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.

Who’ll stop the rain?

You pass through places And places pass through you But you carry them with you On the soles of your traveling shoes Life for the past few weeks has been a whirlwind. I realize my posts have been a bit scarce as of late, and do I appreciate all the emails asking if I’m alive. Yes, I’m still here, although one day a few weeks ago there were a couple of close calls. Since my last entry the rainy season picked up tremendously. We’re talking torrential downpours for most of the day, every day. On one particularly wet day I realized that my cash supply was dangerously low. Normally I would have simply waited a few days for a drier day, but unfortunately this was a couple of days before I was scheduled to leave the island for a Peace Corps conference on the mainland. I had a giant list of things to get done before leaving, (including my school’s graduation!), and I needed money to do them. Rain or no rain, it was off to my banking town for me! My banking town is about an hour’s dala dala ride away on some fairly hilly roads. The trip south was relatively uneventful until we reached a low valley where the road was flooded for about 10 meters across. Not such a big deal. We all just got off our dala, waded across, and caught another dala that was waiting on the other side. I made it to my bank, got my money, and ate some tasty lunch. Life was good. Unfortunately, the rain didn’t seem to be lightening up at all. A few of the folk in town suggested I spend the night there and wait for the next day to travel, as word from the valley was that the flooding was rapidly getting worse. Any other day I would have heeded their advice and stayed. Unfortunately the next morning was my school’s graduation. I had no choice but to brave the flood. By the time I returned to the valley it had entirely transformed. What was once a small overflow had changed into a full-blown flood. The road was completely devoured, and the water was now half a mile across. Crowds of Tanzanians had gathered on either side to watch in glee as handfuls of brave/stupid souls made attempts to cross. I’ll leave it up to you to decide which category I fall into. The locals got some entertainment out of it though. I had about 50 people cheering and clapping as I entered the abyss. Life as an mzungu. I think my friend Jordan put it best after I emailed him the above picture: “Wow, it's just like the river in Willie Wonka.” And how. Indeed, as I forged across I tried to ignore the chunks of sludge that occasionally slicked across my legs. In some places the water made it all the way up to my stomach. The current itself wasn’t too bad, although I was informed after my crossing that a bit earlier an elderly woman had been swept away. Big pole. Once reaching the other side I still had a bit of a trek. All dalas had given up on the route and had long since gone elsewhere for passengers. After I reached the shore I had to hike an hour and a half to a main road so that I could catch a ride home. It was pouring rain, I was wearing flimsy flip flops, and my legs were covered in mystery filth. Yup, it was awesome. To make a fantastic day better, upon arriving in town I was electrocuted. I was pretty thirsty from my adventure, so after arriving home I immediately went to a local shop to grab a drink. After touching my hand to the fridge handle I felt a powerful jolt and my arm was thrown violently behind my shoulder. Apparently this was funny? At least the shop owners thought so. I told one of them to touch the handle and he had a similar experience to mine. After that he stopped laughing. The heavy rains had knocked a power line onto the roof of the shop and the current was grounding through the fridge, (and my body for a few seconds there). My family seems to have bad luck with the electricity shetani on this island. I spent the following day at the graduation ceremonies for my school. Here are the students from my accelerated computer class. They were a great class and I’ll really miss teaching them. The day after graduation, a counterpart from my school and I flew off to Dar and took an 8 hour bus ride to Iringa for my Peace Corps class’s in-service training conference. It was not a small or comfortable journey. Round trip I endured 4 plane flights and two 8-hour bus rides. I was not enthused. Iringa itself was cool though. And by cool, I mean cold. And by cold I mean high 60’s. What would have been a nice early summer evening in Maine had me shivering even in long johns and a big, thick hoodie. I’m broken. It’s pathetic, really. It was great seeing the other volunteers again. Reconnecting with old friends from training was really nice. A few have left the country for various reasons, (we’re 34 out of 41 now), but spirits were high for most of the volunteers still in country. It’s amazing how different everyone’s experiences have been. Hearing others’ accounts made me realize just how drastically different my island is from everywhere else in the country. I live in a strange, strange, very isolated place. But hey, at least I get Popo Bawa tales out of the whole deal. Those never seem to cease to be crowd pleasers. Everyone had ridiculous stories to share, but the one that struck me as the craziest was an account from one of the Southern Highland PCVs about a machete war in his region. The PCV woke to people shouting near his house. After looking out the window he noticed that a large group of men with machetes had gathered and were now marching off somewhere. A few hours later a number of the men returned, machetes covered in blood. The next day the PCV learned that a tribe of herders had recently arrived, and their animals had been devastating some of the local farms. The herders refused to leave, and the farmers didn’t want their crops destroyed. Solution? Machete war. I can’t even imagine how brutal that fight must have been. Machetes here tend to be big, rusty, and not particularly sharp. Bad, bad times. (For the record, the farmers won.) The conference itself had its ups and downs, the highlight being a session on advanced farming techniques. Some of the information from this session could make a serious difference for the folk on my island, as farming here is extremely difficult due to the sandy soil. My counterpart and I are currently planning a few workshops for the coming months. This time last year I was graduating with a computer science degree from Stanford. Now I’m teaching farming strategies on an African voodoo island and getting paid nothing to do so. Some would argue I don’t make the best life choices. The conference ended early on its last day, giving us some time to explore the area a bit during the afternoon. A group of us headed about 20k south to Isimila, (for the record we were still in the Iringa region though, for those Peace Corps staffers reading this!). Isimila is one of the oldest Stone Age sites in the world. Tools as old as 100,000 years old have been found in the dried up river bed. This places the tools in the Early Stone Age period, which is pre-fire and pre-agriculture. Men used to hunt along the riverbed with stone tools, and then eat the animals raw. Wildlife in the area back then consisted of elephants, antelopes, and now-extinct giant hogs and hippos. Those men were a lot tougher than I am. Imagine trying to take down an elephant with your buddies while armed with nothing more than sharp rocks. As I walked along the valley, countless stone artifacts were strewn in the sand. It was an eerie feeling knowing I was walking in an exact spot where 100,000 years ago early mankind was struggling to survive. After we’d had our fill of the valley, we climbed up the opposite side and walked into the bush in search of a sandstone canyon we’d been informed of by a local guide. During the hike I had an unpleasant encounter with a Nairobi Fly. Nairobi Flies don’t bite or sting, and are actually rather passive. Unfortunately they are filled with very potent acid. If you’re unlucky enough to have one land on you, your best bet is to calmly wait for it to leave. If you upset it, it’ll spray you with acid. Even worse, if you kill it you get covered in the stuff. Basically, they’re mini versions of the aliens from the Alien movies. I now have a nice, permanent acid burn scar on my left arm. Oh Africa. After hiking a short ways some of us started to get a big skeptical about the existence of the canyon. Then, from the middle of nowhere, we stumbled into this: Victory! The canyon stretched on for miles. It was absolutely breathtaking, filled with hollowed out stone walls and massive sand pillars. I can’t even imagine how people from 100,000 years ago must of reacted when they saw this place. We walked through the canyon for a ways before finding a suitable place to climb back out. As we trekked back through the bush to the road we passed some fairly meager farm plots. Eventually we made it to the road and caught a dala dala into Iringa town. I’m now on my island once again, missing the good food, friends, and (dare I say) cold. Back to isolation, but such is the life of the Peace Corps volunteer. Literally as post this, it’s been exactly nine months since I stepped off the plane into Africa. These months just keep on flying by. Ni maisha.