Warrior Training (19 page)

‘Hello, mister, do you box?'

‘Do I box,' I said with a smile, as I looked at Col and tried to work out what the guy was on about.

‘Yes, boxing. Fitness.'

He began to throw a few punches and dance around.

‘Only a little,' I said.

‘You look strong. You want to come to boxing gym and train fitness?' He grabbed my upper arm and squeezed it. ‘Ooh, very nice!'

Colleen laughed but I knew the guy was serious. He
called over a few of his friends and encouraged them to grab my arm. They were a little less exuberant and just stood there smiling.

‘We like fitness and we train very hard,' said the man.

‘Yeah, you look fit,' I said.

He flexed his bicep and signalled for me to touch it.

What the hell, we're in Africa
, I thought.
If he gets an erection I can always boot him in the balls
. ‘We're trying to find the bus for Arusha,' I said.

‘Arusha,' he said, excited. ‘Come!'

He grabbed my arm and, after a bit of frantic running around, proudly directed us to the right bus.

We thanked him; he smiled, flexed his bicep and left.

We'd paid for three seats – an entire bench seat – but a young African man had squirmed his way between Col and the window. Col looked uncomfortable so she and I traded places. Having the man's sweaty skin pressed against mine was a little irritating.

A woman with a box containing bananas and bottled water tapped on the window.

‘How much for two bananas and two bottles of water?' I asked. I had no intention of negotiating; I just wanted to know how many Tanzanian shillings to dig out of my bumbag.

The man next to me took it upon himself to translate and said 3000, the equivalent of US$5. I handed him some money to pass to the woman, and then three bananas and bottles of water were coming our way! The man next to the window kept one of each for himself.

I looked at Col and shrugged my shoulders.
He must have slipped the lady some cash
, I thought. At the next stop
I ordered two ice-creams. Once again, three items were passed back through the window. This time I was laughing. ‘How's the hide of this guy?' I said to Col. By the time I had unwrapped my ice-cream, the man had already wiped his lips and thrown his empty stick out the window.

When we arrived at Arusha we were swamped by scores of African men, from overzealous tour guides and hotel workers to men selling local ornaments. I was busy refusing offers when I heard Col scream. I turned around and saw three or four guys with their hands all over her. One was holding a maroon tea towel over her face while another had unzipped her bumbag and was helping himself. I launched into them and sent a couple reeling. I pointed to the man who'd had his hands in her bumbag and told him something that he'd definitely understand: ‘You – fuck off!'

He returned the compliment: ‘Fucking Americans,' and he walked away.

Col was rattled by the experience so I told her to walk in front of me so I could keep an eye on her. I pulled a map out of my bumbag and we headed off to the YMCA Hotel.

That evening we caught up with Alex and Eliza, friends from Australia who were joining us on a trek up Mount Kilimanjaro. They had flown into Nairobi but had missed their connecting bus to Arusha, so they'd organised a lift with some locals. While squashed in the back of a big black sedan, with several thousand dollars in their pockets, they began to realise how vulnerable they were. There were no streetlights, just a dark road, a car, several men and them – two trusting Aussies.

Eliza is usually pretty controlled but she'd been angry with Alex for their situation, repeatedly referring to him as
a ‘c––'. She was pissed off that Alex would, most likely, have been killed quickly, leaving her to deal with what followed on her own. She's an attractive young woman and her long, reddish-blonde locks often grab the attention of both men and women. Once a few years earlier when the four of us were in Sydney, a woman handed her a card with a contact number, saying: ‘Don't worry, darling, heterosexuality is curable.'

After dinner we relaxed with a couple of drinks. Al and Liz's account of the drive was now hilarious. We sat at a table with a well-dressed African salesman who wore a big shiny watch. I asked him what he sold; I was thinking diamonds.

‘Soap,' he said.

‘Are you coming to bed,' Col asked me.

‘Nah, I think I'll hang around and watch the cricket for half an hour.' Australia was playing South Africa.

‘We're out of here,' said Al.

‘See you guys tomorrow,' said Liz.

They were barely around the corner when the African man leant over the table and said: ‘I think I'll retire too.'

Well, thanks for letting me know
, I thought.

Then he dropped his room key into my hand. ‘I'm staying in room 16 if you would like to join me.'

I dropped his key on the table and pretended that I didn't understand what he was on about. ‘Nah, I'm watching the cricket,' I said, flicking my head back towards the small, fuzzy screen.

‘As you wish.' He picked up the key, grabbed his briefcase and calmly left the room.

Early the next morning, from the first floor of the YMCA Hotel, Col and I saw Mount Kilimanjaro for the first time. The ice-capped volcanic rim sat above the clouds, and the round dome glowed in the morning light. We were excited to get going and make it to the top.

With a summit of 19,340 feet – or 5895 metres – above sea level, Kilimanjaro doesn't rate a mention for the serious mountaineer, but of the 30,000 people who attempt to summit it each year, many thousands fail due to a lack of preparation and altitude illness. On average, 10 Western climbers are killed annually on the mountain.

Mount Kilimanjaro from a distance.

Treks to the north or south base camps of Mount Everest (at 17,600 feet and 17,090 feet respectively) take between 11 and 13 days. To summit Kilimanjaro, depending on the route, budget and tour company you use, only takes between 72 and 96 hours. Trekking from 4000 feet to nearly 20,000 feet in a couple of days is difficult as you
have very little time for acclimatisation. Some people are more susceptible to altitude illness than others.

Since joining the Regiment, I had been pushed to the verge of my limitations several times. SAS soldiers must be able to keep going when their body is screaming to stop. But physical fitness and strength will only take you so far. It is the mind – your ability to hold it together when things get really tough – that can give the greatest rewards.

In the weeks before we'd departed Perth, Col had been so excited about the trek that she showed some of her work colleagues a miniature Aussie flag she intended to pull out on the summit.

‘Providing you make it to the top, that is,' said a guy named Steve.

Up to that point, Col had assumed that making the summit was a formality. Steve's comments upped the ante for her. She started training even harder, squatting up to 70 kilograms and stomping up and down Jacob's Ladder, a mad set of stairs in central Perth, with a daypack. She also played touch football and worked on her upper-body strength. She could pump out seven chin-ups.

Eliza had also done some training. She and Al had been for a walk the day before they left.

We decided to climb the Machame route; it was steep and a little more expensive, but was regarded as one of the most beautiful routes and would get us away from the masses. There were no huts, though, so we had to hire tents. The locals referred to the Machame as ‘Route Whiskey' because it was difficult. One guide and three porters were required per couple.

Alex treks through the rainforest on day one, Mount Kilimanjaro.

The most popular route was the Marangu, or ‘Coca-Cola' route, which was slightly longer but far less severe. Dozens of people – up to 70 – travelled the Marangu every day.

We began the trek wearing shorts and T-shirts, as we pulled and stepped our way through a maze of vines and slippery tree roots. The humidity thinned as we negotiated
the alpine country, where long grasses, moss and needle-leaf trees replaced the rainforest. We walked approximately 15 kilometres that day, ascending from 6500 feet to 10,000 feet. Camp One was damp and cool.

On day two we left the alpine country and arrived at Shira Hut, a flat rocky plateau sparsely covered with grass and small bushes. We were now perched at 12,500 feet and had covered another nine kilometres. A thick fog had swallowed the mountain.

That night Eliza had a severe headache and began to vomit. I was concerned that she was suffering from altitude illness, but by the following morning both Col and I were also feeling pretty average so it was most likely a stomach bug. I had a word to our guides and asked them to ensure they boiled our drinking water for at least 10 minutes.

Day three was always set aside for acclimatisation, so for most of the day we remained inside our sleeping bags, tucked up in the foetal position, and tried not to shit ourselves. Eliza, Col and I had lost our appetites, so Alex, who was the only one feeling okay, consumed a ridiculous number of hard-boiled eggs.

With each egg he popped into his mouth, he smiled and said: ‘Mmm, more protein for me.' I knew eggs and altitude weren't a good mix but I decided to let Al find out for himself. Within a couple of days he too began shooting caramel milkshakes out his arse.

Day four was brilliant. The morning sun was warm, and the air cool and thin. We began climbing again, and by midday there was very little vegetation around us. The landscape was nothing more than rocks and scree. We passed a group of 14 climbers who had established camp at
the Lava Tower, a large rocky outcrop that stuck out like a big wart. For most of the day we saw no one else, which was just the way we liked it. We arrived at the base of Arrow Glacier, 16,000 feet above sea level. The late afternoon sun doused the landscape in contrasting shadows. It was cold and beautiful.

‘Is anyone keen to walk to the snowline?' I asked. I'd only seen snow a couple of times before and I wanted to touch it.

‘Nah, I'm not walking all the way over there,' said Al.

‘We'll watch you,' the girls said.

It took me about 20 minutes to reach the base of the cliff. Before I had even touched the ice, I heard a sharp cracking sound followed by distant screams. I didn't bother looking around; the roar of a massive boulder – the size of a small car – bouncing towards me had my undivided attention. I maintained a constant visual as I shuffled to my
left. As it gained momentum, the frightening sound of rock slamming into rock intensified. I stopped when I realised I was no longer in its direct path, and I watched it thump by no more than 20 metres to my right.