What's The Meaning of Life (2)

The volcano stood proud at almost 4 thousand meters above sea level. The wind is not only merciless in its nature coldness, the sulfur originated from the active volcano’s crater now has amalgamated with the breeze, making it acidic. 

The three layers of clothing that were protecting me from the cold could not protect my spirit from quavering. Oh my god, this is exactly what I’ve foreseen. Only now the air is not just cold, it’s toxic.

The slope past 3000masl is a barren wasteland. No moss, no grass, no trees. Nothing. 

My heart beat at a fast tempo from the straining hike. I was walking still with my trekking pole in one hand, gloves wrapping both, slowed down nonetheless.

It was so hazy, the light from the headlamp could not penetrate the fog, I couldn’t see where I was stepping on. I would slip once or twice on the loose rocks – mini heart attacks ensue. The air would clear at times, and when the fog strikes back it was so cold, blinding and piercing, you could even smell sulfur in it. 

I could not stop for long, or else the heat produced from my body won’t be enough to offset the coldness of the mountain air. I did not stop to ask if this was the right decision, there was simply no turning back. I felt strangely calm, though sometimes angst of fear panged my chest. 

It was within that time I began to realise that what made all of these worth doing was when I see Tokie climbing perpetually despite everything – EVERYTHING – menstrual pain, lethargy, lack of sleep notwithstanding, as if she had no inhibition to her dreams. Or seeing Asyraf calmly steps on the slope, sometimes guiding Ita with his voice as soft as ever. Or when Afiq sacrifices half of his comfortable sleep for me by letting my legs rest underneath his to preserve my body temperature. Or when Hakim willingly carried the 6-men tent that adds a few extra kilograms to his load so that we could have a shelter to sleep in. 

I was too busy trying to prove myself, to validate myself, my own life and my being that I began to forget that I had drawn and adapted strength from these people to complete my journey. This was not a solo hike – this is not the testimony of my own strength – this is a story of the collective efforts of 10 brave souls who would sacrifice their selves for the team, and inspires me by doing so. They told me I had the mental stamina to pull it through, though it was really them who lend me their endurance. 

What’s the meaning of life?

I remember feeling really close to the people of this land, we shared the same language, the same skin colour, the same belief – it was like staring into a mirror. Though our lives are separated by the Malacca Straits, we are essentially the same. 

Life happens slightly differently here. It’s a land of perpetual coldness, 1500 meters above sea level. The atmosphere always seems dull, the pace always seems slow. There was this brutal realization that this place has a dual quality of being homely hospitable, and unapologetically unliveable, just like the homestay where we stayed. It was cozy interior-design-wise, but the cold air was choking and the running water from the tap was icy cold. It was damp all year round, I wonder if they’d ever wash and hang their clothes to dry under the cold ambient. It almost feels illogical that this is their day-to-day reality, yet they lived. 

The morning prayer call from the nearby mosques almost conceals the true extent of the unfriendly coldness of dawn. What reverberated through the dense air was similar to that of home, but it was literally a different air – temperature, chemical composition, humidity and all.

Life is not just a series of events. Life is how we lived with what we believe, with what we made out of ourselves, and with the understanding that people lived differently and that your life is made up of various presence of people who helped shaping it. 

I found the latter on this mountain, in the faces of these friends. Those who suffered the same trials as mine and emerged triumphant. I found the different, various lives that were lived at the foot of Kerinci – from the smiles of them aunts who sold us teh angek in small warungs, the son of the homestay owner who played flipping cards with reckless abandon, the farmer whose cow barn was our pitstop, to the girls who board the back of pickup truck who almost got killed when it maneuvered. 

There. I could not decipher the meaning of life per se, as it is irrelevant to try to define something of a whole immense spectrum of meanings and definitions, but it was through a different perspective somewhere thousands few kilometers away from home I could see how my life was a gift and this journey was another proof that I was lucky to be living it.

I was lucky to have those friends on the mountain. 

When I reached the top, all that I could see was the 10 of us standing side by side, thinking if this is the last time we would do this. Or that if this friendship would survive the test of time. I could never imagine scaling the mountains alone without even a single soul with me along the way, or standing on the top all by myself.

As I breathed the sulfur-laden air on the mountain, I could never really adequately express my gratitude for this gift. I have a life worth celebrating, and Lord, I am on a volcano to celebrate it.