The door creaks open with an unoiled squeak, while an ever-so-tiny sliver of light breaks into the room. It's 4:45am and I and another roommate are to be woken up for a sunrise rock climbing tour, along with six others in the hostel.
Our Melting Pot is a special place. It's not just an ordinary hostel, although it may appear so from the front door. The OMP is filled with an energy and genuineness rarely felt among other hostels, no matter how big or small. When you wake up each morning and walk out of your 7-bedroom mixed dormitory to grab a piece of bread and a cup of fresh mango juice, the staff will immediately greet you with a cheerful "Good morning, ______!" with your name in the blanks. Whether it is your first night there or your fiftieth, the OMP staff will have a place for you in its heart, just as you grow to have for them.
EDIT: As I left the hostel this morning at 3:30am to get on a bus to the airport, both of the staff members present knew me by name and wished me well one last time. Love them.
Diana and Jonathan are to lead our climb. It's dark out. We slip on our closed-toed shoes which sit outside the hostel and grab a banana. The OMP doesn't let shoes inside to help keep the cleanliness. We ask how many times they do this climb on average. We expect "5 times a month." We get "less than 5 times this year so far" from Diana's gentle voice.
The cliffs of Taraw are truly a majestic sight, and from below, they appear to be monoliths piercing the sky. With each step closer, the giants grow in size, looming over you like if they know you won't be able to conquer them without a cheat.
Luckily, Diana has been doing this climb for most of her life. As we begin the trek in the pitch dark with only two flashlights, we stumble around, blindly grasping for footing on what feels to be a solid surface. It almost seems disorganized. The climb leaders go back and forth between the best ways to scale the mountain. We step forward into the darkness and are met with a smooth, slippery log. We step again and are met with a rugged stone. We repeat this process until we finally reach the actual climb.
I think I am a fairly athletic person and a more than decent climber. But when it comes to scaling a mountain at 6am when your energy is low, your eyes haven't adjusted to the lack of light, and you have literally no idea where your next step will be, your body will be tested. This is not a horizontal hike. This is not a 15 degree challenge up a mountain. This is a 90 degree, blistered hands, tired glutes climb.
A quarterway up the climb, one of the girls from the hostel who arrived yesterday and decided to join us on the hike (bless her soul), sarcastically remarks, "You know, Josh. I thought I liked you until you made me come on this."
With each minute, it gets hotter. The air becomes muggier. The mosquitoes rise out of their slumber, searching for a delicious snack only a human's lower leg can provide. It's only halfway up but my tee is drenched with sweat. As I write this nearly 12 hours later, my shirt is still drying from the perspiration. The admiral blue cloth shifted to a navy, and then to a dark denim while my shirt became heavier and heavier with water. It smells like a mixture of muggy summer and body odor, but the brave 8 climb higher, following Diana and being tailed by Jonathan.
Diana is lighter than air. She floats up each part of the climb effortlessly and full of life. The smile on her face seems to boost her speed even faster. We lag behind her, eventually reaching the heights she has now surpassed.
What is that? It sounds like a hoot or a bird shrieking. Instead it is an endangered Palawan beetle.
We're tired. We stop for water, until realizing at the rate we drink it, we won't have any for the return trip. If there is one. The sun has risen behind a sheet of clouds. We climb on. The foggy light fully illuminates the rocks ahead of us. We climb on. The jagged edges of limestone and slippery footholds try to bring us down. We climb on.
Until we all arrive at a sheer face of rock with small cracks. Diana begins the vertical climb, and says it is the hardest part, but at the top we are finished. We all shake our heads, knowing that we've come too far to turn back, yet not far enough to see the view overlooking El Nido. We're also told not to look down, as it may induce a fear that paralyzes climbers mid-cliff.
My hands are beaten and blistered. My quads and glutes are sore. But with each foothold and reach, we get closer to our view. We can see the light, and our arms stretch forward towards it.
Until we make it.
