Waiting in the Valley

I wrote these words on the morning of my fourth full day (Wednesday 11 August) in the village of Sembalun Lawang:

I arrived here late in the afternoon on Saturday. In the front seat of a pickup truck from Masbagit, Pak Diralam and i crossed the high ranges and made the slow winding descent into the valley below. But we did not come alone. In addition to a tray load of people and baggage, a virus lurking in my system decided to accompany me here and has been with me ever since.

Sembalun Lawang lies in a high fertile valley surrounded by rugged green mountains. To the west, and dominating the landscape, stands the mighty cone of Gunung Rinjani (3726m). In the still clear blue of early morning, before the mists begin their inevitable descent, i can see its ashen grey summit. I long to stand up there and gaze down at the volcanic lake on the other side. From its summit i would see the islands of Bali and Sumbawa across the straights to the west and east. But i think i would gain the most satisfaction from gazing down into this valley that i will have finally gained the strength to leave behind. For when i take the measure of myself - cramped stomach, aching head and tired limbs - i know i must remain here waiting. Although whether i am waiting to ascend or retreat is unclear. With every passing day it seems the latter will be the only feasible course.

The valley, were i in a state to appreciate it, is agriculturally rich and stunningly beautiful. Every day from dawn until morning classes and again in the late afternoon, hundreds of school children march up and down the road to the rhythm of piercing whistles. Indepence Day is looming. Although the people here must see some foreigners - this being the gateway to the Rinjani trek - i am the object of incessant amazement and amusement. A walk down the road will bring a thousand eyes to me and the relentless calls "hallo" "good moning" "what is you name". Any response by me the roadside erupts into fits of hysterical laughter. My lingering presence does not dampen their enthusiasm for this game though my own has long since expired.

The real torture i face comes from within. My days are a constant balancing of hope and dismay linked by disassociated boredom. Earlier in the week i senses my illness lift and strength return. My spirits soared until in the afternoon the debilatating fatigue, like the mists, rolled back into me. Now i am more cautious in my estimations and evaluations of the illness. But not a day goes by without my soul leaping at subtle signs of imminent health. "Just one more good long sleep" i tell myself. Then in the early morning darkness as i return from strange dreams to stranger reality i feel my weakness anew and despair.

Pak Diralam and his wife have been incredibly hospitable to me. They understand my need to rest and encourage me to eat three square meals a day. This i do without encouragement for their cooking is delicious, but i often wonder if i should be eating so much while my stomach is in pain. But i keep swallowing it my the handfull avoiding the spice if i can. The barriers of language and culture are generally surmounted, but in my darker moments i try to avoid communication for it can be very taxing. After visiting the local doctor yesterday morning without success, Pak Diralam decided it was time cure my illness with Lombok mysticism. I sat facing him, his head on my head, as he silently read the Sasak chants and clove scented smoke whirled around us from his untended cigarette. He later did the same to my water and we are to repeat the ritual twice a day until i am better. I think he is only a little less sceptical than me about the merits of this treatment, but both of us feel its worth a shot.

As time goes by an inner panick mounts, spurring life thoughts. I relive moments of signifance and obscurity. I recognise anew the importance of those closest to me and long to see them. In the starkness of the present i assume a greater understanding of the past. I see a pattern of decisions made with my heart, not my head, and the unimagined consequences i've often faced as a result. I recognise my love of risk and fear of the banal, but can no longer relate to it. The parallels of my predicament are all to clear, but i'm reluctant to draw conclusions yet.

In the late afternoon i walk a mile up the road, through a chorus of repetitious jokes disguised as greetings, to the only phone with a satalite. Three times i dial a series of different numbers and on the third i recognise the strange tone that indicates the line in ringing. The line is answered and i hear Nat's voice, faint but unmistakable. She can not hear me well and there is an awkawd time delay. She is sick too. I shout bite sized morsels of information into the receiver and she says "oh no!" over and over. I want us to move past her pity and concern, but the call's cost rises scarily higher every few seconds and i tell her i must go and i'll be in touch. It feels almost cruel to have called. Though when i get back to my room i feel a greater sense of calm and realise that i am happy. Just hearing her voice has been enough.

Friday 13 August:

Typing the date I realise it's Black Friday and hope for my traditional good luck.

I returned to Mataram last night with Asmuni from the RTC. He took me to a doctor who ran a bloodtest and determined i had no infection in my stomach (assumes he means bacterial - language always a barrier). He prescribed a range of stomach medication - mostly antacid tablets i think! I'll try these for the next few days and if no improvement will seek a second opinion.

My symptoms are not severe just prolonged. No need to worry out there. Love to all.