Mt. Kinabalu, Malaysia

My legs burn as take my next step forward. The taught rope I hold tightly in my hands rubs against my palm, and I prepare to step again. In the pitch blackness of the morning, my foot slips, and I strengthen my grip upon the the rope. Regaining my footing, I curse under my breath, wondering for the millionth time this morning why on Earth I'm doing this.
Like a decayed witches tooth, it's middle enshrouded by a white belt of clouds, the majestic form of Mt. Kinabalu scrapes high against the skies of Malaysian Borneo. At 13,451 ft tall, this formidable peak is the highest point in southeast Asia.
The name Kinabalu comes from the native term Aki Nabalu, which roughly translates as the revered place of the dead. Tribal people in this area of Borneo once believed this place was inhabited by the spirits of their ancestors. Today many descendants of these locals serve as guides and porters, accompanying tourists to the mountain summit on a daily basis. A frequent stop on the tourist trail, nearly every guest house and travel shop in the nearby city of Kota Kinabalu sells package trips to climb this mountain.
It's also the home of the annual Mt. Kinabalu International Climbathon, advertised as "The World's Toughest Mountain Race." Once a year, participants sprint up and down the mountain trails at a maddening pace. Last year's winner Kilian Jornet Birgada of Spain completed the 21km race in an unbelievable 2 hours 39 minutes and 10 seconds!
This was my second day of my ascent. The previous day was comprised of a short, but steep 6.5km rise through the mountain forest. My guide, a short, softly spoken local woman named Nani was making her second trip up and down the mountain in three days. Huffing and puffing, I clumsily followed her steady, determined pace. She hardly seemed phased by the scorching temperature, or the steepness of the climb. Seven rest stops marked the way to the lodge at Laban Rata where I would spend the night before attempting the climb to reach the summit, but we only stopped at three.
The highlight of the first day's climb came late. Barely one kilometer from the lodge we entered into a canopy of banzai trees. Their gnarled branches extended upwards, meeting in an arch above the pathway, blocking out the sun. Though these trees are hundreds of years old, due to heavy winds and poor soil they grow to less than fifteen feet tall. Their charcoal colored branches looked dead, like the scorched remains of a campfire. It seemed a place of great mystery, and for the first time I began to understand why the villagers of Sabah had once believed this to be such a powerful place.
I reached the lodge around 2pm, and spent the afternoon reading, drinking coffee, and chatting with other climbers. After dinner I attempted to sleep, but as it was only 6pm it was still much too early. I lay awake in bed for hours before finally drifting off.
The second day began at 3am, in thin, cold, high altitude air. Starting with a long, steep, slippery flight of wooden steps, it only got more challenging from there. The darkness of the night was punctured only by tiny pinpricks of light- the distant headlamps of other climbers. Up the mountain they rose like fireflies, ever higher. A harsh reminder of how far I still had to go.
Around the time the ropes appeared I began to think about turning back. Bolted to the mountainside these thickly woven lifelines extend up the slopes in areas too steep for most to climb without aid. The darkness was difficult to negotiate and there were no harnesses or safety clips to attach to the ropes. I knew if I let go it was a long way down. A fall from here would surely result in serious injury if not death. But I had come this far and turning back barely two kilometers from the top would seem a waste. Fueled by a noxious mixture of ego and adrenaline I soldiered on.
This is the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm thirty-two, but I feel like I'm fifty. I stop to catch my breath, collapsing on the slope. For the first time all morning I look up at the sky and notice the spectacular array of stars. My guide sits down next to me. In her baggy clothes and orange hooded jacket she bears more than a passing resemblance to a Jawa.
"Only 1.7 kilometers to go," she tells me.
I'm sure this is meant as encouragement, but considering our ascent this morning is slightly less than 3km in total, I hardly find this to be a relief.

Around dawn we reach a gently sloping rocky plateau. Cracked granite dunes stretch into the distance. Orange balls of lightning flicker within heavy storm clouds. The horned curve of South Peak looms ominous behind me, and a jumbled pile of boulders ahead marks the end of my ascent. It's like walking through a painting. Among the first rays of the morning sun I limp gingerly along on shining sheets of grey-blue glass.
On a clear morning it's said you can see as far as the Philippines from here. But this was not a clear morning, so we would have to make do with a view of the surrounding villages. It's a tired cliché to say it's always worth it once you reach the top. A mantra I heard repeated again and again that morning by exhausted climbers mustering the strength to continue. While you're up there though, it's hard not to agree.
Everyone is elated. A group of Chinese bankers on a morale event unfurl their corporate flag and snap a photo in front of it. A young Malaysian boy pulls out his mobile phone and places a wake up call to his girlfriend from their nation's rooftop. I guzzle the remainder of a bottle of Red Bull and try not to think of the 9km below me I will soon be walking down.

It's just after 12pm when I reach the bottom of the mountain. By this time I've been hiking for nearly nine hours, and my legs won't stop shaking. The last 6km nearly defeated me. My guide, eager to get home, seemed hesitant to take even the shortest of breaks as we made our decent. During the last three hours we only rested once for five minutes.
Exhausted, I fall onto a bench just outside the trail's entrance, awaiting the arrival of the taxi that will take me back to my guesthouse. A scoreboard with the previous years race results stands nearby, the impossibly short completion times mocking my small achievement. Passers-by chuckle at my sweaty, bleary-eyed state, and I smile weakly at them. Closing my eyes, I begin to drift asleep. It's a tired cliché to say it's always worth it once you reach the top, but it's even more true at the bottom- when it's over.



*** In the interest of full disclosure, I must confess that due to the small size of my day bag, I did not have a camera with me during my climb of Mt. Kinabalu. Therefore the first two images used in this post were taken, with permission, from the Wikipedia article on Mt. Kinabalu.

Singapore City, Singapore

At the southern most point of continental Asia lies the tiny island-nation of Singapore. Covering roughly 683 square kilometers and home to nearly 4.4 million people, Singapore is Asia's most unlikely economic powerhouse.
In 1965 ideological differences between government officials led to Singapore being kicked out of the newly formed nation of Malaysia. With no real natural resources to speak of, and therefore seemingly few economic advantages, this small country had good reason to worry about its future. This is why it is such an incredible achievement that today the average monthly salary of a Singapore resident is $11,300 US. Roughly twelve and a half times that of the average Malaysian next door.
Stepping off the train and into Singapore was shock to my system. Gone was the relaxed, laid back atmosphere that permeates most of southeast Asia. Replaced instead by the hustle and bustle one finds in the urban centers of America, Japan, and eastern China. Crowds of determined, ambitious people speed-walking along at a stock-tickers pace.
The style here is beyond modern- an explosion of futurama. Everyone is wired into the communication grid with iPods, Blackberry's, PSPs, and LG handsets. Futuristic architecture lines the streets. It's like walking through a pop-up edition of Wallpaper magazine. The entire city gleams with iron and glass.
The streets are spotless. This is not an exaggeration. Singapore makes tidy Berlin look like a pigpen in comparison. Fines of over $1000 US are given out for spitting, littering, or eating and drinking on the subway. Graffiti is non-existent. Every lawn is manicured and every building appears freshly painted. A drastic change from the gritty, characteristic streets of so many other Asian cities.
In a grim foreshadowing of our own future, Singapore is dominated by a endless series of interconnected multi-level shopping super-centers. It seems nearly impossible, and at times almost unnecessary, to ever leave the infinite labyrinth of subways and shopping malls that connect this cities districts. These are not the kinds of malls we're used to at home either. With kitsch names like SunTec, and Vivo City, these monuments to consumerism are stuffed with fancy restaurants, art galleries, movie theaters, and in one case even a symphonic hall.
In the space of a scant few hours here, one can bundle up in a parka and moon boots to sled down a fake snow drift, then relax in the sun on the man-made beaches of Sentosa Island. It's unreal. That's what Singapore is in many ways, a kind of virtual reality. A blissed out Utopian bubble nestled smugly in a troubled region.
With all of the maddening distractions available to them, it's no surprise that most people here don't seem bothered by one party government rule, or their lack of free press. It's another modern day example of Bread and Circus.
We would spend two days here, doing the sorts of things we can't do elsewhere on this trip. Catching an afternoon symphony. Eating clean, raw fish. Seeing a Hollywood film in stadium-seated, large-screen movie theater. Enjoying the comforts of home.
Things are nice in Singapore, perhaps too nice. An eerie kind of perfection haunts its avenues and streets. Forty-eight short hours after arriving, we boarded a train bound north to Kuala Lumpur. As the carriage pulled itself along the track, crossing the white cement bridge that links Singapore to Malaysia, I could literally see the cracks in the pavement reappear. Leaning back, I smiled, returning to a world that I love not only for it's admirable qualities, but for it's imperfections as well.