Rob the Gob

I started to climb Kilimanjaro, and I didn’t get to the top, which essentially means that I went for a four day hike at 4000m for no good reason at all. Ho-hum. I was effected somewhat by altitude sickness (of the vomiting variety, largely), and though I felt I could have reached the top, I chose to turn back. Part of me feels like a failure – the pathetic macho part of me, of course. The part of me that is currently insisting that I point out that I felt entirely capable of reaching the top. Indeed, apart from the altitude sickness, I didn’t find it particularly difficult at all. Still, I decided not to climb to the summit, and here’s why.

Boring background first. The company we had paid to take us to the top had sub-contracted to a local tour company. They, in turn, had then hired some local guides. They had only used them a couple of times before, but as they had been successful, they employed them again. A cheerful chap from the sub-contractors introduced me to our rather quiet guides – two young men who I shall name from now on only by reference to a variety of incompetent comedy duos. The reasons I have for doing so will quickly become apparent.

After a long and rather uncomfortable journey in a van where nobody talked to us (save for the single word ‘permit’, and an invitation to purchase chocolate that – having been told that it was provided – we confusedly refused, thereby condemning us to scavenge our own up later on the mountain) as various unexplained errands were run about town and people were picked up and dropped off. I thought for a while that we were in one of the many taxi-bus hybrids that patrol Africa’s cities, but no. Eventually we arrived at the mountain, and the lads piled out and began arranging things while we were abandoned with little explanation to sit for an hour or so on a bench. Then, suddenly, we were off, at a steady uphill stroll, somewhat cheered to be finally on the move. We tried to engage our guides in conversation, and failed – they simply smiled enigmatically and muttered something unrelated to the topic. At first I thought it was just social awkwardness, a lack of familiarity. It wasn’t.

The boss (who wouldn’t be coming) had assured us that if we wanted to split up because we walked at different paces, we could, and that one guide would accompany each of us. This did not happen. As I walked on ahead, Laurel and Hardy stayed behind with my girlfriend. In some ways I was grateful as it gave me some much-needed time alone. I had no particular reason to worry, and after I waited for them to catch up, my girlfriend seemed happy enough. They were chirpily chattering to each other in Kiswahili, and I thought nothing of it – after all, it was just the first day, the path was easy to follow, and I couldn’t possibly have gotten into much trouble. Weirdly we were served a pleasant hot lunch at a table by the side of the path (a situation that made me feel very uncomfortable indeed, but perhaps charmed some), and, once again, though we tried, we failed to engage any of our companions in conversation. As we walked along, they told us a few facts, then repeated themselves over and again, despite our questions. I started to wonder if they knew anything at all about the mountain. Soon, however, I started to suspect that they simply didn’t understand me. Eventually we just fell quiet, and I wandered off to enjoy the forested slopes, and I had a pleasant afternoon’s climb. We even saw some local wildlife in the form of monkeys. Which I pointed out. Perhaps we should have guessed from the oddness of this first day, but sometimes it takes time to bond with people, and, truth be told (and despite all our warnings), it was pretty easy work.

You should understand that climbing Kilimanjaro, for most people, is like getting straight ‘A’-grades at GCSE at some posh private school. It sounds impressive at first, but when you take into account how favourable the circumstances have been made, it doesn’t tell you very much at all about how much work you did or talent you have. There’s so much support that really the result was damn near inevitable anyway, and all you did was turn up and do as you’re told – easily hard enough work to make it feel like an achievement – but if you don’t get the expected result it points to some problem you have that couldn’t be solved even with the judicious application of the best experts in the game motivated with big wads of cash. Some groups carried their own toilet tents. It’s really not the kind of respect you deserve if you do it by yourself, carrying most of your own gear and maybe getting a couple of porters mostly just to point you in the right direction (or, to carry on this analogy, you went to a crap school and still managed to do well despite having to look after your younger sister’s kids while you revised).

Where this similarity ends is with the possible consequences of failure. Bad teaching at some inner-city comprehensive school means that you end up with no qualifications. Having bad guides when you’re wandering about at the better part of six kilometres straight up in the air can mean serious illness, long-term damage and even death. It’s unlikely, but not so much that you can afford to ignore it.

As day two led me through steadily thinning trees and up onto the moorlands, I started to become suspicious of our group. Breakfast was… well, it was unpleasant and heavy, but they told us that we should eat up because we were going to walk right through to the next camp before lunch (later we would find out that they were doing this largely just to make their own lives easier – you need to eat along the way because you need the fuel, and everything hits you harder when you’re running on empty). So a steep climb was accompanied first by indigestion and later by fatigue with a spot of fun in between. We became increasingly suspicious that our guides didn’t understand what we were saying to them after it took us twenty minutes to explain that we wanted some boiled water for tea. I slept badly, only getting a couple of hours. When I awoke and told my guides they seemed mystified, although it is a common effect of altitude. At this point we should have telephoned (yep, they work all the way to the top) and asked for new guides – ones we could talk to – but we didn’t. I regret this now, and wish I’d have acted, but then, they say hindsight is 20-20. On the other hand, I’m not sure I trust the opinions of people who would look at the world through the perspective given to them by an arsehole. Which is the same reason that you should never trust anyone who respects the opinion of David Cameron.

The next day I cheerfully hiked off my tiredness, climbing up to the lava tower, way passed four kilometres. Breakfast was bad, but lunch was foul. My girlfriend got altitude sickness quite badly and felt awful. Fortunately, we climbed down a little to camp, through weird terrain so like a Star-Trek set that I kept thinking that a wobbly jelly-monster would lurch out at me. I felt quite well up to the afternoon (well enough, in fact, to draft a text message to send from the summit), and cared for my distraught girlfriend, but then the altitude started to get to my gut. Vomiting is not an uncommon thing for me, but it’s exhausting when you are having difficulty catching your breath. I lay down for a while, but I couldn’t face the food on offer. Our guides said and did virtually nothing. The night was horrible, and I was sick the next morning also. They tried to insist I ate, which I couldn’t, and tried to feed me lemons. They also fussed about me, massaging my kidneys and slapping me on the back whilst I was being sick. I was too weak to tell them to fuck off. In between times, they fussed about me in way that made me feel uncomfortable, but couldn’t explain anything to me. I’d have insisted on leaving if it hadn’t been for three things.

Firstly, they found another guide who could speak to me and explain that I could probably get better by taking some diamox. He was a more regular guide for the company we were with, and a godsend. On the language thing – it might appear for those not familiar with Tanzania that I’m displaying typical British snobbery at expecting my guides to have understood, if not spoken reasonable English, but in Tanzania it’s not difficult to find people who speak good English. It’s an official language of the country, and most people speak it to some level. A lot of people speak it very well indeed, as you’d expect – just as you’d expect a Peruvian to speak Spanish or a Brazilian to speak Portuguese. Even the street-touts spoke it far better than our guides (who would get even simple things – for a guide – like ‘camp bed’ and ‘water bottle’ mixed up, and, more worryingly, times and distances). Almost all guides we met spoke excellent English (it’s part of the job, after all). That our guides were unable or unwilling to speak it was really distressing. The ‘third man’, a kind of guide-in-training and general assistant to us couldn’t seem to say anything other that ‘hot water is ok’ and ‘dinner is ok’. We simply couldn’t communicate. But this new guide could, and he told me that he’d advise our guides as to what to do. I’m sure he did – he honestly seemed like a good guy to me. I’m also equally sure that they took no notice at all.

Secondly, I was told that it was a short, easy day, and that it would be easier to descend, should I feel the need, from where we were going rather than where we were. I don’t know if this was true, but it certainly wasn’t an easy day with no food inside me. And thirdly, my girlfriend was feeling better, and she knew how disappointed and ashamed I’d be if I turned back. It’s true that I did not want to fail, and I steeled myself, retrieved some dextrose tablets, and set my jaw.

So we set off up ‘breakfast wall’, (actually called the Great Barranco wall, not that our guides ever mentioned this). It was a long day for me, but only, I feel, because I hadn’t eaten. Towards the end I was cheered when one of our guides pointed to the camp not far off. It looked to be less that couple of kilometres, a half hour walk until rest and lunch. They didn’t, however, tell us of the huge steep-sided valley in between, and seemed confused when I was depressed by its discovery. At the bottom of the valley I got decidedly ratty and started ranting about how pissed off I was with them and how I simply wanted to follow the valley back down the mountain. Not only did they ignore me, they had no idea what I was saying. We climbed up to the camp and I overheard them trying to talk to my harassed girlfriend, telling her that I couldn’t continue if I didn’t eat. The state of the food did not improve, and I had to eat outside because of the stench, forcing as much down as I could. We’d been told that there would be a specific program of food designed to complement each day’s activity. We had even paid a premium to have food of improved quality. What we received was the same foul menu relentlessly for each meal. None-the-less, I managed to beg some toast and fruit out o them, and ate as best I could. Meanwhile, my body was bringing itself to terms with the altitude, and I got my first decent nights sleep. In the morning, I felt better, and considered my options.

I felt easily well enough to continue, and my stomach (despite their best efforts), had settled. The terrain was not giving me much difficulty, and I had only a short way to go that day. And I really didn’t want to turn round simply because the people around me were unpleasant and unprofessional. We struck onwards and upwards, and rapidly reached our next camp. The guy who had given me advice the previous morning even sought me out on the trail. We sat down and he gave me some advice regarding what I should take over the next few hours, and on the summit assault later that night as Tweedledum and Tweedledee sat about staring into space.

We bought some Mars Bars at three dollars each from a man at the next camp and settled down for some much needed rest. Not that this seemed to interest our porters or guides, who played music and ran about like noisy children. Dinner was a another unpalatable horror, and Noddy and Bigears came in to brief us on our midnight summit assault. They asked us about our kit, and shook their heads and sighed when we didn’t have several things they a) hadn’t checked for and b) weren’t on the kit list anyway. They then advised us to take a different drug schedule to that which the other (nicer and wiser) man had advised. In fact, despite being present when he’d advised me, they seemed completely ignorant of the conversation taking place at all. This led to something of an argument as they tired to get authoritative with us. We decided we’d lie. Able top talk openly in English with no fear of being understood (at least without formulating twelve different sentences to the same effect every time), this deception was not difficult to accomplish. They told us to meet them at 11.00 at the mess tent where there’d be tea and biscuits and such, and we dutifully retreated to our tent for rest. Rest which was then made impossible once more by the noisy activity of the rest of the party, up till around ten when we had to rise to pack and get dressed. And I was starting to feel sick again.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. My oxygen and sleep-deprived brain was starting to reduce me to an emotional wreck. I became horribly paranoid, ratty and easily upset. When we’d packed, dressed and got up dutifully for eleven, we found the camp deserted. They eventually roused themselves twenty minutes later. By that time we were both very cross, and I was starting to vomit again. Once more they sprung into action with their painful manipulation of my guts and back-slapping, then asked us if we were ready to go.

I was in two minds, and neither of them were thinking clearly. On the one hand I felt dreadful, and I was exhausted and upset, but on the other, I’d come this far, and I really wanted to reach the top. I also did not doubt that I could. We had a long time to do it, and though the cold was going to be bitter, the terrain did not seem too harsh. Even if it had been like doing three of our previous hikes in a row, I’d have been able to do it, nothing so far (except for the altitude) had really tested me at all. My girlfriend was also in two minds, and tried to talk to the guides to build her confidence – it was an exercise in futility as they seemingly had no idea why she was upset. None-the-less, she could see that, despite my discomfort, I was determined to go, and we were just about to set off when another bout of vomiting took me, and she started to insist that I stopped and came back to bed. Grumpy in one part, but relieved in another, I crawled into bed, the assault abandoned. I rested for a while, and felt better, and then (of course) started to become upset once more, regretting my voluntary failure. It was at this point that my girlfriend revealed to me the actual reason she’d not wanted to go up. It was something that my weakened mind had not considered.

Angered by their ineptitude, particularly with reference to how they handled my sickness, she’d started to consider what might happen if we became sicker as we climbed. There are many possible consequences to altitude sickness, none of them pretty. When we’d booked the trip, we’d been told that we’d be guided by experts trained to pick up on the signs. Morecambe and Wise had displayed no expertise. Even if they had it, it was impossible to describe symptoms to them. I had been about to place our fate into the hands of two men hardly qualified in either of our opinions to take us to the top of a flight of stairs, let alone Kilimanjaro.

Unwilling to spend a moment longer with the chuckle brothers than we had to, we hiked back down the entire mountain the next morning (some three or so times the distance we’d have covered to the summit, albeit with descending altitude on our side). We scrapped bitterly with them at points as they seemed unable to give us any accurate indication of how far away things were. They fussed about it, trying to be attentive, even tying our shoelaces for us, trying to secure their tips, but they only succeeded in irritating me further. The ride back was tense to say the least. We slid into our hotel bed sheets somewhat relieved to be comfortable, but mostly annoyed.

We did not really know what to expect when we talked to their boss the next day. However, he soon told us his position. ‘There is a problem with these guides. I know because the porters would not talk to me. I had to take each of them aside individually, and they all said different things. Sop you tell me.’ So we did – everything I’ve described here and more – much more, in fact, but I am tired and depressed by thinking about it, and I really can’t be bothered to list it all here. He told us he would fired them, suggested we ask the company for our money back and offered us a free trip up the mountain with a different bunch if we could ever afford to get back to Tanzania, to prove to us that this was not the standard his company provided. As he was so thoroughly upset by it all, and seemed so genuine, I have not mentioned any names here. Should our refund not be forthcoming, I shall.

I will try to sum up the trip next week, and make further musings upon my experiences and impressions of Africa, providing something suitably important and interesting doesn’t happen in the meantime. Maybe I’ll post twice. Listen, though – if you even fancy climbing that mountain, don’t let this put you off. Most of the teams seemed very expert, and you will make it. The sense of failure and defeat that haunts me now is just a hangover from my more masculine inclinations. The schoolboy that failed at sports became an adult that has always fought through all the physical trials his feeble flesh tipped towards failure with grim determination, swearing that he would not let the taunts that still echo in his ears ever return. This man feels a little diminished by this experience, but I’m not going to be pathetic about it either. There are lessons to be learned. I shall learn them and move on.