good atlas

When we flew into Lombok, Indonesia, we saw it. A monolith of a mountain announcing itself to us. Looming from the expanse of bluish-green earth beneath it. Even from the airplane, the proportion is unworldly. I’m thinking to myself, we, tiny human beings are going to climb that?

We hiked Mount Rinjani for a total of 30 hours in the span of three days. A group of eight friends and three trekking guides traversing Indonesia’s second-tallest volcano.

For the guides, it’s a weekly feet-breaking affair. They do this once or twice a week, hauling heavy packs which contained clothes, cigarettes, food, water, tents, sleeping bags. For me, this was a once-in-a-few-years feat I’ve spent months preparing for. At the foot of the volcano, I was nervous and excited. I was ready.

When you hike for eight to ten hours on end, something changes. You notice your body begin to slow down. The rhythm of your mind and body shift from the mechanical, syncopated, quick-mongering pace of the days prior into a sort of swaying, slow motion, motion. On hindsight, I don’t think things moved in slow motion. Perhaps we just move too quickly. 

Slowness feels like this: You hear your breath, the persistent crunching of your shoes against the soil underfoot. You feel the contraction of your muscles, the aches in your knees and toes. You stare at pine trees while you rest watching leaves meander with the wind, you dart your gaze across the skies searching for teetering birds, you prance to the occasional ring-a-ding of cowbells who pass you by as you stare at them, amazed you are both this close to one another. 

You begin to descale into a point of singular existence— the one that exists on the here and now. The world begins to wrap itself around you with the immediacy of its presence. One thing merges into the next: hills into mountains, rivers into valleys, grass plains into dense foliages. Borders are seldom borders. There are no beginnings or endings, only continuity. 

It was pitch black when we started our hike towards the volcanic peak. It was 12AM and numbingly fucking cold. We huddled close for warmth. Hands in pockets. When we tilted our heads up we saw a blanket of stars, clouded by our own misty breath. Our muscles still stiff from the cold and demands of the previous day’s hike. In a circle, we stood in silence while our guide led us with a prayer. Amin. 

Berang-berang makan ketupat…berangkat!

Your foot sinks when you hike toward the volcanic peak. You are trekking on ash. Soft, deciduous ash that seem to melt the moment your feet touches ground. Every two steps forward is one step back. This means that a 2 kilometre stretch will take you 6 hours, if you can keep up.

The wind howls. Relentlessly echoing against my ear and sounding exactly like a wind instrument in chaotic refrain. I think they model the serunai after these mountain winds. My rain jacket fluttered wildly against my body. We take cover against an occasional boulder for a water break. Fifteen minute break. One hour hike.

At some point, I was in mega-mode. Adrenalin-soaked. I could only afford to look ahead at the small grey perimeter lit by my head lamp. Slow step after slow step. Trying not to lose sight of the pair of feet ahead of me, but I did eventually, and realised that I was alone. And it was rapturous. Thought, growing and receding like an ocean wave, undulating to the rhythm of my crunching feet. Tired but very damn aware. Thought wells into memory, into feeling. So large, as vast and wide and deep as the universe. A fragment of the universe.

When your body is walking this closely against the spine of the earth, you feel like you and the universe are one. You are moving in unison with it, breathing in tandem with it. Your thoughts is the universe thinking with you. Your voice is the universe conversing with you. And so, it is beyond words. It is a kind of energy that can only be felt in every inch of your body, the energy of time, of people, of the earth, convalescing into a singular visceral existence. 

As I ascended, I saw glimpses of my father, visions of him walking across Annapurna, and I felt close and connected to him. I’m doing this, dad! I can’t wait to tell you about it once I’m home. I saw glimpses of Craig walking in his ridiculously foamy New Balances from Kyoto to Tokyo, one small town at a time, grimy from rain and sweat, flustered from shadeless motorways, and felt the same determined energy that flowed through his body, in mine. The walk is the thing, Craig says. It’s keeping me honest with myself.

I saw glimpses of Jane, as she walked the very same path as I am now. All her advice and high-spirited YOU GOT THIS, echoing with every step that I take. That’s right, I’m walking with the collective. A collective energy that saw to it that I made it to the peak. Then, a memory as clear as day: A mid-twenties Lilly on a solo trip mid-depression, as she was high on life and close to the death as a she sped along a Bangkok highway on a motorbike, helmet-less. 

This soft animal in the world, absolutely alive.