Simerg is an independent initiative dedicated to Ismaili Muslims, the Aga Khan — their Hereditary Imam — and the Ismaili Imamat, and Islam in general through literary readings, photo essays and artistic expressions
I chanced upon this excellent article by Professor Karim through shear serendipity, while explaining to my daughter about obstacle courses. She had just gone through a 10K run at the International Raceway in Mechanicsville, Maryland, which included rock climbing, and scaling a tall wall. I conveyed to her that I had done all that stuff, and then some, in the 23 days I had spent at the Outward-bound Mountain School, Loitokitok in the early 1970’s. It was then, thanks to Google maps, that I was able to revisit the sprawling compound of well-manicured lawns, that sits close to the base of the indomitable Mt Kilimanjaro.
The exhilarating experience one gets during the preparation and climb to the “roof of Africa”, which is, euphemistically, what Mt Kilimanjaro is, remains ingrained in every participant who has undertaken this task.
Like Prof Karim, I arrived on the scene, as an18-year old, raw in every sense, post ordinary level high school, but with the hope and vibrant energy and curiosity of a kid let loose in a candy store. Thanks to our indefatigable Geography teacher at Kigezi College, Butobere, in Kabale, Uganda, Mr. Richard White, I had had the benefit of climbing a few medium tall mountains, such as the 12,000-foot Mt Sabinyo, an extinct volcano in south-western Uganda, but, this had neither given me the preparation, nor the resilience required to attack and conquer the deceptively gentle giant.
I had been lucky enough to be the only kid among ten applicants, who had successfully passed both the doctor’s physical and endurance tests. I would later join a group of other students from Uganda, that included a former classmate of mine, who later became Prime Minister of Uganda. Mr John Patrick Amama Mbabazi was Uganda’s Prime Minister from 2011 to 2014.
Arriving at Loitokitok near the foot of Mt Kilimanjaro in early December 1971, most of us were young and naive, experiencing life away from our home environment for the first time. We became part of the larger group of students drawn from the other two East African countries (Kenya & Tanzania) at the time, in all, constituting perhaps, 200 in number. I can recall a few students like Job, from Alliance High School in Nairobi, who was in my team. There were others from Sitarehe High School, whose names have since faded from my lousy memory. The instructors were mostly Kenyan and Tanzanian military officers, since this facility was used as training ground for those countries’ military personnel.
Although the training during the first two weeks was extremely rigorous, including such activities as a daily 2-kilometer run, rock-climbing, ziplines, and scaling high walls, we were all told to keep our eyes on the prize, the ascent to the top of the giant yonder, which we could see clearly from the campus. We also got baptism by fire, like the day I was pushed into the freezing swimming pool by one of the instructors, early in the morning, only to turn around and throw a tire tied to a rope at me, after gulping a few mouthfuls. That incident alone inspired me to learn how to swim long afterwards. We even participated in a marathon run, that meandered through parts of the Masai Mara, teaming with our four-legged neighbors. When that time for the climb finally arrived, we were given the mountain gear we needed, (so we thought), and we embarked on the challenge, beginning with the “solo night”. Each one of us was assigned a bushy area, which was your turf, on which to build shelter and prepare a meal for the night. With the minimum 3 match sticks given to you, it required a lot of dexterity and perseverance to get that fire going. I was luckier than Prof Karim, in that I managed to kindle the fire and make dinner. Not everyone was that successful in that act. Not having a hot meal on that severely cold night condemned one to begin the 5 am climb on empty, the first cardinal sin for a mountaineer. The night itself was interspersed with false alarms from kids who got scared out of their wits, after hearing, or simply imagining they heard noises of approaching animals.
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Snow-capped Kibo peak of Kilimanjaro at left with the Mawenzi peak at right, pictured in 1936 from a landing ground near Moshi, Tanzania (then Tanganyika). The plane was en route to Arusha. Photograph: Matson (G. Eric and Edith) Photograph Collection, US Library of Congress.
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We started around 5 am in the morning, with the goal of reaching Mawenzi peak by late afternoon, to give us sufficient time to rest and reboot for the final destination to the roof. However, along the way, a number of kids suffered mountain sickness that pushed one almost into delirium, as the oxygen in the atmosphere got thinner. But that put extra loads on the backs of those who still had a semblance of normalcy, thereby slowing the pace altogether. But finally, we made it to Mawenzi peak, after experiencing a dusting of snow, which added a layer of misery to our already debilitated bodies. We crowded ourselves into round tin huts for the night, in groups of 10 per hut. The body heat generated by crowding helped in ameliorating the severe weather conditions experienced on top of the mountain, unless of course your sleeping bag was in direct contact with the metal, in which case you shivered all night. I still consider it one of the coldest nights I have ever experienced.
At around 2 O’clock, we were awakened to get ready to embark on the journey to the ultimate prize, getting to Kibo peak. We scrambled to boil water for tea, which we needed during those frigid temperatures. In the process, we learned that water boils at much lower temperatures at high altitudes, to a point where you could dip your finger into hot water without getting it scalded. Later, as I attended Makerere University in Kampala, Uganda, I found myself narrating this experience to a bunch of students at Kitante High School, where I moonlighted as a physics teacher. Walking north along the saddle between Mawenzi and Kibo, we formed a single file and followed our instructors. Once the sun came out, the bright rays blinded us as they reflected on the layer of ice and snow that blanketed the top of the mountain, which was a much thicker icecap then than exists today.
Still, we soldiered on seemingly getting closer towards Kibo, which looked deceptively close and yet perpetually elusive. By this time, our bodies were numb with the blistering cold air, and our feet swollen from stepping in the wet slit combination of ice and the snow dusting that had fallen overnight. The layers of clothing we had carried with us, including hand gloves, and balaclavas for the heads were no doubt proving inadequate for the climatic conditions most of us had ever faced. No wonder the Chaga had called the mountain “Kileme”, that which defeats. At about 10 am, we met the group which had approached the climb from the north and headed to Kibo directly. Our instructors and theirs went into some brief dialogue we were not privy to, and when they emerged, they announced, much to our chagrin, that we would all turn around and embark on our descent. There were many protests among us, but the instructors squashed all that, military-style, attempting to convince us that we had achieved our overall objective of fulfilling the school’s mantra of, “To Serve, to Strive, and never to Yield”, although our group never reached Kibo peak. I remain unpersuaded to this day.
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Outward Bound badge with the motto “To Serve to Strive and Not to Yield”. Photograph: Karim H. Karim collection.
It took us the rest of the day to descend the gentle giant, because those of us who still had some stamina left, were burdened with helping the unfortunate ones whose lungs could not suck in enough oxygen to keep them moving on their own (including the former PM). That evening, exhausted as we were, there were ceremonies at the Outward-Bound Mountain School, to mark the closure of Course 127. The following morning, we said our goodbyes to the friends we had made, and headed back to our domiciles, armed with the irreplaceable satisfaction of one who has accomplished what once appeared to be Mission Impossible.
Climbing Mt Kilimanjaro will forever remain one of my greatest achievements, a story I am proud to tell anyone willing to listen.
Thank you, Prof Karim, for sharing your heart-warming experience with us, and rekindling a smoldering fire.
Date posted: September 25, 2024.
Featured image at the top of post: The 3-D perspective view of Mount Kilimanjaro was generated using topographic data from the Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM), a Landsat 7 satellite image, and a false sky. The topographic expression is vertically exaggerated two times. Landsat has been providing visible and infrared views of the Earth since 1972. Date Acquired: February 21, 2000 (Landsat 7).
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About the author: Nick Ngazoire Nteireho was born in Rukungiri District, Western Uganda. He obtained a bachelor’s degree in economics from Makerere University’s Institute of Statistics and Applied Economics. Escaping Uganda during the turmoil of Idi Amin’s brutal regime, he settled in Washington DC, pursued graduate degrees at George Washington and American Universities in Washington DC, USA, followed by a long career at the World Bank in Washington DC, where he worked on economic research involving models and forecasting. He later joined Fairfax County’s Department of Tax Administration, where he worked as a Senior Commercial Real Estate Appraiser for a decade.
He has published three books. His latest, titled “Heroes and Charlatans of the Savannah”, traces the Genesis of Sub-Sahara African countries Independence, and is available on Amazon as a paperback and Kindle editions.
Nick Nteireho lives in Fairfax County, Virginia, with his wife with whom they have two adult children.
“That Which Defeats” (Kileme) is what the Wachagga people traditionally called Mount Kilimanjaro. Whereas the deceptively gentle slope of Africa’s highest elevation looks easier to climb than steeper peaks, it regularly defeats physically fit individuals equipped with 21st-century gear and supported by teams of guides, porters and cooks. 30,000 eager souls from around the world attempt to scale “Kili” annually but altitude sickness, dehydration, and exhaustion prevent many from reaching the summit. The dormant volcano’s most powerful weapon is psychological — it tricks the human mind into surrendering. Compared to the 90% success of those leaving from the Mount Everest Base Camp, only 45% from Kilimanjaro’s Base Camp make it to the top. Around ten people die on Kili every year.
In pushing themselves to their extremes climbers become sharply aware of their relationship with nature and life itself. The attempt’s enormous exertion involves an intense engagement of the entire human being — body, mind and spirit — regardless of whether one reaches the summit. The words of Aga Khan III, Imam Sultan Mohamed Shah, resonate with this experience:
“Struggle is the meaning of life; defeat or victory is in the hands of God. But struggle itself is man’s duty and should be his joy.”
Dedicated and persistent striving enables perceptions of deep, concealed truths about oneself.
Today, as I gaze at Vancouver’s North Shore Mountains, my thoughts turn back to December 1973 when Kilimanjaro itself taught me how to ascend it. Fifty years later, I still strive to understand the enigmatic experience during which the mountain forced a humbling introspection. Kili crushed my 17-year-old self’s delusions and repositioned my attitude towards nature to make the ascent possible. The event became a landmark on life’s uneven terrain and a point of re-orientation during times of difficulty.
Stumbling Upon Arrival
Eruptive activity 2.5 million years ago in the Great Rift Valley began forming the world’s highest free-standing mountain above sea level. Three volcanic cones, Kibo, Mawenzi and Shira, crown the colossus that geographically covers 1,000 square kilometres and from base to summit holds five eco-climatic zones (cultivation, forest, heather-moorland, alpine desert, and arctic).
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Students from Aga Khan High School, Nairobi, who attended the Outward Bound Mountain School of East Africa in 1973 and 1974. From left, Karim H. Karim, (author of this piece), Mahmud Mitha, Nashir Abdulla, and Amin Ahmed. Photograph: Karim H. Karim collection.
Mountains hold a universal mystique and to some, they beckon as a personal challenge. Aga Khan High School, which I attended in Nairobi, had held annual mountain-climbing trips for senior students, but these ventures had been discontinued by the time I reached the upper levels.
Some students looked to the Outward Bound Mountain School of East Africa, whose brochure said that its strenuous 23-day courses, including Kilimanjaro climbs, were “based on a spiritual foundation” and as an opportunity for self-discovery through self-discipline, teamwork and “man-management.” The school’s motto, “To Serve, To Strive and Not To Yield” is adapted from the line in Tennyson’s poem Ulysses, whose original wording reads: “To serve, to strive, to find and not to yield.” Ironically, it was “to find” that was vital to my Outward Bound experience.
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Outward Bound badge (left) with the motto “To Serve to Strive and Not to Yield” and Outward Bound pin. Photographs: Karim H. Karim collection.
Alexander Pope, another poet, famously remarked that “fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” How foolish I was, never having climbed so much as a hill or gone camping, to think that I would tackle Africa’s highest mountain. Whereas my athletic performance in my early secondary years had been above average, the high school’s physical education program was non-existent at upper levels. I had become used to the comfortable and spoiled life of a middle-class South Asian teenager in a household where African servants did most of the physical labour. Even the doctor who provided my fitness certificate to attend Outward Bound was somewhat skeptical, but that did not spoil my dream of reaching Africa’s summit.
The Outward Bound campus occupied 27 acres on the Kenyan side of the Kilimanjaro rain forest near the small town of Loitokitok in Maasai country — a bumpy four-hour bus ride from Nairobi. Excited would-be mountaineers were dropped off for Course L154 held from November 29 to December 22, 1973. The contingent was met by instructors who told us to embark immediately on a cross-country run. I jogged along with the group but, after a while, could not keep up with the bigger, fitter colleagues. My lungs strained, and though I strove to push myself it wasn’t long before I found myself gasping on the ground. The goal to be at the mountain’s top had stumbled at its base. I looked up at Kilimanjaro and the large Kibo peak seemed to be mocking me.
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Tanzania map (Shaded Relief), 2003, Perry-Castañeda Library Map Collection. Simerg has added an annotation — the location of Mt Kilimanjaro in Tanzania is shown with an orange diamond. The mountain is very close to the Kenya border. The approximate distance from the small town of Loitokitok (not shown) in Kenya, where the Outward Bound Mountain School of East Africa was located, to Kilimanjaro is 140 km. Please click on map for enlargement.
Students were assigned dormitories according to designated “patrols.” Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania had been allocated 20 participants each, but something was lost in translation and the Tanzanian coordinator sent 60. Rather than send 40 back, the British warden decided to let all stay and the course was hurriedly reconfigured into two sections, whose activity schedules were staggered. Consequently, students in my section were given little preparatory training before they were sent up the mountain for the Solo Expedition. This did not bode well.
The Pangs of Failure
The course’s students were all Africans except for three South Asians and most of the instructors came from the US with a few from Tanzania and Uganda. Additional patrols were formed due to the unexpectedly large contingent and assistant instructors were put in charge of some patrols including mine. Participants were assigned responsibilities; I was appointed quartermaster, responsible for distributing supplies.
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Group photo of the Nelion Patrol, with Karim H. Karim sitting at the bottom left. Photograph: Karim H. Karim collection.
The Solo Expedition involved a trek up to the altitude of 12,000 feet where each student spent a night alone on the mountainside. This major activity was normally scheduled for the course’s fifth day, but our section had to embark two days early. Nonetheless, we excitedly started our trek up Kilimanjaro, crossing the border into Tanzania, going past farms and into the rain forest. As the heat and humidity pressed on us in the early morning, a blur of black and white fur suddenly appeared on tall trees — it was a Colobus monkey swinging over us. We wondered how many other animals watched our contingent passing through their territory.
Vegetation became sparser and the air got thinner and cooler as we climbed higher into the heather-moorland zone. Rucksacks felt heavier at the sharper incline and feet began to slip on the rocky terrain. Most carried around 40 pounds of weight but I had unthinkingly over-packed mine and was taking frequent breaks, which slowed the patrol down. Then, without saying a word, one person took my bag and distributed several of its contents among the patrol as I, the quartermaster, sat on a rock feeling very embarrassed. (I learned later that such an experience was not uncommon in Outward Bound courses.)
The patrol reached its destination in the late afternoon. We were to spend the night alone on the rocky slope half a kilometre from one another. Each student had only a few food supplies, three matchsticks and a well-worn sleeping bag. The instructor designated our respective spots on the mountainside, and I resolved to put the day’s humiliation aside to make the best of the situation.
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Snow-capped Kibo peak of Kilimanjaroat left with the Mawenzi peak at right, picturedin 1936 from a landing ground near Moshi, Tanzania (then Tanganyika). The plane was en route to Arusha. Photograph: Matson (G. Eric and Edith) Photograph Collection, US Library of Congress.
Looking upwards, Kibo’s snowy peak gleamed closer than ever before and on the other side was the vast mountainside sloping downwards. It was getting dark, and I set to gathering firewood. Never having made a campfire in my life, I diligently assembled a pile of sticks that would warm me in the night. With the wood and kindling arranged in a neat pile, the fire was all set to be lit. The evening sky was clear except for the small clouds that were swiftly riding up the mountain and through my small campsite. I struck the first match and put it to paper to start the fire. The flame fizzled out as soon as it touched the kindling. No matter, I told myself — there are two more left. The second match also went out at the paper. Only one remained. My hands trembled and I began to pray. But no success again. What went wrong? I realized that I had been foiled by the innocent-looking clouds that had moistened the kindling. My spirits dampened as I set to spend the night on the cold and desolate mountainside with no fire to warm me or my food. The hazy half-moon also gave no comfort. I looked up at Kibo and it seemed to be laughing at me again.
When the patrol reassembled the following morning for the descent, it became apparent that almost everyone had had a difficult time. We trudged downhill, arriving at the school late in the evening. My confidence was severely depleted, and I was overcome with a sense of failure. Many Outward Bound participants experienced mental distress at this stage of the course, but the possibility of escape from the isolated school was slim. The bus came to Loitokitok once a week and communication with the rest of the world was only by a ham radio in the warden’s office. “Warden” indeed! We had found ourselves to be in a prison.
Daybreak at the school began with a cross-country run followed immediately by a plunge into the freezing swimming pool. This rapid hot-cold transition increased the body’s haemoglobin to enhance oxygen intake at high altitude. Participants engaged for some two weeks in various forms of training and activities (which are amply described in the book Kilimanjaro Outward Bound by Salim Manji). The anticipation of the impending climb to Kili’s summit was constantly in our minds and from time to time, we stared at the peak in the distance, wondering about the challenges that it would hurl at us as we attempted to scale it.
The Final Expedition
Sixty students and instructors set out in the week before Christmas for the Final Expedition, taking the Rongai Route on Kilimanjaro’s northern face as we had for the Solo Expedition. Private sector package trips along this way took six to seven days. On Outward Bound’s schedule, the climbers carrying their own loads endeavoured to reach the summit on the third morning and return to the school after spending another day descending.
The course’s activities were designed to toughen students physically and mentally, but a sense of failure from the previous ascent weighed heavily on me. Nonetheless, the aspiration to make it to the top was still very much alive. I had figured out how to climb better and gained more confidence as we rose above the level of the Solo Expedition, but the going got harder as the oxygen thinned. Ultraviolet exposure at high altitude peeled the skin off my face. Objects looked and felt strange. The alpine desert zone, strewn with sharp-edged reddish rocks, appeared like terrain on Mars. An airliner flying near the peak to give passengers a closer view seemed like a surreal sight. I asked a senior instructor during a break whether it was physical or mental preparation that was more important for the climb. He replied that “mental fitness helps you draw on untapped physical resources.” I gazed at Kibo and it seemed to smile.
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This image taken by EO-1’s Advanced Land Imager (ALI) on Jan. 20, 2017, shows snowcap of the volcanic Mount Kilimanjaro. Photograph: NASA’s Earth Observatory.
We reached the base camp on the second afternoon. The large, rugged Outward Bound Hut sat on the desolate rocky saddle between Kibo and Mawenzi peaks at 15,469 ft (4,715 m), where the barren environment’s only visible life was our group. It became dark and cold quickly as the sun passed behind the mountainside, which was now an enormous presence. We slipped into our sleeping bags early as the remaining 4,000 ft ascent was to begin at 2 am. It seemed that we had hardly slept when the instructors roused us. I noticed in the dim light that some water that had spilled from a container near my head and had frozen on the floorboards.
Scaling at nighttime is a vital tactic to improve the chances of reaching Kibo’s summit. Many climbers fail because the slope’s convex shape makes the summit seem closer than it really is. The mountain’s cap remains hidden by the terrain’s curve and as hikers approach what they think is the top they realize that there is more to go. The disappointment hits people repeatedly, and they feel increasingly disheartened. It is in this way that Kili mentally defeats many able mountaineers who make it this far. Attempting the final ascent in pitch dark helps prevent climbers from succumbing to Kibo’s deception.
It was impossible to walk straight up the slope as feet sank into screes — the masses of loose, little stones that cover the peak — so we snaked on the slope in long zig-zag lines. After some time, several colleagues began to fall prey to severe altitude sickness, dehydration, or exhaustion and were forced to turn back. Others pushed on. We had been hiking for four hours under the starry sky when it started becoming brighter and the sun inevitably rose. Looking up, we saw the visible edge of the mountain meet the sky and imagined that we were close to the summit. But this was a mirage: despite walking on and on we would just not arrive. The curve ball that Kibo was throwing at us played havoc with our minds and deeply frustrated climbers surrendered one after another.
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This 3-D perspective view of Mount Kilimanjaro was generated using topographic data from the Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM), a Landsat 7 satellite image, and a false sky. The topographic expression is vertically exaggerated two times. Landsat has been providing visible and infrared views of the Earth since 1972. Date Acquired: February 21, 2000 (Landsat 7).
One-third of the group remained. It was harder to lift our legs because our boots were partially buried in the screes, and we advanced only one step for every three steps that we took. I looked up to find Kibo’s snowcap, but it was not visible from our location on the slope. How close was it? How much more to go? I prayed to find a way for me to reach the goal. To serve, to strive, to find and not to yield.
My mind appeared to slide into a kind of trance and the pain, the exhaustion and the endless climb’s futility slipped out of consciousness. Nothing seemed to matter. I even disconnected with the aim of reaching the top. Nevertheless, the body continued to move forward — but with little awareness of motion. One foot went in front of the other, on and on and on. It seemed that the intense struggle had dimmed the perception of physical agony and mental anguish, and my being had found a way to ignore completely the urge to stop.
When body and mind recede, spirit comes to the fore. Kilimanjaro had battered me for almost three weeks, putting the body through punishing challenges and the mind through deep feelings of frustration and failure. It seemed that I had asked the instructor the wrong question about physical or mental preparation on the previous day because the mountain regularly defeated people with superior physical and mental training. It turns both body and mind into one’s enemies. How was it then that I had survived to this point? It seemed that Kilimanjaro itself was the instructor that had shown me gradually, through a series of defeats, how to tackle the biggest challenge. The failures of body and mind had induced me to look for a way beyond them. Instead of trying to conquer the mountain, I had to have the humility to learn from it. Rather than obey my own body and mind’s command to surrender, my being instead had to turn to nature and bow to it. With that submission, Kili itself lifted me.
It felt like an anti-climax to arrive at Gilman’s Point after what seemed to be an interminable journey. Standing at 18,885 ft (5,756 m) it is one of Kilimanjaro’s three summits, the other two being Uhuru and Stella. With my name written in the book kept in a wooden box, I continued with the remaining climbers towards Uhuru Point, the mountain’s highest spot (19,341 ft / 5,895 m), which was 139 meters higher than Gilman and a 5.5 km trek around Kibo’s volcanic rim. My mind continued in a trance-like state. Although I had never previously been near snow, I did not even notice it around me on the Arctic-zone summit. My body seemed to have reached extreme limits, but it kept walking. At one point, when an instructor helped me up after I had collapsed with utter fatigue onto a boulder, my frame immediately resumed walking as if it were a programmed machine.
Thick clouds had gathered ahead on the volcano’s ridge. Instructors assessed it too dangerous to continue and decided that the group had to turn back. There must have been some human emotion left in me because I felt the disappointment of not reaching Uhuru, even though climbers making it to Gilman are formally considered to have scaled Kilimanjaro. The descent took one day and there were blisters on the soles of my feet by the time we made it to the school. Many were surprised to hear that I had made it to the summit.
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On the course’s last day, students went on a final daybreak run and plunge, the warden presented certificates and we said our goodbyes. My mind tried to process the Outward Bound experience on the bus trip back to Nairobi, but it was overwhelmed. Kilimanjaro had put me through a profoundly humbling process of self-realization. I seemed to be in a state of shock, from which it took months to recover. Half a century later, I have finally been able to write about the 23 days in 1973 that made a life-long impact.
Date posted: December 27, 2023.
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Karim H. Karim
About the author: Karim H. Karim is Chancellor’s Professor at Carleton University. He is an award-winning author and the Government of Canada has honoured him for his public service. Dr. Karim has served as director of Carleton’s School of Journalism & Communication and its Centre for the Study of Islam as well as of the Institute of Ismaili Studies. His publications can be accessed at Academia.edu.
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