To hell and gone. C. Johan Bakkes
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a gruelling seven hours the dawn began to break. We were climbing up the western slope of the mountain and we realised that the sun would not reach us before we got to the ice field at the top. Only when it became lighter did we really understand how dangerous the climb had been up till that point. We were perched on the cliff like swallows, so high that we could no longer make out the base camp below. I would certainly not have scaled those heights in daylight, especially not without equipment and ropes. It was nothing like the books, brochures and posters had said.
My road to Kilimanjaro had begun about 5 000 kilometres to the south a year before. One evening four of us on an eight-day hike through the Naukluft mountains had made a rash decision: “Let’s climb that koppie.”
Twenty-five souls were assembled and, with the dollar kicking the rand’s arse, an operator was contacted in Tanzania. We had all hiked before so we decided, of the two well-known routes up the mountain, we wanted to do the Machame route. The Marangu route, the so-called Coca-Cola route, sounded too easy and impersonal.
With this intention, we were dropped off by Air Tanzania at the Kilimanjaro International Airport between Moshi and Arusha.That was where we met Sammie, his four guides, two chefs and forty bearers. The next day, with a drizzle in the air, we tackled the mountain.
On the first day we trudged up the mountainside through thick sludge and rain forests, with colobus monkeys chattering in the tall jungle trees, watching the antics of their descendants. It was also the last time we were clean. A late start saw the stragglers stumbling into camp at nine o’clock that night after an 18-kilometre struggle.
The next day we ascended steeply to a height of 3 800 metres. We reached the Shira camp at around three o’clock in the afternoon. Rain forest had made way for a lava plateau, but also for ice-cold mountain winds. The bearers pitched our tents and immediately began to prepare food on open fires. Tanzanian Askaris put all other climbers to shame. Carrying loads of up to 40 kilograms, they stride effortlessly up the slopes.
It was here at Shira that Sammie proposed the alternative route up the western slope, starting from the Arrow glacier. His plan entailed two more days of gradual ascent and acclimatisation, then a steep climb to the brim of Kilimanjaro before ascending to the highest point. His reasoning was sound and our leadership element consented. Little did we know . . .
A morning’s hike through lava rock and alpine vegetation brought us to the foot of the Kibo massif. The altitude began to take its toll. Nausea, shortness of breath and headaches were the order of the day. The afternoon was passed taking in oxygen as we were too weak to do anything else. Sammie and his group tramped to and fro tirelessly, carrying water and wood, and even in those adverse conditions they served up a delicious supper of pasta, chicken and fresh vegetables. The cold drove us to our tents early.
We acclimatised until lunchtime the next day and, leaving the Lava Tower, we began an ascent of about 200 metres to the dilapidated hut at the foot of the Arrow glacier. The hut had been destroyed by a rock slide a few years before. It was there among the fallen boulders that Sammy had woken us that morning . . .
In single file we plodded along laboriously. The brink of Kibo was beckoning. Ice spilled over its side like icing sugar. As I pushed myself over the rim, the blinding sunlight on the snow made me reel. Dead tired, overwhelmed by dizziness and completely disoriented, I gasped for breath that wasn’t there. A sip from my water bottle produced only ice. Fear of snow blindness made me put on my cracked Second World War desert shades, but they fogged up immediately. This added to the unreal aspect of the plateau that we had just set foot on. Sammie pointed out an ice-covered “Karoo koppie” some distance away. “Uhuru – two hours.” The highest point in all of Africa, 200 metres higher than where I was standing now. Despondency got the better of a fellow climber. “I’m not going up there – I can’t go on. I’m on top of Kilimanjaro now – why would I want to climb to its highest point?” I shared his sentiments, but stumbled on in the direction of the koppie – in part, at least, to stop Cara from slipping and plunging over the precipice.
Were those drops of blood on the ice and snow in front of me? An automated shuffling gait: rest, shuffle, rest. Ice crunching, breath rasping, vision clouding. The only way was up. Sammie was standing in front of me, fists in the air. Uhuru – freedom! I grabbed my daughter . . . my voice croaked even more. I was on the roof of my continent. My friends arrived: stumbling, crawling, crying, but our joy was boundless. Embraces, congratulations, photos, laughter – we had made it!
I sat down on a chunk of ice, lit a cigar and sipped some Hanepoot from the distant Cape – one doesn’t die that easily after all.
The skirmish
How does one count crocodiles? “At night, on a boat, with a shooting lamp – you count the eyes and divide by two.” Or so I was told.
“We’re looking for someone to handle the logistics and the cooking for a South African delegation undertaking a census of the Nile crocodiles in the Luangwa River in co-operation with the Zambians.”
A convoy of twenty-five vehicles, rubberducks and ski boats and sixty men arrived at the Kariba border post in Zimbabwe. Though the Zambian border posts had recently been opened to South Africans, an influx of this magnitude had not been anticipated by the bureaucrats. Frantic calls were made to Lusaka.
Of the original logistics group of seven only two had remained: my friend Ferdi and I. The wives of the others had decided it was far safer for them at home. Ferdi drove the supply truck and I cooked. It was hard work. We had been on the road for three days and everything had to happen in transit. Sixty men get hungry and two meals a day were mandatory.
Our little logistics team had established its own rhythm by now. In the late afternoon we moved ahead, found a suitable camp site at the roadside and unpacked our paraphernalia. Ferdi helped with food preparation and hit the sack. A long day’s driving lay ahead the next day. I served the food, washed the dishes, prepared breakfast and food parcels and packed up everything. It usually took me all night. At first light we served breakfast and loaded the truck. As soon as Ferdi took up his position behind the wheel, I poured six fingers of rum over a three-day-old, fermented lemon half in a beer mug, added two Cal-C-Vita effervescent tablets, topped up the concoction with water and downed it. It knocked me out until lunchtime. I slept like a dead man, knowing that, as long as the good Lord kept our old charger on its wheels, Ferdi would keep it in the road.
It was late afternoon by the time the convoy crossed the border. We were still a good way from Lusaka, where we would be joined by our Zambian counterparts, refuel and change our Rands for Kwachas. The supply truck was ordered to drive along the Chipata road for 150 kilometres, find a camp site and start preparing the evening meal.
No sooner said than done. It was dark by the time we passed the last squatter shacks on the outskirts of Lusaka. We sped on into the night. Ferdi showed his prowess behind the wheel and I remained on the lookout for stretches of tar between the potholes. Those potholes could swallow an entire truck. If you saw any cat’s-eye road reflectors around here, you could be reasonably sure it was a giraffe standing in a pothole! On dark African roads you usually have to keep a constant watch for bewildered, blinded animals, but tonight nothing appeared in our headlights.
When we had covered more or less 150 kilometres, we found ourselves in a dense mopane forest on a road with high shoulders. We stopped and I walked ahead in search of a suitable spot to turn off the road. About two hundred metres into the bush we found a camping spot that would accommodate the convoy.
With the vehicle switched off, an unnatural silence fell over the bush. It was as if the place was devoid of night sounds. The weather was warm and sultry. We soon realised that the convoy would not be able to see us from the road and, chatting cheerfully, we walked to the roadside with two rolls of toilet paper. There we created a white paper Christmas scene. Nobody would pass this way without seeing us.
We unloaded the tables, built huge fires and prepared the meal. By the time we had finished, it was close to midnight and there was still no sign of the convoy. Ferdi went to sleep