Rising Abruptly (12 page)

I express disappointment: The lofty peak of the revered place of the dead, Ebin, should not bear an English name.

In honour of Sir Hugh Low, Jillanto.

Yes, yes, but. Same thing in our Rockies back in Canada. English names all over the place. Why not a tribal name? Do you think others made it to the top before Sir Hugh Low, but didn't boast about it?

Boast?

Officially record the date of their conquest. They always say words like conquest or bag or assault. For all to see and for all times.

That is boast?

Yeah.

Many tribes near mountain. That is so for thousands of years.

Then, it's not unlikely… I see your point. Those Brit adventurers went everywhere. They also tramped all over our Rockies. They called themselves peak baggers. Preachers too, a number of them.

Before they reached base of mountain, Jillanto, Sir Hugh Low and expedition had to hack through jungle for many weeks.

Talk about sweating buckets. No trail?

He did not know where trails were.

That makes me feel better. Let the bastard sweat. In early morning light, I make out what we have just climbed. Sheer cliffs drop from the summit plateau on three sides. Peaks appear and disappear in the mist. Distant hills emerge through layers of clouds lending an image of islands nestled in the crested waves of a silver sea. The wind is still blowing strong, the temperature not much above 5°C. And I am shivering. Not because of a bug, but with genuine ancient cold.

Soon, our fellow climbers are crowding the narrow summit, claiming their own personal victory. I crane my neck, expecting Sab to jog behind the last climber, shouting, surprise, Lanctôt my man. Surprise!

Dawn rises not pink orange, but in swirls of a thick grey vapour. Soon, the sunrise paints an array of shades and colours on the cloud backdrop that stubbornly denies us the much heralded splendour of the rising sun over the South China Sea. That change in the pre-arranged program does not prevent a plethora of photos and grins. I slip on a pair of cotton socks over my hands to protect them from the cutting icy wind blowing in this spirit place. If only I could stow away some of that froidure and carry it back down with me. At six thirty, Ebin motions it is time to leave the summit.

Can't we stay for a full day cycle?

What for, Jillanto?

I wish to… meditate.

He narrows his eyes: Jillanto not cold enough? We must start down. Better sweat all your buckets, than have mountain sickness.

I acknowledge. How many weirdos with wacky requests has he guided up here?

On the descent, I'm slip-sliding on the wet rock and, soon, I take a bad spill, landing on my back. Normally, even a daypack would have cushioned my fall. This time, something stabbed me. What the hell did I put in there? Of course. The remains of the durian. I packed it, as I couldn't allow anyone but me to carry the stinker back down. I regret that I did not have the presence of mind to leave it on the summit. An offering of respect to the akis of the mountain for granting me my cold moment. Yesterday in the downpour at Panar Laban, it did not occur to me either to sacrifice the durian to appease the mountain spirits.

Ebin worries. I urge him not to. Imagine my back punctured in a starburst pattern by the sharp spikes of tiger's fruit. My broken skin will fester in the jungle heat and I will develop a deadly infection. Sab will treat it with boiled bark and will tend to my fever with kindness and amusement. The durian and its putrid flesh would only have been trash left on the mountain. We resume the descent, reaching Sayat Sayat quickly.

In spite of holding on to the fixed ropes, I can't stop slipping. My legs—two jellyfish—and my running shoes giving me poor traction. I had figured a vacation in a tropical jungle didn't warrant carrying my hiking boots. We are now traversing one particularly entertaining section with a substantial drop, which darkness on the way up had made inexistent. I go down carefully, mindful of my recent habit of slipping. Ebin perches alertly on the outside, ready to assist me should I lose my footing. I appreciate he who is guiding me so safely and skilfully, but, considering the difference in our sizes, should I begin to slide, I would take him down with me. May the spirits of the dead forgive my arrogance for seeking cold at near zero degrees of latitude where it has no true lease.

In ninety minutes of my not very graceful descent, we are back at Laban Rata where I drink large quantities of Sabah tea. Monsieur Hulot-mate is nowhere in sight.

From then on, everything goes fast, as if we had entered a race. At eight forty-five, we resume the hike down through thickening vegetation and toward increasing heat. I keep looking back, caught in a powerful urge to rush back up on jellyfish legs, my ears filled with the beguiling high notes of the near-freezing wind of dawn. Instead, my nose is now filling with the repulsive odour of the decaying flesh of the fruit, which has saturated pack, clothing, skin, my very breath. Dripping wet in the jungle steamer, I exude the fine scent of eau de raw sewage.

On the forested path, my knees and quads can't take it anymore. Ebin fetches me a branch to use as a walking stick. The path is slick with mud churned in yesterday's rains. I slide and stumble on the rocks strewn along it. Each time I find myself on my ass, Ebin goes tut-tut-tut, a teacher reproaching his undisciplined student. That is moi in the flesh, the lazy pupil with his head in the clouds and his ass in the mud. As we descend, the dreaded sticky heat of the jungle wraps around my body its multiple arms covered in suckers. And with decreasing altitude and increasing heat, the stink of the durian gains in potency. Quietly, Ebin puts more and more distance between us.

It is high noon when we reach headquarters, after descending, from summit to power station, 2,272 metres. Even on level ground, I am unable to support my weight. A disarticulated puppet, I bid Ebin goodbye with many thanks. With regrets that we didn't linger in the frigidarium of the mountain.

At the counter, I receive a certificate of excellence for having climbed Mount Kinabalu. Grin at the sweet touch. Imagine Parks Canada handing out certificates to all successful peak baggers of Mount Robson. I buy a stamp and drop the poskad into the mailbox by the door. Someone says the bas will soon depart for Kota Kinabalu. My port of exit. And home. Will the bas wait, the last available seat permanently reserved for Jillanto? I rush to grab my large pack left in storage. Exit into the brutal sun.

Begging your pardon, ratbag. You stink to high hell.

This, mate, is the empirical knowledge of durian.

Going back down?

Nah. I've had it with the green inferno. Though, I have a cool friend living down there. Dr. Gustavia Sabourin. She's an alchemist sorcerer, that one. She could give me a root, a rhizome, a leaf, a seed. Any concoction from her herbal cornucopia to cure swollen sweat glands and to curb this unbearable sweating of mine. To say nothing of healing punctures by durian.

If you change your mind, here's a parting gift from your mate.

And he hands me a tube of potent Aussie-made insect repellent.

It may dissolve plastic, but it's guaranteed to resist removal caused even by your excessive sweating. It'll keep you safe from all those bugs out there. And that's dinkum talk from your mate. Well, it was a challenge spending time in your company. A bit of advice. Don't be so stroppy. Learn to slow down. You'll enjoy the tropics more.

On that note, he gets on the bas, taking the last available seat. Leans out the open window.

My Sue was trigger-happy. She'd still be alive if she hadn't been so frazzled all the time. So, mate, don't fight it. Welcome yourself to paradise.

Squeaky clean after a long shower, I take a later bas driving down Aki Nabalu. Toward the sea, toward the jungle.

I write Sab another poskad: I'm not staying, old pal. With the sunrise, I'm outta your Borneo paradise. Must escape this heat that rumbles, steams blood, pops lungs. Must run away from ear-splitting night ménagerie in sticky jungle. Midnight monkeys moaning in monotone. Nocturnal parrots mimicking rusty hinges. Two o'clock tuak-carousing Dayaks paddling splat. Dogs snarling. Night barge roaring down molasses river. Four o'clock cocks crowing crazy. And the cherry on the ais krim, high-pitched
Anopheles
drilling malaria into skin, into blood. Such is your paradise, Sab, my dearest friend, with its touch of inferno. Not for me. Not for me. Avec toute mon affection from our northern country, your old pal Gillo.

Then, I stare at the tube of insect repellent. Hugh Low's voice in my ear, grating: Don't be so stroppy. Learn to slow down. You'll enjoy the tropics more.

Driving back toward Sab's jungle bungalow. Showing up, smeared with a miracle of chemistry that will keep
Anopheles
at bay. The housekeeper will assure me the doctor is now back from collecting. The extinct plant may or may not be extinct, the expedition, a wild goose chase or a stunning discovery. Sab and I will sit in those big chairs on the veranda. Will sip gin pahits. Will watch the molasses river
flow
by. Will yak up a storm. Slowly reconnecting. While I wait for the inaugural bout of malaria the down-under man swears I haven't got. Jungle fever forever. I am here. Might as well stay a while. Sab, cool as ever. Sab, the healer, will block the signalling pathway of pain, won't she? And when sweating like a babi, I could always hike back up Gunung Kinabalu and find salvation in the realm of the cold. Sweat your buckets, Jillanto. Don't fight it, mate. No sweat, I will tell Sab. No sweat. And Sab sipping her gin pahit will say, Lanctôt my man, so glad you could come. And in this manner, I will welcome myself to your paradise. Because, Sab, old friend, you always got me.

Onion

BAREFOOT, Jacques Lachance staggers into the kitchen, awakened by Maddie's nocturnal activity.

I had no idea, ma grande. It's not just trouble sleeping. You are a true night owl.

Ha! Maddie guffaws, raising her head from her kitchen lab book. I'm nothing but. She taps the book with her pen: Water boils four degrees Celsius lower here in Calgary than in Montréal. Did you know that?

Jacques slips his rock shoes on and, with his chin, points at the display of postcards pinned on the walls and the high ceiling of his Bowness bungalow. He moves his head this way and that, like a bird on a spring: I'm surprised your mom didn't write you about that.

Maddie could not be more surprised than him. A few minutes before, her expectation of success had run high. Now, her first Calgary experiment lies in ruins on the kitchen counter. A few minutes back, the water had come to a full boil. Maddie rinsed the batch of pearl onions that had been steeping in its salt-water basin for two days (200 grams of salt dissolved in two litres of water, she had noted in her book) and dipped them into the stockpot, a few at a time so as not to lower the temperature too much. When the water boiled again, she counted sixty seconds. Removed the pearls with her skimmer, plunged them into cold water to prevent further cooking. Popped one onion into her mouth. A tad too crunchy. But a tad was a tad. How could that be?

In Montréal, through trial and error in the course of countless sleepless nights, she had taught herself to blanch and skin; steep; dip, count, retrieve, bite. Once she had discovered the perfect equilibrium between cocktail onion size and cooking time, the first three steps of the experiment never failed. Her lab book testifies to that. It was in the final two steps, pickling, then the maturing period, that she kept missing the mark. Were the spices in the pickling solution the problem? Was it better to put them directly into the jar with the cooked onions? Too many spices? Not enough? Chili pepper, ginger root, cinnamon stick, peppercorns, whole cloves, allspice. She tried all permutations. She flipped through the pages of her lab book to study the tables she had made. No matter what, in the final taste test, an unknown factor kept upsetting the balance.

Ultimately, she convinced herself the water was what had ruined them. She would never reach pearl perfection. And here, in Jacques Lachance's house, where she expected to solve the remaining puzzle, her onions remained undercooked. What caused the experiment to fail? She blinked into the blackness of the east window. Had to figure this out.

She boiled fresh water and immersed her candy thermometer. Aha! In school, she had been told, water boils at one hundred degrees centigrade. Her teacher had failed to add, at sea level. And so, here in the shadow of the mountains, water boils at 96°C. No wonder her onions came out crunchier than Mom's, and a tad crunchier than her own dozens of batches in Montréal. Lower temperature means she must leave the bulbs in longer. But how much longer? Calculations of perfect crunchiness or not, she just ruined her first batch of Calgary pickled pearls.

When her mother sent Maddie across the continent, in praise of the water, she meant not the water coming out of the tap, but glacier water. Maddie was willing to learn mountaineering for the sole purpose of fetching it, vital to the success of her experiment. Instead, she met Jacques Lachance, a bona fide climber, and a sweet man, who offered to bring her the precious water from the heights. However, since hauling it is hazardous to him and since he can carry only a limited quantity with each outing, she must use the water wisely. And so, she must solve the problem of the missing four degrees, which she must make up with the exact extra numbers of seconds, and according to the size of her pearl
cepa
. Despite staring at the white light above the stove, she is still groping in the dark.