Not another mountain that I wanted to move

by Shreya Dhanasekaran (India)

A leap into the unknown Tanzania

The signpost on Africa’s highest point was the most unwelcoming one I had seen. Propped up on sharp, volcanic rocks that could tell million- year old stories, it stood from, as cold as the wind that cut through several layers of fleece and wool that covered my skin. It is funny, how, for months, my goal was to get to this wooden structure, whose only company for most of the day, apart from the glaciers and icy cliffs stretched for miles around, was the occasional plane that flew past it. On Kilimanjaro’s summit, while everyone rejoices reaching their goal that Christmas morning, my only thought, was the horrible guy-wrenching knowledge that I now has to make my way back to camp, the place that I had started from, several hours ago. I could barely wriggle my toes that I was sure were frozen through the night’s trek along with the water that I carried. The blinding mid-morning tropical sun whose warmth I had prayed for, did it’s work, burning back my nose and lips. Charles Teeta, the fifty-year old weather-beaten chief-guide for the trek, whose footprint I had memorized after following it for miles, walked ahead, his black eyes glinting with a steely look of determination every time he turned and shared water from the only bottle he carried. I met Charles, a day before my week long trek started. He had been climbing the mountain from when he was a boy, where he started as a porter, carrying bags that were heavy enough to bend him over. Along with Charles, I met, John Temu, a corn farmer who had left his farm behind to be the official “toilet helper”. While other trekkers on the mountain chose to use the “common toilet”, long pits dig into the ground and whose smell left nothing to the imagination. I had the option to pay for a disposable toilet that had its own tent. John’s job was to carry the heavy tent and make sure that the toilet was kept clean. “ More money than farm,” he said, with a wide grin that spread across his face. I was also introduced to my fellow trekkers, “ I am so glad you speak English, what other languages do you know?” a music teacher from Australia while we shared a bag of chips. Coming from a “developing country” did have its advantages. My new friends suffers from headaches and nausea that were symptoms of anti- malarial tablets. “Lucky you, you are already immune and you don’t need the tablets,” they said when they realised that I wasn’t having any. The headache and nausea however did not stop them from racing past me on the mountains. Our groups divided on the day of the climbing to the summit. While they had the assistant guide to lead them, Charles decided that I needed and help and walked along with me. “Pole”, Swahili for slowly was what he told me every time I sat down on the very dusty mountain, covered with layers of grime and mud after falling several times down the very slippery downward slope full of scree. We reached the camp around noon and it was then that I got the sense of accomplishment and joy that I should have enjoyed at the summit. For me, it wasn’t about reaching the top of the mountain that mattered but it was the climb and journey back that did.