Millennium Camp to Mweka Gate
Hiking distance: 9 miles
Starting elevation: 12,560’
Highest elevation: 12,560’
Ending elevation: 5,360’
Unfortunately, Mo’s head cold has finally overcome her strength and resolve. She’s too sick to come to breakfast this morning, so I scavenge a few morsels for her and bring them back to our tent. She’s not hungry, but she needs fuel. We’ve got nearly ten knee-busting downhill miles to cover today. Sick or not, she’s going to have to suck it up and walk out of here like a boss.
While I’m passing food through the tent flap, my attention is captured by the sound of joyous singing. Other curious trekkers begin poking their heads up, too, seeking the source. Our porters, we discover, are serenading us with the Jambo Bwana song.
We scramble for our cameras and converge on the porters, nearly 30 of whom have gathered in a small clearing to sing, dance, and clap hands. They have thoughtfully positioned themselves to our north so that Kibo will appear in the background of any pictures we take of them.
Translated from Swahili, the lyrics of Jambo Bwana mean something like, “Kilimanjaro’s a really, really big mountain, but if you go slowly and drink lots of water, you’ll have no worries.” In my experience it’s not quite that simple, but what the hell? Hakuna matata.
While singing the last verse, the men form a line and pass in front of us, offering fist bumps and high-fives as they dance by. We’re like two soccer teams congratulating each other at the end of a particularly amiable match, one that perhaps involved ganja. Grateful for their performance, not to mention a week’s worth of heavy labor, we applaud and cheer them. Mo’ crawls out of the tent to see what's going on, but she’s too late to catch the show. Everyone has already resumed packing.
Deirdre had previously advised us that now is the time to present any gifts we haven’t already given to our porters. Gift-giving can stoke rivalry and resentment among porters, so the gifts must be modest and the giving discreet. Gently used gloves, hats, and headlamps, for instance, are recommended gifts. Immediately after coming down from the summit yesterday, Monica and I presented Barak(a) with a headlamp and a pair of heavy mittens. This morning we’re leaving a pile of energy bars and chemical hand warmers on top of our duffel bags for the two rarely-seen men who’ve been hauling our duffels between camps each day.
Robert, though, presents a problem. I didn’t bring a gift for him because I had no idea he would end up guiding me, personally, to the summit. Monica’s in a similar situation with Stephen. We weren’t told to bring gifts for anyone besides our shared summit porter and our two duffel porters, but Stephen and Robert have been especially attentive to us.
To be honest, as much as I respect Robert, and as much as I seek his approval, I haven’t been able to warm up to him all week. His aloof – even gruff – demeanor makes him a bit unapproachable. All the same, I’m deeply grateful for the tough love he administered on summit night, to say nothing of the flawless professionalism he exhibited all week. Therefore, when I thanked him at Barafu yesterday I told him I was going to give him my trekking poles once we reached Mweka Gate. Since then, however, I’ve changed my mind. I want to give Robert something he’ll use, and it occurs to me that none of our guides has used trekking poles all week. It may be a point of pride with them to hike unaided.
When the coast is clear I lure Robert away from the group and offer him the down jacket that I wore to the summit. It’s warm and lightweight and compresses to the size of a yam. I purchased it specifically for this trip and haven’t worn it more than four times, so it seems like a really good gift to me. Robert appears to agree. He thanks me repeatedly while holding one hand over his heart. He can be pretty inscrutable, but I think he’s genuinely touched. For all I know, though, he’s got a dozen of these things already and he's just being polite.
Deirdre steps wordlessly onto the trail with her backpack on, and like well-trained pack mules we quickly line up behind her. Our spirits are high. With the summit safely under our belts we’re feeling relaxed, but today’s trek is no cakewalk. It’s going to be long and a little treacherous, not to mention anti-climactic. As is always the case on this trip, there’s no time to revel in our triumph or even savor a given moment, and there won’t be time for that until after dinner this evening, if even then. Bobbing down the mountain today, our thoughts are mostly about how we’re going to get our clothing washed, dried, and packed in time for tomorrow’s safari. Push, push, push.
Within a couple of hours we’re deep in the lichen-shrouded cloud forest that skirts Kilimanjaro’s lower flank. We haven’t seen vegetation this dense for six days. The broad, dark leaves sparkle with condensation and the air sags with humidity, not to mention oxygen. God, how I’ve missed oxygen!
My turn eventually comes and I take a nasty, slow-motion fall. My feet slide out ahead of me, then they’re airborne, then they’re trading places with my head. I land hard on my shoulder blades. The impact is bone-jarring, teeth-rattling. Positioned the wrong way, I could have bitten through my tongue. Embarrassment makes me want to jump up and shake it off, but I obey my First Responder training and lay still for a long moment...in the mud...assessing myself for damage while the shock wears off. Fuad ambles over and looks into my face, upside down, with mock pity. He makes the sign of the cross over my head, administering last rites, and walks away.
As if on cue, a stretcher appears just a few minutes after my fall. It’s not for me, though. It’s one of many we’ve seen today being carried from Mweka Gate up to the high camps. Stretchers on Kilimanjaro are built for the rugged terrain; each one has a single knobby-tired wheel attached to the bottom. It’s what you’d get it you crossed a hospital gurney with a dirt bike using a unicycle as a surrogate.
Speaking of stretchers, Monica’s condition has improved since this morning. She’s still coughing fitfully, though, so Stephen has been shadowing her again and carrying her pack. During one of our rest breaks, he and Monica mosey unnoticed up to the front of the line while I'm busy snacking. When we all start moving again, Stephen takes off like he’s about to miss a connecting flight, and Mo’ somehow manages to stay in his draft. I’d need to pass a dozen people to even hope to catch them, so I keep my place in line and wish them godspeed. In a few minutes they’re out of sight. I hope they make that plane.
Robert and a few other guides are the only people behind me now; they’re chatting amiably in Swahili. With Monica gone and no one speaking English nearby, I spend some time wondering what it’s like to be Robert. His income isn’t terrible by Tanzania standards, but he works ridiculously long hours to earn it, and he’s on-call for emergencies all night every night. Breathing Kilimanjaro’s dust and spending so much time at altitude can’t be good for his health, and the long absences from home can’t be good for his relationships. The mountain’s two climbing seasons consume 7 months of the year, during which he’s away from his family for weeks at a time. He happens to be going home for a few days after this trip, but he often guides treks back to back, which keeps him on the mountain for months at a stretch. As far as I know, he receives no health benefits.
“Yes,” I affirm, “thanks to you.”
There’s a long pause indicating that he doesn’t have a follow-up. Then, “Not everyone makes it, you know. The tennis player, she did not make it.”
I nod. “So I heard.” He’s referring to Martina Navratilova, who in 2010 was turned back by altitude sickness on Day 4 of a 6-day trek. Like me, she was 54 when she made the attempt. Unlike me, she had recently completed six weeks of radiation therapy to fight off breast cancer. If Robert is trying to flatter me he’s using the wrong story. I was sold on my accomplishment when Frankie, one of our own guides, had to turn around on summit night.
In my mind, men like Robert, Frankie, and Stephen cast shadows as long as Kibo’s. In addition to their skills as leaders, mountain guides, and outdoorsmen, they’ve got gravitas. Robert, in particular, is as dignified as a statesman and as laconic as a Clint Eastwood character. (Not to be confused, mind you, with the real Eastwood, who’s so chatty he’ll talk to an empty chair.)
At our next snack break Robert steps off the trail with me and blows my mind by lighting a cigarette, casual as a yawn. I had no idea that he smoked. I figure he’s really letting his guard down now, so I ask him a few personal questions – about his kids and his home. I can tell he’s not comfortable talking about himself, but I’ve been dying to connect with him all week, and I can feel it finally coming together here at the last minute. I decide to push a little deeper. “So, Robert,” I ask, fiddling nonchalantly with my pack straps, “what do you do between mountain treks?”
He takes a long pause and looks down at the ground sheepishly, like I’ve just asked him the one question he’s been dreading all week. Oops, I think, but it’s too late now. After a few uneasy seconds he looks up at me with slightly smiling eyes while somehow keeping his face slightly averted.
“Peeegs,” he says, almost blushing with embarrassment. “Peeegs and goats.”
Immediately I feel terrible for having asked the question. It’s not that Robert’s ashamed of his answer; nearly everyone in East Africa tends livestock. But he knows I come from another world, and he undoubtedly also knows how highly I regard him. He probably believes that his answer will diminish my respect for him. I’m sure that by this point on every trek he leads his clients hold him in god-like reverence, and with one mundane question I have rendered him a mere mortal. I try to think of something to say that would undo the damage, something that would reassure him of my veneration. After a few awkward seconds, though, I decide it’s probably better just to nod knowingly and say nothing. Yeah, I signal him in body language, we've all got animals back home.
In another mile or so we find Monica and Stephen waiting for us at trailside. Mo’s a little out of breath, but, oddly, she’s not coughing. Stephen, to my utter astonishment, is smoking. Mo' leans over and tells me that Stephen had been doing push-ups and jumping jacks just a few minutes ago, all with a lit cigarette hanging from him lips. She also whispers that she used their time alone to offer Stephen a pair of rain pants and a set of ankle gaiters, which he accepted graciously.
Mo’ then asks if there’s story behind the (conspicuously large) golden cross Stephen wears around his neck. As a matter of fact, there is. Stephen is a preacher. In fact, he’s in a hurry to get down the mountain today in hope of delivering the evening sermon at his church. Tanzania’s population is divided almost equally among Christians, Muslims, and followers of one of East Africa’s many traditional polytheistic religions. It's a point of national pride, Stephen tells us, that virtually no religious conflict exists in Tanzania. (I’ve heard this from other sources as well, but recent events suggest that the peaceful coexistence may be more myth than reality.)
We all hit the trail again for the last leg of the journey. While dodging slick spots and trying to remain upright, I once again contemplate our guides. In a sense, they’re full-time herders. When not on the mountain, Robert tends his livestock and Stephen tends his Christian flock. Then they come here during the trekking seasons to shepherd meandering mzungus to the top of Kilimanjaro. There’s a poetic logic to it.
Without my noticing, the trail has been widening slowly into a jeep road, and all at once I realize that we have arrived at the end of our journey. Mweka Gate is so dense with vegetation and so thick with humidity that I’d swear we just hiked into the Congo or the Amazon. Yet we are still more than 5,000 feet above sea level. In fact, we’re as high as Denver, Colorado, the so-called “Mile-High City”, known for its dry, powdery snow and air so crisp that it crackles with static electricity. The contrast is impossible to reconcile. Mweka looks like the set of William Friedkin's film, Sorcerer . A rope bridge is all that’s missing.
Mweka Gate is also swarming with semi-legal entrepreneurs who hide in plain sight by blending in with the porters. The hucksters seem to have an unwritten agreement (or perhaps a written one) with park rangers allowing them to ply their trade so long as they’re not overly aggressive with the guests. They make furtive eye contact with us and whisper offerings as they pass. “Cold beer?” asks one. “T-shirts?” asks another. The quietest barkers I've ever encountered try to coax us down an alley where they sell all manner of tchotchkes and cold drinks. It looks sketchy, though, so Mo’ and I hang with the group and wait for Deirdre to tell us which vehicle to board. Then Fuad strides over, beaming with pride, and points down at his glistening wet books. “Two bucks!” he proclaims, nodding toward a young man holding a nylon-bristle brush in one hand and a running garden hose in the other. I follow Fuad’s lead and pay the young man to clean the caked mud off my boots. He does not give a lick and a promise, either; he really gets in there and scrubs. Monica follows suit because it’s money well spent. Now we won’t have filthy boots to quarantine when we get back to the hotel.
Soon enough, Deirdre and Leslie round us up and herd us onto a bus. In just 30 bouncy, jostling minutes we’re entering the gates of the Springlands Hotel in Moshi. Cold drinks, warmish showers, and clean clothes await. It ain’t exactly paradise, but after a full week on the mountain, it will do nicely.
Maddi’s there to greet each of us with a warm hug, politely disregarding our foul stench. Whatever malady drove her off the mountain last Tuesday, she recovered from it quickly and is eager to rejoin us for tomorrow’s safari.
Even though everything in our minds and bodies is telling us that now’s the time to relax and celebrate, we just don’t have the time. We must collect our effects from storage and rush off to our rooms to wash gear before dinner. The Springlands has laundry facilities, but Deirdre assures us that we don’t need them. She advises us to wash our clothes in a sink and hang them to dry overnight on the handrails outside our rooms. Monica comes up with an ingenious plan to wash our clothes in soapy water inside an empty kitchen trash bag, then rinse them in the sink before hanging them to dry. We feel very resourceful doing this, but we really should have used one of the hotel’s driers. Despite being made of quick-dry materials, our clothes will not, in fact, dry overnight. And we won’t discover this until we’re donning soggy garments the next morning.
After washing ourselves and our gear, we pull on the only dry clothing we have and race to the hotel's courtyard to join the group for dinner. Johnny and several of the guides join us, and we finally take the time to congratulate each other on our accomplishment. In fact, Johnny has brought summit certificates, which he presents to each of us in turn.
Fuad laughs because he’d had the exact same experience. “That’s not going to change when we get home,” he says. “How can you explain what we just did to people who don’t even hike or camp?”
“More than that,” I add, nodding toward a group of porters collecting their pay, “how do you explain to friends back home that one of the hardest things you’ve ever done was also a catered event?”