Rinjani: Nemesis

I wish this was a happy post, but there are many sad parts to it.

Since the age of 18, I have successfully lived up to my Chinese alter ego, Li Hi Shan, by taking on hardcore and impressive adventures, surviving, climbing up very high mountains and lots of steps, and generally preparing myself to aspire to the lofty heights of insane activities upon meeting my Li Hi destiny in the form of Risk or Death.  It is with great shame, therefore, that I recount the next episode of my Indonesian adventure to you, however, I feel that it is essential to my artistic authenticity to give a true and honest account of all my goings-on in Asia.

Happy Flower had decided that a lying-around-on-a-beach holiday was not for her, and so had booked us on a four day trek up to the Rinjani crater on Lombok.  Teaching being the busy occupation it is, I did not give the trek itinerary the attention it deserved and arrived in Lombok, amazed and delighted by the views of paddy fields and the obvious ease at which this four day stroll clearly promised.  I had packed my walking boots, I had packed two of Frenchie's t-shirts into which to sweat, I even had the sports bra of awesomeness, purchased for me by my sister at Christmas as a reward for surviving the Angkor Wat half marathon and proving that I was, truly, Li Hi.



Day 1
Imagine my distress, therefore, after three hours of walking or so, when, nestled under a tarpaulin lean-to eating some impressively cooked noodle lunch, when a monsoon storm suddenly exploded from the sky.  Happy Flower and I watched the rain come down steadily, and then turned to our guide, Singa, to explain to him that nothing that we currently possessed, was waterproof, and when, please, was the rain going to stop? After an hour of sitting, becoming increasingly more concerned, the rain had not stopped.  Three other, fully prepared Irish trekkers helped us to fashion half-waterproofs out of pink plastic bags.  These, with the amusing aid of my well-endowed womanly form helped to keep my body dry for all of half an hour as we trekked vertically upright.  After the four hours that we spent walking through a cloud, however, the plastic bags were as much help as they had originally seemed to be, and every single part of me was soaked to the skin, and becoming colder and colder by the minute.  Very miserable and embarrassed we were, especially as both Happy and I claim to be 'experienced' walkers.

Half way up our vertical ascent after lunch, it transpired that we had the worst guide in the history of mountaineering, ever.  Poor Singa got cramp, and within about ten minutes, was nowhere to be seen.  Happy and I continued, regardless, knowing that to stop moving would mean freezing to death.  However, when the thunder and lightening started, I called to Happy, explaining that it made me a little anxious to be standing in the middle of a storm without a guide to be seen.  We waited a moment or two on the mountainside, Happy reassuring me that the storm was a long way off.  Lightening, followed less than two seconds later by tremendous thunder claps, had her taking back her words, however, and we had to agree that we were right bang smack in the middle of the storm.  Quite scary.

We eventually made it to camp, whereupon we realised that our fingers felt very strange, we had no tent, and our porters had arrived too late to get any dry firewood.  At this point we were incredibly unimpressed by Singa, and Rinjani in general, although the view was spectacular now that we were out of the clouds.  We therefore explained that due to our lack of preparation, his general uselessness and the miserable weather, we would be cutting our trek short to two days.  We would summit in the morning, and return to the village the next day.  We slept, miserable, cold, warmed only by brief candlelight, hoping that some of our clothes would dry out a little bit by the next day.










Day 2
For those of you who know anything about altitude, you will know that it stops you from sleeping properly, gives you weird dreams, stops you from breathing properly and is generally a bit tough on the old morale after about 2,500m above sea level.  You will also know the phrase 'climb high, sleep low'.  Strangely, though, Singa and his company thought it appropriate for us to sleep at the highest point of our trek between day 1 and day 2, at 2,600m.  I therefore got absolutely no sleep, waking up every thirty minutes or so feeling like I was suffocating.

At 2am the next morning, we were woken, donned our head torches (I had to borrow one - I didn't read the itinerary) and began the summit ascent to 3,750m.  It was dark, it was cold, I was tired, there was sliding volcanic ash and slate under foot, it was straight up, scrambling with hands and feet in the dark.  At around 3,500m, the wind began to blow and the sun still wasn't up.  Frankly, a lack of willpower and an excess of altitude made me sit down at around this point, on a rock, with my hands up the sleeves of my inadequate jumper.

Happy: what are you thinking?
Me: I'm thinking I'm not going to make it and I feel horrible.
Happy: oh, Emma, are you sure?
Me: yes, go on without me.  Take the camera.  Take pictures.

After about four minutes of sitting, feeling miserable, I realised that to stay would mean pneumonia, so I gave Singa clear instructions to tell Happy where I'd gone, and started off down the mountain on my own.  There are few moments in my life where I've felt so bitterly disappointed in myself.  I've never not got to the top of a mountain, and not doing so on this occasion was nobody's fault but my own.  Sad times.

Half way down, however, the sun came out, and I was able to see this view:

I stopped to chat to two Australian boys, who had also not made it, and who lifted my spirits a little, and eventually returned to camp to practice my 'overjoyed' face for when Happy came down, victorious.  However, when she did finally arrive, the disappointment was too much, and we were soon sitting, staring at the view, in hugs and tears.  At this point, some Idiot Foreigner thought he might invite himself into the conversation.

Idiot Foreigner: hey, did you make it to the top.
Me: no, no I didn't (brush away tears).
Idiot: oh... why not?
Happy: (encouragingly) she made a really good job of it - she got right to that bit just before the last really hard bit.
Idiot: huh.  Don't you feel kind of bad about yourself that you didn't make it?
Me: ... yes.  I do.
Idiot: it's just, I thought you were injured or something.  Why didn't you make it?
Me: ... because I'm pathetic.  Go away now, please.

Refusing to completely accept my failure, Happy and I decided to trek for one more day, and walked down to the crater lake, and sat for a whole afternoon in a cloud, reading, sleeping, and generally getting tent cabin fever.







Day 3
On day 3, we walked up the other side of the crater, and thank goodness we decided to keep going for an extra day.  The views were extraordinary:







We had a very happy walk for about five hours in the morning, and then just after lunch, it began to rain again.  This time, however, Singa - his saving grace - had managed to source some makeshift waterproofs for us.  Happy was presented with a ripped poncho, and I with one of those foil wraps that you cover yourself in after a marathon.  It was gold.  After I had fashioned a makeshift cape for myself, I looked like a cross between a superhero and an Easter egg.  However, it kept my body bone dry.

Towards the end of the day, we were walking through dense jungle, where the path was just a narrow gully cut out by tree roots.  Within minutes, this path had become a gushing river, and we found there was nothing for it but to walk with free abandon through the water, getting mud and grit in our shoes and continuing, recklessly, regardless.  All conversation stopped: a combination of the pounding rain and the metallic shuffling, crinkling sounds of my super-cape meant that communication was pretty much impossible.

We were very pleased to eventually be picked up by a very posh car, and to explain to the driver that we would be going to the first five star hotel that we saw.  The lovely people at the Sheraton, Senggigi did well to hide their amusement/disgust when we rocked up, muddy, wet, stinking to heaven, hair bedraggled, insisting that they had a room for us, and that we take that room immediately.  How sad, that this is the Li Hi conditions that I - spoilt expat brat - have grown accustomed to in such a short space of time!  Obviously, I will have to plan something of Li Hi and epic proportions to prove to myself and the world that I am not a soft little dough ball of privilege, and could take on Rinjani - my nemesis - any day, if I so chose to.