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It’s 2AM. I’m in a van with nine others, each as quiet as the muted streets of Bali. The driver flies through the empty roads. I gaze out the dirty window, but soon the streetlights, glowing like illuminated dandelions, coax my eyes to close. An hour later, the van comes to a stop in a rocky parking lot. I hear shouting, laughing, shifting of gravel under shoes, and the unidentifiable buzz of nature. I don’t know anything about anyone, just that we have the common goal to see Gunung Batur, a grand volcano, revealed under an Indonesian sunrise. The driver splits us into groups and tells us to wait. “Hello, my name is Mani. I am guide.” My group gives a look of doubt, unsure if this is whom we’re waiting for. Our skepticism is apparent and he repeats himself, “I am local guide.” He gesticulates to the sea of people, “Everyone has local guide. We show the way. We see sunrise every day. ” He hands each of us a flashlight. “Ready?” I hold it firmly. There are groups already heading toward the path. As I hike, I feel tightness in my thighs and the heaving of my heart. Although I was thankful for my sweater at the beginning, it is now tied around my waist. With each step, I try to ground myself. Occasionally, I dare to look upward, at the risk of misstepping, to get a glimpse of the top. Mani says today seems like a clear day. However, an hour in, clouds shroud the sky and Mani vocalizes his concern. I wonder if my trek will be worth it. We reach a viewpoint at 5AM. I can’t see anything through the thick, opaque haze. There is still more to climb but Mani stops us. “I think best if stay here. Sunrise will be same.” I see others still ascending. Once again, my doubt must show. “Believe me,” he reassures, “I do every day. It is same.” I trust him. We sit inside a small shed locals built for respite. Mani comes and brings each of us a styrofoam case. Inside is a single slice of bread, a mini banana, and a hardboiled egg – all a similar shade of brown. I close it; it’s not food I’m hungry for. I check my watch. 5:10AM. I run out. I watch the haze melt in seconds and everything becomes clear. In the distance is Gunung Batur, blue and ethereal. The only clouds left are a string by the peak, thin and frothy like a cotton ball pulled between two hands. The sun slowly rises, radiating warm hues, painting a background of yellow and orange behind the volcano. In front of the volcano sits Lake Batur, glistening as if when the sun rose, the stars fell and are now floating as glitter in the water. “Beautiful. See, I was right.” Mani says behind me proudly. “It’s amazing,” I say, the glee leaking from my face. “You must love your job. You get to see this every day.” He lets out a laugh laced with sadness. “Well, not every day I get here,” he says while gesturing to where he stands. “Every day I get up very early. All local guides do. But, we do not know if there enough people for everyone. Some days, I go home.” My grin fades. He smiles at me, seeing for a third time, my transparent emotions. “We do not know. All we know is sunrise is beautiful, so people come.” Even though we stand five feet apart gazing at the same sight, Mani and I woke up that day in hopes of different things: me, that I could see Gunung Batur, and him, that someone would need a guide to show the way. Our lives are full of variables, complex circumstances that determine our intentions each day. Nonetheless, there are simple constants every day, such as the sun rising, that can connect even the most different of people. I take out the food, but I still have no appetite. “Do you want my banana?” I ask him. He shakes his head. “No, but monkeys will.” My eyes widen. “Come, your local guide show you.”