In a new series of blogs, I am going to name some people and events that have help point my life in the direction it's currently going in.
The first in this series in Gerald. I don't know what Gerald's surname is; all I know is that he once told me to never give up. In fact, I think he sang a song about it, but it was in Swahili so I didn't understand it.
In 2012, I conquered Kilimanjaro as part of a big group led by my friend Hilary (more on her in another post). We were raising money for a charity called Practical Action, an extremely worthy cause, and figured that the challenge itself was big, but so many people did it each year so how could we fail?!
Nobody really knows how altitude will affect them. Some people took tablets to prevent altitude sickness - I wanted to know exactly how my body would react. And it was a lot tougher than I'd imagined. We were encouraged by our main guide - Isaac - to walk very slowly, which seemed a little frustrating at first, but looking back, it was a good job we did. The guides that carried the tents, food, equipment and toilet (!) steamed ahead, 30 kg on their heads, like it was nothing. Isaac continually reminded us that these guys were used to it.
Around day 3 of a 5 day climb, I started developing vertigo (specifically Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo - BPPV - google it if you want to know more), which resulted in me not being able to move my head much at all and, if I did, the world would start spinning like I've never experienced before. By the time summit night came round, it was absolutely horrendous. As the weakest link in the group at that point, I was at the front of the line when we started our summit ascent at 11pm. It was freezing cold and pitch black, other than our headlamps, and I was wearing many layers. It's not like we were going to be running anywhere.
The ascent began and within 15 mins I started hyperventilating and couldn't go on. I know now that it was because of the thin air, the BPPV, and wearing so many clothes. I was left behind with a guide - Gerald. He made me remove some layers then, before I got too cold, he grabbed my arm and started dragging me up the mountain. I don't know how long he had hold of my arm up that mountain, I was just looking at the back of his feet with every step he took. I couldn't look up, because the vertigo would kick in, so my lasting memory of summit night is the back of Gerald's boots. On occasion, I would look up and see lights. In my head, I was in the alps and the lights were lanterns hanging on the porches of chalets. It was very comforting. The truth, of course, was that they were other climbing groups.
During our steady ascent up the mountain, Gerald would sing songs in Swahili, only one of which I knew:
Jambo, jambo bwana
Habari gani, mzuri sana
Wageni, mwakaribishwa,
Kilimanjaro, hakuna matata
I whispered this every time he sang it, and it was so comforting. Gerald would sometimes mix it up and sing a slightly different version, with the 'hakuna matata' at the end in a different tone. It still sits with me. But overriding that was every time we stopped, he would tell me "never give up". I would reply "I will never, ever give up", and so it carried on for the entire night.
We got a good rhythm going, Gerald and I, and we caught up and even overtook most of the rest of the group. I got a cheer when we reached them, and I so wished I could've reciprocated, but I was fighting my own demons. Turns out others were too. My friend Hilary was seeing black rabbits and puking behind rocks; Derek was falling asleep as he walked, and various group members were randomly asleep along the trail, none without a guide to ensure their safety.
To reach the summit took until 8.30am and I honestly couldn't wait to get off that mountain. It was the hardest thing I'd ever done, mentally speaking (and probably physically as I lost about half a stone in those few days) and I don't think that I would've done it without Gerald. He was so patient, so kind, so encouraging, so inspiring. I know he may never know his impact on my life, but I have a tattoo on the side of my foot in honour of him. It says "usikate tamaa". It means 'never give up' in Swahili. Or at least I hope it does!
Nobody really knows how altitude will affect them. Some people took tablets to prevent altitude sickness - I wanted to know exactly how my body would react. And it was a lot tougher than I'd imagined. We were encouraged by our main guide - Isaac - to walk very slowly, which seemed a little frustrating at first, but looking back, it was a good job we did. The guides that carried the tents, food, equipment and toilet (!) steamed ahead, 30 kg on their heads, like it was nothing. Isaac continually reminded us that these guys were used to it.
Around day 3 of a 5 day climb, I started developing vertigo (specifically Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo - BPPV - google it if you want to know more), which resulted in me not being able to move my head much at all and, if I did, the world would start spinning like I've never experienced before. By the time summit night came round, it was absolutely horrendous. As the weakest link in the group at that point, I was at the front of the line when we started our summit ascent at 11pm. It was freezing cold and pitch black, other than our headlamps, and I was wearing many layers. It's not like we were going to be running anywhere.
The ascent began and within 15 mins I started hyperventilating and couldn't go on. I know now that it was because of the thin air, the BPPV, and wearing so many clothes. I was left behind with a guide - Gerald. He made me remove some layers then, before I got too cold, he grabbed my arm and started dragging me up the mountain. I don't know how long he had hold of my arm up that mountain, I was just looking at the back of his feet with every step he took. I couldn't look up, because the vertigo would kick in, so my lasting memory of summit night is the back of Gerald's boots. On occasion, I would look up and see lights. In my head, I was in the alps and the lights were lanterns hanging on the porches of chalets. It was very comforting. The truth, of course, was that they were other climbing groups.
During our steady ascent up the mountain, Gerald would sing songs in Swahili, only one of which I knew:
Jambo, jambo bwana
Habari gani, mzuri sana
Wageni, mwakaribishwa,
Kilimanjaro, hakuna matata
I whispered this every time he sang it, and it was so comforting. Gerald would sometimes mix it up and sing a slightly different version, with the 'hakuna matata' at the end in a different tone. It still sits with me. But overriding that was every time we stopped, he would tell me "never give up". I would reply "I will never, ever give up", and so it carried on for the entire night.
We got a good rhythm going, Gerald and I, and we caught up and even overtook most of the rest of the group. I got a cheer when we reached them, and I so wished I could've reciprocated, but I was fighting my own demons. Turns out others were too. My friend Hilary was seeing black rabbits and puking behind rocks; Derek was falling asleep as he walked, and various group members were randomly asleep along the trail, none without a guide to ensure their safety.
