Ginge Fullen.com .:. Project Helpers ::

When I began to try and list all the people who have helped me since I first set out on my quest back in December 2000 to climb the highest mountain in each of the 53 countries in Africa, it didn't take me long to realise that the list would be endless. I have only just begun therefore to try and make as comprehensive a list as possible. I will add to it over the coming months but meanwhile my heartfelt thanks to all of those who helped; the few who are documented below and the countless others without whose help and generosity the project would have lacked a richness of spirit.

I begin, however, with a man whose mountaineering achievements I admire, and whom I had the honour of climbing with during my European project. I end with people who have helped and guided me in many other parts of the world.

The first Yugoslavian to reach the summit of Everest back in 1979. There are no airs and graces about Stipe; his reputation and his deeds on mountains say it all for him. He has climbed Everest, K2 and Kanchen Junga, the three highest mountains in the world, all by new or difficult routes. These are to name but a few. Stipe has climbed Everest twice now and is going back next year to film. He talks more about the war than anything. The Serbs held all this area for four years since the start of the war. During the war, Stipe and other climbers were used in the mountains. They went in to rescue soldiers after they were lost and injured after a recce mission. They got them all back out safely. I had been told climbing Croatia's highest mountain would be impossible - land mined and in a military controlled area, it was strictly off limits. If Stipe is not instantly recognised by face, he certainly is by name. Once the Commanding Officer knew Stipe was with me he just stopped us long enough to shake his hand and then waved us on. Stipe's four wheel drive managed to get us within about one hour's walking distance to the top, around 1300 metres. I felt a little embarrassed dragging one of the world's best climbers up such an easy mountain, but it was good to follow in his footsteps for a while.

A fantastic family who let me into their lives for a short while. Their home was a mud hut on the dirt road just a few kilometres away from the Mafinga hills. I sat by the open fire while the mother cooked. I had the only chair, the children and the mother either sat on the floor or on small wooden stools. The mother cooked, gave instructions to the 2 older children who helped and tended to her 15-month old baby. Maize, beans and some sort of cabbage we had, then later she ground coffee beans so I could have a coffee. The mother was intelligent and spoke good English; many of the people here only know the local language. I took some more pictures of her and her family carrying water, pounding the coffee beans, sat in the mud hut around a smoky fire eating beans and maize with their fingers. The youngest lad of about 3 followed me around like a shadow at first. The mother scolded him when he followed me into my room to watch me sort out my sleeping bag and put up my mossy net. I told her I don't mind him. After dinner that night I handed out the biscuits and sweets I still had left. The older girl carried on working till 10 o'clock at night and the youngest one of 15 months tottered up and climbed on my lap. They had been delighted to see me back, apologised for their meagre food, privileged to have me at their home. I may never see these people again. Life's that short. The baby girl was asleep on my lap and the mother took her from me. "I'll leave you at 6 o'clock in the morning," I said. "Oh, okay, I'll make you coffee before you go." "No need to bother," I try to express to her. "Oh, no bother at all." I don't know what word I'm looking for, or if indeed I'm even looking for a word. Humbled, privileged, lucky - I don't think it really matters. I've had that experience.

Climbing Liberia's peak I had again been told would be impossible, and after getting arrested the first time round I began to think it may be a bit difficult after all. Without the help of Dave it would not have been possible. It wasn't long, a day or two, before I felt part of the family. There was no letting up though from their pace of life. A break for me was while the younger children were in class, even then one would finish early and come out into the dining room or porch where I would be sitting writing my diaries. Then my world inside the paperweight would be shaken up again and the blizzard and whirlwind of life that was the Waines's household would start again. It was pure magic. Rebecca and Naomi, 6 and 7, were the first to get over any shyness they had towards having a stranger in the house. That took all of 5 minutes or so. Rebecca was bright, smiling and mischievous. She was trying to teach me an African word but all I could pronounce it as was 'cucumber'. "No," she said, in several long seconds, "don't be silly." From then on I think she treated me like a 3 year old and became my best friend. Naomi was the next youngest at 7 years old. She was one of two Liberian children that David and Audrey had adopted. Abandoned and mistreated, that was her first 18 months of life. Since then she had been part of the Waines family and treated like any one of the other children. Scolded when she was bad, doing her share of the family chores, and just being loved. Naomi and Rebecca went to great pains to try and teach me how to click my fingers, especially important here since after you finish shaking hands and your hands part, you both click your fingers. After a week of training I was just about there. Next came Joshua and Matthew. At 10 and 8, Josh was the quieter one of the family, well the Waines family anyway. Matthew meanwhile was a constant whirl of energy. Fit, strong, intelligent and funny. A real character. Jenelle and Daniel were both clever outdoor kind of people. That left Menwoh, yet another star and character of his adopted family. Audrey, David's wife, welcomed me into the household warning me very early on that she would understand if I wanted to stay elsewhere as things were never quiet in the Waines household. That was the family introduced. Now all I had to do was to meet the larger than life David Waines. Dave arrived the next day, Friday, to a greeting from the children like he had been away for a year or more. All his children clambered over him, all got a big hug. Dave is in his mid to late 40s, at a guess. Tall, good looking, he lives the life of a character that Harrison Ford would play in a movie. Dave was well travelled in Africa and elsewhere, and had come through more than a few scrapes such as a broken back and being arrested on several occasions.

Without the Commander's help, and the help of the SPLA, climbing Sudan's mountain would have been impossible. The LRA (Lords Resistance Army) from Uganda hide out in the Immotong hills and have committed some of the worst atrocities Africa has seen. I met the secretary of SPLM, Sudan's People's Liberation Movement, effectively the local authority figure of the SPLA. It was really just a matter of checking in and the secretary there would be able to organise a meeting for me with the commander here, Commander Mamur, of the SPLA, and the commander of the whole regional area, including the Immotong hills. Very highly regarded by all, I was told. A commander who led from the front, and who had commanded the recent successful attack on Torit which saw a death toll in the thousands, and that was just the figure for the government forces. He had been right in the front line when enemy helicopters had been shot down and very nearly landed on him. He killed the pilots and crew himself. One thing's for certain, Morris said, "he's killed a lot of people." An appointment was made; 12 o'clock midday I could see him. After shaking hands with him and the other few people inside the hut, he beckoned me to sit beside him and 'to explain my mission here', as he put it. I mentioned my only objective was to climb the mountain, that HRH Prince Charles was Patron of the expedition, (always a good name to drop in at times like this), and that I was getting some publicity after all the climbs I'd now done. The Commander certainly had something about him, a presence backed up by respect and a reputation from his soldiers as having been there and still there fighting in the front line. He seemed to sum me up pretty quickly. "No problems," he said, "I will give you enough soldiers to guarantee your safety. You will climb the mountain." That was that, and the Commander, I suspected, was one of those who always kept his word. Summing up the Commander, he was the type of person I made instant friends with, tough of body and tougher of mind, with clear aims and objectives I was to find out, although somewhat different to mine, of course. Winning battles and killing people were his profession, and trying to stay alive. Given both of our missions, that was something we both had in common. A little older than me, he'd joined the SPLA in 1984, the same year I joined the Navy. By the next year he had been in many battles and had to force-march to Ethiopia to escape government troops. One fifth of his troops died of thirst and hunger. My immediate impression of Commander Mamar was as follows: Someone you could put in the boxing ring with Mike Tyson and Lennox Lewis and he would rip off their heads before morning tea; but a thoroughly nice person to boot.

Monika was my escort on the mountain. Rarely before have I come across such a good man. Midday we were ready to set off. Monika told me the local guide had said the UDPF are not far ahead. We moved off slowly and quietly. The soldiers went into silent mode. All I could hear from 60 men walking up the trail was my own breathing and the soft sound of me putting my feet down. We made the top of the ridge we were aiming for. Although the cloud obscured the view most of the time, it was obvious there were higher peaks further into the range. I was beckoned to the head of the patrol where the guide pointed out Kinyeti. At last through breaks in the cloud the highest peak stood tall and obvious above anything else. It was still about 3 kilometres away though. "That's the one I want," I told Monika. The guide led the way, the soldiers followed. I slotted in the middle of the patrol again. Soon I was beckoned forward again. They could hear voices. I listened carefully and I could too. "LRA or Ugandan forces?" I asked in the quietest, calmest voice I could muster. "Ugandan," came the whispered reply in unison. We had a quick meeting; me, Monika, a couple of other officers, and the guide. "Definitely UPDF?" I asked again. "Yes, we think so," the reply came back. Now that they said they only thought so, it necessitated me asking several more times if they were sure they were UPDF and not LRA. After probably asking one dozen times if they were UPDF I changed the questioning procedure. "Not LRA, then?" "No," came the rather unconvincing replies to me. All the officers and the guide looked questioningly at me; the soldiers hung back. A quick assessment of the situation told me there was certainly no way around the voices. Going back wasn't an option, so that left the only other option of going forward. I discussed the situation with Monika. "I will go forward, the white man.' No joking this time; 60 soldiers meeting a possibly waiting and edgy UPDF would not be good. An international incident flashed through my mind, and then an even worse image of going down in a hail of bullets crossed my mind. Ah well, Africa was always going to throw up an adventure and a heart-stopping moment or two. Monika joined me. "Definitely not LRA?" I asked one more time. "No, almost definitely UPDF, battalion strength." "What's a battalion?" I asked but already suspected I knew the answer. "1000 plus men," Monika replied. "Great," I thought. At this point maybe I should mention a little more about Monika and why nobody I suspect takes the mickey out of him having a girl's name. He had been with the Commander now for 17 years. Had been hit in the leg with an RGP during one battle and was blinded in his left eye when a bullet lodged there. He crawled for two days to safety. That was his first major battle back in 1985. I had asked him how old his AK-47 was as it obviously looked very well used, and I suspected he kept hold of it for sentimental value. This one he'd had for 5 years, his other one had just plain worn out on him after all the battles he'd been in. Monika and I walked forward and asked the Ugandan forces for a cup of tea.

Again another problem country which took three attempts at doing. It would have been very dangerous without Tommo's contacts in both Angola and Sudan. Tommo was your typical Chief Diver, didn't take any shit and got the job done no matter what. Known as 'Geordie' Tommo in the diving branch, for obvious reasons, his poor interpreter was having a hard time being able to understand him and translate much of what he said. Not that it helped much though that the translator didn't speak much English either. I remembered a story I'd heard about Tommo when we were both in the Navy. While serving as Cox'n on a boat a good few years ago, the lads, that's to say the junior ratings, had complained about a fat Petty Officer who used to come into their dining room and pinch their bread, which at times is in short supply on the ships. Now the Cox'n of the ships who is always a PO(D) on the smaller mine hunters runs all discipline on board, as well as doing many other jobs. Once Tommo heard of this fat PO pinching the lad's bread he handled the discipline himself, dragging the guy out into the corridor and giving him a good punching. One of the officers saw what happened and told Tommo afterwards, if the PO wants to take it further and make a complaint, there's nothing you can do. Tommo replied, "Oh, he won't do that." "Why not?" asked the officer. "I'll f.....g punch his head in again, that's why." The fat PO never took the lads' bread again. That was the 'old school' way of doing things, and I've got to say it worked. Tommo did his diver's course back in the days when nobody had to pass, 37 lads started his baby divers course, 7 finished. A couple of those went on to do Special Forces. Only 2 years ago in 1999 the same instructor Tommo had was back in the school instructing. He was nearly court martialed for giving the divers too much of a hard time. The first night in Angola I stayed up quite late. Even though I'd had a few beers, I sat in the cook tent at the table doing my diaries. Suddenly there was gunfire seemingly all around us and very bloody close. I stepped out of the tent. Tommo stepped out of his little brick house that he'd built, in his towel and flip-flops. "Was that my f�..g guards shooting?" he asked me. "Don't think so," I said. "Good," he said and went back to bed. Every night I was there for that whole week there was shooting. Mostly the army pissed up Tommo said. The small brick house Tommo had built because it would be more comfortable and cooler, it also made for the only real cover around. With a loaded AK-47 by his bed Tommo was in as control as he could be. A few nights later even I was sleeping through the gunfire; it's amazing what one gets used to.

Pedro, our guide, was 48 years old, small at about 5 ft 3 inches but solid and compact and as strong looking as they come. He was a real man of the jungle apparently and knew every track or path on the island. He'd come highly recommended by others I'd met while I'd been here. Pedro was an exceptional guide, one of those you would want to come back and do another trip with. A real outdoor guy, the type of guy who lifts the hot pan off the stove with just his bare hands, that's after he saw me fannying around looking for a cloth or something to take the pan off the boil.

Many people helped here, and although the mountain area was still off limits, I had no problems and a great deal of help from every one. Paramount Chief, Balla Kalie Korana II: The old Chief was over 80 years old and had fought in the Second World War for Britain He had won two campaign medals and had been awarded an MBE in 1968. All had been taken though during the war in Sierra Leone when his house was ransacked and burnt to the ground. Unfortunately, despite continued efforts and explanations, the War Medal Office said they could not replace the old chief's medals. The very old chief came to greet me and I stood up to shake his hand. Gifts were exchanged and I asked if I could take some photographs; that was no problem. He made me feel most welcome and I would have happily stayed the evening there but there were still many hours of daylight left and I wanted to be at the last village before the mountain that night. I stood up to leave and again the children ran away and a big gap parted for me. I shook the hand of the chief and the 3 of us went on our way. As we walked through the village I gestured to the children nearby to shake my hand. Nobody would at first, and children pushed other children toward me to shake my hand. Finally one of them plucked up enough courage to shake my hand. I knew it would start a hand shaking frenzy and it did, but it was a good way to break down the massive barriers here. Walking out of the village I must have shaken hundreds of hands. Like Pied Piper the children of the village followed me for a couple of miles out of the village. It was one of the greatest moments of the whole trip and looking back it was one of the really special times you will never forget in your life.

It is easy to help somebody when the help needed is easy, has the proper authority and permissions, and the danger is slight. In fact, maybe I should say it is easier not to help. From the first instant I met Colonel Joe I knew he was one of those people who would help no matter what. Climbing Sierra Leone's peak at the time was difficult and possibly dangerous to say the least. No one had been to the mountain area in over 10 years since the last lot of troubles had started. Through contacts and friendships a difficult and dangerous mountain was made safe and enjoyable.

Again, a chance meeting that made the impossible possible. A whole strip of area along the 2 borders was now defined as the Temporary Security Zone, TSZ for short. No military from either side was allowed in the area. Minefields were the big problem. I was of course hoping and pretty much needing the help of some one to get me into the TSZ through the minefield and even up the mountain, but things were not looking good at present, in fact the answers I was getting was 'no, its impossible but here have another beer'. I was speaking to one of the British ex-army officers working for Halo Trust. He's ex-Navy he said. An old hard looking bastard walks by giving me a long stare. "Which Navy?" I asked, hoping that any connection will help my cause and get me up the mountain. The old guy walks back, long blond hair, chiselled old face that's seen and been through a lot. We have a good look at each other. CPO(D) Scouse Rowlands one of my first Chief Divers I knew in the Navy and one of the legends of the Clearance Diving Branches. He recognises me now. We had not seen each other for over 10 years when he'd left the Navy. He was the last person I'd expected to see out here in Africa's newest formed country. We hugged each other, really hugged each other. I'd always known Scouse, everybody had always known Scouse as a big hard bastard who'd done it all: gun running, Field Gun, French Foreign Legion, time in jail and numerous other escapades that would take a whole book to tell. Some were true, some were not, he was the first to say that, but the end result was he was liked and well respected. Scouse had been Chief of the Plymouth Diving Team in the late 80s. Of the 2 years I'd been there I'd spent nearly 1 full year away on courses: Field Gun, a saturation dive course and numerous parachuting courses. If you worked hard for him he would work hard for you. Scouse was one of those guys that people liked working for; hard as nails he wouldn't take any grief from anybody. Having said that, he didn't need to depend on his reputation, he did his job well, the Plymouth Clearance Diving Team was like no other at the time, the whole team had a reputation, not just one individual. Scouse had helped me before and he would help me again. I had no problems now climbing Eritrea's highest mountain.

John runs a backpackers' hostel in Kampala. A larger then life character he's been there and done more then most. John gave me advice and information on both Sudan and Rwanda, both problem countries on the project. Plus the odd beer!

After I'd got my permit I went to meet an old man from Mali who I had briefly met at the airline office. He had a small shop and said to call in if I wished. Patrick was his name and he spoke very good English, French, of course, and Spanish, along with a few other African languages. Patrick was 60 years old although he did not look it; at around 6 ft 3 inches he still stood tall and strong. The thing about him though was he had that rare something about him that made you stop and listen, only a few people have that power and Patrick who ran a small shop in Malabo the size of a toilet cubicle was one of them. I sat outside his shop for a couple of hours chatting about his life and finding out more about life here. He was well educated having lived in America for over 10 years as well as Europe. He'd been here for just over one year; he told me about when the police first turned up asking for money, just a small monthly payment to see he gets no trouble. That's the done thing out here. Now with Patrick's height he looks down on most people and he's still a powerful and strong a figure as any guy half his age but he doesn't need any of that. He just has, like I said, that something about him, but when dealing with corrupt officials he didn't resort to his intelligence and wisdom, he kept it rather plain. With the police he said his words were "What do you think I f�...g make from this shop, f�..g barely enough for myself. If you want anything from me you f�..g buy it." Slowly they all left him alone saying he had a foul mouth. Not many would stand up to the police here, it's a place where people can and have disappeared. Just sitting here I found out more about him. All the young kids around called him grandpa, he would not allow any swearing although he swore a lot himself; he'd give out sweets to the very poor kids. Businessmen, even ministers, stopped by and shook his hand. I liked Patrick; he is a man one can learn from. Well educated, forthright and with more dignity than all the ministers here put together from what I'd seen. That morning before I left he said, "I've been meaning to ask you, why do you climb mountains?" I said "I've been trying to find the answer to that for over 12 years and still haven't found it." He thought a while, then said, "remember when we're young we all wanted to climb the highest thing - the highest hill, the highest tree. Kids the same all over the world want the same thing. Maybe you just never f�..g grew up man". Pure Patrick genius. Philosophy, psychology, he knew it all. He quoted some politician and explained the following, and that's how he felt now. One day I just woke up an old man. Said with sadness though he flashed his gleaming statesmanship like smile. "Life, make sure you really live it," he added as I was leaving. I left Patrick wondering and really hoping that I'd meet up with him again some day.

Uwe and Natalie helped me out in Nairobi. In fact, 'helped out' does not say enough. They gave me a home-from-home in Kenya at a time halfway through the project when I really needed it. Again the timing of their help and friendship seemed more then perfect.

Many people helped me to climb Chad's highest mountain. Without their help it would not have been possible. The mountain is off limits and in a sensitive area, and the people who helped me wish to remain nameless. The Toubou people of the Tibesti mountains are a remarkable people.

With the help of Ibrima, an old guy of around 50 from Guinea who had learned his limited English in Sierra Leone, things were put in place for tomorrow. I'd asked Ibrima if they had seen an Englishman before in his village of Bela. He replied there'd been a white man a few years ago but he didn't stay long. He thought some more and said "Well, maybe 20 years or so." Capa Bondo I can be pretty sure hasn't seen a white man for even longer; maybe not since the fight for independence back in the 70s when the Portuguese were fighting here. Some of the children shied away and wouldn't come near me, most after a wink and a salute would come and shake my outstretched hand, although some I couldn't charm and they ran screaming and crying back to their mothers. Our procession set off, Ibrima first with the shotgun, a one eyed man from Bela who had come along for the ride, the driver also from Bela plus a local man from Capa Bondo, and his son to show us the way. I'd been asking if this particular peak had a name. It has one locally anyway and is known as Ronda Mountain which would make sense as it's near the Ronda river which is marked on the larger scale maps I had seen. With the help of Ibrima I could now put a name to Guinea Bissea highest mountain which was in all the books and Atlases as 'unamed'. Ronda mountain is the highest in the range of the Boe Hills and the highest peak in the country.

James is well over 40 years old and was wearing small spectacles and carrying a bit of extra weight around his mid section, he didn't look your typical mountaineer, but he was the first person the Kenyan Mountaineering Club had mentioned and came highly recommended by several other people. He'd climbed Mount McKinley which is as good a benchmark as any when climbing mountains like this and other high peaks in South America. He was also Kenya's only internationally recognised guide. He had an easy and friendly manner about him, I was soon to find out he was a damned good climber on rock and on snow. Kenya's highest point Batian peak was the most technical climb on Africa's Highest Challenge and I certainly picked a good man to do it with. James's next challenge is to try Mount Everest and try to become the first Kenyan to climb the highest mountain in the world, as well as one of the first Africans.

On the pickup truck already heading for Malawi mountain was a young 18 year old lad from England called Rob. Rob was still debating whether to take a guide. For me Mulanje didn't need a guide. With several good manned mountain huts in the range, good tracks, plenty of water and many people hiking at any one time, it was as safe as anywhere I'd been. With Rob's inquisitive nature and many questions he soon got the reason I was in Africa. Astounded he could not imagine how somebody could take on such a large trip. How did I plan it all, what gear did I carry, where was I going next? Rob was pretty new to the mountains but he was intelligent enough and with his easy nature he made for good company. Rob was 50/50 about getting a guide. He wanted to try it alone as it would be more of a challenge but I think he was still a bit apprehensive, especially when all the potential guides were telling him it's far too dangerous on your own and you'll definitely get lost without one. I got the feeling he wanted to join me in climbing the highest point but he wasn't going to ask a stern looking old bastard like me. On the walk up to the forestry station to booking in I told him he was welcome to join me in climbing Sapitwa tomorrow if he wanted. He jumped at the chance saying sheepishly "only if it wasn't a problem". Rob was good company and certainly had an older head on his shoulders than most people his age. He was inquisitive about the mountains and about life. Why climb mountains, he asked me. To get to the top of course, was my answer. He was clever enough to know that wasn't the final answer.

Another stroke of good luck and one of those chance meetings that helps so much on this project. I hitched a lift towards the mountain in Namibia with a great character called Monte. Monte was a white Namibian born and bred. In his early 50s he had that Indiana Jones adventurous look about him. He lived in Uis and after less than 10 minutes in his company he offered me a bed for the night. It's hard to describe Monte and even harder to pinpoint what exactly he did for a living. He'd done many things though, from a long stint in the Army in his young days during the many wars at the time, to owning a casino and dealing in precious stones. He helped me stock up for the mountain and to get a guide. He also warned me to light big fires to keep the leopards away, but warned me also, with a smile, that fires attract scorpions. A great old character I was lucky to meet.

Pierre spoke no English whatsoever and cared not to. His job was to clear an old road all the way to Belinga the very village I needed to get to and the nearest place to the mountain. It had long since been abandoned, since the first ebola virus outbreak occurred there, and the jungle had quickly covered the track. I gathered they clear about 2 kilometres a day, this being their 10th day working. They were, I learned, going past Belinga to the village of Mvadi, if it were possible. Pierre didn't know, he gestured with a shrug of his shoulders. All this sparse conversation went on between his winding down his window six inches and shouting at his workers to move a log further off the track or for the guy with the chain saw to cut the stump even lower. He'd toot his horn and scream, thumping the steering wheel. I'm sure the guys were winding him up on purpose sometimes. The guy working nearest to the truck got it the worst with screamed abuse and a flailing of the arms gesturing him to move the log more. I'm positive they swapped these roles around. The work was some of the most difficult and harshest I've seen. Done in the heat and humidity, getting stung, bitten and scratched, and they weren't slacking, Pierre saw to that. I learnt more about Pierre. He had high blood pressure and from what I gathered had already been in hospital. He now wore a heart monitor, which he was constantly looking at, such was his temper it seems his heart level was constantly high. I think it was not to go over 120. At times it did, and at times I thought he was going to keel over on me. By the end of the day he'd gone from being an arrogant, obnoxious bully to quite entertaining, in his old colonial way. Even the workers seemed to like him. We arrived back in Makokou by around 1900. Being Saturday night Pierre headed straight for the pub. I was mellowing to Pierre. Work done for the week he seemed to chill out. All his workers came into the bar also and, of course, with all the help and lifts Pierre had given me I pulled out my wallet to pay for the beers. Pierre would have none of it. We stayed for 3 rounds and Pierre paid for all of them. Pierre seemed to relax a bit now and talked freely with the Gabonese workers, discussing from what I could gather everything from politics to women. I was sure come Monday he'd be his old short, bad-tempered self, shouting obscenities at his workers, but his workers seemed to understand his temperament, the way he was and even to enjoy his company. He could laugh and joke with the best of them, a side I never thought existed. Thanks to Pierre and his team for the lifts in and the guides provided to find this difficult hard to establish highest point in Gabon, and also for the entertainment.

I headed back to the transport with my new found companion, Petit Jean. He spoke less English than I did French, saying that he spoke 2 local languages plus French so don't think I'm saying he's the stupid one. He began asking me what I was doing here, what was my mission. I go to Congo Brazzaville I said. I could see his mind working already. Petit Jean was about 20 I reckoned, and smaller than me. He was easy going, inquisitive and friendly enough. When I eventually got around to telling up that I was going to Sembe, the first major town over the border to Congo and the only town anywhere near the highest mountain, he immediately asked, or rather stated, "I can lead you, I know the way". There didn't seem much to Petit Jean, but even though we didn't speak the same language he was one of those smiley, good natured, instantly likeable kind of people. "I need a porter also," I said. "Me porter also," came his reply having quickly learned some English. "I need strong, fit porter," I added. He repeated my words "Strong, fit" and pointed to himself. I stated that it would be hard work. "Pas de problem," he said. I walk fast I added. "Pas de problem," he said again. We may be gone sometime I said. "Pas de problem." He smiled and shrugged. No problem it was. We were well into walking mode now and Petit Jean was proving his worth in every way. As we set ourselves up for the long days of walking ahead I set about learning French from Petit Jean to pass the days of endless walking along narrow tracks with barely any sky in sight for the most part. Petit Jean was even keener to learn English and already after just 2 days could get by quite well. First I learned numbers and then other important words like faster and stop, although as Petit Jean soon joked, "Why do you need to learn that word stop, you never say it?" The mountain guide again led the way followed by the other two locals, Petit Jean and me. Petit Jean went in the swamp up to his ankles. "Pas de problem," I commented but thought just the opposite for a moment while I got used to it. Within 3 steps we were up to our waists in a dense swamp. "I no swim," Petit Jean said. It is remarkable how quickly he was learning English right now. "Pas de problem," I commented automatically and then added, "Here's your chance to learn." The words were lost on him as he tried to keep his footing on the roots and branches below and stay from going any deeper than waist level. This was your typical swamp of darkest Africa. Sadly I've no photos to prove it but mark my word, in parts we went chest deep and Petit Jean looked at me at times as if to say "this isn't in the contract", but soldiered on. He asked me what marakesh was in English as he was still learning. I replied "swamp" of course. "Beaucoup swamp," he would say in a half laugh between ourselves. A snake glided by Petit Jean almost touching him and disappeared under some branches and leaves not one metre away. "Snake, snake," Petit Jean panicked a bit but had stayed absolutely still when it swam past. "Pas de problem," I said and I had to smile. "Problem, beaucoup de problem, snake poisonous." "Pas de problem," I repeated. I liked snakes I told him, I kept 2 as a kid. He again seemed to ignore that comment as he kept a bigger watch for snakes The walk in to Congo was alone over 200km, we were arrested, hassled, had fights and swamps to negotiate, and a mountain rarely even seen before to climb. It was good to get out of Congo. Petit Jean felt very much the same way. "Congo," he said, "beaucoup de problem," looking serious for the first time ever, but just briefly. I'd said my goodbyes to Petit Jean. Over 2 weeks I'd been with him, longer I think than anybody else in the last year. It was the hardest journey I would do on the whole of the African Highest Challenge Project, and looking back it was one of the best times I have ever had and with one of the most loyal travel companions I have ever known.

I had been in touch with Gregory Knowles, an English Reverend studying at the Vatican City in Rome. As soon as I arrived in Rome I got the train out to Castelgandolfo. Gregory met me at the train station along with Hugh, another English Reverend, and our driver and host for the evening who was a delightful old English lady living out there called Anna. I knew I definitely had the right people helping me when Anna immediately said, 'we'll get you to the highest point even if we have to climb the walls of the Vatican estate to get you in'. Exactly my type of thinking. As it turned out we didn't need to do this, much to Anna's disappointment. Gregory got me an official tour inside the Vatican City which I did manage to sneak off from, and climb the highest point, all 76 metres of it. Great help again by some great people.

The highest mountain in Georgia was the second highest on the whole European Project at 5200m and by far the most technically difficult. It's also the only place in the world where the Lonely Planet guide does not cover and it can be, and is, a lawless country. I had been deported the first time I had tried to come here for no reason at all, and our camp was robbed by Chechen bandits the second time I had tried. That year I had also been turned back 300 metres from the top due to bad weather. Shkara is a big, bad, nasty mountain and deserves the most respect hence it only receives around a dozen attempts to climb it per year, and rarely from the Georgian side. Bidzina and Merab, two top Georgian climbers, were to be my guides. Bidzina had been wanting to climb Shkara for a while, and while Bidzina was the expert on snow and ice, Merab was technically a lot better on the rock sections. Together they made a formidable pairing. To look at both of them weighing in at around 60 kg in weight you could easily be forgiven for thinking they would not be too strong. Quite the opposite, rarely have I come across as strong and powerful a pair in the mountains as these two. When you know their background you can begin to understand their strong mentality. This year only 2 months ago seven Georgians stood on top of Everest. Bidzina, Merab and Apy, the safety guy, were 3 of them. For the most difficult mountain in this project - and that I have done - I know I've got the best 2 climbers for the job. When we were driving to the mountains we were stopped three times for supposedly speeding. Once the policeman recognised Bidzina he instantly shook his hand and let us on our way. He's a bit of a celebrity in Georgia now. It definitely helped us. The climbing was hard, both on the snow and the rock. 5B in the Russian grade equivalent to TD+/ED in the Alpine climbing grade - that's what was given in the one and only guidebook of the mountain. I am not normally too bothered about what grade a mountain is and what grade I climb at, but to give you some idea of the difficulty Mount Elbrus, the first peak I climbed on the project is graded 2B. The Russian grading system then goes up to 3, 3A, 3B, 4 and so on, the highest grading being 6. Very bloody difficult is all I can say and do my best not to fall off. We'd been roped since getting on to the glacier at 2500 metres and nearly every rope length is difficult enough to require putting in protection. One section coming up to camp 2 took us 2 hours to move 3 rope lengths, just 150 metres. With a big pack and plastic boots its not made any easier. That evening we spent nearly 2 hours leveling a place to sleep. I wish I had taken a before and after shot of the sight where we pitched our tents because Bidzina manages to turn a rock face into a sight for the Hilton Hotel, it's that level and comfortable. By the time we had brewed up and eaten it had gone midnight. We were expecting to do the climb in 5 days or so, so all we carried was 5 days' worth of food with us. We had been on the mountain 7 days already and had been cutting short our rations and sharing them for the last 2 days or so. The weather did not look like improving. It was my third attempt to climb this mountain and I didn't want to come down until we had succeeded. Luckily Bidzina and Merab shared my sentiments. We saved our last boil in the bag meal for tonight so as to give us some energy for tomorrow. There's something about sharing all our food, ie passing a one-man meal around the three of us, eating it with the one spoon we have that has brought us closer together. I don't want to make it sound like any great hardship, it wasn't, our chocolates and sweets just saw us to the end of the trip and we even had on spare teabag left when we got down, so it was not a major problem, putting in a hard 10 hour climbing day of course made it all harder. We reached the summit that year 1999. A mountain is not climbed until you are up and down safely, Bidzina would not shake my hand he said until we were down on the grass. We made the horizontal after a long 13 days and 7 kilograms or so lighter. Shkara is a tough, uncompromising mountain. Luckily that year I had two climbers with me who were tougher.

Trekking and Horse trekking phase, World Challenge Expeditions 2003. The chief wrangler was a likeable old man called Gendegoncheg, easy for you to say but it took me about a week to learn how to say his name. Gendegoncheg was 53, but with a weathered face working the cold winters here, he would more easily be taken for 10 years older. Small yet tough, he was one of those guides you have who is always up half an hour before anybody else and always working the hardest. Starting the fire in the cold wet mornings, cutting the wood, lifting hot pots off the fire with bare hands, he was a star unto his own. A great character and a genuinely nice guy who it was a privilege to meet and spend some time with.

Mr Kurt had the HK weapon, complete with at least three magazines full of bullets, the younger lad had an axe. With so much forest I thought a machete might be the order of the day instead. The frail looking grandfather of indeterminable age, but looking and moving like and 80 or 90 year old, joined us. He was the one carrying the machete, or rather long handled scythe. He was carrying a small rucksack as they all did and I thought I was being taken for a ride. A guide I needed, the two porters carried little of my kit not that I really needed them to, and now I had an old man who looked like it would be hard for him to walk up a set of stairs, let alone 1600 metres of mountain. What could be done? Nothing. I just hoped it would pan out okay. On the steep terrain and the thick forest the old man changed. No longer did he look frail; no longer did he lag behind. The weather was hot, the going was hard, this was the old man's natural way of living and where he was comfortable. It soon became apparent that he was the only one who really knew the way. Mr Kurt, the best man for the job, was really only a middle man. A nice enough guy, he was really acting as the security guy. The young guy, although very adept in the outdoors, seemed only to be learning the ropes. The old guy soldiered on. Stopping little and hacking away with his machete style scythe where necessary. With a mountain that was unclimbed pretty much since the 1960's, and totally jungle covered, I needed the best guide possible and I dare say I got it.

Kuwait's highest and very low peak was difficult due to it being in no-man's land on the border with Iraq. At the time of the conflict it wasn't going to be any easier. The British Navy gave me accommodation in Kuwait, the RAF drove me to the peak, and the British and Kuwaiti military escorted me around the low peaks of Kuwait's highest hills. Thank you to all those who helped and smoothed the way.

Finding information on climbing Yibir was not easy. It was in quite a remote area, or at least inhospitable. Finding a good map on the country was near impossible and none identified the highest point. I heard about an expat couple who had lived near the mountain for 20 years. Very good climbers and keen hikers he was sure they would have been up Jebel Yibir. John and Dee lived in Ras Al Khaimah, the largest town in the northern part of the country, and not very far from the highest range itself. John was in his mid 50s and very much into his climbing. Dee also climbed but was also into her hiking and just generally I think being outside and keeping in shape. John and Dee had been to the top a number of years ago. Although it was only a day's hike the route finding and getting to the top was not going to be quite as simple as that. Not many people hiked in the UAE apparently and certainly not many headed to Jebil Yibir. Dee had been up it two or three times and, luckily for me, she was keen to go up again. With it only being a day's hike I wasn't expecting too much of a hard time but I am really glad to say after the event that it is; I got that quite wrong. It had been a tough day all said and done but the pleasures had been in the remoteness and the toughness so don't think I'm complaining. Dee had made for a good hiking companion and it certainly would have been a longer and more difficult day without her.

Christo was the best guide available for the hard rainforested high peaks of Trinidad and Tobago. A big strong man he operated efficiently in the mountains and had a certain air about him. He was from a long line of Sharmans, the indigenous tribe of the island, and a dying breed of local doctors on the island. A great and knowledgeable character I would highly recommend him if you want to head off into the hills here.

Sir Wilfred was the first person to climb the highest mountain in the Sahara back in 1938. The mountain has not been climbed too often since, and not for several years now after the last group of people who went there were held hostage. I wanted to meet what many people say is the last of the great Colonial explorers, and I have to say I would agree totally. His life and travels are covered in many books, and as the title of one says he defiantly had 'the life of his choosing'. As to climbing Chad's highest mountain; he thought for a while, "a gentle stroll before afternoon tea," he said. He had just walked in by camel from Sudan. We can all learn from the explorers of the past and it was a privilege to meet Sir Wilfred, the last of the great explorers and travellers of the twentieth century.

Why has Slav helped so much? Why does he inspire? The write up on Slav's book The Long Walk says the following: One of the greatest true stories of adventure and survival ever written. Slavomir Rawicz, a Polish Cavalry Officer in 1939, was arrested by the Russians on a charge of spying and sentenced to 25 years' hard labour in Siberia. His escape and subsequent nine-month march to freedom is nothing more than remarkable. Covering over 4,000 miles in some of the harshest regions of the world, travelling by foot through Siberia, Mongolia, China and Tibet, and finally crossing the Himalayas into India and freedom. He started the journey from Camp 303 deep inside Siberia and made it to India. You could say it's his story, but when you meet him you will say it's the man. The Long Walk ranks as one of my favourite books and one of the most epic stories of escape and survival ever told. I wanted to look into the eyes of such a man who had endured so much. I was expecting toughness and hardness. What I saw was a humble and generous man, truly a man to inspire.

One man I owe a great deal to is my old friend and trianing partner, Les D'Arcy. I don't think he realises it but he has done more to help me than anybody else. Les was a table tennis coach who my Dad knew, in fact, Les knew my Dad when my Dad was a small boy. Les also lifted weights and that's why my Dad took me to see him; to strengthen me up a bit before I joined the Navy. My weight training began in Les's garage and has continued to this day. He holds several British and world titles in both table tennis and weight lifting, and he is continuing to pick up new titles and world records every year. At 83 years old, here's a man who took part in the D-Day landings, yet continues to look for new challenges. If there is a lesson to be learnt about whether your job on this planet is finished or not, then a look at Les will give you the answer - if you're alive, it isn't.

Mal Duff died at Everest Base Camp on 23 April 1997. He would have been 44 on 3 May 1997. He had a long and distinguished climbing career; he developed many new routes particularly in Scotland where he was master of thin mixed hard routes. He climbed far and wide throughout the world, more often than not looking for new and challenging routes. He climbed on Everest several times, including winter attempts. Mal was a rare breed, with a passion for the mountains that was infectious to all that met him. Mal failed at many of the attempts on peaks and faces he tried, but as somebody said about him�some of Mal failures were as good as many peoples successes. If there was ever a man of the mountains then it was Mal. Strong and reliable, a man who would get you into a tight corner but would then be the best man to get you out again. His death on Mount Everest was in a way a fitting death to a man who lived his life like an adventure. For those who knew him, Mal was old enough to be wise but far too young to die.

I remember when I was doing my Mountain Leader Summer course. There was not much to learn, I knew most of it already. Sure John the ex-Navy PTI was old school and knew far more than me, and I did learn some more techniques, but what was the biggest thing I learnt from him? I learnt to enjoy the mountains. Here's a 55-year-old and still going strong. The knowledge, his experiences, are soaked up in his brain, in his hard as leather, weather beaten face and he enjoys it, teaching, walking, climbing, just being outdoors. I hope I'm not at his age before I stop and look around at some of the places I go. Stop and really look around. That's what age and experience brings, to really appreciate life. It brings me back to the question 'why climb mountains?' We are all looking for that moment and for some it's on the summit of a mountain, and if you find that moment, it lasts for ever.

ginge fullen

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