When I first saw Mount Kilimanjaro, at the Kenyan border near Amboseli, the only thing that crossed my mind was:
How the hell am I going to climb up there?
Back home, when I was mulling over going to Tanzania, I wouldn’t have dared to dream of Africa’s highest peak. But as I read more and more stories by people who had attempted to conquer the mountain, I was surprised to learn that some of them, humble mortals like me, had actually succeeded.
Am I capable of doing the same? immediately emerged as the most audacious question I had ever asked myself.
At that time, I think the answer I came up with was: I could at least try—at least that. I love mountains, and I wanted to get as close as possible to the legendary Kilimanjaro. Besides, I had read that the first part of the route was not too difficult, so I figured I could perhaps hike only for a few days and come back whenever I felt like it.
I will just try, nothing more, I said to myself. I don’t have to go all the way. I will simply do what I can.
That was the mantra that gave me courage in all my travels. That was how I always started. Then I’d just bite the bullet, close my eyes, and jump into the unknown.
So I found myself planning and even paying in advance for an expedition to Mount Kilimanjaro. The voice of reason was arguing that the chances of success were slim, but I tried to temper my pessimism with a consolation:
I should be able to climb for at least three or four days. It won’t be a total waste of money.
I needed a warm sleeping bag and a full set of winter clothes—regardless of my modest objectives, I had to be prepared for all conditions. After all, Kilimanjaro is known to host every possible type of climate, from tropical to arctic. Although I was an expert in minimalist packing, not even the most skilled magician could have made my usual thirty-liter backpack swallow everything that I had to take with me. In other words, I could no longer limit myself to carry-on luggage as I normally did, thus running a risk all too familiar from previous experience.
This time, it was no different. My checked baggage, with all the hiking gear inside, was lost. I was desperately calling the airline, but no one was answering. Without the backpack, my plans were compromised. The travel insurance would have been of little help—in practice, it would have been too long and too complicated for me to replace all that was necessary. I couldn’t venture on the mountain without proper equipment, and proper equipment was difficult, if not impossible, to find: in the small town of Moshi, where my expedition was supposed to start, only poor quality and secondhand items were available. In such circumstances, I would most likely have had to cancel everything.
After countless calls, someone from the airline finally bothered to pick up the phone. I was serenely informed that my backpack had been sent by mistake to another airport, on a different continent. It was supposed to be retrieved and returned in a few days. The tentative delivery date was right before the scheduled start of my expedition.
I waited like a cat on hot bricks until late in the evening. Without any exaggeration, the very second I decided to give up both the wait and the trek, my backpack arrived.
There were several routes going up Kilimanjaro, varying in length and difficulty. Initially, I had opted for one that was known to be the longest but with the slowest ascent— the Rongai route. However, everything changed when I discovered the quality of the tents.
I regretted dearly my decision not to bring my own tent for fear it would overload my luggage. The one assigned to me was simply too old—its thin, worn fabric had lost all insulating properties. As for those used by the guides and porters, they were much more deplorable, often missing entire sections, since the best equipment was always reserved for their clients. What it was like for them to sleep in such conditions, under strong winds or frost, I didn’t dare to imagine. Surely it would have been too much for someone like me.
There was only one alternative left. The oldest route on the mountain, called Marangu, had huts and shelters—therefore, tents were not necessary. I had big doubts about it because the accommodations were said to be awful, and the route, being a bit shorter and steeper, did not offer good acclimatization conditions. But it was either that or go back home.
I could have joined a group, but in the end I decided not to. I was afraid that I couldn’t keep up with the others or that we wouldn’t get along. Given that the price to pay was not much higher, I had chosen to have my own expedition. Only on the morning of our departure did I realize what that meant.
I had met the guide the day before. He was a tall, mature, well-built man named Ibra. He had come to check my hiking gear and make sure it was adequate. Apart from him, I was to be accompanied by a cook, who also acted as an assistant guide, and no less than five young locals whose sole task was to carry our belongings. It was not until they gathered tents, food, and equipment into a huge pile of bags that I understood why all those people were needed.
There was no place on the mountain where we could find something to eat. We could only count on a few water sources that we could drink from if we used purification tablets. So we had to bring all the food and cookware with us from the outset. However, compact supplies such as canned meals or energy bars were rather an extravagance—I don’t think I saw such a thing anywhere in Moshi. Food meant sacks of potatoes and rice, raw vegetables, whole chickens, and cartons of eggs. Those would be prepared daily over an open fire by Mustafa, our chef, for me and the team. Most of the packs that we had to take with us actually contained food.
I was embarrassed to think that I was the unique beneficiary of such an impressive deployment of forces, but I quickly understood what an important source of income Mount Kilimanjaro was for the entire region and how the locals flocked to take part in expeditions to make some money. The rule was that they should not be assigned more than thirty-three pounds each, and the number of porters was determined by the total weight to be carried.
From our base in Moshi we drove to the Marangu Gate, where the Kilimanjaro National Park Administration was located. We had to stop there in order to pay the entrance fee and get the access permit. Next, all our gear and provisions were taken out of the car and distributed to the porters. I would hike with the guide, while the rest of the team would go ahead with the cook.
“Why do you need to put my backpack in a soft bag?” I asked Ibra, puzzled by the way in which he and the others were organizing our belongings.
It looked like an unnecessary protection, especially given that the weather was dry. But once we set off, I realized that the reason was another: the porters carried everything on their heads or shoulders, not on their backs. I shuddered when I saw those tall, thin boys with bundles on their heads almost as big as they were. It was a miracle that they didn’t lose their balance. Even so, they moved at incredible speeds. They were used to climbing like that all the way up to the highest base on the mountain, at more than fifteen thousand feet altitude.
I only took a small daypack, with the bare minimum. I wouldn’t always keep it with me, because from time to time either the guide or the cook would offer to carry it for me. They often made me feel like a spoiled princess, surrounded by a devoted court that was ready to indulge her every whim.
But the pampering stopped there. The harsh conditions on the mountain would soon shatter even the slightest illusion of comfort. And at high altitudes, even my daypack would seem as heavy as a boulder.
Ever since I had Lyme disease, anything weighing more than fifteen pounds was torture for me, even just to get it through airports. The pain and fatigue often made me feel as if I had a soft twig instead of a spine. Although I tried not to let myself be constrained too much, my possibilities remained modest. Without all the kindhearted people who carried my backpack, I wouldn’t have gone very far on the trails of the Himalayas or Kilimanjaro. I am infinitely grateful to them.
Apart from my back, my legs weren’t quite reliable either, especially my left one, which paid the price for several sprains poorly healed in their days. Without the pair of trekking poles to lean on, I would have been doomed.
This is how I set out to climb the highest mountain of Africa.
The only thing that gave me courage was the hope I had secretly harbored ever since I walked the Camino: that the strength of the spirit is more important than the strength of the body. I was about to test the limits of that belief to the maximum.