Description
My footsteps thud as they hit the ground. I’m trying to pace my breathing; slow, quick breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth. The terrain zips past me, obscured by the shadowy darkness as we make our descent of Kilimanjaro from Kibo Hut. Gugs is lying unconscious on a single-wheel bicycle stretcher carried by four guides. I look down to check my watch – only 15 minutes since we left Kibo. Suddenly my foot strikes a rock and I’m flung forward, unable to stop myself. I tuck in and somehow manage a soft landing on the rough gravel path. Luckily, I’m wearing my summit-night gear, which is well padded. Richard, the founder of Imbumba Foundation, stops and gives me a hand. As he hoists me up, he reaches for my shoulders and removes my backpack. He wears it on his chest and, now carrying two backpacks, instructs me to continue running. I quickly dust myself off but, as I look up, I realise that the team carrying Gugs a short distance ahead has also stopped. Panicked, I rush up to ask what’s wrong. The leading guide, Frank, says, “The drip’s not flowing.” My first thought is that there’s a blockage, but the problem is I don’t know how to fix it. In the dark, with the help of my head torch, I peer through the drip window and I realise it’s filled with the liquid. I don’t know anything about drips! Desperate for a miracle, I stare into the four faces. Nothing. “It looks blocked,” I blurt out. “What should we do?” The guide who’s been trying to hold up the drip while running, responds: “Well, if it’s not working, then I think I should stop carrying it. I’ll put it next to him so I can run properly.” No one responds so he does exactly that, securing the drip neatly between Gugs and the stretcher. Frank and I exchange a worried glance. He places a hand on Gugs’s neck to check his pulse. He looks back up at me. I read concern on his face so, shakily, I place two fingers just below Gugs’s chin. Nothing. Terrified, I pull my hand away almost immediately. I decide to check his wrist pulse and, as my fingers search for a beat, I’m hit with an Aha! moment. “Fitbit!” I find myself shouting. Gugs has two different Fitbit heart-rate monitors, one on each wrist. I had given one to him for his birthday two months earlier and the other he received as a gift from the Fitbit team two weeks ago, before we set off on our adventure. I click the one on his left wrist – it gives me a heart-rate reading of 185bpm. “Jeez!” I scream. My husband is clearly in deep trouble … My only consolation is that his heart is still beating. I show Frank how to check the heart rate and he nods. Our brief rest period has come to an end. We have roughly 28 kilometres to cover before we get to the bottom of the mountain, to an ambulance, which I pray will be waiting for us at KINAPA headquarters, the main gate to the Marangu Route. And so begins Letshego Zulu’s memoir I Choose to Live.
