Phone calls from underwater

part iii

For decades, the people heading up to Gunung Korbu have all shared an unspoken tradition. They grunt their way through forested paths, build ladders, tie ropes, and leave them behind for anyone else who might make the same journey. Over time, nature itself has bent to their will.

The forest bed of the trail is less dense, the branches are a notch higher and the path—though narrow and difficult—is admittedly lovely.

"A few more hours and we should catch the sunset from its peak. I can't begin to tell you how gorgeous it will be," Nadira shouts over her shoulder. We trudge along behind her in pairs. "It's a bit windier than expected, but it will give us an excuse to camp right there for the night. Otherwise, the forest ranger frowns upon it."

The earth squelches under my foot. Yohani's shoulders keep bumping into mine as her eyes stay trained on the tops of the trees. Their glossy green leaves, their long branches, the sunlight filtering through the canopy.

A handkerchief flutters open. Yohani wipes the sweat on her forehead. "Whew. Humid, isn't it?" she comments, grinning ear to ear. There isn't a sign of frustration.

"Yeah. It's not unusual for this time of year," I reply. My eyes flit towards the small flower embroidered on the corner of her handkerchief. "That's pretty. Do you embroider too?"

"No. Anything beyond painting, I'm hopeless." She laughs. "It's a gift from my sponsor. She loves to embroider, knit, crochet."

In a poor attempt to make small talk, I ask "Cross-stitch?" but she doesn't get to respond.

Nadira's voice rings out from the front of the line with a warning.

A fallen trunk has appeared in our path. It's decaying wood is covered with moss. It's broken hollow spots overgrown with savage tufts of grass. I stare at it for a bit too long.

Yohani goes first, and I extend my hand for her to grab. Her foot almost slips but she makes it over with ease. When I've crossed over, she asks, "So, what kind of writer are you?"

"Uh—" I pause. "Well, I study plays. I write poems." She nods as if I am about to elaborate, so I do. "But I haven't written in a while."

"That's okay." She smiles, playing with the loose strings of her rucksack. "Sometimes I feel like I've run out of things to paint too."

"Well, is anything here drawing your interest?" I ask.

And she halts abruptly. There is a couple behind us who don't seem pleased. Muttering something under their breaths, they step around and walk ahead.

I follow Yohani's dusty pointer finger to a concealed sun. Squinting at the sky strains my eyes, but for those few seconds it's worth it. The sun hides most of its burning body behind white tufts of clouds. Sunbeams escape through the top in a semi-circle as if the clouds have been crowned by God.

"I'll call it—the silver lining," She jokes. And I force a smile in return.

We jog, kicking dust and stumbling over exposed roots, to catch up with the rest of them. Dead leaves crunch; birds flutter away; my mother's voice crackles through the old telephone receiver, "Isn't the place breath-taking? Soon, you'll find yourself lost in it. It'll be a great way to reset."

The crowned clouds float forward, and sunlight pours through the cracks.

"Ma, I'm not sure it's working," I had whispered, cupping the speaker with my hand.

At that, the voice on the other line went silent.

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