The snows of Kilimanjaro: report of an ascension to the roof of Africa - part I

I finally managed to find time to publish the previous post on the Kilimanjaro trip in english. This is the first part of the report. By Pedro Boléo-Tomé.



Day 0: Saturday, Feb 8, 2014

Africa. The name itself sounds enormous, impenetrable, warm and strange. Of Africa, I had only seen the souks of Marrakesh and the peaks of the Atlas, above the Sahara, but there, I could neither hear the ancestral sounds nor the strange animal singing, I could not scent the odors of the tropical night nor feel the immense open spaces.

This time, we search for a mythical place that has defied geographers over the centuries: the existence of snowy peaks in equatorial Africa, the legendary Mountains of the Moon where Herodotus placed the source of the Nile, also called the Ethiopian Olympus. The reputed British Geographical Society spent the 19^th century arguing indisputably that it was impossible to find snow on the Equator. Nevertheless, Kilimanjaro awaits us with its giant flat head covered with glaciers, a colossus rising from the Tanzanian savannah to 5895 meters, one of the biggest volcanoes on the planet.

We fly from Lisbon, via Dubai and Nairobi. On the last flight, we ask for seats on the left side of the plane, hoping to see it. The sky is heavy with clouds, stormy weather in Nairobi, the flight is turbulent. I search for a snowy peak through the plane window, but there are only castles of clouds. Suddenly, there it is, rising above our altitude, a bright white summit. The snows of Kilimanjaro are disappearing, so I had read, but looking at it now, it looks so white and inaccessible... Will we reach it?

Day 1: Sunday, Feb 9

Lemosho Route

Early morning and Springlands Hotel is bustling with activity. Under the large shed that is used as dining-room, breakfast is being served, as western tourists vividly discuss plans for the trip while eating omelets and solemn cooks guard the reasonably garnished buffet. The morning feels lighter, still moist from the night rains, but my brain is anesthetized by tiredness and lack of sleep. Everything looks fastidious, having come so far to eat toasts with jam, in Africa...

Chaos emerges later, when we head into the garden with our packed bags: a multitude of guides, porters, assistants, clerks from different companies, moving like bees in a hive, between piles of luggage that are being wrapped in waterproof bags and thrown on the roof of old, muddy buses. Amongst this apparent chaos there is, after all, an order, as triple sheet forms appear from everywhere - "sign here, please" - and we meet Constantine, a young man with a quiet smile, a gap between his upper incisives and huge white Nike sneakers. This is our guide.

Finally we depart, in a crammed bus with noisy Australians and Americans, doubting that our luggage will ever get to our destination. Until Londorossi Gate it's a two-hour trip towards West, crossing Moshi, busy despite the Sunday, and then taking a dirt road to the right, thus circling the Kilimanjaro massif to its western slope, where Lemosho Route starts.

The bus rolls through the savannah, with its volcanic hills and deep, dark earth, the mountain still hiding behind a thick cloudy veil. In tiny villages of crappy houses, chants emanate from crowded churches, next to silent mosques, people ploughing with oxen, 3-passenger motorbikes, and the bus rattling us ceaselessly. African massage, they tell us. My eyebrows drop of tiredness.

At Londorossi gate, chaos strikes us again, or at least so it seems to our urban, western eyes. Amidst a crowd, guides take care of bureaucracies and dozens of porters, in a long line, weigh their burdens on an old centesimal scale, under the eyes of the authority, a greenish uniformed guard that doesn’t look too much worried.

It's past 3 o'clock when we finally embark again. Our bus rattles as it comes across with potato lorries, leaning so much it sometimes touches the lush slopes on each side of the road. It stops suddenly at a conifer forest, very alpine-looking, for the rains left the road too muddy for the bus. The trekking starts! It's warm here, cultivated fields undulating as we penetrate deeper in the forest. We pass noisy Australians, Americans from Texas, a group of Rajasthan Londoners wearing venerable Islamite beards, greeting us joyfully.

The trail is easy, well-kept and penetrates the increasingly thicker vegetation. We can see different monkeys, hear a baboon grunting in the distance, watch delicate flowers like rare species in a European greenhouse. Freddie is our assistant guide and walks with us in an easygoing but watchful way. It's 1 hour before sunset, but there is no sign of Mti Mkubwa, or Big Tree, where we will camp today.

Finally, there it is: in a forest clearing, dozens of tents crammed together, amongst big trees. Our camp is ready, in a quieter spot: it is luxurious, with 2 igloos for us, a dining-tent, toilet-tent (the "private office"), and they bring us hot water and soap for a mountaineer’s bath.

In the evening, while eating my onion soup and stew at candle-light, with British refinement, I feel like Dr. Livingstone exploring the depths of Africa.

Altitude: 2390m - 2790m

Time: 3h (16:00-19:00)

Day 2: Monday, Feb 10

The desolation of Shira

Sleep was sound and repairing, despite the heavy rains of early morning. Wake-up time at 7, breakfast in the dining-tent: oatmeal, omelets, toasts, banana (Ndizi), tea. It's 8h40 when we finally start to walk, going deep into the forest. The air is moist, dripping, and we slide on the muddy trail already stepped by early walkers.

What a forest! It's like a Jurassic dive, giant trees like pinnacles, other twisted and tortured, with long lichens hanging from its branches like druid beards. The trail winds up and down, crossing brooks, an amazement of green and flowers, like the pre-historic Protea kilimanjarica that opens up its soft yellow corollas.

We cross the 3000 m line and suddenly the trees shrink and we now walk amongst cedar-like bushes the size of a man and abundant Proteas. As we stop to have lunch on the top of a ridge, we watch the long line of trekkers slowly ascending from Mti Mkubwa. We had been told that Lemosho Route is much quieter, even deserted at times, but that has clearly changed, given the high number of travelers here, as in all the National Park. Park authorities do not put an admission limit and simply collect fat entry fees... The Rajasthan English, amused, tell us: "your friend Sérgio is long gone, he was running!”.

The rain. There was hardly any, during our crossing of the rainforest. Now that we ascend a wind-swept slope, grueling bypassing Shira Ridge to attain the plateau, thick drops of water suddenly start to fall. In an instant, the trail is transformed into a river, crossed by many other rivers, and the oblique rain seems to surpass everything and to defy Goretex and other technical marvels. Porters pass by running, suddenly I am alone in the desolation, spattering on the mud with soaked trousers and a bitter soul. The moorland is freezing, inhospitable, swept by rough winds, as if it were the moors of Devon and the hound of the Baskerville would somewhere be watching.

In the deluge Constantine emerges with an umbrella, smiling - "not so good today!". The flood continues for one hour, until we reach Shira camp - a swamp crowded with tents, people with a lost gaze and colorful raincoats.

When dinner time arrives, the rain stops and a strange twilight remains, allowing the ghostly figures of the Shira peaks to emerge. We wash and resuscitate with a hot meal of fried fish, vegetables and rice.

At crescent moonlight, Kibo finally appears, snowed and still, undressed of its cloud cloak, like a night goddess.

Altitude: 2790m - 3505m

Time: 7h (8:40-15:40)

Day 3: Tuesday, Feb 11

Pole, pole

At 3500m the air is thin enough for the first signs of altitude sickness to appear. Sérgio had already complained of headache yesterday, Alex and I still feel ok. We carry a veritable pharmacy: my daily routine includes three drugs, acetazolamide to help acclimatize, Malarone to prevent malaria, ibuprofen for my knee. Never in my life had I taken so many pills.

The morning is clean, washed by the recent storms. The plateau reveals all of its volcanic immensity as some shy rays of sunlight emerge from where we know Kibo hides.

The lack of oxygen turns the task of packing the gear into an exhausting job. I stop to breathe before taking the last bag out of my tent. Today the trail is easy, crossing the almost flat caldera of Shira, the oldest of the three Kilimanjaro brothers. Several streams cross the lava plain, which is covered with heathers, lichens and the abundant white tufts of Helichrysum argyranthum, or Everlasting flower.

As we slowly progress heading east, Shira Ridge seems to grow and becomes more imposing, closing the horizon at our right side. This is what remains of the huge crater of Shira, collapsed on itself and later filled with lava flows from Kibo.

The march on the plateau seems easier, but everyone here repeats until exhaustion the Kilimanjaro motto "pole, pole" - slowly, slowly. We have to learn to control our pace, to prepare the body for the violence it will have to endure. Less than 4 hours later, we reach our destination: Shira Hut, 3841m, on a soft slope swept by the ever-blowing plateau winds. Lunch today is inside the dining-tent, warm and luxurious!

We spend the afternoon inspecting the curious volcanic shapes that surround the camp, trying to dry at the wind the wet equipment from yesterday, and breathing every oxygen molecule available.

At dinner, we invite Constantine to our tent. With a quiet smile, he tells us some stories of his life as a guide, over a huge tray of pasta with meat sauce. He is 30 years-old, belongs to the Chaga people and works as a Park guide during high seasons, usually making two ascensions per month. During the rain seasons, he stays with his wife and 8-month son in Moshi and rents some land to cultivate. Like most of the guides, he started working as a porter, a harsh, underpaid job, done under difficult conditions, without a contract or insurance. These supermen, some of them very young and ill-equipped, carry all the gear, food and luggage on their heads or backs, bypass us on the mountain with a steady pace and manage to have everything ready on camp by the time we arrive...

Altitude: 3505m - 3840m

Time: 3h30 (8:45 – 12:15)

Day 4: Wednesday, Feb 12

Lava Tower

The night was short but early morning is magnificent, the blue shapes if Shira Ridge rising above the fog, and the base of Kibo sprinkled with white. The air is cold and very dry. Lava Tower is waiting for a day of acclimatization.

The first long climb of the day stretches across a slope covered with huge big black rocks, many shining with colorful minerals. We walk amongst tremendous walls that seem to have erupted from the earth; then, mathematically, as we cross the 4000m-line, the last Everlastings disappear and comes the snow, still fresh and melting under the morning sun.

We celebrate at 4162m - it was the highest altitude I had ever reached, the summit of Toubkal, in Morocco. Now, Kibo reveals itself, undressing its cloaks of clouds, with its glaciers hanging from vertical walls. It is a colossal sight: it seems so near, as if whispering, "unveil me"... On our right, over a rocky crest, a long line of miniscule human figures - it is the Machame Route, which will join us close by. Ahead, we can now see Lava Tower, a huge cylinder of black rock dauntingly emerging from the snowy slopes.

The route is not difficult, "pole, pole", a long line of walkers speaking many languages. Around noon we reach the camp nested behind this volcanic tower, already busy at this hour. Kibo is just above us, with its flat top broken by the impressive Western Breach. Just 100,000 years ago, a terrible landslide ripped off a huge piece of the cone, creating a breach and digging a deep canyon, now called the Barranco. We will sleep on its hillsides tonight.

After lunch at 4600m, the clouds rise again and a harsh wind starts to whistle, hurrying us down towards Barranco. It is a never-ending descent, testing the knees and the balance, but the views change at every corner, showing new angles of the formidable walls of Kibo, and far, far down, the coloured tents of Barranco Hut. On this side, the climate is more pleasant, protected from the winds of Shira. The curious Senecios appear, bizarre palm trees with several arms and a furry cloak of foliage, growing by the water.

I reach the camp at 3pm, a pleasant slope with Senecios and Lobelias growing on the wet earth, overlooking a deep canyon plunging down to the plains of Moshi. To the east, a dark, vertical, threatening wall, where a barely visible trail zigzags to the top, 300m above. Tomorrow, Barranco Wall awaits us.

Altitude: 3840m - 4655m - 3965m

Time: 6h30 (8:40 – 15:15)