Back from Africa

Off to Kilimanjaro

Over the next six months as I sit there writing, I get pangs of homesickness for Africa and wonder how I'd feel to be back on African soil. A brochure for treks arrived recently as it's something I've always thought of doing. While flicking through it I light on Kilimanjaro. On closer investigation I discover you can fly direct from Europe to Kilimanjaro, and all of a sudden I'm desperate to go back to Africa. To the roof of Africa!

I start to pore over the different ascents to the summit. I go to the computer, search for Kilimanjaro online and start perusing anything and everything that looks interesting. That evening I can't get to sleep. I keep wondering if I'm fit enough to get up to the top. I can't talk it over with Markus straight away as he's off in Morocco for ten days on a business trip and I don't want to start discussing such an off-the-wall idea over the phone. My mind keeps running over it all in bed so that the next morning I feel as if I've been hiking all night.

I'm certain of one thing: I'm going to have a go at it! I'd really love to go back to Africa and if I still can't go back to Kenya at least I can look down on it from above.

Napirai isn't exactly enamored of my plan: ‘Isn't it dangerous, Mama?’ she asks. ‘Do other women your age manage it?’

The cheek of her! I can hardly wait for Markus to come back now. The idea has so seized hold of me that I can hardly think of anything else and the next time he's on the phone I mention it to him. To my great surprise, he says he thinks it's a good idea and tells me to go ahead. I'm overjoyed.

The very next day I start trying to get myself fit. I no longer take a brief stroll into the mountains every couple of days: instead I'm now doing three to seven hours a day. On top of that I go swimming once a week and follow up with a sauna. Here in Ticino the weather is mild enough, even in December, to trek up as high as 1,700 meters without running into snow. There are steep tracks with little or no snow at all.

When Markus gets home he's astonished to find the house full of books about Kilimanjaro, that I've already booked an appointment with a doctor for my inoculations and that I'm on a daily fitness course, carrying the dumbbell he uses for weights training in my rucksack. He can see I'm serious about it all.

One day before Christmas when I'm out on my trek, I come across a little mountain restaurant at about the 1,500 meter level. As it's on a pass, there's a magnificent view all around as far as the Alps of the Valais canton. I'm the only customer so I get into a conversation with the landlord who tells me the business has only been going since the previous summer. He tells me he's offering a five-course dinner on New Year's Eve with bed and breakfast for a limited group of twenty people. I reckon that would be a perfect start to the new year and don't think it would be hard to convince my nearest and dearest. On the way back down again I marvel at the gentle pink sunset spreading across the mountain ranges all around. It's as pretty as a fairy story and I'm cross with myself for not having brought my camera.

Two weeks later we spend New Year's Eve as I'd hoped up in the cosy little mountain restaurant with a few good friends including Madeleine and her partner. We're deep in the snow in bright sunshine but bitter cold. Napirai, however, preferred to spend New Year's Eve with her friends in her ‘old’ home. Up in the mountain restaurant though it's just like being at home with the landlord serving up one delicious dish after another. At midnight we fill our glasses with sparkling wine and toast one another before heading out on to the mountainside to look down at the valley spread beneath us and the stars above. It's a magic moment.

We wake up next morning after only a few hours sleep to find perfect mountain weather. A few of us decide to go on a mountain hike to the next restaurant, and it's late in the evening of New Year's Day 2003 before we get back to our house in the valley surrounded by palm trees. After a New Year's Eve like that, the year to follow can only be successful.

In the next few days I choose the tour company I want to use for Kilimanjaro and pick the route I want to take. I want the prettiest rather than the easiest route and go for the Machame ascent. On this route there are two acclimatisation stops built in and that seems important. There's also a two-day safari tacked on to the tour.

Every day that passes makes me more excited; I can't wait to see how I cope with this new adventure. Times just flies by. Especially as I'm out every day walking. I really enjoy it but at the same time I'm getting impatient and can't wait to be off. A week before my departure date I've already bought all the equipment. It has to be well thought out as we'll be passing through every type of climate from the savannah to arctic glacier conditions. A lot of my friends say they admire my courage which I find embarrassing as I have no idea how I'm going to cope.

Four days before we're due to leave I get the final documents and a list of names of the other travelers. There are only six of us in the group, which strikes me as good. Looking through the list of names I try to imagine them and decide that three of them must be older, experienced mountaineers. There is also a young couple. I'm pleased there's at least one woman as otherwise I might have scared off all the men.

The day before my departure I'm all packed, but incredibly I haven't got an attack of nerves. Despite my eagerness to be off, however, I feel bad saying goodbye to Markus and Napirai, even though I know she'll be well looked after. Eventually I'm sitting in the train to Zurich where three hours later my friend Madeleine meets me. I'm spending the night at her place as my plane leaves at seven in the morning.

I only gradually begin to realise I'm on my way when the plane takes off for Amsterdam where I'm going to join up with my fellow adventurers. And one and a half hours later I'm queuing up at the check-in for the next leg of the journey to Kilimanjaro. It's amazing how many people are trying to get on to the flight. Most of them, however, are setting off on a safari. I look around to see if I can pick out my traveling companions, and within half an hour I reckon I've identified them all. But I make no effort to approach them as they don't seem interested in talking.

The picture I'd imagined of them all turns out, nine hours later when we land, to be pretty accurate. Our group consists of a pensioner who tells us he's been to the top twice already, another pensioner I'll call Franz and his thirty-four-year-old son Hans, as well as a young couple in their mid-twenties. My training in the sales business and my facility for getting to know people makes me think we couldn't be any more different. Oh well, one way or the other we'll have to get better acquainted as we climb the mountain together.

Even at nine p.m. in the evening we're hit by thirty-degree Celsius heat on landing at Kilimanjaro airport. It feels magnificent although I don't get the same feeling I had thirteen years earlier of ‘arriving home’. We drive to a nearby lodge where we're to spend the first night. I wake up at five a.m. with diarrhea which I immediately treat with a large dose of Imodium. We meet up at breakfast and cautiously get to know one another.

The first lot are talking about the highest mountain treks they've covered: the Breithorn, Grossglockner, Mont Blanc and all. Good grief, I've hiked as high as 3,000 meters and taken the train up the inside of the Jungfrau but that's as much as I have to compare. When I then hear that one of the two older men has just come back from a two-week skiing expedition across glaciers to get fit for this expedition I start to have my first doubts. But first of all there's the safari to look forward to.

We drive for nearly five hours to get to the Tarangire National Park. On the journey I notice lots of herds of cows being looked after by Masai or their children. I wonder what Napirai would think and feel if she were here. I'm astonished to see warriors in traditional dress, with jewelery, war paint and spears, riding along on bicycles. That I find really weird. It all comes across as very different to before and somehow alien. I try to search deep inside myself to bring back memories I've forgotten, but I just can't. Instead I find myself missing Markus and my daughter.

When we reach the national park we're driven straight to our tent lodgings for lunch. While we're eating we get a fantastic view of a herd of elephants down by the river below. Now and then some of the animals trumpet loudly. In the afternoon we go out across the hot savannah looking for wildlife. We're in luck, and come across giraffes, gazelles, apes, zebras and buffalos. Seeing all these animals again starts to strike a chord in me that brings back my old fascination with Africa. By evening we've seen everything but lions. There's still tomorrow, however. We all retire to our tents to freshen up for dinner. The buffet is delicious and I tuck in heartily because who knows what we'll get up on the mountain.

Just before ten p.m. I leave the group as the conversation's going nowhere. There's no real atmosphere amongst the group yet. There's not much light on the way to my tent with just an oil lamp hanging outside each. When I get to the entrance I see some fifty beetles, locusts and insects of every size clinging to the illuminated wall of the tent. It doesn't exactly look very inviting. I try to work out how I'm going to get in there while keeping the insects out. First of all I turn the lamp out and shake the tent wall, then I use my torch to check, and slip as quickly as I can into the tent and lie down to go to sleep so that I don't notice any more of them.

By now the young couple have arrived back at their tent. I can see them through my little window and watch to see how they react to the insects. The two of them stand a good five minutes outside it wondering what to do. I have to keep myself from laughing. Finally the man takes a couple of steps back as the braver woman starts kicking at the tent wall to knock the creatures off. Eventually they get in and start checking out the tent in the light. Suddenly I hear two half stifled screams. Now I simply can't control myself any more and burst out laughing, but at the same time call out to ask them if everything's all right. They don't seem to find it very funny. I fall asleep listening to the chirping cicadas.

The next morning I'm woken early by something banging continuously against my tent. I crawl out in the gray light of dawn and see four dikdiks, dwarf antelopes, bounding around between the tents. They're so fast and elegant that it's fun to watch them. At the same time I hear the trumpeting of elephants getting closer. Gradually both human beings and animals waken to the new day and we're off again on our expedition. This time we come across vast numbers of elephants of all sizes. This morning there are whole tribes of apes and a couple of wild boar down by the river. We photograph everything.

Shortly after lunch it's time to make our way back to the first lodge. The driver asks us if we want to take a look at a Masai village. I'm thrilled, and can hardly imagine how it would feel to crawl into a manyatta again. I'd be curious to know just how I'd react. But my traveling companions are not in the slightest interested, saying they're here to see the animals not some humans. I don't want to be recognized and so I let the experience pass.

When we get to the lodge we sort out our kit, ready to begin the ascent next morning. Anything we won't need on the mountain we leave here. I'm amazed to see some of the men drinking beer. I've hardly drunk any alcohol since Christmas. There's a lot of talk about how it's every man for himself on the mountain. Whoever feels fit enough keeps going even if his partner is too tired. That obviously only applies to those in pairs, the young couple and the father and son. I chip in that I wouldn't leave my partner alone in a difficult situation, only to be rewarded with mocking looks and the line: ‘You obviously don't know the rules of the mountain.’ Each and every one of the party dreams of reaching the summit and all the others come second best. I suppose I'm no different myself.

The next morning we set off at eight o'clock. At first the bus trundles along a good metaled road heading towards Moshi and then takes a sharp left at a signpost reading Machame. The road suddenly starts to get bumpier and reminds me of the state of the roads in Kenya. We can see huge banana plantations on either side, along with coffee plants and some small allotments. Everything is green and luscious. We pass some simple little huts but also, set back from the road, one or two magnificent houses. The people here obviously do a lot better than those in other areas. Apart from anything else there are shops with freshly slaughtered meat hanging from hooks, even if it is swarming with the usual hordes of flies. It would appear the people also have the money to buy meat. When I point out some of these ‘butchers’ shops’ to my companions a couple of them are nearly sick.

It's still before noon when we get to the Machame Gate, 1,840 meters above sea level. We're not the only group about to set out on this route. There's complete chaos. All the groups have to register, hire porters and pick up their packages of food. I'm looking forward to the start of the trek. Because I'd been out walking for several hours every day at home I've missed the exercise after sitting three days on our fat behinds. At last everything is sorted out. For our group of six we have twenty-four porters, a local guide and three assistant guides. It's madness to see the vast baggage train heading off here, with every porter carrying between twenty and twenty-five kilos of pack on his head.

We set off at a slow pace. It's hot but extraordinarily dry for such a magnificent rain forest. The path is dry red clay covered with stones and tree roots. It must be really difficult in wet weather. I'm enchanted with the abundant vegetation and soon start taking pictures. Every now and then I stop and ask my companion to take a picture of me. But after a bit I stop, as I can't shake off the impression that I'm annoying the rest of the group. I follow the leader happily but have to force myself to slow down to the average group speed which is not as fast as I'm used to in the Swiss Alps. My new water bottle with built-in drinking straw comes in really useful. It means I can drink while walking along and so make sure I'm keeping my fluid intake up.

We climb higher and higher, passing trees with creepers, giant ferns and tree trunks covered in moss. There is a smell of damp earth in the air. No sign of animals. I have no feeling of getting towards the 3,000 meter mark because at this height in Switzerland there are no trees or bushes any more. After a couple of hours it gets lighter as the jungle gradually gives way to low scrub and bushes. Eventually that too gives way to barren heath as we approach our camp after five hours trekking and covering a vertical height difference of 1,160 meters.

I'm surprised to have reached the camp already, but most of my fellow trekkers are exhausted and complain that our guide went far too quickly. Given that we've got another three assistant guides I'm surprised nobody discussed this beforehand. Hans agrees with me. Everybody crawls off into the tents that have already been set up for us next to the few bushes remaining at this height, and lies down to rest. I'm pleased to have a two-man tent to myself, particularly as my luggage fills a third of it. A little later an orange basin with just under a liter of warm water is left out in front of each tent for us to wash. As nobody from our group is being very sociable I start chatting to an American woman who's in a group of just three: herself, her porter and her guide. I never thought of the idea of tackling Kilimanjaro just like that.

It's fun to watch all the bustle around the camp. There are people cooking in some tents. There are a few people sitting on the ground eating and drinking tea. Before long our group is called over to the mess tent. I find it weird that up here we've got a properly laid table with a blue and white striped tablecloth and folding chairs. We're served hot tea or coffee and salted popcorn, as a sort of aperitif. There's another hour to wait before we get the actual meal.

I'm still watching the comings and goings around the camp at six-thirty p.m. when suddenly the clouds lift and the summit of Kilimanjaro becomes visible for the first time. It seems incredibly close. The snow on top reaching down in long fingers towards the valley looks as if someone had emptied a bucket of white paint over the mountain. The vision is only fleeting, like the appearance of a ghost, and then once again the mountain is shrouded in cloud and the encroaching darkness. Our magnificent meal comes out, served on proper china. First of all there's a delicious soup, then the main course and fruit as desert. It feels like being back in colonial times.

The whole thing in fact feels just a little bit absurd to me. After all, I lived with Africans and now here are other Africans carrying tables and chairs around for me as a paying ‘white man’. I realise that many of them are glad to get a temporary job but it still takes some getting used to. By eight o'clock we're all in our tents but I can't sleep, with all the chatter or snoring coming from the other tents. My mind drifts back to our group and I hope we'll get a bit more sociability and camaraderie together tomorrow. Today hardly anyone exchanged a word.

By midnight I still can't get to sleep. Franz and Hans meanwhile are snoring away. I crawl out of my warm sleeping bag to go and empty my bladder. The night is cool and clear, the stars so near I could reach out and touch them and once again Kilimanjaro in its white robe towers above us. But I have to get back into the tent before the cold gets to me. I take a mild sleeping tablet in order to finally enjoy the sleep I have earned.

I'm woken around six a.m. by loud arguing between the father and son who've got damp sleeping bags because they didn't leave a ventilation panel open. It seems they've also nearly frozen and are feeling all stiff from the cold and the hard ground. I don't feel I can complain about anything like that: after all I'm used to sleeping on the ground and in any case I've bought myself a brand-new sleeping bag which is supposed to keep you warm even in extremely cold conditions and also I've got a protective underlay. After we all bid one another good morning I ask them where they got their sleeping bags. It turns out they've never heard of sleeping bag specifications with minimum comfort levels and maximum cold endurance levels and just got their sleeping bags from Aldi. They were very cheap according to Franz, who's a big Aldi fan.

Now however, he reads the small print and finds they're designed for comfort only down to five degrees Celsius and recommend a minimum temperature of minus ten. I can't help wondering how they think they're going to sleep at an altitude of 4,600 meters.

Heading for the toilet my legs suddenly feel like lead for no apparent reason. I'm horrified to find that despite having made provisions in advance my period has started. That's the last thing I need up here on the mountain. It comes as a real blow right now. I gulp down a couple of tablets to suppress the pains.

When I get back to my tent I find my ‘Good Morning Tea’ already laid out. The usual routine is for us to be woken by three people who run around shouting ‘Tea time! Coffee time!’ and we crawl out of our tent to find a tray with hot water, a tea bag and instant coffee. Right royal service! A little later the basins with warm water for washing are brought round and at seven-thirty a.m. we file into the mess tent for a ‘full breakfast’, with scrambled egg, sausages, toast, butter and marmalade, as well as fresh fruit, from mini bananas to pineapple. I doubt any of us have such a superb breakfast at home.

At around nine a.m. we set off for the Shira Plateau, on the high steppes, some 3,850 meters up. At first it's all very pleasant. Gradually the trees and bushes thin out. On the last trees we come across thin shreds of moss hanging like spiders’ webs, making it seem like some fantasy world out of Jurassic Park. Thin wisps of fog only add to the impression. There are also occasional clumps of purple thistles now and shrubs with red and white flowers. But unfortunately the path has started to head steeply uphill and with my leaden legs today it's really exhausting. The others seem fit and rested for a change. The slope is so steep here that I can't even use my walking sticks.

The reward, however, is a magnificent view of Mount Meru, and when I look back down behind us I can see the whole jungle we came through yesterday. But it's hard work pressing on uphill and I'm hugely relieved when we finally stop for lunch just after midday. It's foggy and cool as we sit down behind a rock out of the wind, once again at a properly laid table complete with tablecloth. I pull my hood up against the wind and we settle down to hot tea, bread and cheese and hot pancakes which renew my strength. It might be absurd to be sitting down in comfort like this up here, but I'll never forget it.

Afterwards I feel a little better as we set off again. We reach the Shira Plateau early in the afternoon. It's a huge camp and you can tell from the number of little toilet huts alone that at times it must get really busy. Gradually more and more groups arrive, including the American traveling on her own. Even though we're 3,850 meters up, there are still one or two bushes around so it still doesn't feel to me as if we're that high up. But today I'm really pleased to stop and rest and can hardly wait for my little basin of water to wash. My legs still feel heavy and I've got stomach cramps too.

I try to use my mobile to ring home but there's no reception. I miss my little family and suddenly feel very selfish. Here I am climbing this mountain for God knows what reason while Markus is hard at work and having to look after Napirai at the same time. My morale is at rock bottom. Everyone in our little group seems so self-obsessed that the only time we speak to one another is over meals. I had imagined it would all be a lot jollier and more convivial. Looking out of my tent, however, I can see that some of the other groups are a lot more fun, but in the state I'm in, I can't bring myself to go over and try to talk to people. In any case most of the groups will be heading in different directions tomorrow.

By now the ice sheets of Kilimanjaro can be seen peeking out to tease us. Am I really going to make it all the way up there? Right now I'm not so sure. Eventually dinnertime comes around and there's a magnificent spread laid out again, but all I can manage is the soup. Our guide isn't impressed and tries to encourage me to eat more. I try to persuade him I'll be feeling better tomorrow.

I wake the next morning to our third day on the mountain. Even in my sleeping bag now it's starting to feel cool. I wonder how the father and son are coping. When I crawl out of my tent I find that the ground and even my tent ropes are frozen. As usual morning tea arrives, then water to wash and then we're served the full breakfast. Unfortunately once again I can't manage to eat much. Franz and Hans nearly froze during the night despite sleeping in all the clothes they could wear. They can't go on like this!

We're off almost immediately but Franz, the father, isn't in a good state especially as he's now got diarrhea. Our program for the day is the South Circuit, a detour to enable us to get acclimatised to the altitude. We're going to ascend 750 meters to the Lava Tower, 4,500 meters above sea level, and then come back down to 3,950 meters. Initially the route is so very gentle that it hardly feels as if we're going uphill at all. We can still see the peak of Kilimanjaro, but then suddenly the fog comes up behind us and it gets really cold. We had set out wearing just T-shirts but now we all pull our jackets on. The last little clumps of shrubbery are behind us now and the only vegetation is patches of lichen on the otherwise dark volcanic rock. We stop for lunch just before one o'clock. I'm glad of the rest as I can now really feel that we're 4,500 meters up.

There's also a cold wind blowing so we find a sheltered spot before sitting down to the table we now know so well. But suddenly a hailstorm hits us and the guides say we have to get a move on as the weather up here can change very quickly and already our visibility has been limited by the fog. I'm feeling pretty exhausted but not bad for the altitude we're at. Franz is feeling worse and worse. Both he and his son have got bad headaches. The guide asks if we want to press on up to the Lava Tower or take the shorter route back down to our next camp. Franz opts for the shortcut and I'm wondering if I should go with him, when the young couple who seem full of energy announce that they're heading on up and I make up my mind to go with them.

As it turns out the weather gets better as we press on and before long the strange great mass of the Lava Tower is looming up in front of us. The guide congratulates us all on having reached 4,600 meters. I'm starting to feel better at last and almost euphoric although only too well aware that we're still aiming to reach the summit. We stop for a few photographs and then head downhill again. At this altitude it's three times faster going downhill. Before long we're once again walking among giant lobelia and senecia. These plants grow up to several meters in height almost like cacti among the rocks and seem weirdly out of place here. Sometimes in the distance they can look like an oasis of palm trees. The lower we get the more we see little silver-white plants dotted among the stones.

Jut before four p.m. we catch sight of our camp laid out beneath us. It's easy to tell the different groups apart by the color of the tents. There are two other groups besides us camped here at 3,950 meters, just below the southern Kilimanjaro glacier. It's really quite cold. In the kitchen tent it's all go already; they always have everything prepared by the time we reach our camp. We each have our own tent and our luggage is already inside. We meet up again with Franz who's not feeling any better. He's got a temperature and is wondering if he might have contracted malaria while we were on the safari, because he hadn't taken any prophylactic drugs. But his symptoms don't match my experiences with malaria, which is something of a relief. Our rapid descent has given Hans an even worse headache but he won't take anything for it.

Once again I turn on my mobile and discover to my delight that I've got a signal. Immediately I call my loved ones back home and am thrilled to hear Markus's voice again. When he asks, with concern in his voice, how I've been up to now, I burst into tears. My reaction to hearing his voice comes as a shock and I manage to assure him I'm physically fine but don't feel as if I'm fitting in. I'm not used to traveling in a group and thought it would all be different somehow. Also I'm not sure if I'm fit enough. Markus does his best to boost my spirits and it relieves me at least to hear that all's well with Napirai. I then have a chat with her myself and she says matter-of-factly: ‘Oh, Mama, don't worry about anything. You'll manage it all right and everything here is just fine.’ My heart just melts at the sound of her voice, and I realise with a sudden intensity that these two people are the most important things in my life.

I feel really buoyed up by the phone call and can at long last laugh again. Even our guide notices that I seem a lot happier with myself. I'm not used to having long periods of feeling down and depressed, and I'm not really sure what caused it: the altitude, the period pills, the malaria pills or just the whole funny situation with the group. I still can't get my appetite back for dinner however, even though I'm amazed at what the chefs have conjured up for us: from a delicious tomato soup to pasta with fresh vegetables and a magnificent meat curry with rice.

The only thing I really feel like is raw carrots, and they conjure these up too, on a plate decorated with slices of orange. Over dinner Franz tells us that if he's not feeling better in the morning he's considering giving up. He's noticed his legs beginning to give up on him and this morning he stumbled over several stones. We'd all be sorry because he and his son have always been a source of some amusement.

After a brief visit to the toilets, the young couple declare they'll never get used to them. The pensioner spends more time writing in his diary than he does talking to anyone. I've managed to glean however that he's a retired dentist. I wonder if that's why he doesn't seem to like me: he can smell a former dental equipment sales representative.

One of our assistant guides mentions that there is a shortcut we could take that might increase our chances of getting to the summit. It would mean, however, that the day after tomorrow we would head for the Barafu Camp rather than the Kibo hut. It would be less tiring and we could spend the afternoon resting. The downside would be that we would miss out on Gilman's Point which is quite a climb. If we wanted to get our certificate and photograph on reaching the summit then we would have to take the direct route to Peak Uhuru.

Everyone agrees to this except me. I certainly want my photograph and certificate but I also think I'd manage Gilman's Point, though I'm not absolutely sure if I would then make it the rest of the way. We talk it back and forth and in the end decide that for the moment at least we'll stick to the route we've booked. Tomorrow night will be our last chance to change our minds. I need time to think it over. We all crawl into our tents and wait for longed-for sleep.

I'm up before six a.m. It's clear weather and the summit of Kilimanjaro seems near enough to touch. We're immediately below it. Once again it looks to me as if someone has poured milk or paint over it. It looks completely different to the snow and ice on our Swiss mountains. It must be because it's a volcano. I'm feeling strong and well-rested this morning and eager to trek on. It's another acclimatisation day and we'll be going up and down a couple of small valleys. At breakfast Franz tells us that he's made up his mind and he and one of the assistant guides will turn around and head down. He's realised that he's not going to reach the summit and doesn't want to take any more risks. He'll go back to the lodge we started out from and might book himself on a safari to Ngongorongo Crater. That means his son Hans at least has the advantage of having two sleeping bags which will help him get through the nights more comfortably. Before we set off we have one last photograph taken of the whole group, particularly as one of the guides is now leaving with Franz.

We set off past the last of the strange senecia plants and before long we're heading up over rocks using both hands and feet at times as the sticks are more of a hindrance than a help. I find clambering up like this fun though as it's a bit of a change, and apart from anything else I'm too busy to worry about how I'm feeling. Once again the column of porters hurries on past us. I'm more amazed than ever at the skill with which they dart over this steep rocky landscape carrying such heavy burdens on their heads. Unlike us they can't use their hands to help them as they're using them to support their baskets, sacks or pans, and they're still twice as fast as us.

As we stop to let them pass I look to see what sort of equipment they have. Some of them are wearing shoes that are far too big for them, others without the laces done up. They're carrying rucksacks full of raw eggs in thin cardboard boxes and have to squeeze through gaps in the rocks that we can hardly fit through with just our little knapsacks. I don't dare imagine what happens to them if the eggs are broken when they arrive. It makes me realise that I ought to give the porters a good tip. As far as I'm concerned they're the real heroes of Kilimanjaro.

We take a long break at 4,250 meters up and then there's a short straight bit before we descend into a valley and then climb up the other side. Hans and I are really enjoying it and are eager to get on. The others, however, are a bit disappointed as they hadn't expected all these ups and downs. From time to time Hans and I chat together. He still can't understand why his father gave up. ‘After all, it was his idea,’ he says reproachfully, ‘his obsession to climb this mountain.

I had to come along, as his son, because he couldn't persuade anyone else. Now here I am dragging myself 6,000 meters up a mountain I never wanted to climb, while he's chilling out on a safari.’ His dry, sarcastic humor makes me laugh. He's been much more chatty with me since he's been on his own.

We reach Karanga camp after four and a half hours, just in time to dash into our tents to escape the first heavy burst of rain. The weather up here keeps changing all the time. One minute it's really hot and the next a fog comes down and we're glad to have a pullover or jacket to put on. Kilimanjaro itself has vanished into the fog and rain for the moment. Our team of porters is huddled in the kitchen tent. Happily I've got a signal on my mobile again and send a text to Napirai and Markus who immediately reply, delighted and relieved to hear from me.

There's a long while before dinner so I start to read a book my mother gave me for the trip. Immediately I'm hooked: it's the story of a woman who travels through China, Nepal and India on a bicycle. She even cycles over mountain passes 5,000 meters up where her bicycle freezes up in the snow and ice. Looking at the pictures I gain confidence that our ambition is a lot easier to achieve. When I crawl out of my tent two hours later I'm pleased to see the sun is out again. All our team are lying relaxing in the evening sunshine. As a result we don't get our evening water to wash in.

I use a few refresher wipes and Petra lets me borrow her moisturizing spray. She's got a whole array of personal hygiene requisites. In comparison I've got black lines under my long fingernails which I can't do much about with the little water we have. With their partly broken fingernails my hands look like I've been using them to scrape out cooking pots, like I used to do in Barsaloi.

As the sun comes out, so Kilimanjaro emerges again from the clouds. Hans and I take the opportunity to get a few good photographs of each other against the impressive peak. Once again I have to ask myself who, if anyone of us, will make it to the top. Suddenly I feel I ought to agree to the change of route. I would hate it if one of our group didn't get to the peak just because of me. If we did that then it would be an absolute ‘must’ for me to get to Peak Uhuru. I tell the others over dinner that I agree with them and everyone is pleased to hear it. Later on I hear that the porters are happiest of all because it means they don't have to carry our luggage so far.

The next morning we rise to bright beautiful sunshine and it seems as if Kilimanjaro has grown closer overnight. It's hard to imagine that we're still 2,000 meters vertically below the peak. There are magnificent pancakes again for breakfast as well as toast and watermelon. I eat loads as I've really got my appetite back now, and apart from anything else we've an exhausting day and night ahead of us making our final attempt at the summit.

We've got to climb some 600 meters to reach Barafu camp. It starts out easily enough. Even the last traces of plant life have vanished by now and we're tramping over lava rocks of different shapes and sizes. Part of the track looks like piles of gray-black clay. It seems as if all traces of life have died out up here in this lunar landscape. Then just now and again I spot a small black spider scurrying away from our advancing footsteps.

Up ahead we can see the porters hurrying up the last steep ascent to our next camp. I have dire forebodings. This final, extremely steep, climb is a real foretaste of the night to come. We have to keep stopping repeatedly, feeling as if we just can't go on. I'm just pleased to have my drinking straw which I suck on regularly to keep thirst at bay at least. After using up vast reserves of energy over three hours of trekking, we drag ourselves up the last of the 600 meters vertical difference into our camp, now at 4,540 meters above sea level. It's the stoniest, windiest and, above all else, dirtiest camp we have encountered. Our porters have put our tents up a bit too low and are now bounding past us to re-erect them in the new spot before we get there. I don't understand how these men can leap from rock to rock at this altitude carrying into the wind the igloo tent they've already built.

We stumble up to collapse and rest next to the tents. The people already in the camp are those who came down from the summit this morning. Sitting on a rock is one couple who look as if they are normally fit and active but today totally drained. I ask them how they got on and if they made it to the top. All they can do is nod and stammer: ‘Hard work!’ Then we come across one elderly man who has only just now, at half past midday, managed to make it back down. One look at him reminds me of an old saying we have back in Switzerland: ‘He's down to his gums!’ Absolutely on his last legs!

The chief attraction in this camp is the toilet — a little hut sitting over a bottomless pit. It looks rather rickety and unstable and doesn't exactly inspire confidence. Huge great mountain jackdaws circle over it never letting it out of their eyes. All this goes to explain why it's so dirty-looking up here. The two dormitories don't exactly fit in to this lunar landscape either. They look like two green tin cans. Even so, I can buy a can of Coca-Cola here and even reserve it for when I come back down from the peak, as if it were champagne.

After doing that, I bump into a woman creeping out of her tent and ask her how she found the experience of getting to the peak. She says she didn't make it and gave up on this ‘bloody mountain’ at 5,100 meters. She just couldn't see the point of torturing herself any further when she found her drinking water, which she had wrapped up well, had frozen solid. It's not exactly an encouraging story.

Hans is realizing once again that he hasn't come properly equipped. He doesn't have a thermos flask and realises now that even the hottest tea freezes in a few minutes. The pensioner who has already been to the top twice has decided to miss out on our night-time ascent this time and so at least Hans can use his insulating sleeve for his water bottle. The old man also lends him his altitude meter so we can know how far up we've come.

I gobble up the spaghetti we're served for lunch. I might have been totally exhausted when we arrived but after a few minutes in the sun I find I've recovered remarkably well. Over the meal we naturally chat about the ascent ahead of us. We're all a bit nervous, particularly as the tales we've heard from those coming back down haven't exactly been encouraging. We're due to set off at midnight, so that leaves hours to kill in this inhospitable place. A few of us decide to get some sleep during the afternoon. The pensioner decides to climb on a bit higher, while I go back to my gripping book.

The more I read, the calmer I become. Think about all the experiences I've already coped with, just like this woman in Nepal. Perhaps you become stronger in countries like this simply because that's the only way to have a ghost of a chance to achieve what you set out to do. As I read I become more and more certain that I will reach Peak Uhuru tonight, and that certainty calms my nerves.

The time drags however, and I find myself eagerly longing for dinner, which tonight will be served an hour earlier than normal, to allow us time to take a nap afterwards. It's quiet in the camp now as most people have headed on down the mountain. Apart from us there are two other small groups making tonight's ascent.

At long last it's time for the last lot of food to build our strength up. Hans says dryly: ‘It seems a bit like a last supper.’ In a few hours time we were to find out how close that joke was to becoming reality. We're served roast chicken legs and potato salad. Ravenously I scoff down everything that's brought out. Our guide gives us some final words of advice, telling us to put on all the warm clothing we have because it will be very cold up there. I can hardly imagine setting off on a trek wearing so many pullovers and jackets, quite apart from the layers of warm underwear, as I normally break out in a sweat easily. But I do as I'm told and am soon grateful.

Before setting off I sit in my tent and read some more. I've also been trying to work out how big a tip to give the porters afterwards. I'd also like to say a few words of thanks to them and want to make sure I think of something suitable. Just before nine p.m. I hear a wind getting up, but I'm feeling tired and gradually doze off.

At eleven-fifteen I'm woken up, pull on the rest of my clothing which I've been keeping warm inside my sleeping bag. I blow into my hiking boots for a few seconds to warm them up too. Then I pull on hat and gloves, fix my torch around my forehead and I'm all set. In my knapsack I've got my camera, two thermos flasks with hot drinks, some dried fruit and a couple of slices of wholemeal bread. For the moment at least I'm also carrying my waterproof trousers in there.

We all get together for a cup of tea to warm ourselves up before we set off into the unknown. The women are to go first, immediately behind the guide. Before long, Petra's forehead torch starts to fail, and so I take the place immediately behind the guide. We walk really slowly at first as all we can see is the ground immediately beneath our feet and the route is very steep right from the outset. Although the wind is blowing strongly I have to take off a pullover and jacket after the first half-hour. I'm thirsty and miss my container with the straw. I couldn't bring it tonight because the contents would simply freeze. We plod on but it's hard going. Hans is getting headaches. Before long I have to stop to put back on the layers I'd taken off, because the wind has got stronger still.

It's starting to get cold quickly. After an hour or two — you begin to lose track of time — we're all wondering why on earth we're doing this. The wind is so strong I can hardly hear anything from the others in the group behind me, except for the occasional ‘Shit!’ There's another little group ahead of us, but if I look up I start to feel sick. As far as I can see there is nothing in front of us but the black slope of the mountain. There's no sign of the summit, just a path getting ever steeper in ever tighter curves. The wind is picking up even more and my fingers are starting to freeze. All around us now there are scraps of paper and broken glass. There's a woman coming towards us on her way back down. Her mountain clothing doesn't look to me as if it's good enough and the teddy bear on her knapsack seems a little out of place to say the least.

We stop to get our breath ever more frequently now. Every time we halt I have to sit down. The higher we get, the harder it becomes to breathe. Petra's in a bad way. She's had an attack of diarrhea. Once again I ask myself what I'm doing here. Nobody's in a good mood. Petra's tempted to turn back but the assistant guide encourages her to keep going. We forge on, step by step. Hans inspects his altitude meter only to give us all the depressing news that we're not at 5,000 meters yet.

It's still getting colder and windier. I close my eyes to narrow slits to stop them from weeping. The trouble with this is that I'm so tired, my eyes would rather close completely. But I drag myself onwards. Our guide keeps checking to make sure we're on course. All I can think about is how ill and exhausted I feel. The guide tells us: ‘don't think about the mountain. You have to get the mountain out of your heads. Think about home, in Germany, or wherever.’ I do as he says and imagine my daughter. Then all of a sudden I hear a strange voice calling her name, or rather crying it in lament. Again and again I hear like some loud lamentation: ‘Napirai! Naaaapirai!’ Then I realise that it's me, making this noise. My voice sounds strange, alien and far too deep. I have to stop and sit down immediately and take a drink of tea. It feels as if I'm dying of thirst.

Petra and her man say they can't go on. She's absolutely freezing and crouches there on the ground in agony. The wind is howling so fiercely we can hardly open our eyes. The guide advises her to pull on her waterproof trousers. But she won't move and insists she's going back down. Her partner and the two assistant guides pull her waterproof trousers on for her, and then they and she turn around and head back down.

Hans by now has been sick behind a rock. He was about to give up too but thanks to the tea the guide gave him, he has pulled through and is ready to go on. We're still only at 5,200 meters. That means we're only halfway and still have another 695 vertical meters to ascend. I'm not sure how I'm going to make it, but there's no way I'm going to give up now. The guide, Hans and I plough on. Hans is swaying. We're having to push ourselves every single meter of the way. By now I'm leaning on my poles, using my arms to physically drag myself upwards. I have to stop every twenty meters or so because I'm so exhausted I simply can't manage more than that at a time. But after pausing for a couple of minutes, I can then continue. That also helps me get my head back together. But when we start upwards again my energy evaporates after just a couple of steps. I also keep hearing myself call out in this strange voice. I can't help myself. The weaker I get, the louder I moan. At one point I call ‘Mama’, then again for Napirai or my darling Markus. I start trying to count my steps or bang my shoes together after each step. Anything to distract myself from the exhaustion and misery of the moment.

We must have been going for five hours steeply uphill by now and still there's nothing but blackness up ahead. I tell the guide I'm only going as far as Stella Point. How far is it anyhow, for God's sake? But he just gives us the same answer he's been using for hours on end: ‘Not far now.’ But I'm certain that I'm not going further than Stella Point. They can keep the summit. Hanging over my sticks, pulling myself upwards I try to think back to how bad things were all those years ago in the hospital in Maralal. Back then I was so weakened by malaria that I couldn't even walk to the toilet without help. Fifty meters seemed an impossible distance. And just stopping for a moment was no help at all because I felt just as bad afterwards. Here, however, just a couple of minutes break and I've got the strength to go on again, even if not much. Recalling the state I was in back then makes me feel a bit better. And then, back in Switzerland I'll never have to suffer like this again!

Hans is in a bad way too, swaying all over the place. We stop again for a bit. The guide's not exactly thrilled. He's freezing too. When we're about to set off again I notice he's nearly fallen asleep. I come to with a vengeance and shake him by the arm. He opens his eyes, says, ‘Yes, yes,’ and sets off again. I begin to wonder if the two of us can manage with just one guide. What would we do if something happened to him or one of us lost it completely? I mustn't think like that. I ask him once again how far it is to Stella Point. ‘For me, six minutes,’ he says. ‘For you, I don't know.’ Well at least that means it can't be hours away.

I pull my last vestiges of strength together and think of the disappointed expression on my daughter's face when I tell her that her mother didn't make it to the top. Though, God knows, it's nothing to be ashamed of: this is sheer torture, for us at any rate. For the likes of Messner (the famous mountain climber) who picnic on peaks like this, it would no doubt be just a stroll. We rest again, pull ourselves together, and forge on. Hans looks at the altitude meter and says Stella Point's still a hundred meters above us. I can hardly believe it's so far. The guide takes our knapsacks and immediately we feel a bit better. We struggle onwards. Then suddenly the guide reaches out his hand and says, ‘Congratulations, you have reached Stella Point.’

I'm knocked out. Here we are at Stella Point which doesn't look anything special, and the altitude meter is out by a hundred meters. But then I turn round and see the sunrise. For the first time in more than six hours we can see more than dark rocks and blackness. This thin stripe of deep red is hugely moving, but it doesn't quite justify foraging under all my jackets to find my camera. It's even colder up here than it's been so far. Somehow or other I clamber into my waterproof over-trousers although none of it fits properly. What matters is keeping warm.

Hans keeps saying: ‘I feel so bad, it can't be good for you up here.’ I don't feel too bad though now: I don't feel sick and I haven't got a headache. But then I feel next to nothing at all. I'm completely drained and stripped of all emotion. Our guide is urging us on, and I hear Hans say: ‘Come on, let's keep going, we've got this far, we'll manage the rest.’ If he can be that optimistic in the state he's in, I simply have to go on. Later I will thank him. If it hadn't been for swaying old Hans, I would have seen no point in continuing.

It gradually starts to get brighter now and we can see that we're now trekking up along the rim of the volcanic crater to our right. I still have to lean on my sticks to pull myself along. To our left now the great wall of the glacier slowly starts to appear. I sit down and tell myself that this would make a great photo. When the guide sees me struggling to get my camera out of the bag, he helps me and even takes the first picture. It's just gone six a.m. and the sun is rising fast now as we fight our way upwards along the rim of the crater. Hans is wobbling from side to side more than ever and I'm starting to get really worried about him. Our guide is a good ten meters ahead of us.

We have to squeeze round a little rocky outcropping right on the edge of the crater. All of a sudden I'm wide awake as I see Hans sway and yell at him, but it's too late. He topples over backwards head first. I leap across and grab hold of him as his torso hangs over the edge of the crater. The guide comes rushing back too and gets him back on to his feet. From now until we reach the summit, he keeps a tight hold on him.

Great walls of ice now rise up against the gentle pink of the sky. At one point I hear myself sob. I'm actually sobbing to myself and don't recognize my own voice. I simply can't control my tears and don't even know why I'm crying. Is it exhaustion? Or the beauty of the view? Or just realizing that I'm up here on the roof of Africa? I simply don't know. I hear the guide say: ‘Stop crying. You're wasting energy.’ But I can't halt my loud, deep sobbing until we actually reach Uhuru Peak. It's seven a.m. as our guide congratulates us on reaching the summit. He's exhausted too even though he's been here a hundred times.

Apart from us, there are another six people on the top of the mountain. I sit down next to the sign marking the summit and take my waterproof over-trousers off so we can take a decent photograph. The guide advises us to hurry up: we ought to begin the descent as soon as possible given how ill Hans is feeling. He takes a few photos of us with half-frozen fingers. I automatically take a few pictures of the panorama and wait for a huge surge of emotion to overwhelm me, but it doesn't happen. It doesn't even occur to me to fulfill my original intention to look over the border into my dearly loved Kenya. I just feel empty, a husk, a zombie.

Hans feels the same and is white as a sheet. He's sorry to be here instead of his father. He never thought he'd reach the summit, being a smoker. It's time to go. As we edge along the crater we pass the next group of zombies. They too say nothing but just plod on towards the summit. We find ourselves running and sliding down a steep slope of volcanic ash. It's like jumping down a mountainside covered in deep snow, except that it's dust.

Hans has bad headaches and keeps tripping over his own feet. I'm worried whether he'll ever make it as far as the camp which is 1,200 meters vertically beneath us. My training pays off here although I'm incredibly thirsty. Even though it's really warm by now Hans won't take off his gloves, hat or jacket. He worries me more and more because his speech is getting confused. I keep hearing him say: ‘It can't be good for you, feeling as bad as this.’ We stop for a rest and a drink. I give him a painkiller for his headaches and a couple of aspirin to thin his blood.

We all tuck into my dried fruit, and after a couple of minutes he's starting to feel better. But even though he's sweating he refuses to take anything off. The guide puts his arm around him to support him and the two of them set off together downhill at a run. It takes two hours of sliding and running downhill before we see the camp below us. I recognize the others from our group looking up at us and wave to them. Nobody waves back. Finally we make it back to the camp, nine hours after we left.

The mood is less than euphoric. The native assistant guides are the first to come up and congratulate us. Then Petra's boyfriend comes up and congratulates us too, but with not much enthusiasm. However she shouts out her congratulations from their tent. The retired dentist is even more dour, saying ‘Congratulations’, but not another word. Even so he takes a photo of me when I ask him to. Hans crawls into his tent and immediately falls asleep from exhaustion. There's not much time to pack up our things and get a bite of lunch as we have to descend 1,800 meters down the Mweka route to get to that camp.

I find myself sitting in my tent waiting for lunch. I've nobody to share my experience with because nobody else is interested. At least I can send a text message to my nearest and dearest, even if I haven't got enough battery power left to actually make a call. Napirai comes straight back with: ‘Super Mama, I always knew you'd do it!’ Markus is equally proud of my achievement and says he'll tell the rest of the family.

Our descent takes us back through all the different climatic zones in reverse order. Delving back into the increasingly thick jungle I'm delighted to see all the exotic plants in bloom, but the downhill trek is hard on the legs and knees in particular. After two hours of it I'm no longer paying attention to the pretty blossoms on the bushes or the broad valleys spread out beneath us. All I'm aware of is the blisters starting to form at various places on my feet. I put sticking plasters over the worst but it only increases my desire to reach the camp as quickly as possible. As we descend the humidity increases and everything is sticking to my body. Eventually after three hours we reach the camp and just manage to scramble into our tents before the heavens open. It pours down in stair rods for fifteen minutes and afterwards everything is sodden and even the interior of the tent feels damp. I couldn't care less as long as I don't have to do any more walking, after twelve hours on the trot! It's late afternoon now and we have time to kill before dinner. I long for the orange basin full of hot water like I've never longed for anything in my life. I also need to do something about my feet as we have another long trek downhill tomorrow.

I'm starting to look forward to getting home now. There's a general end-of-trip party atmosphere around the camp. For the guides and porters it's the last tour before the summer as the monsoon season is about to start. They're also worried about America's impending invasion of Iraq because it'll put tourists off traveling. None of them knows when they'll earn more money, but even so they're all good-humored and concerned about our well-being. I lie there in my tent listening to the voices of the natives. They've always got something to talk about. All day long they laugh and chat and still manage to get their hard work done. They're far advanced on us white people when it comes to being carefree and communicating with one another. The members of our group are all sitting on their own in their tents with nothing to say to their fellow travelers, even after spending eleven days together.

Over dinner we discuss the amount of a tip to give. I reckon that in addition to the normal cost I'll add another hundred dollars for the porters. I would actually like to give more but when I hear the others’ suggestions I don't want to appear too extravagant. Later I only wish I had been when my last two hundred and fifty dollars goes missing back at the lodge.

I sleep so deeply that night that I don't hear a peep from the little party the porters have to mark the end of the season. Even on our last day we're woken with our usual morning tea. After breakfast however, the camp is dismantled faster than usual. Virtually the whole team has gathered now as we're to say our farewells up here. Petra makes a little speech and hands over the tip to the main guide. Then I take my hundred dollars and say I want to donate them exclusively to the porters, the real heroes of Kilimanjaro. Their faces brighten immediately and they throw their hands in the hair, embarrassed and delighted all at once. I hear them call out ‘Asante Mzungu. Then they burst into a song about Kilimanjaro and I'm more moved by it than by anything else on the whole tour. Finally each one of the porters thanks us individually, shakes our hands and then piles all the luggage onto their heads before dashing on in front of us downhill.

After another three hours we get to the Machame Gate again to wait for our transport to the lodge. The porters are all busy washing and cleaning, some of them cleaning the tents and pots we used, others just washing themselves. After seven days we're also longing to get to the showers back at the hotel.

The guide hands Hans and me a certificate each and tells us that that night was so cold — minus twenty-five degrees Celsius at Stella Point — that only one fifth of the normal number of people making the final attempt actually reached the summit. That makes us feel a little bit proud after all.