palace of winds

We wake before the alarm, but putz around a while and head down for breakfast at 7:30. I have part of a slice of toast and banana/papaya juice and a cup and a half of tea. Joe’s faring better than I am and goes bold with the mie goreng (fried noodles).

We’re out of spray-on sunscreen (boo) so we’re a little late getting back down for our 8:30 pick-up from Eco Dive. The dive center is in the next little town over, Jemeluk, just a short drive. We spend a little while waiting and doing forms, then I go back to be fitted for gear: wet suit, mask, flippers & booties, vest. The diving instructor (who is the spitting image of Avery from Grey’s Anatomy) conducts the orientation in English (for me & two Australians) and in French (for three French guys and two Canadians — the Canadians are helping keep an eye on us seven newbies as part of their Divemaster certification). We learn a bit about our equipment and techniques we’ll need to know in the water, then head across the road to practice in the shallows.

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In the morning we do feel better — not 100%, but dramatically improved.

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We wake early Monday morning sick. It hits Joe a couple hours before me, but soon we’re both miserable, taking turns in the bathroom and curled up on the bed. We’ve pre-arranged for Wayan, our favorite driver, to pick us up at 10 a.m. We stagger through the rest of our packing before then and I try, unsuccessfully, to make myself throw up before the long drive to Amed.

The next three and a half hours are a grueling trial. The road winds back up out of the mountain crater, then down and around the foothills. We ask Wayan to detour to Amlapurah so we can stop by an ATM (it has the only international ATMs on this side of the island) and the pharmacy (apotek). He is a wonderful driver — it could have been much worse with someone peeling around the many corners or too timid to overtake slow vehicles.

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My Last Mountain

The alarm goes off at 3:40, and 5 minutes later we get our wake-up knock. Shortly before 4 am we’re hitting the road, flashlight beams bouncing ahead of us, on our way to climb Gunung Batur. Our guide Jero looks like he could be no more than 15, but says he’s been leading treks up the mountain for years, and has a wife and 2 year old son.

We take rutted, winding alleyways through the small lakeside village of Toya Bunkah; they give way to a well-worn trail up into the forest. The nighttime is full of sound, a riot of insects, frogs, and lizards chirping and clicking away. We take our first rest at a small temple, after which the trail gets narrower and steeper. Halfway up the mountain the trees give way to volcanic rock and scrub.

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So. Clearly I’ve fallen far behind on the Bali entries. I really wanted to be done with it months ago; I had a lot of enthusiasm for it, but all of the photo choosing and editing sort of ground me down, and then packing and moving, and then — .

I haven’t known how to talk about it, really. If to talk about it. I go back and forth about why I write here, what I should write here. Cautious of the future, not wanting to regret saying too much. Exposing too much. And at the same time this is my space for remembering life, good & bad, and for exorcising what I’m feeling. Lately I have been drawn strongly to people’s stories of their own loss and pain. I have been desperate to know how other people deal with it, how they’ve lived through it. How to go on. Searching for some assurance that there is happy again somewhere on the other side. Other people’s brutal honesty, their willingness to share living through the bad times, has been a balm to me. So maybe talking about it will pass that gift on to someone else.

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