Kilindoni, the main town on Mafia Island, feels small. The airport is approximately a five-minute walk from the centre of town. There are no ATMs. The roads are the same white sand as the beach. And, perhaps most importantly, if you want to eat out in Mafia you need to order dinner a day ahead of time.
Mafia Island is located 160 kilometers south of Zanzibar, near the mouth of the Rufiji River. There are few tourists on the island, but some do come for diving and snorkelling – the reefs off Mafia are supposedly some of the richest in the world. Most tourists stay in a handful of upscale lodges, owned by foreigners and located on the east side of the island.
My friends and I arrived late on Friday afternoon and checked into Mama Lizu’s Guesthouse, a large maze of a house that was converted into a bar before the owners finally agreed that it should be a hotel. Located in the centre of town, Mama Lizu’s rooms go for $6 a night, a much better bargain than the beach lodges.
Only one restaurant, Hakuna Matata, was open on Friday evening. An empty open air patio with a handful of tables and two stray cats. No printed menus, but the waitress recited the choices available to us: wale na kuku (rice and chicken) or wale na samaki (rice and fish). These are the dishes of fast-food Tanzania, cooked hours or sometimes days ahead of time and available at nearly every roadside stall and corner restaurant.
A helpful bajaj driver told us that the lodges on the east side of the island were only a fifteen minute drive away and served very good food. Hoping for grilled seafood, we decided to walk. Fifteen minutes turned into an hour and finally we flagged down a bajaj heading in the opposite direction. “You are still 25 kilometres from the nearest lodge”, the driver said, and turned his bajaj around. We got in, and drove for forty-five minutes on the white sand island, as the sun set and the moon rose.
We were stopped by a guard at the gate to the Mafia Island Marine Park, who informed us that all of the lodges on the island are located inside a protected area. Admission is $20. A large grey sign proclaims: “no exceptions or waiver of fees for delayed departure”. JL, who grew up in Tanzania and speaks Swahili fluently, got out of the bajaj to negotiate with the guard, while the rest of us sat low in our seats and hoped that he would forget about us. Twenty minutes later, JL had convinced the guard to let us in for dinner and we were on our way.
Our driver got lost. The bajaj broke down. Twice. Flat tires both times. And then got stuck in a patch of mud. We got out and pushed.
At the first lodge we were told that there was only enough food for guests. “You should have ordered your dinner this morning”, the receptionist explained patiently, “otherwise we don’t buy enough food at the market.” The second lodge was dark and deserted, with no guests or owner. The third had no food left by the time we arrived.
We made it back to Hakuna Mutata by 9 pm. Reheated wale na samaki never tasted so good.
Part bicycle, part car, part art-project, the vehicles are often decorated with bright paintings of Barack Obama, Jesus, and Che Guevera. Good company. The best have also been outfitted with sound systems, churning out cheesy R&B mixes and pounding rap songs, an inspiring soundtrack for my commute to work.
Three passengers fit comfortably in the back seat. Seven are less comfortable – three in the back, three sitting on their laps, and one up front with the driver.
Every morning, a series of negotiations with the drivers that pick up passengers two blocks away from my apartment. “How much to Kinondoni?…near the hospital?” An exorbitant mzungu price is quoted and outrage is feigned. I pretend to walk away until the driver yells at me to return.
Most of the drivers are adept at negotiating the worst of Dar’s rush hour traffic. When the parade of cars heading down Old Bagamoyo Road comes to a standstill, they jump the curb and barrel down the sidewalk, playing a game of chicken with angry pedestrians who jump aside at the very last minute. If there is no sidewalk, the drivers slip across the line separating the right side of the road from the wrong side, swerving from left to right to avoid the oncoming traffic. An hour long commute is compressed into ten minutes.
Frequent words of warning from those who grew up with a view of the streets from the back of a bajaj: never get in with a young driver, choose the older drivers instead, they usually have a wife and children and more to live for.
After more close calls than I can count, finally last Wednesday I looked up to the words CITY BUS and felt the crunch of metal. And walked away from a head on collision with a dalla dalla.
And now, new words inserted into my morning routine: pole pole (slowly slowy).
Yesterday was my 30th birthday. Time must have been set to fast-forward, because the last time I checked my watch I was only 22.
I had always imagined 30 to mean a steady job and a mortgage and maybe a marriage, an equation that adds up to the sum of a comfortable predictability. At least, my facebook feed tells me that is what most of my friends are doing.
I put a wrench in predictability last summer when I quit my job and moved to Tanzania. Sometimes I wake up in the dead of the night still terrified by what I’ve done, the future now a great unknown just outside of my grasp. Other times, when I’m sitting in the back of a bajaj, on my way home from work, the wind kissing my face and the sun low in the sky, I feel like I have stumbled upon a great secret that nobody else has thought to look for.
Last year, I celebrated my birthday with old friends. We went to the best brunch place in Vancouver and then looked out over the skyline from the windows of the beautiful new apartment I had just moved into. I had no idea that a few months later I would break my lease and that my next birthday would be spent with new friends. Dinner at a wine bar on a hot, muggy night while a band played happy birthday and everybody got up to do a Tanzanian line dance. The next day, lying on the white sand of a small tropical island, my reflection blue-green in the salt water.
Life has changed so quickly that I don’t know where I will be for my next birthday.
I don’t believe is astrology but my online birthday horoscope provides a small measure of irrational comfort: “This will be a year of huge changes, the kind you look back on one day and realize that’s when you branched out on a completely new path. Will it be a better path? Most likely it will be the best”.
If I had a print copy, I would cut it out and tape it to the small fridge in my apartment in Mikocheni, so that it could whisper its comforting message to me every morning.
When I told our safari guide that I wanted to see a zebra, he promised me that I would see at least 200,000. He was right. The Ngorongoro Crater and its surrounding plains are home to more zebras than I could ever count. The day was a parade of zebras, wildebeest, lions, ostriches, and elephants right outside my window.
“Climbing Kilimanjaro is like eating a piece of cake”.
The afternoon before our climb was scheduled to begin, our lead guide, Goodluck, sat across from AB and I at our hotel, answering my last minute questions about just how hard it really is to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. In the months leading up to the climb, I had scoured the internet and pestered friends for information about altitude sickness, the gradient, and the supposed horrors of summit night. Goodluck’s advice, probably meant to alleviate anxiety, is the single biggest untruth I was told about the climb. Climbing Kilimanjaro is nothing like eating a piece of cake.
At 5,895 metres above sea level, Mount Kilimanjaro is the highest mountain in Africa and the highest freestanding mountain in the world (Everest is part of a chain of mountains). Mountain climbers traditionally divide mountain altitudes into three zones: high altitude (2400 m to 4200 m), very high altitude (4200 m to 5400 m), and extreme altitude (above 5400 m). Mount Kilimanjaro falls into the extreme altitude category.
The altitude worried me and in October I tried to talk AB out of the climb by suggesting that we spend the week lying on a beach instead. When she refused to be dissuaded, I bookmarked the New England Journal of Medicine’s recent article on altitude sickness, and memorized all the signs of high altitude pulmonary oedema and high altitude cerebral oedema. Although statistics are unreliable, it is estimated that approximately ten people die attempting to climb Mount Kilimanjaro each year. The primary reason for this is climbing too high too quickly and failing to acclimatize properly to the high altitude.
There are six different routes that lead to Mount Kilimanjaro’s summit, and the most popular is the five-day Marangu route. Nicknamed the Coca-Cola route, climbers sleep in huts and can buy soft drinks, chocolate bars, and Konyagi from park rangers all the way up to the summit. This route has the lowest success rate and is viewed as the most risky, presumably because the hike is completed in five days and climbers have less time to acclimatize. The route is popular because it is the quickest and thus the cheapest – the Tanzanian Park Authority charges climbers $110 for each day that they are on the mountain.
AB and I opted for the seven-day Machame route, termed the Whisky route, which is known for its steeper trails, longer distances, undulating path, and better acclimatization schedule.
We set out for Machame Gate in a large jeep on a bright, sunny day in early January. January is supposedly a good time to climb Mount Kilimanjaro because the weather is milder than at other times of the year. Earlier that week, however, I had spoken with an American tourist who had endured three days of non-stop rain and hail on Kilimanjaro only to give up and turn around. Waterproof clothing is key, he said, because once clothes are wet they will not dry in the cold mountain air. AB and I had heeded this advice, but during the hour-long ride from Arusha to Machame Gate we managed to spill our drinking water bottles on ourselves in two separate incidents. Outfit number one was already soaked and we had yet to set foot on the mountain.
We arrived at Machame Gate to organized chaos. Dozens of climbers and hundreds of porters were attending to last minute tasks – paying park fees, organizing and weighing loads, and sorting equipment. We signed into the park registry system at about noon and headed off into the forest that covers the lower slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro.
There are four distinct ecosystems on Mount Kilimanjaro: the rain forest zone that is characterized by heavy green vegetation and frequent rainfall, the heather zone with its shrubs and ever-present blanket of fog, the moorland zone with mosses that resemble seaweed growing on giant broken boulders, and the alpine desert which is how I imagine the surface of the moon.
By the end of the first day we had climbed to 3,230 m, which is slightly above the tree line of the forest zone. Our group included four other climbers: C and R, friends from New York, and M and S, a couple from Calgary. In addition to Goodluck, there were two assistant guides, Dastan and Joaquim, as well as a chef and some 25 porters who were charged with the unenviable task of carrying our gear and supplies up the mountain.
We were advised to drink between five and seven litres of fluid per day to help prevent altitude sickness, and for this reason most meals included soup which, unfortunately, was made from Blue Bond Margarine. For the first few days, as we settled into the cold, the soup tasted good. As the days passed, however, I could not get the plastic taste of the margarine out of my mouth and the sight of the soup bowl at lunches and dinners made me want to vomit.
On day three the clouds swirled around us and it began to rain and hail against the tent where we had stopped for lunch. We finished our soup, dutifully put on our rain gear, and headed out into the hail to hike up to the Lava Tower, a large volcanic plug that is located at an altitude of 4,640 m. We were soon climbing in the clouds and couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of us. After reaching the tower, which was largely obscured by the mist, we descended back down to 3,900 m to camp at the foot of the Barranco Wall, which we would climb in the morning.
The Barranco Wall is an 800-foot vertical wall that requires climbers to scramble, kick, dig, and fight. There are several sections where I held onto rock and jumped across crevices, with seemingly nothing but the village of Moshi over 4,000 m beneath me (the coloured dots in the picture below are climbers working their way up the wall). The porters negotiated the wall while carrying enormous packs stuffed with our clothes, food, tents, and portable toilet, an acrobatic feat that seemed to defy physics.
Porters are typically paid 4,500 Tsh (approximately $3 per day) to carry luggage up Mount Kilimanjaro. Although they are officially prohibited from carrying more than 15 kg, many porters are overloaded with packs that weigh in excess of 30 kg. After we left camp each morning, the porters were expected to pack up all of our supplies, race up the mountain ahead of us, and set up camp before our arrival. This type of frantic ascent schedule means that porters are more vulnerable to altitude sickness than climbers. Compounding the above, few of the porters have adequate footwear or warm clothing. I saw many bounding up the mountain wearing nothing but a pair of thin sweatpants, a t-shirt, and ill-fitting shoes (sometimes even worn out leather loafers rather than sneakers or hiking boots). It is cold on the mountain and, to keep warm, I usually needed to wear a short-sleeved wool shirt, a long-sleeved shirt, a thin fleece jacket, a thick fleece jacket, a rain jacket, and perfectly-fitted hiking boots that had taken me days to select. The porters have none of this. In 2002, three porters died from hypothermia after an unexpected storm hit the mountain.
Porters enter into such deplorable working conditions because it is often difficult to locate steady employment in Tanzania, and because some money is better than no money. Many also dream of being promoted to assistant guide or lead guide, where the pay is much better and the conditions not so torturous. CH, one of the porters on our climb, who was also responsible for obtaining water and cleaning dishes, nervously balled up his green and blue hat in his hands and told me that if he ever came into money he would travel as far away from the mountain as he could.
About three-quarters of the way up the Barranco Wall, we came across a porter who had collapsed under the weight of his pack and who was lying on the ground, covered with a sleeping bag. A climber was standing next to him, sobbing. She was being comforted by a guide from another company. A nurse who had been near the porter when he collapsed thought he had broken a rib and should be evacuated as soon as possible. It is not safe to climb back down the Barranco Wall, so the porter had to be carried higher in order to get back down. A scene that will live on in my nightmares.
On day five, we started our trek to Barafu Camp, which is at 4,630 m and is the last stop before the summit. We were moving so slowly now that it felt like we were trying to sneak up on the mountain. Stop. Pause. Stop. Pause.
We arrived at Barafu at about noon and were given the afternoon to try to relax and sleep in our tents. With nothing else to do, I began torturing myself with nearly constant readings of my heart rate, which had spiked to 110 beats per minute at rest and 145 beats per minute when I tried to stuff myself into my sleeping bag. Fuelled by hypochondria and paranoia, I had memorized all the symptoms of altitude sickness but had neglected to research the dangers of a high resting heart rate at altitude, and I convinced myself that I would likely have a heart attack at the summit.
We had dinner at 5 pm and then went to bed to try to get some sleep before our midnight climb.
Goodluck woke us shortly after 11 pm and thus began the longest night of my life. We set out for the summit at 1 am with our headlamps lighting the way, and when I looked up I could see a string of bright lights in front of me. AB and I climbed with Dastan, while the other guides split themselves between each pair of climbers.
I took a sip of my water, and gagged when I realized that it had been boiled in the soup pot and tasted like the Blue Bond Margarine. I listened to Brandi Carlile sing about love and dreams and strength until my ipod froze at about 3 am and I was left only with my own darker thoughts. At 4 am I was very cold and very tired and I began to seriously contemplate turning back. There were many people turning back now, some crying and some stone-faced. I turned around to discover that a woman who had been climbing behind us for the past few hours was no longer there. The drinking water in my camel back froze.
C, the climber from New York, would later compare the procession up the summit to a never-ending death march. I just wanted the sun to rise. My thoughts alternated between desperate wishes for the sun and my sleeping bag back at Barafu Camp.
Sometime before sunrise AB tried to abandon the daypack containing her camera, money and passport on the mountain trail. In my altitude fog, I also thought this was a good idea and tried to talk Dastan into letting me leave my water bottles on the mountain. I told him that they were useless because I no longer had the strength to drink from them.
From a viewpoint nearly 5,800 m above the earth, the sunrise is spectacular. I did not have the energy to take a picture, but I will always remember brilliant streaks of deep purple and pink spreading across a frozen sky.
The final ascent up to Stella’s Point, which is located on the rim of the crater at 5,745 m, is very steep and covered with a scree that slides backwards underfoot. By now every step was exhausting and I had to force myself to count out ten consecutive steps between each break.
When we finally made it to Stella’s Point, it was clear that AB was suffering from altitude sickness. She had a pounding headache and felt nauseous. Dastan faintly suggested that maybe we should stop at Stella’s Point, that maybe this was enough. But the summit was only one hour away and within sight so we ignored him.
The path from Stella’s Point to Uhuru Peak winds around the crater rim, next to a glacier of brilliant white. I looked down and saw the clouds far below us. We were greeted by many climbers making their way back from the peak, all exhilarated from the summit. “Congratulations”…”you’re almost there”…”only fifteen more minutes”….”keep going, its worth it”.
And finally the bright green sign at the peak: “Congratulations! / You are now at Uhuru Peak / 5,895 M A.M.S.L. / Tanzania / Africa’s Highest Point / World’s Highest Freestanding Mountain / World Heritage Site.” A box was open on the ground in front of the sign, lugged up the mountain by climbers more energetic than us, stuffed with the remnants of a celebratory feast of champagne and Pringles. How do you open a champagne bottle at altitude, I wondered.
The victory of the summit was short lived. Unfortunately, what goes up must also come back down.
AB began to feel much worse, and we raced back down to Stella’s Point. She was dry-heaving and her legs had stopped working so Dastan held her up by the shoulders and skied quickly back down the mountain with her. Within minutes they were specks on the horizon, and I was left to navigate the descent on my own.
Alone and stumbling in the daylight, everything looked different, a barren landscape of dust and scree and rocks. I was tired and clumsy and I tripped over a large rock. Exhausted, I sat on the side of the mountain for ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour. Eventually, M and S, who were with Goodluck, came up behind me and offered me some chocolate. I stood up and we continued down, down, down.
We arrived back at Barafu Camp at about noon, and we were given an hour to rest and pack up before continuing our descent down to Mweka Camp. By this time, AB had recovered and we sat across from C, R, M, and S in the dining tent. “What the hell did we just do?”…”that was the hardest thing I have ever done”…”never again”…”Six more hours down, why can’t we just stay here?”…”the only thing that is amazing about this mountain is that we actually made it to the top”.
I ran into some climbers who had just arrived at Barafu and planned to begin the trek to the summit that night. They congratulated me and said, hopefully, “well at least the descent is easy, right?”. I shook my head.
By the time we reached Mweka Camp at 6 pm that night we had been climbing and descending for nearly 18 hours. Sleepwalking, really. When I left the dining tent to go to bed several hours later, there were still climbers arriving at the camp, headlamps switched on to navigate the darkness of a second night, eyes staring blankly ahead, limbs frozen and wooden.
Almost two weeks have passed since the climb, and I can now say that I’m glad I did it. The horror of the summit night has faded, and I remember fields of lobelia trees, a lunar landscape, a glacier that glitters like a diamond, a moonlit walk with AB, and the most magnificent sunrise I will ever see.
In addition to the shiny black obsidian stone I have tucked into my pocket, I take two things away from Mount Kilimanjaro. First, the knowledge that because I did that I can probably do anything. Second, a deep and unwavering hatred for soup.
Today, one of my closest friends is arriving from Vancouver and we are heading up north to Mount Kilimanjaro.
AB and I plan to spend the first week of this new year climbing Africa’s highest peak. We are not real mountain climbers, but we are armed with Diamox, Toblerone bars, our warmest outfits, and a bit of determination.
See you on the other side of the mountain.
Happy New Year!
Lalibela is notoriously inaccessible.
It used to take travellers four days by mule to reach the small town, which is perched at an altitude of nearly 3000 metres in the Ethiopian Highlands. As recently as the late nineties, Lalibela was only accessible by way of a winding dirt road which was frequently impassable in the rainy season. Today, however, a better gravel road has been constructed and Ethiopian Airlines runs daily flights to Lalibela. Domestic flights in Ethiopia are relatively inexpensive – approximately $40 for a one hour flight – and this is now how most travellers arrive in the remote town.
Although the daily flights have taken some of the romance out of travel to Lalibela, the journey does not have to be without thrill, narrow escape, and adventure.
The guesthouse I was staying at in Gonder arranged for a taxi to pick me up and take me to the airport to catch my flight to Lalibela. The taxi was late. Very very late. I waited on the street while the owner of the guesthouse made a few frantic calls, the pitch of his voice raising higher and higher while he spoke to the taxi driver, all the while reassuring me that I still had plenty of time to get to the airport.
A small rusty blue taxi finally pulled up to the guesthouse. It was on its last legs. We made it about two minutes down a small hill to the main road when the taxi sputtered to a stop. The taxi driver began searching for another car that could make it all the way to the airport.
There were several more frantic phone calls and finally another rusty blue taxi pulled up in front of me. By this time I was running seriously late and someone at the airport called my taxi driver to ask where we were. There was an error in translation, and tension mounted when the taxi driver mistakenly told me that the plane had already left.
We drove the rest of the way to the airport at breakneck speed, dodging donkeys, herds of children, and people on their way to work.
As I got out of the car and walked to the entrance of the airport, I could hear the taxi driver behind me shouting “faster, faster, walk faster”. When I arrived to check in, the worker behind the desk looked up and said, “you must be Megan, you are the last to check in, where have you been?”
Lalibela was worth the frantic ride to the airport. It would also be worth four days’ travel by mule.
The small village is home to the unofficial eighth wonder of the world, thirteen churches which are approximately 800 years old and which have been carved out of the mountainside. The churches have been constructed below ground level, and form an underground mountain village complete with moats, secret passageways, windows, stairs, and hidden rooms where the priests live and sleep.
The churches are, in a word, unbelievable. Their existence defies logic and it is difficult to imagine how they could have been built. Legend says that angels helped to build the churches in a single night. I don’t know about that, but there is definitely a magic in the air at Lalibela.
When I arrived, Lalibela was bustling with visitors. In Ethiopia, Christmas is celebrated on January 7th and many pilgrims walk for over 500 kilometres and for several months through the mountains to celebrate the festival in Ethiopia’s holy land. These travellers were beginning to gather in the city, making frequent early morning visits to the churches, asking the priests for blessings, and camping under the stars in the town square.
In the warm blurry light of the early morning I sat with my back pressed up against rock outside of bet giyorgis, the most spectacular of the churches, watching streams of believers remove their shoes and bend down to kiss the threshold. Some visitors so young they had to be pulled along by their mothers, and some so old their legs were twisted and guided by canes. Some wearing fine white cloth and others in clothing that has been worn, stained, and repaired countless times. All united in common belief and eager to touch the exquisitely beautiful buildings constructed from mountain.
It is almost enough to make one believe in angels.