The Lunar Desert

Day 4 Friday 21 June 2013

Our tents are encrusted with thick frost. The sunlight is grey, the air chilly. But the porters are optimistic and they have moved the tables out of the mess tent for an open-air breakfast. And by the time we are all up and our bags packed, it is warm and bright. Warm when wearing wooly hats and gloves, that is. There's a fine array of knitted bobbly hats on display. The hair-plaiting salon is also open for business. Our group vet does a fine line in French plaits, a stylish way (we hope) to counteract the lack of hair-washing.

After breakfast, there's time to brush teeth, make a loo stop, and pick up our water bottles. We carry about three litres of water each in our daypacks, and it's boiled and chlorinated each morning ready for us to collect. Tarn Camp is the final water point before the summit. Luckily the water isn't taken from the lake we're camping next to, which is a rather luminous shade of green, but another source slightly higher up. Still, it's double-strength chlorine by the taste of it. The porters will be carrying water for the next camp, enough for meals and to get us up to the summit and back. It seems like a lot of water to have to carry. Let's hope there's enough to go round.

Today's walk is mostly on the flat. The summit crater, Kibo, dominates the view now. Somehow, it's been hard to comprehend we're on a mountain up to this point – it's just so large. But this cone-shaped peak looks just like the classic idea of a mountain. And a steep one at that. As we walk closer to it, a narrow grey seam straight up the side becomes visible. That's our path for later on that evening. It seems best not to think about it too much.

The mood is buoyant, and several of the group members seem to be enjoying a rush of energy as they power across the open expanse. The backdrop of Kibo is perfect photo material, and halfway across we stop for group pictures, full of smiles. The Lunar Desert is exposed and windswept but the weather is obliging us with sun and no clouds. When we stop for a break, we're like lizards basking on the rocks. We share snacks. I've brought crystallised ginger, which, along with ginger tea, is a miracle cure for nausea. Hovering on the edge of sickness the whole time, it's nice to know there's something that will help alleviate it.

By lunchtime, we arrive at Kibo Camp, our base for attempting the summit. It's where the Marangu and Rongai routes meet. There are permanent huts here, rats (although I didn't see them), a lot of dust, and another signing-in point. All the way up the mountain we've had to sign in at each camp, adding our names, ages, nationalities and professions to the others already in the books. The camp is busier than expected, so our tents have been pitched at a lower level near a rocky outcrop below the permanent camp. It's probably barely 100 metres further down but in the thin air this seems like an extra mile. We have a great view of Mawenzi, though. One of my fellow trekkers is particularly happy at this: it's become a bit of an in-joke that although we're climbing Kibo, all she's going to have is photos of Mawenzi, from all angles, all times of day and night...

As well as the standard soup for lunch (to up our fluid intake), we're now on to the tinned food. Afterwards there's time for rest, for repacking of our day packs to minimise the weight for the final climb, and, for three of us, more card games. Dinner is at 5.30pm, and suddenly the summit climb seems scarily real. Our guides give us motivational speeches: that we're a strong group, that we can make it to the top. There's another Exodus group climbing the same route as us – we'd first met them at the airport – but I think we're feeling slightly smug that we've been walking faster than them the whole way. Hopefully pride won't come before a fall. We're already a guide down after one had to leave to get medical help for an unexplained swollen hand. A porter is going to step up to his place instead, in fact the porter who has had the crummy job of looking after the toilet the whole way up the mountain. We're saving a large tip for him.

It's straight to the tents for some kip after dinner. I'm sharing with two other women, and we're feeling a bit hyperactive – laughing away for a good half an hour. Apologies to anyone we kept awake. But I sleep eventually, and when the guides wake us up at 11pm (yes, that's 11pm) ready for breakfast and our attempt on the summit, I feel pretty positive and excited. It's time to head for the heights.

This is my fourth post about my trip-of-a-lifetime climbing Mount Kilimanjaro and going on safari in Tanzania. I'm raising money for Water Aid so if you would like to sponsor me, please click here.

Gromits Unleashed

One of the city's most famous residents, Gromit has been the inspiration for a Bristol-wide art project. There are 80 model Gromits around the city, inside and outside buildings. There's even one as far afield as Paddington station. Presumably the Bristol-born dog is making friends with the famous bear from Peru. The Gromit artists include a host of local and international names, with well-known faces including Quentin Blake, Cath Kidston and Raymond Briggs. The whole project is raising money for Wallace and Gromit's Grand Appeal, the Bristol Children's Hospital Charity. Here are a few of the Gromits I've snapped on camera recently. 

Above the clouds

Day 3 Thursday 20 June 2013

The ravens - those ominous black birds with beaks that look like they could rip flesh from bone - have been wandering near the tents, scavenging for food. There are more flying low to the ground, calling. From inside the tent, they sound uncomfortably close.

Once I open the tent flaps and step outside, I can see it is a beautiful day. The mists of the previous night have passed, and both the peaks of Mawenzi and Kibo are clearly visible. I turn round, and, truly, the view is breathtaking.  We are above the clouds. The white billows roll into the distance. It is the sort of scene I've only seen from a plane window before, a snapshot in a small frame. But here we are, as high as an aeroplane, taking in this panorama. Except we've taken the tough option to this other world: one foot after the other.

With the sun out, the air not too cold, I decide this might be a good time to try to wash my hair. I have washed my fringe on the other days, test runs. After this camp, I think we might be too high, too cold for such luxuries as hair washing. So, I give it a go. Sit down, dip head in bowl and splash water all over. Rub in shampoo, and try not to flick it everywhere. That was the easy bit. Now for the rinsing. Our guide takes pity on me and offers to pour the water over my head. It works a treat. Travel towel turban in place, breakfast time!

Have I described our breakfasts? There is the sloppiest porridge you have ever seen, though it tastes better than it looks. Toast, peanut butter. Fruit, eggs, sometimes bacon. The eggs are different from those back in the UK – the yolks are white. Perhaps the hens are fed differently out here.

After the long walk yesterday, today's is shorter. But steeper. And in the heat it feels like a slog. Every few minutes the cry of 'porters' goes up, sometimes with an indication of direction, although as a group we don't seem that good at grasping whether to 'stay left' or if the porters are 'on the left'. The other left, that is.

At our first stop, a few of us need the loo. By now the landscape has changed enough that this is a bit of problem. No trees, no large bushes. Not even any small shrubs. There is a possible looking rock not too far from the path, and, on closer inspection, the litter of tissues behind it suggests others have been here before. It is a bit disconcerting, being within sight of the resting groups. Particularly when one of them includes the rugby players. But everyone seems to have mastered the art of tactfully looking the other way.

Our second stop is after another climb, at a rocky plateau. I feel overwhelmed by tiredness and lie back on my pack on a rock. The others climb up high on to a big rock with a view. The rugby lads are clearly enjoying themselves, and decide it is time for a kickabout, seeing who can get the ball the furthest. Their official photographer takes much better pictures of this than I do. I haven't seen them, but as you can see, mine are pretty bad so I can safely say his will be better.

We continue. By now I am not feeling great and, disconcertingly, my balance has gone AWOL. As we meander into Tarn Camp (c.4,330m), just below Mawenzi, all I want to do is sit. So, this is my first brush with altitude sickness. There's time to rest before lunch, so I lie down in the tent. It's boiling hot inside and it feels like the sun is burning through the roof. My head hurts. Sitting down for lunch in the mess tent an hour later, I feel dizzy and like I can't breathe properly. I try to eat but my appetite has gone. I feel ready to cry. That's not quite true. I'm afraid I do have a cry. Everyone is supportive and sympathetic, someone brings Nurofen. and it turns out that quite a few of us are starting to suffer from altitude sickness: headaches, nausea, loss of appetite. Reassuring, although obviously it'd be nicer if no one was feeling it.

Our acclimatisation walk that afternoon takes us up the peak behind the tarn lake, a stagnant looking pool with green algaed edges. It's a bit of a scramble up the steep path, but there are good views at the top. And back down at camp, breathing already feels easier. That night most people go to bed early, with several members of the group feeling pretty ill. I stay up – by this I mean something in the region of 8pm – and play Uno with a couple of others. I'm going to blame my staggeringly bad play on the altitude sickness.

That night I feel much better although it's difficult to breathe. We've been told to leave the vents on the tent open and to sleep with our heads higher than our feet to help. Up til this point I've been enjoying the trip, but, now it's difficult to breathe and my chest feels tight. I start to wonder what on earth I am doing up here. Is this just going to get worse? Is it wise to spend time at the top of a mountain where there's only half the oxygen you need? Why am I only considering this now, more than halfway up a stupidly high mountain? I wouldn't say it was a full-blown panic, perhaps a mild midnight existential crisis. The sort that, hopefully, has faded into your dreams by the morning.

This is my third post about my trip-of-a-lifetime climbing Mount Kilimanjaro and going on safari in Tanzania. I'm raising money for Water Aid so if you would like to sponsor me, please click here:

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

Kilimanjaro: pole, pole

(c) Rebecca Franks

Over the next few days I'm going to be blogging about my trip-of-a-lifetime climbing Mount Kilimanjaro and going on safari in Tanzania. I'm raising money for Water Aid so if you would like to sponsor me, please click here:

Terminal 4, Heathrow Airport on a Sunday evening. It's a busy place to be. I'm trying to spot my fellow travellers, but there are too many likely-looking people in the Kenya Airways queue: there are enough daypacks and big kit bags to set up shop. Climbing Kilimanjaro is clearly a popular activity. I've also made my first rookie error: taking my malaria tablet without food. Nausea isn't the best start to the trip.

After eight hours in the skies, I arrive in Nairobi, Kenya, a short plane skip away from Kilimanjaro, and by chance meet up with someone else in my Exodus group. Even in the early morning, Nairobi airport is heaving with travellers from all over the world: two Indian men tell us they are heading to East Africa where they have mining interests. There seems to be a constant flow of Japanese soldiers wandering past our gate. And there's a large group of American teenagers who, it's clear from their loud T-shirts and chatter, are on their first trip to Africa for missionary work.

The sun is bright as we fly into Tanzania, high above the clouds. And then suddenly there it is: Mount Kilimanjaro. The 5,895m peak rises proud out of the whiteness, both beautiful and daunting. The Kenyan businessman I'm sitting next to is baffled. 'So you just woke up one day and decided, right, I'll go and climb Africa's highest mountain?'

Yup. It's strange, but that's pretty much what happened in January this year. With three months off work on sabbatical, I wanted to do something out of my comfort zone and unforgettable.

I'll fast forward through meeting the other 11 members of my group, the bus ride to the hotel, drinking a Kilimanjaro beer, organising the bags ready for the next day and the briefing which I'm ashamed to say in my sleep-deprived state I kept nodding off during, and cut now to the first day of trekking.

Day 1 Tuesday 18 June 2013

The bag weigh-in is first up. We each carry our daypack with water, extra clothes, snacks and so on, but it's a group of porters who carry the bulk of our belongings, all of the camping equipment and food up the mountain. It's hard to believe that to get our group of 12 travellers to the top we'll need a chief guide, five assistant guides, a cook and near on 40 porters. Our bags must weigh in under 15kg and the limit is strictly enforced.  After a bit of rearrangement, we're all ready to go. Another, all-female team that's trekking for charity is proving more troublesome. There are guffaws when a woman pulls a large bottle of perfume and a ridiculously huge bag of tampons out of her 20kg bag. She's dubbed tampon lady for the rest of the trip. (In her defence, perhaps she was carrying them for the whole group, and we have been warned altitude can wreak havoc with periods.)

It's a twoish-hour drive to the bottom of the Rongai Route, one of the six possible ways up the mountain. The Marangu or 'coca-cola' route is the shortest, with huts to stay in the whole way up. The Rongai - or Nalemuru as it's labelled though never called –  is the only route to approach the summit crater from the north. On the Lemosho Route, one of the group gleefully tells us, you travel with an armed guard through the rainforest to ward off the wildlife.

After meeting our guides from the African Walking Company – more of which later – and signing in to the National Park, we start our walk at a glacial pace: 'pole, pole', meaning 'slowly, slowly', is one of the golden rules of the mountain. (Confusingly, pole, pole means slowly, a single pole means sorry.) Along with drinking at least four litres of water a day, ascending slowly is meant to help avoid altitude sickness. The first day is a short four-hour walk through forest, passing a bright array of stalls selling drinks, and with the porters rushing by us, bags often balanced on their heads. At lunchtime we're impatient to get going, eager to take on the mountain. We still haven't seen the summit yet. Frustratingly, it even stays behind the mist and clouds on our short acclimatisation walk – this is when you go above the the height at which you will sleep to stimulate your body to produce more red blood cells so you can carry more oxygen.

Our first camp is small, muddy, surrounded by shrubs and bushes. The blue toilet tent is tucked away. One member of our group decides to give it a go. Unbeknown to him, the porter with the unenviable task of looking after the loo – a portable plastic one – gathers the rest of the group round for a demo of how to flush it. When our unsuspecting toilet-goer emerges, he's taken aback to be greeted by 12 expectant faces.

We're also introduced to the concept of 'washy washy'. Every day, morning and late afternoon, we're given a bowl of hot water to wash in. For me it becomes something to look forward to, washing away the dust and dirt, scrubbing grimy fingernails and bathing weary feet. And our first cooked meal that evening is a revelation: a three-course affair with soup, a main course and fruit for desert, and lots of hot water and tea. The cook, or stomach engineer as he's known, clearly knows what he's doing. We all head to bed at an early hour in good spirits.

Two Florentine characters

Puccini pared down

Puccini is a full-blooded composer of unforgettable passions, big tunes and broken hearts. And even in a pared-down performance of just four singers and one piano, in a large and frankly pretty empty church, the story of the doomed love of Mimi and Rodolfo in La bohème came across powerfully. The cast only offered snapshots of the opera, but they strung the arias and extracts together in a way that captured the essence of the story. I wasn't won over by the voice of the soprano singing Mimi, Valentina Bor. For all her dynamic volume and musical understanding, her tone seemed somehow thin, at moments shrill. Angelo Fiore, singing the part of Rodolfo, however, had a gorgeous tenor voice so warm it could melt stone. Shame there weren't more people at S Stefano al Ponte that Sunday evening to hear him: his voice was one of those unexpected finds that makes it worth going to a concert you know nothing about in advance.

The River Arno

First words in Italian

Hmm. Well, after 20 hours of lessons, I can say a few more words than this time last week. Rita, a feisty, funny Italian woman who is our teacher, has been plying us with plenty of grammar and vocabulary, no mean feat given the high spirits, varied languages and low boredom threshold of the ten students in our beginners’ class. I can’t get much further than telling you my name, where I’m from and what I do, then perhaps going wild and asking you the time, but it’s a start.

And what a beautiful language Italian is. I had worried about being confused between French and Italian, but in fact the two sound so different that there's not so much to muddle up. It's like learning music by two composers: Debussy, Ravel and Berlioz versus Dallapiccola, Respighi and Bellini. French is full of subtle sounds and colours, with hidden letters that are written but not pronounced, and with others that appear when words run together. Italian seems to me to be bold and open, you articulate everything you see, the sounds are definite. Where French is a poetic, murmuring language, Italian is full of music and lyricism. It's wonderful to have the chance to learn them both.

One doesn't come to Italy for niceness...

‘One doesn't come to Italy for niceness … one comes for life.’ Eleanor Lavish in EM Forster’s A Room with a View

A lot of my ideas about this Italian city before I arrived here were, I must admit, drawn from EM Forster’s A Room with a View. Funny, then, to find how little some things seem to have changed from the Edwardian era of Forster's novel, social attitudes aside. Tourists still flood Florence, travelling to Italy is still a rite of passage for countless young men and women in search of art, food, wine and true love. And if Italy was a favourite destination for the English in the past couple of centuries, it has become a mecca for travellers around the world now. Lonely Planet guides replace the ubiquitous Baedeker, the guide Miss Lavish so unhelpfully takes from Lucy Honeychurch, leaving her stranded in Santa Croce; instead of young travellers being chaperoned abroad by older friends or family, they head to coach tours, youth hostels and language courses; everyone still has their opinion about what you should see first, overwhelming the new visitor with ‘perfect torrents of information’; and there is on certain street corners ‘a smell! A true Florentine smell!’

One week in Firenze

It’s the end of my first week in Florence. It’s pouring with rain – it’s torrential, in fact, and thunder is pealing over the city, replacing the church bells of earlier this morning. A Sunday picnic has been postponed by the weather, so instead I’m sitting in my room writing, a cup of tea at my side. It’s actually rather nice to have some enforced peace at the end of the week, and to jot down some impressions of the city. To follow...

Souvenir de Florence

A little Souvenir de Florence, spotted in a shop in the Italian city yesterday. Probably not what inspired Tchaikovsky, I'd guess?