Scaling Kilimanjaro

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Myself and three friends felt we couldn't go to Tanzania without climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. But it turned out not to be my idea of a good time.

Preparing to climb Africa's largest mountain, it transpired, was no easy feat. For some reason it is impossible to make arrangements over the phone in Tanzania, so getting permits involves numerous bus rides to see the park rangers and a lot of small pieces of paper being stamped and signed and replicated and lost.

But we managed it, and on the morning of our first day our group of 20, mainly locals, climbed in the back of a truck and made our way along the treacherous, unmade, sheer-drop-on-one-side road to Marangu Gate where the climb was to begin.

We met up with our six guides, led by Alex, the smiliest man in the world, and what seemed like 30 porters who carry all the food for the six days spent on the mountain, four days up, two down.

We had opted for the Coca-Cola route. Its called that because its meant to be easy (this could not have been less true). The alternative is the Mbege route. Mbege is a really strong homemade alcoholic drink, traditionally consumed in large quantities out of big flower pots. Its made of yeast and it sort of bubbles as you drink it, even though it is neither fizzy nor hot.

The first day of the climb was through what looked like a rainforest – quite picturesque and green. It took three hours to reach the camp, Mandara hut, and I was last to arrive. This was my first inkling that my training for the climb had been insufficient – perhaps ten minutes skipping every few days wasn't enough.

The second day was through shrubland and it felt a bit more like being up a mountain. It was on this day that the toilets really began to offend me. Each consisted of a pit about three metres across and four metres deep, with two planks across it. You put one foot on each plank and aim in the gap between the two. We were told that the week before, one of the planks had broken and a girl had fallen in. She spent 12 hours in the pit. I'm not really sure why they left her there that long, but she wasn't very well afterwards.

I was last to the camp (Horombo, 3720 metres above sea level) that day too. It hadn't helped that it rained all the way up, and when I got to my dormitory, I found my clothes and bag were soaked through, even though I'd spent ages lining it with plastic bags. I spent that night with all my wet clothes in my sleeping bag in an attempt to dry them.

Day three was my personal favourite: the acclimatisation day. This involves walking up the mountain for 30 minutes and then coming back down to the camp. The rest of the day is spent with everyone in their sleeping bags playing cards.

The fourth day was the real toughy. We started the walk at 3,720 metres, and by evening we had to reach 4,706 metres. At this height it looked like a desert but there was patchy snow. The air is thin and everything is exhausting. Mr Kessy, a local teacher in my group, was inexplicably still wearing pointy black leather shoes with a gold buckle. But it's great to make an effort.

Upon reaching Kibo Hut on the evening of day four, everyone went to bed at 6pm, only to be rudely awakened at midnight to do the final leg which lasts six hours. Six hours. In the night. At -20 degrees. Who planned this?

I reluctantly got out of bed and pulled on an extra pair of shell suit bottoms, which I had proudly purchased from a local second hand market. Mr Kessy finally lost the smart shoes and opted for hiking boots. And off we went.

After about an hour of crawling on my hands and knees through the snow in the dark, I copped out.

It turned out I had a touch of altitude sickness, which is common, but this was soon seen off as I was escorted back to the hut. (The reason we took six guides was so that people who couldn't hack it could be taken back down.) I was selfishly pleased to find a few strapping young chaps had already returned to the hut.

Later the next morning, the group proudly returned from the summit, Uhuru peak, which is 5895 metres above sea level, and we began our descent.

I felt thoroughly deflated on the way down, having been defeated by the biggest mountain in Africa. The descent was also pretty painful, as your toes get slammed against the front of your boots with every step you take.

Getting back to Marangu Gate was a real relief, as was the hot shower I had at my hotel that evening.

Climbing Kili (almost) was an experience, but I can say with some certainty that I won't be scaling any more mountains in the near future.