Lost on Kilimanjaro
A few years ago, I joined a friend who runs a small adventure company to climb Mount Kilimanjaro along with several of his clients. He chose the Umbwe route, the shortest, steepest, and arguably most punishing path to the summit. It cuts directly through the Southern Glaciers and the Western Breach, a route that challenges due to the limited acclimatization the other routes provide.
The journey pushed me hard. The altitude and grade took their toll; two teammates and a support guide were forced to drop out and be escorted down. We pushed on. On the final push, we had a brief rest at our high camp before our ascent began in the freezing dark at 11:00 PM. We reached the top just as the sun began to break over the horizon, a spectacular reward for a challenging climb. The celebration was eventually replaced by the reality of the descent: a long trek down to high camp, a brief rest, and then a grueling six-hour hike to our overnight camp. While the downward pace was faster, the physical toll on our bodies made every step a challenge.
The next morning, after a restless sleep, we broke camp to head toward our ride back to Moshi. Along the trail, I fell behind to assist a struggling climber from another group. My friend Matt made the decision to continue with his paying clients, trusting my experience to arrange alternative transportation if I missed the staging window. Eventually, the exhausted climber’s own teammates caught up to her, and I continued the descent alone.
In my own mental haze of exhaustion, I missed a turn. I soon realized I was no longer on the main trail. I kept moving though, trusting the well-worn paths would eventually lead toward a population center. I eventually emerged into a clearing where there was a small village. A crowd was gathered on wooden benches surrounding a rickety old piano. It was Sunday, and the air was filled with a communal musical celebration. At the piano sat a man with his back to me. I watched his fingers move across the keys and saw the sunlight glint off his glasses as his voice lifted in song. In my weary state, I stood there for a while, the music capturing me in the moment. Suddenly, recognition cut through my fatigue. The voice and the silhouette were familiar. It was Steve, a former colleague from my university days! He had left years ago to work for an international aid organization in Africa, and we had lost touch. Now, here he was, in a tiny village on the foothills of Kilimanjaro, singing his heart out.
After the service, I approached him. The look of shock on Steve’s face quickly transitioned into a happy reunion. The villagers were eager to welcome a friend of Steve’s; they fed me, let me rest, and listened to stories of my journey and even a few of our university days. Steve eventually arranged for a group of young villagers to escort me to my ride staging area, which was only a few miles away.
That final hike, surrounded by new friends who laughed and sang, renewed my spirits. They even taught me a popular song about Kilimanjaro, a tribute to the fact that I had climbed their Najaro, their White Mountain.
Jambo! Jambo bwana! Habari gani? Mzuri sana! Wageni, mwakaribishwa! Kilimanjaro? Hakuna matata! Tembea pole pole. Hakuna matata! Utafika salama. Hakuna matata! Kunywa maji mengi. Hakuna matata! Kilimanjaro, Kilimanjaro, Kilimanjaro, mlima mrefu sana.
In that moment, the exhaustion faded. I realized that while I had gone up the mountain to test my own endurance, I came down reminded of the profound value of old friends, new connections, and the strangers who help us find our way home.