How to Freeze Your Bali's Off
It was not until we were halfway up the mountain that I realized just how much trouble we were in. The rain started to come down harder. The air turned from cool to chilly. And with each step, my cotton T-shirt became wetter, heavier, colder.
We'd been in Bali for three days. We'd come with two bags, both filled with what you pack for a week in the tropics -- flip-flops, shorts, hats, that sort of thing. After all, Indonesia is about as close to the equator as a place can get. Temps hover around 90 F. There's no need for any kind of dress other than what we brought.
Unless you do Bali the weird way. Unless you decide to eschew the beach for a day, head well inland and hike up Mt. Batur to a volcano crater. Well before sunrise. During rainy season. Then, you're in for it.
We didn't prepare for this kind of Bali. But this was unequivocal. Because despite the fact we were shivering and sleep-deprived (the wake-up call came at the ungodly hour of 2 a.m. ... seriously), the fog made it impossible to see a damn thing from the top, and we were joined up on that ridge by about 30 other trekkers (all wearing beanies and North Face fleeces, I might add), the climb was exhilarating.
Especially the journey down, when the fog burned off and was replaced by panoramic views of an island cloaked in palm trees and terraced rice paddies. And our 68-year-old, picolo-playing guide, Pak Gedde, brought up the trail with stories of his homeland and its deeply spiritual people.
Back at the bottom, where we'd put on headlamps just a few hours before, our driver, Dewa, stood next to his car with aviator sunglasses on. The sky was bright now, if not blue. As we approached, he asked if we'd had fun. My shorts had dried. My shirt was no longer soaked.
"It was great," I said. "Beautiful," echoed Claire. Then I dozed off in the back seat and snored for about an hour. "Real pleasant," she said. Here's a shot of when we were both enjoying things:
We'd been in Bali for three days. We'd come with two bags, both filled with what you pack for a week in the tropics -- flip-flops, shorts, hats, that sort of thing. After all, Indonesia is about as close to the equator as a place can get. Temps hover around 90 F. There's no need for any kind of dress other than what we brought.
Unless you do Bali the weird way. Unless you decide to eschew the beach for a day, head well inland and hike up Mt. Batur to a volcano crater. Well before sunrise. During rainy season. Then, you're in for it.
We didn't prepare for this kind of Bali. But this was unequivocal. Because despite the fact we were shivering and sleep-deprived (the wake-up call came at the ungodly hour of 2 a.m. ... seriously), the fog made it impossible to see a damn thing from the top, and we were joined up on that ridge by about 30 other trekkers (all wearing beanies and North Face fleeces, I might add), the climb was exhilarating.
Especially the journey down, when the fog burned off and was replaced by panoramic views of an island cloaked in palm trees and terraced rice paddies. And our 68-year-old, picolo-playing guide, Pak Gedde, brought up the trail with stories of his homeland and its deeply spiritual people.
Back at the bottom, where we'd put on headlamps just a few hours before, our driver, Dewa, stood next to his car with aviator sunglasses on. The sky was bright now, if not blue. As we approached, he asked if we'd had fun. My shorts had dried. My shirt was no longer soaked.
"It was great," I said. "Beautiful," echoed Claire. Then I dozed off in the back seat and snored for about an hour. "Real pleasant," she said. Here's a shot of when we were both enjoying things:
Comments
And I love that your guide plays the picolo. Of course he does. Too perfect.