Lisbon In Motion

Squared up like a scene out of a Western, he scrutinised all but my face. I stood firm, a façade to the crumbling interior.
‘You strong?’ Gift said.
‘Yeah, I’m strong like a lion,’ I replied.
He gave a wry smile that stretched across his youthful leathered face.
‘We’ll see . . .’
Six days later, my early bravado hit the skids. A gruelling half-day hike to Barafu base camp left my knees near collapse. I sought ice-cold comfort. I ripped off my boots, threw my right leg out of the tent, exposing it to the sub-zero night.
After a fifteen-minute icing, I was happily numb. I curled up in my sleeping bag and closed my eyes. Three hours later, the alarm sounded: 23:00 p.m. Pitch black. Time to go. Final push!
I picked up my backpack, gazed into the night sky; hopeful I would catch a glimpse of Mount Kilimanjaro’s white-capped summit. I craved inspiration.
I hobbled in line, sickly aware the two heavy-duty painkillers I had just taken would hide any signs of acute mountain sickness . . . my legs were pain free.
‘Come on lions,’ Gift summoned. Man up, I thought. He led the way, his gait slow and sluggish, a pace known locally as polepole.
As I dragged my feet, plumes of ash escaped from under my soles. Slipping. Sliding. Each step felt self-defeating.
I stopped . . . looked up . . . a massive black canvas stretched out in front of me, dotted with the headlamps of fellow climbers, snaking their way heavenward.
We finally arrived at Stella Point, 5,730m. The sky grew lighter, but offered no relief from the wind’s bone-biting assaults.
Surrounded by towering ice fields and glaciers, we trudged on. A gathering formed up ahead . . .
We did it! Seven and a half hours later, the famous summit sign stood before us.
Atop the roof of Africa, the sun broke over the horizon, silhouetting the stock-still explorers.
Minutes later . . . memories recorded . . . we slowly descended the same trail, its true treachery revealed in daylight.
‘Kilimanjaro is not like other big mountains. They climb Everest, but they can’t do Kilimanjaro. It’s always different,’ said Gift, his pride evident.
My knees felt like they were near breaking point. I resorted to slide down the scree-littered slopes on my backside.
I noticed some climbers being carried down by guides and porters. Crippled. Exhausted. Broken. Defeated.
‘You see,’ said Gift, pointing at the flailing bodies. ‘Sometimes lions eat grass!’