high altitude? Perhaps, but it seems to me, and without going gaga sentimental about it, that scientists, the true ones, are the only gods. If we must have gods at all.
A little after four, we reach tin shacks fitted with bunk beds and no mattresses, a primitive refuge for a dozen people. At 3,810 metres, Sayat Sayat is nestled next to the 3,932-metre Kinabalu South Peak. We take a fifteen-minute rest in the empty shack. In the other shelter, the group of Malays who spent the night here are sitting on the floor in a circle of candlelight. They are singing, I presume, ancestral incantations to the akis who inhabit Nabalu.
Ebin educates me: These Malays are Christians. They sing hymns to their god. For success on climb and to appease ancestorsâ spirits.
Wouldnât the dead protect them from mishaps on the mountain?
Ebin doesnât say. I drink from my water bottle, while he energizes himself by chewing betel nuts. I offer him the bottle. He declines: Thank you, no, Jillanto. I donât get thirsty when I climb. I donât sweat.
I say nothing, but Iâm damn confounded. Nobody sweats in this land dissolving in humidity!
Not at all, Ebin?
That is so, Jillanto.
I donât buy that, but keep quiet. Despite my empirical knowledge of observing Ebin and the Orang Ulu men, even mate man, everybody sweats. Granted. Sab doesnât sweat much. And granted, Iâm the grand champion of the overactive glandes sudoripares. Canât stop rehydrating. I perspire faster than I can replenish fluid, aware of the danger of severe dehydration. Thinking back, I havenât had a decent piddle in days. Seem to piss gold buckshot. Will leave this Borneo paradise a shrunken head.
So, tell me, Ebin, is it adaptation? A genetic trait acquired over the millennia to keep jungle people from swimming in perpetual sweat? Nevertheless, living in a steamy jungle, if you donât perspire, how do you cool off?
Ebin gets up. Time to go. Four thirty and the night is not so dark anymore. Another two hundred and ninety metres to the summit. We leave Sayat Sayat. The Malays are still chanting, but the elucidation of the source of their music has dulled the enchantment, whereas the mystery of the no-sweat people is kept intact by the betel-nut-chewing guide.
In the greyness of pre-dawn, we are ascending a steep gully leading to the immense summit plateau, composed of gently sloping slabs several hundred metres wide. We pass shadowy outcrops, the higher lesser peaks that form this mighty multi-summit mountain. I tick them off as Ebin names them. Tunku Abdul Rahman at 3,948 metres. The Ugly Sisters at 4,032 metres. Donkeyâs Ears at 4,054 metres. And the ridge to the mist-shrouded peak called St. Johns at 4,096 metres. The naming coupled with the incremental accumulation of elevation gain in muscle effort and lung capacity give me courage. We are still using our night lights and so are the other climbers, fireflies ascending. We are still in the lead and I am feeling strong.
At five thirty, a glow appears in the eastern sky. Ebin points north to Lowâs Peak, our destination. For the last couple of hundred metres, we scramble over scree made of large boulders, a terrain I know well, as if the Rockies had answered my call for the cold and transported their distinctive geology to this island to make my feet, twisting in the rubble, feel at home.
At five fifty A.M. , we canât climb any higher. Weâve reached Lowâs Peak, the highest point on Aki Nabalu. Ebin and Jillanto standing at 4,101 metres above the exotic South China Sea. New satellite imaging will trigger fierce debates challenging or cancelling the claim of the revered place of the dead as the highest peak in the region. Trifles from valley-bound folks. Carry a mountain in your body, regardless of its ranking on some list, and it bears heft and height fully enough. We have summited. I shake hands with my gentle and considerate guide. For such a massive
A little after four, we reach tin shacks fitted with bunk beds and no mattresses, a primitive refuge for a dozen people. At 3,810 metres, Sayat Sayat is nestled next to the 3,932-metre Kinabalu South Peak. We take a fifteen-minute rest in the empty shack. In the other shelter, the group of Malays who spent the night here are sitting on the floor in a circle of candlelight. They are singing, I presume, ancestral incantations to the akis who inhabit Nabalu.
Ebin educates me: These Malays are Christians. They sing hymns to their god. For success on climb and to appease ancestorsâ spirits.
Wouldnât the dead protect them from mishaps on the mountain?
Ebin doesnât say. I drink from my water bottle, while he energizes himself by chewing betel nuts. I offer him the bottle. He declines: Thank you, no, Jillanto. I donât get thirsty when I climb. I donât sweat.
I say nothing, but Iâm damn confounded. Nobody sweats in this land dissolving in humidity!
Not at all, Ebin?
That is so, Jillanto.
I donât buy that, but keep quiet. Despite my empirical knowledge of observing Ebin and the Orang Ulu men, even mate man, everybody sweats. Granted. Sab doesnât sweat much. And granted, Iâm the grand champion of the overactive glandes sudoripares. Canât stop rehydrating. I perspire faster than I can replenish fluid, aware of the danger of severe dehydration. Thinking back, I havenât had a decent piddle in days. Seem to piss gold buckshot. Will leave this Borneo paradise a shrunken head.
So, tell me, Ebin, is it adaptation? A genetic trait acquired over the millennia to keep jungle people from swimming in perpetual sweat? Nevertheless, living in a steamy jungle, if you donât perspire, how do you cool off?
Ebin gets up. Time to go. Four thirty and the night is not so dark anymore. Another two hundred and ninety metres to the summit. We leave Sayat Sayat. The Malays are still chanting, but the elucidation of the source of their music has dulled the enchantment, whereas the mystery of the no-sweat people is kept intact by the betel-nut-chewing guide.
In the greyness of pre-dawn, we are ascending a steep gully leading to the immense summit plateau, composed of gently sloping slabs several hundred metres wide. We pass shadowy outcrops, the higher lesser peaks that form this mighty multi-summit mountain. I tick them off as Ebin names them. Tunku Abdul Rahman at 3,948 metres. The Ugly Sisters at 4,032 metres. Donkeyâs Ears at 4,054 metres. And the ridge to the mist-shrouded peak called St. Johns at 4,096 metres. The naming coupled with the incremental accumulation of elevation gain in muscle effort and lung capacity give me courage. We are still using our night lights and so are the other climbers, fireflies ascending. We are still in the lead and I am feeling strong.
At five thirty, a glow appears in the eastern sky. Ebin points north to Lowâs Peak, our destination. For the last couple of hundred metres, we scramble over scree made of large boulders, a terrain I know well, as if the Rockies had answered my call for the cold and transported their distinctive geology to this island to make my feet, twisting in the rubble, feel at home.
At five fifty A.M. , we canât climb any higher. Weâve reached Lowâs Peak, the highest point on Aki Nabalu. Ebin and Jillanto standing at 4,101 metres above the exotic South China Sea. New satellite imaging will trigger fierce debates challenging or cancelling the claim of the revered place of the dead as the highest peak in the region. Trifles from valley-bound folks. Carry a mountain in your body, regardless of its ranking on some list, and it bears heft and height fully enough. We have summited. I shake hands with my gentle and considerate guide. For such a massive
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