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A few photos from Sunday’s spectacular hash in the foothills of Mt. Kilimanjaro a few miles north and east of Moshi. Yes, I’m back on the hash. Alas, not that kind, but the bi-weekly treks through the wilderness organized by the local ex-pats, following the flour, or at least trying to. I’d sort of sulked away from the hard-core hashers after my adventures a month or so back, but eventually decided to go back. It‘s nice to hang out with a broader group of people after constantly seeing the same half-dozen or so. It’s an excellent way to see some surrounding countryside I otherwise would never find my way to. You get a real feel for how most Tanzanians actually live. And it‘s good exercise. Plus, perhaps, I thought, I had been too hasty. It isn’t just a hike, after all; part of the point is the teamwork and challenge of finding the trail, and I hadn’t paid close enough attention last time. Perhaps I would end up looking back on the experience as a valuable lesson. So I’m back in the saddle, though this time never without extra food, water, a flashlight and compass in case I ever get stuck again.
The rewards have been some spectacular scenery the last few weeks in spots like this, right along the border of Kilimanjaro National Park. The drive up dirt roads through crowded villages brought us to a starting elevation of about 5,000 feet and perhaps another 500 feet at the top that produced some much-appreciated cool breezes. The camera, unfortunately, can’t really capture the scope of the views, but here’s a taste.
One thing about this part of Tanzania is that it is just teeming with people, most of whom don’t live on anything resembling a road. As we followed the trail through woods we passed by and through dozens of tiny settlements, typically made of mud thatch or sometimes brick with a corrugated slab of metal for a roof, built into the slopes of hillsides and seemingly completely inaccessible to the outside world. In some houses a skinny goat or pig may be hanging around; most have nothing, and the land is mostly too steep for crops, so it’s not entirely clear that they have any source of their own food or income.
Anyway, children stared at the parade of mzungu hikers, completely transfixed. Most people simply smiled and laughed as we went by, and, quite helpfully, often pointed out the trail where others ahead of us had found the trail, which as usual was not always self-evident. The views broadened out and finally about ¾ of the way through, as the sun was setting, opened up magnificently. You can can see the whole enormous valley in which Moshi sits spread out around us, the sun setting over Mt. Meru to the west and in the east the views of the plains stretching around the corner of the mountain probably 40 or 50 miles into Kenya.
Unfortunately, while I was all ready to proclaim myself a happily returned hasher, I can’t quite pull the trigger. The key sentence here is “¾ of the way through, as the sun went down.” This hash was brilliantly laid out, but we didn‘t get started until 4:20, and like several others before it, it simply covered too much ground for the allotted time. Hence another adventure, though this time not involving me.
Our group pressed ahead at a good clip but still came in just as darkness was settling. Most of the hashers seemed typically unconcerned, but several of us were immediately worried about several groups, including some children, who were still behind us. One of the people already back was the mother of the young boy who had fallen behind with our group on the hash where we got lost last month. To my frank astonishment, once again she had gone ahead and assumed one of her children was with a group of adults behind her. This time she had her son, but it was her 10-year-old daughter who was still on the trail. Last time, at least, she had received word by cell phone that her son was with a group. This time she simply made the assumption that her daughter, whom she admitted was not an experienced hiker, was behind her on the trail with a group. There was no apparent concern as we munched on snacks and drinks waiting for the final stragglers to come in.
When the last group of adults came in without her daughter, and the group realized another 13-year-old girl also had not returned, she suddenly became quite worried. I sighed resignedly, sadly unsurprised. But the task now was to find them. Nobody knew quite when she had been last seen, or if the two girls were together. Two men, one borrowing my headlamp, set back up the trail in the pitch darkness. Two others, who spoke Swahili, backed their trucks down to the main road to drive up the mountain, hoping to see them or someone who had and try to narrow down the range of places they might be. There wasn’t much the rest of us could do without risking having even more people get lost on the mountain, so we waited at the bottom. I suggested to one of the veteran hashers (who had set the one we got lost on) that maybe a sign-out-sign-in sheet would be a good idea next time so we would know sooner who was still out on the mountain. “That will never work in Africa,” he said dismissively. (Really? With a bunch of expats? Who are now combing a dark mountain for two missing children? It didn‘t strike me as a ridiculous suggestion under the circumstances).
As I mentioned, the mountain is fairly densely populated, and it seemed likely they would run across people, though one couldn’t be 100 percent sure this was a good thing. The problem was, the hills were essentially a series of fingers falling down off of Mt. Kilimanjaro. There was no obvious geographic funneling effect where anyone who simply moved down the mountain would come to where we were; if they took the wrong route they could easily end up walking down another side of the hill away from us. And at several spots the flour had been hard enough to find in broad daylight. Finding it at night without a light would be impossible.
So we waited at the small hotel where we had set up our food. Some of the veteran hashers recounted other times when they’d had to send people out in the dark. One of the searchers called in to report someone had seem them together, which was good. The mother paced nervously and comforted her other kids, one of whom was quite upset. Then, in a very odd moment, she walked up to me and said “You must think I’m the worst parent in the world.” This was surprising because I didn’t think she even remembered me as one of the people who had been in the group with her son that got separated the last time this happened.
The most diplomatic response I could manage was an awkward pause and the beginnings of something along the lines of “Of course not, and don’t worry, this will go down as an adventure story.“ But just as I was replying, her daughter suddenly jumped out of the darkness and wrapped herself around her mother’s leg. The other girl, who spoke Swahili, was with her too. A group of 4-5 young Tanzanian boys had escorted them down the steep hill through the darkness to the place where they somehow knew the Mzungus were gathered. Since they didn’t have lights, and a fairly large number of people were talking at the hotel, we neither saw nor heard them approach. Friendly, relieved cheers rose up. The boys lingered for a minute and fortunately someone thought to hand them a bag of our leftover food to take back. They walked back into the darkness and up the hill toward their settlements, none of which are electrified and therefore would produce no light to guide them, except perhaps a few burning embers that might be visible at close distance. After a few failed attempts, we reached the searchers by cell phone and called everyone home.
Sigh. So, a magnificent hike, and good camaraderie and much exercise. And yet a buzzkill ending that keeps me from quite yet proclaiming the return of the happy hasher. In any case, the rainy season will soon be upon us. So this may be the end of the line on my hashing history anyway.
