could sit and admire the ocean of white. Nearby, a white-naped raven strutted about on top of Third Cave – a large lava tube – no doubt waiting expectantly for the leftovers from our lunch.

  After eating we rested another half-hour, giving the porters time to dismantle the tent, wash up pots and dishes and filter water from the river to refill our bottles. It made me feel guilty that they were doing all the work while all we had to do was eat the food we were given and walk. I took a short stretch to Third Cave and sat away from everyone until it was time to resume the trek. I watched the raven, still on its own, still keenly waiting for us to move on so that it could scavenge for scraps. It made me think about the elusive heron that Mum and I had liked to catch a glimpse of on the river at home.

  Back on the trail I walked alone until an older fellow trekker, Robby, joined me. I hadn’t been desirous of company but he was Liverpudlian, and that reminded me of Gran. I asked if he was familiar with Bootle – the town where Gran had grown up, had met my grandad, and where Mum had been born. He was. And, having found an admittedly tenuous link to my family’s history, I allowed myself to relax with him a little. It was as we were walking and playing our made-up game, ‘Name That Hum’, that we began to notice the effects of altitude and the game didn’t last long because trying to think up trivia was too tasking.

  It seemed the rest of the group was experiencing it too; we soon caught up with three of the younger women from our group, none of them feeling well. Two of them had suffered terrible diarrhoea during the night and were now feeling nauseous and had headaches. It surprised me that people were becoming ill so soon into the trek. Robby and I walked on in a serious silence until, unexpectedly, the most giant fart erupted from his ass, but when I then let one rip too we both fell about the mountainside laughing.

  After stopping for a short break in the afternoon, Marty joined Robby and me to walk at the rear.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked Marty, as I turned round to see him standing stock-still and pushing at his belly.

  ‘I’m trying to make all my farts come out at once . . .’ he strained. ‘That’s why I came to the back,’ he gasped, his face reddening with the exertion. All three of us started howling with laughter. The wind, jokes and giggles, almost to the point of hysteria, all continued until we reached our evening campsite; we blamed it on the altitude.

  After an eight-hour trek, the ritual unpacking and dinner, the day ended with a hot chocolate under the night sky. To the north the sky was comparatively empty, but southwards a plethora of stars were splattered on a black-canvas sky like a Jackson Pollock painting, stunning, bright and clear. As I gazed up at those other worlds I reflected on the day: it had been better, thanks to Robby and Marty. I’d take each day as I found it. Yeah, go with the wind! the voice in my head giggled. Enjoy the hill. ’Cause if your mum was here she’d be loving all this!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Where There’s a Will There’s a Way

  Kikelewa to Mawenzi Tarn, 4,295 metres/

  Mawenzi to Kibo, 4,700 metres, June 2010

  Marty woke me around three in the morning when he got up for a pee. A pounding headache that had settled in earlier now burned behind my right eye. I’d also managed to get a lump of beef stuck between my teeth at dinner which I hadn’t been able to dislodge when I’d brushed, and now the gum around my tooth throbbed away uncomfortably. Toothache was no fun under normal circumstances, let alone up a remote mountain miles from help. But I’d have been more worried about it if I didn’t already know that dental issues at altitude were not unusual, even fillings can shrink. And, anyway, it was far from my only concern. The number of people with mild symptoms of acute mountain sickness (AMS) had risen from three to five in one day, and I was afraid that I might become the sixth. During the remaining hours of the night, sleep was fractured as exhaustion battled against my aches and paranoia. Those hours had been rough, but by light my tooth had settled and, after giving myself a thorough wash, I put on some clean clothes and felt fresher. Even breakfast was enjoyable, and after some quick stretching exercises our group worked its way up into the Highland Desert Zone.

  Everlastings carpeted the ground between clumps of stubby yellow grasses in shades of patchy greens and browns like dried tobacco. The winding trail ascended gradually until even the green began to disappear and lava tubes, like giant wormholes, became the focus of interest. Behind lay the ocean of cloud, but up ahead the dark outline of Mawenzi’s broken ridge punctured the skyline, like an African version of Skye’s rocky Cuillin range. Up ahead was the site of our next camp.

  It had taken four hours, but we arrived over a knoll and dropped down into a hollow bowl during early afternoon. Mawenzi Tarn lay still, its shrunken egg shape framed by a halo of iridescent green algae. It looked toxic, but I was told it was going to be the source of our water supply. Nice. As we neared the tents we were welcomed with an amazing reception from our porters, a merry ragbag band dressed in bright pinks and blues, one trouser leg up one trouser leg down. Arms raised and swaying like a gospel choir, they danced and sang their Kilimanjaro song in joyous harmony. Singing to us, singing to the mountain – hoping it would bless us and keep us all safe from harm and the dangers of high altitude.

  It was after lunch, when we were briefed on the next morning’s itinerary, that I felt a rush of anticipation. Summit night, the climax of our trip, was a day closer than I’d realised. It was time to exorcise my demons. This was what I’d come for . . .

  An afternoon’s acclimatisation walk on to Mawenzi took us up another couple of hundred metres onto its east ridge over scree and dark rock. Akin to Cuillin gabbro, it felt like Velcro underfoot and was great to scramble over. Sitting on the ridge under the sun’s glare I kept to myself; a dull ache at the back of my head was making me feel more unsociable than usual. As I looked down into the bowl, beneath sweeping volcanic slopes, our tents appeared like bright flecks of orange punctuation on a dark and grainy page. We were higher than anyone in the world below could see, even higher than the clouds. Absorbed in the rugged beauty, it was a while before I noticed that my headache had begun to shift, but when I did my mood instan
tly buoyed and remained that way when we got back down to camp.

  As the sun lowered on the horizon the temperature dropped sharply, so I layered up and, with half an hour to spare before dinner, I took myself off over the rocky outcrop behind our tent. Finding a flattish ledge on a finger between two gullies, I sat down to soak in the view. Gentle hues in pastel shades of pink merged softly with yellows and tangerine. Higher above, cornflower blue deepened into indigo and I marvelled at all the wonder of this colour, concealed by cauliflower clouds from life beneath. A waxing moon hung low in the sky, and under my watchful stare it sunk lower still. In the peaceful twilight, I was alone with my memories.

  Though Mum’s brain tumour had been removed, the disease had rampaged through her and its symptoms presented themselves too quickly. It was August 1997, seven weeks before she died. We sat with a brandy each and we talked. I’d had the idea of asking her to tape some stories and nursery rhymes – the tapes that ended up meaning so much to both me and my sons – but I hadn’t found the right time to bring it up. Her persistent cough was getting worse, so I knew I had to ask soon, but it was only after a little Dutch courage that I was able to broach it.

  ‘What do you want me to do that for?’

  ‘So that if I ever have a child I can play the tape to them, so that they’ll know who their grandma is.’ I hadn’t wanted to upset her, but she smiled back at me.