Bathroom Confessions of Kilimanjaro
The truth about peeing and pooping on Africa’s tallest peak
The number one question I got about my trip to Kilimanjaro was one very practical, very real problem: How do you go to the bathroom?
I thought I was prepared. I brought my EllaPee funnel, a stash of toilet paper, wet wipes, and even hand sanitizer clipped to my pack. What I didn’t realize was that when hydration is the name of the game for acclimatization, bathroom breaks would quite literally become the rhythm of the trek.
Mom waits for cover to do her business.
Pottying on the Trail
On the trail itself, it’s just “find a tree or a rock and go.” Sounds easy until you realize:
There aren’t always trees (hello, moorland and alpine desert).
Rocks aren’t always big enough to hide behind.
Your female urinal can betray you. I found that out when it backfired into my pants once.
But trust me: by the end of the trip, peeing in full daylight hoping no one rounded the corner will become second nature.
The Toilets of Kilimanjaro
At the gates and bigger camps, you get squat toilets: a hole in the ground with slippery floors and a door that sometimes locks (if you’re lucky). But WHEW the stank!
But! There is a better way. One of the main reasons I booked the tour operator I did (ClimbKili) was that they include a private toilet at no extra cost. Instead of sharing the squat toilets with the whole camp, our group of 3 had our own “toilet tent”—basically a plastic bucket with a seat and water pump. It was emptied each day and carried camp to camp by a crew member whose official job title was toilet engineer. We bow to him in gratitude!!
But even the private tent falls short when you’re tucked into your warm sleeping bag. Unzipping everything, searching for your headlamp, and crawling hands and knees out of the tent in middle of the night isn’t ideal. I tried that for two nights, but on the third I caved to the pee bottle. Yep. I kept it and my pee funnel close by and prayed my tent-mate didn’t wake up in the meantime.
Diarrhea Diaries
Then came Day 3: my stomach revolted. Liquid diarrhea. Multiple times. At one point I was clenching so hard on a steep section in hail that I genuinely thought, “This is it; I’m going to shit my pants on Kilimanjaro.”
When I finally found a rock to duck behind, I let out a sigh so loud I was surprised it didn’t echo through the valley. Imodium became my new best friend.
The food didn’t always help. Cilantro soup was served almost every night, and by the end just the smell triggered my gag reflex. On days when I could stomach a little, the combination of soup, pasta, and altitude was a dangerous gamble. Of course on my worst diarrhea day, they served PIZZA for dinner, my favorite food, and I cried when I couldn’t get it down… The mountain really strips you down. 😂
What I Learned
Imodium is gold. Bring it. Use it. Thank me later.
Practice with your pee funnel. The mountain is not the place for trial runs.
Don’t count on privacy. Embrace the awkward wave when someone accidentally rounds the corner.
THANK (and tip!) YOUR TOILET ENGINEER. That person is truly the MVP.
And most importantly: bathroom moments are universal. Every climber, no matter how strong or fast, has a trail-side confession.
On Kilimanjaro, the mountain humbles you in many ways, but nothing humbles you quite like sitting in the rain, pants around your ankles, hoping your oxygen doesn’t drop with every squat. But the mishaps are what make the story uniquely your own, and they build a bond between you and your fellow climbers unlike any other.