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Published: March 8th 2007
Stopping for lunch
Kilimanjaro in the backgroundSo, after a number of months trying to convince people to gamble online, I decided I needed another injection of adrenaline and set off for a couple of weeks in Africa. A two legged trip, Kilimanjaro and Zanzibar (both in Tanzania), was decided upon in a monent of madness in a boozy Covent Garden bar. As luck would have it, a trio of Norwegians, two of whom I initially met on the Inca Trail, were up for it too. I dusted off my rancid fleece trousers, stocked up on immodium, and pickled some herring in preperation for my next adventure.
Week 1: Kilimanjaro
I left work on the Thursday, meeting my friend Christian at the airport. He had upgraded himself to business class for the two flight journey to Dar Es Salaam in Tanzania so that we wouldn't have to travel together, with me languishing back in economy nursing thrombosis. Somewhat put out by this state of affairs, our mission for the next 24 hours was to get me upgraded by any means possible.
Our first attempt was naturally in the business lounge in Heathrow. A camp (what else?) attendant at the lounge to a shine to my 'Jimmy
A light dinner in Dar Es Salaam
'I'm so full, I think I'm going to vomit. One more plate of pig wouldn't harm anyone, though?' Sommerville' good looks, and promised, with an ostentatious wink, to bump me up. I think that's what he said. Unfortunately, seats in business to Dubai were at a premium, and I had to settle for a couple of hours in the business lounge frantically shovelling prawns, smoked salmon and champagne into my gullet. Feeling drunk and rather too full of seafood, I settled into my tiny seat for the horrific 7 hour flight to Dubai. Luckily I was sandwiched between an enormously fat man making pig noises in his sleep and a terrified women 'd'un certain age' who kept gasping whenever the plane juddered gently. Chris showed his sympathetic side by coming back to say hello occasionally, although the fact that his white shirt was splattered with chocolate sauce and port belied the luxury that he was experienceing at the front of the plane.
The flight from Dubai to Dar was somewhat more comfortable and enlivened by an amusing story that Chris related from his cosseted position at the front of the plane. A devout Muslim introduced himself in the seat next to Chris. Chris responded with 'hello, I'm Christian', upon which the man took umbrage and ignored Chris
Group shot
Note the notorious 'climbing tights' sported by yours truly. for the rest of the flight. With an international incident barely avoided, we landed in Dar and headed for the swankiest hotel we could find. This wasn't the Africa I had expected: 5-star treatment, a suckling pig on a spit, and live dancing laid on. We ate until we resembled the afforementioned swine and then retired to rest before the rigours ahead. After a trip to the rather disappointing national museum the next day (including a dead fish in a tank with the label 'recently caught - thought to be extinct'), we headed back to the airport for the flight to Kilimanjaro, and to meet up with our Norwegian travelling companions.
It was great to meet up with Arild, Camilla and Benedicte (surprisingly female) in a small hotel Moshi, in the foothills of Kilimanjaro. We were briefly briefed on the trek ahead, and consumated our friendship with numerous beers accompanied by raucous shouts of 'Skol'. An early start the next day followed by a number of hours sitting by the side of the road next to an incapacitated bus, and we finally reached the start of our trek.
And so followed five days of intensive walking, camping, climbing,
The food tent
Frankfurters, soup, hot chocolate (but only for winners), half-hearted Texas Hold 'Em card playing, and discussions on the nature and quality of our respective bowel movements (conversations always turn scatological on treks - I prefer to think of it as Swiftian rather than vulgar). It's difficult to describe the privations of high altitude trekking to the uninitiated. Basically, one feels pretty dreadful all the time. The altitude gives one headaches, one loses one's appetite, the sunburn is ferocious, one feels incredibly tired all the time, one wakes up at night gasping for air, and one has a general feeling of nausea. It's kind of like a Saturday morning after a night on the town. With sunburn.
Day 1 was easy enough, but the level of discomfort quickly escalated, along with the altitude. My nadir was reached as we approached the summit camp on the 4th day. A long and arduous slog up 'the Saddle' had me cursing increasingly violently with every step. My headache, which had previously been in the background, migrated to just behind my eyes and was a persistent reminder of how high we had ascended - up to 4,800m in less than 4 days. The final ascent took place at midnight - a very cold start with temperatures
around minus 15C. I managed OK for the first few hours, but became quickly dispirited as the altitude began to wear me down. Every step upwards represented a worsening in my physical condition, with the headache becoming overpowering (and not responding to medication) and constant retching. My mind was consumed with the contrast between this misery and the relative comfort of my tent down below, and so I made the decision to call it quits and head down. Discovering a porter enjoying the luxury of my tent, I apologetically ejected him and spent the rest of the night eating Smarties and feeling smug.
The others returned a number of hours later: Chris had made the interim summit of Gillman's Point before heading back, and the rugged Norwegians had pushed on to the summit proper. All were in various states of utter exhaustion. I didn't feel too bad about have come so far to be thwarted at the last. If this trip told me one thing, it was that I fundamentally don't like being at high altitudes (5,000m+). I've tried this kind of thing before, but only now have I concluded that the pain isn't worth the gain. Half the
fun of trekking is the physical activity and the sense of camaradery - you don't need to feel like shit at the same time to enjoy yourself. Anyway, we made it down safely, including racing down the last 20km on the final day, our bodies buoyed by recent acclimatisation. Then followed a return to warmth, and a day by the pool to lick our wounds before heading off to Zanzibar. Some horribly sunburnt hands (which were to go on to blister spectacularly), general fatigue and chronic constipation were the short term by-products of the trek.
A word on the Kilimanjaro trek: quite fun, but not nearly as rewarding or entertaining as trekking in Nepal or Peru. The views are spectacular, but you don't get the chance to meet many locals or find out much about Tanzania. It's quite overcrowded too.
Week 2: Zanzibar
Feeling tired but exhilerated, we flew over to Zanzibar for some much needed R&R. Chris and me had pre-booked the best hotel on the island and hurried from the airport as soon as possible, leaving the Norwegians to sort out their own lodgings for the week ahead.
A brief, but unsettling, change of taxis
in a remote backstreet ('why are we stopping here and changing vehicles?', 'because it will be more comfortable for you, sir', 'but I'm already comfortable enough!' etc) and an hour on an unmade road through unspeakable poverty, and we arrived at the walled compound that was to be our home for the next few days. The hotel was marvellous. All trappings of a plush 3rd world resort catering for the loose-of-wallet. Chris immediately felt at home, slipping into his best linen suit, donning a fedora and thrashing the locals with a cane for depositing the incorrect number of ice-cubes into his G&T. I hit the pool. Now I have been sunburnt many times in my life (and indeed previously on this very trip), but what was to follow was in a different league. I made the fatal error of rubbing off my sunblock with a towel before settling down to an afternoon in the shade. Two layers of skin on my face showed their anger at my lack of caution by turning various shades of red over the course of the next week, and falling off at inopportune moments. I was forced to apply layer after layer of super-sun-block to
A pod of dolphins cavorting
(Just before we jumped in the water to ruin their fun) avoid further misery, with the result that I looked like Gene Simmons in makeup for the remainder of the trip (with leprosy). The only comfort to be found was in Chris' moisturiser, which I quickly discovered was also self-tanning lotion ('Ian, I honestly didn't know it was self-tanning! I just picked it off the shelf!', quipped Chris as he waxed his bikini line and massaged bronzing oil into his thighs).
The Nordics found somewhere to kip further up the coast, but as the days progressed, they spent an increasing amount of time in our hotel enjoying the facilities. Indeed, despite our best efforts, we were unable to convince the staff to accept money from them for the enormous buffets that we all consumed. By the end of the holiday, the staff were asking after 'Mr Arild' and even sang him Happy Birthday in Swahili accompanied by the playing of spoons. Fantastic.
The only downside of the spectacularly well-appointed hotel was its rather staid atmosphere - very much akin to a cruise ship, I imagine. The evidence: lots of old people; buffet panic; nobody leaving the resort for their entire vacations; a horrendous house band (playing Chris Rea covers);
a resort song balefully performed by the entertainments manager and a somewhat pedestrian nightlife. Benedicte suggested that Chris should lead the charge in the resort's disco with his unique version of the 'Robot dance', despite his protestations of ignorance of the requisite movements.
Being the young bucks in the resort, we ventured out to explore the island a bit. Camilla and I went on a dolphin safari. This involved chasing rather pissed off dolphins in a boat and attempting to jump on top of them. Not exactly wildlife-friendly, but still quite an experience to see a large group of mammals frolicking underwater (and we enjoying seeing them too). We all spent a day in Stonetown visiting the old slave market (disturbing), the antique shops (surprisingly interesting), the meat and spice market (a charnel house vision of hell) and Mercury's Bar (camp - named after Freddy Mercury, Stonetown's most famous ex-resident). We also spent a day diving in the clear waters off the coast, where we saw numerous enormous turtles, eels, and fish of all descriptions. Chris had ear problems and ended up scuba diving at the surface - perhaps a first in the sport. Luckily nothing was perforated, and
I reassured him that if his ears started bleeding on the flight back, I would volunteer to sit with him up in business class as his personal physician.
The days ticked by far too quickly in Zanzibar - we had become accustomed to doing very little in some style. Eating, drinking, lounging and playing in the pool blissfully filled every spare moment. It was a with heavy hearts that we said our goodbyes to the hotel and to the Norwegians in particular. A wonderful bunch of people, who I hope to see again before long in their native country. The journey home was likewise tinged with the sadness that accompanies the end of a great trip, but it was nevertheless nice to return to the comforts of home and the opportunity to wear clean underpants once again.
For my next big trip? Heading back to Rio for Carnival in February is a strong contender, as is jaunt to Vietnam. For the time being, though, it's back to work nursing some more fantastic memories.
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Mr Arild
non-member comment
Reward
Kili "not nearly as rewarding.." The Gold Diploma of mine is now laminated and hanging behind a glass wall in the middle of the living room. I had to remove the herring head which previously filled that honoroble position. Dont cry sport. Will take the Ubamwe route next year!