Mount Batur: A Smoking Volcano, A Helping Hand, and A Pair of Socks

Mt Batur

Mt Batur

Mt Batur crater

Mt Batur from a distance

I wanted to write, "She got the memo about arriving early and staying late," but that was before I learned she wasn't one for memos.

No sticky notes of important appointments. No text messages of reminders in case she forgot.

Just a flashlight, a volcano, and a dark parking lot, where my husband and I arrived at 3:00 a.m. to pay the required fee for a guide to climb Mount Bajur on the island of Bali in Indonesia.

She was the only female guide I noticed in the dim light. A woman about 5 feet tall in a bright red hoodie and colorful leggings, her shoulder-length, black hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.

"Wyan," she said, pointing to herself as a way of introduction. "I take you? Yes?"

We agreed on a price, got the necessary permit, and headed out to hike Mount Batur (Gunung Batur), a 1717 m (5633 ft) volcano, that according to Wikipedia, is located at the center of two concentric calderas, "cauldron-like volcanic depressions formed by the collapse of an emptied magma chamber," usually after a big eruption. Thankfully that huge eruption happened over 23,000 years ago, but that hasn't stopped the volcano from sending out a magma reminder of its active status, both in 1967 and then again in 2000 when it sent a 300-meter plume into the atmosphere.

The fact that another volcano erupted in Indonesia the day before with people still unaccounted for, was a fact I decided not to dwell upon.

Wyan hit the trail--a slight incline through neighboring farmland--at a fast clip. She wore sensible hiking boots--ankle height--for added support on the sharp lava rock. It was not the boots that caught my eye, however, but her socks. Black and white squares--like a checkered flag at a race track--a flag for winners.

Winners who show up early and stay late.

After an hour, we stopped at a cluster of chairs, barely visible in the darkness. A few people sold bananas and other snacks. A young man joined our group when we promised to purchase a coke from him at the next stop. When we reached a rough patch of rocks on a steep incline, his hand reached for mine. I appreciated his assistance as the trail steepened, the clear path giving way to volcanic rock and ash, but when he requested an unreasonable amount for the two cokes (adding an extra zero because the 13,016 rupiah to $1 exchange rate was confusing--a common scheme), Wyan scolded him in words we didn't understand, handed him one of our bills and shooed him away.

He had shown up late and was not allowed to stay.

With his mighty bow, Orion pointed the way among the stars for the last 30-minute climb from what Wyan called The First Mountain to the summit of Mount Batur. A serpentine of lights on the path below assured us that we would not be alone on the mountain for the sunrise.

"About 150 more people," Wyan estimated. In the prime month of August she has seen over 600 people on the mountain.

The peaks of the neighboring island of Lombak could be seen to the east in the predawn grayness. Lake Batur unveiled at 5:35 a.m. while guides unrolled bamboo mats for the assembling masses. People wore an assortment of flannels, fleeces, shorts, a woman in full Muslim dress, jeans, sneakers, sandals, windbreakers and hoodies from all over the world. We shivered with people from Australia, South Africa, Mexico and Spain as we ordered hot tea, coffee, bananas and soft-boiled eggs -- all heated in the steam vents of the volcano.

6:15 brought the sunrise, a flurry of photos, and the decision to hike the rim of Batur's crater, a narrow trail past several more steam vents.

"Active. Only smoking," said Wyan when we questioned her again on the volcano's status.

The loose scree and jagged volcanic rock, combined with my still jet-lagged body made for a wicked slip and slide descent as my foggy brain struggled to concentrate: Step up. Step down. Small step. Repeat.

"My husband has bad legs," Wyan said as I stumbled over a rocky section. "Lives in other city."

Her hand reached for mine as her story continued of a 4-month-old son who was watched by her mother while Wyan guided on the mountain, arriving in the dark each day by foot since she didn't own a motorcycle, in the hopes she would be hired.

Again and again I skidded. Again and again Wyan's hand reached for mine, holding on just long enough to assure herself that I would arrive safely down the mountain. Finally in the parking lot, I pulled out my notebook, "How do you spell your name?" I asked.

Wyan seemed confused by the question.

"Would you like to print it yourself?" I handed her my pen.

She waved both aside and shook her head. "No read or write."

Wyan located our car and waited until the driver showed up, not willing to leave us until she had finished the job, because even though she didn't get the memo, that's what you do when you arrive early and stay late. I followed her black and white checkered socks as she turned away and headed down the road.