13th July
The past week has been pretty tough. I left Malaysia feeling
rejuvenated and ready for the next stage of my travel. I had two nights
stopover in Kuta, Bali and to be honest, I wasn’t taken with it at all. As I
walked down the streets (in very conservative clothing, I add), every group of
local men I walked past cat-called me. Nothing nasty, just stuff like “Hello,
pretty lady”, but it was enough to make me feel vulnerable for the first time
since I left home. Kuta itself was full of Western chain shops, tourists and
one very crowded beach. I ended up finding a hotel on the beach and paying to
use their pool because there really wasn’t anything else to do. I ate at the
Hard Rock Café that night, purely to feel safe and comfortable. I sat up at the
bar and chatted to bartenders over cocktails and felt much better. But it felt
like a wasted couple of days, in a place that I really had no interest in.
When I arrived on Lombok island I fell instantly in love
with it. It’s a small island; you can drive from North to South on the rather
rocky, potholed filled roads in around three hours. The sense of community was
strong, with large families still celebrating Eid in full swing. My homestay
was lovely, and in the middle of nowhere. So far, so good. The real problems
hit when I decided to climb Mount Rinjani.
Mount Rinjani is Indonesia’s second tallest volcano, and
towers over the island at over 12,000ft above sea level. I had read it would be
a hard climb, but I’m fairly fit and was up for the challenge. To be honest, it
still feels like the biggest mistake I have made. The danger and exhaustion
were so real, and the views could not make up for it. The hike up to the Crater
Rim (sitting at almost 9000ft) was ten hours (I had been led to believe it was
a lot less than this). The final five hours were the worst. I was struggling to
put one foot in front of the other. Parts of it were so steep that you had to
use your hands to pull yourself over the rocks. As the sun set, it dawned on me
that I was going to still be climbing in the dark and suddenly I was terrified.
The group I had set off with were all way ahead, and I had only locals for
company. It was one of those locals who took me under his wing and encouraged
me for the final hour with words of comfort. “It’s ok,” he would say “you can
do it”. Stumbling over loose rocks and volcanic ash, clutching my torch in one
hard and using my free hand to pull myself over the bigger rocks, I did not
believe him one bit. But his help and his words were constant. As tears
streamed down my face, he kept me calm. It had rained earlier in the day, so my
damp clothes were causing me to shiver in the low temperatures (less than 10 degrees
centigrade). I had to stop after every step, my thighs and calves burning and
threatening to give up. I had no choice but to go onwards and upwards, to yet
colder and thinner air. When I finally saw the glowing lights of camp, and
fumbled over the last rock I burst into tears and ran into the arms of a girl
named Nihad from my trek group, who had only been a little in front of me and
had waited for me.
There were hundreds of people in camp, and it took all my
concentration not to trip over various tent pegs on the search for my tent.
Nihad and I found our tent and crawled into it, huddling inside in an attempt
to find warmth. I immediately changed into dry clothes, snuggled into my
sleeping bag and lay down. Every inch of my body hurt. I like to physically
challenge myself, but this was on a whole other level. The porters appeared at
our tent flap with food, but I was far too exhausted to eat a single bite.
Nihad forced a few cookies down me, and we bonded over our pain. We had arrived
in the dark so didn’t even have a good view to reward ourselves with. I was
asleep by 7.30pm. The tent was on hard rocky ground and on a slope, but I was
too tired to care. People were due to get up at 2am to climb another three
hours to the summit, but I knew my body could not do it. And by the end of the
next day, I was so thankful that I didn’t attempt it.
The next morning I sat around camp for several hours,
awaiting the return of those who had gone to the summit. Every person returned
with the same conclusion: “It was so cold”. The views around me were
spectacular, but in all honesty I just wanted to get off that mountain. My legs
felt like jelly, and I was fed up of constantly being on a slope. The original
plan was to spend that second day climbing the 600m down to the crater lake,
swimming in it for a while before ascending the 600m the other side. I decided
to skip this day (as did others in my group), eager to be back on level ground
and safety. It was another good decision. The climb down the mountain was just as
hard. The first few hours were worse going down than they had been coming up.
Every step was on loose rocks and I was slipping all over the place. At one
point, somebody dropped a bag of rubbish (accidently or on purpose I don’t
know) and I watched it soar past me, gaining momentum and tumbling down the
mountain before hitting a large rock and splitting open, contents spilling
everywhere. A horrible thought popped into my mind. What if that happens to me?
I have seriously never been so scared, and tears welled up in my eyes again. I
only got down those first few hours because of the help of one of our porters.
He was wearing flip flops, and carrying a long stick on his shoulders, with
baskets at each end filled with food, water and supplies. And he held my hand
for a good two hours, helping me over every obstacle and stopping me from
falling every time I slipped. Further down the mountain, we ran out of water.
The porter who had been with me had none left, and neither did I. The other
porters were further down. I went an hour without water, dehydration slowly
setting in. At one point I near collapsed. I sat down at the side of the path,
feeling completely defeated and unable to think of anything except water. A
couple of walkers went by and saw my empty water bottle. They filled it part
way with some of their own water and I gratefully drank every drop. Able to
walk again, I found my way to the lunch stop.
By now it was 4pm; I downed a load of water immediately,
wolfed down the noodles and embraced the break. But we still had a couple hours
ahead of us. The final part of the walk was easier, but in my state every step
was still a challenge. We decided that running down the hill would be easier
and gave it a go. And it actually was. Despite my aching muscles I started
running, and actually enjoyed the freedom. I was running down a volcano, over
every obstacle, almost free running. And we ran for an hour. It felt good. That
despite everything that had happened, and despite my broken body, I could still
run. Until I couldn’t. I hit the wall, and was unable to go any further. From
that point I hobbled. Clutching my water bottle in my hand I concentrated on
putting one foot in front of the other. At 6pm, I finally reached the end of
the trail. Covered in dirt, it took me several attempts to climb into the back
of the open truck ready to go back to my homestay.
The owner of my homestay had to help me up the two steps to
my room, my legs were broken. I showered slowly, scrubbing the mud and ash and
dirt off my legs, my face, my hair. I collapsed on the bed, my legs stiff and
no longer functioning as legs. By 7.30pm I was asleep.
If I’m honest, I do still regret doing that climb. I mean,
it’s pretty cool to be able to say that I’ve climbed an active volcano. But the
risks involved were just not worth it. I hope that one day I’ll be able to look
back and remember the view and smile. That the pain will become a funny
anecdote. But right now, I’m just happy to be safe.
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