The goal is in sight

(c) Rebecca Franks

Day 2 Wednesday 19 June 2013

Starts are early on the trek. (Well, early for an arts journalist.)  At 6.30am there's a call outside the tent to wake-up. And then a real luxury: we are brought a hot drink. I have tea, with sugar. I've decided sugar is acceptable while hiking. It was also my excuse for eating whatever I wanted the whole week before I came to Africa. Fuelling up.

Outside the tent there's a surprise. The mountain! Above the treeline rises the summit, looking remarkably friendly. Another of the golden rules is to smile at the mountain. It might sound a bit hokum-pokum, but I also feel like it might make sense. When I used to sail, I felt you had to have respect for the sea. But you had to remain positive too, and enjoy it. The same must be true for mountains, potentially dangerous places. Respect, and affection.

Another surprise awaits. One of the two other groups trekking the same route as us includes four rugby players from South Africa, including the legendary Percy Montgomery. I say this like I know who that is, but to be frank I don't have a clue. I have, since getting home, googled them and am pretty impressed. What I did know then, however, was that when we all sauntered into their bit of the campsite to get a better look at the mountain, the four strapping men said hi to all of the women in our group, but none of the men. Definitely charmers.

Today is a long walk, seven or eight hours depending on how we go. It's hot and humid, even when it starts to cloud over later on. Single file is pretty much order of the morning, regularly stepping to one side to let the porters hurry past at least twice the speed we're going. I still can't understand how they can balance those huge bags on their heads. I'm getting used to the view of the feet of the person in front. Even at a slow speed lots of concentration is required not to trip over the pebbles and rocks.

As we walk, the group start to get to know each other. Ages: 18 to 50s. Nationalities: mostly UK, also Canadian and Australian. Jobs: we've got a lawyer, banker, vet, insolvency practitioner, student, journalist, accountant, IT consultant, sales person, policy worker, buyer and engineer. A pretty good range. No doctor, but it turns out the vet has enough medication to tend to us all up and down the mountain ten times if needs be. People are here for a variety of reasons: charity fundraising, personal challenge, and – it has to be said – there seem to be a fair number of 'I split up with/was dumped by my girl/boyfriend' comments thrown in there. Nothing like heartbreak to inspire you to do crazy things, right?

We also start to get to know our guides, all Tanzanian. They've all been porters, sometimes for up to five years, beforehand, and all hope to be chief guides. They all speak English, one also speaks French. English and French are the most popular second languages, he explains. German and Italian are much rarer, and although people do want to learn them it's often too expensive to. One guide, who goes by the name of Tony Blair, was on the Comic Relief trek up Kili a few years ago. 'Alesha is my friend, she's fantastic,' (I paraphrase), 'always singing, always smiling.' Chris Moyles was his buddy, as was Gary Barlow, he says. Cheryl Cole, meanwhile, had to bring a bodyguard and three men to make sure no paparazzi were hiding in the bushes, snapping her climbing or taking a loo break. Fame, TB and I agree, must be a horrible thing. At the same time, I'm reminded of my motto: 'If Cheryl Cole can do it, so can I.' Not quite sure how I've made this logic jump, but somehow the thought is helpful.

We stop at a cave before lunch. Porters used to sleep here, we're told, but now they have tents. Throughout the trek, it seems clear that while the guides might be well paid (that's a guess rather than a given), the porters aren't. The park regulations stipulate $10 per day, so about £6.60, but that's not a legal requirement and not all the porters make even that measly amount. And they are often poorly kitted out for the job. In 2002, three guides died of hypothermia after a storm on the mountain and it seems that several still die each year, though figures are hard to come by. We all resolve to leave behind clothes for them and give generous tips. It's not much. It's horrible to realise that, despite all the benefits of tourism to a poor country like Tanzania, there is a long way to go in ensuring the wealth reaches more than a chosen few. And, however much I know that I couldn't carry up all I need to reach the top, it never feels comfortable to see other people doing it for you.

The landscape is different after lunch. We've left behind the gentle greens of the trees and their hanging moss, and seem to have entered an alien, grey, dusty world. As we reach our camp in a valley near Kikelewa Caves, huge black birds lurk on rocks and fly overhead. Their beaks look lethal. And the air is noticeably cooler. We're now at around 3,600m. We hop over a small stream and scramble up into our camp. Two of the three peaks of Kilimanjaro are visible: Mawenzi, all craggy and moody; and Kibo, the highest, which we'll be heading up in a couple of days time. We're all still feeling chirpy.

Our evening ends in the mess tent with games of cards. Rummy has been usurped by Uno (the special deck includes wild cards; the aim is to get rid of all your cards), and unbelievable amounts of cheating. I haven't played Uno for years, and, as I lose game after game, I am starting to remember why. Although I am doing marginally better than the person who has to pick up 18 cards in what must be an Uno record.

I am raising money for Water Aid, and you can still sponsor me here: http://www.justgiving.com/Rebecca-Franks1