Mr Stephane (above) adjusts his footwear as he prepares the long hot haul across the saddle as he makes the steady ascent of Kilimanjaro.
Last week, a group of UWC students—and teachers—were privileged enough to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. In hindsight, I never quite know what to say. A gradual climb, beautiful landscapes, great morale from the students, under the wing of a whole team of professional guides—and then, suddenly, everything changes at Kibo. You know it is real there.
During the day, you don’t fully realize what you’re about to climb by night. You see it, but you don’t really see it. A black ski slope. A wall.
Then comes your second reality check before what will become a memorable night: your final nap until 11 p.m. After the medical checks and dinner by headlamp, you are invited to bed—to rest, to sleep—before the final ascent. I got none of that.
I remember the excitement. I remember the cold. I remember being snuggled up in my sleeping bag, all layers on except for the last one, eyes wide open, staring at the bed above me and the slats with one graffiti from June 1994: “Inch by inch, it will be conquered.”
I remember the sheer silence around me, with the boys in the same dorm, sharing the same concentration, the same fears, the same questions.
Then it is time. Time to do what we came here to do. Time to step into the unknown and see how we cope in truly adverse conditions.
I remember stepping out into that beautiful starry night. I remember—it is midnight—and we start walking in single file, eyes fixed on the feet in front of us. Inch by inch. I remember going through emotional turmoil, making promises to my loved ones, then abandoning them all as I count my chances and try to abandon myself. I remember zoning out, then, after a few bends, zigzagging my way up, fifty meters an hour, focused like never before, alive like never before.
I remember the first water breaks. I remember students throwing up and not even complaining. I remember extending my legs, sipping hot tea, declining ginger—mistake? I remember the guides, vigilant, keeping a careful eye on us all—our fates in their hands, in a position to crush our dreams at any second. I remember Yvetta singing along beautifully, urging us to keep moving, telling us we were not far from the ridge, from sunrise, from the inner victories we had been carrying for so long—heavier now than our rucksacks.
I remember hours passing. I remember walking through what felt like a whole lifetime. And then—it happens.
We reach Gilman’s Point, the yellow horizon greeting us—but only after another hour spent among the rocks, the mountain making sure we had given our all before letting us see it. I remember giving everything I had, stomach cramps as a greeting from the day. Only 250 meters of elevation gain left before reaching heaven. In other words: forever.
The summit feels like another dream, but this time with the sun witnessing our agony, our struggle, our triumph up to the glorious sign. I remember the photos. I remember the tears. I remember the accolades—shared with the UWC students and the Brazilian group.
“Let’s make our way down, guys,” says the guide. “Quick—tomorrow by lunch, we need to be at the gate…”
Then it hits me: I had forgotten all about the way down. I have no energy left in me. 35 kms to go. Poles out. Off we go.
Mr Stephane, Language B
