has adjusted to the dark, but I have to be careful not to trip. My phone starts beeping again. I stop immediately to check messages. It’s clear my mom has told the Zulus and our family WhatsApp group is buzzing with questions. “Letshego, what’s going on?” “Is Gugs okay?” “Where are you now?” “How’s he feeling?” “When did he start getting sick?”
I cannot waste time answering the many questions so I fire off: “We’re heading down the mountain. Doctor says he’ll get better the further down we go. Will keep you updated.” I slip my phone back into my side pocket and start running again, trying to ignore the flurry of beeps that is now coming in thick and fast. I stop once more and hurriedly type: “I can’t chat right now otherwise I’ll fall and hurt myself. I’ll update you soon. Please pray for Gugs.” I slip the phone back into my pocket and continue down the mountain.
As we hurtle on our desperate descent, the guides stop a number of times along the way to catch their breath and check Gugs’s heart rate. It seems to be decreasing, although very slowly. It feels like only a very short time has passed when we arrive at Mandara Hut about 11 kilometres further. This leg of the trek has flashed by much quicker than the stretch from Kibo to Horombo. Yet again the blackened camp site is eerily quiet. Not a single soul is awake. Where is everyone? Frank and the guides run off to wake them. It’s disturbingly clear to me that no one seems to be communicating our emergency to the camps in order to prep them ahead of time. I panic as I wonder if there’s even an emergency vehicle waiting for us at the foot of the mountain.
Here at Mandara Hut, Gugs and I are alone once again. I sit on the bench next to him and slip my hands into my pockets. Surprised, I feel some warmth and realise that earlier, as we left Kibo with Gugs on the stretcher, I had grabbed my pocket hand warmers. Gugs’s hands must be freezing. I am terrified to touch him, to look at him, but gather up the courage to stand and check. All the way down, I’d been so scared to look at him, because Gugs being like this is so foreign to me. He’s been “sleeping” the entire time, a pipe down his throat to help him breathe. I am frozen in terror. Nonetheless, I unzip the sleeping bag to expose his hands, which are lying across his chest. I reach for his left hand first. I almost recoil. He’s freezing. Then I see that his ring finger is bent. I try to straighten it. It remains crooked. Panic floods me. He’s either refusing to straighten it to protect his ring or … I freak out, but almost immediately I try to banish the crazy notion of rigor mortis. No, it’s impossible! My husband is alive. Gugu is the strongest man I know – everything is going to be okay. I shake the terror-filled thoughts away. Quickly slipping both my hand warmers under each of his icy hands, I zip him up again and sit back on the bench. I am cloaked in silence, and force myself not to think of anything at all.
Finally, Frank reappears with the new team. To ease my mind, I ask him to check Gugs’s heart rate. I can’t hear properly but he says 90-something. Good! I think to myself. I’m back in positive mode. The decrease in altitude is helping him to normalise at last. Everything’s going to be just fine. Soon we’ll be in an ambulance, we’ll be at the hospital, the doctors will stabilise him and this nightmare night will finally be over.
The last leg of the trek is finally upon us. We’ve been running for almost seven hours. I’m grateful for my level of fitness. Exactly a month ago I managed to compete in the Ironman 70.3 Durban event so at this point I’m as fit as a fiddle. In fact, I’ve never felt stronger. Swimming, cycling and running really condition one’s body. Now we enter the rainforest and head towards the park gate. It will still take some time to get there. I check my watch: it’s 4am on Monday, 18 July. Nelson Mandela Day. The initial plan was that right now we would be heading towards Uhuru, the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. Gugs and I had been so excited to be part of the Trek for Mandela expedition, but sometimes plans don’t work out. Right now Gugs has essentially been sleeping for seven hours.
We left Kibo Hut at around 21h00 last night. Fatigue is now starting to set in. My eyelids are so heavy and I’m literally sleep-running, but thankfully the tricky terrain is keeping me awake. The new guides from Mandara Hut are fresh and wide awake, which is something of a consolation. They’re functioning like a speed train while Richard and I, deeply fatigued, have fallen slightly behind. We hustle a bit and finally catch up. Now that we are in the rainforest, it starts to drizzle. I ask the team to stop so we can make sure Gugs is covered properly. His face is partly exposed, covered only by his Cossack-style hat, the type with flaps that cover the ears. One of the guides pulls out a T-shirt from his bag to form a shield over Gugs’s head. We continue down the mountain. Left, right, left, right. Suddenly, we detour onto different terrain, a landscape I don’t remember from a few days ago. I have a fairly good photographic memory, so now I’m panicking.
“I don’t remember this road.”
“It’s a short cut,” Richard tries to reassure me.
At 05h00 we reach a white emergency vehicle with red crosses on the two front doors. My spirit soars. Finally, we’ve reached the ambulance. I’m hugely comforted by the sight of those red crosses. The driver steps out to open the back doors. My heart plummets. It’s basically an empty car with only a thin bench on each side. No emergency equipment, no emergency personnel, no stretcher bed. Nothing. Noooo! I’m crudely reminded that we’re in a country very different from South Africa. I’m gutted. A dark panic sets in.
The guides work together to lift Gugs off the bicycle stretcher and slip him between the two benches on the bare, hard floor of the van. My heart wrenches. This is going to be unbelievably uncomfortable for him. They leave the stretcher on the side of the road and all squash into the back, on the benches on either side of Gugs. Richard beckons me to the front seat. I sit between him and the driver. As the driver starts the ignition, the old van lurches and hurtles off, and it becomes clear how bumpy the road is. This has to be so painful for Gugs. I can hardly bear to think of him, so desperately ill, jolting up and down on the cold metal floor. I sit in my seat, shaking my head, still in disbelief that there is no professional emergency team in the back working on stabilising him. I turn to ask the guides to check his heart rate once more. I hear the number 65. I am clutching onto hope with all my might. Great, his heart rate has returned to normal. Everything’s going to be okay.
Somehow I find renewed energy to continue with Project Save Gugu Zulu. I send a text to the family. “We’re in the emergency vehicle now, heading to the hospital.” Without missing a beat, ever the practical one, I then check my emails and immediately call our travel insurance, informing them of the situation, requesting them to be on standby because I don’t yet know how much assistance we will need. After logging off, I realise that the drive is longer than I expected so I close my eyes, lean against Richard’s shoulder and drift off to sleep. I’ve essentially been awake for 23 hours.
I wake up an hour later. It’s 06h00 as we pull into the hospital in Moshi town and are met by Honest Minja, the owner of the tour company we used for the trek. He summons paramedics who come running with a stretcher. Gugs is loaded onto it and rushed through the emergency entrance, all of us hot on their heels. He is whisked into the emergency room. Richard and I are immediately instructed to leave. The guides and Honest are allowed to stay. I’m thrown – I want to be with Gugs, but I know they are doing what they need to do. I’m way too close to this emergency and I know from all the movies I’ve seen that telling the wife to wait outside is pretty standard protocol. Stumbling backwards, away from the door, I find the nearest wall, lean against it, slide down to the floor and wait to be called in. I am numb. But there is also a sense of relief that runs through my body. Finally, Gugs is being taken care of. I take a deep breath and for a brief moment allow myself a feeling of calm. I then pull out my phone to text the family. “Safely at the hospital. The doctors are attending to Gugs. I’ll keep you updated.”
After what feels like forever, the emergency door swings open and I leap to my feet. Richard is called in. I follow him but I’m told almost immediately, “Only Richard.” Numbed, I stumble back to my wall and slide down onto the floor again. After what feels like hours, Richard steps out. Once again I’m back on my feet. “Lets, the doctors need more time to work on him. They might have to transfer him to a better-equipped hospital in Dar es Salaam. Let’s go to the hotel, take a shower, maybe have a quick nap and we’ll come back in an hour