“Welcome, dear friends, to ZAFS – the company that will take you on an adventure of a lifetime!” Alex, the team leader, introduced himself. The 11 of us were sitting around him on cane chairs placed on a green lawn in a quaint resort called the BruBru Lodge. A few hours ago, after landing at the Kilimanjaro International Airport in Tanzania, we drove into Moshi, a clean town with meandering roads lined with purple flower trees that were reminiscent of Japan’s cherry blossoms.
“It is not necessary that you reach the top,” Alex said, probably because of our varying shapes and sizes. “It’s more important that you enjoy the journey,” he continued. We were a mixed gang of people. There were two father-son duos: my dad (79 years) and me (43 years) and Ariz (48 years) and his son Zahan (15 years). We had two lawyer girls, Farnu and Hufriz (mid-forties) and one lawyer guy, Farhan (47 years). Sid (47 years) provided the spiritual balance we needed. Two pretty boys – Neville and Damin (early thirties) – helped bring the mean age down a little and enhanced its cosmetic appearance too, not taking anything away from the girls. Our leader from the Indian contingent was Jayesh (54 years) – a Maharashtrian always confused for being Gujarati, he’s said, who’s been atop more mountains than I can name. He is the founder of Odati Adventures, the adventure company that brought us to Kili.
The team of five guides checked all our climbing gear. “What is this?” John, another guide, asked me, pointing to my flimsy jacket. He was a Wesley Snipes doppelganger and had previously worked as a nightclub bouncer. “You will fly off at the summit in this!” he said in a deep African accent. What seemed inadequate was rented the next day for the week. That afternoon, we made our way for lunch to a charming open-air restaurant called the Jackfruit Café. However, as it was way past their closing time, all we got was jack. A thunderous downpour of unseasonal rain made us wonder if it would jeopardize our trail, as we were set to leave the next morning.
Day 1
It was the 28th of October. We were greeted by a team of 45 support staff, including guides, porters, toilet cleaners, waiters, and cooks – all holistically called ‘The Kili Warriors’. Their mission was to help us Kill the Kili: to conquer the mountain and summit the highest peak in Africa at 5,895 m (19,341 ft) above sea level. A traditional Masai robing ceremony marked the start of our journey, after which we were huddled into a bus that drove us 2 hours to the starting point of our trek via the Lemosho route, where we greeted a few giraffe enroute. “The average success rate of reaching the peak at Kili is about 60-80%,” Jayesh told us in the bus, “and choosing this route increases our chances, as it helps us acclimatise to the altitude better; the shorter route has a much higher failure rate,” he justified. In 2010, when Martina Navratilova attempted to climb the mountain, she had to make her way down at 4,500 m, as she developed a fluid build-up in her lungs. “Irrespective of one’s fitness, you can develop altitude sickness, and hence, acclimatization is key,” we were told.
After a quick lunch at the starting point, we made our way up from Lemosho Gate (2,100 m) to our first stop, the Big Tree Camp at 2,784 m. It was a gentle 6 km ascent that took around 4 hours, as we ambled through the canopy of the forest amidst gentle showers of rain. We were kept entertained by some Bollywood music that our African guide, Eric, played on his Bluetooth speaker and sang along to: “Har ghadi badal rahi hai roop zindagi, chhanv hai kabhi, kabhi hai dhoop zindagi…” The song was interestingly also indicative of the everchanging weather in the mountains, as the beaming sun suddenly made its presence felt, dappling through the leaves, as thick vines hung from towering trees. By the time we reached our campsite, our yellow igloo tents were set up for us betwixt awning tress from whose branches swung large, white-tailed colobus monkeys grabbing whatever food that was being prepared.
By evening, the temperatures began to dip into single digits. “This is the way to use the chemical toilet,” we were informed via a series of demonstrations. A clean toilet seat was covered by a tent over it and had a simple lever mechanism to make it work. In this freezing cold, the only thing missing was a seat warmer, which was automatically provided if you went immediately after someone else. I must confess that it required a few dumps for us to target our aim directly into the hole.
Before we tucked into a scrumptious meal of hot zucchini soup, corn salad, and chicken curry with vegetables, rice, and fruits, prepared by our famous mountain chef Zakaria, we were given the daily briefing for the next day. “You will wake up tomorrow morning around 6 AM shaaarp,” Alex informed us with a knife-edge emphasis on ‘sharp’. The ‘around’ that prefixed it made it hard not to smirk at the oxymoron. “Remember, the focus should be on the journey and not the destination,” he repeated, after a sleuth of instructions for the next day. We were off to bed by 9 PM.
Day 2
It is hard to sleep in the mountains. The sleeping bag keeps you warm but restricts your mobility. You keep tossing and turning, hoping you don’t need to pee and wondering when the sun will rise. We knew it did when Matata, one of our waiters, gave us a soothing, “Hello… good morning!” wakeup call at around 6 AM sharp. Hot, herbal Kilimanjaro tea was served in bed daily to warm our insides. There was going to be no bath for 8 days, just a sprinkle of warm water to brush. Once our morning ablutions were completed, we had breakfast, each day a varying combination of porridge, fruits, egg, pancakes, and dry fruits. Imagine carrying across this terrain over 20 trays of eggs without breaking even one! Today, we were going to saunter around 8 km over 7 hours from the Big Tree Camp to Shira 1 (3,499 m), and the landscape seemed like one from Jurassic Park, only without the dinosaurs. Our team set up high tea for us on a secluded plateau as we left behind the rain forest, filled with trees with lichen hanging off it called old man’s beard, to enter the moorland zone. As the trees fell away, tiny waist-high shrubs made their presence felt and we began to see the vastness that engulfed us.
The Kili Warriors performed a song and dance routine for us after tea, where they introduced each of their 45 members amidst loud claps, cheers, salutations, and whistles. As temperatures dropped further that evening, we hoped to set up a small campfire to soak in the heat, but a few years ago, a large part of the mountain had burned down because of a wildfire, and building campfires was now prohibited. The only way to keep warm was to get into our tiny insulated tents with our ‘roomies’ and stay within touching distance of each other.
Day 3
Every day in the mountain feels like we are on a transcendental journey to answering a deep-seated call. For most people, it’s spiritual. For me, it’s more primordial: I can’t move unless my bowels do. The mountain language for wanting to use the toilet is decoded as sending a message. If you want to do su-su, you say you’re sending a short message. If you want to do potty, you’re sending a long message. Anything more accounts for writing an email. And, if you have diarrhoea like one of us did, you’re spamming with forwards.
Today, we were going to walk 11 km from Shira Camp 1 to Moir Hut (4,160 m). We passed by a galactic stockpile of cairns, stones mounted atop each other by fellow trekkers to pray for their safe climb to the top, representing peace, calm, and being centred and grounded. Then, we navigated a few rocky faces to be immersed in every shade of brown – mahogany caves on the right, beige and copper ridges on our left, and a dusty almond track ahead of us – until we made it to camp, getting a good first glimpse of the majestic mountain. With every change in terrain, our guides reminded us to take our time, stay hydrated, and let our bodies adjust.
“What does Kilimanjaro mean?” I asked Alex as we approached camp. “The original name was Kili-ma-ki-yaro, given by the locals, but the Europeans called it Kilimanjaro to make it easy to pronounce, which some people say means ‘beautiful mountain,’” he explained, adding that there were many stories to its meaning. “Some initially called it the ‘unclimbable mountain’, but we now know that’s not true,” he laughed, having climbed it more than 200 times himself. “Hans Meyer was the first person to climb Mount Kilimanjaro in 1889,” Alex continued, “But I’m sure there must have been many locals before that,” he finished, lamenting on the lack of credit given to his people.
Day 4
The porters, guides, and chefs are like mountain goats: nimble-footed, swift, and untiring. Once we finish our breakfast and start walking for the day, they pack up our tents and all the other paraphernalia, overtake us, and set up another entire campsite complete with an elaborate lunch waiting for us before we arrive. And today, they did it twice, because we climbed up to the Larva Tower (4,600 m) where we had our lunch – vegetable stew, fried chicken, and sweetcorn salad with banana fritters for dessert – and then descended to the Barranco Camp (3,900 m) for dinner, where the locals provided a feast of Indian egg curry rice, dal, chapati, and chicken salad. The second highest mountain in Tanzania, Mount Meru, was seen peeking out amidst a candyfloss of white clouds. We reminisced about our friend with the same name who was supposed to have joined us on this trail but had fractured her leg a few months prior – although to mount Meru while her femur was healing might be unreasonable.
The sun was out all day and the only hydration that the parched tanned land got was from the droplets of mucus trickling down our noses in the cold. As the sun set through the clouds at Barranco, we could see the city lights glimmer in the distance below, as if reflecting a thousand stars of the clear sky above. It was customary for us to get our briefing each night before dinner. This was also when our oxygen saturation level and heart rate were checked, and we were asked if we had any of the characteristics of altitude sickness: headache, nausea, vomiting, or loss of appetite. “Pappa” (as the crew fondly called my dad) was not eating too well from Day 1. “You have to force yourself to eat,” John told him, cutting a special egg preparation they had made for him into small pieces to make it look more appetizing. Our support staff cared very diligently for each one of us. “Soup is not food, water and snacks is not food, coffee is not food. Only food is food!” John intoned in his deep staccato voice.
Day 5
At Barranco, the mountain’s imposing peak loomed ahead, both inspiring and intimidating. The Barranco wall is a sheer cliff rock face that looks daunting from a distance but is surprisingly easy to climb. Deep ridges in the mountain and well-positioned rocks required us only to put one foot ahead of the next and keep walking. “Pole, pole,” they kept egging us on. It was the mantra of the trek. Pronounced ‘po-lay’, it means, “Slowly, slowly,” in Swahili. Barranco also has the famous Kissing Rock, a giant boulder that requires you to hold it and brush your lips past it as you take a mid-air leap of faith across it.
Our guides were so adept that they knew every single crevice in the mountain. “Alex, the next time, you must try this blindfolded!” I joked to spice up the trail a little. “Do you know that over the years, I have taken several blind people up the mountain?” he surprised me. “Not only blind, but also deaf and mute. Even amputees. Even people with cancer,” he gave me the lowdown. “Has anyone ever died?” I asked bluntly. Guides don’t like to talk about death. The mountain is their livelihood. They revere it. “Sometimes, things happen,” is the best I could get out of him as we reached a misty plateau where we broke for tea.
We headed to Karanga, our next campsite (4,000 m) after having walked 6-8 hours but having remained at the same altitude. Even though the mountain has so many ups and downs, it is the greatest leveller. Vegetation is sparse, limited to patches of tough grasses and the occasional resilient flower clinging to life. As we approached Karanga, heavy rain poured relentlessly from a cloudy sky, each drop crashing down like tiny hammers on the earth and filling the air with a steady, almost deafening roar. By the time we reached camp, the blazing sun was out again, ironing out our soaked woollens. Har ghadi badal rahi hai roop zindagi…
Day 6
The air was growing crisper with each passing morning and the temperatures dipped further. Even the toilet seat warmed by the previous person didn’t seem warm anymore. To add to it, while pooping, an alpine insect crawled over onto my groin. To be able to flick it off at minus temperatures without hurting the insect or the scrotum is a skill that can be mastered only in the mountains. At around 8 AM sharp, after breakfast, we took off for our final campsite, Kosovo (4,800 m). Dazzling views of the snow-capped mountain with its galactic glaciers were in touching distance as we encircled it. Mountain tops are like the girl you always wanted to date in high school: the closer you seem to get to the top, the further it goes away from you. We reached Kosovo after straining our backs trudging over the volcanic eruptions that had hardened a few thousand years ago. Our lunch was chicken curry rice, spaghetti, mixed veggies, and pineapple.
Tonight was going to be our summit night. We were scheduled to depart at 11 PM and climb 8 hours into the sunrise. This was the night all of us had been waiting for. The last leg of our 50 km climb. About 1,100 m to go. The past few days had seen us singing and dancing, cracking jokes, and pulling each other’s legs. Today was sombre, partly because the guides told “Pappa” that he shouldn’t risk the final push. He hadn’t been eating well and they were worried he didn’t have the nutrition needed to carry him through. It was not only 8 hours up, but another 8 hours down, as we had to descend twice the distance to the camp below. “But my heart is stronger than that of all the people in this group,” he insisted, as strong winds lashed upon our dining tent, threatening to uplift it. “The weather is worse than we expected it to be. You’ve come this far, which itself is more of an achievement than we could have imagined,” Alex and John told Pappa. “It’ll be our glory if we get you to the top,” they explained, “but not at any cost,” they reasoned. Pappa, usually quite strong-willed, realised that if something were to happen, it would mar the expedition, and conceded to their request to forgo the last lap. I could see his eyes well up. Letting go is often harder than holding on. Lessons we cannot learn at sea level are taught to us at high altitudes. “I’m happy to stay back with you,” I told him. “The summit means nothing to me. These are only labels. I’m just happy to be out in nature, and it’s been a great week so far,” I said. “No, you must go,” he insisted, “and I’ll see you when you’re down.” We bid a temporary goodbye.
The push to the summit
At around 11 PM sharp, we assembled in the dining tent for a final briefing. Each of us wore three layers of socks, four pants, and six layers on top: thermals, inners, top, a fleece jacket, down jacket, and windbreaker. The neck was buffed, the ears were muffed, and the head was chuffed. Headlights were put on, coffee was sipped, and bag packs were filled with 2 litres of hot water, which froze in no time. The wind was abnormally harsh that evening. We could hear it whistle through us in a shrill voice, like in horror movies before something bad is about to happen. We spoke in soft voices as if raising them would disturb the night. But there was no one else around. We did a team huddle and started our climb.
“Let’s all go up smiling and laughing,” I suggested. Everyone agreed. For the next couple of hours, we heard nothing but the sound of our own breathing. Each step was a slow, calculated effort as the thin air made every movement feel like a monumental task. We were ensconced in darkness. Only the lights on our head showed us the next step in front of us. “Why can’t we do this in the morning?” I asked. “If you get to see how daunting the mountain is, you’ll never be able to climb it,” John replied in darkness. “Also, the sun at the top is extremely harsh. It’ll exhaust you even further because it’s a straight steep climb up.” After what seemed like we had been bracing the harsh winds and freezing temperatures for a long while, someone asked for the time. “It’s 1:11 AM,” someone said looking at their watch. The angels were with us. We could leave our past behind and forge ahead. But even though the world had celebrated Diwali a day ago, the darkness that engulfed us seemed perennial. All we had to survive by was our own light, and all we hoped was that the battery wouldn’t knock off.
“Pole, pole,” they kept chanting and urging us to keep walking, taking breaks every hour to swallow some hot water. Every time we attempted to remove our gloves, haath mein aa gaye gole, gole. At around 4 AM, most of us started dozing off while walking. It is an unfathomable thought that at an altitude of 5,500 m, with winds blowing at 55 miles per hour in -15 degrees, a human could feel sleepy, but there it was. Oftentimes, our guides jerked us by the shoulder and shouted, “Don’t sleep, don’t sleep!” in a deep African baritone that still wakes me up in the middle of the night occasionally.
At 5:45 AM, in pitch darkness, we reached Stella Point (5,740 m). It is a so-called pseudo summit from which one starts walking along the edge of the crater of Mount Kilimanjaro to reach the ultimate peak – Uhuru – which, in Swahili, means ‘freedom’. The last one hour lay in front of us. The air was thin and frigid and the ground below solid rock. “What do people think of when they walk for hours in solitude?” I’ve always asked. Even though you’re surrounded by people, you are actually all alone. Some of us went through our lives, our families, our decisions, our choices, our regrets, our memories – all in slow motion; very different from having a near death experience, where your entire life flashes by you in a jiffy. Some replayed moments of the children in their lives, others of their parents. I thought of all the patients I had left behind, of all the challenging operations I’ve done, and wondered if I could have done them better. The patients I had lost and those who had survived despite me. The families I had consoled and those who had consoled me. All the while, we walked along the edge of the crater. A vast expanse of the deep hollow lay to the right and gorgeous icy glaciers on the left. The alpine desert had finally given way to the arctic zone.
Then, cutting through the darkness, a sharp red circle emerged along the horizon as far as we could see. The circle grew thicker over the next few minutes and then began to change colour – scarlet… saffron… crimson… burgundy… amber – to suddenly being interspersed with perpendicular streaks of yellow colliding against the circle, splattering its crystals in all directions. The crescent of the rising sun galloped up behind the mountain into the sky, transforming into a giant ball of fire, throwing long shadows of us, making us appear bigger than we were. We had finally arrived at Uhuru – the highest point in Africa. This is what it meant to be free. Some of us had tears in our eyes, some felt a sense of relief, others a sense of wonder, and for most of us, it was a revelation, encapsulating the profound effect of reaching the peak after such a gruelling journey. I, instead, started vomiting. Freedom was not for me. I was attached. Attached to my people, my place, my purpose. I had to go down, realising that the hardest mountain to climb was the one within.
Taking some solace from the grace and warmth of the sun, we trotted 25 km over the next one and a half days, our toes jamming against our shoes as we descended and our knees reminding us of what it feels to be in your forties. The crew had arranged a closing ceremony with a grand lunch, where we were handed our certificates amidst song and dance, bells and whistles. We reached our hotel and showered for the first time in one week. Dirt and grime emitted out of body parts we didn’t expect. Hot water embraced sore thighs and achy feet. Chapped lips started to feel moist again.
The only thing harder than climbing a mountain is explaining to someone why you did it. May be the freedom we all crave lies within. Like Sir Edmund Hilary said after scaling Mount Everest, “It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.”
