Tanzania: Kilimanjaro. Chapter 2: Guides and Porters: Heart and Soul of the Climb

Last post I gushed about how we finally stood on Uhuru, the summit of Kibo, Kilimanjaro's highest of her three peaks. We stood exhausted by the steep, relentless 7 hour push by headlamp from 15,800 feet to 18,800, where the day's first sunlight stabbed at us with its impossible color. We'd pushed the last hour, not nearly so steep, though just as slowly plodding "Pole Pole" up the last 500 feet around the crater's rim, relieved to not be going straight up, still fighting for every breath. I wrote about how we stood ecstatic, struck speechless by the glaciers, by the endless cloud carpet thousands of feet below, the shadowy pyramid of 14,000 foot Mount Meru miles away, by the simple fact that we had made it, finally. We'd had our summit photo, with Sharlene, Kat, and me; and with the guides and the rest of our party, just like we'd always imagined. We struck the iconic summiting climber's poses and then stared off across Africa, looking back east, over the crater toward Kibo's textured, jagged topped, shorter sister Mawenzi; off toward Mt. Meru; off toward Kenya.

We'd caught the celebrated summit marker standing alone for a few moments, stolid, waiting for the next of us to make it or not, receding glaciers behind the sign, beyond the crater and not so slowly slipping away, forever.

And this special gift and complete surprise. I had not noticed this plaque in any trip report or materials advertising the climb. Just feet from the summit sign, this metal plate offers as much determination and grace as one could ever expect from a people yoked as a colony. Julius Nyerere, the first president of independent Tanganyika, and the first president of Tanzania, spoke these words two years before Tanganyika shook its British colonial harness. As you can see, the plaque was placed just after independence in 1961, and as the words promised, on the top of towering Kilimanjaro determined to shine throughout SubSaharan Africa, and no doubt, the world. "...hope where there was despair, love where there was hate, and dignity where there was only humiliation." I would like to know that those recorded messages scientists send into to space on a prayer that there is alien life out there would say something just like this. As I said, determination and grace.

The summit of Kilimanjaro gave us gifts of previously unexperienced beauty, of accomplishment, of wonder, and of discovery enough to nurture hearts and minds and muscles and whatever you think of the soul. We got all of it.

And none of it would have happened without these men.

There in the photo, anchoring our shadows the end of our second day out, that marvelous hump of Kibo hanging over their shoulders, are three guides in their bright blue, a cook, wearing his green vest, and seventeen porters. That's seventeen porters for 5 climbers, there on the broad alpine desert of the Shira Plateau laid out when Shira Peak, Kilimanjaro's smallest, blew eons ago, spreading itself into this marvelous flat. They are all Wachaga people, traditionally of this part of Tanzania, Mt. Kilimanjaro and Mt. Meru play heavily in their history and culture. The Wachaga are truly people of those mountains and proud of it. This post is about these men.

That bright smile on the left belongs to Meshack, the Lead Guide. 10 years as a guide and we knew from the first moments of the pre-climb briefing at the hotel that he was the real deal. Serious, warm, confident and direct, he was exactly what we expected in a seasoned guide with an excellent company. There was never a moment over the next 8 days when we felt differently. Plus, he and the two assistant guides (that's Andrew, the more experienced of the pair, with Meshak above) know so much about Kili's flora, fauna, geology, and cultural history, and they shared that knowledge with energy and reverence for their mountain and country. Their training and personal dedication enriched our experience well beyond expectations.

We met the whole group like this, stacked in a bus for the four hour ride to the Lemosho Route trailhead. Gottlieb, the second Assistant Guide, is there in blue, his given name an apparent artifact of the German colonization of this part of Africa until they lost World War I. He's sitting next to Assistant Guide Andrew, the more experienced of the two. That's dozen's of loaves of bread stacked in the racks there above everybody and once we hit the bouncy dirt roads, the bread rained into the cabin until the crew tired of putting it back. The loaves were passed out to the guys to tote up the mountain, often swinging from their pack or load,

Our day packs were stuffed with what Meshack told us to pack for the day; 4 or more liters of water, layers, gloves, rain gear, some snack food; only 15 pounds or so. The porters carried their own jumbo packs and everything else. Everything else means the meal tent, the cook tent, the bathroom tent, the porter's tent, the guide's tent, our tents, the cooking gear, the food, and most of our gear; all broken down so that each man was carrying "only" 40 lbs of non-personal gear, generally on his head. By strict rule, no man was to carry more than the 40 lbs gear weight (not including his own). We were allotted a duffle apiece (for the porters to carry) with 33 lbs of clothing, layers, arctic and rain gear, hygiene gear, whatever else we wanted/needed. Our heavy sleeping bags and pads were added to that for 40 lbs; one man's assignment. So, after our comfortable bus ride, it was the porters doing all of the heavy lifting for the next 8 days, dragging everything off the top of the bus, breaking the gear down into portions, lining up to have the gear weighed, and then suffering the indignities meted out by the God-awful, uniformed bully shown above right. Dressed in OD green, the dude is some pompous park official, drunk with his bit of power. The porters were obviously powerless against his haranguing humiliations. After all, he controlled the park entrance, who was allowed to climb, and who wasn't. He searched the various porter's packs for contraband like candies with potentially littering wrappers, shouting orders which, though in Swahili, were obviously chiding. The porters, desperate for the work, the pandemic having stopped the flow of visitors to Tanzania and their livelihood for so many months, were completely at his mercy. It had to be particularly wounding to have this happening in front of us, no doubt a calculated play by this guy. The guides couldn't jeopardize their client's trip by arguing, but when we saw that pig actually slap one of our porters, Meshack walked over and gently but firmly defused the situation. I felt terrible for that young man.

After the sorting and the weighing and the authoritarian grilling, the porters shouldered their packs, and hoisted those 40 lbs onto their heads (my neck still aches just thinking about this), and up they went. The Lemosho trail starts at around 7,000 feet, plenty of altitude to challenge the uninitiated but there was none of our "pole pole" (slowly, slowly) stuff for the porters. They were racing ahead to set up the first camp (as they would for every camp); to be ready long before we arrived, politely shouldering their way past our trudge and disappearing around the next bend or over the next ridge.

The porters' nimble strength was particularly impressive on the steep, rocky trails, where the air was thin, the footing ranged from interesting to precarious, and the scenery alone reminded you of vertigo. A couple of my favorite shots:

Then, after walking miles with these loads, the men set up the tents, laid out our sleeping pads and gear, tended to the bathroom tent, cooked, even brushed our boots as we finally found camp. Albert was our assigned tent porter. He set up all three of our tents, laid out our gear with precision on a clean tarp, brushed boots, and dealt with every problem that popped up. Stuck zipper on your sleeping bag? Albert would fix it in a flash. He's wearing the "Play Hard, Get Dirty" shirt in the group photo above. Dominick, with the bright red snap-back in the photo, was the bathroom tent guy. We originally thought he'd gotten the "shit end of the stick," literally, but turns out that, like Albert and Juvenile, the cook assistant, the job meant additional tips for Dominick and was in high demand. It was obvious when the singing started that Dominick held a position of leadership amongst the porters. He regularly led the call. Juvenile, in training to be a cook, pictured on the far right with the cake below, wielded his considerable youthful charm like a wand. He kept us laughing, made sure we had liters and liters of fresh, sterilized water, and the hand washing basin was always filled and hot, even in the icy cold air at almost 16,000 feet. He also made the summit push with the guides and us.

Speaking of water, the next photo is of Karanga Camp, 13,000 feet and the last camp before we reach the base camp above Barafu, which is up on that ridge line edging down from Kibo, to the right. If we ever wondered at the reality of actually getting to the Kibo massif, well, here we were. All very exciting. Then we learned that both Karanga and Barafu are dry camps. There is no water. Porters had to hike down 1000 feet to a stream with a 5 gallon container and then climb back up with the thing balanced on their heads and full of liquid sloshing around ..., at 8.34 lbs a gallon.. All at 12 to 13 thousand feet for Karanga and 13 to 15,800 at Barafu. And the guides insisted that we drink more than 4 liters (a gallon) a day.. So just our drinking water for the five of us was more than one insane, water toting trip. Not to mention the cooking, cleaning, and drinking needs for the whole crew. And that happened for two days. Somebody was working their tails off. And.... while we felt as though we were...reality can be pretty humbling.

And then this...just when you might think that there could be no more back or head or neck breaking labor necessary to support us, the stories about the climbers who try to reach Uhuru and are swept aside by the debilitating head aches, nausea, and the very real danger of altitude sickness started coming into focus. All of us had wondered if that might be us; you really never know. Then, several people camping near us had to be taken down, medically evacuated in the night, just before the summit assault. 15,800 feet did the nasty to them. And this is no game, no retreat for the chronically pampered. If you're sick enough you may be developing pulmonary or cerebral edema, excess fluid building up on the lungs or the brain brought on by your body's reaction to altitude. Eval helicopters just aren't always available (they weren't when we were there), no matter how critical the patient. So, teams of porters, from the sick climber's team and borrowed from other groups, had to hurry the litters and patients down in the middle of the night, over the steep, broken Mwake trail. Shar will tell you today that the whole, damn trail was just "a rocky river bed." Those miserably ill evacuees are bounced and dragged miles down the mountain on one-wheeled, rolling litters; litters which are usually piled high there at Barafu Hut Camp waiting for the next victim. But as we headed down after summiting, and in the wake of word that so many climbers had recently been evacuated, the litter pile was down to nothing. All used up.

Kat found this discarded litter along the trail a few kilometers below Barafu. Maybe this sick hiker felt better at lower altitudes. Maybe, as I suspect happens often, after bouncing and wrenching downhill for a few of the 8 to 10 hours it takes to make it to the bottom, with that stiff, metal frame rattling with teeth and bone jarring chatter every painful meter, patients decide that walking could not possibly be worse and suddenly feel much better.

And then, the real story, surely more painful than any descent, ... how do these awkward 110 lb steel contraptions get all the way back up to Barafu Hut Basecamp at 15,300 feet?

Here's how. We ran into this guy and his partner, the weight of the monstrosity seemingly fused onto a fat pad resting right on top of their heads. They are hired by the national park to lug the litters from the end of the trail, where there is a road leading to Mweka gate and the beginning/ending of the Mweka trail. Mweka is used only for resupply, emergency evaucuation, and leaving the park. When someone is brought down on a litter, an ambulance meets them at the end of the road. That is where the used litters are lined up, at around 6,000 feet. Then, these men pick up those litters, (Lord knows how they hoist them up onto the crown of their heads) and, taking one careful step at at a time, the weight balanced just so, as if a stiff breeze could topple the whole package at any moment, they simply head up the hill. These two were playing Christian songs in Swahili and had the patient, suffering grimace, the involuntary downward mouth curl, of those carrying great weight.

As evening fell, night after night, the light slipping away, we went to sleep to the porter's voices, Swahili banter from their big tent, excited or insistent or playful or maybe tension filled, as 17 men wound down from the kilometers etched into them by the day just past as they faced the considerable burdens of day ahead. When we got to Barafu Hut, both the afternoon before the summit push and once we made it down, flush with success and too tired to still have 5,800 feet to descend, the whole team danced and sang, call and response, with different men leading the verses, celebrating our success, which was, of course, their success. And surely celebrating the end of their constant, heavy climb. It was...they were... beautiful.

AND THEN THERE WERE THE GUIDES, mugging it up here with our little group as we arrive in Baranca Camp, the end of the 4th day.You can see the stunning Baranca Wall they would lead us up first thing the next morning, it's that mountain behind us, there across the valley. Gottlieb's on the right, Meshack beside him, and Andrew with the red pack cover, goofing in the middle. One website I read describes guides on Kili as ornithologists, botanists, etc, etc. the list going on and on until it finally ends at medical professional. I'd have to add 'entertainer' and "bearer of my day pack" the last thousand feet of Uhuru (still embarrassed about that).

MESHACK

Sharlene described Meshack as always looking like he was posing for an outdoor magazine. He appeared for all the world, like he could handle anything. I'd be surprised if he couldn't. With an easy, calm smile and perfect English, Meshack enthusiastically pointed out every growing thing in every zone. He calmly, sadly but firmly informed one of our party (not Shar or Kat) that if her oxygen level didn't improve overnight he couldn't let her try the summit. It was obvious that he disliked making that decision, but he didn't flinch. When she stabilized he let her climb and she was watched every step as she made the top. He stayed on me about drinking enough water, kept us moving, kept us eating, and kept us resting. He lead us to the top of the mountain and then quickly moved us back down.

Like all of the local guides (we only saw one who appeared to be a westerner), Meshack started as a porter and it's obvious that he respects the work porters do. He went out of his way to point out a particular section of trail that porters had suggested the National Park reroute for a more efficient, logical path. He quietly made sure that we understood the value of water lugged for us for miles on the head of a man. And he gently urged the things we could and should do to help the porters so that could do their job well, like keeping to the pack-up-to-break-camp schedule. While guiding on Kili does pay well for Tanzania, it is seasonal work, December to March, June to October, and the pandemic hurt him badly, like all of the guides and everyone employed by the tourism industry. He has a family, his wife and child, to support and when not guiding, Meshack and his wife rent an acre of the rich farm land outside of Moshi and grow crops for sale. He is trying to save enough to buy an acre for himself, although the pandemic screeched his progress to a halt. Meshack told me that he wants to guide for another 20 years, he's in his 30s now. He loves the mountain, loves that he has learned every corner of it, everything moving and growing on it, and that his people, the Wachaga, are literally people of Kilimanjaro.

ANDREW

Four years as an assistant guide, and, from what we experienced, Andrew is as ready as person can be to lead his own trips. He doesn't cut quite as dashing a figure as Meshack, but his English and knowledge is exceptional. His good humor, displayed with the ease of one supremely confident, was the perfect counter to the lead guide's solemnity. Andrew had wanted to be a lawyer but he could not afford to continue with so much schooling. He worked as a porter, and he and his wife scrimped saved until they could open a kiosk, the Tanzanian version of a small convenience store. They run it together during the off season, his wife carrying that burden alone when Andrew is on the mountain. They figured out a way to pay for the schooling he needed to become a guide; the schooling where you learn about the birds, the rocks, the animals, the history, back country first aid, and English.

That was a difficult, expensive risk for a little Tanzanian family, a risk we have no doubt will pay off for Andrew and his family.

Andrew is a talker and a helper. For step after step, up and down, and very patiently, Andrew held the hand of one of our party who was inexperienced at hiking on a rock trial and apparently needed the help. He spent hours walking and talking with Katharine when she was well ahead of the rest of us during that endless descent on summit day, asking questions, always with something new to offer about the this thing growing just off trail or that thing off in the horizon. He shared about his family, his small home with his wife, child, and mother, and about his dream to be a lead guide, how hard he studied and worked to get there. He talked about the challenges of life in the very poor Tanzania, and his pride in the country and in Kilimanjaro. At some point early on the trek, I voiced the famous threatening notes and flourish leading to the shark attacks in the movie 'Jaws.' Andrew had never heard of the movie and I don't know if he really grasped my description, but for the rest of the trip, when the trail was steep and the air thin, he would sidle up next to me and offer his version of "Da Dump, Da Dump...Dadaladaaaa!" Taught me a helpful lesson. You don't need air to grin.

GOTTLIEB

If I understood correctly, this was Gottlieb's first trip as a guide. He'd been a porter, of course, and loves the mountain. He'd worked with Meshack once before, in 2019, when the two of them joined a large group of guides and porters who volunteered for a several day effort on the various routes up Kili to pick up trash. They gathered multiple tons of the stuff, which the park then helicoptered out. Gottlieb had worked for several years in the paint booth of an auto body repair shop, said he got good at it but that it was not healthy. He did not like being around all of the paint and chemicals. He wanted to be a guide on Kilimanjaro and, like the others, he struggled to pay for the schooling. He had just completed the necessary training, and was primed to get his first assistant guide position, when COVID hit. The wait to finally get on the mountain as an assistant guide had been a long, painful ordeal. Like Meshack, Gottlieb spends his off season renting a piece of land and growing vegetables for the market. He's a new father, his child was less than a year old, and, at 31 said that he knew he was kind of old to just have his first kid. He seemed embarrassed. When I told him that Shar and I didn't have Katharine and Conor until I was 41 and 44, he thanked me with such sincerity that there must have been significant undercurrents at work. Whether they are personal or cultural, I was never able to figure out.

Gottlieb's English was the most strained of the three guides, although that was just in general conversation. When talking about the flora or fauna, about the mountain, about the climb itself, he was spot on. He was easy to laugh, although understandably not as confident as Andrew. During our summit push, it was Gottlieb who noticed that I was having trouble with my left shoulder. I was feeling an unusual discomfort associated with the strap of the pack I've probably carried for a couple thousand miles. I was baffled, constantly readjusting the thing, moving it about. The guides had told us to let us know if we were having trouble, that they would take our pack; a thought I considered sacrilege. Gottlieb said that it was clear I was having problems, that he would take the pack. No thanks. He asked again, next break, and I just couldn't. Finally, at at about 18,000, I'd had enough and said ok, I give. It made all the difference although I still don't know what was going on. We were all generally very uncomfortable, cold, our hydration pack water tubes had frozen, our water bottles, which the guides insisted on carrying, was slush which they shook to liquify and forced down us like we were infants. Breathing was more like gasping. But this particular issue, maybe it was just me at 68 and 19k feet. And Gottlieb, inexperienced or not. was watching me, all of us, like a hawk.

There he is with Andrew doing the twice a day health checks, monitoring our acclimatization to the altitude via pulse rates, oxygen levels, and a series of questions we had sworn to answer honestly. We grew to both crave and dread the health checks. We, especially Kat, were eager to know that we were fine. But there was that looming possibility that a too quick beat of our hearts or insufficient lung power would stop one of us from making the top. Terrifying!

During the long day climbing through the Heather and Moorland Zone, shown above with Shar and Kat, Sharlene taught Gottlieb "You Are My Sunshine." By the next morning he had it memorized and was teaching the song to Andrew. The tune became a trail constant for the trip. Turns out, Gottlieb clearly loves music. When the porters were dancing and singing their welcome to base camp the afternoon before the summit push, Meshack smiled and clapped along, reserved as a leader might be; Andrew started to get more involved but Shar saw him look to Meshack and then hold back, also as you might expect. But Gottlieb, full backpack still on his shoulders, hit the beat hard, bent over, dancing in small athletic circles, full on celebrating. Wonderful!

How can we possibly thank them all enough for this?

Or for this?

Or for this?

It's just not possible.