"MY WORLD" HISTORY - Page 14
Two articles by Flight Attendant Barbara (Bobbi) Wolverton. Bobbi was with World Airways from 1964 to 1972. She has shared two of her challenging experiences titled A WOMAN ALONE - In Wartime Egypt and AGAINST ALL ODDS. Click on the below article to open.
A WOMAN ALONE - In Wartime Egypt
A WOMAN ALONE - In Wartime Egypt
It was only six days in June 1967. I was twenty-five and touring around the world by myself. I had been a flight attendant, based in the Bay Area, and had taken a six-month leave of absence. In those days, airlines had reciprocal agreements. Crew members could travel relatively inexpensively on most airlines. My flight from Pakistan to Egypt departed right on time. When the plane touched down in Cairo, it was 5 A.M., Saturday morning. The sky seemed to be silky -- a silver hue with a tiny streak of pink, the first blush of dawn.
When we landed, two other passengers disembarked. We walked across the tarmac, into a designated, three-story building. How surprised we were to see that no one was there – no employees nor any other passengers in this gigantic, international airport. Being uninformed, I thought it was because we had arrived so early in the morning. Finally, an official came and processed our small group. He barely looked through my two suitcases and backpack before pointing to a Hilton shuttle van outside the main doors. My normal travelling routine was to go to a top-rated hotel the initial night, do my laundry, and get my bearings. Afterwards I would transfer to a youth hostel, and stay there for the remainder of my time in that particular country.
Driving from the remote airport, the land was flat, ochre-colored and barren. By way of a divided four-lane highway, we shifted from a bleak desert setting to an affluent residential neighborhood. As it was still dusky outside, the lavish, stucco houses could barely be seen on each side of the road. Many of the homes had black, metal bars on their windows and curled barbed wire across the tops of their walled compounds.
When we arrived at the hotel, it was like a bright light among dull surroundings -- lush landscaping in all shades of green with elaborate fountains and sparkling sprays of water, located in the middle of a hot, dry desert. My room was on the eighth floor, overlooking parts of the bustling city. Tiled floors and contemporary furniture made up the suite. After a short nap, I did my laundry and immediately changed the décor to modern hippie, hanging wet clothes on every available knob and hook.
Once my wash was completed, I walked from the hotel, wearing a long-sleeved dress. Women were to have their shoulders covered when travelling in the Middle East, and I made a practice of following local customs. My goal was to arrive at the American Express office before it became too crowded. In the 60s, this was the place to pick up mail and meet other travelers. From similar adventurers I could learn about the best youth hostels and the most important places to visit in Cairo. On my way there, I viewed an array of boarded-up shops with piles of sandbags in front of their doors. Hardly any people were around and virtually no women. The few men I saw were either in the traditional garb of long, white robes or in western-style, khaki pants and tan shirts.
As I meandered through the streets, I was approached by a young boy, about ten or so. He had dark hair, a coffee complexion, and was wearing shorts and sandals. We were in a city alley so constricted that only donkeys, small carts and pedestrians used it. The unpaved, curving passageway had small, two-story buildings on either side, each built of white-washed, cement-like stone. As was the tradition, apartments were on the top level, and stores with arched doorways were below. The sun reflected off the walls and brightened the alleyway as I walked toward my destination.
The boy told me I had dropped something. “Some papers,” he said.
Looking through my rucksack, I didn’t see anything missing. I asked him to show me the papers, but he said he had left them back a block or so and for me to follow him. My antennae went up. No way was I going to follow this young boy. It could have been a kidnapping. I had heard about tribal warlords abducting young, white women for their harems. Or it could have been as innocent as his wanting me to buy souvenirs from a relative’s shop. Either way, I was not going to follow him.
WINDS OF WAR
When I arrived at the American Express office, the front door was open, yet there was no one around. No young people reading their mail, no employees standing behind counters. I shouted, hello, trying to arouse someone to help me. With no answer, I walked down the narrow hallway to the rear offices. Finally, I came to an open office and saw a middle-aged, red-haired man sitting behind a desk. His head was bent over as he studied some documents. The office was cluttered with books; papers were scattered everywhere. I introduced myself, and asked, “Where is everyone?”
He looked up in surprise, and immediately responded, “What the hell are you doing here?” Shocked by his abrupt manner, I answered softly that I was looking for my mail. John Riley, the local manager, replied that Egypt had been closed to tourists for at least two weeks. “War is about to break out!”
Once I clarified that I had arrived that morning from Pakistan and no one had informed me about the impending situation, he calmed down. However, he stated, I was not to move anywhere. I could not transfer to a youth hostel and had to stay at the Hilton until further notice. John explained that the hotel was now the operational base and refuge for all news media, foreign diplomats, a few businessmen and now, me. Egypt had become way too dangerous. All nonessential people, including his wife and children, had been sent home for safekeeping.
As it was lunch time, John invited me to join him at his nearby family’s apartment. Afterwards, we would walk back to the hotel. He warned, “You are not to be alone on the streets at any time.”
His penthouse apartment had floor to ceiling windows with spectacular views of Cairo and the Nile River. The top floor had been divided into two units. He leased one half and Omar Sharif (the award-winning, movie actor) leased the other. John made us sandwiches which we ate, sitting outside on the balcony, many flights above street level. He told me about sending his family back to America, not wanting them to experience any violence. Changing the subject, John pointed out the historic and religious buildings we could see from his terrace. Leaning on the railing and looking at the Cairo skyline, he told me about the early years of Egypt and the history of the Nile Delta.
Since almost all residents had disappeared during this tense time, we felt free to walk around the outside balcony, surrounding both apartments. We placed our faces close to Omar’s windows, cupping our hands around our eyes to block out the bright sunshine. I was impressed by the lavish private quarters -- very European with stunning antiques, oriental carpets and large paintings. Within the opulent interior, there were also typical furnishings of club chairs, sofas, and family photos. A bridge table was situated in one corner of the living room.
Because John had lived in Cairo for many years, he knew numerous influential people in the Delta section of Egypt. When we returned to the Hilton, he introduced me to the hotel manager, Hank Adler, and requested that he watch over me until it was safe to leave Egypt.
EGYPTIAN PLEASURES
What luck! Hank was in his early thirties, originally from Austria, and fluent in half a dozen languages. He was about six feet tall with dark brown hair and, in my mind, drop-dead gorgeous. If I had to be watched by someone, this was the person I definitely would have chosen.
Hank asked if I would join him later. He was going sailing, one of his favorite pastimes, and I was only too glad to accommodate. Once back at my room, I took another short nap. I had been travelling since the previous night, and this was still my first day in Egypt. Afterwards, I changed my clothes, gathered my camera and towel, and met Hank in the hotel lobby.
His sailboat was close by; and for a couple of hours, we cruised up and down the famous Nile River. The afternoon sky was an unbroken expanse of blue, and the day became quite hot. I was lying on my stomach on the forward platform, in my white-dotted bikini, sunning myself. Raising my head, I watched the Cairo landscape change from city to farmland. In the meantime at the helm of the ship, Hank, muscular and tan, watched me.
As the sun began to set, we pulled into the wharf area and docked the boat. Hank told me about a dinner meeting he had that evening with a German businessman. It was going to be at the top of the Hilton, on the garden terrace, and asked me to accompany him. Obviously, I said, “Yes,” and agreed to meet him there after showering and changing.
The best outfit I had packed was a simple, black, A-lined dress. It was low-cut in the back and hemmed at the knees. I wore high, spiky heels and wrapped my long, brown ponytail into a French twist. I must have looked relatively appealing as Hank had a huge smile on his face as he greeted me, standing to pull back my chair.
The restaurant was softly lit, candles on white-clothed tables. There was a stunning night view of the city beyond. The dinner and atmosphere were perfect; the meeting, however, was sadly boring. Hank’s business partner, a heavy-set older man, Herman Schultz, spoke only German. Although I could catch a few simple phrases, understanding the entire conversation was impossible.
After Mr. Schultz left, Hank and I finished our drinks and joined the few others, dancing in the center of the garden terrace. As we slowly moved to the sentimental sounds of Elvis, he shifted his body and gently pulled me toward him. I could smell soap on his skin as I folded into his arms. We talked quietly, smiling at each other, our bodies lightly touching. With every dance step, he caressed my back and rubbed his fingers along my spine. As we continued to slowly dance, his leg accidentally brushed between my thighs. Embarrassed by the unexpected intimacy, my face turned bright red. He lovingly kissed my cheek and took my hand, escorting me from the restaurant.
Hank clearly took watching over me to heart. The next day, he invited me to go to an unusual Egyptian restaurant. It was a few miles from the streets of Giza, out in the barren desert. Customers had to arrive by camel or horse. He chose horses as he was an excellent rider and knew I had once owned a horse. Because of my limited clothes supply, I looked like a country bumpkin, wearing blue jeans and white sneakers. Hank, however, looked like a refined aristocrat with his two-toned jodhpurs, suede gloves and knee-high boots.
At the barn he picked out two chestnut-colored, Arabian horses. One of the stable hands led them to the riding ring for us to mount. Although I had never been on an Arabian horse, I thoroughly enjoyed the high-prancing, energetic animal and easily took control of him. We circled the ring for a few minutes, getting use to the horses, before taking off through the gates.
We rode with English saddles and bridles and paced our way from the outskirts of Giza into the nearby desert. The land was flat. No sand dunes in sight. Our horses walked and cantered most of the way along the hard-packed, dirt-like sand. When we came upon the restaurant building, I was astonished to see a huge, brown, circus-like tent, possibly three-stories high, standing by itself in the middle of a sandscape. It was surrounded by a few horses, camels, and their assigned attendants.
After we dismounted, the tent side opened and two men in starched uniforms emerged, holding the flaps back for us to enter. We were greeted by many employees, all seeming to know Hank.
“Welcome Mr. Adler,” they murmured, slightly bowing as he passed.
Our table was a mat on the carpeted floor, surrounded by hand-woven cushions. A large rice bowl was in the center with different types of beans, onions and tomatoes, filling the plates alongside. Spoons and fingers were our only utensils as we sat cross-legged on the cushions. In this elaborate surrounding of gilded chandeliers, oriental carpets and numerous staff, we were the only customers.
While we ate, we were entertained by high-pitched music coming from a small orchestra in the rear of the tent. Before long, a young, barefoot lady arrived, dressed in a turquoise, sequined outfit. The diaphanous pants had silver beads and coins attached, hanging from the lower part of her hips. The short top covered her shoulders but stopped right below her breasts, leaving her midriff bare. As the music continued, she moved slowly to the rhythm, softly clicking her finger cymbals. The flowing pants were waving with every step, the beads and coins were tinkling. She seemed to be in a trance, her body arched backward, her long hair swaying down her torso. We sat, looking up at her, our eyes following her every motion. It was my first time seeing a belly dancer, and I was absolutely captivated by the sensual, snake-like movements. Not just her stomach but her hands, shoulders and neck all stirred and twisted to the eerie sounds of the background music.
By the time we left the restaurant, darkness had arrived. We mounted our horses and commented about the sparkling lights in the distance. Before we returned to Cairo, Hank said he wanted to show me Egypt’s famous, son et lumieres program. It was a recorded narrative about a pharaoh who was entombed within the Great Pyramid of Giza. The two pyramids nearby once contained the bodies of other pharaohs. In this historic play, without actors, a tale is told using synchronized lights, voices and music.
We rode for quite some time before we approached the area. Hundreds of folding chairs, maybe even a thousand chairs, were lined in a semicircle in front of the three pyramids. There was music playing, and when a deep voice came over the loud speaker, one of the pyramids would light up. We sat on our horses at the back of the ring of chairs, watching the changing lights and listening to the recordings. Hank explained the historic significance to me, interpreting the nuances of Egypt’s ancient customs. We were watching a play that no one else had attended. Except for us, the whole arena was completely empty.
After about an hour, we left the program area, heading for the stables. As we rode away from the lights of the pyramids, a small group of beggars approached us. They wanted money, but Hank said, “No.” With that, one of the men grabbed the reins of Hank’s horse and shouted for his men to attack. Hank raised his riding crop and smashed it down on the robber’s head. As he fought off the men, he yelled, “Run, Bobbi. Get out of here!”
I kicked my horse and off I went. With no idea where to go except to head toward the city lights, my horse and I flew from the robbers as fast as we could go. It was incredibly dark, lit only by a cloud-obscured moon. I was racing on a flat path that was bordered by ten-foot-deep excavations. Because of Egypt’s extensive history, elaborate digs were continuously being performed, and the area around Giza was prime excavation territory. Fleeing the area, I could scarcely see the outlines of deep cellars and high ladders. Bending over my horse’s neck, I encouraged him to go faster, hoping we would not fall into one of the nearby openings. After a few tense minutes, Hank caught up with me, and we continued at full speed.
Out of breath and with my heart pounding, we dismounted at the Giza stables. Our horses were covered in white sweat and were breathing hard when we handed them to the grooms. Hank explained what had happened and asked for a cab to take us back to Cairo.
The taxi ride back to our hotel was solemn and quiet. I curled up in one corner of the backseat and mulled over the dangers we had just avoided. Hank wrapped his arms around me, pulling me gently toward him, and gave me a soft kiss as I nestled into his chest. When we reached the hotel, he hugged me good-night. There had been enough excitement that night, and we had already planned to be together the following day.
DAY ONE
Upon reaching my room, I fell into an utterly exhausted sleep. Hours later, earsplitting sirens awakened me. Right on the dot of nine o’clock, Monday morning, the air raids began.
A uniformed hotel employee banged on my door. “You must hurry. Follow me,” he ordered. I dressed, grabbed my purse and was escorted to an outside staircase. The elevators were not to be used. Since my room was on the eighth floor, I had to go down that many flights plus two others to reach the basement where all the hotel guests were sequestered. I had a fear of heights; and the open-grated, metal steps of the outside staircase, high above the pavement, was terrifying. I could see people carrying placards, passing out leaflets and shouting into megaphones way below me.
While we waited in the basement for information, we sat and talked about the bombings we were hearing in the distance. Having had no access to current events for almost two months, I asked the associated press reporters for an update. Bill McDonald, a Chicago correspondent, told me that when President Nasser gained control of Egypt, the country prospered. Dams were built and irrigation expanded throughout the Delta. He was well-liked but known as a tough ruler. Nasser had close ties to the Soviet Union and the two countries had numerous intelligent exchanges throughout the years. However, in one exchange, incorrect information was given about Israel amassing troops on Syria’s border. Consequently, Nasser began gathering his own troops on both Israel’s border and areas overlooking the Straits of Tiran. To Israel, Nasser’s actions were viewed as an act of war. They responded immediately with pre-emptive strikes at military air fields and Cairo’s international airport.
As soon as the all-clear whistle sounded, the basement crowd returned to the main hotel, this time using elevators. I left with them and had just opened my room door when the telephone rang. Hank wanted to know how I had fared and to make sure everything was all right. While we were talking, another air-raid siren sounded. Again, I was escorted to the fire escape and descended the eight plus flights to the basement. Once the all-clear whistle sounded for the second time, I immediately went to the front desk and asked that my room be changed to a lower floor. The clerk gave me a room on the second floor and some bellhops helped me make the change.
DAY TWO
For the first two days, as the air raids sounded, the hotel guests were going between their rooms, the basement and the hotel grounds. I never saw Hank during these hectic cycles, but he called numerous times. Amid the sirens, I made the most of my confined period by playing tennis, swimming in the pool, and reading – all within the high walls of the Hilton compound.
One day, Bill asked me to join him for a tour of Cairo. I was eager to leave the hotel grounds as I had now been there for four days (two on my own and two as a captive). Since the bombings had been miles away at the military and Cairo airports, I felt completely safe. Three reporters and I left in a taxi. I was sitting in the backseat between two of them while Bill sat in the front with the driver. As we drove, they gave me the latest news: Israel had destroyed Egypt’s entire air force.
The road was basically empty; no other cars and hardly any people. We hadn’t been on the road for more than a few minutes when we were stopped by a checkpoint guard and asked to show Identifications. Our taxi was immediately surrounded at gunpoint by a group of black-uniformed officials. A young soldier scanned the inside, stopping to stare at me. I tried to look as if I were unconcerned when he asked for our documents. All the reporters had their press credentials. I had nothing. One of the reporters slipped me his ID after he had showed it to the officer. As I passed it to the guard, my fingers began to twitch. Thank goodness the “PRESS” card had no photo on it, and the guard could not read English. Although we completed the inspection, we couldn’t continue and had to return. I don’t think I fully breathed until we were some distance from the checkpoint. Then all at once, the five of us gave a huge sigh of relief.
When we approached the Hilton, another correspondent drew near. Mike Landsky was a large man – well over six feet tall and relatively heavy. His striped shirt was soaked with blood. His face was covered with black and blue bruises, one eye was swollen shut, and his head was bloated like a basketball. He told our group that he had sneaked into a nearby building to take photos from its rooftop. Some officials in the street had spied him and they entered the complex to catch him and destroy his film.
We had been told days ago that photos were not to be taken at any time. The policemen ran up the narrow stairs while Mike attempted to hide. Carrying nightsticks, the officers caught up to him on the staircase. He was holding onto the side railings, facing and forcefully kicking them. As they charged up the steps, one officer reached over between the others, and hit him with a belt. The buckle slashed into Mike’s face, bashing his eye. He was temporarily blinded, and they rushed him, giving him a brutal beating. Once they had confiscated his film and camera, they dragged him back to the Hilton and dumped him at the entrance. The hotel staff were cleaning and nursing his wounds when we returned.
DAY THREE
Because the Hilton held almost all the foreigners in the country, the Egyptian army considered it a possible target to pursue. Americans and Israelis were specifically threatened. Evacuation plans were formed by senior U.S. diplomats. There were a total of 567 of us, too large a group for everyone to leave at one time. Consequently, half were ordered to take a train to the port city of Alexandria, about 120 miles west of Cairo. The other half would stay at the Hilton and leave on the day of the rescue.
A few hours after the escorted first-half left the hotel, it was decided to send four more. This small group was made up of Jack Howard (a husky, African-American dentist), Sven Johnson (a blond, Swedish diplomat), Mary Grigg (a Rhodes Scholar’s wife, living in Alexandria), and me. I said a heart-felt good-bye to Hank and joined the three for a cab ride to the station.
When we boarded the train, without any hotel guide, the unapproved fare came to $100 apiece (over $1,000 each in today’s adjusted currency rate). The conductor would not accept anything but dollar bills -- no American Express Traveler’s Checks nor any other currency, not even Egyptian money. Because three of us did not have that much American cash, Jack paid the total amount for our tickets. We settled ourselves in first-class seats and watched Cairo fade into the distance. Thoughts of the sights and sounds of our past ordeal were personal, and we were unusually quiet for the long ride through the countryside. As time passed, I stared at the blackness beyond the window, wondering what was going to happen next.
It was an hour or so before midnight when we arrived in Alexandria. We hailed a taxi and Jack told the driver to take us to a hotel. We drove past crowds of men, yelling and shooting rifles into the air. Because we were non-Egyptians, none of the first five hotels we approached would accept us. Finally, we found one that would admit us, and we checked in at the front desk. Mary and I shared a room on the second floor, near the top of the staircase. There was no one to help us with our luggage, so she and I hauled our bags upstairs. Just as we walked in, there was a huge explosion. The harbor had been bombed; the ground erupted; and as it turned out, our hotel was right on the waterfront.
Immediately, all the lights in the hotel went out. We couldn’t see a thing. At the Cairo Hilton, the staff had come and ushered us to safety. In Alexandria, we were left to our own devices. Having just arrived, we had no idea where we were supposed to go or even how to get there. From the adjacent corridor, I could hear screaming and crying, and Mary was nowhere to be found. With piercing noises all around, I crawled on my hands and knees in pitch darkness and felt my way down the curved staircase to the first floor.
The lights flickered back on as I passed through an empty dining room. The large, vertical windows, overlooking the Mediterranean, were shattered. Broken glass was sprayed everywhere. Tables were vacant, chairs were knocked over and plates were left, filled with food. I had not eaten since breakfast and took a piece of chicken as I continued through the dimly-lit room.
A hotel attendant found Sven and me wondering near the lobby and put us in a small closet adjacent to the front door, locking it afterwards. Men were coming in from the street, loudly shouting, brandishing firearms over their heads, and yelling at the receptionist. Sven knelt and prayed at one end of the storage closet while I chewed nervously on a drumstick at the other end. We watched the mob action through cracks in the door and saw a gang of wild men running into the hotel. Imagining beatings and rape, I looked on in horror.
As soon as the unruly men moved on, a staff employee located Mary and Jack in an upstairs hallway. We were asked to check out, even though we had just checked in. Luckily, the hotel found us another taxi, and we grabbed our packs and suitcases, leaving immediately before another gang of thugs could appear.
DAYS FOUR AND FIVE
Although it was the beginning of a new day, it was still dark outside when we drove to Mary’s apartment. Along the way, we saw countless buildings with their windows smashed, cars overturned, and roadside fires burning. Because of the imminent danger of war, Mary’s husband had left for Europe, while she, in Europe, had returned to Egypt. Phone lines had been down for days. Consequently, there had been no way to know what each one had been planning. When Mary had initially returned, she thought her apartment was unsafe and chose to stay in Cairo. Now, after our terrifying experience at the Alexandria hotel, she concluded her home was the best choice for us. On the fourth day of war, we left downtown Alexandria and sneaked into her lodgings, located near the outskirts of town.
Mary’s home was on a narrow, palm-lined street in the densely-packed university district. Her neighborhood consisted of two-story structures connected to each other by common side walls. The front of the building bordered the street. The lower level had two doors and a barred window. Above the doors were three windows belonging to Mary’s apartment. Mohammed and his wife, close friends of Mary’s, had occasionally checked her apartment and watered plants while she was out of town. It was not unusual for the ground-floor tenant to sporadically hear a little noise or movement upstairs, so Mary concluded that we would be safe.
For the next forty-eight hours, the four of us stayed hidden in her two-room apartment. Because we had to stay extremely quiet, not wanting to arouse any suspicions, we played cards, read, and slept. Mary’s main room was a small living/dining area. The second room was a bedroom/office combination. Both had heavy oriental carpets over a wood floor. Like most Arab homes, the kitchen was on the roof. It was never used while we were there.
Although we could hear shooting in the distance, we kept the curtains drawn at all times; we never peeked. During the day, we moved gently and tried not to walk or stir, whispering constantly. We slept on the floor and used towels for blankets. No lights were allowed at any time. Mohammed and his wife sneaked us food as well as any information regarding our departure. It was surreal; I felt like an alternative Anne Frank.
Sven and Jack played card games and looked through magazines. Confined to the apartment for a second day, they became bored and Sven started to read cook books while Jack took up knitting. Mary was engrossed with writing letters and transcribing details of university life in Egypt. Periodically, I would join a card game, but most of the time, I read books. I was fascinated by the city’s history. I read that it had been established in 331 B.C. by the famous Greek warrior, Alexander the Great. Soon after, the metropolis developed into the largest, most advanced city, and became the capital of the Mediterranean world. Its renowned library is celebrated today; and as Mary recounted, the local people took enormous pride in Alexandria’s educational system.
Finally, Mohammed told us to get ready to evacuate. We were to take a cab in the middle of the night and reach the wharf region by early morning. A ship from the U.S. Navy’s Sixth Fleet would be arriving to rescue us.
DAY SIX
Mary’s friends arranged for a taxi to meet us at 3 A.M. sharp. With our bags packed, we hurriedly said good-bye to Mohammed and his wife, and silently climbed into the vehicle for a long ride to the international port.
On our way there, we had to drive through a military base that fronted the ship yard. As the blackness began to fade and the day dawned, the driver cleared security and was told to stay on the main road. By doing so, we had to pass between hundreds of chanting troops, assembled in a great square. As we advanced toward the gigantic crowd, we could see that they were hanging a figure in effigy. The image, dressed in Western clothes, swung on a rope as the men chanted for justice. The driver drove slowly and cautiously, maneuvering between the shouting soldiers. They were so close to our taxi, if the windows had been open, I could have touched them. All four of us put our heads between our knees and placed jackets over our bodies.
Luckily, the soldiers were occupied with the hanging and ignored our vehicle. When we crossed the base, we only had a short distance to drive before reaching the docks. As we approached, a clear image of a silver ship was outlined against the early morning sky. We could easily see the Stars and Stripes flying above it. What a beautiful sight! The four of us were thrilled. We were finally in a protected haven.
We took our luggage, thanked the driver for getting us there safely, and walked to the pier. The customs compound was a narrow building, perpendicular to the docks. As soon as we entered, we were told to put our luggage on a two-foot-high bench and wait for an inspector. While we stood around, I looked at the others in this gigantic customs room. There were only about a dozen or so Egyptian security officers, but each one had a rifle. By shouting orders and pointing guns, those few men kept our large assembly of non-Egyptians under their complete control.
At the customs platform adjacent to mine, a few policemen were mocking an elderly gentleman. He had thick, white hair, pale skin, and looked about eighty. He was small and frail, wearing a black, three-piece suit. The soldiers circled him, patting him down, searching his pockets. Although he showed them his English passport, I assumed he was Jewish. They lifted him and placed him on the customs bench. After finding a gold watch in his vest, one of the officers dangled it, back and forth, in front of him. He said it was his grandfather’s and had meant a great deal to him and his family. The officer closed his hand around the watch while the others laughed; then they all walked away, carrying the watch with them.
The Englishman lowered his head and sobbed, tears trickling down his face. I felt so helpless. A few courageous men came over and helped him climb down from the customs bench. With their assistance, he walked toward the ship’s entrance; his body bent forward, his shoulders shaking.
Now it was my turn to be examined. Nothing was said to me directly, but my suitcase was completely ransacked. Everything was taken out and placed on the wood platform, studied, and then roughly pushed back in. The film in my suitcase was taken, and in spite of my pleas, it was not returned. I explained that the film canisters contained photos taken months ago featuring other countries. The only pictures I had of Egypt were on the film, still in my camera. It made no difference, except the official then opened my camera and confiscated that film, too. I passed inspection without any other major harassment and was told to move on.
With that order, I walked to the ramp, carrying my suitcases, and boarded the ship. Soon we crossed the Mediterranean on our way to Greece. The U.S. Navy’s Sixth Fleet transported all 567 of us. June 10th was a beautiful, sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. And it was the end of the Six-Day War.
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Final Notes:
1. A few days before we arrived in Greece, there had been a Coup d’état. The Greek army had seized their government and suspended its Constitution. I stayed only a few days in Greece and then flew to Nairobi, Kenya, East Africa, to continue the rest of my trip around the world.
2. When I was in Pakistan, I wrote my family that I was going to Egypt. After hearing of the June conflict, my parents were concerned for my safety. My father contacted numerous radio stations in the New York area, requesting that they ask their audiences if anyone knew of my whereabouts. No one did. I called my family when I arrived in Greece and assured them of my wellbeing.
3. Once we were dispersed throughout the ship, I never saw any of those mentioned in the article again. Although the story is true, the names are fictional.
4. Months later, the U.S. Government sent me a bill for my rescue and transportation by the Navy’s Sixth Fleet. It was two hundred dollars or over two thousand dollars by today’s adjusted currency rate. When I wrote Congress, protesting the invoice, I explained that I was now a student and unemployed. I also stated that I was the only evacuee that had not been a correspondent, diplomat, or business person. Those individuals, I added, had their invoices paid by their employers. Congress eventually forgave me the bill.
© 2011 Barbara Phelps Wolverton. All rights reserved.
Climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro - By Flight Attendant Bobbi Wolverton
Ominous thunder cracked in the distance as we walked down the portable stairs at the Nairobi International Airport. The day had been warm and sunny but the sky was graying rapidly and bad weather was approaching. This was the beginning of East Africa’s notorious rainy season. It was April, 1972.
We were heading to one of the largest tea plantations in Kenya, four hours north of Nairobi. Ron, my husband, was on an assignment for a fishing magazine. He was writing about an unusual exporting business, the manufacturing of fishing flies by local Africans. I was to photograph the business and the flytyers. Once our jobs were completed, we wanted to experience more of Africa. Ron had received a long-awaited sabbatical from the University of California, while I, a flight attendant, had obtained a leave of absence (World Airways). We would be on our own for the next eighteen months. Knowing our time frame, we decided to travel around the world, starting with African countries.
As inter-country, public ground transportation was practically nonexistent from Nairobi, we flew 150 miles south to Arusha, Tanzania. Using my airline pass, we had to pay only a few dollars of appropriate taxes for our flight tickets. Once there we saw numerous pictures of Mt. Kilimanjaro throughout the city. At 19,340 feet, it was the highest mountain on the African continent and the highest free-standing mountain in the world. Arusha was a major city in that part of Africa, and one that most climbers visited. I had always wanted to see Mt. Kilimanjaro, and now we were only a few miles away. We took a bus to Moshi, a small rural town located on the equator at the foot of the mountain. Unfortunately when we arrived, the mountain was enveloped in dark, heavy clouds.
PREPARATIONS
While in Moshi, we encountered Penny Lough and her sister, Pat, along with fellow Canadians, Marion Macaula and David Eskine. The four of them had been hitchhiking around East Africa when we met. Young adventurers like us would converge at inexpensive youth hostels, exchanging local information and experiences. We were all staying at one of the few hotels in town: the local YMCA. It was a two-story, cinderblock building with a swimming pool. The sparse but clean room that Ron and I shared had two single beds, a night stand and one small window. A single bulb attached to ceiling wires lit the room. There was a simple, communal bathroom at the end of the hall. Because we were on an incredibly tight budget, we were pleased that the overnight rate was only two dollars each.
Jill and Jacques Smith from Australia met the six of us the next evening. They were on an extended trip, working odd jobs on their way around the world. It was raining outside and our group of strangers lounged around the “Y” lobby, discussing the possibility of the eight of us attempting a climb.
Dave asked, “Do you think we should actually try?”
“Of course,” I answered. “We’re here. Why not?”
“If we make the summit in this terrible weather, it’ll definitely be against all odds. This is one tough mountain.” replied Ron.
To the uninitiated, this climb appeared to be nothing more than a long walk. In reality, however, it was an exceedingly difficult journey with only half the climbers achieving success. Nearly everyone experiences altitude sickness, and each year a dozen or so actually die on the mountain.
Three Germans heard our discussion, and added their opinions to the mix. Peter Hirschi, Carl Esser and his brother, Jochen, sat with us while we explored the costs of climbing gear, guides and food. We could hire guides to carry all our belongings, to set up sleeping bags, to buy food and to make our meals. Because we opted to do everything ourselves and carry our own packs, the price was one-tenth what most hikers paid. The young Germans thought the cost was in their budget, and, unexpectedly, decided to join us.
The next day the eleven of us gathered at the Morangu Hotel. As the base site, it was the place to pay the required climbing fees and rent winter equipment. Mrs. Haas, one of the two elderly innkeepers, informed us that the Tanzanian Government had just raised the per person climbing charge to one hundred dollars. However, if we could carry our own packs, we could do it for much less. Because we were all young (I was the oldest at 30), and could carry our own camping gear, we would definitely be able to lower the rate.
We negotiated the hiring of two guides and two porters. The government demanded we hire one guide to show us the trail, and another guide to descend if any hiker couldn’t make the total trip. One porter would carry extra food and cooking utensils, and the other would carry supplies required by the porters and guides themselves. Two guides and two porters were the bare minimum for the climb. By carrying our own packs, and changing our money with a street vendor via the black market, the hundred dollar fee became twenty dollars per person.
Once our group had the price established and the fees paid, we decided to begin the ascent the following morning. Consequently, only a few hours were left to arrange our personal clothing, the communal cooking apparatus, and to do the grocery shopping necessary for five days on the mountain. Our food items were purchased at the local market, a tent-covered arrangement of connecting booths. We bought bread from one booth, vegetables from another, snacks and sweets from still another and utensils from an awning-covered shop at the end of the market. The tab for the groceries and supplies came to eight dollars each. After splitting the items purchased between eleven backpacks, we returned to the “Y” for an early night of sleep.
FIRST DAY
Since sunrise there had been a steady drizzle that continued the rest of the morning. The sky was gray and gloomy with heavy rain predicted for most of the foreseeable future. We gathered once again at the Morangu Hotel where complete confusion reigned. We listened to last-minute instructions when some began to doubt the wisdom of our climb.
“This is not a good day to start, nor will it be for another few months,” declared the German proprietress. “The rainy season has begun. If you are still going, I hope you are sufficiently prepared. It will be a difficult climb.”
“Should we wait?” asked Carl.
“No.” I declared. “We’ve already bought our food and our fees are paid.”
With my assertion, we all agreed to start the climb and moved to the hotel’s wide veranda to prepare our backpacks. Most of us were wearing jeans and long-sleeved shirts but a few had positive thoughts and were wearing shorts and T-shirts. Everyone, however, carried rain ponchos. Hearing about the freezing conditions at the summit, we rented snow boots, fur-lined mittens, wool hats and face masks. A few even rented heavy jackets and long-johns.
Finally, the cold-weather essentials were packed and weighed. As our backpacks were roughly forty pounds each, we lifted them with a little help and began the first day’s ascent. The sun surprisingly broke through the clouds, giving us high hopes of a dry journey. From the hotel, we walked along a dirt road in one bunch, chatting excitedly as we began the seventy-five mile adventure.
“Po’lee, Po’lee,” the guides commanded in unison.
Slow down, they said in Swahili. This was to be an exceedingly long trek. We had started at 4,500 feet and would reach 9,000 feet by that evening, walking eleven miles to the Mandara hut. Constructed by the Tanzanian Government a few years before, it was a fifteen-foot-long, square building with metal bunk beds, a fireplace and a tin roof.
Imitating the slower pace set by the guides; we passed small native homes, sheltered by towering eucalyptus and banana trees. Excited youngsters ran out to greet us, offering bluebells and buttercups and calling, “Jumbo,” the universal greeting of East Africa. It was from these Chagga children that I bought a hiking stick, carved with the image of a snake, curling around and up to a bundle of string wrapped around the handle. I paid 25 cents and it turned out to be a great investment.
Once past the distractions of the rural villages, I began to study the rhythmic motion of the porter walking ahead of me. He balanced a fifty-pound bundle of supplies on his head and stepped deliberately over mossy rocks and slippery roots, never tilting his head nor losing control. His wiry, brown neck swayed back and forth as if it alone were responsible for the well-being of the supplies. The top of his head remained absolutely motionless. With each calculated step, his movements reminded me of that constant cautioning message, “Po’lee, Po’lee,” and once again, I slowed my pace.
From the dusty, dirt road we followed the guides onto a well-worn trail, going deep into a jungle setting. It was getting hotter and muggier as we continuously trekked uphill. Being a curious person, I looked around, wondering about the different aspects of nature. Gazing at the overhead vines and arching trees, I saw many flowers intertwined among them. We were in a true rain forest, enveloped by heavy clouds that now surrounded the mountain.
After an hour or so of walking on an upward slant, I stopped to inspect an intriguing black mass, crawling across the trail. It was three to four inches wide and many yards long. I was curious about these insects and knelt to take a closer look. There were many thousands of dark mahogany ants, moving in an undulating column across the path. With my temporary pause, several dozen took the opportunity to run over my boots. Before I realized the viciousness of these little creatures, they began to strike. Under my jeans, in my socks, up my legs, they attacked.
I leaped backward and brushed madly at the merciless ants while Ron hurried to me. I was like a crazy person, hollering loudly as I jumped about in a frenzy, my arms flailing wildly. We quickly pulled most of the little monsters off, but many defied our efforts, their tiny pincers tightly clamped on all parts of my body. We forcibly removed the stubborn ones, but some were expertly hidden, indiscreetly chewing and biting me throughout the day. Incredibly, the last ants were not discovered until the second day of the climb. This shocking experience was a powerful lesson; it was my introduction to Africa’s infamous army ants.
Back on the walk, the trail had changed to a rutted tract. The dirt had a deep, reddish hue, and the slant of elevation became more obvious. I noticed my breathing was further pronounced and I would need to rest more often. My feet began to hurt as my new boots had not been conditioned sufficiently. I had large painful blisters on both sides of my toes, and with every step, I was now in misery. I sat on a log and changed to sneakers, leaving the laces loosely tied. I stuffed the new boots into my pack.
Soon afterwards, the rains began. Big, single drops at first. Then all at once, the rain came in heavy, sliding sheets. Ron and I ran to an abandoned shack but were completely drenched before we had covered thirty feet. Suddenly, the sky was lit by a flash of lightning, then another. A storm was definitely upon us, this time not soon to pass. We huddled together under a collapsing thatch roof. Since the shack gave us barely any protection, we decided to move on. We walked the remaining miles bent into a driving downpour, the wind lashing at our bodies. I was staring outward through a curtain of rain and could barely see Ron before me. It was as if someone were pouring a bucket of water over my head.
The ground, bubbling and steaming, turned into a threatening mud slide. The quiet brook that once lined the trail had accelerated into a flowing torrent. The rushing wave of water spilled over and sent a threatening tributary down the path, etching a deep split in the center, creating a seemingly bottomless crevice. I paused to examine the newly-created crack and saw that, although it was only five inches wide at the top, amazingly it was at least three vertical feet deep. My mud-streaked sneakers straddled the narrow gap as the ragged edges became more obvious. With Ron’s urging, I moved to the side of the trail and continued the climb. I bent forward, compensating for my heavy backpack and proceeded uphill, going deeper into the dark green forest.
As the heavy rain continued, Ron hiked on ahead and disappeared from my view. We were now walking at our own pace, spread out along the muddy trail. Trudging over slick rocks, my lungs and legs were feeling the strain of the upward climb. Many wet hours later, I struggled to arrive at the first hut just as night was falling. It had taken a total of seven slow hours for me to walk the eleven miles. I was the last of our party to arrive at Mandara hut.
After the day’s drenching hike, there was not a dry spot on me. My outer clothes had absorbed the mud, rain and sweat, soaking right through to my underwear -- and even soaking through the extra supply of clothes in my backpack. Everything was wet from the unrelenting downpour. I stripped immediately, climbed into my soggy sleeping bag, hoping to gain a little warmth, and shivered uncontrollably.
The ten others, having arrived some time before me, were busy wringing out their gear. Each of the five, double-decker bunk beds was festooned with walking sticks, wedged horizontally into the springs. Wet clothes draped from the thin sticks and hung from every possible knob and hook. The arms of shirts and the legs of pants protruded unceremoniously from our sticks, looking like dancing scarecrows in the shimmering firelight. It was a vain hope that the clothes would be dry by morning. Moisture continued to penetrate every gap in the cabin.
While the clothes dripped endlessly on the already wet floor, Jill squatted in front of a fireplace, preparing dinner of hot vegetable soup and rice. Revived and relaxed, I joined the others around a heavy wood table, re-iterating the first day’s dramas. I learned that army ants eat no vegetation and move in a gigantic swarm of hundreds of thousands. Although, they are extremely tiny, they overwhelm their prey by their sheer numbers. Jacques added a story about African prisoners being tied across army ant columns. They would be completely eaten during the next few hours, with only their bones left to indicate a person had once been there.
The cabin was warm and the fireplace had a soft glow emanating from it. The room was filled with shadows as embers continued to burn in the night. Our bunk beds had thin, heavily-used mattresses with wire springs that swayed in the middle. We lay on our bunks, completely exhausted and slept intermittently in our soggy sleeping bags. Throughout the night we could hear the pounding rain, bouncing off the metal roof like granite marbles. We wondered about the chances of continuing the climb.
SECOND DAY
The early morning grayness brought sharp flashes of lightning and thunder. A savage storm was once more upon us. As the streaming rain rattled the roof, Ron asked if I still wanted to climb the mountain. I knew it would be miserable to hike in these conditions, but I was determined. During our grim discussion, four New Zealanders stopped at our cabin on their way down from the top. They had travelled the last two days in constant rain. With no relief in sight, the three Germans and Ron decided to return to Moshi and spend their days sightseeing the nearby wildlife parks.
The remaining seven awkwardly donned our still damp clothes, packed the remaining wet objects, and separated our supplies. Any item that was absolutely not necessary was given to the returning four. I exchanged my heavy, new boots for additional food and supplies, hoisted my pack, and grabbed my walking stick.
All of a sudden there was a noise from the attached annex. A door opened and out slipped five Japanese youths. They were wearing sandals instead of hiking boots and were carrying small umbrellas instead of rain ponchos. We smiled hello at this bizarre sight of an Oriental umbrella brigade, and chuckled to ourselves about how differently we were equipped.
Following the Japanese, we began our own trek into the steaming dark rain forest. My sneakers sloshed in the mud-soaked trail as we passed dripping tangles of vines. We were climbing swiftly through the damp shade of jungle trees. Peering through a shield of rain, we walked into a dense, green thicket. The knotted branches overhead formed lush arches across the path. Stray shafts of sunlight began to filter through the trees, bouncing off mud-covered grounds and bringing hope that the rain was finally abating.
After an additional hour of hiking, the shower slowly diminished and we broke out into a vast, golden meadow, waving with glittering grasses. I watched the sun melt the last of the mist and felt my clothes beginning to dry. Everything smelled fresh and vivid, and our spirits rose accordingly. We had now climbed above the clouds.
Below us, we saw a gray wreath of billowing dark clouds with black lines streaking through them. We were on an upward path, looking down on the circular clouds -- ones that had held all that rain we had just trudged through. Now we were above this dark mass, and the scenery was breathtaking. The sky was a light blue. Flowers and sunshine were everywhere.
We walked hour after hour up the sunny track, across high altitude meadows, characterized by rolling hills that steadily lifted. As our group hiked across the fields, our individual paces became exclusive. We would slowly separate – some walking faster while others chatting and exploring.
Marion and I stopped to rest by one of the trickling streams flowing through the valley. While contemplating the many varied wild flowers which decorated the meadows, we had a light lunch of cheese and bread. I sat back, enjoying the momentary diversion and took a refreshing sip of alpine water. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain go through my teeth and fragments of porcelain splintered in my mouth. My capped, front tooth had shattered from the icy water. I now had a sharply-pointed tooth right in the front of my mouth. Every breath was excruciating as the cold air passed over the exposed nerve. Before I had much time to dwell on my misery, Peter was spotted rising over a ridge behind us. Being an experienced hiker, he had decided to join our advancing expedition afterall. Enthralled by his amazing pace, we watched as this speeding demon soon overtook us.
After a couple more hours of steady climbing, a slight drizzle began, falling harder the closer we came to Horombo hut. Once more, Marion and I were soaked and our hiking pace began to drag. Over the hills came the smell of burning wood, and we knew we did not have far to go. What a relief to see the white building just on the other side of a small valley, smoke billowing from the top.
My long, wet hair fell in a matted mess as I entered the cabin. With my hand across my mouth, my missing front tooth was hidden from the others -- not only for vanity reasons, but also to keep cold air from touching the exposed nerve. It was good that no one cared how anyone looked. We were simply happy to have finally arrived at Horombo hut. We had now reached 12,000 feet.
There was an advantage to being last at overnight rest areas. The hut was already warm and dinner was prepared. Penny and Dave thoughtfully heated our wet clothes, and Jill handed us steaming cups of mushroom and rice soup.
Soon it was Marion’s and my turn to stoke the fire and shift the clothes. Because the dilapidated flue had become completely blocked during the last hour, smoke poured from the inside chimney shaft and out the windows and doors. We were forced to squat on the floor beneath the blanketing cloud, awkwardly turning the clothes in the dimly lit cabin. Many were scorched in the process. Marion and I would periodically race outside to breathe cool, clean air. As we stood there, gasping in the refreshing breeze, we could see the lights of Moshi far below. We marveled at our climb and chuckled about the comforts we had temporarily left behind.
THIRD DAY
The morning was beautifully bright, and we were anxious to begin. We warmed ourselves against the morning chill with a cup of tea and then we were out the door. Throughout the first two hours, we walked on a well-worn path surrounded by dry, ankle-deep grass over rising meadows. The fields were filled with fragrant heather and goldenrod. Marion and I would pause periodically to peer over the edge to the valley below, impressed with the magnificent expanse of a scenic African countryside.
Before long, the terrain leveled and all trees disappeared. We came upon a wide, gravel area, stretching for miles across a wind-swept saddle between the two peaks of Kilimanjaro. The sharp-edged Mawenzi Peak rose in the east. Our destination, the snow-capped Kibo Peak, rose in the west. The grueling seven-mile trail, expanding between the two peaks, crossed over a brown, hard-packed desert. It was flat and broad, dotted with small cacti and dark red, lava rocks. On the far side we could see the shining metal roof of Kibo Hut, our goal for that evening. As the wind picked up, Marion hiked on ahead, and I was left to walk the saddle alone.
The empty sounds of a high altitude desert were fascinating to experience. There was no noise, none at all except for the loud thumping of my beating heart and the scraping of my shoes. These small sounds seemed to vibrate across the still desert. Periodically a chilling crosswind would rush by, then abruptly halt, and, once again, a deathlike silence prevailed. It was a stillness that seemed extreme in its intensity.
The effects of hiking at 15,000 feet were beginning to show. It took me three tiresome hours to walk the seven-mile desert trail. My feet felt like they were filled with lead. Leaning on my walking stick, I could only manage to complete a couple hundred yards or so before stopping for a substantial rest. At every step my lungs were fighting for air. This time I was not the last to reach the hut.
Jacques and Jill were also straining under the high-altitude conditions. Their knees were sore and swollen and each step became a cumbersome chore. With continual encouragement, the guides’s support, and their own sheer determination, they finally reached the sanctuary of Kibo hut.
They joined us as we lay on the side of the A-shaped, corrugated roof, soaking up the last of the sun’s heat. It was a hallucinatory spell we were feeling. With the extreme altitude scorching our brains, we felt as high as a kite. We were experiencing an unusually wonderful moment as we watched the vanishing sunset, laughing and marveling at what we had just accomplished.
The sun sets quickly on the equator. It was less than fifteen minutes before the day’s warming rays had vanished. As night fell, so did the temperature. In the cabin we each had a few sips of soup but no one was hungry. We slept two to a bunk to conserve heat and tried to rest in spite of the chilling cold and our violent headaches. The first signs of altitude sickness were encompassing us, and we complained of headaches and nauseous feelings. The wind howled throughout the night; and to add to our misery, hail had begun to fall. The banging on the roof made sleep almost impossible.
FOURTH DAY
August, our guide, knocked on our hut door exactly at 1 a.m. It had been snowing and blowing fiercely all evening. I was secretly hoping that he would tell us to go back to bed until the weather had cleared. Instead, he lit our single gas burner, heated a pot of tea, and told us about the advantages of climbing in snow. Usually, the final ascent is carried out in loose scree, a gravel-like mixture of crushed rock. For every two steps forward, you would slide back one. The snow, however, would hold the scree firmly in place, enabling the hiker to make far better progress.
The sky was black beneath a shroud of snow-laden clouds. We bundled up in our rented wool hats, snow boots and elbow-length mittens, zipping our jackets up to our chins. We left our backpacks at the hut and began the final ascent in pitch darkness. The wind was still blowing and the snow was billowing around us. August led the way, his shining lantern swinging back and forth in a hypnotic fashion that foretold each step. As the snowflakes settled upon the bobbing lantern, melting on its hot surfaces, a slight hiss could actually be heard between the periodic gusts of wind.
Peter, wrapped in a heavy jacket, followed the yellow lantern that August carried. The remaining members of our party treaded closely behind. The assistant guide, Clementi, lighted the rear. From a distance we must have appeared as an eerie ensemble, weaving tediously up the slopes, our ghost-like shapes obscured by the swirling snow. We had not gone more than a hundred yards before Dave became nauseous. Soon afterwards, Marion and Jacques were stepping off the trail, politely turning their backs, and retching in the snow. The rest of us forcibly controlled this relentless urge. It was extremely difficult, and it wasn’t long before Pat, Jill and Peter momentarily left the trail. Only Penny and I miraculously escaped the need to vomit.
Very slowly we crisscrossed our way up the steep, obscured mountain, caught in our own private thoughts. Our upward shuffling forms seemed to flicker in the blowing snow. I watched the light from the lantern leap out along the rising track and counted steps. We would trudge 200 or so feet and stop to rest, rubbing our mittens, stamping our boots and breathing in the icy night air. The higher we went, the more our lungs fought for oxygen. I leaned forward on my walking stick, bending my aching head down, and wishing for the soothing heat of the equator sun.
After more than two hours of steady climbing and resting, we reached a cave approximately halfway to the top. Moving to the rear of the dark shelter, away from the cutting wind, we huddled around a glowing lantern. Our faces disappeared in the dark pockets of our hoods as we bundled together in hopes of sharing a little warmth. August and Clementi stretched out on the cold, rough ground and tried to sleep. Even they, experienced altitude trekkers, were feeling the effects of the high elevation.
Jacques and Jill, having climbed through the deep snow in sneakers, had developed frozen feet. For some reason, they had decided not to rent snow boots. Their knees were swollen and they both had been nauseous countless times; they were now too weak to continue.
“We’ll wait in the cave until daylight,” Jacques decided. “Then we’ll go back down.”
Hearing their plans, I said I would stay with them. But with the support from the others, and the fear of freezing to death in the cold cave, I changed my mind. Sadly waving good-bye to our Australian comrades, we continued another hour of monotonous traversing in dark blizzard conditions. Then the snow stopped.
The sky began to softly brighten. First we saw light yellow, then a spreading gold, and finally a brilliant orange and a shocking pink. Dave tried to capture the contrasting colors on film, but his fingers and camera shutter froze in a matter of seconds. Photographs in this wind and at this temperature were impossible. The sun rose majestically before us, casting its rays over Kilimanjaro. Now we could see the summit. It seemed very close and gave us confidence to continue. Little did we know that it would take almost three more hours for us to reach the top.
Onward we climbed, watching the footsteps formed in the snow ahead. The pace was slow and tedious. “Po’lee, Po’lee,” August warned. Peter and Dave were still weak and nauseous. Many times we would have given up if it weren’t for the encouragement of the others. Even Jacques and Jill cheered us from far below. We waved and shouted in return but we were too high for them to see. They saw nothing but our zigzagging tracks in the snow of the mountain.
Finally, the wind-torn flags on top of Gillman’s Point were sighted. We tried to hasten our pace; but our bodies refused. Po’lee, Po’lee was still in effect. Sometimes I could only take four tiny, baby steps before stopping to suck in air. Shuffling along, my breathing became much more difficult. I leaned forward on my walking stick and dropped my head to rest on my arm. The climb seemed to be never-ending.
The sun was completely up now, and with each step, the temperature increased. We were no longer freezing, and when sheltered from the wind, we actually felt quite warm. Our rest periods contained extra time for eating snow and licking icicles. Beauty surrounded us and we took every advantage to stop and enjoy it. The scenery was breathtaking. Far below we could see the brown desert, silhouetted by the sharply pointed Mawenzi Peak. After the saddle ridge, we could see the snow fields and our long traversing tracks. We felt as if we were on top of the world.
Not too far ahead was Gilman’s Point. Pat and Peter reached it first and were snapping pictures as we crossed over the rise. Pat next attained the higher crest of Uhuru Peak, the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro, smiled happily at the cameras, and immediately vomited. She then announced, “I have officially christened the mountain.”
Part Two:
Sheltered from the wind, we stood behind large snow mounds and looked into the center crevice, eleven hundred feet deep. It was intimidating with massive, light blue glaciers, sharply dividing the overflowing crest. Our delight at reaching the top was immense and we stood in awe for quite some time. Surprisingly, the one-and-a-half-mile-wide crater had claimed quite a few hikers throughout the years. Because of the lack of oxygen, people became mentally confused. Some have actually jumped into the steep crater and their bodies are never retrieved.
The sign-in notebook, within a closed container, was filled with names and addresses of climbers, dating back ten years. We quickly signed and snapped the obligatory pictures as the wind picked up. It was sharp and fierce as if daring us to stay another moment at the peak. With one last long look over the valley below, we submitted to nature’s demand and began the descent.
Marion yelled, “Let’s go. I’m freezing.” Without any hesitation we were off -- bounding vertically down the snow-filled fall line, leaping outward and dropping ten feet with each jump. While it took the group almost seven hours to trek six miles upward to the summit, Marion and I made it down to Kibo hut in only two hours. As we descended, the heat increased; and we quickly shed our heavy jackets, hats and mittens.
Descending was an indescribable pleasure. We laughed, joked and sang silly songs along the way. By 10 a.m., we had arrived at Kibo hut.
The elation of the climb was now completely gone and all of us collapsed from exhaustion. Blinding black tiredness came over us, and the cabin looked like a war zone with bodies lying all around. I don’t think anyone moved for at least three hours. August then knocked on our door and warned us of an approaching storm. We would have to leave immediately. We packed and cleaned Kibo hut as the clouds rolled in. Hoisting our packs, we descended another eleven miles. We crossed the desert without a stop and continued down the washed-out trail. Periodically, I would spot tracks of bare feet in the muddy path. Jacques and Jill must have had such swollen feet that even their sneakers became too tight.
There was still a smattering of daylight when we reached Horombo hut. The clouds had already dispersed and presented no immediate threat. The fourth day was the hardest of the Mt. Kilimanjaro climb. We had walked twenty-three miles. First we climbed almost four thousand feet to the summit, and then we descended almost six and a half thousand feet past Kibo Hut to Horombo hut. After a quick bowl of soup, we folded into our bunk beds and fell fast asleep.
FIFTH DAY
While getting ready to leave, we noticed the Japanese group was now returning from the peak. They had made it to the top a few hours after we had. They had climbed with open umbrellas during the heat of the day but without sunglasses. The unrelenting rays had reflected off the fresh white snow and into their eyes, giving them temporary blindness. Their guide was leading them down. Each one had his hand on the shoulder of the one before him; the other hand carried a black umbrella, warding off the sun’s heat and brightness.
After bandaging our swollen feet, we lifted our backpacks and began the final stage of the climb -- a twenty-one mile hike to the base. The early morning dew dampened our sneakers and cooled our blistered feet. We crossed back through the valley and over the numerous streams, stopping only to pick rainbow-colored wild flowers. We were now moving at a fast pace.
Four hours later we arrived at Mandara Hut and met up with Jacques and Jill. The porters had made wreaths of pink everlasting flowers, colorful garlands intertwined into circles. We proudly donned them on our heads, took pictures, and celebrated with ice cold beer. We laughed hilariously at our achievement. Our giddiness was overwhelming. We held our sides and cracked up, tears of laughter rolling down our cheeks. Our euphoria was obviously contagious. The guides and porters, knowing little English, laughed helplessly right alongside us.
My joy was short-lived, however. A few miles after we left the hut, my body began to complain. My progress was agonizingly slow because of the painful blisters on my soles and toes. My feet were so swollen that my worn-out sneakers pinched at every step. Finally I took off my shoes and walked on barefoot, being careful not to step on any sharp stones. As we came toward the small coffee-producing farms of the village, the grass gave way to a gravel road. I sat on a log and re-bandaged my feet with strips from a torn shirt. Gingerly walking down the hill, I now slowed to a snail’s pace. My feet felt like I was walking on shattered glass, and I was, once again, the last of our group procession.
The formerly white shirt which wrapped my feet was dirty and bloody. My clothes were scorched, torn and filthy. My face was smeared with soot and sweat. My head sported a crown of flowers, the broken tooth still throbbed, and I ached all over. Leaning heavily on my walking stick, I continued on the dirt road for the last mile to the Morangu Hotel. The curious Chagga natives came out to meet me, staring pitifully at my Christ-like appearance.
This had been a fabulous journey, and in spite of my throbbing body, I was filled with pure delight. Having discovered strengths and potentials I never imagined, I now felt an unusual elation. By taking the initiative and empowering a group of strangers, I had accomplished an amazing feat. Against all odds, I had done what I had previously thought was impossible. I had climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro.
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Final Notes:
Pat and Penny Lough, had been hitch-hiking through East Africa with Marion Macaula and David Eskine. Peter Hirschi with Carl and Jochen Esser had been touring the nearby game reserves. Jacques and Jill were working their way around the world. I never learned the last names of the Australian couple.
1. Morangu Hotel, the base site, is at 4,500 feet.
2. The Tanzanian Government provided simple huts about ten miles apart:
a. Mandara Hut (9,000 feet)
b. Horombo Hut (12,335 feet)
c. Kibo Hut (15,520 feet).
During the two days of descent, twenty-three and twenty-one miles respectively are walked before stopping for overnight rests.
3. Gilman’s Point is at 18,760 feet.
4. Uhuru Peak is at 19,340 feet.
5. Airlines had reciprocal agreements in 1972. For Ron and me to fly for eighteen months around the world, the cost was $198 each.
6. Climbing today takes seven days and costs thousands of dollars. Ours was 5 days and cost less than $150 each.
© 2011 Barbara (Bobbi) Phelps Cordes Wolverton.
Rev. 3/1/2024