Mountains to Climb

Hello Again from Kuta, Bali!

Even as I type this my time here grows short. Indonesia will soon be a thing of the past. Replaced with the mystery of Malaysia and then the excitement of Thailand. Our time here has been everything rolled into one - hectic and peaceful, exciting and slow, expected and unexpected. And while I am behind on my blogging, don't you fear! I will eventually catch up. There are many stories from this amazing country yet to come. Here is the second tale...

I want to tell you the story of Gurung Rinjani. It was told to me by a local boy from Lombok. He was about my age and originally from the small seaside town of Sengiggi. He is now studying at the university in Mataram. He was quiet. Shy around girls. He was a Muslim. I can not imagine having less in common with an individual than I did with this boy. But we all share a love for stories. It’s the oldest form of art, the most ancient form of human enjoyment. This is the story he told me.

Long ago, before Indonesia was Indonesia, before the islands were ruled by one government, there were many kings and many kingdoms. This was before Islam, before Hindu, before Christianity touched these shores. This was a time when the people still cowered before mountains of fire and worshipped gods they created to explain the havoc they could not.
During this time Java was ruled by a selfish prince. His land and seas were abundant. His farms and family were beautiful. But he looked upon Lombok with desire and jealousy. Lombok, the small island to the East, was ruled by a pleasant king and his kind queen, Rinjani. They enjoyed the joys of their islands’ beauty and their islands’ people. They were civil and sincere. They enjoyed a good party.
And so the prince of Java came to call on the king of Lombok. The king knew of his guests’ jealousy and evil desires. But he could not deny his guest. Instead he threw an outrageous party in honor of him. He brought in dancers and musicians from all over the island. The best food, the most delicious drinks were laid before his guest. All day and all night they ate and drank. They laughed and listened. By late night, the queen of Lombok had grown weary. She tenderly kissed her husband goodnight and departed, leaving the men to be men.
The prince of Java took of everything offered and then he took more. He guzzled the drinks. He scarfed the food. He groped the dancers and laughed too loud. The king kept up with him drink for drink. He watched the jealous prince grow mad before his eyes. Maybe he expected the prince to drink himself into a stupor. Maybe he expected a fight. He did not expect the prince to suddenly and violently plunge a dagger into his back. No warning. No remorse. The king died.
Chaos reigned. The party was full of shuffling feet, fleeing servants. The prince charged forth. His work was not done. He needed to find the queen. He needed to finish what he had started.
Can you imagine him creeping into the royal palace? All is quiet. Shadows watch his movements, mocking his every move. The moonlight weeps tears of silvery light. He creeps towards the queens’ bungalow. He parts her ornate silk curtains. His dagger is ready. Her husbands’ blood not even dry on the blade. He steps out of the shadows…There is no one there! The bed is empty. Someone knew. Someone had seen his thoughts. The queen was gone.
She had fled. With a servant? With a son or daughter? She fled the ease of her kingdom. She did not know of her husbands’ death. She only knew she was in danger. She raced along the dirt paths under the watchful eyes of swaying palms and whispering rivers. The moonlight shifted to cover her path.
The road led her far. She traveled fast. But not as fast as the word of her husbands’ death. Servants whispered to maids. Maids to delivery boys. Delivery boys to journeymen and farmers. Farmers to the mysterious gods of the mountains – “The king is dead. The king is dead.” In the hills and the valleys, across the rivers and to the very mouths of fire spewing forth their lava and flame, the word traveled faster than the queen. It arrived before she did to the first stop of her long journey.
Lombok was filled with family of the kings and queens past and present. The old family’s and the new generations all flowed across the land. And so it was that the queen arrived at an uncles’ house. This uncle lived close to a river, high in the hills. He had been plagued for years with a disease that made his nose run with a dreary and dreadful snot. All day for years and years, his nose ran and ran. It ran so much that it colored the water of the river he lived on a yellowish, sluggish brown. She stopped to see this uncle. She asked if he had news of her husband. She pleaded. She waited. But he only sniffled and sneezed. There were no answers there but to this day the river runs a sluggish brown-yellow.
On she went. She arrived at the second uncle’s house. This uncle was known for his long flowing beard. So great was this beard that it covered the valley and flowed across the land. His beard whispered and waved in the wind but it did not tell her the answers she was searching for. The queen walked forlornly on through the hills covered by his deep beard. Today the rice terraces flow throughout this valley like the uncle’s beard of long ago.
No answers but she knew. Her heart was already weeping when she arrived at the third uncles’ house. He was greatest among the brothers. The lord of a domain of beauty and despair and hope and tragedy. He knew what it was the queen sought and he had great pity for her. He knew she was never to be safe and he knew that her broken heart would never heal. He watched her approach with tears in his eyes. When she came to him, he held out his hand. “He is dead. He is dead.”
She cried tears of pure sorrow. They filled the lake at his feet with a blue so pure and deep that no one could take their eyes away. She took his hand. “Where do you wish to go? You cannot stay here.” He looked at her as he asked this question.
She did not know where she wanted to go. She wanted desperately to be near her husband but she could not bring herself to leave her beloved island. Without knowing where she was going, she led the uncle to a high peak overlooking the valley and the sea, the rice paddies and the lake her tears had filled. Here her arms could touch heaven, her feet could touch her beloved island. “Here.” She said. “Here I belong.”
The uncle looked at her and said, “Yes, Rinjani, my queen. Here is where you shall stay.” And so the second highest peak in all of Indonesia came to be. It is a volcanic mountain whose fury and anger has wiped clean entire villages, whose beauty and grace have inspired thousands of pilgrims. Whose very presence speaks of tragedy and of love.

I wanted to tell you this story because I have stood on the summit of Gurung Rinjani, Indonesia’s second highest peak and one that as recently as 2004 spewed angry ash and lava into the air. I have seen the valley below her as it changed from a velvety blanket of night to a glistening gleam of green rice paddies. I’ve watched the sun warm the mountains shear sides and felt her crumbling rock slide beneath my feet. I’ve fought for air at her staggering heights and lost my breath at the very sight of her beautiful lake.
Rinjani is more than a mountain – she’s a lesson in strength and fortitude. A reminder that pain and discomfort are often the only paths to peace and beauty. A reminder that the best views cannot be accessed by an air conditioned gondola or an escalator.
There is so much to tell about our journey. I could fill page upon page of descriptions and explanations. I could bend your ears for hours about how humbling it was to hike in unbelievable heat and humidity for 9 hours following guides who easily navigated paths even when laden with all our food and equipment while we staggered behind scrambling and whining about our packs which carried only clothing and a little water. I could make you laugh out loud talking about the monkeys that scrambled around us when we took our lunch breaks and how they scampered and seemed to dare each other to get closer and closer to this obvious feast just out of their reach. I could make you cringe talking about rising at 3 am to hike in pitch black up a slope full of crags and sharp rocks where our imaginations had us believing a wrong step in one direction, just a few centimeters out of our flashlights glow, would surely send us tumbling over a huge cliff. I could tell you of the stars that blinked and winked at us. Of the way the sun flirted with the horizon for hours, first casting a grayish glow, then a warming yellow, then a flattering red, before bursting forth into a vibrant and exuberant glow of orange and flame.
But could I, with all these words, make you feel the last slope as we approached 12000 feet? The way the rock slid from under our feet. The way our bodies gasped for air to thin to fill our lungs? Could you understand the mental and physical turmoil? Could I express the fulfillment and joy and appreciation that waited for us at the top? How the view was secondary to that feeling of completion and contentment? No, I’m not that good of a story teller.
But I can tell you the story of the great mountain. I could not find it in the Lonely Planet Guide. I haven never heard it before or since. It was passed from our ‘porter’ who carried the bulk of our food and equipment on a bamboo stick. He told the youth from Mataram. Our porter was young as well but he seemed old. He seemed as if he knew the land as an old man knows the home he built with his own hands. It was a real story – the kind you hear around campfires full of cowboys, on barstools full of old miners, in kitchens full of laughing women. The kind of story I fell in love with as a child. And it tells of Rinjani in a way I could never explain or imagine.

Before I leave Rinjani forever I have a few “thank you’s” that are due:
I would like to thank Erin for making me buy that $5 sarong in Maui. Not only has it flown countless miles serving as my pillow or blanket but it has now made the trek up Rinjani as my head and ear protector in those early hours before dawn.
Thanks to Boo for an ancient red bandana that saved my scalp from the burning sun and added the much needed thin layer between my bare head and the nippy air in our tent at the base of the summit. It also covered some horrendously dirty hair by day 3.
For a simple pair of lifesaving socks that were tucked away in my stocking a few years ago, I owe a big thank you to my Momma. She probably had no idea those tan and maroon socks would save my little feetsies from Rinjani’s cruel paths – but boy did they ever.
My body would like to thank my father for the extra large bottle of Advil he purchased for me before I left.
And of course, to my two climbing companions, Lisa and Desirae, whose encouragement and strength pushed and pulled me to the top. Thanks ladies – here’s to us. May the rest of the journey be a gently sloping and downhill all the way.

That's it for now. May you be safe and prosperous until we meet again.

Miss you all from the road.