SUNRISE OVER BATUR

“It’s going to be a leisurely walk,” I assured my girlfriend when I told her we were
climbing to Mt. Batur to see the sunrise in our trip to Bali. She reluctantly agreed,
largely because she was about to forego a crucial part of her daily regimen – sleep.
Standing at 1,717 meters, Batur is a destination for hikers and mountain climbers
alike who want to witness the horizons of Bali and the commanding presence of Mt.
Agung while waiting for the sun to peek through a sea of clouds in the early morning. I
thought it was a great idea to add some adventure into our trip in this mystical island of
civet cats and canang sari.
It took us close to an hour by van to arrive at the foot of Batur from where we were
staying in Seminyak. At three in the morning, we saw nothing but a small lamppost
lighting the rice fields. Two hiking guides were already waiting for us: a woman about
our age and an old bearded man who was perhaps twice our age or more.
“Don’t worry, it’s going to be a leisurely walk,” I reminded my girlfriend. They gave
us instructions on what to do for the climb and each of them handed us a pair of hiking
sticks.
We started to climb. We passed through the forests and the shrubbery and we
darted mud and stones. An hour had passed and large volcanic rocks started to sprout
from out of nowhere as we continued our ascent in the darkness. Our guide reminded
us to use our sticks to keep our balance and to avoid from slipping. The climb became
steeper and each step felt like walking on quicksand.
“You said it was a leisurely walk,” my girlfriend snarled and snapped at me. The
ascent to Batur was not a leisurely walk. Not at all.
The old bearded man looked at us smiling, almost mischievously snickering.
Perhaps, he thought, this was going downhill fast.
Darkness draped the morning sky. I only hoped sunrise would arrive as expected;
otherwise, the descent going down from Batur would be a deafening silence between
my girlfriend and I, only to be interrupted with infrequent grumbles.
Nearly three hours passed and we reached the summit. The baseball cap I wore was
wet with sweat and our shoes bore the dust and mud from the climb. My legs felt they
were about to flee from my body while my girlfriend found a bench and began
massaging her toes and knees.
“The morning looks good,” our guide began, “The clouds will settle just right below
the peak of the mountain. You will see a really nice sunrise.”
She was not wrong; the sunrise was truly impressive.
The sun slowly peeked out from the horizon and several other hiking groups began
to emerge from the shadows as we heard the sound of hiking shoes crunching the
volcanic soil. Like us, they were finding their spots to settle as they waited for the sun to
rise.
The rays of the sun finally stretched out to illuminate the day; I stopped breathing.
Well, almost. A canopy of clouds covered the island of Bali. Not afar away was the
summit of Mt. Agung and everywhere else – no matter where our gaze brought us –
was only clouds from end to end. The steam soaring above Batur started to dance
around the yellow sky. It was heavenly as it was earthly.
We smelled coffee brewed from a small hut at the heart of the summit and our
guides handed each of us a cup. The strong smell of locally-grown beans cleaned the
stuffiness from our noses and the warmth from the cup calmed our hands.
As I sipped the coffee from my cup, I looked at my girlfriend, smiling. She, who I now call my
wife, smiled back.
MORNING AIRPORT MALADIES

The alarm on my phone rings and vibrates. It’s two thirty in the morning on Monday in
London. My wife to my right snuggles herself comfortably with her lover: a large pillow
we bought from H&M. For the next couple of hours and in the next couple of days, it
will take my place here in bed.
It is time for me to go back to work in Switzerland.
I live in London with my wife during most weekends yet I work in Zurich for the
rest of the week. The commute involves a series of routine rituals, which has gone like
clockwork ever since my wife moved to the United Kingdom six months ago.
Once I get up and put on some clothes, I call an Uber and the car would arrive in our
doorstep in three to five minutes. In between, I quickly wake my wife up and kiss her
goodbye. The kiss usually lasts more than a minute. Maybe two or three.
The Uber driver ferries me from our apartment to London’s Victoria Coach Station.
At three in the morning, it usually takes about ten minutes to get there. Yet despite the
early morning commute, London already pulsates. The vendor at the halal supermarket
along Edgeware Road is already putting out the fruits and vegetables outside while the
rows of kebab and shisha bars are still open. Their customers quietly puff the vapor out
and create streams of smoke from their noses or circular doughnuts from their mouths.
I usually take the 3:40 AM National Express bus to the airport; now, I take the 3:20
AM. Sometimes, my routine does not work like clockwork and getting on to the bus
becomes a photo finish. When Notting Hill had its carnival last August, it took twenty
minutes longer to find a cab or an Uber. When I arrived at Victoria sweating, breathless,
and disheveled, the bus was about to close its gate and the bus staff on the ground, an
old woman with sheep-like curly hair, lamented that I had arrived too late.
But seeing my rather sorry state while I was gasping for air and lugging my bag, the
bus driver waved his hand and signaled me to hop on. In that early morning where I
prayed for angels to open the heavens and carry me to my destination, here was one
that opened the bus door for me.
Five airports are scattered around the greater London area. Apart from Heathrow in
the west, there is Gatwick in the south, Luton and Stansted in the north, and London
City in the east. Depending which airline company offered the cheapest flight that week
like a roulette ball landing randomly on a number, it is either of any, and it will bring
me back to any of the airports in Switzerland: Zurich, Basel, or Geneva.
This time, it is the 6:15 AM flight to Zurich at Luton.
The bus ride takes about an hour and fifteen minutes; almost two hours if I take my
flights from Stansted. The bus driver pulls over at other bus stops along its route,
gathering as many traveling souls as possible with the right bus ticket to the right
airport.
 Otherwise, these nocturnal souls floating around London’s bus stops have to wait
for the next bus to arrive; worst, they might have to buy a new ticket.
Upon arrival, the ritual at the airport is swift and uneventful. I scan the barcode
from the boarding pass on my phone and I dump my bag, my jacket, my phone, my
laptop, and my toiletries in the security tray. Sometimes, I pass security without a
glitch; sometimes, the detector is too sensitive with the shoes I wore, or in my sleep-
deprived state of absentmindedness, I forget to take my belt off.
After twenty minutes in security, I continue with my routine: I order a mocha or a
cappuccino at the nearest coffee shop inside the airport waiting area.
The waiting area is usually packed and finding seats is as cumbersome as finding a
missing sock in the laundry basket. But hovering around like a bee finding a petal to
perch, I find an empty seat for me to sit.
I make it a point to bring a book with me; otherwise, it will be staring awkwardly at
the passenger right in front of me or having to bear the snores of a sleeping passenger
right beside me.
While I wait for my flight back to Zurich, I could not help but feel lucky to be able to
do this. Every year for the past six years, my wife and I would only meet twice: two
weeks in the summers and two weeks during the Christmas holidays. That to have the
opportunity to meet my wife on a weekly basis far exceeds and offsets my sleep-
deprived Mondays. What is a few hours of lost sleep over many days of lost time with
your love and many months of loneliness?
It is but a small price to pay.
As I board my gate and grab a couple of minutes of sleep, the world turns a blur and
I would not notice the time. When I wake up as the plane lands over farms and fields,
it’s nine in the morning. An extra hour is added to the clock and I am back in Zurich.
I call my wife that I’m safe and sound; and, it’s time for me to go to work.