Читать книгу Brightest of Silver Linings: Climbing Carstensz Pyramid In Papua At Age 65 - Carol Masheter - Страница 5

March 4, 2012. After three days of long flights and layovers in airports, I arrived at the airport in Denpasar, Bali, my first trip here. My expectation to spend a few relaxing days exploring the Denpasar area was shattered. My checked luggage, two duffels of mountain gear, did not arrive in the baggage claim area. My gut twisted in panic. Trying to find replacement mountain gear would be impossible in a city known for its tropical beach holidays. I reminded myself, the best remedy for panic is to take positive action. I looked for the desk to report missing baggage.

Lots of other passengers also were missing luggage. Instead of a queue, they formed an irritable mass several people deep around the complaint desk. Finding the appropriate forms and describing my missing duffels took a long time. I struggled to describe the colors of my duffels, bronze and purple, to an official whose understanding seemed to be limited to the colors, blue, red, and black. The rest of the members for the climbing expedition were not due to arrive for a few more days. My duffels could still show up, before we leave Denpasar for Timika, I tried to reassure myself.

Certain that my airport contact person would have left by now, I steeled myself to find an honest taxi driver, a task I had found daunting on previous trips to unfamiliar cities. I shouldered my climbing pack and wove through the crowds to the airport terminal exit. On my way I found a currency exchange booth and exchanged 10 USD for about 100,000 Indonesian Rupiah (100,000 R), hoping it would be enough for the taxi to the Sanur Beach Hotel, where I had made online reservations before leaving home and would meet the rest of the expedition members in a few days.

Near the exit from the airport terminal I spotted a slender little man in a sarong, holding a sign with my name. I smiled with relief. The driver greeted me, “hello, madam, how you?” I thanked him for waiting for me, while I had been dealing with my missing duffels. My Indonesian was limited to a few basic words, so I was glad that he spoke some English.

I settled myself and my climbing pack in the back seat of the taxi and tried to fasten the seat belt. It didn’t work. I must trust the local deities, I thought wryly. Traffic was very heavy, slowing our progress to a crawl, which lowered the risk of a high speed crash and gave me opportunities to take in the sights. The novelty of seeing Bali for the first time helped counteract jetlag and worry about my missing mountain gear.

The afternoon sky was thick with low clouds, the air heavy with humidity from recent rain. Narrow, muddy side roads branched off haphazardly from our paved street, merchant’s stalls jammed together almost on top of each other, and crowds of pedestrians tried to avoid dirty puddles. Bougainvillea vines, spangled with orange and purple flowers, spilled over walls dark with moss. Large, white magnolia blossoms shone against thick clusters of large leaves, so dark they were nearly black. Elaborate stone statues of deities and demons leered from entrances to gated court yards. Over some of the side roads, long bamboo poles arched gracefully, each ending with a mysterious pendant. Denpasar seemed to be a crazy quilt of the elegant, the mysterious, and the shabby.

Swarms of motorbikes darted among SUVs, mini-buses, and taxis. Slender Balinese men bent over their motorbikes like racehorse jockeys and wove through traffic with brazen abandon. Sometimes a woman in a bright sarong sat behind a motorbike driver, sometimes with one or two little kids behind her. Most of the motorbike drivers wore flashy helmets, but few of the women and none of the children did. One little girl dressed all in white – white dress, white hat, white stockings, white shoes -- sat side saddle, serene and spotless, behind her driver, while he drove the motorbike around muddy potholes.

I stared around in wonder, feeling like a stranger in a strange land. I wished I knew more about what I was seeing. I asked my taxi driver, but we had few words in common. Trying to converse overtaxed my jetlagged brain. We settled into silence, while he negotiated the complex currents of traffic. It took an hour to cover the seven miles from the airport to the hotel.

Behind a high wall of moldy stucco and down a narrow drive, the Sanur Beach Hotel was an island of luxury. The spacious lobby was tastefully decorated with Balinese wall art, sculpture, and blooming moth orchids. A few plump European tourists wearing shorts strolled by. Slender Balinese men wearing matching sarongs and head bands greeted me with a graceful “Namaste” and a little glass of very tasty, yellow fruit juice. I settled into my room on the fourth floor with the modern conveniences that foreign tourists expect: tastefully modern décor, private bath with modern plumbing, king-size bed, wide-screen TV, air conditioning, clean sheets and towels.

In spite of my long flights and little sleep, I did not feel tired, so I went outside to explore. It was early evening. The Equatorial heat did not feel as oppressive as it had at the airport. Stone paths wound through the hotel’s spacious grounds past swim pools, tropical trees, and exotic statues. Flowers I remembered from my childhood in Southern California bloomed everywhere: hibiscus, fuchsia, bougainvillea, calla lilies. Frangi pangi scented the air with heavenly fragrance. Fallen blossoms laced the walkways like perfect, white stars. Doves with stylish spotted dickeys cooed in the trees. Someone, perhaps a devout staff member, had tucked fresh, pink hibiscus flowers behind the ears of the stone demons and clothed them with sarongs of dark green and white plaid. I had stepped into a culture very different from my own. Unable to understand the significance of what I was seeing, I felt as ignorant and naïve as a very young child.

March 7, 2012. The day after I arrived in Denpasar I had taken a taxi through traffic-jammed streets back to the airport and spent long, hot hours recovering my missing duffels. Though the process was slow and inefficient, all my mountain gear was present and intact. Relieved, the next few days had felt like a mini vacation at a luxury spa, while I waited for the guide and other expedition members to arrive. I had taken a yoga class in a raised bamboo shelter on the beach, played tag with the lazy, little waves that lapped the nearby sand, looked for sea shells among washed up seaweed and garbage, wondered about mysterious little offerings of flowers, sweets, and coins I found in the morning on the beach and in shop doorways, gone for a bike ride with a local guide and visited a school full of energetic little boys eager to practice their English on me, had a Balinese massage, and had my feet bathed in a basin of floating flower pedals.

The Sanur Beach Hotel’s breakfast buffet was a lavish spread that spanned European and Asian cuisines: eggs, sausage, bacon, potatoes, pastries, hot and cold cereals, local Balinese and Indonesian dishes of rice or noodles with vegetables and chunks of spicy, fried chicken, and wonderful fresh fruits and juices: papaya, pineapple, green melon, and mango. I filled a plate with fruit, yogurt, two tiny beef sausages, and a miniature chocolate-filled croissant, a sharp contrast with my usual Spartan breakfast at home – oatmeal with non-fat milk and a sliced banana. I carried my breakfast to a small table on the edge of the dining patio. The air was so thick and heavy with humidity, dew drops grew miraculously before my eyes at the tip of each blade of wheat grass in a tiny living arrangement on my table. I had never witnessed this before. I watched, fascinated.

The languid beauty of Bali had been exotic and enjoyable, but I was ready for the next phase of this trip, the reason I had come here, to climb Carstensz Pyramid. I was eager to meet the mountain guide and my fellow climbers, who were scheduled to arrive today. A lean Western man a bit taller than me, perhaps in his 30s, walked past my table. He carried a messenger bag and wore a crumpled, short-sleeved shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals. He looked like a mountain guide. I went over to introduce myself. “Would you be Kevin Koprek with Mountain Trip?” I asked. He looked up, grinned broadly, and replied, “Would you be Carol?” We both laughed. He offered me the chair opposite him at his table.

Over breakfast, I jabbered about my previous climbs. Kevin listened politely. I was talking too much, I realized, perhaps because I wanted to convince Kevin that I was qualified for this climb in spite of my age. Trying to balance the conversation, I asked Kevin about himself. He replied that he was interested in how people make crucial decisions under pressure, such as during rescues. When I asked him what he liked about being a mountain guide, he replied that he liked meeting new people and teaching them mountain skills. Kevin impressed me as a smart, well-qualified guide as well as a likeable man. After breakfast we both had errands to run, so we parted ways, until our first team meeting scheduled for noon.

As I passed through the hotel lobby, a sturdy woman in her 40s with short blond hair asked whether I was with Mountain Trip. She introduced herself as Carina, one of the expedition members, who had responded to my email a few weeks ago. Carina was talkative and glowed with happy energy. She introduced Mika (pronounced MEEka), a quiet, good-looking man with a shaved head. Mika had a pleasant gaze and the smooth, muscled physique of a guy who worked out at a gym regularly. Carina and Mika had recently married, no doubt one reason she was so upbeat. Mika was not a member of our team. He would explore Bali on his own, while we climbed. He and Carina would then vacation together afterwards. As we chatted in the lobby, Carina did most of the talking. I tried to include Mika, but he seemed content to stay quietly in the background.

At noon, Kevin told Carina and me that Dennis had been delayed and had not arrived yet. Kevin had not heard anything from Qobin (pronounced KObin), our fourth group member. Our first team meeting would be postponed, until after they arrived. We were scheduled to leave the hotel tonight to fly to Timika. My gut tightened. Delays so early in our trip could snowball, potentially ending this climb before it could even begin.

Dennis and Qobin did arrive later in the day. We were back on track. My gut relaxed. Our first team meeting followed a familiar pattern. We introduced ourselves and said a little about our past climbing experiences. Dennis was in his 40s, stocky with dark hair and light eyes, and a bright smile. He was originally from the United States but was now living in London. Like Carina, he had been a corporate lawyer. Qobin had a broad face, tilted eyes, meaty shoulders, and a big belly. Thirty years of age, he worked for an influential politician in Malaysia’s government. He had summited Everest in 2004. Neither Dennis nor Qobin looked very fit, but first impressions had fooled me before. Perhaps they wondered whether I was too old for this climb. I reminded myself, each of us had summited Everest. We each are working on completing the Seven Summits. These are good indicators of each team member’s commitment to this climb.

Kevin gave us an overview of our expedition. On summit day we each would have a radio, so we would be able communicate with each other and descend from the summit at our own pace. During my descent from Everest’s summit in 2008, I had gone completely blind. I had repeatedly asked my two Sherpa climbing partners to radio our expedition leader and explain the situation – why I was taking so much time to descend. For some reason, they never radioed him. After that terrifying experience, I really liked the idea of having my own radio.

All the team members and climbing gear had arrived in Denpasar. Tonight we would fly to Timika as planned. We were making progress now. I felt happy and optimistic. In the meantime, we had last-minute preparations for our red-eye flight tonight. Qobin and Dennis stayed at the hotel to repack, while Kevin and I decided to go for a walk and look for a restaurant we both liked. The day’s fierce heat had softened to velvety warmth, so our stroll through crowds of tourists and locals was pleasant. We scanned several daily menus chalked on blackboards before agreeing on a modest place with outdoor seating. A light supper of stir-fried chicken and vegetables followed by a dab of chocolate ice cream under a patio umbrella was perfect as a pre-flight meal. Kevin graciously picked up our bill.

Mountain Trip’s local operator, Franky Kowaas, a stocky Indonesian in his 40s, met us at the airport before midnight. Franky energetically helped us find baggage carts, get plane tickets, check bags, pass through security, and get all the necessary stamps, stickers, and seals. His energy helped me shake off a strong undertow of sleepiness, as midnight came and went.

In the wee hours we settled into our plane seats. I had a window seat, as I preferred. Dennis had the aisle seat in the same row. When we had met earlier today, he had seemed carefree and friendly. Now he was quiet, even sullen. Soon after our plane took off, he got up abruptly and found another seat. I wondered whether I had offended him somehow. I tried not to dwell on it. Maybe he was just tired from his delayed flight to Denpasar and wanted to be alone. Happy to be on our way, I grinned at a slender, middle-aged Indonesian man across the aisle. He grinned back. It felt good to be on our way to Papua.