Kwa heri Pemba na kila la heri

“Mama mama, many worlds I’ve come since I first left home.
Goin’ home, goin’ home, by the riverside I will rest my bones,
Listen to the river sing sweet songs, to rock my soul.”

Due to safety and security concerns, I’ve made the excruciatingly difficult decision to leave my post in Zanzibar. Because I had already served for more than a year and because of tensions between the governments on the Islands and mainland, transferring to a different site (and therefore a separate Ministry of Education) was not possible. As such, my Peace Corps service has come to an end and I have returned to the United States.



On the bright side, I’m now able to divulge some more details about my site. My post was in the northern region of Pemba Island, the northern most island of the Zanzibar archipelago. Pemba is one of the most controversial, mysterious, and feared regions in all of Tanzania. It is haunted by its past, and crippled by corruption and conflict. The chance to live in such a (for lack of a better word) crazy place was truly a unique opportunity.


Zanzibar is actually the name for three different things in the Islands. The whole group of islands is called Zanzibar, the larger of the islands is called Zanzibar, and the capital city of Zanzibar island is called Zanzibar. To prevent confusion, Tanzanians refer to Zanzibar island by its original Swahili name, Unguja.

Pemba was once one of the cornerstones of East African trade. Arab explorers used it as a base for their missions to convert Africans to Islam, and as a portal to the slave and spice trades. The Pemban melting pot spawned the original dialects of the Swahili language—a pragmatic mixture of native Bantu, Arabic, and Hindi. As European powers explored and colonized East Africa, the Swahili language picked up some English and German words as well. Today, Pemba is home to what is considered the “purest” form of the Swahili language. I certainly could not have asked for a better place to learn Swahili.



Once a major base for Middle Eastern influence in East Africa, Pemba remains more than 99% Muslim.

When the East African slave market collapsed, a large population of unsold slaves remained stranded on Pemba. Unable to sell the slaves, Pemba’s Arab powers put them to work on clove plantations. Over the next few hundred years the island’s incredible soil was decimated by over-cloving. Today it is nearly impossible to grow anything other than cloves and cassava on Pemba, forcing the population to rely on expensive imports from the mainland.



In 1964, Zanzibar experienced a violent revolution. Over three days almost 20,000 foreigners were massacred on Unguja island. Those who weren’t killed fled, including (believe it or not) Freddy Mercury. Purportedly, the plan was for Pembans to rise up in similar fashion but ultimately they never did. The government that took power has long since resented Pemba for its lack of “sacrifice,” and today some theorize this to be the seed of the political conflict that plagues the region today. The death and exodus of Zanzibar’s foreigners (including engineers, doctors, and traders) plunged the region into an economic and public works nightmare. Unable to recover, Zanzibar was forced to give up its independence and join the newly formed Tanganyika — a union very few in Zanzibar or Tanganyika were or still are happy about. The United Republic of Tanzania was born.

Today, Pemba is a beautiful and, for the most part, peaceful island. Most of its folk are welcoming and friendly, and it has some truly good people working hard to improve the island’s situation. Unfortunately, it is also a land of political strife, corruption, decaying buildings and roads, and a critical lack of power and potable water. The island terrifies mainlanders, who try to keep away at any cost. On my trips to the mainland, Tanzanians were often shocked when I told them where I’d been living. In your average Tanzanian’s eyes, I’d been braving a cursed island… a disintegrating land of dissidents, demons, and voodoo masters. Wizards travel from as far away as Haiti to learn the secrets of Pemban witchdoctors.

Pemba is hardly as bad as its reputation on the mainland would suggest… like anywhere, it has its charms and its problems. The sad thing is, Pemba’s problems only seem to be getting worse with time. Local governmental corruption cripples schools and businesses. Indeed, the teachers college I worked at has not received its allocated money in over two years. The staff and teachers there work so hard with so few resources, and they are rewarded with nothing but apathy and even theft from local government officials.

Pemba’s public works have been gradually decaying since the 1960’s. The island is powered by poorly maintained petrol generators that routinely go offline for weeks at a time. Pemba’s water is supplied via electric pumps, which (of course) are rendered useless without electricity. With temperatures of over 100 degrees for most of the year and ridiculous humidity, scarcity of water is more than a small health concern. Every so often badly needed repair parts are imported for the power generators, but somehow the parts are always stolen and sold off before actually making it where they need to go. As Pemba’s electricity and water become scarcer and scarcer, the demands of the population are skyrocketing as many men have upwards of 15 children. It is not uncommon to see shoeless children with distended bellies.


Maintaining and teaching with the school’s computer lab was a constant battle thanks to regular power spikes and outages.

As I discussed in my most recent post, Pemba’s single major resource is cloves. As the Tanzanian government has continually slashed their monopolistic clove buying price, Pemba’s sole source of significant income has evaporated. As you’d imagine, the people of Pemba are not too happy. Indeed, loyalties on Pemba to the ruling party are few and far between.




Although technically the Tanzanian government is a multi-party system, only one party has ever won presidencies for the mainland and Zanzibar, (mainland and Zanzibar have separate presidents). The ruling party, CCM, is wildly supported on the mainland, is mildly supported on Unguja Island, and is despised on Pemba. Unfortunately for Pemba, Unguja is larger and is thus the government center for the whole Zanzibar archipelago. My town in northern Pemba is considered the stronghold of the opposition party, CUF. I’ve seen a number of CCM rallies end with violence. One rally was protested by means of CUF supporters taking down the transformer for the town… blacking out the region. I was walking home from a street-side dinner with one of my local friends (who I’ll call Juma in this post) when we saw the blinding flash and flailing power lines up the street. Had we been a few minutes faster that would not have been our night…

North Pemba is particularly pro-opposition … it’s also the region with the most problems. Cholera outbreak and famine plagued an area a ways north of me last year, and the government denied its existence for months… not wanting to have to deal with the problem. Granted, the north is pretty wild, so I can understand to some extent the government’s lack of eagerness to deal with it. Patches of seriously radical Islamists live up there, and a gradual influx of smuggled AK-47s from Somalia makes the region even scarier. (Note: the only Tanzanian participants in the 1998 US Embassy bombings were from northern Pemba). It’s just not a good situation.

Elections in Zanzibar occur every five years, and the election results in 2000 and 2005 were highly criticized, even by the UN. The Pembans are entirely convinced the last two elections were rigged, and tried to stage protests during and following the elections. These protests were not well received. I’ve heard numerous tales from local friends about the horrors that occurred.

The 2000 violence was particularly bad. After CUF supporters staged a demonstration in town, the government soldiers and police dropped the hammer. They went from house to house in Juma’s neighborhood, looting, raping, and killing as they pleased. The young son of Juma’s neighbor was shot and killed, and Juma’s own grandmother was shot in the hip and seriously injured. Juma and his uncle were forced to hide on their roof while their house was looted. A well-known CUF supporter in the neighborhood was shot and killed, his body left in his house to rot. When a neighbor entered and tried to bury the body the next day, the man was beaten within an inch of his life.

This encouraged further protest in the town’s main square (less than a mile away from my house). The CUF supporters used stones to attack the soldiers, and after gunning down a number of people the soldiers ran out of ammunition and were forced back to the police station. At least one soldier was captured and bludgeoned to death in the square. The soldiers retaliated by calling in a helicopter gunship to open fire on the crowd. The resulting violence was brutal, and dozens were killed. Juma was forced to hide in a freezer of a local shop. The violence during the 2005 elections was apparently terrible as well. One can only hope things turn out better in 2010.

Despite the whole world seeming to be against them, many Pembans are some of the friendliest and most hardworking people I have ever met. On the street, people are engaging and affable. Complete strangers often invited me into their homes. I made some true friends in my community and my school, and I will miss them terribly.

Unfortunately, as things on the island get worse, and people feel increasingly alienated and subjugated, Islamic extremism is taking hold. Aggressive confrontations were becoming a weekly occurrence, and blatant death threats have been given to the island’s volunteers. One afternoon some locals even went as far as to throw a machete from a truck at another volunteer and me.

Three bouts of malaria, a round of amoebic dysentery, devastating and relentless heat, and isolation did not dissuade me from my post. In the end I was compelled to leave due to the growing political unrest and intolerance in northern Pemba. It was a painful decision to leave my school and community, but ultimately I had to put my safety first. I have nothing but respect for the talented teachers and staff at my school who work tirelessly (and often without pay) to improve their community. I especially admire my headmaster and second master, who are forced to battle endlessly to keep the school afloat.


The isolation was no joke either… it takes not one but TWO rickety plane flights to get to the island.

I became particularly good friends with one teacher at the school named Said. Said grew up and lives in a remote village north of the school, and commuted every day more than 10k on ridiculously rugged roads with an old, rusty Vespa. He taught English and Swahili every day both at my teachers college and at a local secondary school. I use past tense because Said was recently accepted to the highly competitive Masters of Linguistics program at the University of Dar es Salaam, and he started his studies this Fall.


Said and his children at home.

In my last month on Pemba Said was kind enough to invite me and the other volunteers up to his home to meet his family and pet sea turtles. Yes, he has pet sea turtles. He keeps them in a tidal pool on an island near his home. He tends and feeds them, and often brings local primary school students over to teach them respect for endangered species.



We rode these boats to get to the turtle island.



The turtle pool.

Those close to me during my year on Pemba gave me a great sendoff. The volunteers ravenously converged on my home in my final days to pillage the place, and what they didn’t get my friend Ismael and associates took care of.


Bora leo means “today is the best.”


The little kids who spent the last year playing in my front yard were thrilled with their goodbye gifts.


In my first week on Pemba this one boy sat on my front porch singing in a raspy Bob Dylon-esque voice. I jokingly called him Bob Dylan in front of his friends, and overnight his new name in town became Bobi Deelon. I’m pretty sure Bobi Deelon will hate me for the rest of his life. Hopefully I made amends by having my parents mail me this t-shirt to give the guy.

Ismael was by far my best Pemban friend during my year there, and I truly wish him and his family all the best. He, his brother, his cousin, and about a dozen of their friends and family members escorted me to the airport in a friend’s van. I could not have asked for a rowdier entourage.


Ismael, as my father nicknamed him: the champion of hot.

Despite the challenges of living on the island, and being forced to make the difficult decision to leave, I am proud of the work I was able to accomplish there. It was very hard saying goodbye, and I really do wish Pemba all the best. My heart goes out the place. Good people working ever so hard to succeed against utterly impossible odds. As I write this in my parents’ cozy home on the beautiful Maine ocean, it’s hard to stop worrying about the friends I’ve left behind, knowing full well the struggles that lie ahead for them.

Try it out, it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen

We go out in stormy weather,
We rarely practice discern
We make love to some weird sin
We seek out the taciturn
That’s the way we get by,
‘s the way we get by.


It’s been a busy “winter” here in Tanzania. In recent months I climbed Kilimanjaro, helped get a community health education program off the ground, attended a technology summit in Moshi, turned 24 (woot!), survived TWO separate incidents involving machete-wielding hooligans (…not even going to go into these stories here, if you want a full account shoot me an email), became certified in open water diving, and had tea with a notorious smuggler.

My birthday was a grand time. It just so happened that August 17 coincided with when PCV Chris and Don’s batch of home-brewed mango wine was ready for consumption. We were pretty wary when we first opened the fermentation bucket, but after filtering the stuff through a pillowcase the results were surprisingly decent! It was a good — if hazy – night.




A few days later back at site, one of my good friends and I were wandering around town on one of the island’s many power-less nights. After grabbing dinner at a street meat stand, (no electricity is the ONLY proper way to eat street meat… as it’s best if you can’t really see what exactly it is that you’re subjecting your body to), we headed over to my friend's home to hang out. Sitting on the floor drinking tea were two middle aged men. I recognized one as a local shopkeeper; the other I’d never met, but he seemed vaguely familiar. The mystery man stood up and introduced himself, (for the rest of this post I'll refer to him as Juma). The candlelight magnified massive bags under the man’s eyes, and his face twitched as he spoke. My friend informed me: “huyu ni babangu”… this was his father.

I’ve heard tales of Juma since I arrived on the island. Almost everyone here knows of the man, and many are more than eager to pronounce overwhelming respect or contempt (depending on the person’s social proximity to the Zanzibar Government) for him. Juma, clove “entrepreneur” at large, is a local legend.

Tanzania’s farming system still has socialist leanings, so all farmers must sell their crops directly and exclusively to the Government. In recent years the cost of goods on the islands has risen substantially, yet the selling price for cloves is routinely cut. You do the math.

Back when the serious clove price cuts were starting, Juma and associates started a system of smuggling cloves to Kenya, where they could be sold for much higher prices. Farmers would hide portions of their crops in underground caches, and at night the smugglers would run bags of cloves through the jungle to the shore. The loot would be loaded onto dhows, and then sailed to Mombasa. This was lucrative for a time, but eventually the Man caught wind of what was going on. Jungle runners would be met and shot by police ambushes, dhows were hunted down, caches were raided and farmers arrested. My friend has gone on runs with his father, and he has a couple stories where he just barely eluded capture. Eventually Juma became a marked man by the government, and he was forced to flee. He was one of the few major smugglers who managed to get away. Up until two weeks ago, he’d avoided the islands completely for more than a year. Clove smuggling still goes on here, but these days it’s much more dangerous and less profitable.

As I sat with Juma he was surprisingly candid, especially given the fact that I was a strange mzungu whom he’d only just met. It probably helped that he was hopped up on the East African form of speed, (called mirungi), a fact that became abundantly obvious within minutes. He told me he’d snuck back home for two reasons: to attend a relative’s funeral, and to consult a local witchdoctor on – I’m assuming — serious metaphysical issues far to grim for any mzungu to comprehend. He’d only be in the islands for a few days and doesn’t intend to return until the elections of 2010. His plan is to return to Somalia, where he’s been smuggling refuges out to Ethiopia, Kenya, and Tanzania. (At one point I, perhaps ignorantly, asked if Somalia is as dangerous as the news reports; his answer: “for you.”) Seriously, whenever I think I’m getting used to this place I always get broadsided by an “I’m in Africa” moment. Drinking tea on the floor of a dark room with a tweaked out East African smuggler who views Somalia as a perfectly reasonably place to hang out struck me as one of those moments.

Even with clove smuggling on the decline, clove related violence on the island is still commonplace. A few months back a full-blown shootout took place right in my town. It seems that a group of rowdy mainland soldiers decided to leave the comfort of their portside barracks and have a merry jaunt up north.

They arrived at a farming village and demanded by means of armed persuasion that the entire clove crop be loaded into their truck. After looting the village, the soldiers headed back south to their barracks. Luckily one of the villagers had a cell phone and managed to contact the local police force, (which happens to be based in my town). The police set up a roadblock north of town and when the soldiers arrived a big ol’ shootout occurred. Eventually the soldiers were able to navigate around the blockade and continued, (minus a few men), south. The soldiers and police blasted through town, down to the port. At the port, the soldiers were surrounded at their barracks and they eventually had to surrender. I wish I could tell you with certainty that the cloves ended up back in the hands of the villagers, I really do, but as it is we’ll just have to speculate.

Now, Zanzibar’s economy is driven primarily by cloves, tourism, and foreign aid money. Very little of the latter two ever make it over to my island, so peoples’ livelihood is more or less entirely dependent on the clove industry, (let’s pause for a second and appreciate the absurdity/hilarity of an Islamist island’s primary export being a spice that is best known for its uses with ham and spiced whiskey). The northern district of the island is beyond poor, so losing an entire season’s crop would devastate already destitute communities. It is easily the least developed part of Zanzibar, lacking heavily in proper roads, schools, and infrastructure. This has driven many of the people there to political unrest (and even, historically, Islamist extremism). This has only made the problems up there worse, as the government has become wary of supporting those who almost unanimously back Zanzibar’s political opposition party. It’s not a good situation.

There is some pretty interesting stuff up there though. At the north most point is a colonial British lighthouse, which resembles something out the old computer game Myst, (no, Africa has not made me any less of a geek).




The island’s most spectacular beaches are also all up north. Because the beaches are so difficult to get to, visitors have them almost to themselves. Three weekends ago, us four Island Peace Corps volunteers joined forces with some folk from a local diving company and made the trek out to one of the more remote beaches. As we drove through one of the northern villages, (oddly enough, just as we were joking about how the people up there probably aren’t too keen on American visitors), some young boys on the side of the road pointed fingers at us and started shouting MBAYA, MBAYA! Translation: BAD, BAD! Little kids were literally pointing at us and calling us bad. This happened multiple times with multiple villages. Exactly what we wanted to hear…

At one point we took a wrong turn, (read: our guide took a long turn), and we ended up in a strange forest filled with women hauling logs of wood on their heads. No men, just tons and tons of women. At one point they sort of surrounded us and started chanting and squealing loudly, (which was most likely out of excitement/mockery, although PCV Chris and I did harbor suspicions that this was perhaps a signal to the conspicuously missing men and that impending doom was imminent). A train of the yelling women followed us out of the woods. It was weird.

Eventually, after asking a couple of country bumpkins for directions, we found the correct path to the beach. The beach itself was spectacular, and certainly worth the journey. We had it virtually to ourselves, and we spent the day lounging, swimming, and body surfing. It was a really nice break.




After the day of rest and good company we all went our separate ways. Admittedly, life at my site has been a bit tough lately. My school’s scheduling has been chaotic, the island’s scorching heat has begun to pick up again, and power and water have been consistently scarce, (the island’s power plant decided to blow a hole and spew oil and petrol into the bay… it’s been three weeks and repairs are still incomplete). I am rapidly approaching the 1-year-in-country mark, though, so my spirits are high. On September 21st, I’ll have been in Tanzania for a year. It’s certainly been a year.

Mt. Kilimanjaro

As wide as all the world, great, high, and
unbelievably white in the sun, was the square
top of Kilimanjaro. – Hemingway, Snows of Kilimanjaro



Kilimanjaro. The roof of Africa. One of the globe’s largest volcanoes. The highest free-standing mountain in the world. 19, 343 feet above sea level. Contrary to its name Mt. Kilimanjaro is not small. (Kilima njaro roughly translates to small hill of God).

My father and I spent 8 days climbing up and down the beast. We opted for the scenic/long/difficult Lemosho route. The major advantage of the Lemosho route is that it gives your body more time to adapt to the altitude before summiting, (other routes take around 5 days). The disadvantage is that the route is much, much longer than other ones. Altitude sickness is no joke, causes a number of deaths every year on the mountain, and is the major reason people fail to summit. Of the roughly 30,000 people who attempt Kili each year, less than a third make it to the top… mostly because of acute altitude sickness. So, Lemosho may have been longer and physically more strenuous, but by keeping us on the mountain longer it probably helped us a lot when we got to the higher altitudes.

Day 0 – Prep:

Our group consisted of 14 climbers, (mostly Americans), a handful of guides, and a small army of porters. First thing I noticed at base camp was the cold. It was in the 60s. I’m sure I made a great impression on everyone during briefing as a I sat there shivering in the huge, puffy winter coat my father had brought me from home while everyone else was doing fine without jackets at all. Second thing I noticed was the English. People were speaking it. Not as in “hello Mr. Whitey, give me money” or “good morning, how are you? I am fine!” English, but actual American English.


(Notice the guns. Elephants sometimes charge hikers in the lower elevations, so the guns are for protection. I was a bit skeptical on whether or not they even worked, as they looked straight out of WWII. Seriously, I swear I remember seeing some German soldiers carrying them in Saving Private Ryan.)

It was also weird at first being around so many people who had just been in America. I felt kind of out of place. I had to hold myself back a bit from bombarding everyone with questions about life back in the Motherland.

The guide service we used was fantastic, providing all of our meals and carrying all our food and sleeping gear. Over the hike I’m the only person there I’m pretty sure who GAINED weight. Burned around 4,000 calories a day, and I still gained weight. Compared to life on the Island, Kili was a vacation.

Day 1 – The forest:

In the morning, we rode to the trail head. On the way, we passed the sites of a few villages inside Kilimanjaro National Park where the residents had been moved out by the Park authorities in view of the effect on the environment. It was sort of eerie going though what effectively were now ghost towns. Hurray for conservation!

We approached the mountain from the west. Kili is made up of three volcanoes. From the west – Shira, Kibo and Mawenzi. Shira is the oldest and Kibo the youngest. Uhuru Peak, the highest part of Kilimanjaro, is part of Kibo. Our route took us across the remnants of Shira, (which is now largely a plateau filled in with lava from the Kibo eruption), then headed east around the southern wall Kibo, and then up Kibo to its crater and peak.



At the trail head, the guides, cooks, porters and climbers assembled. It was quite a crew. We hiked for several hours up to 9,000 feet through thick forest. It reminded us a lot of the Maine forest in its density but, of course, it was tropical. That night we stayed at Mti Mkubwa camp, (which means Big Tree). This was the first night we slept in our small two person tents – they were cozy and the sleeping bags were very warm.



Day 2 – Onto the Shira plateau:


Goo goo g’joob.

Today, we hiked from 9,000 to 11,400 feet. We made our way through the forest and out onto the moorland of the Shira plateau. Shira used have its own peak until it exploded catastrophically thousands of years ago, leaving a massive crater. Sometime later Kibo had an eruption, and the Shira crater filled with the flowing lava. Result: plateau.



At the Shira camp we had our first glimpse of the summit. It was big and it was far, but we were all too mesmerized to be entirely intimidated. That night, the almost full moon made Kili seem to glow.



Tonight we started to take Diamox, which supposedly helps with acclimatization. Unfortunately it is also a severe diuretic, and thus my dad began his five-times-a-night treks outside the tent. I slept well except for one of the last nights, which I’ll get to later.

Shira seemed very cold to me, getting down into the upper 40s at night. It never gets below the high 70s, (and even those are a rarity), at my site. High 40s were not fun for me. It was here that the loving relationship between me and my big, friendly coat ol’ Mr. Puffy truly blossomed.



Day 3 – Across the Shira:



We hiked from 11,400 to 13,500 feet, spending most of the time on the heath in the crater of the Shira volcano. We could see the remnants of the rim of the old volcano in the distance, and could see just how big these volcanoes were. Today was a long day of hiking. What was surprising was seeing flowers and trees, (albeit really gnarly ones), up this high. In the U.S. nothing grows at this height. Indeed, in Maine there is nothing at this height.



These trees were weird.

By the time we arrived at camp, a number of us were starting to feel the effects of the trek. At this point the altitude started to affect some of our group, with a couple of people feeling nauseous and having headaches. My pops and I were doing ok with the altitude so far, although the dust of the trail was starting to get to us, causing sinus headaches and making for very disgusting results when we blew our noses. Also, we all seemed to be getting the Kili cough, caused by the dry, cold air.



Day 4 – The lava tower:

At this point we were to the southwest of the peak. To actually reach the summit requires approaching from the east. Today began a two-day journey around the southern wall of Kibo.



To acclimatize, we climbed to 14,500 feet at the lava tower, and then went back down to 12,900 feet to camp at Barancu. The lava tower is a 500 foot hunk of, as you would expect, lava. It was optional to climb it. As our plan was to make it to the top of Kili, and not the top of the lava tower, we declined. We wanted to conserve energy and avoid any injuries. My dad has this way of hurting himself doing unnecessary things.



If you look closely at this photo you can see a person with a red hat. I am smaller than the lava tower.

Barancu camp was cripplingly cold for me. The temperatures we experienced later near the peak were ostensibly colder, but the coldest I felt during the whole hike was at Barancu. Our camp was right in the middle of the cloud line. Cold is bad, but wet cold is the worst.



On a tragic note, Barancu marked the last camp where we were able to clean our teeth. It seems we misplaced our toothbrush bag during packing up, and as a result we went through the rest of the hike without brushing. It was a gross couple of days in the end there…

Day 5 – Two brains, one mind:

The next two days were the toughest. From Barancu to the next camp, Barafu, is a long up-and-down hike, ending at a little above 15,000 feet. Barafu means snow, and at one time there may have been a lot of snow there. No snow now though, thanks to global warming.

Reaching Barafu Camp took seven hours of hiking with only a few thousand feet of net gain. This stretch of the hike was particularly difficult, because we would get up to over 14,500 feet, and then go back down to less than 13,000 feet – repeatedly. In the end, although overall we gained over 2,000 feet in altitude, we probably climbed up well over twice if not three times that much because of all the up-and-down ridges.


Seems like hating on France is an international sport. (No, my dad and I didn’t write this.)

At Barafu, we came to realize neither of us was thinking very well, due to the altitude. But between us, we figured we had one good mind, so agreed to stick together and make sure that any important decisions be made together.



Day 6 – To Uhuru Peak

From Barafu camp on it was constantly very cold. The altitude was also beginning to give us some headaches and stomach problems. When we set out at 5 a.m., it was less than 30 degrees. I was frozen and miserable.



The plan today was to climb 19,000 feet to Stella Point (the rim of the crater), and then descend into the crater to camp for the night before summiting the next day. It was a slow climb to the top, and the altitude was really getting to us. We were hiking on volcanic ash now, so every two steps we’d take we slid back one. It was a tough day.



We split into two hiking groups. Our group reached the rim in mid-afternoon, and as noted above the plan was to go down into the crater rather than the peak. The peak, however, was only 500 feet above us, an hour’s hike away along the snow-covered rim.

There was a discussion with Mahena, the assistant guide, as to whether we could go up now. Some of us decided to go for it, as the altitude was starting to really get to us, and we were concerned about how we would feel the next morning.

The oxygen was really thin, and we were all sucking air at this point. We had to stop every few minutes to catch our breath. The views from the ridge were spectacular though, with a snowy crater to our right and massive glaciers to the left.




My dad and I were beyond excited as we approached the peak. We made it. On the top of Africa. It was great, but even greater because we made it together.


The view was grand, and we felt grander.

After hugs and pictures all around, we headed down to Crater Camp.




Part way down the snow had a bit of a clearing, and being true Mainers we saw this as an opportunity to sled down on our butts. (And speaking of Maine, if you look really close at the above summit picture, you’ll spot a Sugarloaf sticker on the sign. Those things really do find their way everywhere don’t they?)



My dad had no problems, but unfortunately I had left my Gore-Tex pants in my pack. As a result my ass got completely soaked. I paid the price for my fun… big time.

We made it down safely to the camp, which was breathtakingly situated right in front of a glacier.


Dinner that night felt particularly good, though it was hard to eat due to the altitude of over 18,000 feet. My dad and I had splitting headaches, and the nausea came on fast. During the night, I became VERY sick, and had a hard time sleeping. But hey, at least now I get to claim that I threw up on a glacier on Kilimanjaro. Not bad, eh?

Day 7 — Coming down

The nine who had not summited the prior day got up at 4 a.m. to head up. Inside our tent it was less than 10 degrees and my dad and I felt exactly like bad. We were more than a little glad we had opted to summit the previous day. We were able to “sleep in” until 6 a.m., and then went out onto the crater to head to the rim. We climbed up to the rim, then down down down.



Today was a long day, from 19,000 feet all the way down to 10,000 at Mweka camp. On the upper part, we could really haul down the gravel and scree, almost like skiing. We really made good time, although I took a spill along the way, scratching up my arm and leg.



We lunched at Barafu, in the cold wind… probably the last time I’ll feel cold like that until I return to America in a year. As we headed down, the increased oxygen made it feel like we were on steroids. The only problem we had was that at about 12,000 feet my dad’s left knee finally went out. The timing was fine as we had summited already and were most of the way down. He put a brace on it, and trekked down the rest of the way in pain. The guy’s a great sport, and he made it down ok. As he likes to put it, he’s an expert at feeling terrible.

Day 8 – Return to the World

The last day we trekked down from a little over 10,000 feet to the base. It was rocky, hard-packed trail through the forest and it rained most of the way. I stuck with my dad. We got a late start because of his knee, trailing the rest of the crew, but caught up to the back of the pack part way down.

It was great getting to trail head, tired but successful. We had not had showers or modern bathroom facilities for more than a week, and had not even been able to brush our teeth for four days. Getting to the hotel was amazing. Not quite as good as getting to the top of the mountain, but still damn good. We had a celebratory dinner before everyone went his or her separate way. We made some good friends on the hike and we hope to keep in touch. I ended up staying the night but my dad and many others headed out after dinner to catch a flight back home.

It was really hard for my dad and I to say goodbye again. We spent, quite literally, 24 hours a day together for nine days straight. Kilimanjaro was an experience neither of us will ever forget.