Tanzania (Part 1)

July/August 2004

Leaving Kampala at 3pm, we took a different route to Kenya and crossed the border further south at Busia. It was very crowded with lines of oil tankers and took an hour to get processed. Darkness fell and rougher roads returned. We arrived in Nairobi at 3am. The connection was leaving at 6.30am so they let us sleep on the bus until 6am, “too dangerous to stand around outside” the driver said. A free breakfast was thrown in the grubby bus depot café. If you were to get food poisoning, this was the place.

For the bus to Arusha in Tanzania, I had a back seat. Two Irish guys sat next to me. Peter and Dave, 24 year old medical students who had spent 6 weeks working voluntary in Ghana. They had just spent a week in Uganda, but had come down on the other bus. We got chatting. They had loved Uganda and had even been to see a football game. Apparently, if the opposition winger got the ball, home team spectators would stand on the touchline and try and trip him up or man handle him. The ref was also attacked if he made a bad decision against the home team. More importantly, the Irish lads wanted to do the same safari as me and climb Mt Kilimanjaro, so we decided to team up to get a cheaper price.

Driving south from Nairobi, we zipped through Kenya and crossed into Tanzania at Namanga. I was surprised to find that the visa had risen to $50 (for the English). The Irish got in free! Note: Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania have an agreement whereby tourists can get single entry visas to all 3 countries, but you can move around all three as much as you want. I would make three entries into Kenya. If I had gone to Rwanda, I would have had to pay for ‘multiple entry’ visas, so decided to leave it for another trip.

Tanzania is one of the region’s top travel destinations with “some of the largest wildlife herds on the African continent, a superb collection of national parks and reserves…also a magnificent coastline with the exotic Stonetown of Zanzibar Island just offshore” (LP) and Mt Kilimanjaro of course, which is so close to the Kenyan border that the Kenyans pretend that it belongs to them.

The scenery looked like Kenya; dry and barren, but there were large mountains to our left including Mt Meru (4566m). We arrived in Arusha around midday. Arusha is one of Tanzania’s most developed and fastest growing towns. It is the ‘gateway’ to the Serengeti, Lake Manyara and Ngorongoro Conservation Area; the safari capital of Tanzania. The town sits in lush countryside near the foot of Mt Meru, enjoying a temperate climate throughout the year. It was surrounded by estates of coffee, wheat and maize.

As the tourist capital in Tanzania, Arusha has a bad reputation for touts and hustlers all trying to grab the tourist dollars. We were expecting bedlam when we arrived and sure enough, the bus was surrounded by touts all yelling. One guy offered a free ride to the Meru Inn Hotel, so we decided to flee the touts and check it out. For $4 each, we got a triple room with shared toilets and the hottest showers I would enjoy in East Africa. A tour company, Victoria Expeditions, was also based there. We sat down and went through the options and haggled for a safari/Mt Kilimanjaro. I had been expecting to pay around $850 for the 6 day Machame trek, but we got it down to $660 each (and the Irish would get their equipment free; usually you have to rent it). A two day safari brought it up to $840. It seemed a good price, (and accommodation was thrown in), but we spent the afternoon visiting other companies. Noone came close. We met some English tourists who were paying over $1000 for the same Kilimanjaro trek. Excellent $2.50 steak dinners and iced cold ‘Safari’ beer (50p a pint) while we congratulated ourselves on our haggling expertise. A Finnish couple (Mika and Ilona) who had been on our bus and grabbed the free ride had also decided to do the safari. Apparently, I kept the lads up half the night with my snoring!

The next morning, we boarded a rugged Land cruiser with our driver, Jodi, and Hana the cook. Just up the road was a large western ‘Shop rite’ supermarket where we stocked up on cold beers and goodies and decided not to buy the large machetes (pangas) on offer. Leaving Arusha, we passed the coffee and maize plantations. Various tribal groups walked or cycled down the good tarmaced road. Many were dressed in long red blankets like the Maasai tribe. The women wore jewellery over their faces and long ornate earrings. Then we started to see youths dressed in black capes with their faces decorated in small white dots, which we nicknamed ‘spooks’ because they looked like the Devil’s children. Strangest sight I saw. Soon into dusty flat spartan land, there were lots of wattle and dub huts (bandas) in compounds with thatched roofs, endless herds of cattle and goats being driven over the countryside. Lots of ‘curio’ (souvenir) shops too.

It took a couple of hours to reach Lake Manyara and we headed to our ‘safari camp’. I had my own tent perched on a rocky plateau overlooking the lake. It was hot and dusty. After lunch, we made the short drive to the Lake Manyara National Park. Famous for its “superb bird life, elusive tree climbing lions and abundance of hippos” (LP). Entering the Park, it was similar to Lake Nakuru with a striking setting, bordered to the east by the dramatic escarpment of the Rift Valley (our camp was on top of it).

Roof off, more Rommell impressions. A dusty trail wandered through the lush forests, with lots of troops of baboons and ‘blue balled’ monkeys (use your imagination! Sky blue in colour with a small red you know what! With a set like that I’d be walking around naked too). The vegetation turned to low lying water land trees, and then wet grasslands. Zebras, warthogs, antelopes, a few giraffes, three elephants in the undergrowth; the usual suspects. At the edge of the lake were dozens of hippos submerged in groups barking to each other and large flocks of white pelicans. We spent three hours looking for something new and finally came across four lions (1 cub) all lying on a large tree bough (the infamous tree climbing lions!). I’d rate it equal to Lake Nakuru except that the flamingos kept their distance and were just a pink blur on the horizon.

Back at camp with around 100 tourists, hot showers and flush toilets. After an excellent dinner (steak and chips) cooked by our chef, we teamed up with four English civil engineer students who had spent six weeks in Uganda as volunteers building facilities for villages. It was a great night comparing Ugandan experiences and we drank the bar’s beer supplies dry (as you do). There was a beautiful sunrise on the other side of the Rift Valley. Filled with huge fried breakfasts, we left at 7.15am and headed for the Ngorongoro Conservation Area. The world renowned Ngorongoro Crater is just part of a huge natural protected area covering 8300 sq km, part of a long string of volcanoes and collapsed volcanoes (calderas). “With its high concentration of wildlife, close range viewing opportunities and striking scenery, the N. Crater is one of East Africa’s most visited destinations. At about 20km wide, it is also one of the world’s largest calderas. Within its walls, is an astounding variety of animals and vegetation, including grasslands, forests, swamps, saltpans, a freshwater lake and rich bird life” (LP). Despite the Crater’s steepness, there’s considerable movement of animals in and out, thanks to the permanent water and grassland on the crater floor. Wildlife shares the crater with local Maasai, who have grazing rights and we saw cattle being tended on the surrounding hills.

It was a very bumpy, dusty, dirt trail down to the crater floor with a beautiful lookout over the entire caldera, dominated by the white shallows of Lake Magadi, the soda lake. During our six wonderful hours there, we saw herds of zebras, wildebeest, buffalos antelope, warthogs as well as crested cranes and Malibu storks. Nice to see more wildebeest in smaller numbers. Lots of hippos at the larger waterholes. It was very dusty and you could see jeeps leaving vast dust trails behind them.

We were on the look out for new game, especially cats. We spotted a couple of serval cats peering up over the low yellow grass, then some spotted hyenas and a pair of jackals At a waterhole, I counted 21 jackals slumbering in the sun. Later on, more jackals and vultures squabbling over a carcass. In the distance were a few black rhinos and elephants. Just before lunch, we made our major sighting of a cheetah, laying and then sitting up around 30m away as two dozen land cruisers lined up along the trail. Beautiful scenery; surrounding mountains, yellow grasses, green trees and herds of zebra as a contrast.

Everyone was forced to eat their boxed picnic lunches by a large lake with hippos at the other end. Eagles swooped down and grabbed food for unsuspecting tourists. Another cheetah sighting after lunch, more jackals and hyenas. It was great to see so many new animals in such vast numbers. I was still looking for the elusive leopard. A huge elephant with a broken tusk strode past our jeep. With baited breath, we wondered if it would charge but it lumbered across the road. The crater lived up to expectations, very different from the Maasai Mara. Not for the animals but for the scenery. Climbing up a steep rocky trail back out of the crater, with final splendid views over the landscape, we returned to Arusha. You will never see a sight like this anywhere else in the world. Recommended.

Peter and Dave had been emailing four Irish female university friends (Elaine, Ima, Niamh and Sue) who wanted to climb Mt Kilimanjaro. Back at the hotel, they had just arrived and signed onto the trek. Another Irishman, Coln, 25, who had quit accountancy to do some voluntary work in Kenya and Uganda and travel, had also signed on. So we had our team ready to go. I was the token ‘older but sole altitude experienced’ Englishman. None of them had climbed higher than 1000m. Lambs to the slaughter. They were all given thin sleeping bags, thin warm clothing and boots. I was glad that I had bought all my ‘tried and tested’ gear with me.

Next morning, there was manic activity. Our crew assembled and crammed into a coach; eight ‘clients’, three guides (Jeremy, Nagabona and Philip), head chef (Lucas) and assistant cook and 15 porters. The tents, backpacks, food, everything we needed, were strapped onto the roof. En route to Moshi, 80km away, we could see the towering colossus of Mt Kilimanjaro and its ice cap through the thick banana plantations.

Photo of Mt Kilimanjaro

At Machame Gate, (1500m) we signed in and the crew took about an hour to get organised. ‘Tent crews’ left in advance. A few other expeditions left before us. Finally, we started walking at 2.30pm “Pole, Pole”, a guide repeated. Too bloody slowly for me. I was subjected to ‘Irish Time’. Stopping and starting. Drinks of water, photos, and rest stops. I started, shirt off and shorts, to walk ahead through the silent, bright green rain forests; giant ferns, huge trees covered in moss. No bird noises. The Irish wittered and destroyed the wonderful ambience. Their slow ambling walking meant that we arrived at dusk (5 hours after starting on an easy good footpath) at Machame Camp (3000m). I shared a tent, in the long grass, with Coln and tried to get organised in the dark with my head torch. We waited 90 minutes for dinner, eaten in a ‘mess tent’ with fold up tables and chairs. Popcorn, soup, stew and veg. The Irish whinged about a) how long it took and b) not enough food. Our tent was on a slope so I slept at an angle. The Irish whinged about how cold they were, wearing all their clothes in their sleeping bags, while I cosily slept naked in my 4 season sleeping bag.

Photo of Mt Kilimanjaro Rainforest

Hot tea was served in our tents by porters at 6.30am and bowls of hot water to wash our faces (nice touch). Mt Kilimanjaro loomed above us in clear skies, four days away. Breakfast was eggs, toast, guacamole slices and hot tea in flasks. The Irish girls had already started taken ‘anti altitude sickness’ pills. I suggested that they shouldn’t take them until they were absolutely necessary. Elaine, the self appointed ‘tomboy’ girlie leader said ‘My brother is a doctor and told me to take them’. ’Has he ever climbed at altitude?’ I asked. ‘No, but he’s a doctor, so he should know’. Whatever, love.

The tents were dismantled and we broke camp. Off we went. I walked ahead at my own speed and waited for the others, 10 minutes here and there, taking in the views of the beautiful valley scenery with a carpet of trees below. The trail got steeper, climbing up cliffs. Many porters from various expeditions carried up backpacks, tents and boxes on their backs or heads. One of our guides, Jeremy, caught me up and from then on, we walked together and left the others. ‘It is obvious that you have climbed before’ said Jeremy. ‘I hate walking at that ‘pole pole’ tourist pace’. We spent 30 minutes sunbathing while the others arrived for lunch. Craggy cliffs, dusty, beautiful views of Mt K without clouds. Red flowers, white flowers, black ravens with white necks swooping around. Picnic tables were set up on small plateau overlooking the valley trail. Soup, salad sandwiches and melon.

After lunch, we pushed onto Shira Camp (3800m) through short savannah forests onto another windy, dusty plateau. Throughout the 6 day trek, all the porters from various expeditions would marvel at me walking in my shorts. My suntan was outstanding from the sun and wind. I became know as ‘Macho Man’! They told Jeremy that they had never seen a tourist do this. Sometimes, for a challenge, I would carry their heavy packs up the cliffs which they found highly entertaining.

My initial problem with walking so quickly, was that Philip, the Head Guide, walking with the Irish was carrying my backpack, so I had to wait ages for my luggage to arrive. I offered to carry it myself, but from then on, they gave it to one of the advance porters so it was always waiting for me when I arrived.

At Shira Camp, I walked onto the next level, 200m above (climb high, sleep low) to get further acclimatisation. Mid afternoon, back at the camp, a porter dragged a bucket of water and bowl, over the plateau out of sight, so that I could give myself a decent wash/shower. It may be a small point, but the secret of long trekking is to have a decent wash wherever you can. The Irish team members ended up wearing the same clothes for 6 days without washing and they felt like shit. The Irish arrived about an hour later.

I sat in the sun, admiring the views and drank rum and coke. My mouth was swollen and aching. I had an abscess where a crowned tooth had dropped out before the trip. The alcohol dulled the pain, but it was still very sore and I could feel one side of my face swell up. Dinner was chicken, rice and veg. I had trouble sleeping because of the pain and swallowed aspirins around 1am. The next morning, Dave saved my life. He had a course of antibiotics and offered them to me. It was a generous gesture and pretty much saved my trek. Respect.

Up at 6.30am as the ravens flew around. Tea in the tents and a fried breakfast. I left at 9am with Jeremy. We chatted as we walked. He told me about his childhood. He had been raised by a civil servant father who died when he was eight. He had been attending a good school, and driven around in a nice car. His mother remarried and the stepfather (who married for the family money), threw him (aged eight) and his six year old sister out. They became street kids in Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania’s major city. They were befriended by a Minister who looked after/adopted them until he was 15. The Minister had told him that his English was excellent and suggested ‘portering’.

When the Minister died, he moved to Arusha with his sister and started portering and now 26, had risen to ‘Assistant Guide’. His sister, now 24, was now training as a nurse. The mother had divorced the stepfather, but his sister had still not forgiven her mother and refused to meet her. Jeremy sent money to his mother and sister and was trying to bring the family together ‘but it will take a long time’. It made me appreciate good parents and an easy childhood. Ironically, Philip was on the trek as ‘Head Guide’ for the first time and was ‘clueless’. Jeremy and Nagabona, as the ‘assistant guides’ ended up running the whole show.

We made a gradual climb up an undulating, rocky, boulder strewn trail, walking across a plateau with Mt Kilimanjaro’s peaks to our left and passed all other expeditions in front of us. Leaving the main trail, we cut across to ‘Lava Mountain’; a large steep sided plug of black and red lava on the side of the mountain. I rock climbed up the 200m to the summit (4400m) and sunbathed there with marvellous views all around beneath me. The Irish arrived two hours later! Very tired and suffering from slight headaches (so the pills were working… Not!). We had a picnic lunch of chicken on French bread.

Photo of Lava Rock

Jeremy and I left them to rest and later climb Lava Rock, and marched down the valley to Barranco Camp at 3950m. Arriving at 3.30pm, I unpacked and walked to the large stream, where a waterfall provided me with a freezing cold, but refreshing shower. I also washed my clothes and lay them on rocks to dry in the fading sun. The camp was surrounded by semi glacier and sandy areas and towering cliffs on either side of the valley covered in giant rosella plants, shrub lands and low level vegetation.

Later that night, in the mess tent, Peter was feeling awful. He hadn’t had a crap since leaving Uganda (6 days ago!). He couldn’t eat anything. Philip was concerned and thought it was altitude sickness, but I managed to translate by pointing at my bum and saying ‘NO SHIT’ and holding up 6 fingers ‘FOR 6 DAYS!” Peter took two laxatives and then went outside and promptly threw up! Throughout the trek so far, he had been lacking energy, looked unwell but ploughed on. At that point, I thought the guides would prevent him from climbing the summit. Jeremy had already privately told me about his concerns about Peter and Sue who was also struggling and doubted that they would make it. I said nothing to the group. Elaine had also been constipated for the last 5 days. I was surprised, since we were served fruit at every meal. It was just dehydration from the walking and altitude. Bowel movements and the state of the shitty slit toilets became regular mealtime conversations.

The slit toilets were just primitive isolated shacks dotted around the camps, with a narrow piece of floorboard removed around 12 by 6 inches. Not much to aim at! And with the 50+ tourists and 100+ support teams, they soon became messy from ‘near misses’. I would hear screams from women who entered into them and then rushed out saying ‘No way!’ Personally, I found it preferable to head into the hills and find a lava shaped toilet seat for my own ablutions (too much detail, Bob)

Photo of a Slit Toilet

We had pancake starters and Coln, my tent mate, gorged himself. Later in the night, he crawled out and threw them all up and had diarrhoea as an extra bonus. Snoring away, I was oblivious to this, so it was a bit of a surprise to step out of the tent the next morning and straight into a pile of frozen vomit. Thank you so much! I also discovered that my drying clothes were all frozen to the rocks. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to put on a pair of frozen solid underwear. I didn’t bother and left them (note to Emma; well, you know me and my reputation for destroying underwear on my travels!)

We left the next morning, with Peter and Coln looking like death warmed up, but Peter’s bowels finally, er, cracked… four times today… which was nice. He felt ‘a lot better’. There was a long climb up and down rocky valleys covered in heather and bracken. As usual, the Irish gang took their time. I would gallop up a cliff, passing the French and Italian groups we saw everyday and wait at a viewpoint. Dozens of porters carrying luggage, tents and food would pass with a yell of ‘coming through!’ and laugh at my shorts and bare chest (form an orderly line ladies!).

Eventually, Jeremy tiring of the slow pace, caught me up again and said ‘let’s go’. We took off at my normal comfortable fast pace over the valleys and down to the final water collection point before the summit. Porters filled up large 10 gallon yellow containers and hauled them up the next steep valley side. We followed them up to a dusty plateau. By the time, the others arrived an hour later, picnic tables and chairs had been set up for soup, cold chicken and salad.

After lunch, Jeremy and I took off for the ‘dry’ Barafu Camp at 4600m reaching it in 90 minutes. No water, just a desolate windswept dusty edge of a cliff. By the time the others arrived after a 4 hour slog, I had been asleep in my tent for two hours. With rocks beneath the tent, it was a case of squeezing around them. For two straight days, the Irish team had spent at least nine hours getting between the camps, whereas I was covering it in four and a half hours and was well rested. They looked shattered and I seriously wondered if they’d have the energy to start the midnight summit attempt. By the time we had dinner, they had less than two hours sleep before having to get up again.

Originally, the guides wanted them up at 11.30pm for tea and the start of the long ascent. I would leave with Jeremy at 1.30am and catch them up. Sue, exhausted and suffering from diarrhoea, bowed out and said she was staying at the camp. Tucked up in my warm sleeping bag, I heard lots of yelling outside the tent in the pitch black. “Have I got enough water?” “Where are my gloves?” and “Christ! It’s cold, anyone got some spare gloves?” No response. “Shit!” They dithered around and were eventually dragged off by the guides and 2 porters (as support guides) around 12.45am. I got up around 1.15am for tea and biscuits and a complement from Jeremy ‘Always ready. Always smiling. Always positive!” Hell, I was about to climb the highest mountain in Africa. We left on time at 1.30am, primed and ready to ascend to 5895m.

It was freezing, but I decided to stick to my shorts. Two layers and my fleece coat, gloves and balaclava rolled into a hat. We’d been told that the summit temperature was between -10’C and -20’C which was a lot colder than I’d experienced at Mt Kenya’s summit (and that was cold!). There was a full moon and a carpet of stars above us. It was bright enough to trek without torches. We only took 1 litre of water between us. The others were lugging 3 litres each. Climbing at altitude, you are supposed to drink constantly, but for some reason, I never drink much. Jeremy and I had shared my 1 litre water bottle during the previous days and both of us drank very little.

We took off at a comfortable walking speed. Like me, Jeremy liked to keep going and keep stops to a minimum. Ahead of us amongst the rocky cliffs, we could see little trails of torches above us. We passed the Swiss father/daughter team who we had passed every day. ‘Still wearing those shorts eh?” and within 30 minutes caught the Irish team. As we passed them, Coln asked if he could join us and off we went. We passed the French and Italian teams. As we passed the various teams, both the tourists and the guides all remarked about the ‘crazy man in his shorts’ (but they were used to seeing me over the previous days). They were covered head to foot in endless warm layers and all armed with Leke walking sticks. (Note to Paul Rabbich. I still think they are a waste of time!)

It was a hard slog in the dark, but I was used to it after Mt Kenya. Coln, wary of altitude sickness, asked to stop on a regular basis for water and a rest and constantly asked ‘How high are we?’ especially after 5000m when he developed a dull headache. Jeremy and I stood around getting cold, and tried to keep him going. My feet were freezing. I was carrying extra warm gear in my pack just in case. His stops became more frequent, but we pushed him on, continually chasing the occasional torch ahead. Beneath us, we could see a string of torch lights. I tried to cheer Coln up ‘They still have to climb what you already have’ and spent my time encouraging him with “dig in” and “keep going”. He hated all of it. Later on, Jeremy confided ‘On our own, we would have ascended 30-60 minutes faster”. But it was nice to have another tourist on board, even if he was a passenger. Besides…I felt a lot better looking at the state of Coln!

He gained confidence, when he saw two tourists being led down, suffering from altitude sickness. One was a man in his late 50s, the other was a sporty 20 something woman in all the fashionable trekking gear. I read later that two people had died attempting to climb Kilimanjaro (one from a heart attack) the week before we were there. Altitude is not a merciful affect on the body. Surprisingly, statistics report that males in their mid 20’s suffer the most. Coln was 25. Peter and Dave were 24.

We knew that sunrise was at 6.30am. I remember looking at my watch at 4am after we had just reached the snowline. The summit loomed so far above us that I wondered if we would make it on time. The fact that we were passing everyone else on the trail was a real incentive that we were making good progress.

Around 5600m, the worst was yet to come. An endless slog up a 45 degree angled dirt track that took no prisoners. Few rocks, just dust. It was a killer on the already exhausted legs. There is only one way to tackle such things. Just keep your head down and keep going. At this point, Coln lost the plot. He was exhausted, dizzy and nursing a headache. He wanted to stop every 10 minutes and we refused. He cursed and swore at us, and kicked the rare rocks he saw (“you bastard f***** rocks) and just went apeshit at his predicament. One single torch shone at the top of this bastard slope, at Stella Point (5750m). We forced him, slipping and sliding to keep going. I tempted him with “If you’re a good boy, I’ll give you an aspirin at Stella Point”. The reply was something like “F*** you, you f***** English bastard. What the f*** am I doing up here with two crazy f*****. I’ll never make it”. This section was certainly one of the toughest I have ever tackled, especially after ascending 1000m before we stared it. I would have laughed, but we were all suffering. On the horizon, a horizontal layer of orange appeared.

Photo of Final Slope on Mt Kilimanjaro

At Stella Point, I gave Coln his aspirin as his reward for his perseverance and he perked up. The actual summit lay around 30-40 minutes away on a steady climb and then over a flat plateau. We pushed on and passed one final team. We’re made it. No, the summit is over there. Shit. Another half kilometre away. At this point, Coln revitalised, jogged ahead, delirious from altitude and the view of the summit which was just a wooden sign which said ‘The tallest mountain in Africa. The highest, most isolated volcano in the world. Uhuru Peak. 5895m”

Photo of Final Trail on Mt Kilimanjaro

Photo of Sign of Summit on Mt Kilimanjaro

We arrived bang on 6.30am just as the red sun appeared over the orange layers. Three tourists stood having their photo taken. Bugger. We weren’t the first to arrive, but we must have been the fastest. Jeremy and I had climbed it in 5 hours flat. In my shorts, it was freezing. On one side of us was a wall of ice. We could hear it cracking as the sun rose. On the other side was the brown crater with patches of ice amongst the rocks. Global warming is blamed for 50% of the glaciers disappearing over the past decade. Such is nature.

Photo of Mt Kilimanjaro Summit

Photo of Mt Kilimanjaro Glacier at Summit

Photo sessions with the summit to ourselves. I felt obliged to yell “I AM THE SON OF A GOLDEN GOD”. Christ, it was cold. (Note to Neil: the things I do to get your bloody balaclava photographed in every country I visit. One day, my man, it’s your turn and you can take your bloody balaclava with you for the proof!). A spectacular sunrise rewarded all that effort. I felt as if I was seeing something that few people get to see. It wasn’t Mt Everest, but a decent second.

Then the descent. As we passed the ascending groups, other teams’ guides came and shook my hand and pointed at my shorts and joked “crazy man!” and “never seen this before. Very strong!” in admiration (No Press, thanks). Back at Stella Point, the French team had arrived, looking absolutely shattered by that nightmare climb. The sun was up and rising quickly. I was down to a T-shirt.

The rapid five hour ascent had really taken it out of my legs. We descended the awful steep trail and found the Irish gang at the bottom. They also looked shattered. They had been walking for seven hours now and still had the worst to come. We figured it would take them at least two and a half hours to reach the summit. Peter was lagging behind with one of the porters still plodding on. I was very surprised to find that they were all still going.

There is a ‘short cut’ descent. My worst nightmare. A three kilometre steep decent down a scree slope. It destroyed my knees. Whilst I can give anyone a good run for their money climbing up a mountain, I come down like an old man. Jeremy and Coln galloped down (bastards!). I painfully took small strides, slipping over the scree, doing my own cursing at the rocks. I could see the bottom, but knew that it would be a painful hour reaching it. Eventually I found my colleagues asleep in the sun. They had been there for 30 minutes glad of the rest. Rejoined, we descended down to the camp arriving around 9am. Fortified with orange juice and completely knackered, we crawled into our tents and went to sleep.

Around 1pm, the Irish team returned. They had reached the summit around 9am, just as we had arrived back to camp. After 12 hours walking, they were even more exhausted and crawled into their tents. All credit to them, especially Peter. They had climbed the highest mountain in Africa and had survived. The strong winds buffeted the tents, with tent pegs going ‘bing’ as they were ripped from their moorings. It was a god awful place to try and recover, with little water.

Lunch arrived around 3pm. I couldn’t see how the Irish team would be able to keep going and descend to Mweka Camp, three hours away. But they did. Jeremy and me took off ahead. Coming down across a rocky track, we reached vegetation with low lying trees and strange parasitic grass hanging off them. We arrived at the camp just before dusk. It was another dirt campsite with no apparent water. We dragged dust into our tents as we entered them. The Irish gang arrived an hour later when I was asleep. Another mess tent dinner of rice and vegetable curry. We ate quickly. Everyone just wanted to crash.

On an incline, I slept like a baby for six hours. A last breakfast of pancakes (Coln passed on them), sausages and eggs. We spent 30 minutes in the mess tent working out the tipping while the entire crew stood outside and eagerly awaited their reward. We all agreed on a $70 tip each (10%) and then had to divide it between guides, chef, assistant chef, summit porters and porters. We wanted to make sure that everyone got their tip and wrote down the figures in triplicate. Coln, as the accountant had to work it all out on paper. Later on, we discovered that the ‘tent crews’ got more than the porters, but we were never told. Nevertheless, everyone seemed happy. The guides got $50 each and we slipped Jeremy and Nagabona an extra $10, unknown to Philip. The porters got $22 each.

It was a casual two hour hike back down along a good trail with easy descending steps through medium height vegetation. No rush. At the Mweka Gate, we signed out (Hugh G. Rection made a final appearance after signing into every camp under the same name) and gave our details in for the ‘official’ certificates. Outside the gate were two dozen shacks selling ‘I’m climbed Kilimanjaro’ T-shirts etc. We were bombarded by offers. A stall sold cold beer and we sat and waited and fended off comical approaches. There were no XXL T-shirts and when someone finally found one, it was terrible shite green colour. Unable to sell me anything, they then asked me for my boots, watch etc. They then learnt the expression “Piss Off” in English.

Eventually, our bus arrived and all the gear was packed on the roof. Everyone scrambled aboard for the trip home through the endless banana plantations. Back in Arusha at the hotel, I had a more than welcome hot shower, the first in 6 days, sat and wrote the diary up, supported by cold beers. Eventually I was joined by the guides and chef and bought everyone a round of beer, while Jeremy dragged up the Victoria Expedition staff to acclaim my unique feat of climbing Mt Kilimanjaro in shorts. “This should go in the Guinness Book of Records”, and “never done before”. Even walking to the dry camp without a shirt was acclaimed as a first.

Later on in the evening, surrounded by beers, we were presented with our certificates. Coln gratefully acknowledged my help in getting him up. Jeremy presented my certificate last. “The legend. The shorts! The Macho Man. Bob Jack” which was followed by a standing ovation. We aim to please.

Done that. Didn’t get the T-shirt. It was time to head for Zanzibar…

Travel - £53.73 (including $70 Zanizabar fast boat return)
Accommodation - £42
Food - £59.38
Other - £668.99 (including $50 visa, £511 Kilimanjero and safari, £125 diving)
Total - £824.10

Grand Total - £1924.30