We rode buses a lot. I lost feeling in my butt, often. In moments of exhaustion, the hot, sticky limp limbs of neighbors pressed up against me. Bus drivers accelerated like rockets and tailgated so close we broke laws of quantum physics. We decelerated like objects that decelerate quickly... (hmm, like Ants on a Log snacks placed in front of hungry children?; get it?). Naps were inevitably interrupted. In one minivan my door kept popping open about every 20 minutes and I'd have to slam it shut. Sometimes I'd be asleep when it opened up and a flimsy seat belt would have been my only life line if I had needed it. Once the Korean group on the bus applauded how deftly I pulled in the swinging door. Driving took up 75% of our daylight for the three days. In summary, the driving sucked.
But I think it was worth it (at least once) to see both of these volcanoes.
To visit Mount Bromo we stayed in the village of Cemoro Lawang, elevated at around 2500m. We arrived at nighttime coming from near sea level at day time, so we were all under-dressed for the near freezing temperatures. My first impression of the town reminded me the villages I passed by in Peru several years ago. In fact, sometimes I felt the faces of Indonesians shared features with those in the Andes Mountains (click here if you are curious about migration routes of early homo sapiens into the Americas, nerd), but I'm a white guy, so what do I know. Anyway, I was glad to put on the cold weather clothing I haven't had a use for in the last six months.
A wake up call came at 4am to allow time to hike up the mountain and watch the first of the sun's rays hit the three volcanoes in the area (Bromo is the most active one). I walked up with two Aussie travelmates, Kirra and Hollywood, but lost them on the main viewing area that was swarming with tourists and flashing cameras. Looking to find a more quiet place, I hiked up another 200 meters of scree to a peak, where I found a French family of three huddled under one blanket, and separately two French travelers enjoying the solitude and the view. The family had camped there for the night and the father explained his contempt for his "beach tent" they slept in, which the French accent seem well fit for capturing. (I don't know why, but there are many French travelers in Indonesia that visit primarily to see the volcanoes and they seem to appreciate the activity more seriously than the average traveler).
Stealing words from the French company I shared, the site and experience was "Oh la la". The view was expansive in all directions, volcanic cones jutted up from low lying clouds in five or six directions around the compass, and in front was Bromo spewing its ash relentlessly into the air. (About four months previous, Bromo had been erupting with lava, which would have made an even more impressive sunrise). I found that contemplating the magnitude of destruction contained in an active volcano added to the unique experience. For a long time I stared in awe at the surrounding scenery.
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| Fog passing over a ridge nearby Mount. Bromo. |
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| Bromo erupting its ash. |
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| The three volcanoes around Cemoro Lawang. Left middle is Mount Bromo. |
I tried to imagine a few hundred travelers thinking a nervous Asian adult had lost his elderly father on the top of a mountain. Funnier still would have been if his shorter, white-skinned, "father" (me) of a nearly identical age was reunited with his son as the crowd watched. As we traveled in a bus toward Mount Ijen for the rest of the day, I responded to Hollywood's call of Dad, and occasionally scolded Hollywood in fatherly disappointment: Hurry up, Chew with your mouth closed, Tie your shoes, Do you need to pee before getting into the car?, and That's how girls throw.
Ijen was a little warmer, almost pleasant and less touristy. The trade off was significantly deteriorated roads to get there. Another early wake up call and we were at the base of Mount Ijen for the 3km walk to the summit. At base camp I read a sign that said, "It is absolutely forbidden for tourists to walk into the crater" and it was translated into French as well, which was the first French sign I'd seen in Java. I walked up the trail following the wafts of sulfury air tingling in my nose, briefly took into the sight from above, and promptly entered the trail that wound itself into the crater -- along with everyone else ignoring the advice of that sign.
The interior of the crater at Ijen was neat for a few reasons. I passed miners laboring for every step as they carried baskets of sulfur slung over their shoulders, weighing at little as 65kg and as much as 95kg (perspective: I weigh 75kg). Huge bumps and calluses covered their shoulders. In return, a miner earns about 40,000 ruppiah (~4USD) in an average day. I saw men laboring to extract the sulfur from the rock as they stood only a meter or so away from the steaming noxious fumes that escaped from the rock. And there is a aqua blue-green colored lake that simmers away in the middle.
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| A miner carrying his load out of the crater down into the valley. |
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| Our crew minus one: Hollywood (AUS), Gordon (UK), Vince (FR), Virginia (FR), Willie (FR) and me. |
All this provided some great pictures and appreciation for the hard working miners, but I'm not sure it was worth it when the wind changed direction on the walk out. The fumes blanketed the trail, I struggled for breath, coughing and wheezing, and I thought I might pass out only to slide down the unforgiving loose rock slopes and get boiled in the lake. Although it was my first experience with it, I'm pretty sure I felt my lungs dissolving. I passed a panicked young girl (French, no doubt) struggling to catch her breath as her father tried to calm her enough to overcome her asthma. I looked back twice before I decided I couldn't help and it was either me or her even if I could. I kept trudging for the top. Alas, I made it.
After this, another bus ride, a ferry, bus ride, and taxi -- a trip almost as bad as escaping Ijen, but finally I arrived in the tourist mecca of Bali for some R&R&Fun.
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