Kilimanjaro change colour

Kilimanjaro had been watching me. It would peer down over its cloud-studded collar, raise a snowy eyebrow and sneer, “You'd never make it”.

No matter where you go in the sleepy Tanzanian township of Moshi, Kili is always there.

Its effigy is on your beer bottle, in your coffee cup, in the corner of your eye.

Often, the mountain attempts to hide, shrouding its bulk in a grey cloak of ominous fog.

Occasionally you will see it playing ‘dress up’ with the African sunset, its snowy peak shot bright pink and orange as daylight wanes.

It had not been my intention to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. It was that voice that convinced me in the end. “No regrets!” it yelled.

I chose to ignore Kili's snigger.

The Machame gate was a flurry of activity when I arrived.

Surrounded by enthusiastic hikers, decked out in vibrant leg warmers and various quick-dry accoutrements, I listened to loud declarations about foot long camera lenses and testimonies about 'that time I climbed Naya Kang' feeling distinctly out of my depth.

“Kilimanjaro change colour”.

I turned around to see Peter, my climbing guide.

His face was angled toward Kibo, Kilimanjaro's highest peak.
A minute passed as we both stood, watching.

Then the clouds swarmed above us. Clawing their way across the sky, they embraced the mountain in minutes.

Kili hugged them back and it began to rain.

It would not stop for the next five days.

The climb began comfortably enough.
We got along, Kili and I.
Mutual respect passed between us with every step and despite our rainy chaperone we relished our time together.

Then, like all short love affairs, our incompatibilities came to the fore.

He was too changeable. I refused to compromise. We stopped communicating.

As he threw rocky ravines in my path and thinned the air in my lungs, I began to resent him.

All I saw was the blisters on my feet.
All I felt was the deep aches in my muscles.

We became irritable with one another. It got complicated.

The summit climb came around too swiftly.

Exhausted and cold, I was given a few hours of sleep to prepare for the long night ahead.
When Peter woke me, it was midnight.

As I clambered out of my tent I sighed and glanced up.
Kili was looking down at me from a bright world of snow and stars.

Dressed in moonshine and wet snow.

It had stopped raining.

As I shouldered my bag and flipped the switch on my head torch, I sighed, “Kilimanjaro change colour”.

Kili said nothing but I swear I saw him smile.