Kili woes

No of words: 500
Anjaly Thomas

‘Pole, Pole,’ Siraji warned, steadying me as I lost my balance again. Descending Uhuru Peak was not a cake walk, it was torture, I reasoned to myself. Even standing still was dangerous; forget the zombie - walk along the snow covered ridge. Sucking in thin mountain air to keep alive, I tried to focus on the moment. Here I was on the highest point in Africa but not coherent enough to delight in that knowledge.
Pole, Pole, he said again. It was the mantra of my Mt Kilimanjaro adventure. I was tired and I was tired of hearing him say that. All I wanted was to curl up and sleep, not caring if I woke up, but I did promise myself never to climb mountains again.
And I wanted to breathe through my nose - an ambitious idea that wouldn’t materialize soon.
The secret, if there was such a thing, to safe descent was recognizing our limits and staying within them, but it was a rotten time to find out, for without backup or assistant guide our chances of making it back to Kibo Hut looked extremely slim.
Uhuru Peak was vicious but blame it on the season. No climbers in their right mind attempted the climb in March but I was the exception. The only other climber hadn’t made it past Gilman’s Point.
Then Siraji said something about a headache.
A headache isn’t such a bad thing, but at 5895m AMSL it can be quite another story. I wasn’t holding up well, my frozen fingers couldn’t hold the ice-poles and without my guide’s hand gripping my shoulder I knew I couldn’t make it – and he was starting a headache.
Rest was forgotten, for finally it dawned on me that few seconds of shut eye could make the difference between reaching alive and as a heap of broken bones, so I inched along, not upset over Siraji’s refusal to let me rest. He knew the magic formula for living.
I felt alone. Empty. And very sorry for both of us. I was the hopeless but successful climber without any will to survive.
We had to make it down the slopes between Gilman’s Point and Kibo, which Siraji warned ‘could be a little tough,’ but after being in his company for five days, I realized we had different ideas about what that meant and I prepared myself for the worst slopes of Mt Kilimanjaro, hoping his optimism would buffer the fear that threatened to explode.
Then I slipped and fell. This is it, I thought, I was done for. Surely something was broken? It was too cold to feel any pain anyway. No blaming Siraji, I should have seen the rock.
Siraji pulled me up and pushed me forward, a bit roughly, I thought, but I must have imagined it. Nothing was broken but it was an embarrassing slip. And no, we couldn’t rest, he said glaring through narrow holes in his balaclava.
Descending was not an option – it was mandatory.