Huge Piles and Wet Wipes for the bum

It's the day before we fly out and Chez Hipster is a buzz of activity. Gooner D has put everything in piles on the bedroom floor and is ticking things off the tick-list with almost surgical precision. Who'd have thought a saunter up some rock in Africa would need half this stuff? But then again the trek starts on an African plain in Summer, peaks at minus Christ knows what, and is hot again at the other end.

"Did you see the ten day weather forecast for the mountain" says JK "Between minus 5 and minus 10 at the top, and sunny!"
"Blimey, let's hope we don't all melt up there!" Assuming this accounts for wind-chill, this is positively balmy. We had been warned it could reach minus 32 (although it probably will at  4am, when we're half way into the final ascent).
"Have you packed?" I ask
"Not yet, have it all in piles on the floor" he says (I'm glad to see we're not the only ones who favour the 'pile it high and stuff it in' method of packing) "and there seems to be four times more stuff than I can fit into my backpack - think I overdid it on chocolate bars for the trek"
"Don't leave the chocolate, leave some clothing instead" I say "And travel in your boots"

It seems a good idea to travel in a complete walking outfit as well as your boots, just in case any luggage goes missing. And to stuff all available pockets to the brim with Walnut Whips!

Remembering another top tip - cut your toenails short - I repair to the bathroom for a clip, wondering if Hillary did his own nails or whether he and Sherpa Tenzing ritually clipped each-others at Everest base camp. Or maybe they had extensions done before they left? Having pondered the mysteries of the mountains, and with pedicure complete, I remember we need to pack our own bog rolls for the trip (two each), plus the packet of what I can only describe as 'wet wipes for your bum' that I found in Morrison's today - whatever next?

I wander into the bedroom to see by how much bigger our huge piles are than our backpacks. Unable to see the carpet, I'm guessing it's more than 4 to 1.

Hey ho! Looks like we'll be eating Walnut Whips for a fortnight when we get home.

Money, Pride and Acute Embarrassment

This is Theo - isn't he lovely! 

He's the reason we're raising money for Down Syndrome Extra 21

When I was a kid, doing a sponsored something meant trudging round reluctant friends and relatives with a form and a biro, seeking their largesse. And if that was a bit embarrassing, collect the cash afterwards felt tantamout to being caught with your skidmarked pants around your ankles in W.H. Smith's "art pamphlet" aisle. So thank Gawd for Social Media.
Setting up the Just Giving page, a piece of cake.
Letting all your mates know about it through Facebook and Linked-in, a small slice of heaven.
Getting all competitive with fellow trekkers, a bit like pissing on your own chips.

"How's the fundraising going?" I ask the boys.

"I got mine up today and it's at £1800" reports JG www.justgiving.com/john-goreing

"Mine's a slow burn" says Bobby "I've been going for a month or so, got £3500, my firm is going to match it pound for pound, and a friend of ours is organising a pub quiz for us" www.justgiving.com/Rob-ClaytonO

JK's up and running, and in one day raised more yours truly has in two weeks, mainly thanks to JG who bizarrely donated £100 of his own cash (not that we're getting all competitive - the bastards)  www.justgiving.com/john-kearney1

"I really should get mine going" says Punky, although as he has half of the Forbes' Richlist on his Blackberry, we suspect he'll do well.

For our part, our friends and family have donated a respectable £500 so far. www.justgiving.com/AlexandDi

"Guess we just don't have any rich friends" says Gooner D.
Actually we do - the trouble is they're all coming on the trek with us!

The Toad in the Hole and the nine and a half year passport.

With the trip barely a week away, we have a final get together at the Sausage and Mash cafe, to make sure we're all on the same page. Our party consists of a CEO/COO; a Chairman; a General Manager; a Finance Director; an ex film reviewer and an unemployed bloke who used to be a Corporate Liar (that's a PR to the uninitiated). Looks like a board meeting, sounds like a board meeting, Bobby's even got a notepad.

Item 1 - dinner. Toad in the Hole with Bubble and Squeak and Heinz baked beans. Bloody marvelous. I wonder if they might rustle this up on Kilimanjaro? Wouldn't that be something.

Item 2 - the checklist.
"First up - passports" says Bobby."Does everyone have one"
"Check"
"Check"
"Check"
"Check"
"Er - No" says JG "Actually runs out in November, but needs to be valid for six months"

Jesus Christ - we've fallen at the first hurdle! But why do they issue a 10 year passport if the bloody thing is only valid for 9 and a half? Why don't they just come clean and admit they're diddling you out of 5% of your money by selling you a passport that doesn't reach its sell by date. And why do we stand for it? If you'd bought some food from Tesco's and it went off before the due date, you'd take it back and give them what for - but we all just casually accept our Passports blowing up in our fridge without giving it a second thought.

 "I'm on the case" he assures us "And I do have my vaccinations certificate" I somehow doubt UK Border Control will fall for that one - unless the current Home Office policy is no-one shall pass unless we're sure they won't be a burden to the NHS.

"Has anyone had laser surgery?" asks Punky
"Me" say Gooner D (both eyeballs in fact).
"Right, well something might happen at 4000m and you could get tunnel vision"
"OK - what can I do about it?"
"Nothing really- just don't panic if it happens"

The other weird thing that happens at 4000m is Lithium batteries pack up, and if the altitude doesn't get them, the sudden change of temperature might. This gives us all grave concerns about capturing that once in a lifetime achievement. Further research concludes that we need to keep batteries inside our innermost pockets of our innermost clothing (and in our sleeping bags at night), and hope! And on the final assault, assuming we get that far, one camera is going into an underwater case, along with couple of hand-warmers. Might just do the trick.

Talking of batteries, we're investing in a solar battery charger, which sounds great, except there's no official way of attaching them to your rucksack, so some elastic bands, bulldog clips and good old-fashioned ingenuity are also being employed. Let's hope it's not cloudy when we need it.

JG and Robbie seem very keen to get medical requisities organised, so that we don't end up all bringing talcum powder but no Immodium. This seems a very sensible idea, even if it does feel like we're taking a small branch of Boots up the mountain with us.

Amid much discussion about wicking underwear, thermal trousers, toilet paper rationing, and top tips for keeping water from freezing (dose it up with Diarolyte apparently), all the remaining items on the checklist pass without incident. JK seemed to glaze over after two minutes, and so, concerned he's not going to be equipped enough, we leave him with this thought from other climbers:  "You're never going to be too warm, so go for maximum thermals and lots of layers"

Last item - haircuts and beards. Apart from Gooner D, we all have to report with a number 4 crew cut, and be clean shaven, so that we can all grow a beard on the mountain. Quite why we're going to turn up looking like a bunch of skinheads is beyond me. And why exactly do blokes hold beard-growing competitions? Answers on a postcard please.

Meeting adjourned. Next time we'll all be together will be on the plane. Assuming they allow gangs of middle-aged skinheads on board.

The miracle of Insurance

Death, Taxes and Masturbation - the three inevitabilities in all of our lives. Although these days I'd suggest  Insurance has to be added to the list. And for Kilimanjaro climbers, it's essential. So, with a sense of foreboding, I phone the insurance company to see how much this is going to cost us.

"We're climbing Kilimanjaro so I need to extend our cover" 

Gooner D corrects me "It's a trek, not a climb" 

"Any specialist equipment" says the lad from Post Office Insurance "Ropes? Crampons?"

"Nope - just blister packs, surgical supports and prayer"

"And are you sticking to recognised tourist trails"

"Absolutely - but it's at high altitude"

"There are no altitude restrictions on the policy, so as long as it's a trek not a climb and you stick to the path, you're already covered"

Feckin' hell, the computer says "Yes" - hallelujah!

   

Jabbed up!

So the visit to the Quack passed without too much hassle. At the time of writing Yellow Fever was not necessary (although this changes frequently so check), so I got away with just Typhoid and Hep A. I am already covered for Tetanus, thanks to being bitten by a (thankfully non-rabid) dog at the South Africa World Cup.  Talking of which, Rabies jabs probably a good idea for Tanzania, especially if close encounters with animals or bats expected, but we've left it too late to finish the course before we go, so will just need to be careful.  I for one have definitely learned my lesson about petting African animals and won't be doing that again. Gift - the African nurse who administered the jabbing, wearily lifted her eyes upwards and did all she could to avoid tutting when I told her about how I got bitten by a pub dog in Port Elizabeth as I tried to tickle it through an iron gate. "You might let them sleep in your beds over here" she said "But back home dogs are for hunting and protection - we leave them well alone."  Good advice, Gift. I just wish we'd had this conversation a year ago!

Welcome Back Mr and Mrs Aged H!

And what a tremendous effort for a great title...from "From South Wales to New South Wales"...that's what I call blog dedication.

The group is coming together nicely. The Aged H's are back and look to be fully prepared. JG's face by now should have got back to the shade it was before it turned that funny pink colour in the Brecons, Punky is training full on (no shocks there, the guy is a machine), and JK is over his sprained ankle, and holidayed. Mrs Backspin and I are off to the French Alps this weekend for a bit of up and down mountains and the group are having a final sit down next Thursday night to avoid the inevitable "I thought you'd brought the......", oh and a few beers.

Kilimanjaro is now looming large.

From South Wales to New South Wales - the mountain looms

Suddenly we're into the final few weeks and all is looking real. Very real indeed. We're talking 3D, HD, 1080i, better-than-the-movies Widescreen real. And as doubts about fitness levels start to creep in, Mr and Mrs Backspin (the nicest couple in England), Mr and Mrs G (the nicest couple in Wales) and the Ageing Hipster and Gooner D (the nicest couple in North London, although given the recent rioting a mile up the road from us this isn't difficult) - all decide to have a training weekend in the Brecons.

The training gets off to a flying start courtesy of Great Western Railways, who make the Backspins stand for the entire two and a half hour journey from Paddington to Newport. Fate stepped in to give them this extra workout, as they had seat reservations but were unable to gain access to their carriage. Running trains is obviously much harder than we think, after all they've been trying to get it right for more than a century and they still can't quite manage to get the train out of the station AND the people into the seats they've paid for. Still, if we had to settle for one out of the two, at least they managed to get the iron horse to run along the steel roadway and stop at the places it was meant to. Hooray for British industry!

Having survived (although Mrs B bottled it and sat on the carriage floor from Slough), we were picked up by JG and driven at high speed to the waiting pub for a decent meal and some well deserved booze. Might as well start as we mean to go on.

After a good night sleep, and a huge breakfast, we hit the hills for a brisk 2.5 hour trek, which had a higher climb than any of the planned days on Kilimanjaro. Thankfully all knees and ankles survived so well we did an even harder trek the next day. This time, despite the fact that our host's village was always in sight, so we'd always know where we were, we managed to get lost on the way down. But never mind, our trek team on Kilimanjaro will be responsible for maps and compasses, leaving us free to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. No major accidents here, except a couple of nettle stings, some blistered toes and heels, and some bruised pride as JG took an unexpected dip in a stream. Could have been worse.

The weary travellers returned to London feeling pretty confident in everyone else's ability to make the trek, with just a few nagging doubts about ourselves.

Not being the sort to let the grass grow under our feet, The Ageing Hipster and Gooner D flew to Australia the next day to visit friends and do more trekking in the North Queensland Rainforest. Specifically the Mount Sorrow Ridgewalk in Cape Tribulation. So called because, having smashed his ship to firewood on the Great Barrier Reef here, Captain Cook sent two scouts up the ridge to see what was what. They were never seen again. You'd like to think they stumbled upon a natural paradise and decided to set up home together growing exotic fruit, but historians suspect the worse.

Sorrow and Tribulation indeed, and perhaps Pain and Stupidity could also be added into the mix.  It's a 7 hour trek (3.5 there and 3.5 back) that goes from very steep to even steeper, to practically vertical, through dense, unforgiving rainforest.  For large parts we were on all-fours pulling ourselves up using trees, roots and vines.  Having hauled ourselves through this assault course we finally reach the small viewing platform, only to be joined a minute later by a local lad who had run up in 59 minutes. The bastard! And as that sank in, so did the realisation that we had get our weary legs into action and get down before the light went.

Anyone who has climbed a tree will know that going down can take as much time as coming up, and so it was. We had to retrace our steps, every single one of them, very very carefully, until, laughing in the face of Tribulation and Sorrow (possibly through joy but probably through some form of mild delerium), we made it back to the road, and even declined a lift to our campsite. Take that Mt. Sorrow!

Confident that Kilimanjaro won't throw anything like that at us, and keeping fingers crossed that we avoid yellow fever and altitude sickness, we give a cautious "Bring it on".

Next stop - the Doctors.