Climbing Kilimanjaro, in a Wheelchair
Photo by Sergey Pesterev
Bolts of lightning flashed across the night sky, the only lights besides those flickering in the distance more than 3,000 meters below at the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro, glimmering evidence of refuge I would do just about anything for.
Thunder cracked and reverberated off the mountain. I flinched and instinctively retracted into a fetal position, burying my head deeper into my jacket. There I sat, hugging myself for warmth, half way up Mount Kilimanjaro in the dead dark of night, frozen, exhausted and alone with the eight porters carrying me and my wheelchair through the Alpine desert.
Four of the porters—Michael, Justin, Fred, Mmeru—were assigned to me and had carried me all day over boulders, across ravines and down slippery slopes. They were my rocks, not once did they complain, but by 8.30 p.m in the evening, they were exhausted, and so each movement they made was slow and labored. The other four porters were sent as a rescue team to help us make it to our campsite where everyone else was already waiting.
It had been the hardest day of the entire trip, not just for me but for all the other hikers who had come on the expedition. Though it was projected to take six hours, it took the team twelve hours and me even longer. My porters and I were the last ones remaining out in the cold.
We were a group of eight hikers, five of whom have various physical limitations. Three of us were wheelchair users and two were below the knee amputees. We had come to climb Mount Kilimanjaro to raise awareness and raise funds for youth and athletes with disabilities.
For the first two days, we had trekked across Bushland/Cultivated Zone, Rainforest Zone and the Heath/Moorland Zone. Each zone offered so much in terms of beauty and diversity in fauna and flora. The vistas were simply breathtaking, and I can still hear the sounds of monkeys calling to each other high above in the trees in the Rainforest and the rush of waterfalls cascading into natural pools off in the distance.
Though we were hiking as a team, we each went at our own pace, walking with or being pushed by our guides. I loved that I had space from the group of hikers. It meant I didn’t need to engage in chatter (as my porters didn’t speak much English), and I could be fully immersed in nature and mental silence.
When my porters and I did converse, we sang and we joked about our love lives and we poked fun at each other and laughed till tears flowed down our faces. They told me their stories, their hopes and their dreams and I told them mine. We spent our time oscillating between silence and dialogue, interrupted only by hand gestures and smiles. During those first two days an undeniable bond was created between my porters and me. As we got to know each other and our rhythms, we began to move as a unit.
“Dada, are you okay?” Freddy, one of my porters, had asked me compassionately a few hours earlier in the day, rubbing the back of my head or rubbing my back. Dada means sister in Swahili.
I had been unusually quiet because I had an attack of a stomach bug, and with my stomach cramping and no toilet in sight, I required all my concentration to, “hold my shit together,” in colloquial terms. After about four hours of deep, uncomfortable concentratio, we finally came across a toilet. A toilet on Kilimanjaro is a hole in the ground, obviously not adaptable for a wheelchair user.
They stacked rocks on either side of the hole in the ground, and in no time, I had a makeshift, usable—if unstable—toilet. Trying to balance myself on wobbly rocks in a dark cubical which also had a wet floor was no easy feat, I can assure you.
By this time of the day, noon if I remember correctly, my smile was beginning to wane as the idea of not being able to locate the next toilet began to take over me. Trying to put me at ease my porters began to sing.
In Tanzania and especially in Kilimanjaro, the locals, porters and guides sing a song, a buoyant song which will lift any mood—even a shitty one. They sing it continuously to their clients, to each other to themselves. The song is in Swahili and it is called, “Jambo Bwana,” the first couple of words are:
Jambo! Jambo bwana!
Habari gani? Mzuri sana!
Wageni, mwakaribishwa!
Kilimanjaro? Hakuna matata!
The literal translation of the first verse is:
Hello! Hello sir!
How are you? Very well!
Guests, you are welcome!
Kilimanjaro? No trouble!
Friendly right? That’s what I thought too until we got to the last verse; “Like a snake you wrap around me, you wrap around me. Trying to eat me like a piece of meat.”
After a stomach bug, dehydration, hours of physical tension and a cold like I had never felt, I I started to wonder what had possessed me—someone who uses a wheelchair (also known as “The Throne”)—to ascend Mount Kilimanjaro, the tallest free standing volcano in Africa. The truth is though I enjoy adventure, I definitely do-not consider myself an athlete of any sort nor a mountain climber. I am an accessibility consultant for hotels, a human rights activist, a television presenter, a writer, and a lover of “La Bella Vita,” so under normal holiday conditions, you would find me partaking in leisurely activities such as visiting wine farms (drinking too much wine), touring accessible (and many times not so accessible) tourist destinations, or hanging with the locals, listening to their stories, trying to see their world through their eyes, learning their languages. But not climbing their mountains. Definitely not climbing their mountains.
I was to join the expedition by a friend Lee Wyser, founder of a non-profit organization called, Guts2Glory. Lee is a fitness coach who helps athletes with disabilities achieve their sporting objectives. Three wheelchair users; Clifford and Lesibana and I, as well as two athletes with amputations, Wendy and Zizipho, would make up the core team of athletes. We were accompanied with a supporting team of able bodied hikers and our porters.
The first time Lee had asked me to join her, two years prior to going, I quickly laughed her off. I imagined the cold, the physical pain, the tent sleeping, and the lack of accessible toilet facilities, and felt I would be better able to serve Lee’s mission by helping her promote it from the safety and warmth of my home.
“I had put on every piece of thermal clothing I brought with me, but it was no match for the blizzard.”
However she persisted, and this time, two years later, I agreed because in the intervening years I had taken a keen interest in accessible travel and Universal design. That keen interest had translated into a business—LiveABLE—a consulting firm which focuses on helping tourism establishments upgrade their accessible features.
I felt that this expedition would be a great way to shine a spotlight on the need for accessible tourism, proving that not only is it your attitude that determines your altitude but also that we are able to do the impossible when we do it together. That is the belief I have in my heart and that is how I ended up in the cold, so far away from home, not as an athlete, but as an activist.
Now, as we entered the Arctic zone 5,000 meters above sea level, I had to move my legs continuously—mimicking a jog—as I could not feel the circulation in my feet despite my thick snow boots. I had put on every piece of thermal clothing I brought with me, but it was no match for the blizzard.
I had never felt a cold like that in my life. The cold wind cut into every crevice it could find. Again the porters took turns to adjust my bag and to make sure that I was warm, which was crazy seeing as they had no thermal clothing on and only wore sneakers. I made a point of not complaining, and so we went, shivering in the wind for what felt like an eternity towards base camp. The closer we got, the further it seemed and the colder it got. The ever elusive basecamp, like a mirage in the desert, a promise of heat and comfort.
Finally we could see the huts off in the distance, and larger groups of people coming and going from basecamp, the last place you can pitch a tent before the summit. By the time we got to basecamp, I was frozen, my head hurt, and my heart rate was high due to the altitude. I tried to keep my body calm so that my heart rate would drop, but the shivering didn’t make it easy. The porters brought me a basin of hot water to soak my feet in before I put on socks and got back into bed. The medical guide checked my heart rate as a standard practice when we arrived at camp.
That evening, I gathered with the other athletes and our support team to eat a delicious meal prepared by our cook. We talked about our experiences and geared up for the next day’s trip. But I knew I couldn’t go on.
I decided that another five kilometers up towards the peak would be too dangerous. There was no summit that would be worth reaching at the cost of harm to my porters or myself. Yes, we had taken massive risks all the way up and down, but wisdom is knowing when not to push the envelope.
The next morning I said goodbye to the other hikers, sad that I wasn’t going with them, but I felt I made the right decision. They understood and said their goodbyes.
Later on in the morning Richard, the Tanzanian tour operator who organized the trip, knocked on my door, “Dada, are you okay? Would you like to come outside to see the snow? The wind has stopped.”
Excitedly I said yes and got dressed warmly. What awaited me was the most beautiful view of the peak of Mount Mawenzi in front of me with one single floating storm cloud hovering above its peak.
“That is Mawenzi, and that is Kenya over there to the right,” Richard said as he bent down next to me and pointed off into the distance. I took it in, everything—the mountain, the blanket of thick snow covering everything the eye could see and the black crows who circled us, waiting for the remnants of flesh the mountain didn’t take.
Nasaru, our cook and professional singer came to join us as we took it all in, and with his beautiful rich voice he started singing:
“Jambo! Jambo bwana!
Habari gani? Mzuri sana!
Wageni, mwakaribishwa!
Kilimanjaro? Hakuna matata!
Moments later, more porters started to circle around us adding their voices and together we all sang along. I became emotional, there I was, a woman alone from my group with all male porters at base camp, feeling completely protected. They protected me, they carried me, and they cared for me. The magnitude of what we had done affected us all greatly, an unforgettable adventure. They wanted me to take them home with me to South Africa; we joked, but I made sure that they knew that if they really wanted to visit, nothing is impossible. I’m happy to report that even today, two years after climbing Kilimanjaro, I am still in touch with the team of Pamoja Safaris and we are now doing business together.
Grateful for them, for the journey and feeling blessed for the opportunity to have already achieved what I set out to do in the beginning. I had gone on an adventure, I had overcome my fears, I had raised awareness, and I have made new friends.
This trip confirmed that when it comes to overcoming any challenge, with a good attitude, friends and helping hands there is nothing stopping you from reaching the top
Tarryn Tomlinson is a TV presenter, travel writer, and accessibility consultant based in Cape Town. Look out for her upcoming series Able2Travel, which will follow her as she explores the world.
Read our interview with Tarryn Tomlinson here: “Gaining Access: a Conversation with Tarryn Tomlinson.”
