Seribu tangga di malam (1,000 steps in the night)

Over dinner after my afternoon search for (and failure to find) internet, we laugh and talk, we all agree that the laki-laki flashing is a sign that work isn't supposed to happen this day. Christine and Jo are still on a high from cruising the island all day on scooters. When I hop the back of one to dinner, I realize why...they're f'ing fun!!! I rent a scooter for $4/day, the next morning. Giving up on work for the day, flying down narrow roads and up curving hills, zipping past slower vehicles and groups of locals lounging outside open buildings with the rest of Bali, feeling the hot wind on my shoulders as I take in enormous gold-mountains and turquoise seas...it's like nothing else. It's silly, ridiculous, fast and fun. It's like the first time I tried mountain biking -- I know within seconds I'm hooked. (Christine and Jo laugh about me getting a real moto-bike when I get home...I laugh too. I know now it's just a matter of time. A totally fun, environmentally friendly solution to my in-city driving vs. winter biking vs. slow bus conundrum). On the first drive out we stumble across the elusive Amed Dive Shop internet signal source! (I laugh -- having let go, my largest problem yet resolves itself and I resolve myself to remember to let go more often...Maybe I just need a day of fun!)

So I tell Jo and Christine about the temple with 1,000 steps that the man on the road had told me about. It's difficult to find in the official tour books I've brought with me and makes us want to find it that much more! We ask around and get rough directions to Lempuyang Lehur (head out of town, turn left, keep going...turn left or right depending on who you ask, remembering it's probably 50% accurate as it's good in Bali to never say no).

We're not totally clear on where to turn or what to do. But decide getting lost in Bali on scooters isn't a bad thing in the least. After a morning snorkel outside the bungalow, a few hours of offline work, we pack up the bikes, and fly out of Amed in hopes of making the mystic temple for sunset. We head back to beautiful, lush mountains. We stop once at one of the many roadside "gas" shacks to fill up on binson (ie. Indonesian for "gas"). A man in a black sweater (because it's a chilly 75 degrees on the mountains...) pours a liter of gas from re-purposed plastic water bottles for each of us, which will last for a day, at $.50/liter. We chat with the other locals stopped to purchase gas and durian, get specifics on the next couple turns head, then off we go.

The road grows simultaneously narrower, steeper and curvier. Houses, perched on mountainsides, grow more rustic and smaller. People stare with increased curiosity and intensity. A gentle fog sets in as we climb and the view is blanketed in a soft white. We reach the ridge of what feels like the mountain top, park our scooters in line with the others and are instantly surrounded by curious Indonesians. All men. They push up to the three of us. Each asking questions, mostly all Indonesian, a word or two in English. They laugh and joke as we stand there a little overwhelmed. In my weeks in Bali, it's always been the women to descend on me in groups. This is the first time I've known the 1 or 2 women to sit back in the palm huts as 20 or 30 men clamor for our attentions. It's my only moment in Bali where I feel myself grow slightly tense, ready to jump back on my scooter and race out or ready to fight if any of them touch Christine or Jo. I have my eyes fixed tracking the movements of the two tallest.

As we talk it becomes increasingly clear, they're just intensely curious. It seems pretty rare that white-tourists make it up to the high, remote mountain temple (one of four on this mountain), let alone three Indonesian-speaking girls on scoots. But Christine, Jo and I are all grateful we're together on this one to keep the experience enjoyable.

We turn down offers to guide us. And set off, up 1000 steps, in the foggy, overcast, humid afternoon. We never see another tourist. Instead, we are warmly greeted by Indonesians (all coming down) balancing offering baskets and toting children or elders by the hand. We pass a woman in jeans and a pink-striped shirt, balancing long, large heavy poles of bamboo on her head. She slowly sways left and right, as she simultaneously balances and lifts her awkward burden up the 1,000 steps. Even in the hardest, manual labor, she is both strong and graceful and uncomplaining. She greets us with a smile as we wish her good afternoon.

As we ascend to the heavens, the fog thickens and large tropic rain spits at us through giant fern-trees. We continue the climbing, past abandoned palm huts and shrines, as the trail grows dark and slippery. On both sides of the stairs the mountain drops off into steep nothing and fog. Mountain gusts flit the silk sarong around my sweating legs. Hiking up a steep mountain side to a temple in Bali, in beautiful silk. Soaked with warm rain and sweat, perfectly happy and content to be here now.

When we reach the top, it's quiet and deserted. Safe from the eyes of locals, we prance and pose and joke like the tourists we are. Christine holds her famous trans-continental "crow pose" as I shoot. Just as we're ready to leave, he calls to us. (There is someone here!) Zan-Zan has the kindest demeanor and most peaceful eyes that we'll talk about days later. He speaks perfect, flowery English after traveling the States, New York, Los Angeles, even Seattle! He and invites us to join him and the priest for a blessing. He tells us the story of the temple, it's the birthplace of the Balinese people and therefore one of the most important temples on the island....which we happened upon by utter chance, after hearing about it from a lounging Balinese man while on my quest for Internet. Amazing!

Zan-Zan works for the same cultural museum Jo was intending to look up in Ubud, another amazing Bali coincidence. He's halfway through a two month, 24 hour meditation on the mountain temple. After we sit on the temple grounds, are splashed with holy water and squish white rice to our temples and foreheads, he'll stay to weather another 20 nights of silence before returning to Ubud.

We leave quietly, escorted by the priest who speaks a few words of English. We mime the actions to learn the Indonesian words to tell eachother "hati-hati, lechin tangga, saya mau jatuh" (careful, slippery steps, i'm going to fall!). In return, we teach him English words for pig, duck, and frog. In no time, we've descended to the parking lot, the sprinkling rain at our backs. A hurried goodbye to the mountain men, still assembled around our bikes, we're anxious to get back before dark and rain set in...considering we really made up the route to get here as we went along, and none of us are clear how to get back, but we all smile. We'll figure it out!

It's a mad dash down the mountain. All the way down the steep road, elderly, young, and adults in temple white clothes (that match the increasing white fog) wave and wish us good evening, good travels, we call back in Balinese and Indonesian. It feels like we talk our entire way down the mountain. It's the friendliest descent I've ever know. When we get turned around, in the increasing dark, we stop and chat in Indonesian, get directions and go on our way with smiles and warm wishes. I'm more and more thankful for my 3 weeks in Ubud and the great practice I've had to prepare me for this night. As I drive I breathe in incense and sounds of a quiet Balinese life in the mountains, where three tourists is a rarity.

Soon we're driving the curving, steep roads in pitch black--just a scooter light and that of wildly swerving oncoming traffic to guide the way. We pick through accidents, slow traffic, bug-in-the-face attacks, and sleepy towns. We pause at intersections an look to the sidelines at the group of lounging teens (always collected at street corners of small towns, it seems...).

We call out: Amed?

They hoot and holler, they excitedly yell for attention, they simultaneously laugh and ALL point the way ahead -- tens of arms waving and pointing as we wave and laugh! Wishing them well as we speed ahead until the next junction, where the hand waving and excitement repeats itself over and over. Until finally we're within familiar roads to Amed again.

Curious to see what this little machine can do, Christine and I tuck in and gun it on the flats. Sans street lights, we race through midnight fields, speeds pushing 50, then 60 then 80 KMs as a warm wind whips my face and shoulders as my heart pounds. Its beautiful, daring, wild fun. I've missed my mountain bike, I admit to myself. I needed this rush. Faster and the bike starts to shake, and wobbles, I see I've reached it's limits. I have a strange vision of hitting a dog or falling -- the very thing I don't need as it would ruin this night and this feeling. This has been enough fun, it's ok to let go of this feeling too for right now. I slow down, and down. Just then a dog meanders directly into my path. Brakes. A gasp. I veer within inches of the pup.

I instantly call out -- in Indonesian -- in the midnight-black village streets: "ANJING! Hati Hati ya?!" (DOG! Careful careful, yes?!)