CHAPTER 21
The trip back to Tanzania to tackle Mount Kilimanjaro again in 2017 is an emotional one. The moment we touch down in Dar es Salaam, the tears flow. This runway served as a backdrop to impossible grief when I flew out just over a year ago. I had watched it streak past me as our flight took off, trying to understand how my husband – who had been seated right next to me on our arrival – could possibly be departing in a coffin confined to the cold belly of the plane.
Exactly a year after Gugs passed, I stand at the base of Kilimanjaro and stare at the spot where my husband and I once stood. The words Kilimanjaro National Park are printed boldly on the sign.
The last photo of us together is still clearly in my mind. “@Adventurecoupleza is ready to own Kilimanjaro!” he had posted on his Instagram page on 14 July, along with the picture of us, deliriously happy in front of the sign. Now, as I stand here a year later, there’s an aching lump in my throat, but no tears … I feel his presence here.
Many people did not expect me to return to Kilimanjaro “so soon”. In fact, many had tried to prevent me from returning. Most reminded me about the death of my late husband – as though it could have slipped my mind and I had somehow forgotten. But what many do not know is that my personality has prevented me from allowing another year to pass by without completing what Gugs and I set out to achieve last year. I live by the principle that when I start something, I always intend to finish it and, in this case, Kilimanjaro has been a monkey on my back. It’s been a mission incomplete and I need to go full circle and conquer it. Of course, I am nervous but I keep this to myself. I try to rationalise and understand what I’m nervous about, but I’m finding it hard to reach a conclusion. Perhaps it is doubt that has settled in, doubt that stems from all those people who have shared their concerns about my return. I have become so nervous that I’ve even decided to take Diamox, the altitude tablets Gugs and I had intentionally not taken last year because of their side-effects. I’ve decided to take them this year just to make sure I don’t fall ill on the mountain.
Now back at the base of Kili, I take one last look at the sign before steeling myself to join the 2017 Trek4Mandela tribe. I made a vow to Gugs and myself: “I will summit Kilimanjaro for us.” It’s a promise I intend to keep.
As I join the group a man grabs me in a bear hug, lifting me off my feet. “Letshego! You came back!” I laugh in delight as I recognise Frank Ndossi – the main guide who led our overnight expedition down the mountain during last year’s emergency. He smiles as we exchange pleasantries, then his eyes light up. “I have something for you.”
He pulls out a handmade, beaded bracelet featuring my name alongside the Tanzanian and South African flags. “I made one for your daughter as well.” My heart swells and I find new strength. “Thank you so much, Frank.” I take the bracelet and suddenly the journey ahead doesn’t seem so daunting.
Four climbers from the previous year’s climb have joined us: expedition leader Sibusiso Vilane, Imbumba founder Richard Mabaso who accompanied me down the mountain with Gugs on the stretcher, Kirk Bouffard and Werner Gruner, two international climbers and friends who pledged to return with me the day I decided to tackle Kilimanjaro after Gugs’s passing. In 2016, when they received the tragic news after successfully summiting Kilimanjaro and descending from Uhuru, they trekked all the way down that same day (something that is not typically done) just to be by my side.
This year’s tribe is almost half the size of that of the previous year and is made up mostly of solo travellers. We openly and easily share our stories: who we are, why we’re climbing, what we hope to achieve. The authenticity of the sharing and the genuine way in which stories are exchanged and received quickly bonds the group. Before I know it, the entire group is cracking jokes, laughing and keeping each other’s spirits high. I smile, knowing that Gugs would want nothing more than to see me embrace the return to this place.
As we trek, each climber reaches out to me in their own personal way, showing their support. I allow myself to receive their compassion with grace. But they are also cognisant of overwhelming me so they allow me to dictate as and when I need support, whether it’s a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen to a story from the previous year. Every time Gugs’s absence creeps up on me I come to a standstill, shaking my head in disbelief. The group is always there, offering words of encouragement. They are patient, allowing me to walk apart from them when I need time to myself, and then effortlessly including me whenever I return to join them again.
Halfway through Day One, the terrain changes. My eyes take in kilometre upon kilometre of jagged landscape. I flash back to the last time I was here; running in the dark, Gugs’s stretcher bobbing up ahead. I am taken aback by how treacherous our descent in the dark must have been; that we managed to get to the bottom without serious injuries seems nothing short of a miracle.
The tribe’s spirits are high as we reach the first camp at Marangu Hut, where we settle in for the night. The jokes and conversation keep me going and I find myself thinking, “Perhaps I’ll laugh my way to the top of Kilimanjaro.” As I drift off to sleep, I can feel Gugs beside me, reminding me that while he may not be here physically, he is definitely on this journey in spirit.
The following day the tribe maintains its positive energy. While many memories tug at my heart, I don’t have time to feel sad for very long. Instead, I make a point of connecting with those around me. We hike from Marangu to Horombo Hut and the day passes by in a breeze. I am particularly looking forward to being back at Horombo because this is the last place I remember seeing Gugs at his happiest and most alive. I remember him sharing how exquisitely beautiful he thought Horombo was, even in its ruggedness. He was blown away by the fact that it is literally above the clouds. He couldn’t stop taking pictures with the clouds as the background.
When we arrive at Horombo, I ask if I can sleep in the same hut Gugs and I had slept in. Unfortunately, another group is occupying the space, but we are spending two nights at Horombo and the camp master assures me he’ll allow me to move into the hut once the group moves.
The following morning we do the acclimatisation hike from Horombo to Zebra Rocks and back to Horombo to spend the night. Last year, this part of the hike was fairly positive so it evokes no sadness for me. My mind is occupied by conversations about the four who are about to attempt a double summit to see how far they can push their bodies. Kirk, Werner, Arthur and Sibusiso’s double summit plans mean that they will summit a day before the expedition’s planned summit and then again the following day, Nelson Mandela Day, with the rest of us. These four guys join us on the hike to Zebra Rocks and then continue straight to Kibo Hut for their first attempt.
At Zebra Rocks, we take a few pictures as a group, after which we bid the four farewell. Last year, on our acclimatisation hike to Zebra Rocks, Gugs and I were in high spirits, taking pictures with the group and chatting away. Descending back to Horombo from Zebra Rocks the previous year was when the iconic final picture of us – the one he posted on his Instagram page – was taken, where he wrote: “Acclimatisation day 3, just taking a stroll in the garden high above a blanket of clouds.”
Now, a year later, on the descent from Zebra Rocks back to Horombo, I keep to myself. My mind is filled with memories of this hike, my final one with Gugs when he was still awake and alive. I don’t know whether to smile or cry. I choose to keep silent and be in the moment.
On our return from Zebra Rocks, the Horombo camp master has kept his promise and I move into our hut from last year with my dearest friends, Gillian Pillay and Queen Mohale. I choose the same bed I slept in the previous year and keep Gugs’s bed vacant. That night I feel his presence. We go to bed quite late, but I struggle to sleep. The girls indulge me and listen attentively as I share the sad story of what happened that night a year ago. The night I cried all night long, not understanding why my husband wanted to walk separately from me. Of course, a year later, I have come to a place of understanding. Sharing the story with my two friends gives me a sense of peace.
The following morning’s hike from Horombo to Kibo brings back sad memories. The previous year, this hike from Horombo to Kibo Hut was spent with headphones in my ears listening to music and essentially hiking alone because I was so upset that Gugs and I weren’t together. This was Gugs’s last day alive. But this time around, I decide to change the narrative for myself, my phone and headphones firmly tucked away in my backpack. I want to take it all in.
Although there is a lot less chatter among the group, the hike goes fairly well. This is the day most of us start feeling the effects of hiking at high altitude. The air becomes thinner and, naturally, there’s less conversation. With that, I spend a considerable amount of time in silence, thinking about Gugs.
As we approach Kibo Hut, a wave of emotion descends on me. In his last hours, Gugs had sat patiently under the welcome sign here awaiting my arrival with the second group. The moment I got there, despite his tired and weakened state – I had no idea just how bad he was feeling – he had walked up to me, kissed me, wrapped me in his arms for what seemed like a lifetime and, for the first time, spoke about his flu-like symptoms in a way that really concerned me. Remembering this moment brings tears to my eyes because this is where Gugs essentially bade me farewell. Even though he didn’t say it, that long hug was his goodbye and standing here at Kibo a year later I can still feel that embrace as though it were yesterday.
As I wipe my tears, I am interrupted by one of the guides, who takes my hand and escorts me to the room we stayed in last year. Inside, I stand still for a moment, taking it all in. Memories of the drama that unfolded in this room exactly a year ago flood back. Before I got here I thought I would break down, that it would be unbearable being in this room again, the place I last saw my late husband conscious. But instead I am surprised at my composure. I sit on his bed and immediately feel his presence. I take my time, reconnecting with him, reassured that we are still on this journey together. This time I choose to sleep in his bed and Gillian joins me, to keep me company.
The previous year dinner had been served in this room but this year, because we’re a smaller group, dinner is served in the adjacent dining room. The group, although tired from the day’s trek, keeps the conversation flowing. We reunite with the double-summit crew and they share details of the treacherous journey of their first summit. The weather has been particularly bad and three of them – Kirk, Werner and Arthur – now report flu-like symptoms and decide to call off the second attempt to avoid further risk to their health.
As the night settles in and we head off to bed, the team doctor voices concern about two of our female team members’ health. This immediately sweeps me back to last year’s drama. I make a concerted effort not to allow the thought to affect my psyche. I stay put in my bed and don’t involve myself in the discussions. It all feels too close. It’s late at night when the doctor makes the call that the two women need to descend the mountain immediately, while they are still able to walk. Kirk offers to descend with them because he has already achieved his first summit. Thankfully, the hike down is successful and they descend the mountain safely.
The nine-hour hike from Kibo Hut to the summit, Uhuru, turns out to be one of the most physically challenging journeys I have ever experienced. While the gradient is steep, the real challenge lies in the lack of oxygen. My body is pushed to the brink of its physical limits, and reaching the summit becomes an arduous mental game.
The first two hours pass by relatively quickly, but then as the air becomes thinner, fatigue sets in. I start to get really drowsy. It feels like I am pushing forward in a stupor. Setting one foot in front of the other feels dream-like, my eyelids so heavy that I feel as though I’m sleepwalking.
Three hours of walking with limited oxygen starts to take its toll on my psyche. As fatigue descends, my backpack starts to feel impossibly heavy and I find myself falling to the ground. I sit there crying.
“I can’t do this any more. My backpack is too heavy,” I sob.
“Well, then, someone else will take your backpack,” I hear someone say.
Davido, one of the guides, bends down to help me up, takes my backpack, links arms with me and we start to walk again. The movement is too quick for me and I start seeing stars. I immediately get dizzy and fall back down again.
Sibusiso, the expedition leader, walks up to me. His eyes are filled with concern. He has never seen me this weak. “I have low blood pressure,” I explain, attempting to pull myself together. “Just give me a minute and it’ll pass.” He asks if I’m sure I want to continue. I reassure him with a nod.
He instructs Davido to take it easy with me. This time when he helps me up, I lean into him. One foot in front of the other, I trudge on, determined to overcome my struggle with my heavy eyelids.
The last four hours of the hike are an out-of-body experience. We are all taking strain. Hallucinations set in for some. There’s talk of seeing casino lights, long staircases and suspension bridges. We reach Gilman’s Point in the dark and continue trekking. On reaching Stella Point, we are met by the most exquisite and magnificent sunrise over Mawenzi Peak. This is where, thankfully, my consciousness fully returns and I sit for a few moments, taking in the majesty. After a few photographs, we trek on.
“We’re here,” a voice cuts through the thin air. I realise that ever since leaving Stella Point I have been looking down as I trek. Now I lift my head and it dawns on me… We’ve reached Uhuru. I stop in my tracks and look down at my watch. It literally took us from 23h00 to 08h30 to zigzag our way five kilometres up to reach the top of Kilimanjaro. It’s 18 July 2017.
A moment of silence passes. I look up at the sign: Congratulations. You are now at Uhuru Peak, Tanzania. I fall apart.
Realising that we have made it to the summit of Kilimanjaro, my walls crumble and I experience a surge of raw emotion. “We did it,” I whisper through tears.
My heart aches with the pain of a year without Gugs, combined with the overwhelming joy of achieving our goal. I cry freely.
I reach for my backpack and pull out a banner I made before the trek. Gugs’s face stares back at me and I am filled with a profound strength.
“We got to Uhuru.”
The TV crew from SABC, Thabo Madilola and my friend Gillian pull me aside for a brief interview about how I feel. I utter a few words before stepping aside to take pictures with the group. A combination of tears of joy and of sadness continues to flow. I remember Gugs had said that, at the summit, he wanted to scream our daughter’s name at the top of his lungs. Now, with the shortage of oxygen, I only manage to whisper, “Lelethu Naledi Zulu.” As I say her name, I am smiling. My heart is content.
A few moments later we are summoned to start the descent.
As we start to make our way down, I am filled with a deep sense of achievement for having finally reached Uhuru, not just for myself but for Gugs. I have kept the promise. I came back and did it for both of us.
The descent from Uhuru to Kibo is a straight glide down the mountain. No more zigzagging. My legs are heavy and I am lucky to still have Davido by my side to guide me and make sure I don’t fall. Three hours later we are back at Kibo Hut for a quick snack and a short nap. Exhaustion sets in; we’ve been trekking for more than 12 hours and we still have another four hours or so until our overnight stop at Horombo Hut. I spend the day hardly talking, simply smiling.
Back at Horombo, I return to the room that held so much pain last year. This time my heart is filled with calm, hope and happiness. I manage to have a quiet moment alone in the hut. I remove my wedding ring from my ring finger. It’s exactly a year since Gugs’s passing and I recite the words: “Till death do us part, I love you.”