Abingdon School

Right until I got off the plane I wasn’t sure what to expect from Tanzania. It being a tourist hotspot but also part of the most unstable continent on Earth it was hard to tell what to bring; swimming trunks or a flak jacket. I was predicting at least half the group being sold into slavery. But I needn’t have worried because nearly every Tanzanian I met was too laid back and relaxed to bother with anything so strenuous. In fact being a slave over there would be easy because they could never be bothered to give any orders.

Having arrived in Kilimanjaro airport allowed myself to feel very rich by exchanging $50 for no less than 75,000 Tanzanian Shillings. With so much money in our wallets, or in Christian’s case a rather hideous money travel pouch, my colleagues and I set off into Moshi, the local town, to get some bargains.

It didn’t go well.

It didn’t take long for the hagglers and sellers to recognise us as tourists and we paid for it. Armed only with bits of tat and persistence the hagglers set about putting spin-doctors like Mandelson to shame. Mike Shortis was the worst hit, paying 7,000 shillings for what was pretty much a piece of string to go round his wrist. Alaric was good at the haggling but enjoyed it so much he decided to keep buying more and more until his wallet was as barren as the Sahara.

Returning to our hotel, The Parkview Inn, a nice place if any of you happen to be in the area, we had a pleasant dinner and relaxed, knowing that for the next 8 days we would have to go without a heater, electric lighting and a roof to eat our meals under.

A restful morning was quickly followed by our first collective discomfort of the trip; a ride on a 4x4 across what was only a bumpy road but seemed like landmine-strewn stretch of knives. The journey had all the comfort of a massage from a Ukrainian boxer. It took us deep into the jungle, which was undeniably stunning. Massive green leaves hung over the path, suspended from gnarled trees that rose high into the skyline. We disembarked from the 4x4 with glee and set off towards our first camp on the mountain.

On arrival at our camp the scale of the thing surprised me. Over 30 porters were in our group and we weren’t the only tourists at the site. Tents spread out in all directions. There were tents for tourists to spend the night in, tents to eat in, even tents with toilets in them. I found my tent with surprising ease and was ready to relax. But the porters weren’t going to let that happen. They had plans for us; plans I was all too happy to go along with because they weren’t too hard. In fact they wanted us to have our tea. That’s tea. Not dinner, that was later, but tea, on the side of a mountain. In Oxfordshire I have grown used to the notion of slumming it with three meals a day. But somehow in a crowded mess tent, in the jungle, in Africa the porters intended to give us an extra meal. Amazing. It was starting to become clear how Chris Moyles had been able to make it up the mountain. They didn’t hold back on dinner either with plentiful helpings of delicious food.  The mood was very good that night.

Morning came and we left the jungle and headed into moorland. Whereas the jungle had been vibrant and full of towering trees and shapely shrubs the moorland was sandy. Sand stretched out in the North. Sand stretched out in the West. I wonder what stretched out in the East? We Brits pay thousands for sun and sand. Well we had plenty of both and it was starting to drag on. It didn’t help that I’d forgotten to apply sun cream to my arm and it was changing colours faster than a chameleon. But the hardest part of the expedition first appeared to me on that night: the cold. You might consider that wearing five layers on your torso in Africa is excessive. I certainly believed it would be. But it wasn’t enough. I woke up freezing cold.

We went even higher the next day and people started to feel the effects. George Apps, Jamie Ward and Alaric all decided to share the brilliant food with the local wildlife by spewing it at various points across the mountain. We could at least by that point see the Mountain but we were in the Alpine desert, which meant more sand and even colder nights. What’s more the dust was beginning to pile up on everyone’s clothing and, with no effective way to wash on the mountain; we were starting to resemble chimney sweeps. But this was Alaric’s birthday, he got a watch and some cake in case you wear wondering, and we were higher than anywhere in Europe.

A couple more days passed, with us forging our way bravely on, and then it was summit night. The purpose of the trip was close but we had to wait. The air of anticipation was strong. It wasn’t until midnight that we left our tents and readied for the summit.

We wore every last item of clothing we had and headed on up. The cold was bitter and the porters had decided to sing which annoyed Mr Davies rather a lot. The climb seemed to drag on and on and on in the darkness. The terrain all looked similar and the most distinctive landmark we could make out through the night sky was a glacier that never seemed to get any closer. After an hour’s walking that night we had only climbed 100 vertical metres. The cracks were starting to show. It didn’t help that on the way up we were stuck behind the bane of any tourist, even climbing a mountain, a queue. That meant we had to keep waiting and that was especially bad as every time you stop at altitude you are almost certain to fall over. I’m clumsy at ground level and so I fell over countless times. It would have been fine if the floor was made of trampolines and cushions but it wasn’t. It was full of jagged rocks and pain. But the pain wasn’t an issue because by then I was dizzy and couldn’t really feel light injuries. I’ve never downed a litre of carpet cleaner but the experience might well be similar.

But as the sun gradually rose from behind the horizon we made it to Stellar Point, only 100 vertical metres from the top. By that point our group was broken up, only some with the original pack. A short break was our treat for hours of kicking that morning and then we set off for the top.

Our group pushed forwards, any sense of order and sticking in a line disappearing. I could describe the final ascent of that day to the summit in agonising detail, a step by step account. But what would be the point in that? We made it to the summit; and what a summit it was.

Clouds spread out beneath me. The view was stunning, beautiful and all the more incredible because of the effort taken to get there. I’m sure the school website will be littered with images taken by our intrepid cameraman Charlie Leslau. Although, I’m equally sure that Charlie will have left off the video of himself at the peak, singing Rebecca Black’s song “Friday”, something I feel the website needs. We all had special rituals to complete at the top. I, among other things, did a handstand and shouted some things from the highest point in Africa. Mr Davies collapsed in an exhausted but satisfied heap. And Jamie, who by that point had been sunburned so badly on his left ear that it had had to be taped up as though he was a Vietnam War veteran, made it up with a cut out picture of Kate Middleton. I don’t mean to undermine his effort but it definitely should have been Pippa.

After our enjoyment of the top we headed down. And if the way up had been hard, the way down was fantastic. We’d gone up along a rocky path but on the way down we took a way that had enough loose shale to allow us to ski down the mountainside. Christian Reedman and I enjoyed it so much that we ended up back before the rest of the group; where the porter in charge of the camp was waiting with the nicest pineapple squash I’ve ever had. It was probably regular squash drink but, with the sun as warm as ever, shale in my boots and my left arm having turned a worrying grey colour it tasted as good as Ambrosia.

When the others arrived and we’d had lunch, toasted pepper sandwiches that had Mark Shuttleworth salivating, we descended to the last campsite of the trip. That evening at dinner we were congratulated heartily by Jimmy, our tour guide, and were all very much ready to go to our homes. At least I assume everyone else was by their faces. I certainly was.

After breakfast we rushed down the mountain, through the jungle. On the way up in had filled me with awe but on the way down I wanted it to clear and for us to reach the road to the visitor base. We did and at the visitor base two very welcome 4x4s were waiting. While Mr Forth filled in the paperwork I checked the log book and saw, to my amazement, that a man had climbed the mountain at the age of 78 years old in 2010. We pay footballers millions of pounds and pop stars in adulation. Give that man a medal; it’s the least he deserves.

That lunchtime and that evening we were treated to eating out at a restaurant, where we were served amongst other things barbequed goat.  On our last day in the hotel I was able relax like a normal holiday. I went in the pool, went into Moshi again and generally was laid back. We had our last Tanzanian meal. A short journey to the airport, followed by a long wait at the airport in Tanzania ensured that we didn’t get home too soon. A flight took us to Kenya, where we waited and then caught a plane to London Heathrow. I suppose the trip ended when we went through the gate at Heathrow, where our anxious parents were waiting with open arms and some much longed for molly coddling.

It was a fantastic trip and although I wouldn’t do it again for at least 20 years, I’m still glad I went. Massive thanks must go to the teachers, Mr Forth and Mr Davies, who made the trip possible. Thanks to Christian for putting up with me in the tent and to Jimmy for guiding us. I hope everyone on the trip enjoys their summer holidays very much and that at least some of the people who read this piece will consider a holiday in Africa; it’s unique.

Luke Terry