The Trek

In a letter to a friend, I wrote:

I stepped out of the car with mixed feelings. I forgot what inspired me to make this long roadtrip. There was some regret and half formed thoughts in my sleep deprived mind. I looked at the morning sky. It was already uncomfortably warm. I wanted to go home. My friends started the slow trudge up the stone steps. Not too bad for a start. I was surprised the pathway was paved and level with the ground. If this was what trekking is, I would not mind doing this regularly. Then my naivete abruptly gave way to dismay - the level ground suddenly broke into crude blocks of wood and stone etched onto the side of a dangerously steep incline. This is what I got up at five thirty to do. This is good. This is healthy. I silently repeated those phrases like a mantra to distract myself from the pain shooting up my thighs and clenching inside my ribcage. I wanted to scream stop! Torture! For the love of God, stop! But I faked a brave smile when our leader called down from the peak of the hill to see how we, by extension the laggard of the group - me, were faring. I could barely speak so I waved, gritted my teeth and rode on the relentless waves of pain and kept on going.



I am planning to make another trip to Bukit Shahbandar next month. Women have a high tolerance or short-term memory for pain, I suppose. I did it once, I reckon I can do it again.