Rising Abruptly (10 page)

Non non, thank you, non. Where I come from, we carry our own stuff.

He finds this custom curious, but, from my point of view if he carried my small load, I'd be the fat white man exploiting the Natives to do all the heavy lifting.

At eight A.M., a van transports us and several other hikers and their guides four kilometres to a power station where the road ends and the trailhead begins at 1,829 metres. As we set out, Ebin is suddenly laden with a metre-long cylinder which he carries over one shoulder, with no more effort than if it were a pillow. The ultimate water bottle. I'll need it too. We haven't gone five steps and already I'm dotting the trail with my salt water.

I point at the cylinder: That's a big water bottle. How many litres does it hold?

Water? No no, Jillanto. No. Propane gas. For cooking at rest house.

Silly me! Who has ever heard of compressed water? The guide educates me.

Food and cooking fuel carried up by hand. Garbage and empty cylinders carried back down by hand.

I bow to the man.

We start walking along a well-maintained forest trail, with wood planks driven crosswise into the ground, providing steps as well as slowing down the erosion caused by the daily rains. The terrain is steep from the start. No time to acclimatize calf muscles and lungs. I estimate the temperature at around 25°C, but with the humidex off the scale, I inform my guide about my condition.

Don't worry, Ebin. This is normal for me. I sweat buckets.

Also, and that I keep to myself, the swelling in the groin makes hiking painful.

Moss dangles from every surface and, on both sides of the trail, the trees grow dense. I expect madness lives in this kind of bushwhacking. Sabourin can bushwhack for days looking for her precious plants, and comes out unaffected by the experience. Once, I accompanied her on a gathering expedition in the interior of British Columbia. I maintained decorum, but, as I admitted afterward, the tick of looniness rode on the back of my neck the entire time.

At various elevations, we pass open shelters with tin roofs, each housing a tank that catches rain for drinking water. Ebin suggests I strap one of them to my back for my rehydrating needs. I appreciate his gentle deprecating humour. Thanks to last night's slide show, I recognize rhododendron shrubs, wondering if the plant has any medicinal properties. I notice that no one is collecting at the moment, covertly or officially.

Ebin points out a
Nepenthes villosa
: Jillanto, several species of carnivorous pitcher plant grow only on flanks of Aki Nabalu.

I acknowledge and huff and puff. Examine the pitcher plant up close, but see only Sab in that video holding the plant by the stem. Wishful thinking on my part, or is she truly collecting on this flank of Aki Nabalu?

Soon, the jungle makes way to temperate forest as we reach a telecom installation.

The guide informs me that we are at 2,225 metres and this is the Kamburongoh transmitter for Sabah telecom. He anticipates my question: Yes, Jillanto. Kamburongoh is Dusun word. And yes, it has meaning. Plant that wards off evil spirits.

Cooee, mate. It's been yonks since I jogged. The missus used to beat me easy. Ran marathons in her youth. Let herself go to seed in the end. Some three hundred metres higher, there's the Layang-Layang Sabah Radio and TV Station transmitter. And Layang-Layang, mate, means place of swallows. Don't mean to boast, but living in these parts on and off, one learns a thing or two.

I'm stunned that he managed to catch up to us. An old man on wobbly legs. He's red as a beet, but his skin appears dry as a cactus. I don't get it.

This seems as good a time and place to introduce myself. I'm Hugh Low.

Hulot? Monsieur Hulot?

That's right, mate. Hugh Low.

For the first time, Ebin shows lack of composure. Points at the mountaintop, points at the Aussie: Like Sir Hugh Low?

Too right! My namesake.

Namesake?

Yes, Jillanto. Sir Hugh Low made first recorded ascent of Gunung Aki Nabalu. 1851.

Interesting coincidence, wouldn't you say? One reason why I climbed the mountain so many times. The missus had it with it, but it feels like this mountain belongs to me. No bull dust. But like you, I'll probably never come back here. I'm getting on. And now, the missus gone. Well, you know how it is.

Ebin notices that mate man is without a guide, and I sure as hell don't wish to share mine, the spirit of mateship be damned. And so, I explain that, since we're not in the same party, the basic hiking protocol applies. To each his own pace. Besides, he shouldn't be on the mountain without a guide.

And he rails against Authority: The same, the world over.

While discreetly stretching the fabric of my shorts away from my groin, I agree: But, as well you know, when in Borneo…

No worries, mate. I shouldn't put you on the spot. Looks like you have a bit of trouble with the old sweat glands. And he points at his own crotch: Swollen sweat glands in the groin? The missus had that problem for years. On and off. Ninety days of antibiotics, nothing else would do. Wouldn't take medications. Finally relented. Cured her too.

Thanks for the advice. If I run into a druggist along the way, I'll stock up.

In these parts, mate, you can get them over the counter.

On that pharmaceutical note, I nod to my guide that we resume our uphill walk: Ebin, you people sure put your transmitters high up. You must have fantastic reception.

Reception, Jillanto? Yes. Our people like party, he quips.

I laugh and we push on, up and up without stopping, past the place of swallows. Soaked to the bone, I swallow from my water bottle, pleased that we have left the other hikers behind, relieved that monsieur Hulot isn't crowding us. (
Les vacances de M. Hulot
. I must see that film again one of these days. Are my own tropical vacances turning as ghastly as monsieur Hulot's seaside sojourn?) But where on this mountain will I find a cure for this heat attack? Better be soon. I'm running out of steam. Calf muscles cramping, just about every other muscle in spasm. Feeling a slight nausea too.

And I imagine Sab injured at the bottom of a ravine, days away from proper medical attention, the botanical wild goose chase ending in tragedy. The difference between us is that, while I see the monstrous whole as unmanageable, Sab has always had the ability to deal with each detail of the situation, no matter how complex. Not freaking out, as I would, at the prospect of a delicate extraction of the active compounds from a pile of plants. And, after she has finished to fractionate, as the technique is called, ending with one milligram of material in her vessel. The painstaking work. The coolness of procedure. And Jillanto on this mountain, with the summit still out of reach, should take heed. No wonder Sab became a natural products chemist, seeing the world at the molecular level. Maybe, that is intrinsic tranquility of mind.

And just as my spirits are sinking, to say nothing of my weakening muscles, at about 3,000 metres, we gain a windswept ridge. The vegetation is stunted, of the scrubby alpine genus, and the view of the jungle valleys far below is truly dizzying, but here, I give myself entirely to the wind. Arms raised, I stand still, the wind drying clothes and skin, and I breathe. I breathe to the full in this revered place of the dead.

About an hour later, we reach treeline at Panar Laban. Perched at 3,353 metres on the southeast ridge of the mountain, the Laban Rata rest house is where we will stay until the middle of the night when we will complete the 748 metres to the summit.

Lunchtime, Jillanto. First people to climb to here, they sacrificed white rooster and eggs.

Sacrificed? Is that the Dusun word for lunch?

Jillanto makes joke. Very funny. Sacrifice means sacrifice. To appease spirits of mountain. Every year, some people repeat ritual.

What is to fear on this mountain, Ebin?

Mostly, Jillanto, superstitions. Also, getting lost in fog. Slipping and breaking bone. Falling off cliff. Getting hypothermia.

Hypothermia? Genuine full-blown hypothermia?

On summit. Very rare.

This is great, Ebin. Then, it does get that cold?

Ice on Aki Nabalu melted only ten thousand years ago. Cold still here.

That's good news, Ebin. But we sure didn't linger getting to this point. By my watch, it's now twelve thirty. Lunchtime indeed. Four and a half hours to cover only six kilometres, but with an elevation gain of over 1,500 metres and not forgetting evil humidity. My calf muscles tell me it's a lot. I'm pooped, but pleased.

My guide doesn't appear to be affected. He tells me his best time is four hours.

Great! I slowed you down only thirty minutes. Not bad, eh, Ebin?

He grins: No no, Jillanto. No. Four hours to summit and back.

You're kidding me.

Not so great.

Not that great! And how often do you go up and down Aki Nabalu?

Two, three times a week. Record is two hours and thirty-nine minutes.

Do you people jog up and down the mountain?

We have annual competition. Gurkhas from Nepal do well. Women compete too. Best time, six hours.

As I'm gazing at the two-storey rest house built in the shadow of towering cliffs near a stream cascading over a sheer rock face, I wonder what is Sab's personal best. In the play of light and shadow, I make out a face on the rock. Awkward features cut square in stone, a strong aquiline nose. My guide bids me a good stay until we undertake the night climb. And disappears from view, presumably, to deliver the cylinder of propane gas to the kitchen. Unless he has designs on some bird and eggs. Which I doubt, as he seems at peace with the mountain spirits.

Thick clouds gather, the wind blows and it begins to rain. The spirits spitting on me? The sudden cold startles me and I run to seek shelter. Stop, fool! And so, at 3,353 metres in the equatorial island of Borneo, the wind and rain of our northern Rockies have rushed in to greet me. I stand in the downpour. Shiver with delight. Let rain lave days of jungle sweat. Let rain cool down my feverish brain. I lie down on the wet rock. Offer myself to the spirits. A white Québécois cock sacrificing himself to secure the good will of the spirits of the mountain. Seven hundred and forty-eight metres below the summit, in their infinite kindness, the akis of Nabalu are granting Jillanto his wish to take the blessed cure.

In my Spartan cell, I'm shivering. Caught in the primeval battle between the heat and the cold. It is raining tropically and the wind is gusting. The stream behind the rest house has turned into a torrent. The huge rock slabs leading to the summit will be water-slick. Forget completing the climb in this tempest. Could even be snowing on the summit. I wouldn't mind witnessing la neige à Bornéo. But wise Ebin would recommend against pushing on in this downpour. In any case, at Panar Laban, it is cold enough. I've reached my goal.

Belly cramps, bowels threatening havoc. The joys of the tropics. Sipping steaming mee soup and drinking sweet tea to ward off swamp fever at high altitude.

You don't have malaria, mate. You caught a chill. Should have worn your woolly.

Monsieur Hulot? What are you doing here?

Told you. This mountain's my back garden.

I mean. In my room.

The place's full. We have to bunk up together. Rest. I'll take care of you. Reminds me of my dying Sue.

I'm not dying.

So many friends, we had, the world over. For forty years, Hugh and Sue Low on their great walkabout. Going everywhere together. You've heard the phrase, waltz Matilda?

You mean “Waltzing Matilda,” don't you?

That's the old bush ballad. To waltz Matilda means to carry a swag. That was us. Carrying a swag and not much else. Quite the team, we were, Hugh and Sue Low. Last year, Hugh lost Sue.

I must be delirious. The struggle between the heat and the cold causing confusion on the brain. And I'm hallucinating. Where did monsieur Hulot misplace Sue Low? Or, more likely, Sue went on a walkabout by herself for some peace and quiet. Sue Low lying low on Low's Peak, waiting for mate man to get lost in the fog, or fall off a cliff, or die of hypothermia. I am shivering. I am delirious.

Your chill's getting worse, mate. Same delirium as with my Sue.

The narrow bed is spinning round and round. I'm dozing on and off, dizzy. Wind howling and rain drumming on the small window pane above my jumping bed. A machete. He's wielding a jungle machete. Will crack open my cranium. He gives an expert whack. It cracks open. The durian stinks up the whole room. Fetid shit smell. Did I make a mess in the bed?

Here. Eat this.

The Australian feeding me my forbidden fruit. Rather pasty, Tiger's favourite. More vegetable than fruit. Flesh, somewhat like soft marrow. Swallowing soft sorrow. The taste reminding me of almond custard. The food of invalids. The smell rising though, closer to a very ripe Roquefort. The complex nature of Borneo imbedded in a durian.

Good jungle tucker, mate, to help your system get rid of your bug.

Monsieur Hulot tucking me in. Wiping my face with a cold cloth.