The Little Blue Book

I live in an interesting neighborhood. My Japanese neighbors on the right are quiet and polite and always nod to me as they walk their dog past our drive; actually it’s more of a slight bow instead of a nod. On my left the Dutch family have five little pig statues in their front lawn staring at their Malay neighbors; sometimes the pigs point their little butt hole in that direction. Malays are Islamic. So that’s a neighborhood ‘faux pas’. A British family moved in across the street. It’s taking them forever to unpack, or maybe they just like living from boxes stacked under their car porch. Anyway, they shouldn’t let there little kid run around outside naked. They should at least put him in Speedos. The Swedes two houses down are friendly and always have a smile to give even when they’re coasting on their 5th mile run… unnaturally healthy and fit, they make me look down at my little paunch. My daughter plays with her friend just down the road; her friend is Russian so now my daughter greets me with a hearty ‘Privyet!’. The guttural chatting of the French women can be heard as they jog past, well tanned and surprisingly thin. The Americans laugh loudly and speak of the cost of Starbuck coffee. The Pakistan family live on the corner; their son likes to play football the daughter plays princess. I heard that the German with the sports car just got a divorce, a bit of neighborhood gossip. The Indians on the corner have a basketball goal in their driveway so the kids like to gather there.

I think I’m American. Well… I guess I know I’m from America. I just renewed my passport and it says right there on the cover, The United States of America. That’s a long name for a country. The short form, U.S., is easier to say and sounds less pretentious, though oft times as it rolls off my tongue it transforms into a curse depending on who receives it. I sometimes just tell people I’m from Canada; that cuts short any unpleasant conversation.

This weekend our neighborhood had a potluck dinner. I sat at a table with my wife but as the table filled with the neighborhood ladies I migrated to a man table nearby. I couldn’t tolerate the yoga talk that was twisted and bent into chatter about recipes and makeover secrets. The man table didn’t offer much better. We talked about the rising cost of steel bars and concrete and it’s impact on property development. Then the topic of Manchester United came up and I thought about Nabokov and the book Invitation to a Beheading. That’s the book I was currently reading. I was starting to empathize with the protagonist. Whenever talk turns to football, or soccer, as the Americans call it (the Americans?... that would be me right?), I tune out.

I used to like sports, football (American football) and basketball. But I no longer know the team names or towns that they represent. The rules I imagine have changed a bit and if I do catch a game on ESPN I’m never sure why the ref blows his whistle. It all seems foreign to me now.

Later that night my wife told me that all of the ladies at her table wondered why I was sitting with the Chinese and Malay men, the ‘local’ table, instead of the Caucasian table. Funny thing is I didn’t notice a Caucasian table. Funny thing is I no longer know what color I am. After 20 years of washing in foreign water a bit of me has faded to gray. Sometimes I pull out my passport and look at the cover. It has a nice blue cover with a golden embossed eagle stamped in the middle. The title still reads ‘The United States of America’ and the author’s name seems vaguely familiar, but it’s starting to look like a book I’ve never read.

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The following are a couple of answers someone asked regarding my 'neck of the woods' and the kind of food offered at the potluck dinner:

1. My neck of the woods is no longer in the woods. I live just on the fringe of downtown Kuala Lumpur in a *gasp* gated community (thus the number of expats). But don't worry, we still manage to have break-ins and my neighbor was arrested for drug trafficking so I do live in a somewhat normal environment. I’m not deprived. Outside the confines of the neighborhood things are a bit worse but nothing a can of pepper spray usually won't fix. It’s just life in a city much like any city in any country except we use mostly knives and machetes instead of guns, though guns are becoming more fashionable and in my opinion a cleaner option requiring less cleaning up afterwards.


2. The food was surprisingly a disappointment except for the curry crabs someone brought. Two families brought spring rolls (we were one of those families and my wife made them Thai style with chicken and glass noodles). There was some mee siam, a small rice noodle cooked a bit spicy, and some mee hoon, rice noodles cooked with dark soy sauce and fish cakes and prawn (mee is basically a word for noodles). There were two types of fried chicken, turmeric and chili. sushi. salad. two families brought rojak, a mix of pineapple and things I’m not sure about with a spicy sauce made of chili and other things I’m not sure about. Spaghetti. Fried rice. Japanese cheese cake though I’m not sure what constituted it as being Japanese (it was cooked by a Chinese lady). Fried bananas. A couple of basic bakery cakes. And for drinks a yellow concoction that tasted a bit like lemonade but left you feeling a little suspect. Alcohol and pork are not served because some of the families are Muslim. Thus the suspect yellow liquid and lack of bacon or pork chops. And someone ordered pizza from pizza hut... must of been the Americans.

Reading, writing... not walking...

Where have I been you may ask... at work or reading. I haven't done as much walking lately (read: lazy and putting on a few pounds). But I've been reading... and writing. Reading has taken up much of my time (outside of work) and writing the remainder. Here's what I've gone through so far this year (UPDATED 29 JULY 2008):

Currently Reading

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Mark Twain
Other Colors: Essays and a Story, Orhan Pamuk

2008 Completed Books

The Fugitive, Pramoedya Ananta Toer
The Mezzanine, Nicholson Baker
The 210th Day, Soseki Natsume
Absalom, Absalom!, William Faulkner
Winesburg, Ohio, Sherwood Anderson
Invitation to a Beheading, Vladimir Nabokov
Lamb to the Slaughter, Roald Dahl
Light in August, William Faulkner
July's People, Nadine Gordimer
All About Lulu, Jonathan Evison
The Lost Honour of Katharina Blurn, Heinrich Böll
Edith's Diary, Patricia Highsmith
As I Lay Dying, William Faulkner
The Palace of Dreams, Ismail Kadare
Candide, Voltaire
Zombie, Joyce Carol Oates
All That Is Gone, Pramoedya Ananta Toer
Junky, William S. Burroughs
The Waste Land and Other Writings, T.S. Eliot
My Name Is Red, Orhan Pamuk
Taras Bulba, Nikolai Gogol
The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
If on a Winter's Night a Traveller, Italo Calvino
Masters of Atlantis, Charles Portis
Dusklands, J. M. Coetzee
Wonderful Wonderful Times, Elfriede Jelinek
The Moviegoer, Walker Percy
The Box Man, Kobo Abe
The Master of Go, Yasunari Kawabata
The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea, Yukio Mishima
The Dog of the South, Charles Portis
Liquidation, Imre Kertesz
The Futurist, James P. Othmer
War & Peace, Leo Tolstoy
First Love and Other Novellas, Samuel Beckett
Snakes and Earrings, Hitomi Kanehara
Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie, Henry W. Longfellow
The Successor, Ismail Kadare
The Idiot, Fyodor Dostoevsky

... and here's my reading plan, though it changes regularly like everytime I set foot in a book store.



Go ahead... click on the image so you can see the bigger picture.

Jungle Spirits... Halloween Special

Sometimes the beauty of a place can mask the frightening truth behind it; and yet it is this same truth that helps to preserve its magnificence.

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It was not just another job but a planned 5-star hotel in one of the oldest rainforests in the world. As a landscape architect it was my job to visit the site before any works began to evaluate the existing vegetation, landforms, and natural site features. My initial report would help the project team to determine what could be preserved and included in the final design master plan.

It was mid-morning when I parked my rental on the side of the road and looked down the old survey trail that led down the mountainside to the beach below. The air was humid and warm as was normal for just about any day of the year on this small island. I started down the old track passing centuries-old trees and jagged rock outcroppings. The light under the jungle canopy had a greenish tint and was sufficiently filtered to prevent a thick under-growth from developing.


braided roots of a ficus tree on the mountainside

The steep face of the mountain cradled a flat area near the beach. This was the place for the new hotel. The beach was wide at low tide but I could see from the broken shells and small pieces of driftwood that at high tide the water approached the jungle’s edge.

I walked along the beachfront, the sand blinding white, the water a cool green. Just ahead I noticed there was a cut across the beach and water was flowing into the sea, defiling the aqua green colored sea with a brown swirl.

The brownish water came from a swampy area just behind the beach. The jungle trees dispersed leaving behind stubby mangroves stooped in a shallow patch of slow moving water. Water bugs skated on the surface and unseen creatures created ripples along the edge. I walked along the edge of the swamp, my feet making suction sounds in the rich mud.

I walked further inland following the swamp, curious about it’s extent and origin. I was leaving the flat area near the beachfront now and found myself in a thicker, heavier part of the jungle. I was following a series of small streams that braided down the side of the mountain. Branches from the mangroves hung low and I had to crawl below their bony arms. Shadows were muted by the lack of light. I was sweaty. Mosquitoes, buzzing, clouded around me. My shoes and legs were muddy.


monitor lizard on the edge of the swamp

Then I entered a bright room, and the source of the water. I stood up and looked around. I was in a rounded space the size of a living room. Short, bushy Rhapis palms, a dark green low wall of vegetation, defined the circular space. The floor was made of white sand, water bubbling out feeding the stream and further down, the swamp. In the center of this space was a short, gnarled tree. Its trunk revealed its old age, but its height spoke of a life of stress. Sunlight and fresh air poured into this space.

Monkeys began laughing all around me. I could hear them taunting me from the treetops but could not see them. I looked around, marveling at this natural little room at the foot of the mountain, when I noticed the sudden quiet. The monkeys stopped their cacophony. There were no sounds of birds or bugs. It was a quiet so loud I could feel its weight. Then I felt someone behind me. I could feel someone looking at me. I could feel their breath on my neck, their fingers caressing me. It was an unpleasant presence. I turned around but saw nothing. Electricity coursed through my body, my hairs charged on end. My heart rate increased. Uncontrollable panic overcame me. And then I ran, stumbling out of the circular room and back towards the swamp. The monkeys then started laughing again, louder than before.

I made it back to the beach but didn’t stop walking until I was back at the main road and unlocking my rental car.

I cannot explain what happened to me that day. I consider myself a rational person but know that something did touch me that morning, something menacing, something powerful. It’s not an event I discussed with anyone afterwards until much later…

During the course of the construction of the hotel one worker fell off the roof to his death. The main contractor lost control of his car near the site and died when he plunged into a jungle ravine. A Japanese couple on their honeymoon and staying in a nearby hotel crashed head-on with one of the construction trucks leaving our site. Flowers are still left at the site to mark their death. And at the end of a long site meeting, on our way back to the airport, we came across a couple that ran their motorcycle off the road. One of them died as we were wrapping his cracked skull with my ‘Meat Puppets’ tee shirt, bloody bubbles gurgling from his mouth.

The hotel later opened and was a success. An additional restaurant was needed. The site identified was not far from the main hotel block, in the jungle, just up from the swamp. Three surveyors went in to measure and map the land. Three surveyors ran out in hysterics. Two were hospitalized for unexplained trauma. They told of a spirit, a power that overcame them… possessed them.

A Bomoh (Malaysian witchdoctor) was brought in and he identified the spirit that resided in the jungles near the hotel. This spirit, he said, was thousands of years old and considered one of the most powerful. We were called into a meeting and instructed to respect this spirit, were told that if we found ourselves in its presence we were to explain our good intentions and back away quickly.


the completed hotel at the base of the mountain

I haven’t met this spirit again though I’ve been back to the hotel on numerous occasions and even visited the adjacent site for a proposed third hotel (that rainy site visit ended when an engineer bumped into a bee hive on the slippery slopes, fell, and broke his leg. We all heard the “snap” and then took turns carrying him down the mountain to a boat that was waiting to rush him to the hospital).

The beauty of the jungle and surrounding mountains is still overpowering. The hotel and facilities nestled snuggly among the bottom slopes and towering trees seem to have sprouted naturally in that environment.

That timeless rainforest on the mountain slopes is a beauty that evokes awe. There is no place on that island like it. It is a beauty that will last because it comes with a guardian, a protector.

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The only similar incident I’ve experienced was years before while working on a job on a small Indonesian island off of Singapore. This was another resort, but the works included having to exhume a cemetery. I remember remarking to the project manager after the project was completed how the area where the cemetery was located evoked no feelings; it was just another area of the job site. But, I told him, that area down by the bamboo grove and little stream, that area was creepy. He told me that the workers claimed that grove was possessed and always avoided it.

Gunung Besar Hantu (Ghost Mountain) Sunday

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Laughter from outside my little nest told me that the sun would soon be up. After slowly rousing myself and checking all of my extremities; all in tact and feeling fine, I crawled out of our shelter, greeted everyone with a good morning (and meant it) and started my morning stretching. It was still mostly dark outside, the air cool and damp. To the east a faint glow gave away the coming sun; the sky above the trees slowly turning pink.

Breakfast was already cooking as I rolled my bag and mat and put them away. I walked to the edge of the summit and watched as the distant mountains slowly appeared in the lightening day. A blanket of fog covered the lower slopes, mountain peaks with white ruffle skirts. A few light clouds smudged the sky.

We stood around and ate our simple breakfast of rice porridge and then refilled our bowls with noodles. Again the warm food was invigorating.

As we were finishing, four members of the climbing team that came on there own appeared on the summit trail. They took the wrong trail back down by the stream and lost nearly 2 hours of time back tracking. They camped for the night on the lower ledge and climbed up without their packs to share coffee and breakfast with us.

After cleaning up and folding our tarps and ground mats, we proceeded to do what we all were trying to postpone until the last minute; put on our wet, dirty clothes from the day before and our wet shoes. One plus about the rain during the night; it rinsed our shirts and pants so we didn’t stink… to bad.

We zipped up our packs, put on the pack rain covers, hefted them onto our backs, and took one last look around the camp site to ensure we were leaving it like we found it, clean and undamaged. Then in single file we began our walk down along the ridge trail. It was 8:30am.

Going down was easier on my heart and respiratory but excruciatingly tough on my knees. The trail was wetter than the day before and the clay mud stuck to the soles of my trekking shoes making the descent a slippery task. Small saplings made good hand holds for the climb down. I used my arms to cradle the bigger trees for support. Everyone seemed to have a faster pace going down. I checked my altimeter and realized that even with the speed we were maintaining we had a long way to go.

We all stopped on the slope to take photos and rest at a jungle tree that measured about 3 meters in diameter (Shorea spp). After our short rest we continued the climb down.

After about an hour and a half, we reached the rock ledge and dumped our packs for a mid-morning break. We snacked on energy bars and crackers and drank from our newly filled water bottles. The stream water had a subtle mineral, earthy taste.

We lounged around the ledge for a while and watched birds of blue, red, orange and green fly and sing among the tree tops. Honey bees were also attracted to our sweaty clothes and skin and kept landing on us.

Around 10:30 we loaded up and continued down the mountain. The small jungle trail is only visible for about 2 meters (6 feet) ahead, disappearing in the thick undergrowth. It started getting darker and soon the rain started again; this time a heavy rain that even the jungle canopy could not contain.

We came to a junction in the trail and paused to make sure we followed the right path. Then from up ahead a small group of day hikers appeared. They told us that the trail ahead of us would lead us to the waterfall. They also said their intention was to climb to the summit and head back down. They each carried a small daypack and were wearing regular sports shoes. We advised them not to attempt the summit as it was too late for a round-trip journey and the current heavy rains would make the climb too treacherous. They seemed determined to try… and we all thought about them as the day wore on.

We parted company with the small group and headed in the direction of the waterfall. The rain now was torrential. With my head down I focused on the trail following along in our single-line little group.

We soon came to a stream and saw no way to cross except by wading in the cold fast current. The water came up to my thighs and felt refreshingly cold on my sore, tired knees and legs.

Climbing up the bank we continued down a trail and arrived back at the stream, at the same point we nearly took the wrong path the day before. We came out on the trail that we had started to climb before the Orang Asli called us back.

The rain let up a little bit and we took a short rest and removed more leeches from our shoes and socks. We then continued down the trail. What had been a small muddy trail yesterday was now a small streamlet with water gushing down the slope.

At around 1:00 we came to a fork in the trail. One direction would lead us back to the trailhead, the other down to a waterfall. Because it was still early we decided to go down to the falls.

Honestly I could have gone either way. I was tired and my shoulders were starting to hurt. Backpacks were still new to me and I was ready to dump it. The sky also decided to open up again and the rain came down hard. But majority rules and the super-humans wanted to see the falls… I did too, though I kind of wished for an escalator.

The trail switch backed down a steep slope and with every step I took down I thought of the step I would have to take back up; what goes down must come up. With the heavy rain it was impossible to hear the waterfall or stream and because the trail was a muddy mess I had to stare down and concentrate on each step.

Then I saw what I thought the strangest thing: a staircase appeared at the end of the trail, an old metal staircase with missing handrails and a bad case of the shakes. We spaced ourselves out and started walking down to the bottom. Old wet metal and heavy rain do not make good friends so I took each step one at a time keeping tow feet on a step for as long as possible, for a total of 339 steps.

The steps ended near the bottom of the falls and when I looked up into the mist and saw the nearly 300 foot drop, I was really happy that we decided to take this detour. With all of the heavy rains over the past few days, the water was gushing over the ledge.


Lata Kijang Jatuh Waterfall

We all took off our shoes and socks and washed them at the base of the waterfall and soaked our tired feet in the cool water. I then found out we were going back by another route and wouldn’t need to climb up those stairs. I was a happy camper!

I waded across the stream and sat on a rock for a while. This trek felt complete; felt finished. I knew that once we strapped back up we were heading to the cars. And though I knew I would still have some uphill climbing to do I knew the challenge was over and I tackled the challenge just fine.

After about 30 minutes at the falls, we started back to the trailhead. The walk was now on a narrow asphalt track used by 4 x 4’s to access the waterfall. The track, like a broken black ribbon, rolled across the hills. It was a much longer walk out this way and the downhill gradients played havoc on my knees. I would have never imagined that uphill walking was a blessing. And when I did approach a long uphill stretch, I just slowed my pace and walked on.

Over an hour later, Joe and I popped out of the trail and stood looking at our cars. We had walked together over the past few miles and I learned that he had one brother and one sister and both parents were living and healthy back in Myanmar. He was understandably concerned about all of them and like his other nationals, was not happy with the military rule of his country but felt helpless to change anything.

Back at the car, I took out my spare clothes and walked to the back of the abandoned house to change. That’s when in noticed that a river leech had attached itself to my thigh and left a bleeding bruise about the size of a nickel on me. I covered it with a cotton pad and taped it tight and thought nothing more of it. A fresh change of clothes really does wonders.

After everyone changed and were well-rested we piled into our 4 cars and headed out. We were going to meet in a small town on the way back to the city and share a nice hot dinner at one of the roadside Chinese restaurants.

An hour later we arrived at the restaurant and eased out of the cars walking like our legs were chopsticks; everyone’s knees were sore and locked from the steep downhill gradients on the asphalt road.

We ordered pork ribs cooked in a black pepper sauce, fish steamed with ginger and garlic, fried tofu with spicy ground pork, okra stir-fried with chilies, green veggies and a Hokkien Mee (fried noodle Hokkien style… one of my favorites).

While waiting for the food to come, I reached into my pocket to grab my phone and send a short message to my daughter. My phone was sticky and covered in red blotches. It took me a while to figure out that it was blood. I looked down and saw that my pants were soaked in blood and it was trailing down my leg. That last leech was vicious. But that leech and my bloody leg was all forgotten when the food started hitting the table. The noodles had a life span of about 1 minute. The other dishes didn’t fare much better.

I arrived home at 9:00pm just ahead of my wife and daughter who had just had dinner with the family in Klang.

Before I left on my trek, I told my daughter I would bring her back an interesting seed (I always look for something in the jungle to bring back for her). I reached into my pouch and brought out a seed that was a bit smaller than a ping-pong ball and appeared to be wearing a little Vietnamese field worker hat. Then she saw my bloody pants and took a step back.

I spent the next 15 minutes unpacking, hanging bags and putting muddy clothes to soak. The long hot shower rekindled my strength but did little to soothe my tired muscles. I plastered 7 bandages on my thigh and went to bed.

As I closed my eyes I could hear echoes of my memory; the frogs croaking, insects chirping, and the rain hitting the leaves around me.

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It has been 2 weeks since that weekend and as I type this last installment my fever is approaching 101 degrees and I’m awaiting a call from the doctor to find out the results of my blood test. The doctor wants to rule out Dengue Fever or Malaria… I do too.

Gunung Besar Hantu (Ghost Mountain) Saturday Part 2

We continued along a small gully walking perilously close to the eroding edge. Ferns scratched my arms and legs. At a crossing of the gully, a rattan leaf, long and rigid, lay in the shallow stream, water trickling over the end. We filled our small water bottles and continued on. We anticipated that there would be one more source of water near the summit and planned on filling our bigger bottles there before our final climb. We would be wrong about that source.

It was now about 3:30 and as the trail grew steeper someone said that this is where the climb begins. At close to an 80-degree angle, walking turned into climbing. We used tree trunks, roots, vines, and small twigs as handrails as we stepped up the trail. I was now pulling myself up with my arms as much as pushing with my tired legs. This went on for about 20 minutes and I had to stop. I was wearing my heart rate monitor and I noticed that I was approaching 178 beats per minute. This was starting to get tough.

It was at this moment that I really began to wonder if I could actually make it. My legs were just starting to grow heavy but were not shaking… yet. It was taking longer and longer for my heart rate to drop to acceptable levels. I looked up at the trail and just saw it go on and on up the steep mountainside. A look back, and it dropped away behind me. My strategy now was to climb for a couple of minutes and rest for a couple of minutes. Eventually I would make it.

I heard someone behind me say 200 meters more to climb. I roughly calculated that to 600 feet and started keeping an eye on my altimeter as I climb/rested upwards. I climbed about 30 feet, leaned against a tree to ease the weight off my legs, and climbed another 30 feet. I kept this up… slow, but steady progress.

Nearing the top, I looked up and saw one of the trekkers in our group running down the steep path, cigar in mouth, long machete in hand. He looked like Rambo running through the jungle. It was Joe, our Myanmar friend, 20 years young and going strong. Behind him came our 2 group leaders. I asked what the problem was and was told that there was no water on top. They were heading back to the lower stream and the rattan leaf with empty water bottles. That humbled me. The 2 leaders run in the Mount Kinabalu Climbathon, a one day run up the 4095 meter (13,435 ft) mountain and down again. One of the ladies in our group finished in the top 10 of the KL Tower Stepathon, 2058 steps up to the top of the tower. I was in a group of, well, super-humans.

I continued my slow climb to the top, looked up and could see some sky. The trail actually looked like it was disappearing in the sky. This was an encouraging site to me. I skipped my rest stop and continued on and finally found myself standing on a trail that gently climbed and snaked along a narrow ridge, land dropping off to my right and left. I was back to a trail my legs were familiar with and my speed picked up.

With renewed energy, I started walking along the ridge. The trail was deep and muddy. It climbed over large roots, squeezed through deep, narrow gullies, and passed below moss covered fallen trees. I soon found myself alone. Most of the group was ahead with just 2 others behind me, not including the water gatherers. I could no longer hear talking, laughing or the sounds of walking. I even thought that I may have taken a wrong turn or followed a false trail.

The sky was still cloudy and wisps of mist blew through the trees in front of me. I stopped and listened and all I could hear was the breeze blowing through the trees. The air smelled earthy and damp. It was cooler on the ridge, and quiet.

A little further ahead I met up with two other climbers leaning against the muddy sides of a gully eating oranges and talking. They told me that the summit was 10 minutes ahead. They hefted their packs on and I dropped mine and munched my last apple. The two behind me approached and we continued to the top.

After stepping up a short incline, I emerged out of the jungle and into a small clearing, the summit of Gunung Besar Hantu. I made it. I just stood there for a while looking around. Everyone had taken off their boots and put on sandals. A couple of the ladies were snapping beans and preparing for dinner. Others were off in the bush changing into dry, clean clothes. Tarpaulins were being tied to trees to cover our sleeping areas. The summit was small and there were 17 of us, most were scampering about putting order into our little campsite.

I dropped my pack for the last time that day and took off my wet, muddy shoes. My white socks were brown and spotted with bright blooms of red from the numerous leech bites. My feet were deathly pale and shriveled from being wet all day, but no blisters. Wearing two pairs of socks protected my feet. After a change into dry clothes I felt somewhat refreshed. It was now about 6:30, 10 hours after we left the base. We were in a cloud and there were no views from the summit. The tops of other mountains appeared and then quickly hid behind the swirling clouds. I put on my windbreaker and helped with the laying of ground mats.


view from the summit

We created two sleeping areas, one large enough for about 12 people and the other just big enough for the balance of our group. The latrine was located off of the summit down the far slope a ways, downwind.

Right in the middle of the summit was a metal-framed cube with a pitched top. It looked like a line drawing of a square house with a pitched roof. Right at the center of the roof was a metal rod that shot upwards another 3 meters. This structure was part of an old beacon created by early surveyors. As tempting as it was to just cover the structure with our tarps and use it as a shelter, we knew that it would be a death oven if a thunderstorm rolled through. Three trekkers died this way before. We used this frame to hang our wet clothes and towels.


clothes hanging on the metal frame

With dinner in the works, vegetarian fare, and the sleeping quarters established, we stood around and chatted. A couple of climbers surprised us all by pulling out watermelons from their packs. There is no way I could have carried, or would have carried, a watermelon up a mountain, but it was a sweet surprise.

The rain that started pelting us though was no surprise, sweet or otherwise. The rain came fast and it came hard. The kitchen was quickly moved to the larger covered sleeping area. Seven of us rigged a tarp on the metal frame for shelter; this was just a heavy rainstorm with no lightening. Our tarp we soon learned was not meant for heavy rain and we started shuffling in the small space to avoid the cold drips and streams. Then the ground started retaining water and we found ourselves sandwiched between water. We made a dash to the larger covered area and stooped below the low cover hoping this would be a quick shower and not the usual all night affair.

Dinner started smelling like the kitchen in a fine restaurant. It made the air warm and cozy. Everyone passed their mess kits to the server and soon all talk pretty much stopped. The only sounds now were spoons scraping tin and the rain hitting the covers. Dinner was white rice mixed with green veggies, mock lamb and fish, and various seasonings. It was one of the most satisfying meals I’ve ever eaten. The hot food hit all of my right spots.

The rain tapered off just about the same time we shoveled in our last bites. It was now about 8:30.

After cleaning our bowls and cooking pots, the breakfast meal was mixed and brought to a boil. This would save us a bit of time in the morning. Breakfast would be rice porridge and noodles. As the final tasks were being completed for the day, I spread out my sleeping mat and bag and prepared to just pass out for the day.

At around 9:30 I crawled into my bag, rolled over and listened to the sporadic whispering and quiet laughter around the camp. Water dripping from the trees ticked on the tarp. Frogs and bugs chirped and clicked, and occasionally the leaves rustled as someone made their way to the latrine area. I drifted to sleep quickly.


my sleeping area sans cover

Only one hour later I found myself having to crawl out of my warm space and visit the latrine. I put on my headlight and carefully maneuvered along the narrow trail at the edge of the summit. Everyone was now asleep and the jungle was quiet. I looked up and to my surprise saw stars. I walked to the summit clearing and looked off to the west and in the far distance I could make out the tiny lights of Kuala Lumpur. Among those lights, to brightly lit buildings stood out, the Petronas Twin Towers. I crawled back under the tarp, slipped quietly into my bag and once again fell into a deep, restful sleep.