“It means moon.”

Bulan said to me when I asked her for her name, her eyes fixed on the dirt trail before us. In the thick darkness of the night, I could see barely the signs of a forest covering – an indication of the flora to come. A few feet ahead of me now, she appeared petite, slightly taller than my 5’2 self. Yet, her body looked strong. Not sinewy in an obvious way, but lean with strength that can only come from climbing Mount Batur almost every day, for decades.

She spoke of her childhood briefly – she was born when the moon was full just like on that night, hence her name. I found this comforting. I guess I’m what people call a selenophile – spending many minutes gazing at the moon each night, whatever phase it is in; losing time trying to capture an image that does fractional justice to its beauty and charting which Zodiac house it is in. In Bali, Purnama, or the full moon night is sacred, because it is believed that the gods descend on the island to provide blessings then. The fact that my Mount Batur hike was taking place on a full moon night and my guide was named after the moon was reassurance that everything in life aligns, especially when one doesn’t expect it.

She mentioned that she commonly goes by Wayan, the name typically given to the firstborn child, irrespective of gender. I later read that locals in Bali, an island with a majority Hindu population, continue to follow certain traditions rooted in the caste system Caturn Warna, including naming their children in the order of their birth.

We continued to walk deeper into the forest, the muddy path formed by many a hiker appearing before us as clearly as the star-speckled night sky above us. It was some minutes past 3 AM when we started walking from the base to the opening of the forest – like entering the mouth of a beast, its long tongue visible but its throat and neck pitch black. Soon, the way forward was illuminated only by headlamps and torches, because by then the branches of the deciduous forest that surround the mountain had left only a sliver of the night sky visible, except for an occasional clearing here and there.

The Mount Batur 1 AM club

I was picked up from my hotel at 1 AM for the sunrise trek to Mount Batur. Thanks to FOMO, my itinerary was packed to the brim, meaning between dinner and the pick-up, I managed to squeeze in an hour of sleep – something that’s a no-no before a hike. But hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do! My hotel was kind enough to pack a box for me with a sandwich and a beverage, for no extra charge. After driving for what seemed like forty-five minutes, I reached the ‘pre-base’ – a stop where we could load up on everyone’s favourite fuel for the hike to Mount Batur – carbs and coffee.

Between 2.30-3.00 AM, we reached the base and were assigned to different guides. That’s where I met Bulan, the only female guide that night or as I like to think of her – the moon among stars.

It’s not who you choose, it’s who you’re stuck with

The company you travel with or in this case, climb with, can make or break your experience. The company I had for this hike was, to put it mildly, terrible. I was a solo climber, so the hiking agency felt it would be best to club me with a group of Indians, thinking we’d mesh well due to cultural similarities – something I understand on their part. However, they could not have been more wrong.

The group was completely unprepared for the climb – the terrain, the weather, the challenges, and everything else. They signed up for the hike on a whim because a friend told them to do so, basis the conversations I overheard. Dressed in sleeveless tees, denim shorts, and flip-flops, they huddled around the jeep that was to take us to the base, cackling in undesirable volumes and passing comments about other climbers’ nationalities.

But I’m not here to shame their fashion choices or lack of preparedness. It was their whiny attitude, their lack of respect for the guide and their fellow climbers, their disdain for local culture, and their entitlement topped by their constant demand for omelettes at the summit, that made me want to throw several football shoes at them.

I turned to Bulan and asked if we HAVE to wait for them. At this point, we hadn’t covered even a fifth of the distance and the group wanted to hire locals to take them to the summit on bikes and were haggling for prices for nearly half an hour. Time is of the essence when the goal is to reach the summit to catch the much-talked-about sunrise, and I was getting both impatient and annoyed with this lot. I was determined not to be delayed because an entitled bunch of irresponsible people didn’t want to climb, even though they had signed up for the hike voluntarily.

Suggested read: How I messed up my Bali travel plans, and how you can avoid my mistakes

Bulan looked at me, her face reflecting years of experience dealing with all sorts of people – “I can’t leave anyone behind.”

A few minutes later, she turned, her voice a whisper – “But let’s see. If they take longer, you and I will carry on.”

Nothing comes easy at Mount Batur

Climbing Mount Batur is a challenge, I learned with each step I took. At a total distance of 8-to-11 kilometres from the base (depending on which trail you take) and a summit that’s 1,717 meters high, it’s the smaller sibling to Mt. Agung and comes nowhere close to Mt. Rinjani in Lombok, a trek that takes two-to-four days. So, while the ascent and descent take four hours, not including the time spent at the peak, Mount Batur does not make for a particularly long hike; but it doesn’t go easy on you either.

What starts as a gentle gradient that makes you think – ‘I can do this in half the time it takes others!’ – soon proceeds to kick butt as the path becomes steeper and more slippery by the minute. The terrain offers close to zero grip, owing to the loose volcanic soil. Your calf muscles bear the brunt of the ascent, all while you struggle to find something to grab onto and find nothing but weak branches on either side of the path. The volcanic rocks appear only very close to the summit; so while the much-needed foothold finally makes an appearance, the elevation is steep. And you’re doing all of this in the dark while racing against time, trying to stay warm and praying you do not fall.

The descent is easy on the calves because the quads and knees take the hit as you try to once again find grip and avoid falling face-first down the slope. At least it’s daylight now.

The level of difficulty also depends on one’s fitness level and mental strength. My athletic prowess is zero. Still, I love a good climb. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the challenge of it all – a test of grit, determination and preparedness and how far I can take my body, fully aware of its many limitations? Or is it because I know that what waits for me at the top will always be worth the aching limbs and the mind-muscle tussle?

Perhaps it’s both these reasons and more, but if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that hiking Mount Batur made me fall even more in love with climbing – the journey, the summit, the descent, the (good) company and the euphoria of it all.

Talking to the moon

Bulan and I eventually left the group, after they gave her their phone numbers so that she could contact them – a futile exercise since there’s no network atop the summit. But I knew that if we listened for unruly cackling in a sea of climbers, we’d find the lot.

The two of us continued. She radiated energy. I, sweat.

During the several breaks I took, I pieced together more details of a life I knew I would never cross again after the hike was over. She has five children, her eldest is in college. I couldn’t see her face when she spoke to me about her kids, but I could hear the pride in her voice.

Once the hike is done, she goes home and does the chores and cooking for the household. Her kids help out when they can, except the youngest who was only five years old then. She sends them to school and then either goes to her part-time job or does a course. I didn’t press for details because I could barely breathe trying to keep up with her pace while trying not to lose my balance.

When she’s back home, she catches up on her sleep before her job as a guide, she told me as she handed me fruit from her backpack. I took yet another break – my legs were wobbly, my muscles like jelly that hadn’t yet set. “Take as many breaks as you want, it’s okay”, Bulan said to me reassuringly as I expressed worry about making it to the summit in time for the sunrise. “You’ll make it, don’t worry.”

As we continued to climb, I couldn’t help but wonder – how old is she? She looked like she couldn’t have been older than her mid-thirties, given the energy and ease with which she climbed. Yet, she had been a guide for nearly two decades, with children who are in college. She must’ve had kids when she was quite young, I thought to myself. That didn’t matter much to me, because what came to the forefront of my mind was how much she does for her family, while I constantly complain about not having enough. I thought of Mum then – she wanted to climb with me but I was against it. Then again, she was peacefully sleeping in her plush hotel bed while I was playing arbitrator between my exhausted body and my barely-willing mind at 5 AM.

Cloudy with no chance of a sunrise

Bulan and I finally made it to the summit.

Rather, she slowed her pace generously enough for me to feel like we made it to the summit together. During the final leg of the ascent, she prepared me for what would be one of the biggest disappointments of my Bali trip – I wouldn’t see the sunrise.

It wasn’t because we were slow. Despite us losing time because of the aforementioned hiking group from hell, Bulan made sure that our pace was fast enough to make up. Mother Nature, however, felt it would be hilarious to replace the spectacularly clear night sky with cloud-covered dawn. The fog didn’t help, as it lowered visibility to a great degree.

When I reached the summit, all I saw was a sea of heads. I didn’t realize how many people were climbing with, in front of and behind us. It was surreal.

I walked past my designated group of hikers and found myself a ‘seat’. Around me, climbers of all ages were huddled under blankets and jackets, and I couldn’t understand why. I was still sweating from the climb, barely having caught my breath. A few minutes later, I regretted not bringing along a blanket of my own as the cold embraced me tightly with its icy grip.

No sunrise, I sighed to myself. My disappointment was shared by nearly everyone else. We had all climbed for over four kilometres in the dark, putting our minds and bodies through challenges, all for nought. My disappointment was amplified when I realised that I wouldn’t even see Mount Agung which stands opposite or the caldera below.

A ray of hope

The time for the sun to rise came and passed us. By now, I had lost Bulan. Or so I thought.

I saw her signalling to me by waving her hand excitedly, almost like a child. She was standing somewhere below where I was sitting. She had found a wooden bench for me and the group. As I walked down towards them, I saw that she had set up a plate of boiled eggs and sandwiches on the bench.

She told me that it’s a sort of tradition for guides to prepare food for the climbers once they’ve made it to the top. I took a boiled egg and immediately put it back. It was hot. Really hot. To date, I don’t know where she boiled the eggs and made the sandwiches. But I picked up the egg after a few minutes and held it to my chest, willing the warmth to seep into my body. Obviously, I devoured the egg and the sandwich (and a banana) soon after and thanked Bulan for the food. She smiled at me, putting the warmth from the egg to shame. It was at this point that the group began demanding omelettes, which obviously went unmet.

Around 7.30 AM, I noticed the sky slowly clearing. The crowd shared my excitement and started cheering, only for the clouds to cover the sky again. I was about to give up when Bulan said to me –

“You can wait for longer, I’ll have to direct the group to find the bikers, but I’ll wait for you.”

When I told her not to worry about me and that I’ll follow other climbers, she told me firmly – “I won’t leave anyone behind.”

The descent from Mount Batur

I finally decided that it was time to make my way down. A long descent was ahead of me, accompanied by a terrain that appeared gentle but was unforgiving.

By now, the sky had cleared as much as it would for that day, but enough that I could see Mount Agung across Lake Batur. Even though I didn’t catch the sunrise, this view was made up for it.

In the daylight, the forest came to life. Human voices were happier and relaxed, and birds lightly chirped from their perches. Bulan and I walked in silence; she would often overtake me as I paused several times to take photos. At one point, I asked her if she’d like to be in a photo.

“Only if you also are in it”, she laughed.

When we reached the base, our vehicle was already occupied by my hiking group, making gestures to ask what took me so long. Actually climbing the mountain, I responded.

I turned to Bulan and thanked her for being my guide. She simply nodded and said she hoped I had fun. I did, I said to her. I knew I’d never see her again, so I hesitantly went in for a hug. Thankfully, she leaned in, sparing both of us the awkwardness.

It was a short embrace, but it had the warmth of a thousand boiled eggs.

As I sat in the vehicle, she waved a final goodbye and made her way to the other guides.

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I think of Bulan every time I go on a hike. Mount Batur is the most challenging climb I’ve undertaken yet, one that I hope another mountain will soon surpass. In that challenge, she was with me, and unwaveringly so. Sure, she was being paid for it. But her strength, fierce kindness and motivation were priceless. For that, I think of her every time I climb. A friend in another country, one I may never see again, has my heart as much as that active volcano that I once climbed.

(Catfish cover, sunrise and caldera images are courtesy of Timothy Gama of Lights | Camera | Smile)